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Border Patrol: Immigration \

Priest: and the lord said, take this delicious McDonald and eat it, for it is my body and it will be given up, for you. Are you seeing this. Am i the only sane man left.

Nutrition : fuck females i'm all about the dickness i'll rip the mic and represent my crew strictly dickly. Rene Descartes : juju id suck your dick if it ment i could be as good as spy as you.

I masturbate with my tears. Life Pro Tip: next time you're baking and run out of eggs, slash the throat of an innocent. I'm not saying that being white is better.

If you are thirsty i have a giant water bottle in my pants just rub up and down on it then problem solved and drink up. They stopped all that Viking nonsense centuries ago — if they ever did it.

Modern anthropologists point out that the Vikings were basically farmers who needed farmland. Population pressure took them through Russia as far as the Middle East.

It took them to Ireland, Iceland, Greenland and America. It took them to Sicily and Northern France where they launched their invasion of England.

Yet after a generation or two these North Men settled down and were peaceful. We can all laugh at Alec Baldwin and the goofy ultra violent TV Vikings but it would make more sense to have him surrounded by Africans.

But that would hit too close to home. We don't feel threatened by these mock Scandinavians. If they were Dinkas or Hutus it would remind the potential customers of Detroit.

This course involves the critical examination of patterns, practices, and relations among racial and ethnic groups in the United States. Particular attention will be given to problems of ongoing discrimination, prejudice, assimilation and cultural pluralism, and power differences between groups.

Interconnections between race, ethnicity, social class, gender, and other systems of inequality will be emphasized.

Social movements organized within and among racial and ethnic groups that address institutional inequalities in this society will be analyzed.

E J Walls: You are a waste of my time, BUT since I love having fun at the expense of "your race", I shall spend some time showing what an idiot you are.

This will all be for the entertainment of us "White folk", at your expense, but hey, Steppin' Fletchit, that is about all you are good for.

So here goes:. You say race is a social construct. I see you attended college for a few classes. The same White Men who built the college you sat in.

I would normally stop here and ask you to answer that, but the purpose of this post is not to help you understand that is not possible, you are a Niger.

Race is not real? Tell that to your President, the half breed bastard child of a White Whore and Niger.

Say that out loud as you stand before that Chinese made statue of Dr. Martin Luther King Blvd Jr.

Oh he sure loved his White hookers….. They why do you care about this blog site? Now, you don't consider yourself "black" do you?

If race is not real, then this site is an illusion as well and your complaint makes no sense since to you we are all the same.

I've most likely confused your little simian brain with that. Sambo, listen. We White Men are sick of you. We move away, you follow. We move away again hint, hint and you follow.

You follow and bitch about how nasty and evil we are……but you follow. We move again……and you follow and while you follow us, you bitch and moan and blame us for every pathology that YOU create.

The 7th Ward in New Orleans is a sewer because it is filled with Shit. The Shit makes the sewer. The 7th ward is nothing but buildings.

Wood and Concrete. Nothing more. Nothing less. The type of people who inhabit it make it what it is.

Iceland is Ice. A big huge rock. The people there make it a paradise. The island didn't make the people. If this is not so, explain to me Haiti?

That proud nation that threw off the rayciss yoke of 17th century French slavery. Look at it today. No Whites to oppress you.

Now, Sambo, if you took everybody from Iceland and switched them for everybody in Haiti, what would be the effect in 10 years.

Can you think that hard? Thanks for the email you showed us from the the lib fan EJ Walls. Reading it, one immediately wonders if those walls ought to have some padding.

Machete murderer who admits killing up to people can't be booted out of UK 18 May John Thuo has been living in a taxpayer funded home since sneaking in illegally from Africa in , and his neighbours are totally oblivious to his grisly past.

But despite many attempts to boot him out, Thuo remains here, claiming deportation is against his human rights as he will be killed by the gang on his return.

Now try to visualize weekly groidberg deliveries via tugboats feeding the poor, poor Haitian people. It would be worthwhile taking this course just to be a thorn in the side of the instructor….

With all Africans away from us, we Whites can have a First World nation. How do I know that? You see this all the time in ghetto schools with parents trying to get their kids diagnosed with disabilities, such as ADD etc.

Then these turds file for SSI disability. Then they commit crimes, end up in jail, oh well. In fact, was the peak year for Hispanic birth rates.

When all the 'rich gringos' lose their jobs, there is a decrease in the need for nannies and yard people. As our economy continues to slide, the Mexiturds will find that their birth rates will decline because they can't feed the kids they breed.

Honestly, I appreciate everyones input, except burrheads. I am an American, I do not care about brazil..

I have never been there nor will I ever go. I care about my country, my children, and not being beaten, shot or robbed when I leave my home. I do not want to support any one except whom I choose too.

I tired of being ripped off to pay for "social justice". There was an article, was it in the Atlantic, a few years back talking about how Section 8 wrecked Memphis suburbs.

Iceland is a developped country althought that there in only snow and cold weather… It makes a kick to the Whites who defend black when they say that their climate is too hard to develop something…The climate in Ivory Coast is cool, lots of sun, no desert, lots of animals, wood, they have the Atlantic sea but what have done Negroes in Ivory Coast???

NOthing except selling their brothers to you years ago. Studies say that ID depends on climate and difficulties that people have beaten.. How do Iceland people to go to this island and Greenland years ago?

How have done Chinese to travel Himalaya and taklamakan deserts? How have done Europeans to travel the Alpians mountains?? No surprising that everything that has been created has been done by Chinese and Whites boats, plane, cars,… What has made civilisation of Whites and Chinese is the crossing of Himalaya and the Alpens.

Blacks with the magical tribal animist thinking think that inanimate objects have some magic about them that influences the people living around those inanimate objects.

But that isn't at all surprising, africans in africa are animists, they believe spirits inhabit the trees and rocks and rivers and hills, exerting either a positive or negative force on the inhabitants nearby.

Typical magical african thinking, that's why ward 7 is so bad for blacks and iceland is so good for whites, it has to be the mountain goddess and volcanoe spirits helping the whites.

A city is just brick concrete wood glass and steel, nothing more, just as a a serengheti plain is grass sand and trees, and an icelandic meadow is water, snow, grass and tundra.

Its the people that make the change, you take all the people out of haiti and it goes back to a tropical island, just as the jungle overgrew the aztec temple pyramids.

Its as simple as that, you may not like the truth, but science doesn't choose, facts are facts. And observent people can draw conclusions from simply observing, you don't need a degree to observe patterns and use those patterns to extrapolate forward.

Blacks are violent and destructive and create tribal dysfunctional communities, this is observed in every corner of the planet where black people gather in concentration, from haiti to zimbabwe to congo to bristol to detroit, its that obvious.

A decades-old but invaluable and highly entertaining book that I recommend to everyone, if mainly for its nostalgic value, is Voodoo in New Orleans by Robert Tallant.

In it, a picture emerges of a black population that is childish and prone to silly, superstitious thoughts and behaviors, but which, in a more civil and innocent time before the whites had relinquished control, added an amusingly colorful character to the city.

I would think most murders happen while perpetrators are under the influence, and often their victims too. Which makes Iceland's homicide rate even more remarkable.

Most of the island is well under the influence from 6pm Friday until Monday morning. You both need to realize that neither nominal country France or UK has a real political system at all.

The IMF and its EU lickspittles simply appointed key government officials there to ensure that the bondholders squids, not Germans are paid.

Elections mean nothing. In fact, they are a deception to fool frogs who are feeling warm into thinking they can actually have control over the temperature in the pot.

There is a reason the Banksta Banana Republick's military remains based there, two full decades after the withdrawl of the Red Army form Eastern Europe.

To make the bloodsuckers squirm a bit more, they could even consider a quasi alliance with Putin, who the usual suspects seem to hate with a passion.

BTW, E. Walls is tacitly admitting that he has no argument. It was just name-calling plus the recitation of long-debunked leftist canards.

That doesn't even rise to common fallacies like the straw man or no true Scotsman. Look at Holland, that place was a swamp, a cold chilly swamp and the Dutch made a home out of it.

Nords are people that wanted to be alone. They didn't want to bother anyone else, nor do they want to be bothered. Iceland is a rock, but a thriving society is there.

No drama. No murder. Just people that want to be left alone with their families. Blacks and other commuuuuuunity oriented cultures are a royal pain in the arce.

They are dysfunctional because they have no boundaries and they covet what others have, hence distorting any ability to introspect.

I completed paperwork to get licensed in ND. Next is SD and perhaps Wyoming. I'll go freeze my butt off yet thrive somewhere if it means that I will be left alone.

These third world turd cultures are communists cloaked as people seeking community. I value the freedom to think, say, and live as I damn well please.

I don't care what the collective you is doing so please do not interfere with my life. The young man who posted about his sister being harassed by black guys online because she doesn't want to date them….

It's her business what she does and does not do with her time, her body, and her resources. EJ — if blacks are filled with self -hate, that is their issue that THEY must deal with, but they won't because they must make their issues everybody else's.

The black community is hugely against therapy and mental health and just health in general. Their problem. No go away. It amazes me how other people have no boundaries.

Hey, I am pro white and I line see white babies. This global new order I perceive to be a profound invasion of my human rights.

You tread on me, I'll tread back. I hope Iceland will be left alone. They earned the fight to be, just as whites earned the right to be left alone. Call it racism, call it privilege, call it what you want, but don't tread on me… Leave me alone!

From my point of view i'm telling the same thing that you say about USA…Republican and democrates dont serve to nothing, your president is Ben Shalom BErnanke….

The reason the "Black" a social construct people of Ward 7 are doing so bad is because of the hatred and abuse coming from the "White" a social construct people of Iceland.

The people of Iceland are holding down the people of Ward 7. Now, one may wonder why the people of Ward 7 are not hindering the people of Iceland.

Good question, Sambo. The reason is due to the legacy of slabery, as put by a fellow Social Construct White poster at this sight. The slabery of years ago ruined the chances for those in Ward 7 while those on Iceland did not suffer from slabery.

So, the solution, is to equalize love that word, Sambo? The giving of money will equalize opportunity. By the war, Mr.

Walls, what opportunity is denied those in Ward 7? Is there not free public education? Can not anyone there learn to read?

Is the "Social Constructed White" man still denying the youts of Ward 7 the "opportunity" to go to school, sit at the desk, and learn to read?

Have you? So why aren't you fellow social-constructed-blacks not going to school, staying in school, paying attention in school, doing their homework and graduating from school.

Just WHO is stopping them? E J Walls. You are a fucking idiot. There was a murder in Spokane this week, involving one of the cities few blacks.

A drug deal. The black was the victim and the police killed the shooter, undoubtedly saddening many lawyers. Like Iceland, Whitopia Spokane has few murders.

Maybe there is hope of establishing an Iceland-type society here in the Pacific Northwest? The Mother's Day shootings make perfect sense. What constitutes proper public education?

Warehousing the bad kids away from the ones that genuinely want to learn? Lack of Opportunity, desperation, and deprivation weren't enough to stop the black population from more than doubling over the last half century.

It likewise is not causing blacks to leave america, quite the opposite in fact. Perhaps that fundamental demographic fact is responsible for your problems, more resource consumers relative to fewer resources.

One of the big problems with the E J Walls type of white liberal is that they blow the blow of liberal ideology, an illusion, but never do they personally walk the walk of the blow they blow.

Usually their type cowers in whityville, right Sean Penn, Michael Moore and "I wish old white republican males would just die" Cher.

If Walls has a white daughter, and further, she is forced to swallow her fathers bull and baloney, she becomes a prime target for black crime manifestation, and further, she being a female, the black crime to manifest upon her will be rape and possibly death by murder.

Walls represents the type of white liberal we non-liberal whites must separate out and away from that they alone experience the ugliness their liberal ideology both creates and propagates.

Obviously those of Walls ilk expect the collective to endure their miserable, horrible manifestations of liberal ideology while they personally take great pains to avoid a confrontation with the very situations they help create.

Why are we not mutating Sickle Cell disease to a deadly airborne contagion, that would spread quickly while having a slow incubation period to further the spread of the disease, and rid the world of the black filth and anyone with even a drop of black blood that pollutes our otherwise happy, and prosperous non-black lives?

Sickle cell is God's answer! EJ Walls wants to know, " 1 What on Earth makes you think that black people are "subject matter" to be studied, analyzed, and discussed like lab rats?

Lab rats are, I think, a little smarter. If we make note of this, blacks will tell us that they do not like it, just as you have.

No, not the murder, rape or gibsmedat, only that we notice. Blacks apparently enjoy murder, rape and gibsmedat.

Seriously, the most virulent anti-White blacks I have ever encountered were mulattoes. So those of us in forensic anthropology know that the skeleton reflects race, whether 'real' or not, just as well if not better than superficial soft tissue does.

The idea that race is 'only skin deep' is simply not true, as any experienced forensic anthropologist will affirm. He is widely recognized as an expert in skeletal biology and forensic anthropology.

Is anyone else bothered by the fact that some of the most beautiful places in the world are wasted on 3rd world inhabitants? Those parties keep alive a flame of resistance, even if electoral politics itself no longer functions.

Would Euroskeptics have any voice at all if not for Nigel Farage? Would the French be vociferously protesting homosexual marriage without the influence of politicians like Le Pen?

Even if elections no longer matter, parties like these will likely form the nucleus of genuine resistance in Europe.

I often wonder just how much of our own misery is due to the false dichotomy of the two-party system. If I were tasked with writing a new constitution, I would mandate at least 6 political parties.

Probably not a lot of drug dealing in Iceland, either. Drugs and Blacks are hand and glove. Read the article. There are plenty of drugs in Iceland, but there is no War on Drugs.

And when we get a country of our own, in the interest of eliminating drug crime there won't be any prohibition at all. People will have to become adults again, and parents will have to parent.

Last time I checked, blacks do plenty of killing without the looming bogeyman of "drugs. Anonymous said… Why are we not mutating Sickle Cell disease to a deadly airborne contagion, ….

If that statement is true then Shlomo should be immediately escorted to a padded cell. He should be permitted only crayolos as writing instruments and baby food for his meals.

On Ok Cupid if the woman has a "replies selectively" notation on the bottom of her profile it basically means she is tired of being inundated with "muh dik" demands from blacks.

But here again appears to be yet another example of the flaws in placing your hopes on politicians. Occasionally, an appearance by Dr. In our focus on the negro, we must never forget who actually runs BRA.

Yes, the R-jerseys and the D-jerseys are really part of the same team — the bank party. It's been a Banksta Banana Republick since at least How many French understand how fictional-reserve banking enables the squids to control everything?

I suspect you may be thinking of Orania click on the "English" tab. This is a community of Afrikaners on privately owned land which is tolerated by the government and given a measure of autonomy.

It's not really a solution at all, just an extreme case of White flight. Bloemfontein "flower fountain" is where I was born and raised. The system we had was called "Apartheid", which means simply separation.

It worked well, until White western countries decided we shouldn't have it any longer. There was a black residential area, called a location.

Blacks in domestic service lived in servants' quarters on their employers' properties. There was a PM curfew siren, after which blacks had to be off the streets outside of the location , unless they had a "pass" from their employer stating where they were going and what time they had to return.

Violators were arrested. Sounds like heaven, doesn't it? The city was clean and safe. As a child, I could walk alone anywhere, at any time, day or night, in perfect safety.

Alas, all gone, now. Cojo, well spotted re: the troll EJ Walls. Just another jumped-up Affirmative Action sophomore who can't write grammatically but thinks he can compensate by using big words.

For someone who doesn't believe in the reality of race, he sure joins a lot of "African-American" negro societies, doesn't he? Guess they don't have a White Students' Union at his campus.

On their way to Iceland,the Norse would stop in Ireland to pick up female slaves or to simply abduct any female who took their fancy.

I remember reading about a group in Iceland that was pushing for increased immigration and diversity, but this was before the financial collapse.

I don't know what has happened demographically since then. I know that Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland have changed quite a bit culturally, socially and demographically over the last several decades—Sweden and Denmark especially.

It's sad, but few natives will stand up and say a thing. Most are brainwashed. I can't believe they spent money to send that retard all the way to Iceland and that's what he came back with, they don't have drugs and they try to stop crime before it happens.

What a load of shit. Blacks are the most violent race on earth, especially here in America. They think the rules and laws of this nation do not apply to them.

They think every one owes them some thing. They are the most racist people in the world, yet, white are always the ones that are called racist. I know some will disagree with me, but, sit back and listen to the news in any metropolis…..

I rest my case. I have a hunch if you replace the population of the 7th ward with Icelandic people, they would not only thrive but drastically improve the living conditions, not just stand at the subsidies offices with a hand out, bitching about how bad they have it.

Facts are facts and just because you refuse to accept them, doesn't change the numbers. To all of the amazingly ignorant people here.

The biggest criminals throughout history have been white, they not only rape and pillage but they do it in massive numbers.

Genocide, rape, slavery, mass homicides, committed throughout history by whites. Displacement and abuse of thousands of people. It is truly sad and pathetic that people like you, with your diminutive minds and thoughts of no consequence exist.

If you can even be called that people. A more suitable name would be demons on Earth, demons that have no clue what this life is about.

You people are the most ignorant, racist, disgusting, rodents I have ever seen. How the fuck can you relate crime to race?? Afghan guys. White men.

I can go on about different crimes that have happened. Honestly, I've never seen such a set of ignorant, racist, horrible, disgusting, bigotted idiots.

Truly nasty and full of hatred, all of you. To say that black people are the only ones committing crimes is sickeningly ignorant.

Crimes in America are committed by all races. ALL races. All the white people here, seem to think they are something superior because they have light coloured melanin?

We all bleed red blood. If you take white skin off a human and black skin off a human, we all look the God-damn same. If white people can die, why are they superior?

Superior people are people who don't have qualities of all people. Everybody dies. For so long as we aren't immortal, we are not superior to one and other.

Also, racist American white people… It is your white ancestors that shipped black people from Africia to America.

They bought them here, so you deal with it. The white slave masters raped the black women and impregnated them. Get over yourselves. None of you are Gods, none of you are superior, you are white, so fucking what?

If black people weren't meant to be on the Earth, they wouldn't have been here in the first place. It's skin.

Fucking skin. I cannot fathom the hatred over skin. It's actually like being heighist — despising someone for being too short or tall. It's literally the same.

It's so stupid. Whites are stupid, blacks are stupid, Asians are stupid, Mulattos are stupid, Arabs are stupid — we're all stupid.

Every single human being is stupid. I pray that one day something hits this Earth and wipes all of us halfwit human race out for good. This is about the most simplistic, racist commentary I have read in quite awhile.

How about taking into account population density. When people are living on top of each other both literally and figuratively speaking there tends to be more violence.

Also studies that were done like 30 years ago have linked temperature to violence in humans. Hotter temperatures always appear to impact violence.

I'm pretty sure Iceland doesn't get too warm outside. Conversely, when it's cold outside people tend to stay inside i.

Also the socio-economic reasons glossed over in the initial summary are more prevalent then one would be led to believe.

These are just reasons off the top of my head and by the way, I'm white. A source of lushest pleasure, a breeding ground for every conceivable disease.

The pussy of the world. It is all right with me. I like pussy, and I love my squalid city. The dead like pussy too. If they are able to catch a woman and disable her enough so that she cannot resist, you will see the lucky ones burrowing in between her legs as happily as the most avid lover.

They do not have to come up for air. I have seen them eat all the way up into the body cavity. The internal female organs seem to be a great delicacy, and why not?

They are the caviar of the human body. It is a sobering thing to come across a woman sprawled in the gutter with her intestines sliding from the shredded ruin of her womb, but you do not react.

You do not distract the dead from their repast. They are slow and stupid, but that is all the more reason for you to be smart and quick and quiet.

They will do the same thing to a man - chew off the soft penis and scrotal sac like choice morsels of squid, leaving only a red raw hole.

But you can sidle by while they are feeding and they will not notice you. I do not try to hide from them. I walk the streets and look; that is all I do anymore.

I am fascinated. This is not horror, this is simply more of Calcutta. First I would sleep late, through the sultry morning into the heat of the afternoon.

I had a room in one of the decrepit marble palaces of the old city. Devi visited me here often, but on a typical morning I woke alone, clad only in twisted bedsheets and a luxurious patina of sweat.

Sun came through the window and fell in bright bars across the floor. I felt safe in my second-story room as long as I kept the door locked.

The dead were seldom able to navigate stairs, and they could not manage the sustained cooperative effort to break down a locked door.

They were no threat to me. They fed upon those who had given Up, those too traumatized to keep running: the senile, abandoned old, the catatonic young women who sat in gutters cradling babies that had died during the night.

These were easy prey. The walls of my room were painted a bright coral and the sills and door were aqua. The colors caught the sun and made the day seem cheerful despite the heat that shimmered outside.

I went downstairs, crossed the empty courtyard with its dry marble fountain, and went out into the street. This area was barren in the heat, painfully bright, with parched weeds lining the road and an occasional smear of cow dung decorating the gutter.

By night-fall both weeds and dung might be gone. Children collected cow shit and patted it into cakes held together with straw, which could be sold as fuel for cooking fires.

I headed toward Chowringhee Road, the broad main thoroughfare of the city. Halfway up my street, hunched under the awning of a mattress factory, I saw one of the catatonic young mothers.

The dead had found her too. They had already taken the baby from her arms and eaten through the soft part at the top of the skull.

Vacuous bloody faces rose and dipped. Curds of tender brain fell from slack mouths. The mother sat on the curb nearby, her arms cradling nothing.

She wore a filthy green sari that was ripped across the chest. The woman's breasts protruded heavily, swollen with milk. When the dead finished with her baby they would start on her, and she would make no resistance.

I had seen it before. I knew how the milk would spurt and then gush as they tore into her breasts. I knew how hungrily they would lap up the twin rivers of blood and milk.

Above their bobbing heads, the tin awning dripped long ropy strands of cotton. Cotton hung from the roof in dirty clumps, caught in the corners of the doorway like spiderweb.

Someone's radio blared faintly in another part of the building, tuned to an English-language Christian broadcast. A gospel hymn assured Calcutta that its dead in Christ would rise.

I moved on toward Chowringhee. Most of the streets in the city are positively cluttered with buildings.

Buildings are packed in cheek-by-jowl, helter-skelter, like books of different sizes jammed into a rickety bookcase. Buildings even sag over the street so that all you see overhead is a narrow strip of sky crisscrossed by miles of clotheslines.

The flapping silks and cottons are very bright against the sodden, dirty sky. But there are certain vantage points where the city opens up and all at once you have a panoramic view of Calcutta.

You see a long muddy hillside that has become home to a bustee, thousands and thousands of slum dwellings where tiny fires are tended through the night.

The dead come often to these slums of tin and cardboard, but the people do not leave the bustee — where would they go?

Or you see a wasteland of disused factories, empty warehouses, blackened smokestacks jutting into a rust-colored sky.

Or a flash of the Hooghly River, steel-gray in its shroud of mist, spanned by the intricate girder-and-wirescape of the Howrah Bridge.

Just now I was walking opposite the river. The waterfront was not considered a safe place because of the danger from drowning victims.

Thousands each year took the long plunge off the bridge, and thousands more simply waded into the water. It is easy to commit suicide at a riverfront because despair collects in the water vapor.

This is part of the reason for the tangible cloud of despair that hangs over Calcutta along with its veil of humidity. Now the suicides and the drowned street children were coming out of the river.

At any moment the water might regurgitate one, and you would hear him scrabbling up the bank. If he had been in the water long enough he might tear himself to spongy gobbets on the stones and broken bricks that littered the waterfront; all that remained would be a trace of foul brown odor, like the smell of mud from the deep part of the river.

Police - especially the Sikhs, who are said to be more violent than Hindus - had been taking the dead up on the bridge to shoot them.

Even from far away I could see spray-patterns of red on the drab girders. Alternatively they set the dead alight with gasoline and threw them over the railing into the river.

At night it was not uncommon to see several writhing shapes caught in the downstream current, the fiery symmetry of their heads and arms and legs making them into five-pointed human stars.

I stopped at a spice vendor's stand to buy a bunch of red chrysanthemums and a handful of saffron. The saffron I had him wrap in a twist of scarlet silk.

He stared at me, half amused, half appalled. There is nothing profane - no dirty dog picking through the ash bin at a cremation ground, no stinking gangrenous stump thrust into your face by a beggar who seems to hold you personally responsible for all his woes.

These things are as sacred as feasting day at the holiest temple. But even for the most devout Hindus it has been difficult to see these walking dead as sacred.

They are empty humans. That is the truly horrifying thing about them, more than their vacuous hunger for living flesh, more than the blood caked under their nails or the shreds of flesh caught between their teeth.

They are soulless; there is nothing in their eyes; the sounds they make - their farts, their grunts and mewls of hunger - are purely reflexive.

The Hindu, who has been taught to believe in the soul of everything, has a particular horror of these drained human vessels.

But in Calcutta life goes on. The shops are still open. The confusion of traffic still inches its way up Chowringhee.

No one sees any alternatives. Soon I arrived at what was almost invariably my day's first stop.

I would often walk twenty or thirty miles in a day - I had strong shoes and nothing to occupy my time except walking and looking. But I always began at the Kalighat, temple of the Goddess.

There are a million names for her, a million vivid descriptions: Kali the Terrible, Kali the Ferocious, skull-necklace, destroyer of men, eater of souls.

But to me she was Mother Kali, the only one of the vast and colorful pantheon of Hindu gods that stirred my imagination and lifted my heart.

She was the Destroyer, but all final refuge was found in her. She was the goddess of the age. She could bleed and burn and still rise again, very awake, beautifully terrible.

I ducked under the garlands of marigolds and strands of temple bells strung across the door, and I entered the temple of Kali.

After the constant clamor of the street, the silence inside the temple was deafening. I fancied I could hear the small noises of my body echoing back to me from the ceiling far above.

The sweet opium glaze of incense curled around my head. I approached the idol of Kali, the jagrata. Her gimlet eyes watched me as I came closer.

She was tall, gaunter and more brazenly naked than my friend Devi even at her best moments. Her breasts were tipped with blood - at least I always imagined them so -and her two sharp fangs and the long streamer of a tongue that uncurled from her open mouth were the color of blood too.

Her hair whipped about her head and her eyes were wild, but the third crescent eye in the center of her forehead was merciful; it saw and accepted all.

The necklace of skulls circled the graceful stem of her neck, adorned the sculpted hollow of her throat.

Her four arms were so sinuous that if you looked away even for an instant, they seemed to sway. In her four hands she held a noose of rope, a skull-staff, a shining sword, and a gaping, very dead-looking severed head.

A silver bowl sat at the foot of the statue just beneath the head, where the blood from the neck would drip.

Sometimes this was filled with goat's or sheep's blood as an offering. The bowl was full today. In these times the blood might well be human, though there was no putrid smell to indicate it had come from one of the dead.

I laid my chrysanthemums and saffron at Kali's feet. Among the other offerings, mostly sweets and bundles of spice, I saw a few strange objects.

A fingerbone. A shrivelled mushroom of flesh that turned out upon closer inspection to be an ear. These were offerings for special protection, mostly wrested from the dead.

But who was to say that a few devotees had not lopped off their own ears or finger joints to coax a boon from Kali?

Sometimes when I had forgotten to bring an offering, I cut my wrist with a razor blade and let a few drops of my blood fall at the idol's feet.

I heard a shout from outside and turned my head for a moment. When I looked back, the four arms seemed to have woven themselves into a new pattern, the long tongue seemed to loll farther from the scarlet mouth.

And — this was a frequent fantasy of mine - the wide hips now seemed to tilt forward, affording me a glimpse of the sweet and terrible petalled cleft between the thighs of the goddess.

I smiled up at the lovely sly face. I imagined much in the presence of Kali. Outside in the temple yard I saw the source of the shout I had heard.

There is a stone block upon which the animals brought to Kali, mostly baby goats, are beheaded by the priests. A gang of roughly dressed men had captured a dead girl and were bashing her head in on the sacrificial block.

Their arms rose and fell, ropy muscles flexing. They clutched sharp stones and bits of brick in their scrawny hands. The girl's half-pulped head still lashed back and forth.

The lower jaw still snapped, though the teeth and bone were splintered. Foul thin blood coursed down and mingled with the rich animal blood in the earth beneath the block.

The girl was nude, filthy with her own gore and waste. The flaccid breasts hung as if sucked dry of meat. The belly was burst open with gases.

One of the men thrust a stick into the ruined gouge between the girl's legs and leaned on it with all his weight.

Only in extensive stages of decay can the dead be told from the lepers. The dead are greater in number now, and even the lepers look human when compared to the dead.

But that is only if you get close enough to look into the eyes. The faces in various stages of wet and dry rot, the raw ends of bones rubbing through skin like moldy cheesecloth, the cancerous domes of the skulls are the same.

After a certain point lepers could no longer stay alive begging in the streets, for most people would now flee in terror at the sight of a rotting face.

As a result the lepers were dying, then coming back, and the two races mingled like some obscene parody of incest. Perhaps they actually could breed.

The dead could obviously eat and digest, and seemed to excrete at random like everyone else in Calcutta, but I supposed no one knew whether they could ejaculate or conceive.

A stupid idea, really. A dead womb would rot to pieces around a fetus before it could come halfway to term; a dead scrotal sac would be far too cold a cradle for living seed.

But no one seemed to know anything about the biology of the dead. The newspapers were hysterical, printing picture upon picture of random slaughter by dead and living alike.

Radio stations had either gone off the air or were broadcasting endless religious exhortations that ran together in one long keening whine, the edges of Muslim, Hindu, Christian doctrine beginning to fray and blur.

No one in India could say for sure what made the dead walk. The latest theory I had heard was something about a genetically engineered microbe that had been designed to feed on plastic: a microbe that would save the world from its own waste.

But the microbe had mutated and was now eating and 'replicating' human cells, causing basic bodily functions to reactivate. It did not much matter whether this was true.

Calcutta was a city relatively unsurprised to see its dead rise and walk and feed upon it. It had seen them doing so for a hundred years.

All the rest of the lengthening day I walked through the city. I saw no more dead except a cluster far away at the end of a blocked street, in the last rags of bloody light, fighting each other over the bloated carcass of a sacred cow.

My favorite place at sunset is by the river where I can see the Howrah Bridge. The Hooghly is painfully beautiful in the light of the setting sun.

The last rays melt onto the water like hot ghee, turning the river from steel to khaki to nearly golden, a blazing ribbon of light. The bridge rises black and skeletal into the fading orange sky.

Tonight an occasional skirl of bright flowers and still-glowing greasy embers floated by, the last earthly traces of bodies cremated farther up the river.

Above the bridge were the burning ghats where families lined up to incinerate their dead and cast the ashes into the holy river.

Cremation is done more efficiently these days, or at least more hurriedly. People can reconcile in their hearts their fear of strangers' dead, but they do not want to see their own dead rise.

I walked along the river for a while. The wind off the water carried the scent of burning meat. When I was well away from the bridge, I wandered back into the maze of narrow streets and alleyways that lead toward the docks in the far southern end of the city.

People were already beginning to settle in for the night, though here a bedroom might mean your own packing crate or your own square of sidewalk.

Fires glowed in nooks and corners. A warm breeze still blew off the river and sighed its way through the winding streets.

It seemed very late now. As I made my way from corner to corner, through intermittent pools of light and much longer patches of darkness, I heard small bells jingling to the rhythm of my footsteps.

The brass bells of rickshaw men, ringing to tell me they were there in case I wished for a ride. But I could see none of the men. The effect was eerie, as if I were walking alone down an empty nighttime street being serenaded by ghostly bells.

The feeling soon passed. You are never truly alone in Calcutta. A thin hand slid out of the darkness as I passed.

Looking into the doorway it came from, I could barely make out five gaunt faces, five forms huddled against the night.

I dropped several coins into the hand and it slid out of sight again. I am seldom begged from. I look neither rich nor poor, but I have a talent for making myself all but invisible.

People look past me, sometimes right through me. I don't mind; I see more things that way. But when I am begged from I always give.

With my handful of coins, all five of them might have a bowl of rice and lentils tomorrow. A bowl of rice and lentils in the morning, a drink of water from a broken standpipe at night.

It seemed to me that the dead were among the best-fed citizens of Calcutta. Now I crossed a series of narrow streets and was surprised to find myself coming up behind the Kalighat.

The side streets are so haphazardly arranged that you are constantly finding yourself in places you had no idea you were even near. I had been to the Kalighat hundreds of times, but I had never approached it from this direction.

The temple was dark and still. I had not been here at this hour before, did not even know whether the priests were still here or if one could enter so late.

But as I walked closer I saw a little door standing open at the back. The entrance used by the priests, perhaps.

Something flickered from within: a candle, a tiny mirror sewn on a robe, the smoldering end of a stick of incense.

I slipped around the side of the temple and stood at the door for a moment. A flight of stone steps led up into the darkness of the temple.

The Kalighat at night, deserted, might have been an unpleasant prospect to some. The thought of facing the fierce idol alone in the gloom might have made some turn away from those steps.

I began to climb them. The smell reached me before I ascended halfway. To spend a day walking through Calcutta is to be assailed by thousands of odors both pleasant and foul: the savor of spices frying in ghee, the stink of shit and urine and garbage, the sick-sweet scent of the little white flowers called mogra that are sold in garlands and that make me think of the gardenia perfume American undertakers use to mask the smell of their corpses.

Almost everyone in Calcutta is scrupulously clean in person, even the very poor. They will leave their trash and their spit everywhere, but many of them wash their bodies twice a day.

Still, everyone sweats under the sodden veil of heat, and at midday any public place will be redolent with the smell of human perspiration, a delicate tang like the mingled juices of lemons and onions.

But lingering in the stairwell was an odor stronger and more foul than any I had encountered today. It was deep and brown and moist; it curled at the edges like a mushroom beginning to dry.

It was the perfume of mortal corruption. It was the smell of rotting flesh. The large central room was lit only with candles that flickered in a restless draft, first this way, then that.

In the dimness the worshippers looked no different from any other supplicants at the feet of Kali.

But as my eyes grew accustomed to the candlelight, details resolved themselves. The withered hands, the ruined faces. The burst body cavities where ropy organs could be seen trailing down behind the cagework of ribs.

By day Kali grinned down upon an array of blossoms and sweetmeats lovingly arranged at the foot of her pedestal. The array spread there now seemed more suited to the goddess.

I saw human heads balanced on raw stumps of necks, eyes turned up to crescents of silver-white. I saw gobbets of meat that might have been torn from a belly or a thigh.

I saw severed hands like pale lotus flowers, the fingers like petals opening silently in the night. Most of all, piled on every side of the altar, I saw bones.

Bones picked so clean that they gleamed in the candlelight. Bones with smears of meat and long snotty runners of fat still attached.

Skinny arm-bones, clubby leg-bones, the pretzel of a pelvis, the beadwork of a spine. The delicate bones of children.

The crumbling ivory bones of the old. The bones of those who could not run. These things the dead brought to their goddess.

She had been their goddess all along, and they her acolytes. Kali's smile was hungrier than ever. The tongue lolled like a wet red streamer from the open mouth.

The eyes were blazing black holes in the gaunt and terrible face. If she had stepped down from her pedestal and approached me now, if she had reached for me with those sinuous arms, I might not have been able to fall to my knees before her.

I might have run. There are beauties too terrible to be borne. Slowly the dead began to turn toward me. Their faces lifted and the rotting cavities of their nostrils caught my scent.

Their eyes shone iridescent. Faint starry light shimmered in the empty spaces of their bodies. They were like cutouts in the fabric of reality, like conduits to a blank universe.

The void where Kali ruled and the only comfort was in death. They did not approach me. They stood holding their precious offerings and they looked at me - those of them that still had eyes - or they looked through me.

At that moment I felt more than invisible. I felt empty enough to belong among these human shells.

A ripple seemed to pass through them. Then - in the uncertain candlelight, in the light that shimmered from the bodies of the dead - Kali did move.

The twitch of a finger, the deft turn of a wrist — at first it was so slight as to be nearly imperceptible. But then her lips split into an impossibly wide, toothy grin and the tip of her long tongue curled.

She rotated her hips and swung her left leg high into the air. The foot that had trod on millions of corpses made a pointe as delicate as a prima ballerina's.

The movement spread her sex wide open. But it was not the petalled mandala-like cleft I had imagined kissing earlier. The pussy of the goddess was an enormous deep red hole that seemed to lead down to the center of the world.

It was a gash in the universe, it was rimmed in blood and ash. Two of her four hands beckoned toward it, inviting me in.

I could have thrust my head into it, then my shoulders. I could have crawled all the way into that wet crimson eternity, and kept crawling forever.

Then I did run. Before I had even decided to flee I found myself falling down the stone staircase, cracking my head and my knee on the risers.

At the bottom I was up and running before I could register the pain. I told myself that I thought the dead would come after me.

I do not know what I truly feared was at my back. At times I thought I was running not away from something, but toward it. I ran all night.

When my legs grew too tired to carry me I would board a bus. Once I crossed the bridge and found myself in Howrah, the even poorer suburb on the other side of the Hooghly.

I stumbled through desolate streets for an hour or more before doubling back and crossing over into Calcutta again.

Once I stopped to ask for a drink of water from a man who carried two cans of it slung on a long stick across his shoulders. He would not let me drink from his tin cup, but poured a little water into my cupped hands.

In his face I saw the mingled pity and disgust with which one might look upon a drunk or a beggar. I was a well-dressed beggar, to be sure, but he saw the fear in my eyes.

In the last hour of the night I found myself wandering through a wasteland of factories and warehouses, of smokestacks and rusty corrugated tin gates, of broken windows.

There seemed to be thousands of broken windows. I walked for a while in the watery light that fills the sky before dawn.

Eventually I left the road and staggered through the wasteland. Not until I saw its girders rising around me like the charred bones of a prehistoric animal did I realize I was in the ruins of the hospital where I had been born.

The hole of the basement had filled up with broken glass and crumbling metal, twenty years' worth of cinders and weeds, all washed innocent in the light of the breaking dawn.

Where the building had stood there was only a vast depression in the ground, five or six feet deep. I slid down the shallow embankment, rolled, and came to rest in the ashes.

They were infinitely soft; they cradled me. I felt as safe as an embryo. I let the sunrise bathe me. Perhaps I had climbed into the gory chasm between Kali's legs after all, and found my way out again.

Calcutta is cleansed each morning by the dawn. If only the sun rose a thousand times a day, the city would always be clean. Ashes drifted over me, smudged my hands gray, flecked my lips.

I lay safe in the womb of my city, called by its poets Lord of Nerves, city of joy, the pussy of the world.

I felt as if I lay among the dead. I was that safe from them: I knew their goddess, I shared their many homes.

As the sun came up over the mud and glory of Calcutta, the sky was so full of smoky clouds and pale pink light that it seemed, to my eyes, to burn.

Four a. The Port Authority is a bad place at the best of times, a place where Lovecraft's wrong geometry might well hold sway.

The master of purple prose maintained that the human mind could be driven mad by contemplation of angles subtly skewed, of other planes where the three corners of a triangle might add up to less than a hundred and eighty degrees, or to more.

Such is the Port Authority: even in the bustle of midday, corners do not appear to meet up quite right; corridors seem to slope from one end to the other.

Even in full daylight, the Port Authority terminal is a bad place. At five a. Consider two young men just off a Greyhound from North Carolina.

They were not brothers, but they might be thought brothers, although they looked nothing alike: it was suggested in the way the taller one, crow-black hair shoved messily behind his ears, kept close to his fairhaired companion as if protecting him.

It was implied in the way they looked around the empty terminal and then glanced at each other, exchanging bad impressions without saying a word.

They were not brothers, but they had known each other since childhood, and neither had ever been to New York before. The corridor was flooded with dead fluorescent light.

Should anyone find this message ambiguous, a heavy chain had been looped through the door handle and snapped shut with a padlock as large as a good-sized fist.

The fair boy turned around in a complete circle, lifted his head and flared his nostrils. His pale blue eyes slipped halfway shut, the lids fluttering.

His friend watched him warily. After a minute he came out of it, shook himself a little, still nervous. I can't find my way anywhere. Steve didn't like it either, wished they could have avoided the terminal altogether.

They'd planned to drive up, but Steve's old T-bird had developed an alarming engine knock which threatened to become a death rattle if not dealt with kindly.

The trip was all planned; they were booked to play at a club in the East Village - but they also meant to embark on a cross-country road trip next month.

Steve left the car with his mechanic, telling him to fix it or scrap the mother-fucker, Steve didn't care which.

Ghost stood by half-smiling, listening to this exchange. Then, while Steve was still bitching, he had walked up the street to the Farmers Hardware store that doubled as Missing Mile's bus station and charged two round-trip tickets to his credit card.

He hated using that card, hated the feel of the thing in his pocket, but this surely counted as an emergency.

That same night they were New York-bound. The place set Steve's teeth on edge too. Ghost hitched his backpack up on his shoulder. They turned away from the padlocked door and tried to retrace their steps, but every corridor seemed to lead further into the bowels of the place.

The soft sound of Ghost's sneakers and the sharp clatter of Steve's bootheels echoed back at them: shush-clop, shush-flop.

Through Ghost's thin T-shirt Steve saw the sharp winglike jut of his shoulderblades, the shadowed knobs of his spine. The strap of the backpack pulled Ghost's shirt askew; his pale hair straggled silkily over his bare, sweaty neck.

Steve carried only a guitar case, the instrument inside padded with a spare shirt and a few extra pairs of socks. They came to another dead end, then to the motionless hulk of an escalator with a chain strung across its railings.

Steve began to feel like a stupid hick, to feel like the place was playing tricks on them. Came to the Big City and couldn't even find our way out of the bus station.

We ought to sit down right here and wait for the next bus headed south, and when it comes, we ought to hop on it and go right back home. Fuck New York, fuck the big club date.

I don't like it here either. But that was stupid. The city was out there somewhere, and it had to get better than this.

Port Authority, Ghost decided, was about the worst place he had ever been in. Everything about it looked wrong, smelled wrong, leaned wrong.

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