Realizing his gun was missing, the guard turned around and snarled at Rip with all the ferocity of a wild animal. Relying on instinct (and the training of many a violent movie), Rip leveled the gun at the guard’s head and squeezed the trigger, splattering his gnarled and negligible brains against the cinderblock wall. His now lifeless body slumped like an anchor upon the blond below him, pinning her flailing body.
Expecting a welcome cry of gratitude, Rip was astonished to find the victim now screaming at him. “YOU KILLED HIM, YOU HATE-FILLED NEO-NAZI RACIST! IT WAS YOUR FAULT HE WAS RAPING ME! YOUR WHITE PRIVILEGE MADE HIM DO IT! OPPRESSION! MICRO-AGGRESSIONS! LEGACY OF SLAVERY! JIM CROW! RA-”
The gun in Rip’s hand issued another blasting report as the proctor’s blond head exploded in a fine red pomegranate mist. Her insane carping immediately ceased.
There was a commotion behind him. Rip turned around to see the other guards scurrying out of their lounges, squaring off against him at the opposite side of the factory floor, drawing their motley array of weaponry toward him. The white workers, realizing they were in the line of fire, all ducked below their workbenches.
Rip didn’t know what to do, but he felt strangely confident in this turn of events. He realized, for the first time in his life, what it was to be a man: staring down death, his body trembling with fear and adrenaline, and his awakened spirit welcoming all of it.
The guards screamed various orders, half of which contradicted each other, and none of which made any sense given the circumstance. Rip paid attention to none of it, and simply raised his weapon toward them. Screaming ensued as they ran for cover, while simultaneously opening fire—some with revolvers, others with rifles, still others with fully automatic machine guns.
Having dropped all pretenses that competence was equally distributed amongst the races, Rip saw clearly what would transpire: The idiotic guards would expire their ammunition in a frantic spraying of bullets, with the likelihood of contact with Rip near zero. So Rip decided to stand where he was, perfectly still, without firing a shot, and simply bide his time.
The guards ducked behinds desks and lounges and whatever they could find, firing their guns helter-skelter around the room—just as Rip predicted. And, just as he predicted, they soon were out of ammo. It was then that Rip began his casual walk up to each guard, one by one, summarily executing them. After he felled a few, the remainder realized what their fates would be if they stuck around, and so bolted for the exits. They did not get too far, though—Rip, though aged, was still spry enough to give them chase and gun them down in their tracks.
Upon re-entering the factory through the shredded tarp, with the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air and ears ringing, Rip was greeted by looks of hushed astonishment from the white workers. Some were frightened, but many more appeared joyous—hopeful, even. The proctors looked around at the bloody mess with horror, and at Rip with dread. Were they next?
This newly minted Rip, with his courage and sober discernment, quickly assessed the situation and came to realize another novelty in this new life of his: Here he stood in a position of power, where the meek loved him and the evil feared him. What was this called but leadership? And so as a leader—however unexpected and perhaps undeserving he may have been of such a designation—he decided he must lead. And leading begins with stating a clear and unequivocal goal.
Summoning his ancient training in the far more ancient art of oratory, and desiring something pithy yet commanding, he bellowed forth simply: “My name is Rip Van Whitey. And this bullsh*t ends today!”
He commanded the proctors gather in the corner with the deceased rapist and rapee, lest they meet the same fate. Of the workers, he instructed them to gather all the weapons and ammunition they could find.
Were they to kill the proctors? “No,” explained Rip. “That would be a waste of ammunition. Let them deal with the ‘diversity’ that comes looking for them when their baubles stop coming.”
So where to next? The slums? “No,” said Rip. “The slums are not our problem. Our problem resides on Glitterati Hills. Exact our vengeance upon them, take back what is rightfully ours, and the rest will prove a mop-up job.”
The workers were happy to oblige. They gathered the weapons and ammunition from the snuffed guards, packed up their provisions in knapsacks, and vacated the factory, leaving the proctors to beg for forgiveness and tremble in fear as night approached.
Outside, Rip and his crew lit their torches, hoisted their rucksacks, and began their long ascent, guns in hand, up to the gates of Glitterati Hills.
NOTE: The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little superstition; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:
“The story of Rip Van Whitey may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old white settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Whitey myself who, when I saw him in the factory, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. R. K.”
As to what happened to old Rip and his scrappy band of rebels who marched upon Glitterati Hills? Well, that story has not yet been written, and only time will tell how our tale is to be told.
A special thanks to my [new] friends over at AngeryAmerican.net, the regulars here at AWD (Snake Oiler, David in SC, Magnum, etc.), and the “geezer grunts over at the veterans’ rest home”—hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And many thanks for the words of encouragement. The best I can hope for with my writing is to give fellow patriots something of interest, if not something inspiring, to work with. I hope I achieved at least some degree of such success, at least some of the time. If not, I’m sure you—and/or others—will let me know 😉