Pasha shut her eyes.
Don’t gag. Don’t cough. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.
“Do you taste it?” Hugo said. “The blood of the man that Göth just skinned?”
Pasha felt a scream building up. She was already leaning back in the chair as far as she could, and full-blown hysteria was only a moment or two away—
—and then the blade was withdrawn.
“I’m impressed by your gag reflux,” Hugo said. “My brother is a lucky man.”
Pasha turned away, gasping, coughing. The only thing that prevented her from throwing up was an empty stomach.
“Göth enjoyed that,” Hugo said. “I bet he’d enjoy your other holes, too.”
“What do you want with Phin?” Pasha blurted out.
The amusement in Hugo’s eyes disappeared. He slowly raised a hand and pointed it at his cheek. “See these?”
The question seemed to be rhetorical, but Pasha nodded anyway.
“Seven tears,” Hugo continued. “Do you know what they mean?”
“Those are people you murdered.”
In one sudden, explosive movement, Hugo lifted up his gigantic leg and slammed his foot on Pasha’s desk. His shoe was bigger than a loaf of bread. He hiked up his pants leg, revealing a shin lined with scars running from his knee to the top of his socks, like a bar code. The last few were scabbed over, and the final one was still bleeding.
“These are people I murdered. Common, worthless, meaningless people. When I kill you, this is all you’ll get. But these—” He jabbed a finger onto his face. “These are special. And the eighth one, the last one, will be the greatest one of all. My brother. Phineas.”
Pasha was still shaking from the encounter with Göth, and half out of her mind with fear, but she clawed back hysteria and let logic overtake emotion. Hugo seemed eager to talk about his tear tattoos, and to avoid any more potential violence, Pasha decided to keep him talking.
“I want to hear about your tears,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Tell me about them.”
Hugo blinked.
Hugo stayed quiet for several seconds.
Then Hugo began to talk.
HUGO
STATEVILLE CORRECTIONAL CENTER
1993
On his first day of a five year sentence, Hugo Troutt walked into the yard, signaled out the scrawniest guy there, and broke the man’s left arm, jaw bone, and four ribs before the guards shot up the ground in front of him.
He’d done brief stretches before, but Stateville was the real thing. Maximum security, in the middle of Nowhere, Illinois, where the county sent men with violence problems.
Hugo spent two months in solitary, and when he was released he was approached in the mess hall by a big son-of-a-bitch with a blue tear tattoo on his cheek. Hugo didn’t meet many men his own size—he was six-five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle, bone, and mean—so he was actually looking forward to the fight. But instead of throwing down, the guy pointed to his armband. A white bandana.
“Peace, dude. Bandana is white. Means parlay. Here to talk, not fight. If it was red, that means no quarter. Then we got a problem. But white is right, and white no fight. Name is Bruiser. Who are you?”
“Hugo.”
“Hugo, I’m an emissary. You know what that is?”
Hugo shook his head.
“Means I was sent here by Whitman. He runs the strongest gang in the joint. Wants to talk to you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to him.”
“That would be a mistake. Look around you, brother. Animals everywhere. Got a group of uppity blacks who would love to run a train on your lily white ass. Got an even bigger group of ‘Spanics—man, you don’t even know what they be saying while they kicking the shit out of you. Hell, even the fags got their own gang. You don’t find a group to watch your back, don’t matter how big you are. Got me?”
“Where’s Whitman?”
“He would like to invite you to his table. Follow me.”
Hugo stood up, taking his tray along, and followed Bruiser to a table next to the exit. The first thing Hugo noticed was the food. He’d eaten slop while in the hole, and the food in general pop wasn’t much better. But Whitman and his group were eating fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, and corn on the cob.
Whitman himself was a small, weaselly-looking guy with glasses, old enough to be gray, his beard patchy like a dog with mange. While Bruiser had one tattooed tear on his cheek, Whitman had four. He smiled when Hugo approached, then snapped his fingers and one of the men sitting there stood up and stepped back.
“Sit,” Whitman said.
Hugo still wasn’t sure what the play was, but sitting would put him at a disadvantage if shit got real.
“If I wanted to hurt you, Hugo, I could have gotten to you in solitary. Sit.”
Hugo sat.
“You’re in for assault and battery. A white guy. And your first day here, you went and attacked Pete. Also a white guy. What do you got against white guys?”
“I got something against everything.”
“Not anymore. Now you work for me. Any white-on-white violence has to be approved. You want to go beat up a few schlammensch, help yourself. But we don’t attack our own.”
Hugo didn’t know what schlammensch meant, and Whitman seemed to sense it.
“Schlammensch. Schlamm is mud. Mensch is men. Mud people. Anyone who isn’t white. God made Adam and Eve out of clay, white as the clouds above. The mongrel races; blacks, Latins, Jews, Arabs, Asians; they were all made of mud. Do you believe that?”
“No. That’s stupid.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
Whitman made a motion with his hand, like he was brushing salt off the table. Everyone got up and left.
“I don’t give a shit what you believe, Hugo. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that most men believe something. And they believe the craziest shit, about God and UFOs and white nationalism and bigfoot and Zion ruling the world and mind control drugs in the goddamn drinking water. None of that matters. What matters is this; if you want to control people, you tap into what they believe. Doesn’t matter what it is, or why they believe it. People are ignorant, and afraid, and superstitious, and stupid, and hopeful. You don’t have to believe what they do. All you have to do is encourage them.”
“Why?”
“Power, Hugo. Do you think you could kill me? Right now?”
The giant considered it. Might be fun to try. “Maybe.”
“I got five of my men ready to spring, the moment you turn unfriendly.”
“I see them. I can handle that.”
“Do you also see the two guards watching our conversation? Bull on the north side, his name is Lance. I’m godfather to his baby boy. On the east is Filmore. He’s tweaking off the speed I just sold him. I so much as fart, and you’ll have five rounds in your heart before the stink even hits you.” Whitmore leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “That’s power, son.”
Hugo considered his options. He liked chaos, and it had served him well in life.
That is, up until he was caught and sentenced and thrown in Stateville.
Maybe it was time to try something new.
“What do you want?”
“I want your allegiance. I want to be able to ask you to do something, and consider it done. In return, you get my protection, along with special benefits. Food. Cash. Contraband. And most of all, you get the thing you want most.” Whitman grinned, showing off a gold tooth. “Power.”
“Tell me what to do,” Hugo said.
1994
After six months inside, Hugo had put on thirty pounds of muscle. Much of it was pressing weights; when stuck in limbo at the Hell Hotel, you fought against time by fighting against gravity. Lifting had been a way to ease the boredom in between Whitman errands.
The jobs had been mostly easy. Standing guard during a deal. Dropping off a package. Sodomizing a squealer. Acting the carry
. The bulls cracked down hard on weapons, but Whitman insisted that one of his men always carry a shiv. The carry changed day to day, until Hugo just stopped turning over the duty and kept the blade. If he was caught, he’d deal.
Whitman considered him fearless. But to Hugo it was calculated risk. If shit went down, he wanted to be the one packing.
For Hugo’s allegiance, he got perks. Queer punks to blow him. Better meals. Snacks. Free tattoos. Anytime access to the weights. Drugs, though Hugo didn’t care for that mind-altering crap. His obsession was steroids. Steroids, and memorizing the endless charter for his new gang.
The CN—Caucasian Nation—called themselves a white nationalist movement dedicated to making America free of schlammensch. Many steps were needed to accomplish this goal, including preventing immigration of non-whites, limiting the rights of non-whites, perpetuating the inferiority of non-whites in all ways possible, extolling the virtues and superiority of the white race, and so on. It didn’t make sense to Hugo, all the weak directives and stupid principles, and he told Whitman how he felt.
“There are two billion people on the planet who believe a guy was nailed to a tree and came back to life three days later, just so your soul can live in the clouds with all your dead relatives. What’s easier to believe, that bullshit or that whites are superior?”
“Why believe anything?”
“Because people need a sense of belonging. Of identity. They want to be part of a tribe, and tribes have rules, and tribes have enemies. If you want the power of the tribe, you never err in your conviction. You yell the loudest, and you never waver.”
“You want me to yell that Jews exist because women had sex with the devil?”
“Absolutely. What year was The Protocols of the Meetings of the Learned Elders of Zion published?”
Hugo searched his brain for the answer, and came up with, “Nineteen oh three.”
“And who printed up a half million copies to warn the United States?”
“Henry Ford, inventor of the car.”
“And what does it say?”
“That Jews will lead a revolution, using blacks, Asians, and Hispanics, to overthrow the white man’s rightful control of the planet.”
“And what’s ZOG?”
“Zionist Occupational Government.”
“And ZOM?”
“Zionist Occupational Media. The schlammensch control everything.”
“Not everything. What don’t they control?”
“The white power inherent in white men. Fueled by white blood cells.” Hugo’s brow wrinkled. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t matter. Yell it until you believe it, and watch how others believe you. Trust me; there is no idea too stupid for people to embrace.”
So Hugo memorized the nonsense, lifted weights, juiced until he went up two shirt sizes, and armored his body with tattoos illustrating the story of white supremacy. Swastikas. Arrow crosses. AKIA in big letters across the back. Celtic crosses. Tyr runes. Confederate flags. Iron crosses. Life runes. Sonnerads. Othala runes. SS bolts. Death heads. Triskeles. 14/88. Eagles. Valknots. Burning crosses. Racial slurs in English, German, and Old Norse. Wolfsangel symbols. Dobermans. All done in black ink, covering arms, back, sides, and legs, complementing the centerpiece of it all, taking up the center of Hugo’s massive chest; a schlammensch hanging by a noose.
But no blue tears.
A CNW—Caucasian Nation Warrior—could only get tear tatts by killing in service of the group. They were specifically linked to specific enemies in a specific order. The more tears you had, the higher your rank in the CN. The maximum was eight.
Supposedly, the only one with all eight tears was the SC; the Supreme Caucasian.
“He’s a well-known member of the business community. A billionaire. He’s forced to cover up his tear tatts in public with make-up, to blend into society. But when the Great Race War begins, and all of the schlammensch are lined up to be killed or enslaved by the Caucasian Nation, he will reveal himself.”
“It’s just one guy, funding everything?”
“Not entirely. He runs everything, but he has powerful friends in government, business, and the media that help our cause.”
That confused Hugo. “I thought the government and media were controlled by Jews.”
“Your job is to listen, Hugo. Not to question. The SC is why we don’t have to sell drugs or do anything illegal to fund our organization. The money trickles down to us, and to all the clubs in all the prisons in the world.”
That didn’t make sense, either. Hugo had been a part of several drug deals that Whitman had conducted, and money was made. If the Supreme Caucasian was funding everything, why was the CN in Statesville still hustling?
As instructed, Hugo didn’t question it. This wasn’t about a belief system. It was about a way to achieve power.
“So if I got eight tears, I could be the Supreme Caucasian,” Hugo said.
Whitman nodded. “You, or me, or any white man with enough strong white blood cells in his veins can rule the world. You just have to kill the eight enemies of the Order. The acronym is Ri-La-Po-Ho-Zom-Zog-New-Blood.”
“Ri-La…” Hugo stumbled over the rest.
“Ri-La-Po-Ho-Zom-Zog-New-Blood. Ri is a rival gang leader. La is a lawyer. Po is police, a cop. Ho is a holy man, any denomination. Zom is someone in the Zionist Occupational Media. Zog is a politician.”
“And new?”
“The seventh tear is a hard one. Something that only the most dedicated race warriors have the strength to do.”
Hugo waited.
“A baby,” Whitman said. “You must kill a newborn.”
Hugo had no idea why that would be considered hard. It’s not like a child could fight back.
“So what’s the eighth? Blood?”
“A blood relative. Has to be immediate family. Mother, father, brother, sister, child. No cousins or aunts or any extended family shit.”
“I have a brother,” Hugo said, thinking of Phineas. “I dunno where he is, but I’ve been wanting to kill him since we were kids.”
“Hold off on it until you’re told. You have to go in order.”
That was too bad. It would be nice to feel Phin’s neck in his hands again. “How long do I have to wait?”
“See these?” Whitman pointed to his cheek. “Three tears. Took me twelve years to earn them.”
“I won’t wait that long.”
“That’s up to the SC.”
“Let me talk to him. I’ll convince him.”
Whitman grinned. “Keep at it, Hugo. Memorize the charter. Follow the rules. Wait to be called to duty. Your chance is coming soon.”
Hugo’s first call to duty happened a year later.
Tear #1
RI is for Rival
For all the talk of segregation and the coming Great Race War, Whitman seemed to pal around with the other gang leaders a lot, taking meetings with them, making deals, sometimes openly speaking to them in full view of the whole prison.
“We don’t want all-out war while we’re all stuck in here,” Whitman explained to Hugo. “Gotta be peace while we’re doing time.”
That made no sense. Either kill your enemies or don’t. Playing grab-ass with them just weakened the cause.
Hugo kept that thought to himself. And Whitman continued to act like an ambassador to the schlammensch instead of a proper leader. But apparently some line got crossed, because after a soured drug deal, Whitman ordered Hugo to eliminate Pedro, the head of the Puerto Rican gang.
Pedro was the biggest ‘Spanic Hugo had ever seen. Though a foot shorter, his biceps were almost as big as Hugo’s, and he could bench press five hundred pounds. Not only was he cut, but Pedro was a good-looking guy, with thick hair and sharp features. Whitman could rant on and on about the genetic superiority of the white race, but it would take about four seconds for Pedro to kick Whitman’s flabby, balding, inferior-in-all-ways white ass.
Hugo got his shot during yard time.
At precisely 1pm, Hugo had a thirty second window where the bulls would turn their heads. It was Pedro’s scheduled daily time at the bench press, and they’d set it up so Bruiser would miss a basketball pass, throwing the ball near the free weights. The plan was for Hugo to go after the ball, get into Pedro’s inner circle, and fight his way to Pedro for a quick shiv.
Hugo injured four ‘Spanics getting to Pedro, and then stabbed him thirteen times with a sharpened broom handle.
Pedro died en route to the prison infirmary.
No one saw anything.
And Hugo Troutt got his first blue tear in service to the Caucasian Nation.
Tear #2
LA is for Lawyer
Paroled after two years for good behavior, the CN set up Hugo in a trailer park in Decatur as a sleeper operative. He got a key to a post office box, and was ordered to stay put until he got orders. All of Hugo’s bills were paid for him, and he was given two hundred bucks a week for food and utilities.
It wasn’t enough to cover his steroids, let alone all the protein he needed to sustain his mass.
For extra cash, he took to robbing people at ATMs. All he needed was a ski mask, and hands that were big enough and strong enough to pop someone’s kidney, even if the person was obese and wore a winter jacket. Decatur was a large town of over seventy thousand people, and Hugo operated for months without getting caught.
Then the phone call came, with his activation code word. Omega.
As they’d previously arranged, Hugo went to his PO box and got a postcard with a handwritten note.
Raymond Forrester. 189 Maple Brook Lane, Decatur.
Hugo memorized the name and address, and as instructed, ate the post card.
On a hunch, he looked up ATTORNEY in the phone book and confirmed that Forrester was, indeed, a lawyer.
The next day Hugo broke into the lawyer’s house, and broke the lawyer’s neck.
The cops never noticed that the lock plate on the back door was brand new, replaced by Hugo after he kicked it off.
They also never questioned how the lawyer’s head had turned one-hundred and eighty degrees around from something as commonplace as falling down a flight of stairs.
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 61