WAV? The man avoided fights every chance he could and seemed to have set himself up as Dugar’s bullshit counselor or something. Especially when it came to keeping the peace between Dugar and Slayer. He did owe Bean though. Being a vet, the man had stitched him up and pumped him with antibiotics after that towelhead bitch stabbed him. It killed him that her ass was still running around free in America, unpunished, mooching off American money, using up America’s resources and opportunities then trashing America and what it stood for while she did it.
Dugar spat in disgust and shifted his hold on his assault rifle. He’d like to put a bullet right between her lying eyes. That’d be a shot worthy of Sugar. Oiled to perfection, Sugar was his prized possession. This evening she was smelling sweet and begging for some action, even if it was to execute dummy targets—again.
He was the only man at the camp who owned a Sturmgewehr 44. One marked by its original Nazi owner, who’d notched his kills into the stock butt. One hundred and ten to be exact. Dugar was still making up his mind on whether to add his six to it or not. He hadn’t killed them with Sugar. But getting that bitch any way he could would be a Sugar-worthy notch.
There’d been a few modifications done to make Sugar a damn good automatic, but otherwise she was a part of the Third Reich’s attempt at setting the world right, a part of history he could put his hands on and feel all the way to his bones. He usually didn’t bring this baby out of hiding, but when Slayer took over the reins of WAV after Lloyd Benson’s middle-of-the-night departure, Dugar had wanted a sharper edge among the men at the camp. Dugar had wanted something Slayer didn’t have and couldn’t get fast.
Dugar had hit pay dirt with the StG 44 rifle then rubbed it in even more with the kick-ass ’57 Chevy he’d stolen a few weeks back from a towelhead’s whore, who had no right to be driving an American classic car.
Slayer’s brown eyes were so green with envy that Dugar was now looking twice over his shoulder at night and stealing C4 from WAV’s armory every day—his get-out-of-jail-free card.
Anywhere he lived, any place he went, he always had an escape plan that he shared with no one. He also kept secret his large cache of weapons in his own brand of “secure” self-storage and only had a few of his guns on hand. Even as a kid, anything important to him he’d kept hidden. That way his father could never find and destroy Dugar’s shit ever again.
Over the years he’d gotten really good at hiding everything, himself included. He’d even managed to steal the gun he eventually killed his father with years before the deed. Cops never found the weapon and really hadn’t suspected that a twelve-year-old would have pulled off an execution-style murder.
“Lying lips are an abomination to me.” Slayer punched the air, working himself into a fire-and-brimstone lather.
“To the Lord,” Dugar whispered. “Proverbs. ‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.’ He fucking thinks he’s God.” Dugar knew his Bible. He could blame his father for that. The drunk bastard had beat it into him with a rod every day and the last thing Dugar wanted or needed was another son-of-a-bitchin’ preacher shoving things down his throat.
“Politicians lie,” Slayer shouted. “Government officials lie then send their murdering lackeys after us innocents. They, the FBI, the ATF, are abominations who are unfit to live. We, the true seedline, are the future of America. We are the rightful heirs. The rightful rulers. I am the rightful leader and we must show them the way.”
“I’m gonna throw up if I hear another word.” Dugar turned around and left. Slayer was no Lloyd. Lloyd was the real deal when it came to explosives and knowing what lies the government could tell. Dugar would never tell a soul, because to say anything to anyone would get him killed, but Lloyd knew McVeigh, and
Dugar spat in disgust and shifted his hold on his assault rifle. He’d like to put a bullet right between her lying eyes. That’d be a shot worthy of Sugar. Oiled to perfection, Sugar was his prized possession. This evening she was smelling sweet and begging for some action, even if it was to execute dummy targets—again.
He was the only man at the camp who owned a Sturmgewehr 44. One marked by its original Nazi owner, who’d notched his kills into the stock butt. One hundred and ten to be exact. Dugar was still making up his mind on whether to add his six to it or not. He hadn’t killed them with Sugar. But getting that bitch any way he could would be a Sugar-worthy notch.
There’d been a few modifications done to make Sugar a damn good automatic, but otherwise she was a part of the Third Reich’s attempt at setting the world right, a part of history he could put his hands on and feel all the way to his bones. He usually didn’t bring this baby out of hiding, but when Slayer took over the reins of WAV after Lloyd Benson’s middle-of-the-night departure, Dugar had wanted a sharper edge among the men at the camp. Dugar had wanted something Slayer didn’t have and couldn’t get fast.
Dugar had hit pay dirt with the StG 44 rifle then rubbed it in even more with the kick-ass ’57 Chevy he’d stolen a few weeks back from a towelhead’s whore, who had no right to be driving an American classic car.
Slayer’s brown eyes were so green with envy that Dugar was now looking twice over his shoulder at night and stealing C4 from WAV’s armory every day—his get-out-of-jail-free card.
Anywhere he lived, any place he went, he always had an escape plan that he shared with no one. He also kept secret his large cache of weapons in his own brand of “secure” self-storage and only had a few of his guns on hand. Even as a kid, anything important to him he’d kept hidden. That way his father could never find and destroy Dugar’s shit ever again.
Over the years he’d gotten really good at hiding everything, himself included. He’d even managed to steal the gun he eventually killed his father with years before the deed. Cops never found the weapon and really hadn’t suspected that a twelve-year-old would have pulled off an execution-style murder.
“Lying lips are an abomination to me.” Slayer punched the air, working himself into a fire-and-brimstone lather.
“To the Lord,” Dugar whispered. “Proverbs. ‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.’ He fucking thinks he’s God.” Dugar knew his Bible. He could blame his father for that. The drunk bastard had beat it into him with a rod every day and the last thing Dugar wanted or needed was another son-of-a-bitchin’ preacher shoving things down his throat.
“Politicians lie,” Slayer shouted. “Government officials lie then send their murdering lackeys after us innocents. They, the FBI, the ATF, are abominations who are unfit to live. We, the true seedline, are the future of America. We are the rightful heirs. The rightful rulers. I am the rightful leader and we must show them the way.”
“I’m gonna throw up if I hear another word.” Dugar turned around and left. Slayer was no Lloyd. Lloyd was the real deal when it came to explosives and knowing what lies the government could tell. Dugar would never tell a soul, because to say anything to anyone would get him killed, but Lloyd knew McVeigh, and
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