Fiction Fargment: Final Idea

There was a flash of light and the soothing blue was suddenly there, banishing the darkness. “Look at that! I told you it would work. You mad, bro?” The victory cry was full of youthful energy that was still in the early beginnings of being ground down by the steady attrition of Father Time and Mother Bad Decisions.

“Right. Congratulations. Maybe some museum will want that thing, because it sure as Hell ain’t worth shit to us.” Here was the final destination to the erosion of enthusiasm, the voice of wisdom and experience that says “no” to just about everything and ends up being right far too fucking often.

“Yeah, you mad.” A broad smile spread across chiseled features that fell short of renaissance humanism’s perfection of man but were still worthy of admiration, a credible effort sculpted by a talented amateur. His pale blue eyes gazed into the screen of much deeper blue with a sudden and surprising intensity, impaling the ancient television, searing through it. “I’ll find a use for it, just you watch. You’re just jealous of my mad ‘rounging skills, that’s all.”
   
“There’s a real future in picking through garbage. That’s for sure.” The older man rose from the badly battered couch with some difficulty, pressing withered hands into the walls for stability, joints worn to the nub by empty pursuits loudly protesting this new verticality. Pain competed with annoyance beneath a camouflage of gray stubble and deep wrinkles. The Herculean struggle completed he let his arms fall to his sides where they dangled uselessly, like dead animals hanging in the window of a butcher’s shop. “I already sent the petition to the National Television Insurance while you were out. We’ll get a replacement in a few days and there won’t be room for that damn artifact.” Glassy gray eyes scanned from one side the apartment to the other. It was little more than a glorified corridor and even he could walk from one end to the other in a few heartbeats.  
   
“You’re a damn artifact Ellerby, but I still haven’t tossed your goofy old ass.” The younger man muttered the reply without breaking the willful gaze into the electronic equivalent of existential oblivion. “Not that they’d let me.”
   
The two men had been assigned to a term of five years together in their last “Fair and Dignified Housing” lottery. As members of Unprotected Class A they had done about as well in the blind draw as could be reasonably hoped for, although neither man would ever admit that.  
   
“You keep playing with that thing. See what it gets you. Foolishness.”

Fiction Fragment: Spy Cam

Twenty minutes and no reply. The Over Man scowled at the screen, trying to cause someone to participate in what he thought was a very well thought out thesis by exerting the power of the will. A tap of the refresh button only confirmed the failure of his mind to influence others, even if it had evolved past good and evil and slave morality. The direct mind control of White Racial Comrades over long distances was probably still a month or two away. Face-to-face it might be a different story.
   
“I’m out of here.” With that statement made to the walls, the one man einsatzgruppen switched off the computer for the first time in nearly a year. Normally when the needs of The Struggle called him away from his propaganda ministry he just set the device to sleep, but not this time. It was completely off, lights out. The weight of recent events combined with the slow traffic at New Wehrmacht Reporting had led to this unthinkable moment. He actually felt pulled toward the door, which was highly unusual to say the least. Outside lurked Israeli trained killers, ZOGbots and maybe even someone of non-European hertitage. It was a bad place, in other words. Still, he had to go. If it meant becoming the modern world’s Horst Wessel, shot down by Reaction or something, that was the price he was prepared to pay.
   
New Bremen was still in the middle of summer, specifically that part of the season where there’s no more doubt. June has its cold days and a Wisconsin September isn’t exactly clement most of the time, but here in the exact chronological center you can’t possibly come to any conclusion other than “yeah, it’s fucking hot.”
   
“It’s fucking hot.” Walter cursed to himself as a combination of back spasms and the merciless assault of solar radiation sent beads of sweat racing down a face that might be mid-thirties or mid-twenties, depending on the day and the angle and how good the light is. Right now, it might have passed for forty. It was like whatever youth remained was melting off.
   
The first stop was the post office box. Even in this day and age of miracles of wireless transmission and the full dreams of Tesla made flesh the post is still the primary source of supply and intelligence for the aspiring Savior of the West. Sure enough, the metal cubby hole was practically bursting with letters of every size, shape and condition. With practiced movements Walter easily separated the wheat from the chaff, forming a “keep” and “discard” pile on a nearby table. It was easy, mindless work which also carried the additional bonus of air conditioning and being separated by two sets of doors from the poisoned environment where the government make-workers slaved. His mood improved rapidly, as if each letter assigned to a pile also represented an infusion of energy.
   
A request from the Imperial Knights of the White Fight to come to a rally somewhere in the south: discard. A letter from a NWR supporter with a badly wrinkled ten dollar bill enclosed: keep. An offer to sign up for a credit card that gave bonus points for purchasing gasoline and airline tickers: discard. A catalogue for an adult novelty company that offered erotic films, lotions and potions, and artificial vaginas: keep.
   
By the time the process was over the White Warrior was up nearly fifty bucks and had some nice late night reading material. Not too bad. Happily whistling the Westerwald Lied he made his exit. The next stop was the local burger joint. Even the Man of Destiny is not entirely immune from ordinary appetites, after all.
   
The meal of an Emperor Burger, large fries (those fucking health cranks had finally caved in and allowed it back on the menu, no more ordering three medium servings instead) and high fructose corn syrup ambrosia was simply delicious, perhaps even more so when it’s purchased with profits made from The Struggle. It would be hard to imagine most religious conceptions of heaven offering anything better than the pure bliss delivered by these All-American staples. Rivers of wine? Virgins? Keep that, brother. Give me greasy joy on a bun with some fresh cancer-causers as a side.
   
Perhaps somehow sensing his joy The Enemy made their move. It was at this point of greatest temporal pleasure that he encountered the spies of the NWO. It all started when two men entered, at first glance too ordinary looking suits taking a power lunch or whatever those corporate fucks call it these days. Anyone else might have ignored their presence as nothing outside ordinary experience, but the trained eyes of the Wehrmacht Reporter were not so easily fooled, quickly noting features that suggested a Jewish background or possibly even some negroid admixture.

Then there was the bag, which to someone unskilled in urban recon might have been dismissed as the ordinary paper sort used to transport take-out orders. Our hero wasn’t fooled. It first drew his attention when one of the men seemed to be very carefully placing it on the table, as if making sure it was pointed in the proper direction. A receit was stapled to the bag, which to the best of his knowledge was not a standard practice of Emperor Burger. Typical government work, half-assed and with glaring errors. The final damning evidence was what appeared to be a small slit. The spy camera must be deployed behind it. This was not a kosher burger order, no sir. These men were Mossad, CIA, FBI or maybe some combination of all three.

“Stay calm, stay calm.” The Storm Soldier whispered the words like a mantra. The sweat returned in full force, even in the cool interior of the temple of poor dietary decisions. Greasy ersatz potatoes fell from trembling fingers as he realized this might be his moment of martyrdom. Would the deadly poison darts even hurt? It was impossible not to wonder.

The two tools of the oppression were talking to each other and sipping milk shakes, apparently oblivious to the deadly game they had initiated. These guys were good, that was for sure. Most of their victims probably entered the next world with no idea how they even got there. Not this time, not this time. Erik’s hand closed around his phone.

It was time for a last stand. A final swallow of ammonia treated semi-angus beef for courage, a last bit of carbonated water for essential sugars to fuel the coming fight or flight and the White man who can see the truth was up and approaching the modern day Oprichniks, his camera phone held at arms length in front of him like a cross presented against a vampire.
   
“You want to take pictures?” The plan was for the statement to be delivered like an action hero, full of righteous and manly indignation, but sad reality reduced to a barely comprehensible croaking. The two men turned and for a moment there was eye contact. “I can do it to!” The second line was closer to the platonic ideal of tough guy recitation as the first outburst had cleared most of the soda’s sticky syrup off the vocal cords.
   
With the steely resolve of a machine gunner desperately firing his last ammunition at the advancing horde he repeatedly snapped off pictures with the phone. Like undead horrors fleeing the cleansing sunlight both of The Enemy brought up there hands, making an effort to cover their faces, as if deflecting invisible blows. Seeing his opportunity, Erik pocketed the camera and dashed for the door, fully prepared to take a silenced burst from an Israeli Uzi right between the shoulder blades. Instead, nothing. Moments later he was in his well-used car, hauling ass.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.    

Short Fiction: Normalcy of Evil

A person doesn’t just stumble into becoming a serial murderer and mad bomber. On the other hand that’s almost exactly how it happens. These sort of paradoxes are both good and necessary when the issue of complete system failure within civilized human resources is addressed. In some senses there is a dramatic event horizon a person crosses, a moment where the darkness fully embraces the soul and all goodness perishes. On the other hand it’s all so fucking banal. It even starts to become very understandable and its at that point that we have to retreat back to ideas about moral Rubicons and psychotic breaks and all the rest. The banality of evil is hard enough, but the normalcy of evil? It can never be admitted if this thing we call civilization is going to have any chance of getting a second wind.

             

Nature and nurture, all the forces of the invisible but undeniable structure that supports every silly little thing that seem very important before one looks death square in the face and lets the illusion of sanity drain away. The illusions, the mythologies, they still have power even after this encounter. They creep back in and the false comforts are difficult to resist, especially in light of the alternative. The upshot of all this bullshit is that there is no single moment that defines any given human soul, just slow slides toward a direction that is probably almost completely predetermined, broken up by occasional retreats or halting inertia provided by moments of genuine happiness and connection to the world. They’re fleeting and then the steady drift toward destiny resumes.

           

He was at a bar, trying his best to both fit in and stand out all at the same time. Not easy. Conflicting bits of advice from websites that taught “game” and polite society that teaches everything but that swirled behind glazed eyes, the eyes of a toad. The half empty scotch-n-soda was held at chest level, almost like a holy cross to ward off the freaks that came out with the night, even in an idealistic suburban bubble. It took tremendous force of will to force the prop back down to waist level, where it would communicate the confidence of the pack leader, according to some half-remembered website. A warm drop of sweat slid down the side of his face. It was late summer, deep in the dog days. The press of warm bodies and the stress of having to “assume the sale” within this meat market was not helping.

             

Yeah, genetics and conditioning. Add in existing societal structures and expectations and you’ve got your holy trinity. The drink was back up in front of a quivering, moist sternum. Thirty Five years old. Happy fucking birthday. Thinning list of women who even acknowledge your existence, thinning patience, thinning hair, widening midsection, all that shit. It was time to change it. Three second approach, don’t want to be a coward or worse a beta. No turning back now, target acquired. The glass flew back to the beltline with a spastic jerk, spilling water and booze on his cool new shoes. A man sliding toward a happier future might make some crack about the alligators being hungry and giving them a drink, but he was nearly paralyzed by a combination of fear and narrowed purpose.

           

 “You ready to get out of here?” It came out as a an awkward squawk. The female target turned slightly toward the source of the unpleasant outburst, orange skin crunching itself into exaggerated disapproval. That or a catcher’s mitt with light blue eyes.

            

 “What did you say?” Just a small hint of carefree mirth peeked through the heavy weight of social rejection and it was enough to encourage that this doomed mission to pound crotch would continue to its inevitable crash and burn.

            

 “I was thinking we should get out of here.” He felt faint, light and dark and wacky signs and beer ads and bottles of all shapes and colors swirled into a hedonistic blur. Then everything focused in on that unnaturally tinted face, the face of a tanning bed angel.  

             

She laughed, but the mirth was gone now, replaced by dismissive malice. “Get lost.” A staggered retreat, more unpleasantly joyful braying as the only companion for the promised activity of getting out of there.

             

You can’t blame it on that one moment, or really any other. The first murder didn’t happen for several days and was a random victim instead of the obvious choice. It was the end of a long and lonesome road, not a sudden deviation caused by failure in love. That’s not to say that the undrained testes don’t play a major role in these sort of crimes, because they certainly do, but let’s not lose all the other complexities to simple myopia. If you want to keep it simple just blame crap nu-metal and the video game boogey man. It’s easy and no one with any real power would ever call you out for it.

             

Days passed after that failure to fire the love rocket and then there was that encounter with the human road kill, another precious soul in GOD’s image whose own pathetic path toward ruin was cut short by a merger with a tough as all Hell truck. It probably had at least some impact on the decision to start human-hunting, but it’s hard to say. Tuck that shit into a file, stamp “not otherwise specified” on it and forget it, we don’t have much more time to spend on this.

             

Then the kill. Just a blur, spraying blood, knife reflecting the moonlight, muscles aching from the effort. It might have been a minute, but it passed by in a few seconds. Back to the hole in the wall, over the toilet, the yellow yawn. Insides feeling like they’re being shredded, body shaking, consciousness lost into a vanishing point. The “I’ll never do this again, ever” of a regretful drunk, knowing full well that he inevitably would, that free will was nothing but a cruel joke at this point, that something was broken in the mind. Not even something large, not a universal joint or the like. Just one tiny part. But it was enough to compromise the entire system.

            

 Then another and another. Bomb making materials. Auto-pilot. Hurt by so few, but everyone has to pay. Humanity lost. Another interesting story for the back page of the paper. We can all shake our heads and cluck and “there but by the grace of god” and all that shit. Yeah, that’s you. 

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.