Hans knew the story well—it began in 2052. Italy, the European country with the lowest white birthrate, fell that year in a sudden explosion of Muslim confederacy and boldness. Elements of the Italian army and nationalist units attempted to reassert order. They were defeated. The Moroccan Sheik of Italy, Mustapha Al Muhommad, charged the Italian president and parliament with declaring war on Islam. He had the president and legislators arrested, tried them in an Islamic court of law in Rome, and personally signed the court’s recommendation for beheading. One after one, the members of the Italian parliament lost their heads in a grimy basement on a bleak, September afternoon. The head of the Italian president, Giuseppi Graziani, was placed in a box with preserving agents and presented to Al Muhommad as a gift. Shortly thereafter, the segment of Italy’s Jewish population that hadn’t yet fled was rounded up—and seen no more.
The shockwaves from the seizure of power in Italy reverberated through every mosque in Europe. Muslims began to realize that, as a majority or near majority in nearly every European country, they possessed the power to invert the social order and impose their will on their cowardly Caucasian hosts. While white Italian families were being gunned down in the streets and subjected to genocide, the leaders of Germany, France, and England busied themselves with how best to supply the multiplying Islamic population of Italy with food and schools.
“We must come to the realization that the Muslim citizens of Italy have asserted their identity,” the British prime minister, Charles Flemming, had uttered over television after the extermination of the Italian government. “We must realize that the day of white, Christian Europe is in its twilight. But this is a good thing—the intolerance with which white Europeans have treated others will not be missed. Therefore, it is with open arms, sensitivity, and tolerance that I welcome the Islamic Union of Italy into the European fold.
“The birth of nations, like the birth of human beings, is often painful and bloody. Let us not dwell on the bloodshed incident to nationhood, or persecute those that spilled it. Surely this bloodshed was the direct result of Christian Italy’s insensitivity and its rejection of the Islamic desire for acceptance and belonging. We must join hands with the women and men of this new nation, and invite them to our table. It is our duty. We must devote our economies to bettering theirs, we must feed their poor, we must offer our daughters to their young men in marriage, we must meld with them until we are indistinguishable and perceive each other as we truly are—as sisters and brothers.”
Hans would listen to archived audio feeds of that speech on the internet and laugh sardonically. “The hell if I’ll sacrifice myself to the diversity gods,” he’d swear. The entire Italian government was executed in a day, the people were being subjected to genocide, and what did the Western European nations do? They feted the blood-spattered executioners, and their ever-growing reinforcements, with a banquet of U.N. provisions.
A week later, Turkey invaded Greece. Bolstered by a century of U.S. military subsidization and arms deals, the Turks possessed a decided advantage over the Hellenes. Still, they met with fierce resistance fueled by the awareness of Italy’s fate. Russia spared three armored divisions from its frontier war with China to augment its Orthodox ally. The Greeks were further bolstered by thousands of Italian refugees who had fled east rather than west or north into Islamified France and Germany. Volunteers from Poland and Romania rounded out the force. For several months the war raged, and the pan-European army began eroding the Turkish foothold. Slowly, steadily, the Sultan’s troops were pushed back to the Aegean on the country’s southeastern coast. But not before Athens burned, its streets littered with Greek dead.
Then an Algerian-led Islamic army marched out from Italy, pushed into northern Greece, and began massacring the unguarded population. As northern Greece fell, so too did the supply lines from Russia and other European countries sympathetic to the struggle. The Turkish navy, primed for thalassocracy from decades of U.S. funding, hammered the pan-Euro force with offshore missile bombardments. Fighters from the principal Turkish aircraft carrier sank the supply vessels bound for Greece in the Mediterranean, “remember Lepanto” a battle cry on pilots’ lips. Hundreds of thousands of Turkish reinforcements poured into southeastern Greece by the week. And innumerable waves of North Africans were ferried to Cyprus by the Turkish navy. The Greek population there was overwhelmed and exterminated, and Turkey declared ownership of the island to a craven European Union. As the European army on the Greek mainland withered from nonexistent direct supply and infrequent air-drops, England, Germany, and France averted their gaze and attempted to placate their own Muslim populations with more governmental aid and racial and religious preferences.
But the “French youths” responsible for the incessant arson of the past fifty years began to flex their demographics. The youths had grown up to become the thankless, bitter founts of Islamic radicalism critics warned they would become. And as the fires of insurrection and religious zeal swept over the Italian-French border, the sons and daughters from former French colonies took their cue to raise hell. The country of Napoleon ignited in a national conflagration. The army was called up to quell the sedition, but many soldiers did not report for duty—and others fled after serving a short while. Meanwhile, gun-brandishing bands of Africans roamed the streets of Paris and major French cities. They robbed, raped, and murdered the whites they found, planting fluttering pennons depicting Islamic crescent moons on the governmental buildings and stores they sacked.
To the east, Germany’s robust Turkish population was operating as a fifth column, and cheered on their brethren battling the Greeks. German nationalists languished in jail cells for “inciting hatred” against the Turks, while Turk mobs set churches ablaze, robbed, and murdered with little or no reprisal. As a child, Hans would spend hours flipping through the massed newspapers and photos his father had collected memorializing the horrors of that period.
The French-Jewish population suffered terribly. Of the six-hundred-thousand Jews in France, approximately half achieved a timely flight to America or Israel. Two-thirds of the remaining three-hundred thousand were caught and executed—and names like Dijon and Rouen suddenly joined ranks with Auschwitz and Treblinka.
Two months into the chaos, the United States landed a large army at Caen. Perhaps the soldiers were expecting flowers, chocolates, and smiling women and children as their motorcades passed through the French cities. Instead, they received molotovs, sniper fire, and cold hate from rooftops and shot-out shops. The cheering French women, the happy children that had greeted American soldiers a century prior were gone. Many of their descendants were rotting on pavement in sticky crimson. Others were en route to Africa or Turkey on slave ships. The lucky ones had made it to European countries that had yet to fulminate in Islamic wrath.
In their stead were Muslim women, wraith-like in the smoke, eyes peering from behind niqabs. Five or six children followed each woman, the desire for life and strength radiating from their dark little eyes. Their parents had endured inconvenience and financial burden to create them. Rich, vibrant, war-winning life. Life predicated on tradition and faith. And nature was rewarding them with the shell of a continent upon which to propagate and make their own.
On the journey through France alone, U.S. forces suffered eight-percent casualties from hit-and-run operations. The army’s destination was Italy, perceived to be the heart and wellspring of the insurrection. As the American navy shadowed the progress of its army along the Mediterranean, the Turkish navy retreated. American generals understood this as a sign of comity, and representatives from both countries labored intensely over negotiation tables deep into nights. After all, Turkey had long been a major recipient of U.S. foreign aid. The U.S. had stubbornly lobbied for its admittance to the EU, chided Germany for its initial reluctance to grant Turks full citizenship, and touted the country as its firm ally. Even now, the U.S. government was willing to overlook the massacres at Zagoria, Thessalonika, Athens, and Crete, and the o
ngoing war in Greece, to negotiate peace. A settlement was reached, hands were shaken, and the friction between the two countries was, for the moment, eased.
Upon arrival in Italy, the Americans never received the pitched battle they yearned for. Instead, they found casualty-rich urban warfare more to the Muslims’ liking. U.S. warships lined the Italian coast and pounded suspected redoubts. Tactical bombers embarked on a litany of sorties, but hawkish newspapers could only cite the payloads they dropped. Meanwhile, U.S. casualties averaged two thousand a week, principally from suicide bombers. Those who sought immolation and its accompanying afterlife of bliss and gorgeous women strapped themselves with the new “Mecca-9”—a personal bomb small enough to avoid visual detection but packing enough force to level a city block.
The Americans found themselves entombed in decaying Italian cities—the cities of a dead people—the cities of a people who had lost the desire to exist. Innocuous looking Muslims would loiter beside an abandoned apartment building converted to a barracks, flustered interpreters attempting to comprehend their wringing hands and rapid outpouring of Arabic. A button would depress for five seconds—and in a typhonic onrush of force, flame, and sound, the bomber and soldiers outside would ash, and the sleeping soldiers within would never awaken.
Outside the cities, the roads and forests teemed with Islamic zealots shouldering Iranian-made rockets capable of piercing all armor in the U.S. arsenal. Convoys would erupt in successive explosions as rocket trails registered from left and right. U.S. jets would screech overhead, and deforest the land with rolling fireballs. Handfulls of militants would be caught in those flames—but no more. Back on the road, tens of millions of dollars of U.S. ordinance would lie in ruin, the scorched metal chummed with the blood of U.S. soldiers.
Hans heard the faint notes of Moonlight Sonata permeating through the door, and he paused to contemplate more. It was no wonder that the Americans retreated after three months of occupation. Let the Europeans solve their own problems, the press said. Fearing a return march through France, preparations were made for an evacuation by troop transports. The White House heralded the departure as a proper homecoming after defeating the Muslim army—but even the most ardent jingoes knew the truth. Half the army was withdrawn on large aircraft—the other half boarded naval vessels. The navy had been divided into four battle groups—two on Italy’s west coast, two on its east coast to garner a more expansive range for offshore bombardments.
As the soldiers were boarding their transports on the east coast at Brindisi, an echelon of fighter jets streaked in low. Those knowledgeable of aircraft observing the planes tagged them as sixth generation U.S. jet fighters sporting full radar immunity. They were right about the sophistication and place of manufacture. But as fully-loaded troop transports dichotomized in weddings of orange flame and black smoke, they knew the American jets weren’t piloted by Americans. Turkish pilots watched troop transports detonate on their targeting monitors as thousands of lives were snuffed with each impact. And on the horizon to the east, their provenance miles upon miles away, gleaming arrays of missiles launched from Turkish vessels.
Twenty-seven thousand Americans lost their lives on the beaches and in the waters of Brindisi. Unlike Dunkerque, there was no nick-of-time navy to save the day. The evacuation force at Ravenna was hit seconds later, and within five minutes half of the American naval presence in the Mediterranean had been lost along with forty-three thousand U.S. soldiers. American fighter jets scrambled from the remaining fleet and engaged the Turks—but not before the damage was inflicted. A massive naval battle waged in the following hours, and the two sides, essentially equally armed, achieved mutual destruction.
Many in the U.S. called for the nuclear annihilation of Istanbul for Turkey’s perfidy. Articles were written paralleling the episode to Pearl Harbor, and the president vowed to create a retaliatory, conventional army with which to extract vengeance. As war was declared and the American troop build-up began, other European countries succumbed to their own Islamic revolutions. The Turkish army marched north into Germany, east to Poland, then plunged into Austria. Vienna, the historical bane of Turkish besieging forces, was turned into a fire storm. Incendiary bombs guzzled down its night skies and fireballs careened through streets like the sun’s spurned children.
Meanwhile, suicide bombers weren’t the only ones sacrificing themselves. In Britain, Prime Minister Charles Flemming donned a white mantle. Empty hands outstretched, he and a dozen members of parliament walked toward a howling army of Arabs, Pakistanis, and Islamified Caribbean Africans that had massed at Whitehall. Effigies of the Pope, the President of the United States, and the Prime Minister himself smoldered among the crowd. Live news cameras charted Flemming’s course. The wedge of pious-looking, dignified white men and women were admitted to the convocation’s inner sanctum—a nucleus of frustration and loathing under a gray London sky.
There, standing upon a statue of Charles I, was the self-proclaimed Sheik of Britain, Adham bin Ahmoud. A lone cameraman had entered the horde along with the prime minister’s unarmed retinue, and his expletives flavored the scene with horror as ranks were closed and the group found themselves trapped.
Ahmoud chuckled to himself as he faced the somber, bronze visage of the long-dead king. Balancing upon the front of the statue’s horse, he urinated on the king’s carven features. The crowd laughed and cheered, electric with the desecration, but quieted as the stream ran dry, and their leader adjusted himself.
“Adham bin Ahmoud, you are my brother and my friend,” began Flemming, hands extended like a suppliant before a god. “I can feel your anger, your frustration. Come to my table and dine with me this evening. This country is your country, too. We will discuss your demands, and I will do my utmost to meet them. Impart to me your concerns for your people, your fears, your desires—cry upon my shoulder. I come to you in peace and love. The holy diversity you bring to this country is invaluable. Without you we would be dwelling in profane ignorance of Color and multiculturalism.” The parliamentarians echoed the sentiment of their leader by raising their hands in a pseudo-religious gesture.
Ahmoud’s laughter was fraught with adrenaline. His chest heaved, his eyes sizzled with elemental hate. For snailing seconds he glowered at the prime minister, lips distended with contempt, chest heaving at a faster rate.
“My brother, tell me what you want. Just tell me what you want, and lay to rest this resentment that consumes you,” Flemming pleaded, stepping toward the statue.
“You really want to know what I want?” The sheik snarled, and surveyed his men. They laughed raucously.
“Anything, Sheik Ahmoud. Come to my table. I can give even greater preferences for government jobs and contracts. I can compel private employers to triple their valuation of Muslim applications. I can offer your youths ten times the acceptance rate at Oxford—and free tuition. I can offer more severe punishment for insensitive white Britons that resent your preferences. I can imprison the members of the British National Party. I can . . . I can . . .” The prime minister began to wither under the dark gaze.
“What I want, Prime Minister Flemming,” Ahmoud grinned, “is your land and your wealth. And I intend to take both—right after I take your life.”
The sheik jumped downward, bisht fluttering, and tackled Flemming. Sitting up on his chest, he gazed one last time into the milky blue eyes before scratching them out with his fingers. Drawing a curved dagger, he set it a’twirl in the prime minister’s howling mouth, digging into gums, tongue, and throat. The parliamentarians were dragged down by ravenous mobs, and the live feed terminated as the camera hit the street.
Every time Hans watched that media clip, he wanted to vomit. He couldn’t decide what was more sickening—the words that flowed from the prime minister’s mouth—or the blood that gurgled up afterward.
In the coming weeks, Britain endured the pattern of conquest practiced on the continent. Its leaders were murdered, its Jewish population was targeted and kille
d off, and the rest of its white citizens were dispossessed, disenfranchised, slain for sport, and enslaved. Months passed, and by the time the second American force was prepared to deploy to Europe, enthusiasm had waned in the face of monolithic Islamic victories. Politicians warned of a second Italian fiasco—and their concerns were not unfounded. The occupation of England or France would now be comparable to the occupation of a Middle-Eastern country, with all the accompanying partisan operations, sniper attacks, and suicide bombers. There was no accessible avenue from which to hit Turkey—short of nuclear attack. But aside from humanitarian concerns, North Korea, Iran, and China vowed nuclear retaliation if Turkey were struck with unconventional arms. Long range bombers decimated Istanbul with conventional payloads, and American leaders called it an even payback.
As the United States hung its head over its impotency, pockets of European patriots throughout Europe began to lose hope of liberation. The pan-European force fighting the Turks in Greece was beaten. The world economy foundered as European powers sank into destitution. China assimilated the bulk of continental Asia, conquered Australia, and continued its struggle against Russia. Turmoil and panic seethed in America. How long would the Atlantic be an adequate buffer? Whispers of “Aztlan” traveled through Los Angeles barrios—the “Anglos” were dying—the power balance was shifting—soon would be the time to rise up and seize real power. Not the spurious power of an elected Hispanic mayor. Not the promises of a glib congresswoman. Real power—a nation of pueblos—a nation of bronze.
Hans shook his head to snap out of the daydream. Why was he thinking about these things now? He knew why, and he needed reassurance from his father.
“Come in, you big buffoon,” his father called through the oak.
“How’d you know I was here?” Hans asked, pushing open the door and walking in.
“You think I can’t hear the floorboards groan when there’s a three-hundred pound man standing on ‘em?”
The Gods of Color Page 24
