“A pint of
bitter. Or Guinness. Or a sherry. Please, just something that pretends to have
a bit of class,” Sir Reginald all but begged the barman.
“Schlitz is
a dollar a can.”
“For
the love of…give me seven, please, and a packet of cigarettes that doesn’t have
bloody filters.”
The barman
tossed over a pack of Lucky Strikes and pulled a six-pack from a small fridge
under the bar.
“You come back
when you need the last one,”
Sir
Reginald dropped a twenty in what he hoped was a very stale pool of something
terrible and carried his bounty back to the table where the man in the balaclava
was waiting.
“Now, young
man—“
“Don’t
presume to know my age, or even my gender.”
“Oh, for
heavens sake, everybody is young to me, and I can see stubble. Now, if we want
something productive to come of this meeting, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“One
question…how do I know this isn’t some sort of set-up?”
“Because if
it were a set-up, somebody would eventually find out that I was drinking
terrible beer in a bar where the jukebox has Conway Twitty. And I can’t have
that, now can I? Regale me with your qualifications, and I’ll let you know if
you’re what I’m looking for in this particular situation.”
"Two weeks
ago, I killed a half-dozen white niggers for attempting to fill the space left
by the recent gang fighting. Nobody even knows they’re gone yet.”
“White
nigger? Is that like a straight fag, or a Christian Jew?” Sir Reginald asked,
peeling back the tab on his beer. The masked man made no response to the
comment, but kept talking.
“I’m
currently on the FBI’s Most Wanted List twice, both times with names and faces
that aren’t mine. I have over a dozen safehouses and over five hundred men
around the country ready to regain the white man’s dominance through violent
and non-violent means at my command.” He paused for a moment and took a sip
from his glass of water.
“Now, I
understand you’re some sort of Occult Mastermind. What can you do for me, Reg?”
“First, I
can not be called “Reg,” if that suits you. Second, there’s no such thing as
magic. It’s all a fraud. Smoke and mirrors. Utter bullshit, but it works if you
know how to fake it,” he finished his first Schlitz and popped open a second.
“What I
want to know, masked man, is why you’re working only on the fast solution. Why
you aren’t approaching this sensibly, like the gradual erosion of the blacks,
Jews, and whatall through negative public opinion. Or eugenics, that was taken
quite seriously for a while…”
“Our media
campaigns are being stymied at every turn by the Zionist controllers, and
eugenics takes too damned long to do anything worthwhile.”
“Oh,” mused
Sir Reginald, “I don’t know about that…”
He flashed
an open palm at the barkeep—who would later testify under both oath and
hypnosis that he had never met Sir Reginald before the moment he ordered beer,
and that he had never in his life kept a gun in his establishment—and the man promptly
overhanded a Mossberg pump shotgun at Sir Reginald, who caught it neatly in his
hands, pivoted, and pulled the trigger.
Sir
Reginald stood up, walked a few paces to the body, and used the barrel to lift
the ski mask. He studied the face beneath for nearly ten seconds, then reached
back and grabbed his four remaining beers by their thin plastic holder. He hefted
the shotgun in his right hand and gave it a kiss on the still-warm barrel.
“Thanks,
Eugenics. Now let’s get out of here before we start enjoying a good line-dance.”
b
Current
Music: “This is Music” – The Verve
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