Nothing drives people harder than a fear of sudden death.
Adolf Hitler (1889–1945)
No one moved after the light turned green, not even the leather-clad motorcyclist poised to zoom away on his Ninja. Finally, somewhere around the two-minute mark, a black-and-white L.A.P.D. unit with “to protect and to serve” emblazoned on its doors rolled forward, cutting off one car after another. The bored cop behind the wheel knew he’d go unchallenged. No one wanted to hear “Can I see your license, please?” in the middle of gridlock, a common sight around Los Angeles—especially so near Christmas. Only seventeen shopping days left.
The choicest spot to be under such circumstances, as every L.A. driver knows, is right behind the creeping police cruiser. And on this day, fate had smiled upon an old van, a silver BMW Z3 coupe, and a “Buginators.com” pickup. They all managed to slip past the cross traffic along with the cop just before the signal flipped back to red. But none of them got very far, maybe a few yards, at most, thanks to the dense row of brake lights flashing for at least five blocks in every direction.
ReichMan resumed his course, shooting a quick glance back over his shoulder at the crowded scene. It was so amusing. From Copyrighted material 8 ABANES RICHARD & EVANGELINE the frustration on each face to the anger in every horn blast. He hated this holiday. To him it was nothing more than a profane season of hypocrisy and lies.
Goodwill toward men? Peace on earth? Never. Not as long as a single Jew still sucks breath. Vampires, one and all. Parasites. Leeches living off the lifeblood of hard-working Americans, stuffing their pockets with cash that rightfully belongs to others. Crooks. Liars. But you can’t fight ’em. They control the government. They make the laws. Filthy scum. Zionist Occupational Government. ZOG.
Like the others who’d been waiting for the signal to change, ReichMan was forced to detour around the cars clogging the crosswalk on Beverwil Drive. But this was a minor inconvenience. The oppressed righteous ones won’t have to suffer much longer, he assured himself as he weaved between the hoods and bumpers in his path.
As he reached the other side of the street, everything suddenly appeared more in focus than usual. Closer to his senses. Saturated by colors he’d never before noticed. The world had gained a disturbing measure of clarity…three dimensions had expanded to four, then five, then six. Reality, it seemed, was making a final appeal for mercy—a last plea for him to alter his course.
He continued his march along the cracked sidewalk, its inner edge slowly being overtaken by a narrow strip of shade—a lightless boundary inching outward from the buildings, ignored by everyone but him. It would take only a few hours, he estimated, for that band of darkness bordering the storefronts to transform the whole sunny neighborhood into a gloomy den of sin and misery.
ReichMan walked on, noticing the cracks and crevices in the cement beneath his feet. Old friends. He stared at them, head down, as he went along Pico Boulevard, amazed by the erratic patterns and distorted cuts. The streets were bringing back a lot of memories— all bad. His days and nights as a homeless teen. The heat. The boredom. The danger. Wandering back and forth from Santa Monica to Hollywood, hoping to scrounge up enough change to stay alive. And when begging was unsuccessful, there was always his reliable backup donor: the nearest restaurant dumpster.
An oily stain in the concrete unexpectedly grabbed his attention, stopping him in his tracks. It was shaped like an eagle. He liked eagles and recalled how, when he was eleven, he used to watch them soar and dive all afternoon from a rugged hillside around Bakersfield where he grew up. He wasn’t ReichMan back then. He was James Patrick Miller, a lonely little boy who had no idea why his mom and dad had abandoned him.
As ReichMan continued his trek, he couldn’t help but think back on his so-called childhood. He’d thought the ordeal would never end. The torture began when he was three years old, not long after his parents left. He was shuttled from one abusive foster home to the next, beginning with the Nelsons, who beat and demeaned him, ignored and confused him.
Stand up! Stop crying! Don’t you scream! Don’t you dare scream, you worthless piece of trash!
He spent most of his early youth miserable and alone. No brothers or sisters. So at fourteen years old, James Miller decided to make a break for what he hoped would be a better life. But he ended up on the streets—just another scared and hungry runaway. Vulnerable to everyone. That’s when he turned to hate for companionship. It was always there for him. Empowering him. Consoling him. Protecting him.
By seventeen he was living in a cardboard box propped up under a freeway overpass. That’s where a neo-Nazi recruiter found him. He took James in and accepted him. No questions asked. He made sure the boy had three meals a day, a warm place to sleep, and friends to hang out with. He also laid out a smorgasbord of scapegoats on which James’s hate could feast: Jews, blacks, foreigners— anyone who wasn’t like him. It was their fault that he was so miserable.
Finally, a couple of Klansmen who met James at a cross burning provided him with spirituality and self-esteem. They helped him understand that no matter what his enemies had done to him, no matter what they’d robbed him of, there were two things they could never do: steal his white pride and deny his white power.
“You are the product of a superior race,” his mentors taught him. “A race of rulers created by Almighty God. In your body flows the blood of royal ancestors.” The proof, they said, was clear enough. “Look at the greatest civilizations that have ever been! You have the Vikings. Then England. Then America. ALL WHITE!”
But James still felt like a loser. His gut kept telling him that his total worth was less than nothing. So he upped the ante by getting involved with Yahweh’s Army and dedicating himself wholly to its Revolutionary Battle Plan. He followed through with his vows so zealously that by twenty-six he’d served two jail terms and had an impressive record: carrying a firearm during an unlawful assembly, malicious destruction of property, obstructing an officer, resisting arrest, assault.
Eventually, the Nordic Brotherhood—an elite underground racist group—noticed ReichMan and asked him to join their ranks. He agreed, and once more followed up his vows with action, this time obtaining various badges of honor for more serious crimes: attempted robbery, robbery, battery, possession of illegal weapons.
ReichMan had finally become the kind of ruined human being that unfailingly elicits either a shake of the head or a shrug of the shoulders from members of “civilized” society. Neatly classified and stamped DEFECTIVE by the system’s quality control department, and written off as a lost cause. Oh, well. What are you going to do? Next case.
But after today, ReichMan would never again feel the pangs of insignificance and hopelessness. The world would forever view him differently. People would never again say his name as if they were talking about roadkill at the side of the highway. No one would ever again think of him as anything less than ReichMan, the brave soldier. ReichMan, the hero. ReichMan, the martyr.