By Shane Ivey, (c) 1998
“GET OFF THE STREET, YOU NAZI BASTARDS!”
The woman shouted it through a bullhorn so her words rang across the street, jarring even over the din of hundreds of other screaming protestors, over the shouted orders of mounted police officers, and over the haphazard cadence of the marching songs of the White Heritage Front, 18th Battalion (Stockton). The crowd lined the street, surging and angry while the WHF demonstration rolled slowly past. There were just over one hundred of them: each wore a black and tan uniform and each carried a red and black flag marked by a black symbol which did not quite look like a swastika. They were spread apart and they marched slowly, drawing out their exposure as long as they could manage. A half-full water bottle flew tumbling from the crowd and splashed the pavement near a marcher, an athletic young man with crewcut straw-colored hair. He turned to the source of the assault and saw two police officers riding in. He smiled and marched on.
An alley led into dingy shadows between two department stores off the main street and behind the angry mass of protestors and police. Pale light filtered into the alley only from a narrow strip of leaden sky visible between the black silhouettes of rooftops overhead. A man lay shivering in grime and filthy puddles, bruised and breathing roughly, wide-eyed as he looked up at two other men who stood over him.
“Time’s about up,” said one of them, an acne-scarred teenager wearing blue jeans and work boots and a leather jacket.
“You tired of running yet, Zionist?” The other asked, a shorter man about thirty years old. The resemblance between the two men was striking.
“I….” The man gasped and struggled feebly to rise. “I didn’t…”
“Save it, you snake,” said the younger man. He kicked the fallen man savagely.
The man seemed to find desperate new strength; he raised a fist and blocked the kick with a grunt of pain, then he scrambled up and punched the younger man’s groin. The teenager loosed an angry howl and folded, but the other struck him in the head, dazing him, then snarled and leaned in to strike again and again. Their victim fell again.
An amplified voice came echoing over the alley from the stage where the marching WHF gathered for their rally.
“How many more years of oppression will we tolerate?”
A switchblade snapped open in the hand of the wiry man.
“How long will our so-called government coddle the lazy and the weak? It is time to reward STRENGTH and UNITY!”
The teenager finally rose. He stared at the fallen man with unadulterated hate. “You fucking traitor kike-loving faggot,” he hissed. “You come in to learn what we’re all about? You want to tell the FB-fucking-I what the Heritage Front is really up to?”
“Let those who hunger for glory come forward,” said the voice from the platform. “Let those who would see us a nation of strength and stern resolve again come forth!”
The fallen man stirred. One eye was caked with blood. The other was narrow, darting from one man to the other.
The other man leaned closer, his knife prominent. “Sure,” he said, “they want to know all about it. Well, you’ll find out a little, snake. Maybe too much.”
“Let the world know that the time for strength is at hand!”
“Too bad for you, traitor,” said the man with the knife, “you’ll never take the truth home.”
The teenager began to chant.
The fallen man could not understand the words, but he felt cold. He sensed the darkness deepening, the shadows drawing together; he felt a growing tension of electricity and he smelled faint ozone. He moaned and leaned forward, began to rise again, and then the knife flashed and plunged into his chest. His open eye gaped, as if only now realizing what must happen.
“Let the world see the power that those with faith and strength can obtain!”
“Almost time,” whispered the weedy man. He leaned on the knife, driving his victim down gasping.
The chanting reached a higher pitch. The sense of electricity grew coherent. A shimmering form coalesced.
The man with the knife smiled broadly. A thread of saliva shone on his cracked lips. “Time’s up, fed.”
The teenager’s chant seemed to go silent; the angry cries of the crowd faded with the shouts of the speechmaker. In the ears of the fallen man ony the crackling of electricity and the sluggish pounding of blood could be heard. He realized with surprise that it was all over. He was dying.
Outside the alley men in suits walked the edge of the crowd, looking with growing concern for one who was not there.
“Let the world know! Our true masters are at hand!”
The shimmering form grew solid.
The dying man’s screams were lost in the jeers and hoots of the crowd.