They are finally together.

After the imperialist United States began its final purge of true dissidents, our national struggle to socialize our people has finally come to fruition in China. A new homeland built like our old one, free of our oldest subversives. Those international capitalists, with foreign spies in every corner taking our countries over using blackmail and other compromises, are not to be found here.

In America, they would stop at nothing to keep us out and cold, left with no proper party to convey our struggle against the war crimes of usurers. China, our spiritual motherland, has given us the means of which our struggle can spread to the realm we never had overseas: online.

In Whiteworld, a place built by Chinese for whites dispossessed by the greed amidst the pandemic, leaving our fraudulent leader’s white boomer base to die for the big line in tatters, we are provided our income and means with their great device: the Chair.

What is the Chair? The Chair provides your right to life, to a platform, and pays you for using it. With an electric plug connecting your head to your right hand, you, a proud specimen of your tribe, can be paid simply for existing, while American cities are collapsing from the inability to have a universal basic income while staying home, leaving crowds running in the streets to their inevitable death by the dollar. The Yuan, a currency finally freed from the American Empire, is now a cryptocurrency you can harvest from the pulses of your nervous system (and donate to our CaucAsian National Peoples’ Party of Justice and Brotherhood of Socialism) and spend on things banned from America, like our books Ranch Nationalism, Red-Brown & Huwyte: The Only Solution, The Fifth Political Paradigm, and our newest hit, Eurasia: Locked Together for Good.

With the Chair, I have downloaded the experiences of my spirit ancestor, Ernst Jünger, and learned the great bravery as he survived with a blown-off finger all thanks to one lucky saucepan. Truly, when I fled the hordes of white dumbasses all too eager to deport me from their failed Masonic plot of a country to a traditionalist nation having had endured millennia, they were fools unable to recognize the calling of our true home: Whiteworld.

Today is the day I have finally experienced the true joys of ethnos, the Greek word for language, as I have been granted an unbannable Twitter account, all thanks to the Chinese saving Twitter from the ban-happy wrath of America. In this moment, I am Jünger, Rommel, Napoleon, Rohm. I AM MY PEOPLE.

And for this day, I shall be granted a yuan deposited to my account every time someone interacts with my Tweets, the first of which I posted:

“Overcoming the false dichotomy of left and right to achieve nationalism and socialism together, only in #Whiteworld”

But as I Tweeted it, those American false nationalists immediately pounced on my glory, barely hiding their envy at my saving of the race they abandoned.

“Holocaust denier learns to stop worrying and love to literally jam the MARK OF THE BEAST into his nervous system for cryptocurrency, because the Chinese are totally BASED guis,” a quote read with a picture of AmerIsraeli propaganda that China was diplomatic with our enemies, not realizing the motherland had sent me on duty specifically to combat the Zioshills denying China of its right as the true superpower of the world.

“How do you enjoy freedom when you don’t even have an UNBANNABLE government account?” I pointed out.

“These people made a whole schtick out of calling me a gay catboi and a spic fed, yet here’s the white Puerto Rican blurting out that he’s an asset of the FUCKING CHINESE GOVERNMENT!”

Suddenly there were more replies and quotes than ever before in my life. The Chair was funding me like never before, going into the millions. A powerful current was surging through my body, from head to hand, the screen searing with the raw power of my cryptogains. I felt my hand coming loose from the chair as the warmth spread to my legs, jolting me free from the chair by sheer force.



I was fire, the place around me was fire. Whiteworld was fire.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…Erik? Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” a familiar voice called out to me.

“That was my old slave name. A dead name. Since my renunciation of my false American heritage to my true Chinese calling, my name is Curtis. What is your true name, the white brother whose deadname is ‘Moike?’”

“Uhhhhhhhh, guess I’m Mark now, uhhhhhhhh, so the people here gave me this ranch, but uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, there’s no ranch.” The bottle was filled with holes, constantly dripping ranch, but whenever Mark tried to drink some, the dripping would stop, only to resume when he gave up, then stop again like the fable of Tantalus.

“Whiteworld has proven its devotion to our Eurasian heritage, even recreating our REAL founding myths, as opposed to the fake American capitalist invention myths of Christmas music, absolute degeneracy, and the greatest assault on our German brothers, simply known as Casablanca.”

“Uhhhh, Curtis, should I just drink some ranch from the floor, it’s not like unhealthy if I do it fast, right?” There was ranch up to his ankles, forming a pond from the slight depression we were standing in.

“China has ended the pandemic with the final solution merging nationalism and socialism; there is no sickness in China!” I proclaimed as Mark reached his glorious, bearish body to the floor, drinking ranch like it were wine presented from Christ himself.

“Look at you, fucking obese white pig! Stooping so low for some Hidden Valley Ranch! Truly some savior of the race you are!”

“….did he call you a pig?” I asked, shocked that there would still be the scourge of anti-whiteness somewhere in Whiteworld.

“Nah, that’s just the boss; he lets me have all the ranch I want as long as it’s from this weird bottle. Ya gotta think about it, the Americans invented political correctness as the doctrine of not being mean. So when he’s mean to me, he’s actually elevating me by breaking the subversive Western programming.” Mark explained as his glorious beady eyes pierced through my chest, glistening and shaved as it always was. His stance wavered in his honest, almost mumbling but gloriously candid manner.

“You are the dumbest children of mine that I could ever ask for, devoting your whole career to studying every single subversive act from one sect of my children, but then deciding to send yourselves to me because you can’t even pay attention when a bigger group of my children does literally all of that but they don’t have a tragedy to milk.”

“Uhhhh…I dunno what you’re talking aboutm but I appreciate the insult, uhhhhhhh…” Mark paused in the most pregnant of manners. “If you’re talking about milking tragedies against our people, the problem you see, uhhhhh…if there was no tragedy.”

“You still haven’t realized that THEY aren’t the only people who can fake numbers and media? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOUR PREVIOUS BOSSES ARE COMMONLY NICKNAMED!?”

“Uhhhh…the Americans are nicknamed the Great Satan for their international crimes of capitalist degeneracy and they got it from their illegitimate controller bosses who are the uhhhhhhh…”

“Not what I was going for, but since you touched on ‘Great Satan,’ maybe it’s time I introduced myself to you useful damned buffoons.” A man showed up with Evropan goat horns, pale gorgeous Aryan skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. But most important of all was his pitchfork, our old party symbol; we were finally reunited.

“My ancestor!” I kissed on the lips, not able to restrain my joy from the glory of a pure white brother, together with the heirlooms of old and the icon of our return.

We are finally together.