The rolling hills glowed as the sun sank behind them, transformed the fields into molten gold. The sky red as a furnace; like blood above the soil. He stood outside the plantation house and watched his towheaded children play. Smoke rose from the fieldhouses beyond as the cooks prepared dinner for the field slaves just setting aside their tools for the day. Inside, his slender, blonde wife was cooking their family’s dinner—it smelled incredible. He smiled as he looked beyond the hills, at the skeletal remains of the city. How quiet everything was, how clean, now that the nation had been cleansed, its blood purified—
The blast of Karl’s alarm wrenched him back into his own body and reality with a violence that left him breathless. For a moment, he fought to remain in dreams, in fantasy, but the foghorn assault was merciless and at last he forced his bleary eyes open, reached over, and fumbled for the snooze button.
The wan morning sun streamed through the broken venetian blinds of Karl’s studio apartment and slashed pale razorblades across the Waffen SS poster, the Kekistan banner, the Confederate flag. His bookcase, full of Evola and Gentile and Schmitt. His computer, where he did what he thought of as his real work, at night.
But Karl’s “real work” did not pay the bills, and so when the alarm blared again five minutes later he yawned, stretched, and stumbled towards the shower. He would not be late. The White race, he told himself, was never late. The White race was punctual, and professional, and polished. He slicked back his lusterless blonde hair, he Windsor knotted his tie. He would be at his desk at Corpco’s HR department at 9:00 AM sharp, just as he always was.
But when he grabbed his coat to leave, something atop his dresser caught his eye. A small swastika lapel pin, gifted to him by a fan two weekends ago at a meetup. It was subtle, even tasteful, he thought. And he remembered the thing he’d written the night before, the thing that was going mildly viral on the forums he frequented. We must not allow our enemies to intimidate and silence us, he’d said. Most Americans are sympathetic with our cause, but afraid to stand up for what they know to be right. Those of us who see clearly must give others courage. Be visible. Be brave. Show them we are legion. Stand up for what is right.
Karl hesitated. The thought of putting on the pin made him feel slightly sick. What if he lost his job? What if that blue-haired bitch two cubicles down made a fuss? It will be a great thing to post about, if she does, he thought suddenly. These hypocrites, with their “free speech” this and “tolerance” that: where was his tolerance? Where were his liberal freedoms?! He would expose them. He would boost his engagement. His sacrifice could help advance the cause.
With sudden resolution, he seized the swastika, pinned it to his lapel, and swept out his own door into the outside world — the world that, by rights, belonged to his kind.
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