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Race Wars Chapter 4

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  • Robert Sterling <robalini@aol.com>
    Please send as far and wide as possible. Thanks, Robert Sterling Editor, The Konformist http://www.konformist.com
    Message 1 of 1 , Mar 1, 2003
      Please send as far and wide as possible.

      Robert Sterling
      Editor, The Konformist


      Otto Crattick in Race Wars
      Stanley Gates

      CHAPTER 4

      Back at the White Supremacist compound in the Pacific Northwest,
      kinsmen gathered around a television set in a lounge in one of the
      wooden buildings. It was still the day after the raid of Duke's cell,
      and "Miller" and "Pierce" had traded in their dark hooded robes for
      neatly pressed Aryan Nations uniforms, complete with ties and criss-
      crossing shoulder belts. Being of average height and build and
      sporting thinning brown hair, Miller and Pierce both had the look and
      surface demeanor of mild-mannered accountants. They relaxed on a sofa
      and ate sandwiches as they watched Otto Crattick's taped interview on
      ZNN. "To you would-be disturbers of domestic tranquility," taunted
      Otto, "I just want you to know that we know who you are, and we are
      hunting you down . . ."

      As Miller and Pierce watched and listened to Otto with mild annoyance
      on their faces, other White Supremacists engaged in various
      activities in the lounge. Erik and Jan (pronounced "Yan"), two
      teenage Nazis, wore uniforms consisting of Brown shirts, narrow black
      ties and Nazi armbands as they exchanged trading cards featuring
      their favorite kinsmen activists. Two other White Supremacists, code-
      named "Slasher" and "Mad Dog," both in their twenties, sat quietly in
      a corner. They wore camouflage fatigues with Confederate flag patches
      on their right shoulders. Mad Dog quietly cleaned a bolt-action rifle
      while Slasher sharpened a large hunting knife. They were both rather
      nasty-looking and seemed capable of instantly killing anyone who
      happened to look at them the wrong way.

      Otto continued on the television screen: "And we shall prevail
      against you, because we represent good, and you represent evil. So
      repent your wicked ways, oh misguided ones, before it is too
      late! . . ."

      "What is this?" asked Miller as he swallowed a chunk of roast beef
      sandwich, "the FBI or the WWF?"

      "It's getting harder to tell the two of them apart," quipped Pierce.

      At that moment, The Liberator entered the lounge. He too had
      discarded his dark robe in favor of a brown shirt, thick black tie,
      green pants, and a Nazi armband. The Liberator stopped in front of
      the television set. "So what's playing on ZOG-vision today?" he asked.

      "I think you answered your own question, sir," said Miller.

      The Liberator examined Otto, and a sour expression appeared on his
      face. It was the kind of irritation that you experience when a
      seagull flies away with a hot dog you've been cooking for the last 10
      minutes. "Holy shit, that creep is annoying!" said The Liberator.

      "Sir," said Miller, "we think that may be the same ZOG who broke up
      Duke's cell the other night."

      "Really?" asked The Liberator. "Do we know that for sure?"

      "We don't know for sure yet, sir," said Miller, "but we haven't
      received word yet from Duke. We're not even sure if Duke was captured
      with the others."

      "What about Racer?"

      "Haven't heard from Racer either."

      "And the disk?"

      "We don't know if they have the disk, sir."


      "Sir, Duke is smart enough not to make direct contact with us so soon
      after a bust. He knows that we're probably being monitored."

      The Liberator turned to his subordinate. "You better be right,

      Just then, a Nazi-uniformed technician walked into the lounge and
      approached The Liberator. The technician wore earphones and carried
      some electronic detection equipment on his back. He handed The
      Liberator a clear plastic bag that appeared to contain some detected
      eavesdropping devices.

      "We have finished our sweep of the compound, sir," said the
      technician. "These are all the bugs that we found." The technician
      turned and left the lounge, leaving The Liberator with the bag full
      of bugs. The Liberator looked keenly at the bag.

      "I wonder how much the ZOGs know," said The Liberator.

      At that moment, Gaylord, The Liberator's "personal servant," walked
      into the lounge. He sported a brown shirt, a thin black tie, a Nazi
      armband with a soft lavender backdrop (instead of solid red), and a
      white apron with yellow flowers. Gaylord was in his early fifties and
      had thick, handsome white hair. He was immaculate, and he seemed to
      make no effort to hide flamboyant tendencies that, at least on the
      surface, seemed out of place in the company of men who were not known
      for their toleration. Gaylord held a tray with a drink as he
      approached The Liberator.

      "Here is your daiquiri, Libby," said Gaylord.

      The Liberator took a glass from the tray. "Thank you, Gaylord," said
      The Liberator. He drank his banana daiquiri in one gulp and placed
      the glass back on the tray. Gaylord then noticed Otto Crattick on the
      television screen.

      "Oh my," said Gaylord as he flicked his hand upon his chest, "is that
      the ZOG who got Luke?"

      "We still don't know if he got him," said The Liberator. Curiously,
      he spoke to Gaylord with less of a rough edge than he spoke with the
      others, and the others in the room were beginning to catch on to
      something unusual.

      "A very annoying little man," sighed Gaylord as he observed
      Otto, "and absolutely no taste in fashion at that. Oh, but I must
      say, his all-black suit does evoke a wonderfully mysterious sense of

      Across the room, Slasher and Mad Dog looked upon Gaylord with obvious
      disdain in their eyes. They seemed to put more gusto into their knife-
      sharpening and gun-cleaning chores as they glowered at this obviously
      unfit Aryan. Miller noticed their disgust. "Easy, boys," said
      Miller, "he's OK."

      Slasher and Mad Dog looked at Miller. They seemed to stop their
      chores for a second. Then, realizing that everything was "cool," they
      turned their attention back to their weapons.

      Meanwhile, Gaylord, a fashion designer by trade who was enjoying a
      long-overdue vacation in the Pacific Northwest, examined The
      Liberator's attire and shook his head gently in disapproval. "Oh my,
      Libby," said Gaylord, "your tie clashes with your trousers."

      "It does?" asked The Liberator.

      "Oh, indeed!" insisted Gaylord. "If you're going to wear a black tie
      with a brown shirt, then I would definitely suggest black or brown
      trousers. Never green, sir, it's faux pas."

      "Hmmm," said The Liberator.

      "Of course," continued Gaylord, "you could switch from a black tie to
      a brown tie that matches your shirt, then green trousers would
      compliment them perfectly. It captures the Marine Corps look, Libby."

      "Hmm," The Liberator muttered again.

      "The Versace catalogue has a wonderful selection, Libby. Oh, and may
      I also suggest experimenting with new armbands, sir? The solid red
      backdrop on the traditional Nazi armband draws far too much attention
      away from the handsome tailoring of our brown shirts. Pastels are
      more aesthetically pleasing, and they blend much better."

      "You don't say?" asked The Liberator, who seemed genuinely pleased
      with the suggestion.

      Pierce looked at Gaylord, then glanced sideways at Miller. Miller
      nudged Pierce, then said quietly, "Want in on a little secret?"
      Pierce moved his ear closer to Miller. "It's a virtual prerequisite
      for becoming a Nazi," said Miller as he darted his eyes toward
      Gaylord. "That's why I joined Aryan Nations."

      "Serious?" asked Pierce?


      At that moment, a young White Supremacist messenger, dressed in a
      brown shirt and Nazi armband, entered the room and approached The
      Liberator with a sense of purpose. He held a piece of paper in his
      hand and handed it to The Liberator.

      "Sir," said the messenger, "we just got this communiqué on the
      encrypted wire."

      The Liberator took the paper and read it. "'Blue Devil is safe and on
      target,'" said The Liberator with a happy gleam in his eye. "He made
      it! Yes!"

      Not wanting to lose the moment, The Liberator rushed back to his and
      Gaylord's private quarters and sat at his large oak desk. Resting on
      the oak desk was a small steel safe. The Liberator turned the secret
      combination, opened the safe, and pulled out a sealed envelope. He
      opened the sealed envelope and read his orders. His eyes seemed to
      glow with mild delight as he read each word carefully. "I never liked
      that greasy little mud-dog," he muttered quietly to himself. Quickly
      committing the orders to memory, The Liberator put the written orders
      into a paper shredder and then sent a short message through the
      secure encrypted wire to Duke Bleachburger's new cell in Los Angeles,
      with strict orders that the message was for Duke's eyes only.
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