cable channel. With him, behind him, is a line of other young people, dressed the same way, expressing the same way. Their leader, this speaker, is Khalid. One name. Khalid.
“I say, my people, what I always say, and what you know to be true, every one of you—we will never be free in the white man’s country. It is only with the creation of our
own
country that we can be our own people. Only with the creation of New Africa, a land of freedom from white oppression.
“And do not doubt that we can do this. For we have a weapon before which the white is powerless—his hatred of us. Yes, you heard me right. We can use the white man’s hatred for us against him. I say, my beautiful people, do to the whites what they fear most. Fulfill their own worst stereotypes of us.”
Khalid’s long and slender fingers are intertwined before him, prayer-like. His head is tilted forward so that he is peering intensely out from under his eyebrows.
“Understand the devil,” he says. “Understand his breeding.
“First among the devil’s kind is the Jew, killer of the black man Jesus, the most cunning of our enemies, who manipulates the world by controlling the movies, the television, the newspapers. And we can never forget that the holocaust he suffered is but a drop in the bucket compared to the holocaust he perpetrated on us by masterminding the slave trade, is but a drop in the bucket compared to the genocide we are suffering even now.
“Next most evil is the Asian, by far the most inferior, a weakling who branched off from the sick brother we banished to Europe and who bred like vermin to number in the billions. The Asian is here now, infiltrating our neighborhoods with the help of Jew bankers, to take our money, our hope.
“Next most evil is the common white, a pathetic tool of the Jew, always the overseer, never the overlord. His role in the devil’s world is to police us, which the Jew and Asian are afraid to do themselves. White men prostitute themselves as abusers of law in the name of law; his women prostitute themselves because it is the devil’s way to tempt us with the whore-slut.
“And last among the devil’s people is the Latino, lackey to his white masters, brought here to do the work we refuse to do ourselves. Creatures of so little pride they will gladly be maids or dishwashers, ditchdiggers and busboys; like the Asian, short, and spiteful for it.”
Khalid isn’t always so radical, but he knows that this is just another cable show to most people watching, which means he might have only a few seconds to get people’s attention before they use their remote control.
Joan Price is among those watching. She’s a middle-aged white woman, short, stocky, with badly permed, tightly curled brown hair. She watches Khalid. She records the show. She takes notes.
When it ends she turns off the television and leans back on her couch, tired. Always tired, never quitting.
She looks up at the wall. At a picture of her husband and daughter.
Six months ago they were here, in their suburban Maryland house. Joan was not here. She was working. FBI Special Agent Joan Price. Outstanding Joan Price. Working.
She came home that night. She called out for them when she came in the front door, and when they didn’t answer she went downstairs, expecting to find them playing Ping-Pong or doing homework. Instead she found her nightmare.
Her husband’s body was stuffed in a closet, as if the killer thought hiding it would help. Joan Price had found that body first and, trembling but thinking, searched the house, gun drawn, not knowing if she wanted to find her daughter. But she did find her. In her room upstairs. Thirteen years old. Beaten to death with her own baseball bat.
Joan stared at that body She didn’t faint or scream or cry. She stared. And felt a monster rise in herself. The devil. Because on a part of the bloody sheet that still was white, the sheet on which her blond daughter lay with brains spilled and face
“I say, my people, what I always say, and what you know to be true, every one of you—we will never be free in the white man’s country. It is only with the creation of our
own
country that we can be our own people. Only with the creation of New Africa, a land of freedom from white oppression.
“And do not doubt that we can do this. For we have a weapon before which the white is powerless—his hatred of us. Yes, you heard me right. We can use the white man’s hatred for us against him. I say, my beautiful people, do to the whites what they fear most. Fulfill their own worst stereotypes of us.”
Khalid’s long and slender fingers are intertwined before him, prayer-like. His head is tilted forward so that he is peering intensely out from under his eyebrows.
“Understand the devil,” he says. “Understand his breeding.
“First among the devil’s kind is the Jew, killer of the black man Jesus, the most cunning of our enemies, who manipulates the world by controlling the movies, the television, the newspapers. And we can never forget that the holocaust he suffered is but a drop in the bucket compared to the holocaust he perpetrated on us by masterminding the slave trade, is but a drop in the bucket compared to the genocide we are suffering even now.
“Next most evil is the Asian, by far the most inferior, a weakling who branched off from the sick brother we banished to Europe and who bred like vermin to number in the billions. The Asian is here now, infiltrating our neighborhoods with the help of Jew bankers, to take our money, our hope.
“Next most evil is the common white, a pathetic tool of the Jew, always the overseer, never the overlord. His role in the devil’s world is to police us, which the Jew and Asian are afraid to do themselves. White men prostitute themselves as abusers of law in the name of law; his women prostitute themselves because it is the devil’s way to tempt us with the whore-slut.
“And last among the devil’s people is the Latino, lackey to his white masters, brought here to do the work we refuse to do ourselves. Creatures of so little pride they will gladly be maids or dishwashers, ditchdiggers and busboys; like the Asian, short, and spiteful for it.”
Khalid isn’t always so radical, but he knows that this is just another cable show to most people watching, which means he might have only a few seconds to get people’s attention before they use their remote control.
Joan Price is among those watching. She’s a middle-aged white woman, short, stocky, with badly permed, tightly curled brown hair. She watches Khalid. She records the show. She takes notes.
When it ends she turns off the television and leans back on her couch, tired. Always tired, never quitting.
She looks up at the wall. At a picture of her husband and daughter.
Six months ago they were here, in their suburban Maryland house. Joan was not here. She was working. FBI Special Agent Joan Price. Outstanding Joan Price. Working.
She came home that night. She called out for them when she came in the front door, and when they didn’t answer she went downstairs, expecting to find them playing Ping-Pong or doing homework. Instead she found her nightmare.
Her husband’s body was stuffed in a closet, as if the killer thought hiding it would help. Joan Price had found that body first and, trembling but thinking, searched the house, gun drawn, not knowing if she wanted to find her daughter. But she did find her. In her room upstairs. Thirteen years old. Beaten to death with her own baseball bat.
Joan stared at that body She didn’t faint or scream or cry. She stared. And felt a monster rise in herself. The devil. Because on a part of the bloody sheet that still was white, the sheet on which her blond daughter lay with brains spilled and face
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