What I Learned from My Time in Prison

Andrew Auernheimer
Daily Stormer
October 1, 2014

This year I was released from prison after my sentence was vacated on Constitutional grounds. I never committed a crime. My only crime was exercising the rights promised to my forefathers and I by the United States Constitution. Yet I knew when I walked into a federal court that I was going to prison. It didn’t matter that I was not a criminal. It didn’t matter that there were no less than four different Constitutional attacks on the seditious indictment against me. When I walked into the court of the “Honorable” Susan D. Wigenton, what mattered were her nails.

They were hot pink and longer than anything I’d ever seen, and Judge Wigenton talked like a hood rat straight out of a ghetto. My case was important. There were issues of venue. There were First Amendment issues. There were Fifth Amendment issues. Harvard, Stanford, the Electronic Frontier Foundation, the National Assocation of Criminal Defense Lawyers, a throng of information technology experts, and the world’s foremost legal expert on computer crime would end up scribing briefs in my defense. That would be far after I was kidnapped at gunpoint from my birthplace in the Ozark mountains. Far after I’d been locked into solitary confinement until I went on a hunger strike. Far after I spent thousands of hours yelling the Eddas at the top of my lungs and scrawling runes on the concrete walls in various blocks of a Special Housing Unit in the Allenwood Federal Correctional Complex.

For the time being, the only attorney in my corner was a Norweigan man named after the thunder god, Tor Ekeland. He had never done a federal criminal trial before, but his price was right. He refused to take my money. He claimed that he’d never seen such a ridiculous abuse of federal power in his life. This was great as I didn’t have any money. The federal government had spent the last few years attacking my revenue streams and leaving me indigent. Gone were the days I could afford to charter jets. Tor’s refusal to take my money let me continue to eat. It was noble of him, considering that he was as broke as I was. Nobody believes us when we say we had to worry about train fare to the courthouse, but I assure you it is true. We counted coins together for PATH fare to the Martin Luther King Courthouse in New Jersey.

My case was about very small details. Details about the network protocols used to display this very essay right now. My case needed an intelligent, thoughtful judge with the ability to see through the malicious legal fictions of a US Attorney willing to lie. My case needed a million dollar trial defense full of forensic analysts and expert witnesses. What my case had was two broke dudes that really loved their country. What my case had was a judge that clearly had the smallest cognitive capacity of anyone I’d ever exchanged more than a paragraph’s worth of words with– and she did not like me or my politics.

I’ve been a long-time critic of Judaism, black culture, immigration to Western nations, and the media’s constant stream of anti-white propaganda. Judge Wigenton was as black as they come. The prosecutor, Zach Intrater, was a Brooklyn Jew from an old money New York family. The trial was a sham. Judge Wigenton ignored the clear Constitutional issues in the motions and wouldn’t even let us present them as questions to the jury. The prosecutors assigned to the case lied repeatedly and falsifiably about Internet protocols in open court. When I tried to correct the lies presented, I was silenced. I wasn’t an expert witness, and was disallowed from offering testimony on the subject. Apparently the prosecutors, being completely uninformed on the subject, had more expertise than me and my thirteen years of experience in networking and UNIX systems.

The whole time a yarmulke-covered audience of Jewry stared at me from the pews of the courtroom. My prosecutor invited his whole synagogue to spectate.

If you believe the mainstream portrayal of World War II, the citizens of the United States sacrificed for the benefit of the Jews. My grandfather sacrificed his youth serving the Armed Forces, going blind in the defense of a foreign peoples. After we finished rescuing Jewry, we invited them into our home. We treated them as honored guests. They repaid us with treachery. They did the same thing to us that they did to the Germans. They took control of our systems of finance and law. They hyperinflated our currency. They corrupted our daughters and demanded they subject themselves to sex work to feed their families. These are a people that have made themselves a problem in every nation they occupy, including ours. What’s saddest is that we are the enablers of this problem. The Jews abused our compassion to build an empire of wickedness the likes the world has never seen.

A while ago, I sent the prosecutor and judge that wrongfully imprisoned me an invoice for the time they illegally stole from me. It was not unreasonable. I didn’t ask for pain or suffering or compensation for the extreme damage that they did to me. I simply asked for the hourly rate the market has determined my time is worth, multiplied by the number of hours their violence stole from me. They have not compensated me a single cent.

I look on Google Street View and see the place I used to live in, before I was kidnapped at gunpoint and held in foreign territories based on the lies of blacks and Jews. It has been bulldozed. A new house is there. It has become impossible not to empathize with the Palestinians. The first phrase I learned in arabic: “al-maot lil yahood” (death to the Jews).

What will prevent tyrants from abusing their authority? As an empiricist, I cannot speculate and utter platitudes about peaceful resistance. I must trust data. I found the data needed to answer this question at a United States Penitentiary named Canaan. Upon arrival there I could not remember a positive experience interacting with state authorities in my life. I was stunned by the level of civility displayed by the Canaan guards. These were the nicest government employees I’d ever interacted with. I asked another prisoner why they were so nice. They laughed and answered, “You don’t know? One of them just got stuck.” Stuck being prison vernacular for stabbed to death.

My perceptions were realigned by the acquisition of this data. One can simply look at a newspaper to see it confirmed. Cops gleefully abused Occupy Wall Street protesters, but balked at the armed militias at Bundy Ranch. Decency is only enforced with the sword. A hostile government whose agents are not confronted with the deaths of their agents and their families on a regular basis will consider our Constitution as nothing more than toilet paper.

I have some new tattoos that mark the wisdom I gained from my time in prison, which happens to be the same as the wisdom of my ancestors. My favorite Edda is now the Völundarkviða. It is about a hacker of sorts, a legendary smith named Völund wrongfully imprisoned by Swedish royalty. He kills their sons and rapes their daughter. My first tattoo is a 4.5 inch swastika on my chest featuring Oðinn, Baldr, Freyr, and Þór. My second is a Jörmungandr-wrapped Þórshamar flanked by Huginn and Muninn on my forearm.

My ink and I have expatriated to Canaan for the time being (in the Levant, not the Penitentiary) but I am not renouncing my United States citizenship. I still want to be an American and still value my country’s heritage. I plan on coming back with an army, be it human or automaton. One day I will come to collect every single bit of the debt owed to me by the thugs and criminals that have hijacked my country. After I am done I will rebuild my home in the Ozark mountains.