The primary focus of the film Hello Herman is Norman Reedus' character journalist Lax Morales' relationship with teenage school shooter Herman Howards. The primary focus of this fiction, however, is the back story about Lax's experience as an undercover journalist working with the FBI to infiltrate an Aryan Brotherhood group in Georgia. The experience haunts Lax and causes him to relate to Herman more than he'd expected. This side storyline interested me more than the main plot. I found myself wishing they'd make a full movie about the undercover work. So I took what I could from the film and play script then went off on my own. I hope you enjoy and as always, thank you for taking the time to read! xx

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings , etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way affiliated with the owners, creators or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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"Did you do it Lax?"

The glass was thick with a heavy base, and when he set it on the table the ice clinked, sounding louder than it should have in the empty bar. He stared into his drink then finally up into her eyes. "Why can't you let it go?"

"You hit a fifteen-year-old African-American kid with a bat and then watched as he was beaten to death by your... Brothers."

"They were never my brothers, Isa."

"They were that night." She countered, tracing the lip if her own tumbler with a french manicured fingertip, letting her voice accuse as harshly as her eyes.

"According to the official report it never happened." He stated.

"I've been doing a little digging. I'm a journalist for Christ's sake Lax."

"You don't trust me anymore?"

When she didn't answer he went on, "What else could I have done? If I didn't, they would have killed me. They would have killed me and started their war. I had to do it, I had no choice. Don't you understand that?"

"How about that kid? Do you think he understands?"

"I dream about him every night. Every night he comes to me and asks me how I live with myself." He swallowed hard. "Every night I give him a different answer and he says, Hey Lax I'll see you tomorrow."

"Maybe you should tell him the truth."

"And what's the truth Isa?"

"You did it to stop the war, but you didn't do it because you cared about their race war. You did it because you knew it would make you famous."

Lax bristled at her assumption but didn't bother to correct her. She'd never understand what it was like down there. It was a different country with different rules for survival. It hadn't felt like America.

"What does it matter, why I did it? I did it."

"Was it worth it?"

"Was what worth it?'

"Your fifteen minutes? Was it worth watching that boy die?" Her eyes started to blur with tears. "And was it worth having no contact with me for all that time? Not knowing where you were..."

"See the thing is If I'd have come back they would have found you and they would have killed you. And if you died before your time because of what I did..." He couldn't finish. "I had to protect you. I loved you Isa you know I did."

"You didn't answer my question."

"This isn't working is it?" He felt his own eyes start to moisten. "Us getting back together."

"You said that." She looked deeply into his steely blue irises and saw turmoil, but she attacked with sadness, regret and anger present in her own stare, which hurt him more than any words could.

"I told you I wanted to try."

"I have to go, Lax."

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head dismissively, then stood, gathering her coat and purse with a toss of that glossy black hair over her shoulder. He watched her turn and glide her perfect body, in a tight designer dress, to the door. Long legs enhanced by high heels. She always looked perfect and camera ready in case a story broke. Through the window, he observed her flag a cab. She looked back at him once and lowered herself into the taxi.

Loved he'd said loved not love. Was it a slip of the tongue? And the question; he couldn't answer her question about whether it was worth it. Things had been different since they'd tried to resume their relationship. He'd waited until he heard that Sean Gall, the head of the Aryan Brotherhood he infiltrated, had been killed in prison and his organization was in shambles before contacting Isa.

She was wrong. He had cared about the war. Ultimately, he hadn't cared about the notoriety or the prizes. Maybe at first he had, but after being in the trenches and witnessing how insane those people were he felt he had done some good. He grasped at that notion every time an image of the kid flashed in his mind.

It all started when an FBI agent Lax helped out with some information and research contacted him, offering to recommend him for the undercover assignment. When Lax met with the FBI's director of domestic terrorism Tom Bartlett and heard his spiel, he knew it would be the story of his career.

"We need an investigative journalist working counterintelligence to infiltrate the KKK's United Aryan Brotherhood of America Surville Georgia chapter." Bartlett began.

He'd never get another chance like this. Lax shifted in his chair and leaned forward as he listened.

"Since Barack Obama was elected U.S. President in 2008 the number of right-wing extremist groups has reportedly risen fivefold from 149 to 824. These people think that if they overthrow the government they'll make a better world. Their world would be a nightmare. It's not about secession anymore. Sean Gall is organizing. He's got control over Aryan Brotherhood chapters from Alabama to Tennessee. He's gearing up for a full-blown race war. You're gonna help us stop it and then you get to tell your story."

"I'm in. When do we start?"

"Right away. You leave in a few days." The director stopped and looked at the file on the desk in front of him. "Louis Anthony Xavier Morales huh?"

"I'm an eighth Mexican. Yeah. That a problem?" Lax asked.

"No, you pass fine. Just wonder if this will get personal for you."

Lax shrugged. "It's an incredible chance, a huge story."

"If you do this right. Okay Lax, you are now Vic Bishop a law school drop out from NYU wanting to be on the front lines of the race war down in Surville Georgia. You need to get close to Gall, rise in his ranks as quickly as you can. You know, be a fan, a believer. Flatter him and let him know you are a dedicated soldier but that you also have the brains to help the organization. It might be tough but if you play it like that, he's bound to take to you. The guy is an egomaniac. Here's a copy of his book. He's written a full manifesto. Read it on the plane."

Along with Sean Gall's book, he handed Lax an airline ticket, drivers license, and social security card under his new assumed name. "You'll be reporting to Ken." Bartlett gestured to the agent across the room. "He can brief you on some other things like their slang, dress codes and music. Fitting in as much as possible can mean life or death for you Lax. AB tattoos help. They'll make you look like a lifer, not just someone dabbling in their culture."

Lax nodded. "I've done my own research. You're right about tattoos." He shrugged. "I can do that."

"Committed. Good." Agent Bartlett and Lax stood and shook hands. "Good luck son. And be careful, these are serious people. They aren't playing around."

"Neither am I."

Lax knew it would be the story of his career. He didn't realize at the time how much more it would become. Ivy... Jerome… Ivy...He shook the images that the names conjured from his head. He saw them often enough in his nightmares.

He walked the six blocks back to his apartment from the bar. He yanked his necktie tie loose and pulled it off over his head stuffing the expensive silk gift Isa had given him in the pocket of his wool suit jacket. Isa was proud of his Pulitzer, but she couldn't accept what he'd done to earn it. He felt torn. She was the love of his life, or at least he'd thought so before the assignment changed him. She was still the most beautiful creäture God had ever created and he'd done everything to protect her. But now that it was safe to be with her again he couldn't deny that they had grown apart. Too far apart. He was someone else. Like a soldier home from a war, only a fellow soldier would understand what he was going through. He entered his loft apartment and headed straight to the liquor cabinet.

He liked to keep the place clean, but lately the sink full of dirty dishes and the laundry piled up in one corner of his bedroom hadn't even registered on his mental radar. Isa had noticed last time she was here. She was concerned, but he'd blown her off. Since the frequency of the dreams had increased, certain things didn't matter as much as they had before.

He had another drink and decided to go bed. He'd been dying to get out of the monkey suit all night. He stripped down to his boxers then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Standing before the mirror, the swastika tattoo on his chest stared at him. Why hadn't he gotten a cover up yet? Was it to punish himself? To make sure, he never forgot? A sick reminder. He'd covered the other tattoos, but not this one. He'd left it alone.

He flopped on the bed and mustering what little ambition he had left decided to start work early the next morning. He had emails to answer and a video blog to record. He set the alarm for an hour earlier than usual, but it felt pointless really since he couldn't sleep worth a damn. He would almost doze off then something new to worry about would pop up. His mind raced at night when he tried to sleep. He played the staring game with the alarm clock on and off all night. These days when he did manage to get some sleep, he started dreaming right away. He'd toss and turn in bed all night long and wake up feeling like he hadn't had any rest at all. Why bother?

He looked over at his desk in the shadowy pre-dawn light. He'd won a Pulitzer for writing about it. Was it worth the nightmares and the insomnia? He then glanced at the suit and crumpled tie on the floor by his bed. The clothing represented what she wanted him to be. He was supposed to meet the right people, report on the safe, correct stories and move in the ambitious circles that she did. Isa wanted him to shed his left-wing nutjob label. He sighed at the thought of the makeover she wanted to give him.

He grabbed the television remote from his bedside table and turned on the wall mounted flat screen needing the distraction. He surfed the bullshit for a bit when he thought he saw her. Wait that's... He flipped the channel back. She was on-screen talking about the importance of contrast in tattooing on one of those reality shows about a tattoo shop. She looked the same, except that her chocolate locks were now scarlet and much longer. Her mesmerizing green eyes were unmistakable and that soft, barely there drawl was distinct. She'd tried so hard to lose the accent, he caught himself smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he smiled. It was Ivy. Underneath her image read Poison Ivy, a tattoo artist at Altar. That was a shop near Chinatown. His heart began to race. She was alive. She was here. She was in New York City.