He is the heir to a cotton magnate, the son of an optic surgeon and a Southern belle. A man with broad shoulders, stout posture and well-groomed demeanor. An ideal American citizen, the Caucasian…no, this man would qualify as Aryan elite! He is currently driving, about halfway to work, the orange juice in his travel mug half-cut with Skyy vodka, and already halfway consumed. A man of hearty genetic stock. He maintains a relaxed, cool demeanor. He takes a large sip at a longer than usual stoplight.

He is an aristocrat by blood, but also of the soul and mind. He has read the classics and philosophy, and has many theories on civilizational development and collapse. His education sets him apart from many others in his field, but he is amiable to those from all walks of life. The spitting image of Proust’s Duc de Guermantes, he believes that if you cannot relate to the people whose futures you’re improving, then you shouldn’t be in this line of work. A better America for everyone is what comes first.

He drives a Ford F-350. He takes his second drink and begins humming as his head warms, the gentle buzz providing the relaxation needed to improvise along some type of 3-5-1 jazz melody. Vaudevillian? Maybe. The sun was shining already, but now it’s just a bit brighter. Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” is playing on the stereo; his wife’s favorite band. They’ve grown on him quite a bit as well, but he hums his own tune regardless.

He knows that he sits alongside the great thinkers of History: from Spengler and Evola to Marcuse and Adorno; he’s read them all. Perhaps after his death, he will even cross over into the popular canon like Darwin! He too is a man with a thorough understanding of biology and speciation, despite what his credentials might tell you. Education never ends for the autodidact. His infamy and against the grain nature assures him of little association with the likes of, say, a queer tyrant like Herbert Hoover. His haircut, however, is fantastic.

The light turns green as he takes another drink. The car jerks forward as it floods into his mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto his fitted white Oxford. He will have to button up his blazer when he gets to work, even if he won’t be in front of the cameras today. The outline of his hummed melody starts to precipitate. Hmmm-hmmm-hm-da-dum-dadum.

“Harder to Breathe” is now on the final verse. He remembers getting his wife this CD for her birthday, along with front row tickets to Hamilton. They had made love that night. He hums louder; the melody is becoming coherent now. Perhaps he will get up the nerve to sing?

He pulls his Ford F-350 into the left lane on the highway, passing by various Hondas, Toyotas, and other Japanese stock vehicles. He sighs. He doesn’t find anything wrong with Japan: they’re an industrious and culturally preserved nation. He enjoys their history and literature: a tiny nation preserving itself against the tides of much larger, more powerful foes seems very romantic to him. He’s seen Seven Samurai and read Mishima on a colleague’s recommendation. He wonders how to get America to embrace these values while keeping Japan’s more perverse traits at bay. The pornography in particular bothers him.

His phone vibrates: he has a new match on Tinder! He investigates her profile, humming his La Pomp melody more loudly as Adam Levine’s perfect pitch tenor fades. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. The statesman smiles as he replaces his phone in his breast pocket. He slams the rest of his screwdriver, then slams his brakes.

The tires of both vehicles screech loudly. His mug bounces off the dashboard and onto his lap, leaking the remains onto the crotch of his tailored khakis. He honks; the other driver flips him off. Their car is some sort of mid 90’s Honda Civic. The driver appears to be a black male, not that anyone could really tell from the window tint.

He’s sure of it, and now his nerves rise to a crescendo and the vaudevillian tune he spent this drive composing has its first verse and chorus. He’s going to sing it! In a La Pomp gypsy jazz tempo, 4/4 swing time, key of G flat major (blues), he snaps his fingers. 1, 2, ah, 1-2-3-4!

“All those god-damn niggers!
they don’t know how to drive,
they can’t-read,
they can barely talk,
can’t even hold a nine-to-five!

“All those god-damned niggers!
Who taught them how to breathe?
All those gosh darned niiiiiiiggers!”
(he waits for the turnaround, using lots of vibrato on the last vowels)
“Why do we let them breed?”

The mantra soothes him. The lyrics are far too vulgar, but true inspiration often comes from places we’d never tell our closest family members about. Write drunk, edit sober. The lyrics will be replaced if he ever decides to orchestrate its performance, not that he will have time; since his career took off, composition is a pleasure he’s bracketed to the realm of personal hobby.

He’s happy that the melody and rhythm are structured. Breaking ground is always the hardest part of composition; it requires pure inspiration. The rest of the song can be built quickly once the foundation is established.

He pulls into work, then has a quick glass of scotch in his office while he cleans himself up. When he finally enters the studio, his coworkers seem annoyed. The seriousness of their work and the impact they want to have makes that annoyance warranted. He doesn’t fault them and avoids explanation; traffic issues should be non-issues. Down to business.

Today’s subject is an academic philosopher based out of the East Coast, one with links to a controversial political movement. The philosopher is cut from similar cloth as our patriot, a true intellectual. This should be a stimulating interview to say the least!

The monitors indicate his microphone has just the right amount of gain, check-check. Levels are balanced. Thank goodness he warmed his voice up in the car; he can get started right away! A small amount of urine is discharged onto his undergarments. Remaining cool, he pulls closer to his desk, adjusts his microphone, and after salutations, begins:

“Hello! My name is Richard Spencer and you are listening to Counter-Currents Radio.”