LATE ONE NIGHT a few weeks ago, my fancy PDA/cell phone loudly jangled that retro ringtone I so liked, rousing me from a deep sleep with a start. Worried something bad might have happened to a family member, or I was needed back on the front lines, I hurriedly reached over to the nightstand to snatch it up.
Thankfully, it was only my Aussie friend and favorite Jiggerman guide, Leif Billithong, calling from another time zone. He clearly could care less about my beauty sleep. “INCOG” he yelled over the lines, “you gotta get out here, mate, the Ghetto Jigging is absolutely fantastic. Just had a client land a whopper Street Ho on a EBT card streamer fly. It was his fourth of the trip!”
Still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I pretend angry asked: “Leif, where the hell you at?” He shouted back “INCOG, you won’t believe it, but Oakland, California.”
Oakland? They finally opened jigging in northern California? I guess it was really true that the rest of the state had finally gone belly up and was searching for any means of survival. But it made perfect sense — open the area to Ghetto jiggerman like me, make tons of moolah on expensive out-of-state licenses and tourist industry taxes — right along with getting rid of special aid benefits doled out to worthless hunks of protoplasm!
[IF YOU’RE THE SENSITIVE, NON-SPORTSMAN, WHITE MULTICULT TYPE, PLEASE DON’T READ ANY MORE. I would not wish to be responsible for you having a coronary, or going off the deep end and destroying your monitor while trying to get at me for being “the most hateful man on the Internet.” Thanks.]
The streets of Oakland made jiggermen salivate the world over.
Here was a real glory hole, full of huge lunkers lazing about in big pods, swilling down luke warm Colt 45’s and gnawing noisily on greasy chicken bones. Nasty fat Hos stood around street corners, idly scratching exposed, fleshy limbs while waiting for the rare customer. Sullen, scrawny Gangstas filled unkempt, barren front yards — sometimes screwing, sometimes screaming, sometimes stabbing — all jive-shucking around in a drug-induced daze to incomprehensible hip-hop blaring loudly out of stolen boom boxes.
And the whole area had never once been jigged — it all sounded just wonderful!
Southern California and LA had opened up Ghetto jigging for the last five years or so, and the place was now a hellava lot better off, with serious money in the city coffers, too. Ghetto sportsman and even decent White families were moving back. But untouched Oakland was still off limits until now. Of course I had to go.
Plus, I just bought a new high modulus, boron fiber SAGE rod — strong enough to tame the most coked-up jig running wild down the street. I matched it with a gold Tibor Gulfstream large arbor reel, filled with that hot new Scientific Jigger’s bullet taper fly line in urban camo and all backed up with 300 yards of super strong braided nylon.
It was the perfect set-up for working sidewalk drys along burnt-out storefronts and skittering streamers down stinky, trash-filled street gutters!
Add to that, I just finished tying dozens of tried and true fly patterns: Twenties, Lotto Ticket drys, KFC WingDings and Big Ho Mama nymphs. Let’s not forget that new killer streamer of my very own design: The Greezy Weezy. All “must haves” for any serious Ghetto Fly Jiggerman (oh, yes indeed, I’m plugging mine).
I immediately booked a first class ticket aboard my favorite airline — AryanNations West. I always loved how the smartly dressed, sexy White female stewardesses treated you like a king. Absolutely no self-absorbed, limp-wristed male faggots were ever allowed to serve, thankfully. And all the pilots were top-notch White guys — you always felt safe with them at the wheel.
The airport was clean, calm and nice. Sure, they had worker jigs in bright orange jumpsuits doing things like sweeping and emptying out the trash receptacles. All well-behaved and quite docile, since each wore radio-controlled microchip neck collars — you know, the kind where White managers could remotely activate pre-programmed work routines, downloaded into the primitive cerebellums via the now famous Dr. Mengele Corporation bio interface system.
Should a worker jig ever get out of line, the managers could simply press a special red button, setting off a small RDX charge that drove a round steel bolt straight into the spinal column, dropping them like a sack of garbage on the spot. There was very little blood and what simian brains they had, could later be salvaged for use in anything from high-tech guided missiles to automated agricultural machinery.
No mess, no fuss! The body from the neck down would simply be ground up for use by fertilizer combines and “humanitarian” food shipments to the always starving third world countries; now forced to deal with matters on their own after White governments completely stopped immigration, anchor baby crap and kicked out most of those who had no business in White countries from the get-go.
Airports were a lot saner too these days — no long lines at security and having to put up with homo TSA employees groping your package. Terrorism was now a thing of the past since we were best buds with the Mooslims after the entire world had enough, coming together to round up as many Joos as possible (including the slime in IsraHELL); forcibly relocating them all to Madagascar and a few game preserves on the African continent — where well-heeled sportsman could now book hunting safaris and bag that trophy Joo of their dreams!
I once put together enough for a trip to the famed “Nazi World” hunting lodge in reclaimed South Africa a few years back, where they stocked the place with a nice selection of Joo creeps — DC Neocons, Wall Streeters, liver-spotted old Hollywood porn producers and snotty young brats who once worked in TV news bureaus. On occasion, they released a screaming Joo homo out on the putting green below the lodge’s beautiful white veranda, just for casual target practice and a few laughs.
Early in the morning, I was suited up in a perfectly accurate reproduction of a Nazi Waffen SS uniform and Wehrmacht helmet to get in the spirit of the day’s coming hunt.
After a short, but tough stalk through razor-sharp Elephant grass, I spotted my quarry — one especially selected for me — a weasel-faced, ex-accountant responsible for MOOSSAD spy expense vouchers at the long closed down AYPAC. A chubby but choice traitor Joo, one who clearly deserved his fate.
The lodge had humorously dressed him up in a short-sleeved, white button down shirt, chinos one size too small for his fat butt and a ridiculous-looking 1970’s paisley tie. His black hornrims were fogged over with perspiration. About the only thing missing from the picture was him holding on for dear life to a briefcase full of stolen American secrets or Federal Reserve notes.
My pathetic prey was in full panic mode now, out in the open, stumbling willy-nilly across the sun-baked veld and flapping his arms about like a duck. Through my Leupold VX-111 scope, I could easily see he was not only sweating like a pig, but sobbing hysterically at finding himself outside the once safe confines of a White, Western city and now exposed to the dangerous elements of Mother Nature.
Time to put the sorry SOB out of his misery.
I quickly dropped to the prone position on a little hillock overlooking the fool. With my bolt action Mannlicher-Steyr Pro Alaskan in .338 caliber, I drew a fast bead, leading him just enough before squeezing off one round of hand-loaded 225 grain Nosler ballistic tip.
At just over 180 yards, there was still plenty of energy down range to bowl the Zio fatboy head over heels. I timed it perfectly.
Sure, it may have been a difficult shot — one I probably shouldn’t have tried — but my guide, Anton “The K-man” Kossler said nothing, merely watched it all unfold through his pricy Leica Geovid laser ranging binoculars. As I savored the moment, he matter-of-factly intoned “good kill.” K-man was evidently fine with my snap decision: More time for celebratory shots of Goldslager back at the lodge, no doubt.
Anyway, I’m on the AryanNations West flight out to California to meet up with my guide Leif Billithong, when along comes my old buddy, Grange Davis, to claim a seat. Grange and I go way back — both of us belonged to the same commando unit clearing out the Haseedic Koshur tax extortion neighborhoods of Joo York city.
Man, what a job! Never heard so much caterwauling in all my born days. Our crew just could not get over how many diamonds we found stuck up inside each Joo butt. The x-ray machines constantly broke down from overwork.
Grange was flying out west to head up his new commando action unit, one specifically tasked with corralling leftover Hollywood Joos hiding out in the hills of Santa Monica. Apparently, they were claiming to belong to a bona fide Hare Krishna commune nearby.
The lying sneaks had shaved their heads and draped themselves in high thread count, saffron and tie-dyed bed sheets; hurriedly pulled down off luxury mattresses and put to use when they all finally realized the big scam was now over for them in America.
Hell, it was the real Krishna freaks, pissed at having street donations usurped by the once rich but chintzy bastards who used to spit at them from Bentleys and Beamers, that tipped off authorities. The Krishna complaints reached the newly constructed Joodenfrei Ministry complex in Hillsboro, West Virginia and they promptly dispatched my boy, Grange here, to take care of the situation. And with extreme prejudice, I might add.
I asked him, “Grange, when are you going to retire, take it easy and do a little quiet Ghetto Jigging? You know, let the young bucks chase down the Joos for a change?”
“INCOG,” he replied, “the young forget fast how tricky Joos can be after they’ve burrowed deep into a host population. If you’re not careful, the parasites will soon be back in your face, on TV every five minutes, and doing whatever they can to confuse White people, getting us to kill each other and the Mooslims, while stealing everyone blind.”
I sure as hell couldn’t argue with him on that, so I asked if he could take some time off to do a little jigging in Oakland with me. “Yeah, I heard they were some big fat lunker jigs up around there… might be nice” he admitted.
Right about then, as we were getting ready to land in Sacramento, Grange had second thoughts about taking time off — his whole crew was already waiting for him in Modesto, loaded for bear. Can’t disappoint the boys.
When we parted company he told me that he might make it back up to Oakland should he wrap things up fast enough. But knowing Grange, I doubted that. I figured he would take his own sweet time, personally making sure every single last Hare Krishna Joo was rounded up, DNA scanned and properly identified.
And since private Joo hunting was still technically illegal in America — thanks to bleeding hearts — the ones who did give up without a fight (the majority, unfortunately) had to be deported immediately. To save taxpayer dollars, most were now simply parachuted into the Sonoran desert of Mexico or the jungles of Guatemala to survive on their own, if possible.
Chances were strong that Grange himself would be the one ass kicking each of them straight out the plane’s door — maybe even quickly slicing a strap of the cheap, mass-produced parachute packs on the way out. But we won’t say anything, will we?
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, getting ready to jig Oakland for the first time. Well, looks like I’ve run out of time for today. I’ll just have to save the story for another time. Sorry. But we did slay them in the sloughs, as any street jiggerman worth his salt might say.
— Phillip Marlowe
If you enjoyed this, please BUY INCOG MAN A CUP OF JOE