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.    

Choose Your Own Adventure #15: House of Danger

Last time out my running like the dickens skills averted disaster when encountering a horrifying slime monster and its human minions. I'd talk about the long delay since then, but it seems excuse-making is all I do lately and all the obvious nursing home jokes have been made, so let's just suffice it say that better days are ahead. We might even get a "DotTeeVee" episode before there's snow on the ground. Today's subject looks like a good choice to get back up on this. The premise is intriguing (a house...of danger?), the author is gray pony-tailed hippie and dwarf-hater R.A. Montgomery and the reviews I've read suggest that we're in for a wild ride. It's time for the sort-of prequel to The Horror of High Ridge which will hopefully feature the happier days before I was put into a permanent state of fear paralysis by ghosts.

That does kind of put a damper on the proceedings. Whatever I do, that's my written-in-stone future. See, this is why prequels don't work [place lame Star Wars joke here].

Get your paws off me you damn dirty...Union soldier with a whip???

I'm just waiting for something to happen in the "lab" in my parents basement. Man, it's like this book can somehow see directly into my life. "No, I didn't get a job today, Mom. Yes, I'm reviewing a children's book that came out in 1982," etc. Anyway, I'm a "psychic investigator," sort of like in Ghost Hunter. Now "lack of originality" can be added to that book's many, many sins. At least this time I wouldn't be forced to steal things because the rightful owner "makes bombs for terrorists!" Well, probably not.

I get a "weak voice" call that is suggestive of trouble, but cuts off before any valuable information can be obtained. Since it's 1982, there's no way to identify the caller. I look around the "lab," scoping out my sick digs, complete with books like "Murder in Fun." Don't go killing anyone for Slender Man, ok kid? The mysterious caller phones again, but this time I'm ready and somehow trace the number while a desperate voice is all "help" and "they've got me." The caller is identified as a "Henry Marsden" and the whole situation reminds me of the case of the "Spider Ghost." Why does it always have to be spiders?

My calm demeanor here really plays continuity havok on my fearful reaction to the paranormal in "High Ridge," but again, it's only a sort-of sequel. Different authors and everything.

I was reminded of this, not ghost spiders.

It turns out the Spider Ghost case is the source of the funding for my sweet equipment (and an FBI commendation!). Man, this protagonist is a lot better than the "I found a bottle!" hero from Book Nine. Lessons learned from that experience include the need for strength in numbers, and I'm thinking Lisa and Ricardo, who will share a "incurable fear coma" hospital room with me in the near future. I try to call, but no one's home. Deciding time is of the essence I forget about back-up and go right to the address, where I suspect there might be a house, possibly of the dangerous variety. 

I park my car (???) near one of those ultra-modern homes that eventually fell out of favor with the rise of nearly identical brown boxes. Seriously, the character in the illustration does not look old enough to have a license and this would have been a great chance to introduce one of those patented R.A. Montgomery wussy vehicles, maybe a "pedal car" or "sugar three wheeler" or the like. Instead "car." All right, whatever you say.

  I guess "Superbike" wasn't available.

It turns out the house, dangerous or not, is built on the site of a prison that burned down in 1887, killing everyone inside. Very interesting. Meanwhile, the new house is all done up in glass and I'm going to resist making a "Fountainhead" joke that maybe one person in ten thousand would get. I often wonder why that novel didn't become a pop-culture touchstone like "Atlas Shrugged?" It's every bit as long and bad, after all. 

Some guy bolts out of the house, all in a panic, and then goes down as if hit by an "invisible hammer." Grandmaster Montgomery is laying down some sick prose game, right here, aw yeah. It turns out his pursuers are some sort of animals, possibly of the intelligent, half-ape, half-man variety. The entire scene gets a huge, lovingly drawn illustration that belongs in some museum, man.

The re-release art is, predictably, less than inspiring.

I decide that the "chimpanzees" probably aren't all that tough (they're only, like, eight times our strength pound for pound, no big deal) and rush to help the fallen man. Brandishing my "pen knife" I charge at them and incredibly they retreat into a ruin near the house. See kids, carrying concealed blades solves problems. We're learning a lot. I get a small triangular scrap of paper from the man, who has died of fear! Man, 1982 didn't mess around. 

The dirty apes are back, now equipped with some sort of "blow gun" and I feel the wind of a dart flying past without result. Time to use that running like the dickens ability. Back at the car I debate reporting this to the police. "You see officer, there was this invisible hammer that ended some dude, then some Planet of the Apes-type confrontation went down and I'm driving a car even though I just turned 12." The pros and cons are weighed and the negative wins out.

 "I expect you to die, Mr. Chimp."

While waiting to "sneak up" on the house I examine the paper some more, and it turns out it's actually a chunk of "U.S. Currency." Holy fudge, the Federal Reserve is run by Ape Men!!! That crazy guy on short-wave radio has been completely vindicated. Again. 

I contemplate the possibility of a "counterfeiting animal trainer" but am forced to dismiss it as unlikely. Hey, you gotta consider all the angles. 

A limo pulls up and two Hard Men get out and approach the house. The ape-men confront them, but are ignored and then disappear. You guessed it, they're holograms being used by what is presumably the New World Order/Bilderbergers/The IRS/Whoever it is that inflicts shit like Justin Bieber on society to keep people away from whatever nefarious scheme is currently unfolding in the danger house. The men leave, carrying packages. Is it possible that I've somehow stumbled on the facility where our government created crack cocaine? 

I'm sure a pre-teen who is allowed to drive a car for some reason will defeat this.

Then I decide it must be a "gang of counterfeiters" and not my own government run amok. Good old 1982 naivete. Everything else is a neat little package, though. The monkey-illusions and scary prison remains would keep people away, and the dead man must have stumbled on the truth. Why he'd call me and not, say, someone in authority with a better weapon than a pen knife remains obscure, but we're probably almost done so let's stop questioning everything. 

I call the police, the gang is broken up, I'm a hero and hey, can't wait for that fun vacation in High Ridge!

This was a fun one. Discarding the usual R.A. Montgomery tropes really worked wonders for the quality of his writing, but I guess the urge to deliver socialist lectures, misapply nepotism, describe wimpy modes of transit and drown in unnecessary weirdness is a powerful force. Not to say the storyline I got wasn't a total mess, but it was fun and zany and let's shut off your mind dude because thinking is bad, so all is forgiven.

Check Out My Books!

Aaron Zehner is the author of "Posts from the Underground," now available in paperback and e-book. Read a free excerpt here.

His first novel The Foolchild Invention is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.