The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  Flags waved, longnecks were brandished, and from the masses came a collective roar of excitement.

  “People of the FCP, I eagerly await the day when we can set foot on English soil and reclaim the British Isles for Caucasians once again. I look forward to using England as a springboard for the liberation of Europe, much as the Allies did long ago to foil the designs of an evil and oppressive regime. I cannot wait for the day when we push into France, fan south toward the Mediterranean, drive north toward the Baltic. My brothers and sisters, we will one day field an avenging army to reclaim our homeland. We will vanquish the Turk and his Muslim kin from our homelands with the unflinching wrath of Charles Martel and Vlad Dracula. Our pan-European army will smash the shackles binding our kinsmen!”

  The flags surged wildly in an amalgam of heraldic symbols, vertical and horizontal stripes, and a spectrum of colors.

  “I believe that whites have a right to claim Europe as a white continent. Almost every other race has a birth-continent or region to their name, where the genesis of their people, as we know them, occurred. Blacks have Africa. Asians have Asia. Mexicans and other indigenous Hispanic Indians have Central and South America. Arabs have the Near East. No one questions their right to have a majority-indigenous population and culture.

  “Every race contributes to world diversity, and other races on the planet should act as stewards for races that are up against the ropes of extinction, much as humanity does now for endangered species. I would do everything in my power to help the Africans fight to survive if Africans faced annihilation—either from conquest, disease, or miniscule birthrate. I would fight to restore Africa to black ownership. Every race has a right to survive! Every race has a right to live on this planet! Every race is entitled to a homeland! Every race is precious and beloved by God!”

  Children in the crowd were jumping up and down in excitement. Drinks were passed around, cheeks were rosy, and smiles of hope or stern looks of resolution were prevalent.

  “But, my friends,” George continued, “Every other race on the planet is robust and healthy. Their numbers are growing. But not our race—not the white race. We are dying. We’ve been dying for a century. Who is to blame for this? We are to blame for this! Our parents are to blame for this! Our grandparents are to blame for this!

  “A hundred years ago, when other races were exuding nationalism, strength, and racial pride, we were castigating ourselves and wallowing in guilt, depression, and self-hatred. Hispanics had the ‘la Raza’ movement, blacks had the NAACP. What did the whites have? Nothing but a shit-load of guilt and cowardice. And the residue of a disgusting, hateful clown show called the Ku Klux Klan that alienated the white population with its history of murder, fanaticism, and cruel evil. Where were our credible interest groups? We had none, because whites were only supposed to have a passive view of their race and culture—it was a source of embarrassment for us. When young couples of other races were expressing their love for each other and for life by having children, our couples were selfishly foregoing children to purchase more luxurious cars, houses, and vacations. When other races were extolling their national heroes and cultural traditions, we were tearing down our heroes, undermining our heritage, and spitting on our traditions.

  “Our people were already dying before the advent of militant Islam in Europe. Our people were already dying before the advent of Swan in America. Our people were already dying because our men had decided they couldn’t stay monogamous and be good father-figures. Our people were already dying because our women had decided they’d rather party-it-up with their girlfriends until they were forty than settle down with a white husband and have children. Our people were dying because they had embraced an ethos of guilt, selfishness, materialism, and apathy. Our people were dying because they had embraced an ethos of death! This ethos of death would have wiped us off the planet on its own eventually—the Muslims are just expediting the process!”

  The crowd was silent, and heads nodded in apprehension.

  “But unlike the Muslims, Swan is an internal manifestation of this white ethos of death. He and his henchmen are the monsters within us made flesh. Swan is a part of everyone in this audience, and every white person in the world—he’s an endogenous reaper sent to destroy us. He, his officers, and his regime were a century in the making. And they’re here now, glutting in perverse glory.”

  Heads shook in blood-curdling realization. Younger children had by now been hefted onto shoulders, and tried to comprehend as much of the speaker’s message as possible.

  “My friends, to varying degrees, a substantial part of the world’s population wants to see us dead. They want this land, they want its resources. And they also want to keep the European continent they’ve acquired. Innumerable battles lie before us. So let me tell you what we’re fighting for. We’re not fighting for empire. We’re not fighting to exploit other races. We’re not fighting to colonize territory at the expense of an indigenous tribe. We’re not fighting to maintain economic hegemony. We’re not fighting for oil, luxuries, glory, or sport. Somebody, please tell me, just what the hell are we fighting for?”

  Blake, slouching against his mother’s side, felt her tense up and shout.

  “We’re fighting to survive! We’re fighting for life!” she yelled.

  “You’re damn right!” The Athenian raised a fist, and his dark eyes were luminous. “Tell me,” he roared into the mike, “who here wants to survive? Who here wants to live?”

  The masses foamed with cheers and affirmation, and George blinked at the onrush of volume.

  “That’s wonderful, because there are bastards out there telling you that it’s time for you to die. That your time has come. Some of these bastards arm themselves with film studios and publishing houses. Others wield guns. Some of these people want to program your brain for self-destruction. Others of them want to split your brain with their scimitars.

  “But if we’re strong, and properly understand the dual-threat assailing us, I believe we can prevail! I want everyone here tonight to seize life with their hands and pull it in.” George gestured by pulling his hands close to his heart. “I want you to fight like hell to protect it. Precious, magical, beautiful life—embrace it—it was bestowed by God. Celebrate it, proliferate it. It’s what we’re fighting for—it’s what we’ll be dying for.”

  The crowd surged forward as if at a music venue. George made the dual-birth sign with his left hand and a fist with his right. Many in the audience mimicked him. Fists knotted throughout the audience, and vascular arms forged from lifting heavy iron strained sleeves.

  “Your enthusiasm is heartening.” The Athenian smiled. “I can sense that you feel you’re ready to besiege the House of Color, and bring normalcy to our wretched lives.”

  The congeries bellowed agreement.

  “Well, you’re not ready. And you won’t be ready until we can lay hands on adequate weaponry. What was the first thing Swan did after being sworn in? Yes, you all know—he politely asked if everyone would voluntarily turn in their firearms. And most people obeyed him! Stewart has a small cache, but not nearly enough to field an army capable of confronting the grays.

  “That’s what we’re waiting on—an arsenal. We have bright minds attempting to solve the problem at this very moment. But until we can acquire hardware capable of putting inroads into the hell-world we live in, I want to urge you to keep training your minds and bodies—men and women. There are classes starting for our female members emphasizing circuit training, close-quarter self-defense, and firearm practice. Many of the instructors teaching these classes are women who have slain Muslims with their own hands on European battlefields, so the instruction is top notch.

  “And for you men, I apologize that I cannot yet put a gun in every white hand. Continue to hone your marksmanship at our range, and continue to pump iron and polish your boxing and wrestling. We’re going to begin military drills on this very field soon—we’ve now got plenty of ex-military guys among our ranks�
�both from America and Europe. Continue to forge a man’s heart—a warrior’s heart. Those of you displaying an aptitude for striking and grappling will be invited to join my elite fight team, which practices a European martial art straight out of antiquity.

  “This martial art is called Pankration, and is a synthesis of boxing, wrestling, and submission fighting. It was developed in Greece a thousand years before Christ, and was the most popular event at the ancient Olympic games. It’s been handed down in Greece for millennia. My grandfather taught it to my father, who in turn taught it to me. I’ve used it in street fights with Turks since I was young—it works. Those of you who have been selected for Pankration training will be receiving word within the week.

  “Well, I want to thank you all for coming tonight. As usual, we’ll be breaking into small groups now. I hope to see all of you at our Halloween party next Saturday.”

  George waved a hand, and the first claps had begun when he spun around, a bit flustered, to face the masses again.

  “Oh, and, uh, one more thing.” He paused, as if struggling to remember precise wording. “As you all know, chilly weather is upon us this evening.” For the first time his voice faltered and seemed mechanical, as if he were reading from a script.

  “Such a night would be complemented by a glass of wine at home by the fire. So . . . to the couples in the audience . . . what better a night to try to conceive a white patriot?”

  George blushed, snickered a bit, but then regained his composure.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—Mr. Stewart always puts me up to these things,” he said, smiling.

  Laughter brushed through the crowd, followed by deafening applause and cheers. Dual birth signs raised among the listeners, and George descended from the stage. As he reached the grass, he was mobbed by audience members who bore him up on shoulders and carried him onto the field. After a stream of high-fives and handshakes, hugs from women and children, and autograph signing, he assumed command of a small group deep into the night.

  Chapter 15

  Vice President Smith sat on a backstage bench. He had already performed several sets of push-ups and a set of pull-ups on a bar fixed between doorjambs to engorge his muscles with blood. He was ready for the final pose down. In his hands he held two neatly-cut pages from a bodybuilding magazine and a pen. Each page featured a flexing bodybuilder holding a trophy.

  The room was filled with other heavyweights. Some checked themselves in the room’s cordoning mirrors and applied more posing oil. Others pumped out reps of pushups and pullups. He stared at his skin and frowned—he was the only gray competing.

  Hands twitching, he approached a corner where cameramen were busily snapping pics. Two colossi were the targets of their lenses, and basked in the flashes between sets of push-ups. Smith sucked in his breath and pushed through the photographers, his pen and magazine pages outstretched.

  “H—Hey guys,” stuttered the vice president. “I . . . I can’t believe I’m standing next to Joe Charles and Hassan Hawas. Are you almost done getting your pump guys?”

  Joe, a black man, looked askance at Smith as he finished his set of push-ups. Hassan stood up, and wiped some errant oil from his nose.

  “I was wondering if you guys could please sign your autographs. I . . . I’m like you’re biggest fan.” Smith confessed, and looked down.

  “Fuck you, you fag mother-fucker,” said Joe, rising in a wake of camera flash. “You think you can just waltz your gray ass in here and take my trophy? I don’t care if you’re vice president. I don’t care if you’re emperor of the whole fuckin’ world—you’re not getting my medal, you’re not getting my endorsements—you’re not gettin’ nothin’. And you sure as hell aren’t getting my autograph.”

  “Look at him,” Hassan smirked, “he’s just a bloated, gray piece of shit. Looks like the dumb-fuck has breasts instead of pecs.”

  Smith’s posture broke, and he folded his arms defensively over his chest.

  “Why are you guys being such jerks?” Smith asked, his voice wavering. “You aren’t supposed to talk to gray people like that.”

  “Listen, zombie-shit, Mr. U.S.A. is a competition for human beings, not monsters.” Hassan laughed. “You think this is some kind of game? Joe and I make our living off this. You’re not gonna come in here and steal our fuckin’ thunder just ‘cause you’re vice president. And more and more people are starting to stand up to you gray fuckers—so deal with it.”

  “Yeah, you think you’re gonna’ come in and run the table with your influence,” alleged Joe. “But it’s not happenin’ with those judges out there. They’re hand-picked from the International Bodybuilding Council. I saw them laughing at you in the pre-show judging this morning. So don’t even think about it, Bitch-Titty.”

  Smith convulsed as if stabbed, and began to retreat backward.

  “Yeah, maybe you think you’re hot-shit just because you can ruin job opportunity for people who aren’t gray. Well, no one here’s gonna’ kiss your gray ass for you. So get yourself a bra and go back to the House of Color.” Hassan stormed, and raised his middle finger.

  Smith’s jaw and cheeks went rigid, and his eyes hazed with batting eye-lashes and incipient tears. The cameramen couldn’t believe their luck, and fusilladed the vice president with video ordinance—each streaking tear was digitally caught and saved to hard drive. A desire in Smith’s mind to run from the room and building raged for supremacy, but was suppressed at the last instant.

  “Oooooh . . . sissy-ass is gonna cry and run to his president,” Hassan mocked.

  “My . . . my arms are just as big as yours,” Smith said through quavering lips.

  “Yeah, but the difference is that we’re ripped and you’re a bloated sack of gray shit. Where’s your quality? You might have twenty-six inch arms, but they don’t look like these.” The Egyptian hit a double biceps pose and the cameras revolved to fire shots before refocusing on the vice president.

  “You wanna’ talk arms, Bitch-Titty?” asked Charles. “You’re gonna’ regret it, ‘cause we’re gonna’ fuckin’ gun you down.”

  “No . . .” Smith swiped tears from his face and pointed a finger at the two men. His voice was firm. “I’m gonna’ gun you down.”

  “So bring it, Bitch-Titty!” commanded Hassan. “You think you can take our jobs—take our trophies—steal our show? Well fuck you!”

  Smith ripped up each magazine clipping and hurled the shreds into a trash can before lumbering off to a corner to apply more oil.

  Hassan poised before the heavy curtain and eyed the line of nine contestants behind him.

  “May the best man win, bro.” He nodded at Joe, who stood second in line.

  “You too, man. Well, it’s like I’ve been sayin’. You took it last year; this year I think it’s gonna’ be me.”

  “Maybe.” Hassan smiled. “Either way, let’s just hope the endorsement offers keep comin’. ‘Cause a cheap medal and a drop-in-the-bucket cash prize won’t cover more than a few months of my fuckin’ ‘roids.”

  The two men laughed until the announcer’s voice rumbled over speakers.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of America, I present to you our ten finalists for the Mr. U.S.A. Bodybuilding Competition. In this final round you will observe each contestant vie for your attention with simultaneous, freestyle posing. This is it—the final pose down! Who wants it the most?”

  Hassan flared out his chest, lifted his chin, threw back the curtain, and strode into the spotlight. The crowd detonated in cheers, and re-detonated as Charles emerged behind him. What the two favorites failed to notice was that Smith, the last competitor out, drew the biggest cheers. Techno music lasered through the speakers, and the finalists quickly tried to glean a rhythm to guide their posing. Joe and Hassan walked to front center stage, directly in front of the judges.

  The other competitors knew to stay away from that prime area for two reasons. One, they risked the post-show ire of the biggest names in the sport. Two, they preferred not to clos
ely juxtapose themselves with larger, leaner competitors and invite comparison.

  Joe and Hassan each stomped a foot down in concert, relaxed their mammoth quadriceps muscles, then flexed them hard. Each quad vivified with intricate lines and striations. Joe transitioned into a hulking “most muscular” pose, his knuckles finally meeting in a slow, downward bear hug. Hassan turned slightly, straightened his right arm to his side, and revealed a razor triceps muscle sculpted to perfect “horseshoe” spec.

  Revolving around to hit a back double biceps, Joe saw that Smith had joined them in front of the judges. As Joe raised each arm, flared his lats, and flexed his biceps until each peak had ascended to its maximum height, he saw Smith break into a back double biceps as well.

  “You asked for it, sucker,” Joe mumbled under his breath, his back to the audience. He broke the pose, glared at Smith, and with a nod of his head dared him to reinitiate the pose with him in sync.

  Smith understood, mouthing his own expletive, and the two men slowly fanned their lats to full width. The crowd roared, and a chant of “Smith! Smith! Smith!” quickly could be discerned. Joe raised his arms and bade his biceps to tower. Each man was giving their all to grow mountains. Joe’s biceps rose dramatically, and were cleanly delineated from his deltoid and forearm. Scott’s arms were massive, but lacked the definition of his opponent’s.