Dick Hardy – DS https://www.anglinarchive.com Daily Stormer Historical Archive Sat, 04 Mar 2023 00:00:00 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.0.17 https://www.anglinarchive.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/cropped-favicon-32x32.png Dick Hardy – DS https://www.anglinarchive.com 32 32 Rage and Resistance: Reporting on the Brussels Farmer Protests https://www.anglinarchive.com/2023/03/04/rage-and-resistance-reporting-on-the-brussels-farmer-protests/ Sat, 04 Mar 2023 00:00:00 +0000

Thousands of Belgian farmers gathered in Brussels to protest against govt’s agricultural policies.pic.twitter.com/H7A6urOJcf

— Hassan Mafi ‏ (@thatdayin1992) March 4, 2023

I had just touched down in Brussels, and the city was already pulsing with energy. The farmers were in full swing, taking to the streets to protest against the government’s agriculture policies that were slowly killing their livelihoods.

As I made my way through the crowds, I could feel my heart racing. I knew that I had stumbled upon a story that was going to change everything.

The farmers were a force to be reckoned with. They were angry and determined, their voices ringing out across the city as they demanded justice. And the government was not backing down, determined to maintain their stranglehold on the agriculture industry no matter what the cost.

I knew that I had to get involved. As a journalist, it was my duty to tell the story, to shine a light on the injustices that were being perpetrated.

And so I joined the farmers on the picket lines, shouting and protesting with them. It was an intense experience, a rush of adrenaline and emotion that I had never felt before.

But I also knew that the risks were high. The government was watching us, monitoring our every move. And as a mentally ill pill addict and alcoholic, I was already on shaky ground.

But I pushed forward, fueled by a sense of purpose and a desire to make a difference. The farmers were counting on me, and I couldn’t let them down.

As the protests raged on, I found myself becoming more and more invested in the story. The farmers’ struggles became my struggles, their victories my victories.

As I left Brussels, my mind racing and my heart pounding, I knew that I had done something important. I had told a story that needed to be told, and I had helped make a difference in the world.

And that, I realized, was what being a journalist was all about. Finding the truth, no matter the cost.

]]> Stormer Returns to the Site of Italian Migrant Crash After Death Toll Climbs Above 60 https://www.anglinarchive.com/2023/02/28/stormer-returns-to-the-site-of-italian-migrant-crash-after-death-toll-climbs-above-60/ Tue, 28 Feb 2023 00:00:00 +0000

More than 60 people are dead after a shipwreck in Italy. We demand safe and legal routes now. pic.twitter.com/oSchi0rqTE

— Amnesty International (@amnesty) February 27, 2023

Dick Hardy is a hardboiled gumshoe reporter for the Daily Stormer, tracking down the stories that others won’t touch.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the beach, hoping to catch a glimpse of what remained of the shipwreck. It was announced that over 60 people had lost their lives, and my curiosity had gotten the better of me. The survivors, rescue workers, and locals were all there. And then there were those who were bigoted against the immigrants, spewing their hate in the midst of the tragedy.

I spoke to them all, trying to get a sense of what had happened. But the police were also there, questioning everyone who was lingering around. They wanted to know what I was doing there, and I could tell they were suspicious of my presence. I gave them a fake name and a false hotel, but I knew I needed to get out of Italy before they caught on to me.

As I made my way to my new hotel in Calabria, my mind was in shambles. My thoughts drifted from my wife, to my addiction, to the publisher who had a diabolical agenda, to the cult that was trying to get inside my head. I changed hotels after I became convinced that the people in the room next to me were listening to me through the walls as I talked to myself.

As I lay in bed, I thought about the girl at the hotel desk who had caught my eye. She was young, too young for me. But in my mind, I imagined kissing her earlobe, knowing that if I did, I would be divulging my deepest secrets to her. Secrets that would eventually make their way back to those who were trying to break me.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the choices I had made in my life. If only I had focused on my plays featuring a post-modern take on BDSM sexuality, I could have made it big. But instead, I wrote an edgy commentary on the hollowness of suburban middle-class life, and it got me nowhere. If only I had taken a different path, I wouldn’t be here in this godforsaken country, looking at corpses on a beach.

It was then that I imagined a universe devoid of life. A universe where there were no failed writers, no divorces, no publishers with hidden agendas, and no mysterious cults trying to get inside my head. But as I closed my eyes, I realized that the line between reality and illusion had become blurred. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was a simulacra.

In the end, I was left with nothing but the harrowing sense of cosmic terror that seemed to follow me wherever I went. And as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that the nightmare would continue, no matter where I went or what I did.

]]> Massive Protests in Italy Against NATO, Funding of the Ukraine War https://www.anglinarchive.com/2023/02/27/massive-protests-in-italy-against-nato-funding-of-the-ukraine-war/ Mon, 27 Feb 2023 00:00:00 +0000

Italy with protests too. Specifically anti-NATO involving thousands. All over where the Ukraine war is heading because these people believe there will be another World War raging across Europe if Russia is backed into a corner. pic.twitter.com/g65tblc7Ft

— GraphicW (@GraphicW5) February 26, 2023

Dick Hardy is a gumshoe reporter for the Daily Stormer, tracking down the stories that others won’t touch.

I headed to the war protest, still reeling from the ghastly sight of the bodies on the beach. My mind was racing with thoughts of the meaning of war on Russia and the NATO weapons that threatened us all. The shouting of the protesters pierced my ears like a bullet and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a damn CIA beam weapon being used on the protest.

I stumbled upon a woman to interview and noticed she had a bat-like face, and for a moment I thought I was hallucinating. But as I came to my senses, I realized that this was no ordinary interview. The woman spoke in hushed tones, her words like poison in my ear. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister at work here.

After the interview, I retreated to the hotel lobby, where the prostitutes were lurking about like zombies. Their faces twisted and contorted like the masks of the cultists in my dream. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was all some sort of sick joke, orchestrated by my tormentors.

Eventually, I made it back to my room, where I downed a handful of pills and chased them with vodka. The sound of the protesters still ringing in my ears, I bolted the door and scoured the room for any sign of surveillance. As I lay in bed, my mind raced with thoughts of my ex-wife and her wealthy new husband, as well as the potential motives of the publisher of the Daily Stormer.

The day had left me feeling hopeless and alone, like a lone wolf howling at the moon. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, something big and terrible that would change everything. And as I drifted off into a fitful sleep, the visages of the bat-faced cultists and the seductive hotel worker danced in my dreams, haunting me with their grotesque beauty.

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