ACROSS THE STREET AND ON THE CORNER AND OTHER FORBIDDEN RACIST TALES Obie A collection of short and highly offensive stories, though some are shorter and more highly offensive than others.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between persons depicted in this collection of short stories and persons living or dead or both is purely detrimental—I mean coincidental, or continental if you're Italian. These stories are products of my imagination. They should in no way be regarded either partly or collectively as a personal memoir written in code devised by John Cleese and David Irving late one night over drinks. Further, I deny everything. This book is offered to the public free of charge and shall forever remain free of charge. Anybody who publishes this book to make money will be cheerfully sued, but probably not by me, seeing as I'm chronically bereft in the cash department and can't afford a gun copyright lawyer. Not that anyone is interested in my personal problems. But anyway, if you wish to publish this work in full online or print copies to give to the innocent and the unsuspecting or crazed white supremacists like me, who are the cause of all the evil in the world and Venus once it's colonized, you have my permission, just as long as you do so for nix, which is a recognized legal term in Costa Rica. In closing, that's all, folks! Copyright © 2015 thechristianidentityforum.net
To Joycie of whom the world wasn't worthy
Table of Contents Across the Street and on the Corner *The Last White Superheroes *Frank and Ernst *Wrong Turn into Reality *The Secret Society of Women *A Storied Fairy *Everybody Run, the Invisible Man's Got a Gun! *A Big Price to Pagan *The White Racist Battle Royal *Uncover-Up *Satan's Waiting Room *These are tales I haven't quite got around to writing yet, but they sure sound good, don't they?
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ACROSS THE STREET AND ON THE CORNER It all began when Declan broke his foot on a white racist. He and his Marxist comrades were gathered outside a community hall, protesting a speech a visiting British fascist was to give there. One of them, Abroon, grabbed an old bitch by her pale spongy arm and told her that the Nazi she had come to see would rather people like him die than call Australia home. "Get your black hands off of her!" a hulking white bastard said. With a vicious wrench of former asylum seeker ear, the hulk set the old bitch free. Three extra-large members of DAR (Dykes Against Racism) objected to the shocking display of racist violence and gang-tackled him to the pavement, where all four of them wrestled like an orgy that had broken out at a Jenny Craig meet and greet. As Declan grinned broadly, somebody slammed into him from behind. He lurched onto the steps leading up to the hall entrance with an operatic roar of pain—not that he felt any, but why let a good lurch go to waste? After he had got himself perpendicular, he turned to see a heart-warming sight. His peace-loving comrades were punching, kicking, scratching, and gouging the bigotry out of the geriatric Nazis, who were stumbling over each other to get inside the hall. Abroon had a snow-white pensioner in a coal-black headlock. It served the silly old bugger right. He could have killed somebody with the walking stick he was clutching. At great risk to himself, Declan clobbered an elderly hater in the back of the head. The hater's hateful wife came at him with an irate look that would have surely flayed him alive had not a CFMEU rep decked her with a running clothesline. Declan noticed the hulk struggling to prize himself off the pavement. It was a miracle the bastard was still alive after the
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pachyderming he had copped. A big swift kick would ensure he stayed on the pavement. In his haste to do the deed, Declan tripped and his right foot wedged itself between the pavement and the hulk's blubbery back. This wouldn't have presented a problem if it hadn't been for his forward momentum, which, rather than wait for him to free his foot, insisted that he keep moving and snapped his ankle bone when he didn't. He reacted to the bomb-burst of pain as any man in touch with his feminine side would: he squealed like a baby and wet his trousers.
~~~ "There goes our skiing trip to New Zealand," Declan said. He was sitting on a gurney in a cubicle in the Alfred hospital, watching a nurse plaster his foot. Ruby, his Chinese girlfriend, was watching her too. She had watched some of the other nurses, a disconnected heart monitor, parts of the gurney's stainless steel frame, an eye chart, the ceiling lights, a rubber glove dispenser, and the room's beige walls, anyone and anything that gave her an excuse not to make eye contact with him. Meeting his gaze might suggest she still had some affection for him and she didn't want him getting his hopes up. "There goes your trip to New Zealand you mean. I'm still going." He gave her a bruised look. "Without me?" Her gaze fastened on a captivating box of sterile wipes. "What do you expect me to do? It might be the only opportunity I ever get to go there." "What am I supposed to do for the next two weeks then?" "Watch TV and smoke . . ." She mouthed weed. "I'll be back in a sec," the nurse said, then left the cubicle.
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Declan heaved a sigh stuffed with self-pity. "Some consolation," he said to Ruby. She checked her mobile phone for messages. "It's not all bad news. You'll have the whole house to yourself. Think of all that Jap porn you'll be able to jerk off to." "It's JAV, not Jap. Jap's racist." "You're racist for watching it. What's wrong with Chinese porn or even American porn? Why does it have to be Jap porn?" "Chinese porn? There's no such thing as Chinese porn. I wouldn't have to watch porn if you were a bit more accommodating in the boudoir." "You're sex mad, Declan. There's more to life than friggin' sex." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "Not much more," he said with a salacious leer that would have been right at home on a drunken stevedore. "Give it a rest," she said, wriggling free of him. His top lip vanished beneath his bottom one as he sulked like a 10-year-old boy over a confiscated PlayStation. She exited the cubicle. "I'm gonna get a coffee." He waited till she was out of earshot, then muttered, "Chink bitch." His inner race Discrimination Commissioner scolded him for the epithet. In six weeks, when the cast was removed, he would shop around for a new girlfriend, but not one made in China. He was done with Chinese girlfriends for the foreseeable future. Likewise, Indian and African girlfriends. It was time for him to try a different ethnicity. He would love to get his hands on a Japanese girl, but there weren't that many in Oz. Maybe he would hook up with an Arab or even a Mauritian if he could find one. How many guys had screwed a Mauritian? White girls were off his shopping list. He believed that an anti-racist ought to have a colored girlfriend, that way if she got pregnant, she wouldn't—she couldn't—give birth to a white kid.
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Whites had done enough damage to the world as it was without his adding to it by fathering more of them. What if he begot the next Hitler? How would that make him look? Not very good at all.
~~~ She got in the taxi after tendering him an insipid See you later. Not if I see you first, Declan wanted to say out loud. His crutches were propping him up in the door of the terrace house he and Ruby shared with three other Swinburne students—two guys and one girl—who were already in the taxi. It was important to him that he closed the door before she drove off. If he watched her drive away, it would make him look needy and he couldn't have that. He was the alpha male in this relationship, not her. Their looming break up would be her loss. Hers. He shuffled back a step and swung the door toward its frame with a furious sweep of his hand. He didn't shuffle far enough. The door smashed into one of the crutches, causing him to lose his balance. He saw his fall to the hallway floor as a series of three images. The first was of the leadlight above the door. The second was of the picture of the topless native woman standing waist-deep in a tropical lagoon, hanging on the wall. The third was of a brown water stain on the ceiling, in the spot where the cord with the naked light globe on the end of it dangled down. Sprawled on the floor, he grew aware of hurried footsteps. Somebody was making for the door. It had to be Ruby. She had seen him fall and the ensuing rush of alarm had reawakened her profound feelings of love for him, and now she was about to dash inside, take him in her slender arms, and tell him how very sorry and very wrong she was for having been such a damned bitch. He quickly sat up to greet his beloved China girl.
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The footsteps stopped outside the door, which was slightly ajar. Silence rang throughout the hall momentarily, then the door squeaked open a fraction. There was another brief hush. Then the door opened wider still. But it wasn't Ruby who crept through the opening. It was his neighbor's black labradoodle. It stopped and cocked its head at him curiously before issuing a woof that carried much too disapproving a tone for his ears. "PISS OFF, YA MONGREL!" The dog whipped into a panicked U-turn, its crossbred paws skidding along the hallway floorboards, and scrambled back whence it had come. Declan expelled a long breath that was a balance of disappointment and anger. Seeing no good reason to get up, he lay back on the floor and made the brown stain on the ceiling the center of his universe awhile.
~~~ He felt pretty good all things considered. He had made passionate love to himself while watching a busty JAV star get her grease and oil changed in high definition, then had taken a hot shower that had left a pleasant warm flush on his skin. Now he was kicking back on a moth-eaten but comfy chair in the living room, sipping a glass of cask wine and smoking a cigar that would give a Cuban a run for its money if a Cuban cost three bucks. It was a Thursday night and he was all alone in the house, as he would be for the next fortnight. He had no idea how he was going to spend that time, since his broken foot made him a shut-in for the duration. Getting around on crutches wasn't as easy as it looked. He had tried to clomp up the street and back but had only covered half the distance when exhaustion forced him to cut his journey
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short. Thanks to online grocery shopping he could stay home and still eat provided he didn't run out of money. He had already run out of weed. He was doing his last year of a bachelor of film and television course at Swinburne University. In two weeks he would commence his final term. Whether he graduated depended on the quality of the final assignment he handed in, which had to be a film or a documentary. He was going to make a doco, but none of the ideas he had come up with thus far gave him frisson. They weren't bad ideas. Some he could parlay into perfectly fine documentaries. But perfectly fine wouldn't magnetize millions of bums to cinema seats and see the major Hollywood studios begging him to make movies for them. Whizzing around in his neurons somewhere was the high concept he was after. All he had to do was find a way for it to stop whizzing long enough for his subconscious to pass it on to his conscious mind. This often happened when he was otherwise occupied. Playing first-person shooter video games was a semireliable means of getting his subconscious to cough up the goods, but he wasn't in the mood and didn't have the focus right now to strafe mutants and zombies into bloody offal with gargantuan firearms. Ironically some of his best ideas came to him when he was trolling online racist forums. Reading the insane rants about Jews and third-world immigrants that were posted on them was always good for a laugh. National Imperium was his favorite. It was the go-to online forum for most white racist retards. He drained the shallow, crimson pool at the bottom of his wineglass, then labored to his feet. The plaster cast had a metal heel in it that enabled him to get around without his crutches for short distances. He hobbled over to the house's communal Apple Mac. Thirty seconds after firing it up, he was wandering through
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Retard Central's most popular hangout, the general discussion section. Near the top of the page was a thread guaranteed to brighten his night: 100 Good Reasons to Hate Jews. The first post enumerated all one hundred. Coming in at number one was Jews created world Communism, which is responsible for the deaths of over 100 million white people. Oh boy!
~~~ He had got to the fifty-eighth good reason to hate Jews when the pungent waft of his cigar, which he had left in an ashtray by the comfy chair, enticed him away from the computer. He stood looking out the front window, drawing the cigar's flavorsome smoke into his lungs. The house sat on a bluestone foundation several feet above street level. Even from the ground floor, it provided a good view of the street outside. Plumes of vapor spewed from the tailpipes of passing cars as hot-tempered exhaust fumes clashed with the sullen winter air. The cars were a pain in the ass. They droned, belched, growled, sputtered, and whooshed along the overburdened thoroughfare morning, noon, and night. Only earplugs could spare his ears from the cacophony. After he had moved into the house, it took him a full school term to get used to the incessant racket and just as long to get a decent night's sleep. If he had the money, he would replace all the windowpanes with double-glazed glass. Although if he could afford to do that, he could afford to live elsewhere and would. An old woman shuffled into view. She was wearing a gray raincoat and pushing a green shopping jeep. Crazy. Shopping so late on such a cold night, she had to be. Declan tracked her with his
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gaze until she shuffled past something that offered him a more intriguing sight. More intriguing and just plain weird. Across the street and on the corner stood an old orange brick church. He must have walked by it a hundred times but had never taken much notice of it and didn't even know what denomination it represented. What had caught his eye was the white cross atop the church. A full moon's ghostly luminescence had ignited every bead of moisture on the cross with what looked like St. Elmo's fire. If he wasn't an atheist he might have believed that God herself had shone a heavenly light upon it to guide him onto the path of righteousness. As he gazed at the cross, he felt a vague stirring in his brain. It was the high concept he had been waiting for, letting him know that the process of mental crystallization, which would put it in sharp focus, with every detail clearly visible, had begun. Even now, he could tell that the idea related to something he had read in that long list of anti-Semitic grievances. Unable to wait till it was fully formed in his mind, he hobbled back to the Mac and plopped in front of the monitor. The list still filled the browser. He started at the top of it and slowly scrolled his way down, reading each good reason to hate Jews so he didn't miss the jackpot-winning reason. He found it at number thirty-nine. Jews spit whenever they pass a Christian church. That was his high concept right there. He would disprove this vile canard by filming Jews walking past the church. If they didn't spit—and of course they wouldn't—it would mean that number thirty-nine was really number two. This simple but ingenious busting of a racist myth would score him huge points with both the film community and the general public, who daily were becoming more educated and, as a result, more concerned about the global warming-level danger posed by white supremacism. But why stop at busting just one racist myth?
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He couldn't tackle all one hundred of them in detail. He would have to make a whole series of documentaries to do that. However, he could cherry pick the standouts. His doco was getting better by the second. He leaned back in the desk chair he was sitting in with a breathtakingly obnoxious grin. He felt like Francis Ford Coppola must have when the director first watched the finished cut of The Godfather. He knew he had an Oscar-winning hit on his hands. He knew it even though he hadn't written a single word of the script or shot a single frame of footage. He knew it because the Jews who ran Hollywood (a fact they didn't dispute) would be only too happy to get behind somebody who had made a documentary showing them in the best light and their stone axe-swinging detractors in the worst. He already had the title for his box office smash, 100 Reasons. He closed his eyes and pictured himself playing a game of nude water polo with some top-heavy starlets, Japanese naturally, in the resort-sized swimming pool of a Hollywood Hills mansion— his Hollywood Hills mansion. The scene made his belt buckle tremble. He had taken a solemn oath never to let his Marxism cramp his hedonism. Chairman Mao was a Marxist, yet lived in a palace and got to spelunk a different contestant in the world's largest beauty pageant every night, so why couldn't he? He returned to the comfy chair and celebrated his impending good fortune with another glass of Safeway's choicest drop. Tomorrow night was the beginning of the Sabbath. Caulfield, the suburb where he lived, had a large Orthodox Jewish community, the adult males of which would be out in force, and he and his broadcast-quality video camera would be watching them as they walked past the orange brick church.
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~~~ The best view of the church was from his bedroom window, on the first-floor. He had shot some test footage from the living-room, but the traffic, especially four-wheel drives and trucks, gave the camera only an intermittent view of the footpath in front of the church. His bedroom window wasn't problem free either. The camera was picking up a distracting reflection in it from a streetlight. He was going to have to open it. Terrific. The temperature was supposed to drop to a knacker-freezing three degrees overnight. He slid into a parka he had bought for the ski trip and pulled a beanie down over his ears, then hoisted the window just high enough to get the glass out of the camera's way. The Sabbath, Shabbat in Hebrew, commenced around sunset, though the Jews didn't appear in noticeable numbers until around 8pm. He wasn't a racist but they were hard to tell apart. With their black hats, black suits, and black beards, they looked as though they were all going trick or treating in the same Halloween costume. After about five minutes he heard laughter. Two Orthodox Jews strolled past the house. One was giving the other a thumb up as if to say, "That was some zinger." They were on the wrong side of the street but, not to worry, others would be along soon. He had seen Jews out as late as midnight on a Friday. Presently he spotted a Jew standing at a pedestrian crossing on the corner on the far side of the street that ran beside the church, waiting for the go ahead from a walk light. Unless the Jew hung a left or a right when he got to the other side, centuries of racist slander were about to be blown to smithereens. Declan pressed RECORD.
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The Jew stepped onto the crossing. He had taken maybe three steps when he stopped dead and looked back the way he had come as though uncertain he was walking in the right direction. "Come on, Jew boy," Declan whispered. Jew boy was technically racist, but he had his future career as a filthy rich playboy auteur riding on this, so anything he said, he said under duress, and anything he said under duress could not be regarded as genuinely racist. The Jew turned and headed in the wrong direction, eliciting an irritated growl from Declan, but then changed his mind and scurried toward the church side of the crossing. He had to get a wriggle on because, while he had been vacillating, the walk lights had turned red and cars were starting to motor through the intersection. He reached the safety of the footpath and slowed to a walk. Two more steps and he would be directly in front of the church. "That's it," Declan said. "That's the way." The Jew hit the sweet spot and pulled up. Declan gasped, Oh no! but gasped too soon. The Jew had only stopped to take a call on his mobile phone. For the next several minutes he stood there gasbagging with whoever was on the other end of the microwaves. When he was done he walked off, having canceled any plans he may have made to expectorate a satanic loogie. "Weren't you a waste of time?" Declan said. He knew he wouldn't be able to use the footage. It was too long. He would have to edit it to maintain the audience's interest, and that might tell them—the racists for sure—that he had cut out the moment when the Jew had acted in strict accordance with anti-Semitic BS. Three Jews were the next to approach the church. They were having a recondite discussion. One of them was pounding his palm with his fist to stress a point he was making, while the others gazed at him intently, weighing his words. They couldn't have been less
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interested in the place of Christian worship if they had been Richard Dawkins running late for a Broadway revival of Inherit the Wind. Declan would include them in the documentary. They were proving the point of the exercise, after all, but they were a bit too preoccupied to prove it beyond any doubt. The documentary's racist critics would argue that they would have spat great globs on the orange bricks if they hadn't been busy plotting the end of the Aryan race at the time. What he needed was Jews with no distractions. Jews who could spit with abandon. The next Jew was just what the doco ordered. He was alone and his mobile phone, if he had one, wasn't ringing. He glanced up at the cross as he neared the church's front entrance but kept walking. "This is perfect," Declan said. "Keep going, mate. Keep—" All of a sudden the Jew stopped and gave the cross a longer look. He scanned for onlookers, then jerked his head back as if about to fire off a sneeze and, holding his hand at a right angle to the corner of his mouth so passing motorists couldn't see what he was about to do, spat on the church steps. Declan looked up from the camera, stunned. "You are kidding me." The Jew continued on, with an unmistakable swagger in his step. Declan couldn't believe what he had seen, but had he really seen it? The Jew had been facing away from the camera, which opened the door to the possibility that he had misinterpreted the Jew's body language. Maybe the Jew had coughed or burped instead. Or maybe he did spit but only because he had to. Maybe a bug had flown into his mouth and he just happened to be standing in front of the church when he jettisoned it. Declan rewound the footage and watched it over and over again. He slow-mowed it and examined it frame by frame, forward and in reverse, anxious to find something that would lead him to a different conclusion, but his initial one was adamant. Despite the
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imperfect viewing angle, the Jew really did look like he was leaving some kosher DNA on the church steps. Declan staggered back from the camera, as if somebody had sunk a knife deep in his gut. If Jews did spit on churches, that meant the white supremacists were right, at least about one thing, but what if they were right about other things? What if most or all of the 100 good reasons to hate Jews were reasons wedded to truth with no hope of divorce? How would his anti-racism cope with that painful inversion of reality? He could deny everything of course. He wasn't so liberal—liberal in the American sense—that he would be unaware he was denying reality. He knew what was real and what wasn't. (He was a Marxist, not a Seventh-day Adventist.) But if reality wasn't to his liking, why not deny it till a better one came along? He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn't even sure yet, pretty sure but not day-follows-night sure, whether the Jew had spat on the church steps. But even if the Jew had, he was only one Jew out of millions of Jews, and one Jew does not an anti-Semitic canard make. Declan returned to the camera. Soon a tall thin Jew and a short fat Jew came chitchatting their way toward the church. As they passed the entrance, the tall Jew spat up at the cross with the deftness of somebody who had done it enough times for it to become second nature, then went back to chitchatting, without missing a beat. Declan noted that the short Jew didn't respond to the desecration, which told him it was an act as common among Jews as spit. Although he couldn't deny he had seen one Jew—okay, two Jews—knowingly and wilfully spit on a church, statistically speaking, he had seen none spit. But assuming for a second that he did witness what his 20/20 vision and his broadcast-quality video camera both swore he had, it still didn't add up to a smoking gun
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that would prove indisputably that there was a conspiracy by Jews for Jews to spit on, at, or in a church. Another pair of Jews walked toward the church, a father and prepubescent son combo this time. Upon reaching the edge of the church property, the father whispered something to the boy. Then, when they passed the entrance, the boy launched a spinning wad of slag that splat against an All Welcome sign out front, earning him a hearty pat on the back from dad. Declan didn't have a smoking gun now. He had a howitzer with flames lashing from the barrel. A surge of anger and frustration made him paint the room with colorful language. Once he had finished redecorating, he switched the camera off, closed the window, and sat numbly on the edge of his bed. How could the Jews do this to him? They had taken a huge, steaming dump on his world view and the greatest idea for a proSemitic documentary ever. Just like they took a huge, steaming dump on everything. He had to put some sanity-saving perspective on this before he shaved his head and began barking obscenities at Muslim women on public transport. "What if . . . ?" he started to say with a cogitating drawl. He didn't have the words to complete the sentence but hoped the first two would spark an idea that would save his documentary and restore his anti-white pride. "What if . . . ? What if I proved . . . ? What if I proved that Jews had every right to spit on churches because . . . because . . . because . . . ?" Suddenly his face flashed like sunlight off a mirror. "Because they've been persecuted by Christians for thousands of years!" Hallelujah! His sanity had been saved! He would turn the church spitting into a major positive, into an act not of surreptitious evil but of life-affirming defiance, of bona fide heroism, like Rosa
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Parks refusing to ride at the back of the bus, or the gays who stood up to the cops in the Stonewall riots. Muttiah Muralitharan couldn't have put a better spin on it. When he was done, the Jews wouldn't just be God's chosen people, they would be everybody's chosen people. And they would owe it all to him, Declan Llewellyn Sweeney.
~~~ He had decided to film spitting Jews from the church grounds, which would provide a much better viewing angle than his bedroom window and thus leave no doubt in the audience's mind about what they were doing. Lugging his video camera and himself across the street had been a trial. He couldn't carry the camera and use crutches at the same time, so the crutches had to go. Unfortunately his balance and ability to move faster than a tectonic plate went with them. It had taken him the better part of a minute to cross the street without falling on his ass or stumbling into the path of traffic that saw no need to let a guy in a plaster cast reach the other side with the rest of his bones unbroken. His plan was to film as many Jews spitting at the church as he could. Then he would interview other Jews on camera about why they and their brethren had so much contempt for Christianity and its symbols, but not before he had told them off camera what the nature of the documentary was. He didn't want them to think he was an anti-Semite trying to ambush them. He hadn't met many Jews in the past, but those he had seemed polite and unassuming, a far cry from how the online Nazis portrayed them. Funny about that. He was positive that once they knew why he was making the documentary they would be only too happy to cooperate with him.
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For almost two hours he filmed spitting Jews from behind a transformer box at the front and to the side of the church. A large shrub covering the box concealed him. He had lost count of how many Jews he had shot—in a manner of speaking. They just kept on coming and kept on spitting. How could they not spit at the symbol of a religion that had instigated the deaths of millions of their people? They had every right to spit at the church, the preacher, the congregation, the chorus leader, the organist, the tithe and offering bag, the Sunday school prize night, and the fundraising barbeque. He stopped filming at 11pm. He could have filmed more Jews but knew their numbers would drop considerably come midnight, and he had some interviewing to do in the meantime. The air had been mercifully still when he had started filming but was now being pushed around by a bullying breeze that was making the already freezing temperature feel heaps colder. How he wished he was in his nice warm bed, snuggling up to a JAV porn queen whose brains he had just bonked out. Hey, gorgeous, what's Japanese for "Baby, you're dynamite"? He stepped onto the footpath in front of the church, looked to his left for interviewees, looked to his right and jolted. Standing no more than three feet from him was the old bag in the gray raincoat he had seen last night. Where the hell did she come from? She was gazing at him with that squeaking-rocking-chair-in-an-empty-room look that demented seniors had made all their own. "You don't wanna go rilin' the serpent seed on a night like tonight, laddie," she said in a dense Scottish brogue. "Not without the Lord Jesus by ye side." "There is no Jesus, lady." And if there was, he'd throw you in the nuthouse, where you belong. Her eyes chortled and her pasty wrinkled face got an instant French polish. "You'll be calling upon Him before too long," she
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said, then shuffled away in her gray raincoat, pushing her green shopping jeep. Declan shook his head. Stupid old bitch. Now that the friendly neighbourhood paranoid schizophrenic had hit the road, he could resume his search for Jews. He soon saw one heading his way. This Jew was a 30-something with a smile engulfing his face. Declan had this interview in the bag. "Hi, how's it goin'?" he said with a nod. The Jew halted. "Very well, thank you. How are you?" "Doing just great. Look, I'm making a documentary on antiSemitism, and I've been filming Jews spitting on the church here." An ominous frown kicked the smile off the Jew's face. "Jews don't spit on churches," he said in a low grave voice. "We're a God-fearing people." It occurred to Declan that he could have gone with a more diplomatic opener. "Of course, everybody knows that," he said. "Except neo-Nazis," he added with a contrived chuckle. "But I caught—I mean I got some of you guys on film, spitting in the, um, church's vicinity and—" "Jews don't spit on churches." "I know but, um, well, you see, I'm in my last year of the Swinburne film and television course, and I'm also an anti-racist. I fight Nazis. No, really, I do. Anyway, for my final solution—I mean final project—I'm making a doco, a documentary, about antiSemitism. It's going to show what a load of BS canards are. AntiSemitic ones, I mean. So I came here to the church with my video camera to prove that Jewish people don't spit on churches like the neo-Nazis reckon you do. But then I learned that Jewish people— some Jewish people—do spit on churches, but with very good reason. I mean everybody knows that the Christian church has persecuted—"
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"Jews don't spit on churches," the Jew said once more, his frown growing more ominous. Declan smiled nervously. "You're right, Jews don't spit on churches. I mean that's absolutely ridiculous. But on the off-chance that they did, you know, just hypothetically, then—" He cut himself off before the Jew did. It was hopeless. The hole he was digging for himself had pierced the earth's mantle. He glanced across the street and saw the terrace house. "That's where I live," he said, pointing to it, eager to let the current topic sink without a trace in a bubbling pool of magma. "I've lived in Caulfield for two years, among lots of Jewish people. You know, I've really grown to like you guys—not that I ever disliked you guys. I mean I can't, I'm an anti-racist." He gave another contrived chuckle. The frowning Jew looked at a pair of Jews who were standing about twenty meters away eying Declan with the intensity of Gestapo agents surveiling a member of the French Resistance. "Um . . . anyway, when I saw this list of lies about . . ." Declan paused as the frowning Jew marched over to the Gestapo Jews, then picked up where he left off, his voice having shrunk to a cringing mumble. "Jewish people on a racist forum, I had to do something about it." Whatever the frowning Jew proceeded to say about him to the Gestapo Jews wasn't flattering. He could tell by the way the frowning Jew kept poking the air in his direction as if spitefully popping a bunch of kid's party balloons. A freefalling sensation in his gut urged him to get the hell out of there, but he was worried that if he took its advice they might think he bathed with Jew-scented soap. Three other Jews joined the frowning Jew and the Gestapo Jews. It was as if the frowning Jew had set off a distress beacon that had alerted the other Orthodox Jews in the area that a dangerous anti-
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Semite was prowling Caulfield's streets and had to be taken down asap. BANG! A backfiring VW kombi van made the Jews flinch, pulling their attention off Declan for a moment. With his unease spinning into the red, he hobbled a few hurried steps down to the corner and hung a spastic left into the street parallel to the side of the church. This took him away from the terrace house. The madness of what he was doing wasn't lost on him, but he had made the catastrophic mistake of revealing where he lived and the only way to correct it was to flee in the opposite direction so the frowning Jew would think he had lied. It wasn't a foolproof plan, but what plan formulated in a gout of panic was? He was banking on their not following him. Chasing a young man in a plaster cast down a busy suburban street late at night would not become them. Besides, if they beat the crap out of him, they would have a ton of explaining to do. That said, they only had to scream, "Nazi," and all their sins would be forgiven them. He and some Marxist friends left a member of a white skinhead gang lying in a Fitzroy gutter with a broken jaw and a couple of cracked ribs one night. When the cops arrested them, he claimed that the guy was a Nazi who had threatened to launch a one-man jihad on Melbourne's Jewish community. The cops didn't buy it, racist assholes, but the judge did. His Worship let them off on a good behavior bond. Bless his Jewish heart. Declan staggered into a lane behind the church. He doubled over and sucked some raspy breaths into his stinging throat. He was buggered, buggered. If the Jews came for him now, they would catch him, catch him and commit any one of a number of rumored atrocities upon his person. Biting off a guy's foreskin and possibly more with their teeth was one of their favorites. Or so he had read
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on National Imperium. He looked down at his pride and joy and whispered, "Don't worry, I won't let them take us alive." He heard voices. He stuck his head out of the lane to see eight Jews, the frowning Jew and the Gestapo Jews included, gathered at the corner, scoping for him. He yanked it back in a blazing rush when the frowning Jew looked his way. Maybe he didn't see you. Maybe he didn't see you. Maybe he didn't see you. But the frowning Jew had seen him, for he heard loudening voices and the tramp of black Florsheims. His eyes swept the lane for a place to hide. There was a garage a couple of doors down set back about four feet from the edge of the lane. He could duck behind a short length of fence running from the lane to the garage. I'll be safe and hid from the yids. He limped down to the fence and pressed himself hard and flat against the narrow line of palings. Pain tore at his body. He shut his mouth tight and breathed through his nose lest the specters of vapor jetting out of it give his position away to the advancing Jews, who were close enough now for him to make out what they were saying. "He's nicked off," one of them said. "Where'd you say he lived?" another said. "He's gone down here," the frowning Jew said. Judging by the clarity and volume of his voice, he was standing in the entrance to the lane. Declan squeezed his eyes shut and canceled his next breath. There followed the kind of unbearable pause that marks the temporal distance between a crashing heartbeat and a gunshot. Then one of the Gestapo Jews said, "I can't see him. Let's go." Declan eased one eye open, then the other, and gave himself permission to breathe. Suddenly he felt something on his left arm
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and looked down to see an enormous huntsman spider scuttling up it. The gang of Jews was about to head back to the corner, when Declan burst screaming out of his hiding place, jerking and hopping like a punk rocker at a hoedown. "Get off me!" Get off me!" he said, slapping at the spider, which dropped to the cobblestones. He pounded it into a squirming gray squish with the heel of his plastered foot. "Go! To! Spider! Hell!" He sensed eight pairs of eyes crawling over him, as if they were the spider's kin looking for payback, and turned slowly toward the lane entrance. A black biomass with eight more legs than a huntsman but as jarringly creepy stood there glaring at him. He yelped in horror and rushed toward the far end of the lane, dragging his plastered foot like a wheeled luggage carrier that had lost both wheels. About halfway down the lane, he glanced back. The Jews were coming for him, but they were in no hurry. They didn't need to be. He had a broken foot and they knew where he lived. You effing idiot! Pain was singing baritone in his foot but would be singing soprano in short order if he didn't stop bashing it on the cobblestones. Having to get it reset again would mean having to spend another six weeks as a semi-cripple, though anything would be better than letting the creepy-crawly kikes get him. Anti-Semitism is a disease. You catch it from Jews. He had read that on National Imperium. Had he caught a dose? Was he destined to be punched, kicked, and sprayed with piss by his Marxist comrades at the next racist rally? Please don't let it be Abroon's piss! He cast that inexcusable thought from his mind the second he had it. There was nothing wrong with a black man's piss. We all piss yellow.
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He stumbled out of the far end of the lane, gagging and wheezing. He felt the urge to throw up but would have to stop to do that and he wasn't stopping for anyone or anything. His left foot was all out of rush, and his right foot was all out of drag, so he was reduced to shambling like an arthritic geezer struggling to make it to an outhouse in time. The street where he lived was just thirty meters away. He was reasonably confident he could make it that far before the Devil-worshiping Jews descended on him and cut his beating heart out with a ceremonial blade. Get a grip, Declan. No, you get a grip. Jews were on his tail. He had a right to be irrational. Irrationality is a disease. You catch it from Sigmund Freud brandishing a gold-plated dildo shaped like his mother. The Sony was getting stupendously heavy. What had been a video camera when he had taken flight from the Jews was now an oil drum filled with sand. If he dropped it he could forget all about the mansion in the Hollywood Hills and the bevy of amplebosomed Japanese nymphs waiting in line to rub starch on his loins, because he didn't have the money to buy another. His legs rattled to a stop as he reached the street. They refused point-blank to cover the two-hundred or so meters that lay between him and the terrace house. The Jews emerged from the lane. One of the Gestapo Jews clapped eyes on him and pointed him out to the others. "Don't you dare move!" the frowning Jew said. They all began to stalk toward him. Declan took a couple of grinding steps that sent shudders of pain through his body. He might have re-broken his foot. He knew he couldn't put any more pressure on it without writhing in torment on the footpath.
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His eyes darted feverishly about for something that might rescue him from the Caulfield Crips. They darted and they darted and they darted and they— A wheelchair! There was a folded-up wheelchair leaning against a pile of hard rubbish by the curb outside a block of flats. It was just five meters away. He could do five meters, maybe. Grimacing in agony, he dragged himself over to it, unfolded it in a mad hurry, and dropped his backside on its dusty, grimy seat. He didn't know if it even worked. He placed his palms on the hand rims and pushed with all of his might and main. It rolled forward and it rolled smoothly. "Yes!" he said. "YES!" He gave the rims another full-on push and he was off. A providential decline in the street made it a downhill ride all the way home. You beauty! He glanced back at the Jews. The brisk trot at which they had entered the street had become a full gallop. He sat low in the wheelchair, keeping his head down, to make himself more aerodynamic. His hands scooted along the rims, thrusting the wheelchair forward faster and faster, too fast for the galloping Jews to keep up. He threw them a cocky look. "Adolf called and he left you a message!" His middle finger rose high in the air and twisted. Declan didn't care that he had dashed across the border, deep into racist territory. After all, the Jews had chased him there. What did they expect, to hunt down a helpless cripple so they could saw off his trouser lumber with their teeth and not turn him antiSemitic? Ridiculous! With the revitalizing wind sweeping over him, the pedestrian crossing near the terrace house mere seconds away, and the filthy rotten kikes a distant, blundering stumble, he unleashed a triumphant "Yeeeeeeeehahhhh!" Racism was so liberating.
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It dawned on him that the wheelchair was moving too fast by half. If he didn't slow it down, it would overshoot the crossing and he would wind up as a hood ornament on some traumatized driver's car. He searched desperately for the brakes. What brakes? JOBBIES! Three Orthodox Jews came running out of the street next to the church. One of them motioned to him and yelled something to the others. Then all three raced to intercept him. Declan screamed and leaned hard against the right side of the wheelchair, trying to force it to turn toward the crossing. He leaned too hard, so hard that the wheelchair tilted onto its right wheel. Balanced like a one-legged tightrope walker in a gale, left wheel spinning uselessly in the air, it charged onto the crossing and careered through an obstacle course of screeching, swerving, honking cars. Declan narrated with a roar of horror. The left wheel smacked the bitumen percussively, causing the wheelchair to veer off the crossing and into a curb. Ejected by the impact, he tumbled across a footpath and was brought to a sudden, bruising stop by the sandstone footing of a wrought iron picket fence. He lay on the footpath in a year-long stupor that lasted just a few seconds. Gathering as much of himself as he could, he looked over at the pedestrian crossing. The three Jews were standing on the other side, raring to bolt after him the instant the walk sign turned green. The gang of eight Jews joined them. Declan's hands clambered up a fence picket to stop himself from collapsing as he fought to stand. "Help me, Lord Jesus," he said. "Help me." Home was only a bus-length away, but making it that far without the Jews sinking their fangs in him and his best friend, Willy, was going to be a big ask.
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He staggered toward the terrace house with agonizing slowness. Every step made him wince and nagged him to forsake his impossible dream of making it there unbitten. The lights changed and the eleven Jews stampeded onto the crossing. Declan shoved himself forward. The sudden burst of movement was too much for his feet to cope with, and the footpath flung itself at his face. He threw his hands out in front of him to stop its rapid ascent. "Get him!" he heard one of the Jews say. They were almost upon him. Too weak and sore to stand, he stuck his bum in the air and scrambled to and then through his front gate on all fours. He seized the knob on his front door, which he used to pull himself upright, then looked over his shoulder and saw several black hats bobbing along the street side of next door's picket fence. He fished frantically for his keys, found them, nearly dropped them, fumbled to put the right key in the lock with his sweat-slick hands. It slid in place just as the Jews appeared at the gate. "Jesus, help! Jesus!" he said, thrusting the door open. He lurched inside and slammed it shut behind him. With an orgasmic groan of relief, he fell back against it and slid all the way to the floor, where he sat remembering the crazy old woman's prophetic words: You'll be calling upon Him before too long. He expected the Jews to pound on the door at any second, demanding he let them in. Open up in the name of the Holocaust! He listened for them storming up the garden path but heard no storming, only the peeping and muttering of hirsute sons of Satan, The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion on their pernicious minds. Exhaustion and nausea had deadened the anxiety that should have been overwhelming his mind. All he wanted was to grab his video camera, trudge up the stairs to his room, and flake out in bed.
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He would worry about the Jews and their evil plans for him in the morning. Now, where did he put his video camera? He had it in his hand when he came in. No. Come to think of it, he didn't. Both of his hands were free when he opened the front door, and they were free when he crawled from the footpath to the door. He had it with him in the wheelchair. He remembered putting it on his lap so he could work the hand rims. It must have flown off when the wheelchair slammed into the curb. What was he going to do? He couldn't go out to get it, not with the apple of God's eye waiting to fall on him. It was probably a lost cause, anyway. If it wasn't lying in pieces on the footpath, Granny Smithowitz had it in her horrid clutches. Declan hefted himself sobbingly to his feet and plodded up the stairs. He imagined each step was the head of one of the white kids who had picked on him in high school. Mark Lewis, Graeme Anderson, David Locke, and more all got their craniums splooshed under the merciless aluminium heel of his plaster cast. Pick on me for being a scrawny pimply-faced nerd, will ya? SPLOOOOOSH!
~~~ He woke late in the morning, when the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window settled on his twitching eyelids. He lay there for some minutes, debating whether to get up or not. If the kikes—the Jews—had spread the word about the new neo-Nazi on the block, he would be better off staying in bed, forever. But if the events of last night had been grossly exaggerated by a mind inflamed with pain and panic, there could be a chance that much of what had happened didn't, and that he wasn't on the Jews' most wanted list. The only way to find out was to go about his usual business. If no Jew came between him and it, his dream of bobbing
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for Japanese melons in an Olympic-sized swimming pool of his very own wasn't dead. He sat up. He felt unusually chipper for somebody who had been through the ordeal he had. His head was clear and his body had lost all of the pain that had brutalized it just hours before. He stood. Not a single complaint issued from his broken foot. His throat, however, complained of dryness and a raging thirst. After he had rehydrated and had checked the plumbing, he took a long, bathroom-misting shower. He then clomped downstairs to face the day or what was left of it. Making his way along the entrance hall, to the living room, he noticed that the narrow gap beneath the front door was partially blocked. Something was on the landing. If that's next door's nosy labradoodle, I'll kick its curly ass. He swept the door open to give the mutt the fright of his life and got the surprise of his. There at his feet lay his video camera. In one piece. He combed the street with a heaping helping of paranoia, then brought the camera inside and inspected it for damage. Apart from a scuff mark on the handgrip, it looked fine. He filmed two seconds of footage and watched it on the camera's tiny screen. No problem there either. He hobbled into the living room, wondering what the returned camera meant. Did it mean the Jews had forgiven him? It must. Why else would they return it? But why would they return it when only hours ago they were chasing after him as if he had served pork chops at a local bar mitzvah? Had he imagined the whole thing? That seemed unlikely. Maybe his feverish brain had simply blown it out of all proportion. Maybe the Jews just wanted to talk with him to ensure he wasn't a white racist out to make a virulently anti-Semitic documentary. And who could blame them? Tomorrow he would pay the nearest synagogue a visit, even if he had to battle there and back on crutches, and explain his reasons
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for making the documentary to the resident rabbi and why he had elected to make another documentary instead. The new doco would cover the rich history of Australian Jewry from settlement to modern times. There had to be more boring subjects for a documentary, though he couldn't think of one offhand. No matter. It would be a small price to pay to appease the Jews and save his filmmaking career from being stillborn. He contemplated the Mac. He wasn't in the mood to jiggle his jack-in-the-box just yet, but a trip to Retard Central wouldn't be out of the question. Start the day with a laugh. That's what his racist grandmother used to say. (She didn't like all them darkies.) According to the active user tally at the bottom of National Imperium's main index page, there were 562 members and 983 guests currently online. Busy morning. Something seismic must have occurred in the primordial world of white racism. He noted that the 100-Good-Reasons-to-Hate-Jews thread had been pushed two thirds of the way down the first page of the general discussion section. A thread titled "White Nationalist of the Year" had taken top spot. He read the first post, which asked for members to nominate their candidate for the year's most outstanding racist. The OP had nominated a guy who had assaulted a Holocaust survivor. Charming. A YouTube clip about the incident was embedded in the post. Declan clicked PLAY. "An elderly Holocaust survivor was the victim of a callous assault in Caulfield last night," an attractive blonde Aussie newsreader said. "Melinda Lee reports." Caulfield? Declan watched and listened raptly. A distraught 80-year-old Jewish woman was seated on a sofa in her living room, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "Anna Samuelson," the reporter continued, "was watering her front garden when a man entered the property and tipped her out of her wheelchair, which he proceeded to steal."
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Declan clicked his tongue and shook his head in disgust. "What a fascist prick." "I came here to escape the Nazis, and this evil man, he . . . he tried to murder me," the woman said with an asthmatic sob. "A man chasing after the racist thief, took this footage on his mobile phone," the reporter said. There was shaky amateur vision of Declan speeding away in the wheelchair. "Adolf called and he left you a message!" he shouted before flipping the bird. He stared at the monitor, aghast. The report ended with a close-up of the Jewish woman, her face compressed in anguish. "He was like a Hitler. HITLER!" Declan closed the browser and shut down the Mac. Had he looked through the rest of the thread, he would have seen he was romping home with the votes. A worrying thought struck him. He picked up his video camera and fast-forwarded through the footage he had taken last night. It was as he feared: every shot of Jews spitting on the church had been edited out. "Those dirty kike bastards . . ." From outside came the screech of tires, then a thud closely followed by another as two car doors were shut. He hobbled over to the window and saw a police car parked in front of the house. A TV news van pulled up behind it. Then a second TV news van pulled up behind the first van. THOOMP. THOOMP. THOOMP. THOOMP. Only cops knocked that loudly. He went and opened the front door and sure enough there were two boys in blue. One of them said something to him, but he couldn't hear it. All he could hear was his own voice. It was an odd discordant voice, like somebody with Down syndrome trying to sing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" while whacking a piece of sheet metal with a cricket bat.
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"I'm not a Hitler! I'm not a Hitler!" he said as the cops led him toward the police car. When he stepped onto the footpath, a couple of TV news reporters came at him with microphones and bombarded him with questions. They were on MUTE as well. But he didn't have to hear them to know what they were asking him. "I didn't take that bitch's wheelchair!" he said. "I took somebody else's wheelchair!" He wasn't entirely sure whether that statement would convince the TV audience that he was the victim of a diabolical Jew frameup. He probably needed to say something that packed more of a persuasive punch. He had just the thing. "I LOVE BIG-BREASTED JAPANESE WOMEN!" he boomed as one of the cops pushed his head down so he wouldn't bash it getting into the back of the car. There. Now the TV audience and everybody in the whole wide world would know he didn't do it. He sat in the back seat, one of the cops beside him. He giggled a little strangely—just a little—and gave the TV news cameras a smile and a wink. Why not? A positive attitude could work miracles. No, it couldn't. That was absolute crap. But it was his kind of crap, and that was the best kind of crap. The police car drew away from the terrace house and passed the old woman pushing the green shopping jeep. Was that a mocking smile he could see on her face? Crazy old bitch. She was shuffling down the footpath on the same side as the orange brick church. The orange brick church. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for the orange brick church.
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He glared at it through the back window. He did more than just glare, he splashed it in petrol and set fire to it. It went up like a match head. The cross took a bit longer to burn but when it did it curled and drooped into a gnarled cinder that disintegrated in the wind. Then he blinked and there was the church standing unburned and defiant, gleaming in the winter sunshine, across the street and on the corner. Next: The Last White Superheroes
