The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “Well,” she simmered, “how about if we limit the guards to as few as daddy will allow—like four or five. And if you’ve gotta send them along with us the least you can do is make sure they’re cute.”

  A portly man in a suit standing nearby frowned at her.

  “What’s a matter, Marisela? Ain’t I cute enough for you and your girlfriends?”

  The girl’s face hued red, and her eyes spanned wide. “Raul, I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t even see you standing over there.”

  “That’s okay. I understand,” he said glumly. “Your father didn’t hire me for my mug. I know I’m a squat fatso. But I can hit like a bull.”

  Turning away, she whispered in Rosa’s ear. “Mom, all my friends have hot bodyguards. I want some cute ones too for my ski trip. Hey! I know who I want. I want that priest, Teo, to guard us! Find out if he’d be willing to guard for that weekend.”

  “Honey, I don’t even think Teo has ever guarded before. Besides, he’s a priest, not a warrior.”

  “Like, please, Mom,” she said, exasperated. “It’s not like anything’s going to happen anyway. Gosh. Besides, how do you know he’s not a warrior? We’re not talking about one of our Catholic priests—we’re talking about some wacko who prays to idols. Maybe he can really kick ass or something.”

  “Well, we’ll see. I’ll discuss it with your father.”

  “Hey . . . awesome!” Antonio gasped, and rushed to a nearby storefront clustered with action figures. “Mom, Mom—I need a new bad guy. I can’t make Captain Aztlan and Saxon Anglo fight anymore because they’re friends now. I need to get some gray bad guys for them to fight—look, they’ve got a bunch of them. Ah wow, they got Hommler and Gibbles and . . . they even have President Swan! And look at that awesome tank they got!” The little boy rang his hands, then charged into the toy store.

  Chapter 14

  George ascended a wooden platform, mike in hand. He blinked repeatedly. Beneath the russet, late afternoon sky, a green meadow rolled into the distance. It teemed with eager white men and women—thousands—their breath rising in smoky plumes. Most were locals from Pennsylvania and the surrounding states. Others were asylum seekers from Europe, not unlike the speaker. There were hopeful fathers and mothers and sons from New York, frequent attendees from Ohio, and determined men and women from Virginia. Interspersed among them were businessmen, fishermen, engineers, craftsmen, teachers, farmers and laborers from every nook of Europe. Some conversed in their native tongues, while others fumbled with English.

  The Greek had learned how, through trial and error, to captivate an audience quickly. There was so much tension and desperation welling up inside the FCP attendees that it took a strong man to shepherd their thoughts. He had been studying upper-level English lately to broaden his writing skills and vocabulary. The Athenian yearned to be like Odysseus—a great speaker, a great warrior, and a leader of men.

  Flipping on the mike, he patted his black leather jacket dramatically.

  “Spartans made due with a single cloak throughout the fall and winter.” He grinned, nodding. “I was thinking of trying to do the same tonight . . . but then I decided that I’d rather not freeze my ass off.”

  The crowd laughed politely, and George assumed a broader stance to stop himself from swaying or shifting.

  “My name is George Drakos, and I want to welcome you tonight to the forty-third meeting of the Fellowship of Caucasian Peoples. It’s damn good to see that so many of you have arrived.

  “As you all are well aware, Ireland has been besieged for nearly six months. It fell yesterday, and its people are paying the price of resistance. The Sultan of the British Isles, Muhammad Al Suleiman, has decreed that one quarter of all Irish men and women will be executed. The rest, of course, will be enslaved. The bastards are showing live feeds of the executions on the internet as I speak.

  “Apparently, they dispatch you with a bullet through the base of the skull or decapitation—that’s what I’ve gathered from the few nauseous clips that I saw. Oh, and the children are forced to watch, or face death too. After their hellish viewing, the kids are crammed in to slave ships bound for North Africa. The taller, stronger, hardier male children are being shipped off to Turkey to be trained as Janissaries, and won’t have to view the executions. Twenty-five percent of an entire population can’t be disposed of overnight, though, and the executions are projected to take weeks. So I’d like to lead a moment of silence in remembrance of all our Irish brothers and sisters who fell yesterday, and who will fall in the days and weeks to come.”

  The crowd cursed and roiled in frustration and disgust at the news.

  “Please, please, we will vent in a moment. But for now, let there be silence.”

  The wind whistled a melancholy tune as eyes shut, and chins touched chests. After the pause, George growled at the audience.

  “Do you realize how much it pains me to see our people treated like this—to watch an African or an Arab or a Turk lay his hands on an Irish woman and chop her head off with his fucking scimitar? And to have her children watch as it happens?” The Greek had begun to pace the stage, and his left fist, partially covered by an overhanging sleeve, clenched whitely at his side.

  Hans lost it, face twitching in a snarl in the middle of the field. “We have to stop them!” he bellowed. “We have to send reinforcements or something. We can’t just sit back and let them be executed! Hell, I’ll get on a boat myself—a fucking rowboat if I have to if that’s what it takes. Who’s with me? Who’s fucking with me?”

  A clamor arose around the titan, cheers boomed in ascent, and fists were knotted and raised. Kim clung to his side, and looked up at him pleadingly.

  “If such an attempt would be even one-percent productive, I’d join you,” boomed George, before the youth’s fervor could germinate riot seeds. “But others have already tried and failed. A group of French patriots calling themselves the Templars has successfully wrested a tiny corner of Provence from Muslim control. They managed to assemble a small fleet of fishing boats, and set sail for Ireland. But the Turkish navy, which is ringing the Irish coast, made sure they never made it. And we don’t even have any real small-arms to speak of, much less the kind of ordinance required to take on Islam.”

  “Well, we can’t just do nothing,” shouted back the youth.

  “Don’t worry,” George consoled the audience. “We’re doing something. We’re gathering our strength. Once we retake control of the eastern U.S. and put ourselves back on our feet, maybe, just maybe, we can begin thinking about a white Reconquista of our European homeland—or at least part of it.”

  “All of it! All of it! All of it!” Hans screamed fanatically, and the crowd responded with chants of “All of it.”

  George smiled at the crowd’s temerity, how the meetings and discussions and dissemination of literature were paying off. Rudimentary principles, like the desirability of white survival and propagation were now nearly universally accepted by the attendees.

  “That’s the spirit,” George affirmed. “And we need spirit, because just where the hell do you think the Muslims are going to head once they’re done mopping up the few remaining white bastions in northern and eastern Europe? Just where do you think they’ll head to next?”

  “Here!” cried the youth. “That’s why we’ve got to fight them hard like our ancestors did! To protect our women and children! We’ve got to kick ass like Charles Martel. We’ve got to . . . we’ve got to fight them to our last drop of blood like the Byzantine emperors. We’ve got to beat them back like the Poles and Austrians and Germans did outside Vienna hundreds of years ago!” The crowd roared in assent, and American and European flags waived across the green expanse.

  “Bold words. Bold words,” remarked George. “But all those great European heroes are dead and gone. They were brave. They were strong. They weren’t perfect—but they loved their people and defended them. Can we Americans aspire to be that strong?”

  The crowd was silent, and Hans sk
ipped his hallmark dialectic to chug a beer.

  “Let me tell you how I envision America,” began the Athenian. “This country has become like one big mental institution. The president of the institution, the doctors, the officers, and the staff, are all disaffected deviants, sadists, occultists, or pedophiles. They all have chips on their shoulders—they all hate traditional Western society and culture—and they seek its destruction as much as any plundering Turk. But, thank God, those types of people are a slender minority in society. They didn’t shore up positions of power by their numbers or strength. How did they take control?”

  It was hard to tell if the question were rhetorical. The crowd waited eagerly for an answer.

  “You appointed them,” declared George gravely. “And you built the asylum that they run—brick by brick. You, and you, and you, and you.” George pointed to concerned faces in the crowd. “And once the asylum was finished, and its leaders properly robed in power, do you know what you did?”

  Even Hans didn’t have a retort, and listened intently.

  “You checked yourselves in to the asylum!” George grinned. “You assimilated their twisted worldview, you adopted their Satanic gospel of perversion and death and self-hatred. And in the tiny, bleak little room that you were given in the asylum, you lied in bed all day and watched the television they provided you with. And you listened to what the little screen told you. And periodically, throughout the day, a nurse would attend you to make sure the intravenous in your forearm was dispensing its poison properly. You’d smile pleasantly when she’d install a new bag of venom, and thank her as you saw the fluid course through the tube back into your vein.

  “And she’d stroke your forehead and whisper in your ear: ‘It will all be over soon. Just lie there and try to relax. Don’t talk. Don’t even think. Just relax, be quiet, and lie still.’ And you obeyed her.

  “But now, you’re finally beginning to awaken from the madness. You try to rise, but you’re too weak. Years of poison and inactivity have atrophied your mind and body. You can scarcely even make a damned fist with your hand.

  “That’s where we are now. We’re weak. We’re practically weaponless. Yes, we could all jump the gun, which is a poor expression since we have next to none, and start the Revolution. We could all die in a futile, climactic battle like Ragnarok in Norse myth. But what would that accomplish? We would attain a death that is arguably noble and glorious. But nothing else. No future for our people. No future for white children. That’s why we have to wait. That’s why we have to bide our time and nourish ourselves and become healthy again.

  “There will come a time when we all must make a sacrifice,” George continued. “Many of us will be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. And when that time comes, I, for one, will not shrink away from that sacrifice. But let’s assure that our sacrifices aren’t in vain.”

  Hans held Kim close, and Stewart nodded from the wings of the stage. Rick embraced Cathy and Blake in the audience.

  “The other day a new recruit asked me the FCP’s goal or mission statement. Well, it’s printed, as you know, on all our literature, but the recruit was new and hadn’t browsed our pamphlets yet. Let’s give it some thought. What is our objective?

  “In simple terms, our objective is to make sure that, a hundred years from now, there will still be white people on this planet living free and happy—the more the better. If we are unsuccessful in our struggles, there will not be. And if any of you feel uncomfortable with this goal, ask yourselves: is it wrong for a black woman to desire that, in a century, there will still be black people on the planet? How about an Asian man? Or an Indian Hispanic woman? It is healthy and good to seek the preservation and proliferation of your race, so long as it does not involve the exploitation of or infliction of harm upon other races.

  “Our future battle against the grays, and the battles against the Muslims that will doubtless follow, will be wars of survival and self defense. But should we ever again regain a foothold on this earth, and repopulate Europe and parts of North America—let us be wary of our past. Let us strive for liberty and peace and moderation. That means no colonialism. No empire. No conquests. No subjugation—de jure or de facto—of other peoples.

  “A white resurgence will also require a celebration of the family, and of children. It will necessitate a reaffirmation of traditional gender roles and a redefining of success in life. Success should be defined not as an extra thousand square feet on your house, but by another child in your household. I’m not talking about a dark age sequestration of women or the institution of a patriarchal tyranny. For the women in the audience—work if you want to work—in any field—and be happy. But make sure you have at least two children, or we have no future. Remember that.

  “The more children a white family has in Europe, the more subsidy it will receive from European governments. And I’m not talking pocket change. I’m talking real monetary incentive to have a large family. In this country, however, monetary reward for large white families dolled out by the government will violate the Fourteenth Amendment. And we intend to recreate a United States government faithful to the pre-Swan era, so we must abide by preexisting standards of constitutional law. So in this country, we’ll raise private organizations for the purpose of distributing cash incentives for large white families.

  “But don’t count on the new United States brooking any affirmative action bullshit or any race-based preferencing on either the federal or state level—not for government contracts, not for college admissions, not for scholarships, not for career advancement. Affirmative action is a racist, inequitable dogma similar in design and effect to the Nuremberg race laws of 1936. How can we claim to live in a fair and equal society when an employer or admissions counselor must give substantial bonus points to an applicant based on their race? And it’s not as if those bonus points are allotted on an indiscriminate or random basis—blacks and Hispanics get most of them, Asians get a few, and whites get nothing. This disgusting practice will end!

  “I believe that once white people regain a sense of self-worth and pride, that once the burden of guilt and self-loathing are lifted, nature will kick in and our birthrate will rise again to at least replacement level. Toss in economic incentives, and we may just find ourselves with positive population growth.”

  Clapping and cheers generated from the masses, and the flags churned with gusto.

  “But should we fail in our attempts, we already know our fate. Those of us who don’t die in battle will die on the run as fugitives, living out lonely lives in the hinterlands of this country and abroad until age or illness takes us. For millennia the Caucasians have thrived. We’ve lived, loved, and fought. We’ve shaken the world with our technology, put men on the moon, harnessed energies, dazzled humanity with our inventions, and kindled an intellectual conflagration in an ill-lit world. But if we fail, then this is the end of the road. The twenty-second century will be our final century. It will be our last gasp of life.”

  Blake looked up at his mother and father, and his face struggled to suppress tears. Cathy pulled him close and stroked his hair. As she did so a tear fell off her own cheek and on to her son’s head. Rick pulled her close with one arm, and with the other patted his son’s back. But he kept his eyes focused on the speaker, and his face was adamantine and unmoving.

  “There are some misguided white fools who would assure us that our culture will live on after we’re gone,” continued the Athenian. “They believe that the Pakistanis who control England will write literature in the vein of Shakespeare, that the Moroccans who rule Italy will produce new Da Vincis. They believe that the Muslims will embrace our ideas, our way of life, our architecture, our laws, and adopt our same sensibilities regarding beauty, art, and sanctity of life—that the European ethos and spirit will live on after we’re dead—after they’ve killed us all.”

  George curled his lip and expectorated on the stage.

  “Can anyone tell me why this is impossible?” questione
d the Athenian.

  “Because race is culture and culture is race,” shouted Kim.

  “Race is culture—culture is race!” boomed the titan.

  The crowd was galvanized by the simplicity of the utterance.

  “Race is culture—culture is race!” Hans and Kim yelled in concert, and the crowd echoed their cry. Thousands joined in. Pumping fists accompanied the chant, and George folded his arms, waited, and smiled.

  “That’s basically correct,” he averred after several moments. “Racial biology and culture are intertwined. That’s one thing the grays are damned right about. I’m not saying that every individual of a particular race will follow lockstep with their race’s culture. There will always be outliers. There will be Caucasians who embrace African culture, Africans who embrace Caucasian culture, et cetera. That’s fine—let outliers be outliers. But let’s assure that the outliers don’t abandon their own culture due to embarrassment or self-hatred.

  “Race and culture are blessed gifts from God. When you attempt to eliminate either, we are all well aware of the result—a lifeless, disturbed, gray creature—a parody of creation. Whatever happens to us, rest assured that the grays, and their regime of perversion and morbidity, will soon wither and die. They don’t reproduce, and either the Aztecs or the Muslims, or both, will send them to hell and take their land.”

  Hans popped another beer and drank. As he did, he raised his free hand in the dual-birth sign.

  “Let us entertain a dream scenario,” George spoke wistfully into the mike. “We reassert ourselves here in America—we retake the eastern and mid states. We make peace with Aztlan. And then we liberate Europe. How do we assure our current predicament does not happen to us again in Europe?”

  Faces in the crowd looked searchingly at the speaker.

  “I’ll tell you how. First, we’ll need to institute severe immigration reform in European countries predicated on the fundamental notion that race is culture. So, if we want Europe to remain European, there must be a majority white population in each European country. The FCP hasn’t settled on a precise percentile yet, but something like at least seventy-five percent of each European country must be Caucasian. Censuses will be taken to adjust immigration policy accordingly. Europe is our homeland and our biological wellspring. It has been a white continent for thousands of years, and with luck and the grace of God it will be a white continent again someday!”