— I lead off this Friday freebie post with a bit of a heavy heart. What happened is that a couple of days ago, I got a text from my good friend Anthony Johnson, who I’ve known for 14 years. He’s the founder of 21 Studios, and he puts on conferences called the 21 Convention. I spoke at it four times: first in 2011 about diet and health, second in 2012 about anarchy begins at home, third in 2016 about cryptocurrency, and fourth in 2019 in Warsaw, Poland, about the seed and cancer of feminism.

Anthony is a great friend of mine, and in such a way that we’ve never had any sort of conflict—no cross words to each other, no bullshit. He doesn’t bullshit me; I don’t bullshit him. It’s always straight-up talk. I talked to him just a few hours ago on the phone, and it was on a bad subject, because the text I got from him was, “My mom is dead. My brother slit her throat. He’s in custody.” What a fucking text to get. It’s reminiscent of a message I got years ago, but that’ll be the second topic.

What I want to relay is that that’s an awful thing to happen—it’s unconscionable. But Anthony has written quite a piece about it, and I’m gonna give you the link below, where he tries to explain that everyone wants to know what the brother’s motive was, and this and that. In my conversation with Anthony, he relayed that they all lived in this culture of violence. Everything was settled by violence—leave the door open, leave the light on, whatever it is, it’s settled by violence. And this was instigated by his father.

There’s a backstory to this. In 2016, when I went to Orlando and spoke at his conference about cryptocurrency, both his mother and father and sister were there. I met all of them, but I became particularly friendly with his dad. We became bar-drinking buddies, because he said he was a construction contractor, building houses. I grew up in that sort of thing—my father was a contractor, I had uncles and others in my family who were contractors, and I was on job sites since I was like 9 or 10 years old, running them by the time I was 16. So I knew it well. In his public persona, Anthony’s dad was a cool dude. We also talked about what a cunt Hillary is over drinks (this was 2016, so relevant).

What’s very interesting about Anthony is that in the times we talked since that time—nearly 10 years ago—he never badmouthed his dad to me. Never. I’d ask after his dad, and he would say something like, “Oh yeah, he may die soon. He’s in poor health,” and stuff like that, but he would never badmouth him to me. Then a couple of years ago, his dad did die, and then the watershed: Anthony started talking about what an abuser his father was, what an enabler his mother was, and how he and his brother and sisters were such victims to it. But what he told me last night is that his younger brother—by nine years—got the brunt of it. He really got the brunt of it. He also told me that he admonished his brother many times over the years that he needs to fix his life, or he’s gonna end up in a very bad way—he’s gonna end up dead or in jail. And this is what has come to pass.

So the motivation of why his younger brother slit his mother’s throat and killed her, then fled and got caught after a few days in a manhunt—it’s all over the news—is that, I think, Anthony’s biggest thing he wants people to take away from it is this is what happens when you live in a complete culture of familial violence to settle matters. To his credit, I got big insight into Anthony Johnson, and that is that this is his whole motivation to do these conventions and videos with hundreds of speakers over the years—over 15 years. And he’s still a young man; he’s like 37 years old, so almost close to half his life has been devoted to this. What it has been devoted to is an ideal man, an ideal husband, an ideal father. And recently, he has been married to a nice gal, and he has a baby girl. So he has really kind of miraculously done the hard steps to get his life in order and set an example for other people—and not be a fraud, not be a charlatan, and just to show how it’s done against all odds. Against all odds. That’s the big message.

If you have morbid curiosity, here is the link to Anthony’s public post about the event of his younger brother murdering his mother with a knife to the throat.

My Mom Was Just Murdered

— What this reminded me of is that in 2006, I got word right before leaving for a 3-week Eurotour that my cousin killed his wife with a knife, then drove over and shot the divorce judge.

Darren Mack was separated from me in age by merely a few days (our respective parents doubtless got things going same time on one of their regular outings).

There’s a backstory to this, and it involves how my grandfather and his younger brother, Darren Mack’s grandfather were next-door neighbors. They both owned big plots of land south of Reno, Nevada, along the Truckee River greenbelt. My grandfather’s property was about 10 acres, but only around 300 meters wide, so it stretched a long way along the west side of the river, which flows into Reno from Lake Tahoe and empties out into Pyramid Lake. That whole area was my playground as a kid, since I lived on one of the lots on his property. He had a bunch of lots with rental houses, and he gifted my parents one when they got married. They built a house there, so I grew up not 50 meters away from my grandparents the whole time.

For Darren Mack, it was different. His father lived right next door to my grandfather on the river—they both had these cool riverfront houses with steps leading down into the water and all that shit. But Darren lived elsewhere with his parents and was only a visitor from time to time. Still, we grew up together in a way; I saw him pretty frequently. Then one day—I think we were about six or seven years old, something like that—he just lost it. I don’t know what the fuck was going through his head, but our street wasn’t paved yet; it was all rocks and pebbles. He started throwing rocks at me. I dodged them—I don’t think he hit me with a single one—but he kept chucking them anyway. I don’t know why, don’t know what the impetus was.

So that bullshit stopped, and I went home, cried to Mommy, and told her what happened. She looked at me and said, “Well, what are you going to do about it?” So I marched down to his grandparents’ house. The garage was open, and I called him out. He came out, I stood face-to-face with him, and I cocked my fist right into his nose. His grandmother freaked the fuck out. But she wasn’t super tight with my grandmother—they were cordial, but not best buddies—and my grandmother lived just across the way. I ended up creating a years-long rift because my grandmother was giddy about it. She was totally overjoyed.

In later years, Darren and I got over it; we made a joke out of the whole thing. We didn’t see each other all that often, but at the same time, I was appreciative of how he became very wealthy pretty early on, in his twenties. His father was a Jew who married his mother, a Mormon from Idaho, and they were in the pawnshop business in Reno, Nevada. They had the biggest pawn shop in town. The way you do well in that business—and the reason you’re in it at all—is by catering to people who are losing their asses in the casinos and need to pawn their shit, especially their jewelry, to get money to try and win back what they lost. Which, of course, gets lost again, and the cycle continues. In a sense, it’s predatory as hell.

The reason Darren became wealthy is because his father—a very smart businessman in the pawn game, but a Jew not cut out to be a pilot—took flying lessons, bought a nice twin-engine plane, and it didn’t take long until he killed himself in it. Not a particularly smart guy in terms of science, aviation, or anything else other than swindling that I was ever aware of.

When he set out on that deadly venture, I recall my mom saying something like “no way.” She was right, just as Anthony sensed, and was right about his brother.

Do you see any parallels in the two stories?

— In just a final bit of news.

I’m now at a count of 4 for Thailand expat dude friends who ought not to have died but dropped dead suddenly.

They were the guys who weren’t satisfied with the Sinovac and later, AstraZeneca “vaccines” on offer in Thailand during the Covidiocy. As expats with money, they clamored for a special program to pay a lot extra for Pfizer. I’m sure they got good service. The “vaccine” has to be maintained at an insanely cold temperature or it degrades. And it wasn’t one of their saline batches.

Looks like the chaps got what they paid for.

(I also have a few friends with compromised health, and they have no doubt about the cause. Some have turned their lives around, lost tons of kilos, etc., to overcome, and I wish them well.)