Thomas Wictor

Don’t feel sorry for them

Don’t feel sorry for them

Social media is a place for people to unwittingly expose much more of themselves than they intended. If someone is stupid enough to use their real name and business as they tweet out their rabid Jew-hate, I see no reason to protect them from themselves. One such implacable monomaniac is Joanne Stowell, a photographer in the UK. She’s completely off her nut, like another Jew-hating photographer named Matthew L. Kees. Don’t feel sorry for these organisms. Yes, they act the way they do because of their horrible upbringings, but so what? Evil is always volitional. They choose to be how they are.

I’ve written a little bit about my childhood. A man close to the family was a mafia contract killer who took me on his jobs. It’s actually much worse than that, because I was forced to participate. I know what a heartbeat feels like when it’s transmitted through a knife blade; I know what it feels like when that heart stops beating.

That’s just one episode. “Hank” enjoyed inflicting as much suffering as he could on as many people as possible. He called his jobs and the other things he did to amuse himself “having a party.” This is why I’ve always hated parties. My poor mother had no idea why I went into a dissociative state when she dressed me up for a costume party when I was four.


I became a robot. She kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn’t know. By the time I was eleven, I was ready to kill myself.


Then a kid named Thurman Biscoe saved my life.


He did so by beating the absolute hell out people who picked on me. Thurman gave me breathing room and the drive to stick it out just a few more hours, or a day, or a week.

I never knew what was wrong with me until just a few months ago. Solving the murders of Ismail Bakr, Mohammed Bakr, Ahed Bakr, and Zakaria Bakr allowed me to finally remember “having parties” with Hank. The memories came back, and I corroborated them with my brother Tim. He’s starting to remember now too. Hank was a mafia contract killer, but he was also an unofficial security agent for Creole Petroleum. He had contacts in the National Guard and the Dirección General de Policía (DIGEPOL)—the secret police. Hank took care of problems by killing people.

Venezuela was an incredibly brutal place: Law enforcement was based on the premise of guilty until proven innocent, confessions were obtained through torture, and trespassers were summarily shot or beaten to death. When Hank arrived in Venezuela, the nation was at its peak of anarchy. It was a lot like Liberia during the Second Civil War (1999 to 2003), a playground for those who wanted to murder, torture, and rape.

And though you may not believe it, there are worse things than murder, torture, and rape. I have firsthand experience of them.

Jew-haters press my button. They’re like Hank the murderer, torturer, rapist, arsonist, extortionist, despoiler, and corrupter. I have no sympathy for the state of sheer misery in which Jew-haters exist. My brother Tim once captured the inner me in a photo.


That’s how I am. It can’t be changed.

So it doesn’t matter to me what a Jew-hater has gone through before he or she became a pestilence. The rabid Jew-hating photographer Joanne Stowell tweets things like this all the time.


The Begin quote is fake. It was entirely fabricated. Joanne Stowell is engaging in Holocaust inversion, meaning she’s making the Jews out to be the new Nazis. It’s axiomatic that just as Holocaust deniers are in fact Nazi sympathizers, so are those who practice Holocaust inversion. The deniers would wholeheartedly support the extermination of the Jews, and the inverters would enthusiastically embrace Nazi methods to get the job done.

Joanne Stowell has a page on her Website titled “How to excite.” It’s a collection of boudoir photos that tell a story. This is what Joanne is exposing without knowing that she’s doing so.

“Enter Sandman” is one of the finest pieces of art ever created. It’s a masterfully deceptive polemic. If I ever write about my childhood, I have to figure out a way to emulate that song.

Say your prayers, little one
Don’t forget, my son
To include everyone

Tuck you in, warm within
Keep you free from sin
Till the Sandman he comes

Sleep with one eye open
Gripping your pillow tight


The song comes from a position of great power. That’s what makes it so brilliant.

My own approach is to use humor.


Thanks to Javed Khan for the imagery.

I took this quote from Joanne’s site.


After all that, some guy got into a fight with me about the “military-industrial complex.” As you’d expect from someone who uses that term, he has no factual knowledge on any subject. He said that if the US completely and unilaterally disarms, everything will be fine. And he means disbanding the entire armed forces. That way, warmongers like me won’t be afraid anymore. It’s my fear that causes wars, you see. He called me a “crying lil girl.”

I pointed out that after World War I, the Netherlands unilaterally disarmed. Do you know what these are?


Nazi paratroopers invading the Netherlands on May 10, 1940. It took the Germans all of four days to roll up Holland, although the southern province of Zealand held out for a further seventy-two hours.

When I told this Twitter genius about how the Netherlands had taken his advice and gotten utterly screwed because of it, here’s how he replied.



That’s incredibly funny on so many different levels. For one thing, it’s exactly what a Venezuelan air-conditioner repairman did to my father. The repairman was making a mess of things, and when my father tried to get him to actually fix the air conditioner, here’s what the man shouted.

I have eighteen children! You have only five! Who are you to tell me how to do anything?

Because sentencing eighteen people to short lives of abject poverty proves…what?

President Lydon Johnson did the same thing in cabinet meetings. He’d stand up, unzip his pants, pull out his you-know-what, and slap it on the table. He called his slappy-thing “Jumbo.”

Though Mr. $562,230 is an artist living in Portland, Oregon, he’s a caveman.


I don’t know what his earnings have to do with me. You could hand me $100 billion, and it wouldn’t stop the dreams or the memories. Or the sensation of the giant hand clamped around mine, forcing me to thrust the blade forward.

And yet I have no urge to make others suffer. Over a year ago I saved two ratty feral kittens, and now they’re quite exceptional cats.

Brother Cat looking stoned, which he isn’t. I don’t think.


Lyle Cat looking demonic, which is a protective ruse. Generally.


All I do is feed them, brush them, talk to them, and play with them. They do the self-improvement part, because they want to be nice cats. I’ve given them an opportunity, but they’ve civilized themselves. They have a lot of character.

What I live for now is signs of improvement. The Joanne Stowells and $562,230 artists of the world are irrelevant except as occasional obstacles. I don’t feel sorry for them in the least, because they lack the character to direct their rage at the people who deserve it. Instead they go on social media and look for those who they think will be easy targets.

That’s why I’m so proud of the Saudis, Emiratis, Egyptians, Senegalese, Jordanians, Moroccans, Bahrainis, Kuwaitis, and Qataris. They’ve chosen the exponentially more difficult, risky path. But they’re winning in Yemen for two reasons. One, they’ve been training like Olympic athletes since 2011.

And two, they’re motivated. They’re fighting for something much greater than themselves: improvement of the entire Middle East.

I’m more optimistic now than I’ve ever been. The night is dark, but dawn is on its way. I’m sure of it.


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