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Ryo was rolling his eyes at a stoplight and his motorcycle was growling beneath his legs. The silvery cars rushing past filled his lungs with gasoline fumes.
She’ll never believe me, he thought. Who would? I don’t believe myself.
Aryans were trundling over the crosswalk beside him, snow-haired veterans in gray suits and widows in dark dresses which stretched to their knobby ankles. Several people looked at Ryo. One old lady struggling to get across before the light changed scowled at him.
Sure she’s mad because I’m not wearing a helmet, Ryo thought. That time uncle came home from the hospital at three in the morning. Never seen him so tired. Looked at me with my textbooks, said never ride a motorcycle.
But here I am. More exciting this way. One wrong move, one sideswipe, and it’s over so quick I won’t know what happened. Too fast to predict or avoid, impossible to protect myself. Road kill. Cops won’t help, ambulance won’t come, other cars’ll just run me down. Alien anatomy. Make a good speed bump.
This is the way to live. Like running the highlands no outsider saw in forty thousand years, poison darts swarming the air like sparrows. What I’d give to be fighting again. Last time I take a promotion. Captain for life. Some day I’ll be free. But I think I’ll miss this place, going home and all. The adventure of living abroad comes to an end, I turn into just another Yamato, rather than almost the only one living in the Reich. Mixed feelings.
The stoplight greened and the cars rushed forward, but the old lady hadn’t reached the sidewalk yet. Ryo roared over and shielded her with his motorcycle so she could make it without getting hit. Honking cars rushed past so close the motorcycle rocked and the cold vile wind tugged at the old lady’s print dress so that it clung to her meaty thighs. He glanced at her. Even as she stepped onto the sidewalk she was still scowling.
“He’s a jap!” she must have been thinking. “Why don’t we glass them tricky japs before they find a way around the Valkyries?”
Typical lack of gratitude, Ryo thought. Not a Confucian society. The old have no responsibility for the young. People say my country, not our country.
Ryo swayed his head, pulled into an Exxon gas station, took out his phone. The first loan shark he found, FastCash4Du, stated on their website that they’d break his “arms, legs, and fingers” before selling him to “the Afrikan gold mines” if he couldn’t pay back both principal and thirty-three per cent interest within four weeks of using their services.
Hmm. Glad I read the fine print on that one.
Otherwise, if he found himself inside the Wolf’s Lair with a suitcase bomb brushing against one knee and Adolph Hitler’s leg brushing against the other, the loan shark would need another way to recoup its investment. There’s always insuraburn, long as the inspectors get a slice of the pie.
Ryo switched on his VPN and found a black-and-white portrait of Heinz Brandt, who was a handsome if generic-looking National Socialist.
Ryo squinted. How am I going to justify this to the surgeon? He’s the grandfather of my superior officer. Want to look like him but not exactly like him or something. They won’t care. They’ll take the money, no questions asked. Besides, what jap wouldn’t want to join the racial party? Throw in a gelding to make sure my ancestors won’t poison any Aryan bloodlines and the police will be like, dude, welcome to the white people club!
Ryo switched off his VPN and searched, next, for nearby plastic surgery clinics. Muller Maps blossomed with so many locations the entire city was obscured. Ryo tapped the closest (“Die Klinik”), checked the reviews—all glowingly positive troll farm comments punched in by reservation laborers—and the sketch of the fifteenth-century cartographer pointed him north, five minutes away as the motorcycle flies.
He revved his engine and pulled into traffic.
It was nine in the morning. Akira was either still asleep or the police had gotten bored enough to arrest her. The dark clouds gathering over Germania’s marble and glass and steel fortresses were drizzling rain which beaded on blinking neon billboards for still more plastic surgery clinics, The Home Despot, Mein Kampf Academies (“Increase spiritual energy through studying the Visionary’s Sacred Text!”), Nestle muscle-building supplements, Chase Manhattan, Allianz, space-engineering professional development schools (“I was launching The Leader’s satellites in six months!”), and homesteading colonies in Afrika (“Rich land free for the taking! Thanks, Hermann!”) all featuring blond blue-eyed cadaver-pale beauties smiling at joyous suns. LCD screens broadcast marching soldiers with headlines about drones taking out enemy combatants or enormous campaign donations to the different candidates running for Chancellor. Among all the usual flags a new design fluttered from a police station, one with the hook-cross inside the Sphere’s rising sun.
Manji in Yamato. What do they call them in Aryan? Swastikas, right? Swastika sun. What a disappointment.
On another billboard a cartoon man was grinning. He had a jew nose and lips, scraggly cheeks, puffy eyes, a receding hairline, yes, a one-hundred percent judensau-suckled yid. He wore a trench coat stuffed with marks and he sat in a subway car, grinning yellow teeth and fiddling conspiratorial fingers. Instead of legs the man’s body ended in a snake’s tail coiled on the subway floor. Standing sitting Aryans surrounded him, but they were too busy texting or snapping kodaks of each other with their IBMs (the blue letters were prominent thanks to the Reich Ad Council logo in the lower left corner—they were a Siemens subsidiary) to notice the slavering reptoid in front of them.
“Killing Aryans is worship,” said the jew’s red-lettered Hebraic speech bubble. “It brings us closer to YHWH.”
Black letters reminded citizens underneath: “Terrorists are everywhere. If you see something, say something.”
Then the emergency phone number had some kind of superstitious significance Ryo had never figured out: “Call or text 666, and Uncle Himmler’s professionals will save lives!”
Some jews passed as Aryans and had escaped the rehabilitation camps. Blacks can’t hide like that, even octaroons get found eventually, but jews had thousands of years to perfect their European masks. In Kyoto everyone knew about Private Goldberg, Hitler’s ideal soldier who turned out to be a jew concealed inside a handsome civilized European. Such a perfect disguise Goldberg didn’t even know he was hiding something. Never seen a jew. Knowingly I mean. Some old lady in an audience said she’d heard some other chancellor candidate was a jew, and Achteberg was like, he’s not a jew, he’s a good person, I just disagree with him on the issues.
Hebrews in disguise / right before your eyes. Crazy news now and then about everyday blond-haired blue-eyed soldiers, office workers, plumbers, they shouted their Heil Hitlers with as much verve as a whole stadium. Then they get a blood test because of a thyroid problem or something, an alarm goes off, the yellow star flashes, and doctors find a relic from the past: semitic DNA strains. Like finding someone with mental illness. Like finding fucking Nessie.
ANOTHER RAT PULLED FROM THE SEWER! was the headline last time. A few months ago right? Sometimes they just let themselves get put down. Others run, but the police always catch them in the end, gas them like cockroaches. Some professor from the Ministry of Public Enlightenment said ‘as rats are the vermin of the animal kingdom, so jews are the vermin of humanity!’ Then their coworkers go on TV, raise their eyebrows, open their mouths nice and wide, shake their heads—‘To think, jews right under my nose! And I thought the Reich had dogs trained for this sort of thing!’
Then the screen darkened, solemn music rose, and a languid Aryan flag wavered beneath text from Mein Kampf. “Was there any shady undertaking, any form of foulness, especially in cultural life, in which at least one jew did not participate? On putting the probing knife carefully to that kind of abscess one immediately discovered, like a maggot in a putrescent body, a little jew who was often blinded by the sudden light.”
Backstabbing November Criminals. Jews the root of capitalism, communism, democracy, freedom of expression, modernist art, internationalism, humanitarianism, pornography and prostitution, everything that undermines the natural order, the nobility of man.
Something so, I don’t know, so distasteful about it. Can’t we let soldiers fight and leave civilians in peace? They made us kill families in New Guinea. Not my fault, I’m a soldier, I don’t make the policy, I follow it. Leave it to the zaibatsu CEOs, they know what’s best. The wisest rise to the top / that’s the cream of the crop.
Still want to tell someone I killed children. Purity through confession. Two letters in the Yamato word for confess, kokuhaku: tell, white. To whiten oneself through telling. Didn’t have the same problems as other guys. Mood swings, depression, drinking, suicide.
Maybe that’s because I was okay with it. Sacrifice anything for duty, even women and children. Long as they aren’t mine.
Ryo weaved around the sleek Volkswagens and Fords and even a Porsche on the way to the clinic, all the cars colorless according to regulation.
The same for us sooner or later. Rehabilitation working around the clock at maximum capacity for years, hundreds of millions turned to clouds blocking the Krakatoa sunrise. That black-and-white picture of a mother clutching her baby in a barren wheat field while a soldier aims his rifle at her.
Not Akira. Not our country.
The clinic was in a mirror-glass office tower doubling the churning clouds, splashed with running rain. He parked outside the entrance, wiped the water from his close-cropped hair, and walked through a revolving brass door. Supermen were heading to their cubicles where they’d cut and paste numbers into spreadsheets for the next eight hours, squeezing out profits for the shareholders before returning home to their aproned wives and their eight little red-cheeked brats. These stuff their faces with ham and potatoes and eggs while the flat screen blasts comedy show laughter featuring actors who look the same and tell the same jokes about those goofy Ostland farmers and never anything related to the Chancellor. Blond hair, blue eyes, blue hair, blond eyes. Breed, overmen, breed members of the pure Germanic race! Afrika beckons, green vines have been entangling Mexiko City for years, the dunes are burying the pyramids! Let us settle that glorious breathing space we have won for our posterity, let us thrive!
Now I’m going to become one of them. See what it’s like on the inside. Feel that strength through joy.
Ryo crossed the marble lobby clopping with pumps and echoing with voices and entered one of several elevators. The milling crowds thumbing gesichtsbuch didn’t join him, and the doors closed…