“Are you loco, Rick?” Bob laughed. “Don’t you remember all the white people they killed when they took over California? Don’t you remember all the refugees fleeing east? Shit, they probably killed about five-hundred whites.”
“Yeah, I do. Saw it on the news; read about it online. Maybe they’ve calmed down a bit or something though. Maybe the whites there were provoking them or something.”
“Yeah, and even if the whites were provoking them, did they deserve to get killed for it? I was living in friggin’ Nevada at the time. I saw the caravans of white people streaming out of Cali every which way. And Swan just let California go without a fight. Should’a known that homosexual wouldn’t have the guts to be commander in chief.”
Rick gulped hard. “If you said that at work you’d be fired and arrested. That’s insulting a sexual orientation.”
“No kidding—and notice how all those laws are selectively applied. You’d never see a gay guy get jail time for insulting heterosexuality. The gays are as sacred as the non-whites. Just like the non-whites never get charged with hate crimes when they attack us.”
“The hell with that ‘insulting sexual orientation’ law.” Rick frowned. “Not that I want to sit around and insult them—far from it. But I shouldn’t be jailed if a word slips out of my mouth—where’s the First Amendment, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. But those hate speech laws have been around forever in Europe—I read they first started giving people jail time for using the word ‘gay’ in an insulting way in England back in like 2007. Even back then police were arresting kids in the schoolyard for using it. So don’t count on that one being erased from the books anytime soon.”
“You mean those laws were around forever in Europe.” A half smile spiked Rick’s face. “That was before Sharia law.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Bob chuckled, then was grave. “God, Rick, I still can’t believe you told Blake’s principal that the president was a nut case. It probably won’t be too long before a gray hand is pounding on your front door.”
“I know, man. I . . . I don’t know what came over me. I just became so angry. I’ve never really been like that before . . . at least not in public. I wouldn’t have become so angry. It was because that teacher laid a hand on my son.”
“What you did was crazy, man. You know that white males can’t be anything but deferential and weak in public. I bet your personal ID number has already been earmarked, just for that alone. Heck, you know what Swan says about that, right?”
“‘There’s nothing more dangerous than a white male with a closed fist,’” Rick recited in a dejected monotone.
“Yep. But hey, what did it feel like? Just out of curiosity.”
“Getting angry in front of people? It was kind of scary—I was shaking because I was so worked up,” Rick elucidated like a child. “But in a way it felt good. I felt empowered . . . like I could stand up and do something. For a split second I didn’t care about repercussions. Honestly, it was pretty amazing.”
Bob smiled and nodded his head in vicarious enjoyment. The truck thundered along the trail.
In the large barn, a man in his early thirties gestured for silence and raised a wireless microphone to his lips.
“I want to welcome you all,” he frowned as conversations continued to teem, “I want to welcome you all to the fifth meeting of the Fellowship of Caucasian Peoples.” The commotion stopped briefly, then reignited. “The FCP is dedicated to the . . . well, at least I’m glad we have a strong turnout.” The speaker mumbled into the microphone, his accent heavy. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair, and eyed some of the faces in the audience. There were hundreds, most of them desperate and worried. A few haystacks had been turned into pulpits atop which blustering men, unaided by electronic voice projection, addressed knots of listeners.
“My name is George Drakos, and eight years ago I killed a man,” the orator spoke deeply into the mike.
Silence washed through the barn, beginning at its epicenter, then spreading to its outskirts.
“I killed the fucking Turk because he raped and murdered my mother. Once I found him I beat the hell out of him with my fists until his face was a bloody ruin. Then I applied a chokehold to him like this,” the speaker gestured with raised arm constricting an invisible throat, “until his face turned from red, to purple, to black.” Eyes in the audience widened, and mouths gaped.
“As you can imagine, the Muslim authorities didn’t really care about a Turk raping and killing a Christian Greek woman. But they cared when I spilled the rapist’s blood. I fled my home in Greece at only twenty years old to avoid imprisonment and execution.”
Drakos stared at the floor momentarily, rebuffing an onslaught of emotion by gritting his teeth and clenching his fist. He was of average height but heavily muscled and broad shouldered. He glowered, statuesque, before resuming.
“There was nowhere to go in Europe. All but a few, remote places were under Muslim rule. The Turks rule Greece, Germany, Poland, and most of the Slavic countries. The North Africans control Italy, France, Belgium, and Holland. The British and Norwegians are ruled by a confederation of Muslims primarily from Pakistan and Africa. Only parts of Russia, Sweden, and Finland, as you know, defy Islamic rule. And the Swiss and Irish, God bless them, are still fending off a pan-Islamic invasion. But at the time it looked as if the whole continent would fall, and America was a beacon of light in my world of darkness.” Faces fell in the audience at the speaker’s youthful naiveté.
“I arrived in New York City, much like an ancestor of mine probably did over two centuries ago, and I thought to myself, ‘finally, I have arrived in a place where I will not be a slave to an Islamic overlord. Finally, I have arrived in a place of decency and sanity. Finally, I have arrived in a place where I can find a job and start a family.’ And then, after a few months, I began to realize how mistaken I was. I realized that I had traded one form of slavery for another. But the disgusting thing about this new slavery was that it was self imposed.” Drakos glared at his audience, who peered back cautiously.
“Back in Greece the men wear iron shackles and the women are confined to seraglios or prostitution. But here! Here your shackles are fashioned in your minds. You dutifully clink them on every morning when you wake up. You created the shackles, and you wear the shackles. And as you go about your daily business in your shackles, you whip yourselves.”
“No more guilt! No more fucking guilt!” Another deep voice tremored through the crowd. It traced to a blond giant towering on a haystack, his raised fist clenched, blue eyes searing like falling stars. “I’m a strong white man—I’m not ashamed of my ancestors. I’m going to marry a white woman and have lots of children. I’m going to take back our country. I’m going to strangle Swan’s fucking throat with my bare fucking hands!” The titan was bellowing, his fair complexion now crimson, teeth bared. Tremendous arm muscles leapt to prominence with each clenching of his fist, and he shook as he spoke.
The audience stared in disbelief at the two speakers, how they had seized power as if from the surrounding air, how the room sparked with tension at their presence. Several listeners, hands wringing, ran for the door, only to find it guarded by resolute men.
“That’s right. That’s right, Hans.” Drakos’s eyes gleamed, but not with the luminosity of the giant’s. “Guilt is disarming. It is effeminizing and paralyzing. And we needn’t feel it for the deeds of our ancestors that we had nothing to do with or for the color of our skin.”
“We needn’t feel it at all!” Hans roared, each iris a stormy planet Neptune. “We’re the smartest, the strongest, the best people on earth. We’ll take what we want and atone to no one.”
“We will restore equality for our people so we can pursue a life of safety and happiness,” qualified Drakos.
A good portion of the crowd was overwhelmed. Sweat streamed from brows, feet shifted, eyes shot to watches. The climate was a continuum between discomfort and outright fear.
/> “Hans, George, thank you. I can see that so far you’ve done an excellent job at alarming our new visitors.” A tall, elderly man emerged from the back of the barn, a mike pinned to his collar. He surveyed the stark, white faces before him. “I apologize for the enthusiasm of Mr. Drakos and my son, Hans. For those of you that have never attended an FCP meeting, this must have been very troubling. Too troubling.” He lowered his eyes at Hans. “These two men, who have alarmed many of you with their expletives and virile aggression, are going to show you all over the coming months not only how to take back our country, but how to become men.
“My name is Max Stewart, and I want to welcome you to my estate and my organization. Looking into many of your faces, I can see your fear. You’re fearful because you know damn well if government agents were to hear half of what has been spoken so far in this barn, we would all be consigned to ten years in one of Swan’s asylums. Yes, my friends, you have stumbled into a den of heretics, of dissidents. You are in the presence of men who are demonized in children’s textbooks, in classrooms, in board rooms, on television, and in the movies. I want to congratulate you all in managing to find yourselves a group of ‘bad guys’ to spend your Wednesday night with. Give yourselves a pat on the back.” Laughter skimmed the crowd, and tension eased.
“The truth is that I’m a good guy. George is a good guy. Hans, crazy as he is sometimes, is a good guy. Many of you, deep down, understand this or you wouldn’t be here. Some of you might be asking yourselves, ‘what makes them good?’ Well, I’ll tell you. We’re here to save you.” Stewart pointed to a nondescript listener. “And we’re here to save you, and you, and you, and you; we’re here to save you all. But what are we here to save you from? Can anyone guess? Anyone?” The old man scrutinized the crowd through laser-perfected vision.
“Unfairness,” a cry rang from the back.
“Swan and his tyranny,” came from the side.
“The loss of all our rights,” shot down from a haystack.
“The loss of our Christian religion,” pined a fourth.
Stewart gave a paternal nod. “We will save you from these things, too. But, bear in mind that unfairness always has been, and always will be, a regrettable component of life. And Swan is certainly a more intolerable and tyrannous leader than his predecessors, but the last few presidents didn’t exactly look out for the interests of white people either. I regret to inform you all that even were an assassin’s bullet to pierce Swan’s deviant brain tonight, little would change tomorrow.” The old man’s voice was grave. “My friends . . . we are here to save you and your families from extinction.”
Stewart dropped his head for rhetorical effect, awaiting the commotion and fear he anticipated such a revelation would trigger. Silence. The old man looked to Drakos, who was covering his eyes and looking down. Hundreds of unfazed faces stared dumbly at Stewart, enthralled by his speech but untroubled by the answer to his inquiry.
“What . . . don’t you all find the concept of extinction alarming? George, Hans, perhaps we have much braver recruits tonight than I expected,” he commented feebly.
“The world will be a better place when we’re gone.” A listener spoke up, his face fixed in an expression of conviction. “I just want my wife and I to be able to live out our years peacefully and without harassment.”
A wave shot through the old man’s body, and his right fist clenched at his side.
“And why, might I ask, will the world be a better place when we’re gone?” Stewart snarled, advancing. Laughter abounded in the audience at the old man’s ignorance.
“Because, silly, we’re evil,” chided the man. “All white people are evil. Maybe you’re more evil than I am because of your beliefs, but we all share the Original Sin of our Caucasian genetics. Where have you been all these years? Walled up in this barn?”
“Are you some kind of damn gray son-of-a-bitch in a white man’s disguise? What the hell’s wrong with you? And you better learn to speak with respect or I’ll put an end to your wise-ass attitude.”
At the old man’s advance the younger man squealed and melted into the crowd.
“Well, I guess it’s really not your fault,” Stewart muttered to himself, returning to the center of the barn. “Okay, it has quickly become evident that some of you are going to need a lot more work before we can see eye to eye. Therefore, I want you to raise your hands based on the following questions. Think of this as a diagnostic.”
Stewart ruminated for a few moments, his head shaking slowly back and forth.
“All right. How many of you think that being white is undesirable?”
More than three-quarters of the audience shot up their hands.
“I see. How many of you believe that evil is interwoven with your white biology?”
The same percentage of hands were raised.
“How many of you believe that non-white peoples are superior to you. Interpret superior however you wish.”
Nearly the whole audience raised their hands.
“How many of you believe that the natural mate for a white man is a white woman? Don’t answer with what Swan believes—answer with what you believe.”
After some thought, nearly everyone raised a hand.
“How many of you agree with the Twenty-Ninth Amendment—that if a white man has a relationship with a white woman, they are forbidden to have children?”
Half the hands raised.
“How many of you agree with any of the following: I should not be limited in my career advancement or where I can buy a house because of my race. Furthermore, I should not be prohibited from adopting a monotheistic religion.”
As hands fired up, the elder noted that this was the first question yielding near unanimity.
“All right, I think I understand what you’re telling me. Just a few more and we’ll be done. How many of you agree with the following: I don’t mind being oppressed because I’m an inferior human being and deserve the way I’m treated. I just want to be able to have enough rights to avoid persecution so I can eke out a humble existence until my spouse and I pass away. In a nutshell, just don’t bother me and in a little while I’ll be gone.”
Heads nodded assent and most hands raised.
“As I suspected,” mumbled Stewart, “fifty years from now, at any given park in America, from Maine to Georgia to Utah, children will be at play. Only about ten percent of these children will be white. How many of you find this disturbing?”
A few hands raised.
“Fascinating—that was the future prior to Swan’s regime. Now what if I told you that fifty years from now in any given park in America, there will be no children at play. There will be many old, gnarled, gray, parodies of men and women shambling around, still paying obeisance to ‘Divine Color.’ Their gray flesh will be ripped by the plasma rifles and electric scimitars of invading Muslims, who will seize the land and probably battle it out with the Aztecs for North American hegemony.”
Many in the audience seemed fascinated by the prediction, and eyes averted toward the ceiling in thought.
“All right, the exercise is over. I’ve concluded that you care little about the future of the Caucasian race. However, you care substantially about economics, a cushy lifestyle, and religious freedom. I bet most of you would rather roll over and die than lift a finger to fight your oppressors. But we’re going to change that. I noticed that a few of you found the ten percent white American figure disturbing. It may all be moot anyway, because that would be the figure had Americanization not been implemented. With Americanization, however, the population will be zero percent white, and zero percent every race, in fifty years if the conversion rate continues. But just for kicks, I would like to know the reasoning of those of you who found the ten percent white figure undesirable. You, with the black t-shirt and jeans. You found a miniscule white population disturbing. Why?”
The man shrank back, and cast a panicked look at a companion. The companion backed away as if his friend bore a red tracer on
his chest.
“I . . . I don’t think it’s right that other races are allowed to have children but whites aren’t,” the man said tentatively.
“But many of your buddies here tonight would say ‘what the hell, who needs kids anyway?’ Even before the prohibition of white procreation, the white birthrate was down to about half a child per family. That means that our population was being reduced by three-fourths about every generation.”
“I think that’s sad.” Rick set his jaw. And, honestly, I think it’s sadder that most of us don’t even care. If we don’t care about ourselves—if we don’t care about our own people—our future—who else is going to?”
Stewart stopped mid-step. A slight smile elevated the right side of his face.
“Young man, are you telling me that you would feel uncomfortable putting your future into the hands of some diversity monger who believes that you and all your family register a zero on his racial point system?” Stewart laughed. “So tell me, why are whites worth saving?”
The man was emboldened by the approval, and stepped forward from his pocket in the crowd.
“I guess every person who thinks we’re worth saving has their own reasoning; I hope mine doesn’t seem too odd. When I was a kid my dad would take me hiking in the woods quite a bit. We lived in the country in northern Ohio. He was a pretty die-hard environmentalist, and knew all the varieties and names of all the different life in the forest. He taught me to appreciate and respect all the different kinds of animals, and said that they should be protected. And if one species were threatened with extinction, he said that mankind should take measures to see that it doesn’t die out. I guess I’ve never really, uh, ‘articulated’ my thoughts like this. But that’s what came to my mind when you mentioned extinction. It seems to me that Swan and the rest don’t really understand the real meaning of diversity.”
The man’s voice began at a loud volume, but had gradually faded as the eyes around him stared with perplexity. Stewart was nodding his head eagerly.
The Gods of Color Page 4