"An Armed Paradise"

Portraits on the walls—Manson, Baader, Che, Malcolm X. You've come to the basement again to hear the leader speak. You're already familiar with the talks about Indo-European blood, Italian futurists, and direct action brigades. Today, for the first time, you saw golden handcuffs on your wrists, and when the leader asked, "Who's in for the mission?"—you raised your hand without a second thought.

Four of you on a winter highway. The first will lie with grenades before the bridge to stop the motorcyclists. He has no chance. The others—with rifles—positioned along the route. Their chances of getting away are just as slim. The luxurious black hearse hiding HIM appears around the bend, motorcycles in front, then a minibus, two BMWs behind. Everything happens faster than you expected. The first man rises from the snow and throws something that explodes mid-air into thousands of ruby splashes. The wounded motorcycle spins in place, the bus tries to block the road, a man in suit and tie fires in all directions from its roof with an automatic weapon. But you're not aiming at him. You pray that the sniper hiding under wet pine branches succeeds today, and you relish the cold gleam of the slave bracelets gripping your wrists. The precious tremor of your firing weapon hypnotizes you.

The long, smooth body of the MAIN VEHICLE plows through snow, carving a new path, and suddenly erupts into a gigantic fiery banner reaching the sky. Thick smoke and iron thunder. About a hundred yards away at a bus stop, a terrified woman with a bulldog face inexplicably throws herself howling into a dirty snowdrift, spilling ketchup and cucumbers from her bag. You and the second shooter, who somehow survived, meet at the designated ravine. He wipes blood from his cheek and shakily lights a cigarette with a fresh dollar bill. A cheap trick to appear calm to himself. The approaching roar of a helicopter. Your partner desperately raises his rifle, but you stop him, catching the barrel mid-air, and smile. You know exactly what the helicopter gunner feels now, having caught you in his sights. In the eyes of your brother-in-arms standing beside you, you see that he too has noticed the beautiful shackles on his valiant hands.

The gates are open. The first three participants in the operation are already waiting for you, along with Manson, Baader, Che, Malcolm X, and other, as yet unfamiliar, immortal brothers. All the immortals are armed. They walk in radiant uniforms, just like yours now, and from here direct the most serious ASSASSINATION. You enter, and a fair-haired goddess offers you a cup of eternal life wine. You drink, greedily swallowing the warm, salty liquid. And upon tasting it, you see golden handcuffs on the wrists of all the avenging angels.

[second image] Skinheads by "Pavel Vlasov, partisan"

Of course, today's skinhead embodies the perfectly organic type of that same Bolshevik for us. The Russian skinhead isn't red like "Class War," nor brown like "Blood and Honour." Our homeland's unique historical experience allows Moscow, St. Petersburg, or Ryazan skinheads to bring to life the very archetype of the urban partisan. Politics is always deceitful and half-hearted, and both Mao's Little Red Book and "Mein Kampf" should be approached with irony, though they're worth reading before bed—one must have one's classics, if only to shut up any journalist, female student, or artist. Thank Wotan, we have our own "fantasy"—primarily "Mysteries of Eurasia" and "Conspirology." We needn't dive far for Atlantis—we have seventy years of the most insane radical aesthetics behind us (we're not talking about the suffocating Soviet atmosphere, but specifically about USSR aesthetics), waiting for its revolutionary archaeologists. A random example: let's say we write—or even better—film with an amateur camera in exaggerated sets, a continuation of "Seventeen Moments of Spring." Briefly, the plot is as follows: after the Third Reich's military defeat, Stirlitz unexpectedly realizes the grandeur of this project, switches ideological sides, moves to Chile where, together with Miguel Serrano and undercover SS generals, he creates a secret strategic center aimed at a new, this time global, conservative revolution. Stirlitz's center establishes bases in Antarctica's underground labyrinths, baffles the US Air Force with UFOs launched from the South Pole, sponsors (with gold transported to Perón in '45) "Young Europe," and develops the entire skinhead image—construction shoes like Doc Martens, red and brown laces, tight-fitting Levi's or camouflage, dark suspenders, checkered biker gear, straps, muscle shirts, military jackets, marsh-green, black or (perhaps only for weddings or funerals) burgundy bomber jackets, shaved skulls with politically incorrect tattoos, tiny forelock above the forehead, switchblades, brass knuckles, baseball bats. Among other things, Stirlitz, longing for Moscow, prepares to unite with Stalinists worldwide, but after the death of the Father of Nations and Khrushchev's corn obsession, the center decides to dismantle the discredited world socialism, and then, at the very beginning of the third millennium, to destroy world capitalism as well, using UFO landings, total migrations from third-world countries, and internal saboteurs, for whom the skinhead image is prepared. Above the eternal spy's bed (the center has developed an immortality serum from enemies' blood) hangs a poster where two ancient skinheads—Taras Bulba and Kotovsky—embrace on the battlefield under a flag with a Celtic cross. Naturally, all the 20th century celebrities must participate in the series. And no actors. Play the roles yourselves, get used to historical roles, this experience will come in handy very soon. The significance of such an art product is difficult to overestimate. Don't copy the Euro-American version—a copy always remains a copy. What we need, on the contrary, is to become authentic, to return to ourselves. The Russian skinhead wears an "F-1" or a black hammer and sickle on his jacket sleeve, and won't refuse a Soviet cockade or Orthodox monarchist heraldry either, which doesn't stop him from headbanging to "Angelic Upstarts" or "Those Unknown" while drinking domestic beer (supporting Russian producers). Imitators risk finding themselves in idiotic situations—Poles, for instance, mistakenly wear "Washington Redskins" caps and T-shirts, a team that has absolutely nothing to do with skinhead resistance, but it's too late to educate our Polish colleagues.

We advise approaching such serious topics as Nordicism, Scandinavian mysticism, and Viking rituals with caution. To really understand this is the duty of any free person—"Elements"—"Sweet Angel" are at your disposal, but unfortunately, Nordic attributes often turn into skin-pops, brilliantly mocked in "Erik the Viking." Start by mastering the Edda with commentary by a good Soviet academician.

Not everything in Europe fell from the sky either. The first skinhead generation listened to ska in opposition to hippie-ish Reggae, wore loose suit jackets and badges of banned parties. In 1969, in a London port maxi-bar, a street war broke out with the marines. The first battle ended badly for the skinheads, with the best people scattered across surgical wards. The next clash happened a week later. The skinheads cut off their collars, narrowed their pants, and ditched the badges—nothing to grab onto—and put heavy boots on their feet. Revenge succeeded gloriously. But still, something was missing for lovers of pub rock ("Docks De Luxe," "Brinsley Swarz"). Finally, it was found—choral chanting—what unites a rally, tribal song, and football match. Thus "oi-oi-oi" emerged. Practice, as we know, is the criterion of truth. Follow the same experimental path. Arguments about how skinheads historically began will never end, but energetically, there's nothing to argue about. "Every ass wants to smell like a rose" (Brutal Attack) and "Homeland—beer, football, revolution" (Screwdriver).

So, if you're "underclass," i.e., your ancestors toiled for everyone while officials (now bourgeoisie) ate for everyone, priests (now journalists) confused everyone, and the "best" of officials, bourgeoisie, priests, and journalists ruled everyone, composed criminal codes and constitutions, first—visit our barbershop, see Max, he'll make you look like a human being almost for free. Next to the Celtic cross on your skin, we already see the hammer and sickle in a circle formed by a snake biting its tail. Second—direct action at your discretion, within party ranks, alongside it, or autonomously. A skinhead has no obligations to the system because he doesn't participate in elections or referendums. The main blow should be directed against bipeds who follow the ideology of cultural leisure. These creatures seriously believe that the "end of the world" was invented by Dugin to prevent them from having cultural recreation, they've materialized their collective lust in money and are subservient to money, they're cosmopolitan, though they may hide behind any popular idea, including national ones. They think revolution is just unsuccessful attempts at universal comfort. One must learn to recognize them—they are the opposite race. In fact, Valhalla, or Heavenly Jerusalem, or classless society awaits us and demands eternal virtues from us. We should cultivate masculine idealism (totalitarianism) against the feminine cynicism (democracy) dissolved in the air. Life is a test, not a picnic. You know the way. And don't even think about listening to their millions of "arguments." You'll spend a hundred years furrowing your brow in front of the TV. Hit them in the face more often without warning. And in "Romper Stomper," you shouldn't root for the first or the second, but for that real boy who jumped out with a toy weapon against the police and took his bullet without closing his eyes.