[The following famous obituary from the September 1993 RESISTANCE is
reproduced by special request of a comrade from Australia.]

SAY GOOD NIGHT, HOT SHOT! SAYONARA TO A SODOMITE


"...Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it..."
-Macbeth, Act I, Scene 4


Benny Klassen is dead, and it's a Whiter and Brighter world without him.

The founder of the "Church of the Creator" sodomy cult, the man whose
deviate sexual lifestyle was so notorious that American Skinheads nicknamed him
"Old Benny Buttfuck", the self-proclaimed greatest Aryan genius who ever
lived---most likely a rabbi's son from Vilna---came crawling back to his cult's
ashram in Otto, North Carolina in the last week of July. Over a year ago he had
fled into hiding, in fear of prosecution for a cult-related killing in Florida.

In the early morning hours of August 7th, Klassen swallowed the contents
of four bottles of sleeping pills. The Macon County sheriff reports that the
quondam Maximum Pontoon left a rambling and incoherent suicide note on a yellow
legal pad by his bedside. Considering Klassen's wonted verbosity, the sheriff
was lucky he didn't decide to turn it into another lengthy, excruciatingly
boring book. One account states that Klassen changed his mind after he had taken
the pills and crawled into the bathroom trying to make himself vomit, and was
subsequently found dead with his head stuck in the toilet. If so, there is
something very Zen about his death.

For twenty years, Benny Klassen performed one gigantic act of
psychological and political sodomy on us all. He never had any real religious or
political message. It was all a gull, warmed-over classical anti-clericalism
framed in the manner of Talmudic responsa, mixed with crude race-baiting and
pseudo-scholarship, garnished with soft-core pornography and served up on a bed
of crap. To paraphrase Mark Twain, Klassen's works are both good and original,
but the parts that are good are not original and the parts that are original are
not good.

Yet the turgid gibberish in his interminable books was reverenced as
inspired wisdom; the most arrant nonsense in his so-called theology was
seriously debated; and flaming bird-brained idiots that we are, all but a few of
us accepted the liver-lipped old baboon at his own estimation of himself. The
reason is simple and shameful: money. Klassen was a millionaire, and with
pitifully few exceptions Movement people and Movement leaders in particular
genuflect in the presence of wealth. Our public spokesmen and most prominent
personalities are largely self-seeking, venal frauds who are incapable of
distinguishing between the cool riffle of a roll of hundred-dollar bills and the
Voice of God.

And so we tolerated among us a Moloch who devoured our children. The
roster of Klassen's victims is a long one. COTC business manager Barry Edwards,
bound and gagged and shot to death in the trunk of his car in 1978. Harry Kelly,
dead of a mysterious heroin injection in July of 1989. Dennis Witherspoon, one
of the first of Klassen's sexual victims to speak out, kidnapped and murdered in
October of 1990. Steve Martell, a suicide in August of 1991 after being
inveigled into a homosexual liason with COTC "minister" Jerry Michael Pace.
South Africans Jurgen White and Jurgen Grobbelaar, killed in a shootout with
police. Skinhead Brian Kozel, murdered in a gang fight with Mexicans. Matt
Hayhow, doing 40 years in Federal prison for a Klassen-inspired bank robbery.
George David Loeb, doing 25 to life because Klassen sheltered and paid the main
prosecution witness aganst him. The eight victims in Los Angeles framed by FBI
informer and COTC "minister" Joe Allen. Chip Myers and Eddie
Dagler, who blew the whistle on Klassen's sexual peccadilloes and were betrayed
by a prominent Movement writer and video producer whom they trusted for the sum
of $1,000 apiece, to be beaten and vandalized by the cultists. The list goes on
and on.

Given the general depravity of our so-called leaders, I can understand
why many of them kept their lips firmly pressed against Klassen's withered
buttocks in hope of catching some of the dribble from his overflowing bank
accounts. But you'd think they might at least have managed a mumble or two of
protest when the vile monster started killing kids.

Enough. The already depleted remnants of his cult are collapsing like a
house of cards even as I write. Let it perish along with he who gave it life.
This has not been an edifying chapter in our people's chronicles, but good can
yet come of it if we will demonstrate that at long last we are capable of
learning from our past mistakes. We sank low during the Klassen years. Now let
us see how high we can rise.

-Harold A. Covington










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