“Well, you’ve got to fight it. You’ve got to understand that reaching for that kind of radicalism is like striking a bargain with the devil. It’s like wielding a cursed sword right out of European legend. The sword may be powerful, and, perhaps, it will vanquish your enemies. But it will also kill you in the process, and everyone else as well.”
“I know.” The titan’s massive deltoids hung low. “Sometimes I think I can personally tailor it to remove the bad elements. You know, to remove the impurities but keep the power and strength. That’s what I meant when I said I would have changed things—I would have kept the pride and strength and power but eliminated the killing and the perversion and the genocide.”
“Impossible,” snapped Stewart. “When power is so deeply alloyed with evil like that, the two can never cleanly disentangle.”
“Yeah,” acknowledged the youth. There was silence for several moments as all present quietly pondered. “Well, Kim and I are going out to grab some dinner tonight, so we better go get ready,” the youth said finally. “Unless she wants me to go looking like a gym bum.”
She playfully punched him in the shoulder.
“You are a gym bum.” The girl laughed.
“Have fun, you two. But, like I’ve told you before, if anyone tries to harass you about being out together, just try to defuse the situation by walking away. Don’t you dare get into a fight. Just walk away and go somewhere else.” Warned the older man.
“It’s that bad?” asked Rick.
“It is when you’re our age,” Kim lamented. “The grays, and some whites occasionally like to harass us, they’re so brainwashed.”
“But when Cathy and I used to go out we really didn’t have to deal with much of that,” spoke Rick.
“That’s because you’re in your thirties, and there’s still a fair number of white couples walking around your age,” Kim said. “You guys are the cut-off age. People assume you were already married before the Twenty-Ninth Amendment was created. On the other hand, I’m twenty and Hans’s twenty-two. Lots of people were hoping that the Twenty-Ninth Amendment would stop white people from dating and marrying each other. And when they see that it hasn’t completely, they get angry. And they get suspicious that we might want to have a kid.
“I’ve been told more times than I can remember by waitresses, waiters, customers, managers, policemen . . . ‘Hope you two don’t plan on havin’ a white devil baby.’ ‘Hope you don’t intend to bring another white monster into the world.’ ‘Just see that holding hands is all you do ‘cause it’s a crime to have a white baby.’ And Hans’s physique doesn’t help things much—it draws their attention. They don’t like it when white men look and act different than the inept losers they’re portrayed to be on T.V.” Kim’s eyes gleamed resentfully.
“The craziest part,” snickered the titan, “is that some of the shittiest people to us are other whites. It’s sad to say, but our own people are some of the biggest watchdogs and enforcers of all this craziness. Hell, two weeks ago Kim and I were in Harrisburg walking down the street holding hands, and some white traitor ran up to a gray cop and tried to have us arrested. Even the cop asked the guy on what grounds and the punk-ass said that seeing two young whites walking together like that ‘was offensive to the public.’ When the cop wouldn’t do anything the little shit followed us for a while calling us names and saying we were evil. I’d have liked nothing better than to have beaten the living hell out of him.”
“And frustrating as it is, son, it’s a damn good thing you didn’t,” affirmed Stewart. “You only fight in self-defense.”
“Sure, Dad.” The youth rolled his eyes at Kim.
“Hey, you know what just dawned on me?” pondered Rick. “What happens if you have a white baby now? I mean, everyone knows it’s forbidden by amendment, but what’s the punishment? I’ve never known any whites who have taken a baby to term to test it out. Everyone gets abortions.”
“Simple,” reported Kim. “If you refuse to abort they ship both parents and child off to Europe. Ocean liners leave every weekend with that sole purpose. They dock in Spain, where the family is separated. The men are marched off to slave labor, we think, and the women supposedly are allowed to deliver their babies if they haven’t already. After they deliver, the mothers are sold off too.”
“But what happens to the babies?” Rick asked tentatively. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“No one knows,” said the girl. “What do Muslims want with white babies?”
“The same things they wanted with them five-hundred years ago when the Turks used to steal them, I’ll wager,” mumbled Stewart.
“Everything’s so fucked up. It’s just so awful,” Hans mourned, his head lowered, eyes wincing.
“Well, you two, go out and try to have some fun. It’s a bleak era we live in, but we can’t just sit back and cry about it. We’ve got to try to make things better for posterity. Hell, we’ve gotta make sure we have a posterity,” Stewart spoke with resolve. “But you’re both young. Go out and act like it. Have fun but be careful.”
Chapter 11
Hans opened the restaurant’s door wide, stepped aside, and let Kim pass through. A hostess grabbed two menus, gum smacking between her molars, and led them without a word to a booth.
“Welcome to Steel Mill Burgers. Your server tonight will be Dante,” she said mechanically, handing Kim her menu. As she handed Hans his menu she blinked. He was tall, well over six feet, and his eyes were the color of deep ice. Her gaze fell to the gold cross worn around his neck and his black t-shirt, whereon was written “Heavy Metal Never Dies” in white font.
Then she noticed how the t-shirt strained to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders and the mass of his upper arms.
“Like, you’re a white guy, and, like, do you work out or were you born that way?” she asked, masticating her gum at a feverish rate.
“He was born that way. Poor soul.” Kim smiled. She had grown accustomed to the attention her boyfriend received everywhere they went.
“Really? Cause like, those are like the biggest friggen arms I’ve like ever seen in my life.” She studied the youth a bit timidly, then averted her eyes as if perplexed. “White guys aren’t supposed to look like you do.” Her inflection was more interrogatory than declaratory.
“Why not?” The youth looked up from his menu, his bright eyes lupine.
The hostess’s finger spaghetti-twirled some of her hair and the gum rocketed around her mouth like a pink cloth in a washing machine.
“I . . . I like don’t really know. You just aren’t. I think it’s like against the law or something. Anyway, we’ve got half-price milkshakes tonight if you’re interested,” she said, then walked away. As she returned to her station near the entrance, Kim spotted her snatching glances over her shoulder.
Hans smiled at Kim, and their hands met in the center of the table.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” she responded.
“Someday, after the Revolution, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and we’re going to live happily-ever-after. Like in a Grimm’s fairytale.”
“That would be wonderful,” Kim said softly. “But baby, promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t, under any circumstances, decide to go off to Europe like your brothers did to fight the Muslims. I need you here. We all need you here,” she pleaded.
“Honey, I have no intention of going over there. The continent’s lost; it would be futile. Drake and Kurt went over there when it still looked like we had a shot to hold on. Now it’d just be a suicide mission. Don’t worry, Kim, I’m staying right here with you.”
A black male in his late teens walked up to the booth, his white hat emblazoned with “The Steel Mill” cocked to a side.
“Man, man, those are some killer guns,” he commented on the youth’s arms. “My name’s Dante, and I’ll be your server tonight.”
“How’s it going?” gr
eeted the youth. “I think I’ll have water to drink and she likes the iced tea.”
“One water and an iced tea to drink—any appetizer?”
“Naw, not tonight,” Hans said after Kim shook her head.
“Hey, Man, if you don’t mind me asking, I’ve just started workin’ out and I’m trying to find a good exercise to really hit my lats. People tell me to do the pulldowns. What do you recommend?” The waiter poised his pen near his electronic scratch pad.
“Well, pulldowns are okay, but the king of back exercises are wide grip chin-ups,” advised the titan. “You want to grip the bar so wide that your pinkies will slide off each handle if you go any farther. If you can’t bust out at least five reps with your own bodyweight, use an assisted pull-up machine until you work your way up to getting decent reps with your own bodyweight.”
“Hey, thanks man.” Dante smiled. “But what happens when I’m doing like thirty reps with my own body weight. What happens when it gets too easy?”
“If you’re using good form you’ll never make it to thirty reps with a wide grip, man, trust me.” Hans laughed. “If you’re a bad-ass you’ll get twenty reps your first set and ten your next set. Never heard of anyone really getting more than around twenty good form wide-grips. Do about six sets of those and six sets of dumbbell rows once a week and you’ll be on the right path.”
“Gotcha, man. I appreciate that,” said the waiter.
“No prob, good luck with it.”
“I’ll have your drinks out in a second.”
“Sure, man, no rush.” Hans nodded.
The couple studied their menus diligently.
“We haven’t been here in a while, cutie,” remarked the titan. “Looks like they’ve added some new entrees.”
“But something tells me you’ll still get the grilled chicken something or other,” teased the girl with eyebrows arched.
“You know me too well,” he admitted. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a young Hispanic boy standing near their booth. His eyes were riveted to the blond athlete. A woman held a napkin in one hand and a pen in the other, and was coaxing the boy along with whispers. He looked to be eight or nine years old.
“Sir . . . sir, I’m sorry, but would you please sign an autograph for my son. He thinks you’re a character from one of his comic books,” she said tentatively.
“Sure.” Hans smiled. “That’s a new one. But, uh . . .uhm . . . remind me again of my name so I know what to sign as.” He accepted the pen and napkin.
“Oh,” explained the woman a little nervously, “Marco says you’re someone named Saxon Anglo? And I think you’re supposed to be a villain.”
Kim turned away to conceal her laughter.
“Mom, no! He’s not a bad guy anymore.” The little boy clenched his fists and gritted his teeth together in embarrassment. “I told you—Captain Aztlan and Saxon Anglo are on the same team now—he’s a good guy! He’s gonna think I don’t know anything!”
“What’s your name, big guy?” asked Hans with a smile.
The little boy met the titan’s eyes warily. He sucked in his lips and tilted his head down.
“Marco,” he whispered.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Marco.” Hans deepened his voice for heroic effect. “I have such a busy job defending the planet, it’s amazing I can find time to grab a bite to eat with my lady friend here.”
Courage growing, the boy smiled cautiously.
“Are you really going to stay friends with Captain Aztlan, or is this just a trick?” he asked.
“Uhm,” searched Hans, “of course we’re going to stay friends. I’ve been wanting to be friends with him for a long time now. It’s about time we’re finally on the same team.”
“Good.” Marco sighed. “So you don’t want to hurt us anymore? You don’t hate bronze people anymore? You don’t want to hurt us and come take away California again?”
“Bronze people? You mean Aztecs?” Hans asked, puzzled.
“Uh-huh.” The boy nodded, and shrank closer to his mother.
“Of course I don’t hate the sons and daughters of Aztlan,” reassured the youth, his voice very deep again. “Why would you suggest I did?”
“Come on, Saxon Anglo.” Impatience gained an upper-hand over apprehension. “Everyone knows what you used to be like, how you used to treat us.”
“Well . . . er, well, those days are over with. Honestly, the only people I hate are the grays and President Swan,” the youth spoke with sincerity.
“Yeah,” Marco said in excitement, “that’s what you said in the last issue of the comic.”
“I did?” asked Hans.
“Yep.”
“And which comic is this?”
“The Amazing Captain Aztlan.” Marco laughed. “Don’t you know?”
“Oh, of course I do,” boasted the youth. “Uhm, I was just testing to see if you knew.”
Hans pondered for a moment, then placed pen to napkin. He wrote: DEAR MARCO, LET’S HOPE WE CAN BEAT THE GRAYS. BEST WISHES! —SAXON ANGLO.
“Thank you so much, sir,” the mother said warmly, and accepted the pen and napkin.
“Thanks Saxon Anglo. Tell Captain Aztlan I said hi and that I want to be just like him when I’m older. Tell him I’m his biggest fan!” pleaded the boy.
“Will do,” Hans promised.
Beaming, Marco held the napkin high as he and his mother returned to a table where sat his brothers and sisters.
Dante arrived with glasses in hand, and placed them on the table.
“I’m really sorry about this guys, but I thought I’d better warn you. My boss, he’s gray and all, and he’s apparently seen you and I heard him talking a lot of shit back there in the kitchen so you guys might have to leave or something. I don’t know.” The waiter shrugged his shoulders nervously.
“Thanks, man.” Hans sighed. “Just tell us if he hoks one in our food or something. If it becomes a real problem I guess we’ll leave.”
“Okay,” said Dante. “I’ll be right back to get your order.”
Kim sipped her tea and was about to engage in conversation with her boyfriend when a sight distracted her. In a table across from them, a white mother and father in their early fourties sat with their little boy. He looked about five or six. Hans caught Kim’s glance and followed it to the table.
“Be nice to Gaiety Gray!” commanded the father. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like your toy?”
The child raised a doll up to inspect it. It was a gray male figure dressed in a pink suit.
“Here, Kyle,” consoled the mother, “I’ll help you put Gaiety’s yellow suit on him instead of the pink one. You’ll like that.”
“No!” the child screamed. “I hate him.” And with jutted jaw and bared teeth Kyle yanked on Gaiety’s head, decapitating him with a plastic pop.
“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed the father. “Don’t expect us to buy you another one you little brat.”
“Gerald,” uttered the mother sorrowfully, “I think we might need to take him to counseling. He doesn’t play nice with his dolls like he should.”
“I don’t want another one!” screamed Kyle. “I want a dinosaur! I want a big mean dinosaur. I want a robot with laser guns! I want an army man! I don’t want that stupid doll!”
“Honey,” explained the mother, “I already told you that you can’t have those toys. They’re not good for you to play with.”
“But my friends have cool toys like that,” Kyle insisted. “Why can’t I?”
“Baby, it’s complicated. Someday you’ll understand. Your other friends can play with those kinds of toys because they’re children of Color. Caucasian boys aren’t supposed to play with those kinds of toys.”
Confused, Kyle’s face contorted into a red grimace, and he began to shake. With a scream he hurled the disembodied head through the air.
It splashed in Kim’s tea.
Laughing, she fished out the head with her spoon. Th
e gray plastic face smiled up at her—it sported red lipstick and plucked eyebrows.
“Look what you did now, you little twit!” yelled the father.
“I’m so sorry.” The mother walked over to Kim, hands wringing. “We’re just so frazzled with him. We don’t know what to do. Here, let me buy you another tea.” She accepted back the head. “Gosh, kids sure aren’t worth it.”
Hans arched his lip and narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, don’t bother about the tea,” said Kim, smiling, “we’re ready to be evicted from here anyway, I think. But can I offer you some advice on your son?”
“Why, yes. We . . . we would love to learn anything that could help.” The woman moved closer, humbly, anticipating a rebuke. Teen and young adult women of America were viewed as guardians of culture and authorities on trends and proper social behavior. Though her elder by at least two decades, the woman viewed Kim as a superior in this context. Kyle had calmed down, and was peering over with interest.
“It’s normal for little boys to like monsters, robots, guns, and cars. I don’t blame him for not wanting to play with this ugly gray doll. Maybe if he were three or four, but he’s a little old for something like this. At his age girls generally should be the ones playing with dolls and he should be playing with dinosaurs or robots or something,” explained Kim. “Now, if he wanted to play with a Gaiety Gray doll, then I wouldn’t see a problem with letting him have one. But you shouldn’t force one on him. You should be happy he has such a healthy, hardwired understanding of gender role.”
“But . . . but that’s totally different from what everyone else is saying,” stumbled the woman, dumbfounded.
“From what everything who is saying, specifically?” Kim smiled warmly. “Lots of people confuse ‘everyone’ with one or two ideologues who happen to be empowered to broadcast their ideas over the media.”
“Uhhm . . . I guess it’s what the T.V. and government say. And, you know, it’s in all the movies and everything too. My husband and I just feel that for Kyle to have a future in today’s world we have to conform.” She nodded as she spoke, as if attempting to convince herself.
The Gods of Color Page 11