*Attention! The material involved in this story is extremely offensive and racially intolerant! Keep an open mind while reading this, it is trying to touch on the social unrest that still ripples through American society, creating conflict amongst different ethnic groups. There are many extremely offensive terms used in this, but please keep an open mind on who the main character is, and that the story is aiming to try and bring a topic to light. If you have any questions, complaints, or comments, post them! This is the opening paragraph from Violence in Motion*
Violence in motion
I breathed in again, drawing the smooth tobacco of an American cigarette, with tobacco picked by some spic that swam his ass over here to take American jobs, I breathe out, and it all tastes the same. I’m waiting on the curb outside my house for my ride to pick me up and take me to the rally. Inside my father is hard at work in his meth lab, while my mother takes care of my brother and sister, and tomorrow morning, they’ll get up and go to work; just like everyone else. Outside, I, an Aryan brother, a shock-troop for the neo-Nazi movement, wait. In, then out.
The California sun sunk into the hills, setting the sky aflame with a red fire that made the battlefield of L.A. that much more aware of its raging conflict. Slowly it began to sink into the future I will inevitable sink into too; I was left only with the soft glow of my cigarette and the humming light given off by the street lamp bolted to the ground mere feet from me. I looked up and down the street expectantly, anyone who could have been watching would have thought I was the most over confident bastard to have ever glared up and down that street, but that’s because it was too dark, if you were close, and could see my eyes, you would be able to feel the fear that shot needles into my surroundings; I never knew what was coming, it was a guerrilla war.
The lights of a car began to rise over the hill atop which my house sat and moved its way down my street. It was moving quickly but slowed almost to a stop as it reached my house, they looked out the window and down upon me with their obvious “hard” faces. I looked up and caught eyes with the nigger in the passenger’s seat, neither of us made a facial expression, only a cold stare, I could see his fear, it sprang from his eyes, telling me that he knew we were enemies, that I was dangerous; mine did the same. The car pulled off to the side of the street a few houses down from mine and parked, they left their engine on. A door behind me creaked and I jolted around to see my father emerging with a large brown paper bag in hand, he moved towards their car. He wouldn’t look at me, I knew he was in the zone, that he was on his game, at that moment there was no fear in his eyes, and if he looked at me, he would be afraid. He reached the car and placed the bag in the window, but the hand hesitated. I prayed and prayed, don’t be a gun, don’t be a gun, please don’t shoot my father. My father simply kept the same hard stare as the spooks deliberated, finally their hands met in the frame of the car and the money was exchanged. It disgusted me that the money paying for my food, my clothes, my mother’s car, my brother’s stuffed animals, my sisters’ diapers, my whole family, but I also understood that a living must be made, no matter what means.
My father turned and began walking back home, money in hand. Another car’s headlights rose and grew as they approached my house, I knew it was my ride, I would recognize that van’s sound anywhere. I flicked my cigarette aimlessly into the road and stood, expecting the van to pull up any second, it did. The door slid open and a loud burst of noise spewed out, greeting me, bringing a rare smile to my face. As I climbed in, I stopped for a second to look at my father one more time in the light. His eyes had no fear, they were cold, he was ashamed, but knew it was what he needed to do. He stood tall and strong, arms and legs bulging with muscle. He was a hardened man, having been convicted of murder he had spent many a year in federal prison, he never talked about it though; I could tell he was still trying to understand what had happened. His head was shaved, bald and shimmering in the artificial light of the lamp post. He had tattoos all over his body, all flashed his white pride, all of it was his armor, it all reflected what he stood for, he said stay away. All this took place in a second, I wanted to slow him down though, watch him walk forever, I wish I had, but I simply looked, and climbed in.
