Romantic Violence

by Christian Picciolini

  Like Bill promised, the black lady behind the currency exchange counter didn’t so much as glance at the ID. She took my money and stamped her approval on my firearm application.

  I showed Bill. “So now what?”

  “Send the application in to the Illinois State Police and…”

  “State police?” I interrupted, “What do you mean state police? I thought that was it. She stamped it…see?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your name or photo. The address won’t even be yours.”

  “But isn’t that a federal crime? Like mail fraud or something?” I could tell he was starting to lose patience with me.

  “Look, just give me the damn application and I’ll send it in for you.” He took me to the window and pulled aside the curtain. “You see that vacant house across the street? We’ll use that address. When the mail gets delivered, I’ll grab it for you. Don’t worry.”

  “Alright.” It sounded like a valid theory. “Then what?”

  “Go to a gun show, Jose Ortiz.” We both laughed.

  I swear I looked nothing like the guy in the stolen driver’s license. And for two solid months I worried the feds would knock down my door and arrest me for a federal fraud violation.

  It would have been simpler to buy guns illegally on the street like I had with the .380, but that meant the money would make its way into the hands of niggers and wetback gangbangers. Our enemies. That wasn’t an option.

  Gun shows were everywhere. I found one soon after Bill received “Jose’s” firearm permit in the mail from the Illinois State Police and we headed to the show without a qualm. I had my gun license and Bill’s reassurance that the racist hillbillies at these shows didn’t give a damn who they sold the guns to. It was about the money. So long as you looked white.

  Bill was right again. The people at this—and every other gun show I attended—couldn’t care less who they sold weapons to. The guy he introduced me to, an old family friend of his, barely looked at the permit, aside from scribbling its info on the receipt. As long as you weren’t a minority and had cash, you were golden. Even the mandatory federal waiting period didn’t seem to bother this guy. The seller handed over the gun the second he collected my money.

  I left that first show with a brand new Beretta 9mm pistol tucked into the waistband of my jeans, electrified by the sheer power of it. I was ready for anything now.

  Only one thing I lacked. Training.

  So I went to the shooting range. Again, no questions asked. Nobody cared. Give them the money, flash your permit and white smile, and we were all equal.

  I picked up shooting quickly. My finger squeezed the trigger with ease, my arm supported the weapon without flinching, my eye zeroed in on the target within a fraction of a second.

  Like most sports I tried, shooting was relatively easy for me. But shooting would not be a sport.

  It was a part of my survival plan. I was prepared to battle to the death to save the white race from destruction.

  I acquired more firearms from these gun shows. At seventeen years old, my arsenal consisted of a military-issue .30 caliber M-1 carbine rifle with a folding carbon stock, a new Russian-made AK-47, a Beretta 9mm, a .380 semi-auto handgun, and, for good measure, a sawed-off 20-gauge shotgun.

  By fall, I was a decent shot and had collected weapons and ammo to spare. I was ready. I didn’t brag about my cache, but word somehow got around. Cops suspected I had illegal weapons, but couldn’t prove it based on only hearsay. They had no concrete evidence to search my house.

  I usually kept a loaded handgun on me when I was away from home, but this had a strange effect. In addition to making me feel powerful, it made me very paranoid. Anything could happen. Circumstances could turn ugly fast and I knew it wouldn’t take much provocation for me to stick it in someone’s face. And I knew that if I were forced to pull it out I’d have to use it—I wouldn’t dare not use it and appear to be a coward. That scared the shit out of me.

  One evening I got home from work long after midnight, stripped down to my boxers and got into bed. But as I began drifting off, a noise outside my window jolted me awake.

  Kubiak and I had kicked a lot of ass in the previous week. Had one of those Anti race-traitors come by to get revenge? That’d be like them. In the dark. When I was sleeping. Defenseless. Maybe it was the cops. Or the two Latin Kings we’d accosted behind Burr Oak Bowl last month.

  I rolled out of my bed and crawled across the floor to my dresser. I reached behind it and moved my hand along the wall until I felt the wood stock of my sawed-off shotgun.

  From a distance, I saw the intruder’s backlit profile against the window. Someone was trying to break in. Creeping along the wall, I contemplated every possible scenario. What if they had a gun? What if it was the cops? I took in a deep breath and filled my lungs. Exhaled. I flung the curtain open, weapon ready to explode.

  The frightened eyes meeting the barrel of my shotgun weren’t those of an Anti. Nor those of a nigger or a Latin King or a cop.

  It was my mother.

  Sudden anger filled me, anger and horror. What was she doing spying on me in the middle of the night? Why couldn’t she leave me the fuck alone? My finger was heavy on that trigger. A hair-trigger away from Buddy and me being half-orphans. I had almost shot my mother in the face.

  “Christian,” she cried. “It’s me! Mamma. My God! Don’t shoot! Please…don’t shoot.”

  I lowered it. Trembling, I lifted open the window.

  “Goddamnit! You can’t sneak around like that! What the hell are you doing?”

  She sank down into the bushes weeping and quivering. “Why do you have a gun? What life are you living? What have you done?”

  My mother dropped to her knees and wailed, covering her face with her trembling hands. She prayed to God.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s for protection. That’s all. Just in case.” I was genuinely sorry.

  “In case of what?” she cried, her eyes pleading. “Why do you need protection?”

  Any angry feelings I felt for her evaporated. Her fear and concern were so sincere, so heartfelt; I felt a sting of empathy. She could be annoying and there were times I felt like strangling her, but she was my mother. I felt her sadness, I wanted to reach out and comfort her, hold her and tell her it would be okay, that I loved her. I knew she cared about me. I knew my father did too. But their lives were so full of things that didn’t matter. I wanted more for them, to be happy, to not worry about me, but they refused to lift their heads out of the sand that had kept them buried for so long.

  And I was outraged. They were the adults and I was their child. They should have known better than to abandon their son. Buddy told me they always fought over me and it had been years since I saw either of them show each other any affection. I felt pity for them and their miserable lives. But more than anything, I felt a deep sense of fear—of regret. I’d come so close to killing my own mother. Just a nervous twitch away from blowing her head clean off her body. My God.

  “Go to bed. It’s late. No more crying now. Everything’s okay.” I shut the window and heard her continue to sob, followed by a fit of retching. What if, instead of my mother, it had been Buddy at the window?

  I stayed awake for hours trembling—shaken to my core and remorseful about how I almost blew a hole through my mother’s face. But every time I started to drift off, exhausted from my mind racing, the idea that I needed more guns woke me right back up. Tonight had proved that somebody could come for me any time. I had to be ready.

  Christian, 1991

  16

  MARTYR

  In the midst of all the rallies and music, violence and guns, something very unexpected happened. I fell in love. Crazy wild in love.

  Her name was Lisa and she wanted nothing to do with me and what I stood for.

  We met through mutual Beverly friends. I wasn’t looking for anybody. My life was full of responsibilities to my crew, my tim
e taken with writing and performing white power music, and my head full of concerns about the white race and the serious risks it faced.

  I had a survival pack. Guns and ammunition. An escape plan. When ZOG’s secret, Jew-run shadow government launched their attack to enslave us, I would be ready to battle it head-on. To lead a revolution like a martyr. Exactly how Earl Turner had in The Turner Diaries:

  Among those uncounted thousands, Earl Turner played no small part. He gained immortality for himself on that dark November day 106 years ago when he faithfully fulfilled his obligation to his race, to the Organization, and to the holy Order that had accepted him into its ranks. And in so doing he helped greatly to assure that his race would survive and prosper.

  A love affair wasn’t necessarily part of the picture.

  Sure, I had my fair share of girlfriends and casual sex, but nothing serious.

  When I first saw Lisa, I didn’t pay much attention to her. She hung out on the periphery of the Beverly group. A nice little mod rock chick who showed up at parties now and again with some of her Catholic high school girlfriends. She’d been a year behind me in school, so our social paths hadn’t crossed often, but this time she caught my eye. Hard to say why. Her auburn pixie haircut? Emerald green eyes? Plaid schoolgirl uniform? Maybe her reticence, her shy, downcast gaze and soft innocence?

  Whatever it was, I was drawn to her.

  So I asked her out.

  “I was wondering if…maybe…I could take you to a movie or dinner or something. I hear that Terminator 2 is supposed to be really awesome…”

  She said no.

  No was a word I was unaccustomed to hearing. The people around me always said yes, and they said it quickly and followed it up with whatever action needed to happen.

  And she told me no?

  I lost sleep over her response, trying to figure out how I’d put her off. Was it because she was still in high school for another year and I’d already graduated? Perhaps it was distance—we didn’t live all that close to each other. Maybe she didn’t like skinheads or my reputation as a fighter. Was it the movie? Maybe I should have suggested Sleeping with the Enemy with the chick from Pretty Woman or Point Break with that surfer dude Keanu Reeves instead.

  But what was all of that compared to what I could offer? I was handsome, intelligent, streetwise, tough, admired. A leader. I succeeded in everything I’d ever set out to do. I was driven. I laughed at the thought that I might even be a doctor if my mother had her way.

  Who was she to say no?

  She refused to give me a chance.

  Every time I asked her out, her answer was the same: a resounding no.

  I was pissed.

  “Send her some flowers, you jerk,” one of my close female skinhead friends advised. “Show her you’re more than a hardass. And stop suggesting guy movies. Ask her to see something nice and funny like City Slickers or some romantic comedy. She’s probably a sweet girl. You’re running around kicking people’s teeth in and getting in trouble with the cops all the time. You gotta convince her you’re a good guy.”

  “Want to write me a letter of recommendation?” I joked. There weren’t many skinhead girls around, and the ones that were always had a swarm of guys hovering around them regardless of how cute they were. It never bothered me, because I wasn’t attracted to the skinhead “Chelsea Girl” look. The tattoos were sexy, but I preferred more feminine girls like Lisa that wore Mary Janes instead of Doc Martens. Aside from that, it was nice having females around to bring the high levels of testosterone down.

  “Seriously. I’m telling you. Try sending flowers.”

  I’d been toying with the idea anyway. The only reason I hadn’t was because I thought it might be too corny.

  But what the hell, it couldn’t get any worse. What could she do? Say no again?

  So I sent a bouquet of red roses to Lisa’s house. I’d like to say I sat back and waited, but that’d be a lie. I obsessed over what to do next. Wait for her to make the next move? Call her and ask if she’d gotten them? Show up at her place like I had a right to be there?

  I got my chance a few weeks later when Lisa invited the Beverly gang over to her house for some beers one night when her mom was out of town at a sales training seminar for her job. I saw this as my opportunity to cozy up to her and convince her I had a soft side. I asked her what she thought of the roses I’d sent. She said they were nice, a sweet gesture. After a night of hanging out and talking about things that interested us both, like music and drawing, she decided to give me a chance and agreed to go out on a date the following week.

  Late in the evening of our first date after I drove Lisa back to her house, we sat in my Chevy Blazer in her driveway, kissing, listening to a music mixtape I’d made for her after her party. It had songs on it we both enjoyed, tunes by The Smiths and Ramones and Social Distortion. Words about young love and passion and heartbreak. Conspicuously, there were no white power songs on the tape. Not even my own.

  A steady rainfall had begun and the rhythm of the droplets pitter-pattering against the roof created a soothing cadence for our makeout session. Lisa’s skin felt like silk on my fingertips and I worked hard to summon up my soft side, touching her face when we kissed. Cradling her gently in my arms.

  The humidity of the muggy August night and our steamy lip-lock caused the car windows to fog up, revealing several crude swastikas that Kubiak had traced with his finger on the windshield the week before, while we’d been staking out a house in Blue Island that a group of SHARPs had rented. The Antis had claimed they wanted to move their operations closer to ours, so they could monitor our activities from close range. We knew they moved into our territory simply to spite us. And it did piss us off. Though they had no idea how closely it also allowed us to keep an eye on them.

  I leaned in and pulled Lisa close to shield her eyes, so that the markings wouldn’t upset her. Not fast enough.

  “Can I ask you something?” Lisa spoke timidly, pulling herself out of my arms. “Promise me you won’t get mad.”

  “Of course.” I reached to caress her face and held her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  Lisa sighed and moved her gaze away from mine. I could tell from her hesitation that she was about to ask me something that had been weighing heavily on her mind. “Why do you have so much hate inside of you?”

  The stickiness level in the car felt as if it had quadrupled once the question left her lips. I couldn’t help but adjust myself in my seat to fend off her unsettling glare. At that moment, I would rather have been hit in the jaw with an uppercut than been faced with that question. Especially from Lisa. It caught me off guard, but I knew I had to give her an answer if we were going to have any chance for a second date.

  So, I lied to her. “I don’t hate anyone. I just love what I stand for so much that I’m willing to protect it from those who want to do it harm.”

  I knew my answer was bullshit. Instead of being honest with Lisa, I’d replied with the standard one-size-fits-all party line. It was a common practice within the movement to always spin our hateful agenda and wrap it in a pretty little “white pride” bow for the general public to consume. The truth was, we hated everybody that wasn’t like us.

  Without flinching, Lisa replied, “But, then why aren’t you doing anything positive? All you do is say such hateful things and get in fights and hurt people. That’s not love. That’s violence and destruction and hate.” Her eyes pleaded with mine for the truth. “But when you’re with me, you are so caring and gentle. Which one is the real you?”

  The question, when posed by Lisa, made me uncomfortable. Nervous. Even though I’d answered it without much effort dozens of times before, when thrown at me by teachers and coaches and adults. When responding to them, the answer was not quite as romantic—the word “nigger” often punctuating my reply. When the question left her soft lips, I suddenly couldn’t muster the words to string together an answer that made much sense to me.


  The cassette in the car stereo clicked and flipped to begin playing the first song from the second side of the tape. The familiar tone of Social Distortion’s guitars drew me in and it wasn’t until the verse hit that a sick feeling pitted itself in my stomach.

  I sit and I pray in my broken-down Chevrolet…

  I’m lonely and I’m tired and I can’t take any more pain…

  Take away this ball and chain…

  Take away this ball and chain.

  Lisa continued, “When you love something, how can you possibly do so at anyone else’s expense?”

  Her voice was tender. Caring. The dampness in the air turned the fogginess on the windows into streaking rivulets of water that raced down the windshield and erased the symbols on the glass. But not the thought from my mind. Her eyes looked deep into mine as my stomach wrenched tighter. I looked into her eyes and said, “I do it because it’s important to me.”

  “Am I important to you?” she pleaded.

  “Yes.” The wind picked up and shook the truck violently, startling Lisa.

  In the foreground, the porch light lit up and we heard her mother call Lisa’s name. “They’ve issued a severe weather warning. You should come inside, Lisa.”

  “I better go before the storm gets any worse. You should go, too.” She leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “Thanks for my tape.”

  With that, she threw open the Blazer door and darted for shelter. I watched as she gracefully dodged the raindrops and disappeared into the house. The wild storm battering my truck was no match for the tempest brewing inside of me.

  I spent every waking moment with Lisa and never wanted to leave her side. She was smart and creative. Aside from our politics clashing, we were perfectly matched. She was headstrong, but she trusted me and felt safe with me around.