We drove to Zagreb via Slovenia to meet up with Weev, the Internet’s most notorious Internet troll. Weev is free from his stint as a prisoner on an indictment many alleged to be political early, after an appellate court decision vacated his sentence. He immediately took the chance to leave the United States and tour various nations without extradition or mutual legal assistance treaties. He’d been in the Balkans for a while, by way of Lebanon, whilst trying to wrangle a more permanent living situation anywhere other than the US or nations with political establishments too close to them. The Balkans fit this description perfectly, provided you’re not fussed about spending too long in what I call Scary Europe (because Eastern Europe is scary – except Slovenia. Slovenia is nice).
We met Weev at the apartment he’d been staying in. As Timmy went inside to fetch him, a scruffy looking Albanian man appeared from around the corner. He stared at the van, then intensely at me for 10 minutes without looking away. Then he approached me.
The Albanian walked up to the van and stood in front, still staring straight at me. I assumed he was going to try and steal the van, or at least wrestle me from the vehicle to rob me–something I didn’t feel great about. We had a small baseball bat in the driver door, I grabbed it and fantasized about inflicting serious blunt trauma to his skull if he decided to go full Europe on me. He walked around to the driver door, about two feet from me and just stood there, still looking straight into my eyes. Like a mug I’d left the window open and being that it was a 2002 Ford Transit I didn’t have the luxury of electric windows.
So there we were: me, the Albanian and the stubby baseball bat. I pointed to the bat, then slapped it against my palm to feebly indicate what I’d try to do to his cranium. I guess he didn’t fancy a skull fracturing blunt trauma because he walked around the vehicle and up the road around 20 metres or so and then Slav-squatted. Concerned he might come back, I messaged Timmy and Weev to come out, and to stop pissing around because an Albanian was out to get me.
Weev told us the Albanian had been hanging around for days. Giving in to paranoia, we speculated that he was probably a minder sent to watch Weev. It’s not like the Croatians are without a surplus of cut-price ex-military Albanians for hire to watch people they consider suspicious, especially high-profile ex-cons fleeing their home nations. Timmy and Weev stood outside the van and started taking pictures of him – he soon walked away. We took Weev to the train station to buy some SIM cards. As soon as we returned to collect the last of Weev’s belongings, the Albanian returned and we decided to leave for Split, Croatia. But not before Weev wiped all the dog shit he accidentally stepped in off his shoe.
The drive to Split gave us the perfect opportunity to engage in dialogue with the out-spoken white supremacist about his cause (read: overt racism). We had so many questions like: “What’s with all the racism, Weev? What’s with all the Jew stuff, Weev? Come off it – your surname is Auernheimer and you have curly hair, you’ve gotta be Jewish, right, Weev? Also, the swastika? A swastika, really? Weev, bro.”
As is expected from anyone who regularly talks about “gassing the kikes” so openly, he is not Jewish. In fact, he has a problem with the Jews. According to him, the Jews are part of a global conspiracy to subvert the goals of the supreme white race by controlling the banks, news media and politicians. Apparently, they do this through manipulation, coercion, blackmail and old school corruption. Sometimes these people don’t even candidly identify as Jews, these people are what Weev calls “crypto-Jews”. Despite the obvious anti-semitic nature of the phrase I’ve taken it into my own lexicon because I find it quite funny. Crypto-Jews, lol.
Upon hearing about the Jewish conspiracy, me and Timmy immediately started to question how incompetent the white race must be if a group of people apparently so inferior could somehow control us so easily and comprehensively. White people must be pretty stupid, I figured, and wondered how easily I could become a crypto-Jew and ascend to this new, cool level of scheming Zionist, leaving the simple, ignorant white people behind. Stupid white people.
Weev wasn’t convinced. He was more concerned about discussing who would be allowed in his perfect world vision under a new Fuhrer (you know, after the white people rise up and revolt against the browns). All you autists, homosexuals and transexuals will be glad to hear you make the cut. The only caveat is that transsexuals have to pass perfectly–if they don’t, they “get the rope”. No browns though, sorry, but I suspect you already figured.
See – Weev’s whole deal is that he’s worried the white race (read in his words: brave, noble, supreme, white race) are having their homelands appropriated by immigrants (read: smelly non-whites), for them to fuck around in and spoil with their apparent brown-ness. I did point out the obvious parallel of his own situation, being a nationless immigrant fleeing his homeland about to appropriate someone else’s homeland. Apparently the situations are incomparable.
Oh, and his giant swastika tattoo? He told us it was a response to the myriads of haters out there. He figured that they were never going to agree with him, so he stopped caring and got it to show them he didn’t care. He’s quite proud of it. And I must say–as far as Swastika tattoos go–it’s quite tasteful. Rather than being the boring, dated, Nazi, solid black motif that every mother-führer and their Blondi has, his is designed to look like a wood carving featuring heroic figures from Norse mythology.
We arrived in Split hours later. It was dark and we went out to get some food. Weev suffers from celiac disease, which means if he eats gluten it will damage his small intestine and either become constipated or have diarrhoea. Generally speaking, this means he can’t eat things that contain flour. I made a joke about how he’s substituted white power for white flour, but I don’t think he heard me. I laughed to myself.
We went back to the hotel early because we were all quite tired and not in the mood to drink. Over the following day, one of the key points on the agenda was to teach Weev to drive the van–as with most Americans, he is incapable of driving manual. I tried my best to channel my inner driving instructor, but unfortunately the driver instructor I channeled was Jonathan, my old driving instructor who used to spend most of my lessons asking me how my mother was keeping. Soon before I passed my test he told me that 20 years ago he asked my mum on a date; I got another instructor.
After the abortion of the driving lesson, we went out for food and drinks. We ordered a large cheese board and rosé. I asked Weev what food he missed most from America, without hesitation he said it was Petit Jean Peppered Bacon, which you can only get from Walmart in Arkansas.
I asked him how important he considered the role of a troll in a society that so reliant on social media:
“The troll is a timeless role for white Europeans. It connects us to the legacy of our ancestors. Trolling began amongst Aryan tribes. It was referred to as ‘flyting’ amongst the Saxon or ‘senna’ amongst the Norse. These were ritual insult battles. Sometimes the battle ceased with a verbally humiliated opponent or sometimes they were a prelude to bloodshed. I feel that if you are a white man, and you are honest, you will troll. It is in our spirit.”
And if blacks are capable of trolling:
“They can troll. They’ll just never do it as good as whites. Nice to see them try though.”
And how he sees his own trolling:
“I started doing my art because nobody else was doing it. It’s the kind of art I want to consume and nobody else happened to be producing it at the time. I don’t consider my work exceptional, it’s just better than anything currently available on the marketplace of ideas.”
I asked him how he feels about black nationalism (see video below), and apparently I’m the only white person to have ever asked him:
“I see black nationalists as potential allies, I support black nationalism as well as white nationalism. I feel that blacks have the right to independence and sovereignty over their own territories and over their own people. I like a world that is rich in multiple cultures. And I think we have the same enemies.
“The resources in Africa, who runs the diamond industry right? Jews do. Blacks aren’t benefitting from the wealth of Africa largely because of the same people who are cheating America out of the things that are of value to it. So yeah, I genuinely like the idea of black people having nations of their own to control. I think just as blacks are supreme in Nigeria, whites should be supreme in europe.”
I wanted to debunk the many myths I’d found on his Wiki profile–a worrying product of journalists foolishly publishing lies or obvious jokes, allowing them to be cited there. His Wiki lists that he claims to own a Rolls Royce Phantom and works for a group called the “Organisation”, both of which made me laugh.
Needless to say, Weev doesn’t own a Rolls Royce – but apparently he did roll around in one. After his ex-girlfriend wrote off her father’s Lamborghini, they were forced to be chauffeured around by a personal driver in a Rolls Royce. His actual car–an old, crappy pick-up truck, which once belonged to fellow Arkansan John Grisham–is sat in a garage in Arkansas, which he will never be able to drive again.
The thought that Weev will never be able to return to America made me wonder if he had any regrets. I’d heard him speak of Arkansas with such warmth–even going as far to say he loved it so much that he’d die there. I asked him if he felt like he’d made an almighty fuck up, and whether or not he’d do anything differently given the chance to avoid the situation he’s found himself in:
“If being honest and defending my people from genocide is a fuckup, I will do so again and again. Only regret perhaps is that I haven’t killed anyone yet. And Petit Jean Peppered Bacon.”
Weev insisted we must go to a poker room to finish off the night. He’d become accustomed to playing hold ’em and badeucy from his time spent in Las Vegas and Jounieh, Lebanon. The poker room was grimy and dimly lit. I didn’t want to be there. It had all the allure of backstreet dentistry and was probably about as illegitimate too. If I hadn’t been so impressed by Weev’s card-play, I would have left sooner. Weev insists he was fortuitously lucky and said something about “donking,” which is apparently the poker player’s word for a particularly stupid sort of bravery in hoping of catching something on the river. Apparently, his donking is quite effective. Weev quipped that a kind of near-pathological bravery is his primary means of survival in life. After a couple hours of play, Weev declared that he was quitting now that he’d made enough for rent money and we left the poker room before dawn broke.
On our way back to a hotel from the club some men flashed badges and claimed they were from Europol and would like Weev to come with them. Weev, ever so subtle in his manner of speech, declared that he “won’t be taken alive by faggot Jew-lovers” and kept walking despite their insistence that he was under arrest. He stated that their choices were to fight or shoot him, and told them he was armed. I found myself quite unnerved by the situation and was wondering if we might be violating any laws. At our hotel, Weev told me that he wasn’t worried because there weren’t any Croatian cops with them, and that Europol is technically only authorized to conduct investigations in Croatia. That they would have had to call the Croatian cops if they really wanted to legally arrest him.
“What would have happened had you gone with them then?”
“Oh, I’d probably be drugged, shoved in a trunk and driven across the border to the nearest country with an extradition treaty. Hungary, probably.”
“So are you safe now?”
“Not really, they’ll come back with more people very soon. Do you mind giving me a ride to Sarajevo? There’s no Europol in Bosnia.”
“Why not? Seems like something to tell the grandkids someday, ‘and then the neo-Nazi and I drove to Bosnia.'”
“I guess you were right, that guy outside my place in Zagreb really was surveillance.”
“Yeah, I suppose he was.”
After breakfast we fled from Split, Croatia to Sarajevo, Bosnia. It’s a 240km journey. We were stopped at the Bosnian border so they could search the vehicle–not ideal if you’ve got hash in the back left over from Amsterdam. I presume this was because we had massive DSSK branding across the sides of the van without any explanation of what it meant, and we looked like shit. We lied and said we were driving straight through Bosnia to Belgrade, Serbia. This seemed to be a legitimate enough excuse for the border guard to wave us off without bothering to look in the vehicle.
If you’re foolish enough to rely solely on Google maps, make sure the route is cached in advance because your data plan does not include Bosnia. As soon as you pick up a cell tower in Bosnia, you don’t get a familiar and reassuring name like AT&T, T-Mobile or even Tušmobil, you get T985, T999, T852 with each cellular tower hop. If you’re unlucky enough to have an American cell plan, you’ll be looking at approximately $5 a minute to dial out or receive calls.
We left Weev in Sarajevo, said our goodbyes and left him with the DSSK van as we were flying home. I had absolutely no intention of driving back to England from there. It was over 2300 km and the fuel costs would have eclipsed the price of the flight to London. I was sad to leave Weev because Sarajevo is my idea of hell but he seems quite enthused by the idea of living there.
– DSSK, profiling @rabite