Everybody Hates Nazi Necromancers
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The flashback at the beginning takes lines directly from the Supernatural episode "Everybody Hates Hitler."
Flashback:
Sam: "The Thule Society, right. They were Nazis."
Dean: "Nazi necromancers."
Aaron: "Necro-who?"
Sam: "Necromancers. Witches. Sorcerors. Dark magic. Mostly with dead people."
Aaron: "Okay. All I know about the Thule is that they were this twisted secret fraternity hell-bent on world domination that sponsored the early days of the Nazi party."
Sam (scanning a log-book): "The Thule were murdering Jews, Gypsies, just about anybody and everybody. Then trying to magically reanimate them. They were trying to figure out a way to bring their own dead back to life. Which I'm guessing they figured out because this last page is a roster of every dead Thule member who was reanimated."
Dean (glancing at the log-book in Sam's hands): "Anything in there about how to kill 'em?"
Sam: "Apparently they experimented with that too: Head shot. But if you don't burn the body within twelve hours, it reanimates again."
Dean: "Nazi bastards."
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Right here, right now:
"I hate you," Samantha Jeffries hissed.
"I love you too," her father replied. "Now get started on those boxes there."
Samantha kicked a headless doll across the floor of the dirty attic. "Why do I have to do this anyway?"
"Because you stayed out past your curfew," her father reminded her, leaning against a wall of the attic and trying not to laugh out loud at the sight of his fourteen-going-on-thirty daughter knocking another cobweb out of the way. Willard Jeffries wasn't a cruel man. But the Dalai Lama himself would've said that Samantha Jeffries was a brat.
The brat in question tugged on the lid of a box. "If a nest of spiders comes spilling out of here and bites me and kills me, you're going to feel horrible."
"I'll ask Miley Cyrus to come to your funeral."
Samantha paused. "Really?"
"No. She doesn't wear enough clothing. She'd give your grandfather a heart-attack." Willard pointed at the stack of boxes. "Get on with it already." Willard wanted to watch the game and his daughter was dragging this out.
"What the hell is all of this crap anyway?" Samantha asked, pulling an album out of the box.
"Language."
Samantha started flipping through the pages of the album. "Uh, this is so creepy. Why does grandma have this?"
"In a time long, long, ago, before Facebook, there were these things called ca-mer-as. They took pic-tures."
"Dad, no one uses Facebook anymore. And these don't look like normal photographs."
Willard leaned over his daughter's shoulder. "They're daguerreotypes. That's what photos used to look like."
"They're freaky. Like, why would anyone want to look like that?" Samantha paused on a particularly disturbing photo of a baby in a christening gown, a dead-eyed expression frozen on the child's face and a ghostly afterimage of the child appearing in the background.
"They didn't have Snapchat, you know. This was state-of-the-art to them." Willard smiled maliciously. "You know they used to take pictures of dead people. So that they could remember them."
"What the fuck?" Samantha shuddered.
"Language."
But Samantha wasn't listening. She'd turned a few more pages and was staring at photo that, aside for the sepia tinge, was of rather good quality. "Hey, isn't that Mayor Higgins?"
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Willard knew that no one would believe him. He knew that if he was going to prove what Mayor Beauregard Higgins really was, that it would have to be in public.
Slipping through a side door of the conference room, Willard sidled along the wall. The room was packed with reporters and Higgins' supporters. In addition to a lone news camera, several camera phones were trained on the podium.
"That's why ah promise to put more jobs out there," Higgins explained, a slight twang creeping into his voice as he spoke from the podium. "This town deserves a mayor who'll work for its interests. Lobbyists and government big-wigs have been interfering for far too long. By reelecting me as your mayor, you'll be voicing your desire to push these fat cats out of—"
Willard slid the gun out of his coat.
It took a moment for anyone to notice, but when they did, panic broke out.
"Oh my God!"
"He has a gun!"
The shot rang out as screams filled the room.
And the scene shifted, the unimaginatively-titled "Attack on a Small-town Mayor" re-looping to the beginning as another YouTube video queued up.
"That's it?" Dean asked, gazing at the laptop and sounding less than impressed.
Sam looked at his brother. "Seriously? You just watched this mayor Higgins get shot in the head, and you're not sure this is a case for us?"
"The camera didn't really have a good angle."
"It was clearly a headshot."
"People survive headshots all of the time. So yeah, you're eating through a tube the rest of your life, but at least you're alive."
"This is Mayor Higgins two days later." Sam clicked on another video.
The indomitable Mayor Higgins smiled down from the podium, a small band-aide gracing a corner of his brow. "If you reelect me as your mayor, I will deliver the jobs that special interest groups have been keeping off of the books. I will put an end to partisanship and—"
"So maybe there's a case," Dean said, studying the image of Mayor Higgins waving a fist over his head.
"I said so."
"You don't have to gloat," Dean admonished.
"I'm not gloating," Sam lied.
"Hmph."
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Sam and Dean ordinarily spent a lot of time in the car, and they had pretty much exhausted every possible conversation topic. But the shooting of Mayor Higgins on the eve of the election suggested a subject that the brothers had yet to broach.
Sam shook his head. "All I'm saying is, maybe we should vote. This isn't exactly anarchy I'm pushing here."
Dean glanced away from the road to glare at Sam. "And why don't we just stroll into jail and lock ourselves up? Hunters do best when they fly under the radar."
Sam shook his head. "Look all we have to do is rent a small apartment and register. We could do absentee ballot. We don't even have to walk into a polling station."
"What's the point?"
"What's the point?! Are you kidding me?"
"I mean, yeah, ideally everyone's vote matters. But this is the real world."
"You think I'm being an idealist?" Sam put up with a lot of crap from his brother. He never argued with Dean about driving the Impala. He tolerated Dean's bro-mance with the King of Hell. He even put up with Dean's bullshit over the whole Lucifer thing. But when the guy who was possessed by the devil is the one who's being called an idealist, there's a problem.
Dean shrugged. "I'm just one guy. There's like a hundred twenty million voters in America. How's my vote going to count?"
"It's called 'math.'"
"Last I checked, a hundred twenty million was way bigger than one."
"A hundred twenty million is made up of a bunch of little ones." Sam threw up his hands. "Don't you want to have a say? What if they were going to elect a crazy person?"
"There have been plenty of crazy presidents. Besides, maybe someone needs to shake things up."
"Shake. Things. Up? With nuclear launch codes?"
Dean shrugged again. But he could tell that he was touching on a sensitive topic, and wisely decided to change the subject.
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Sam and Dean flashed their Homeland Security badges. "Agents Draiman and Brink. We want to talk to Willard Jeffries."
"The psycho who shot Mayor Higgins?" the police officer asked. "What do you want to talk to him for?"
"We're investigating this as a possible domestic terrorism case."
The officer's eyes widened. "I knew it. Everyone said Jeffries was just off his rocker. But I knew that there had to be something else to it." The officer began leading the way back to the interrogation rooms.
"How's the mayor doing?" Dean asked.
"Oh, he's just fine. Take more'n a bullet to put him down." The officer paused in the doorway of one of the rooms. "It'll be just a minute for me to grab Jeffries for'ya."
Left alone in the room with Sam, Dean raised an eyebrow. "How many people you think saw the Higgins get shot? And none of them think it's weird that he's not a vegetable?"
"I don't know. Eyewitness testimony isn't reliable. You know that."
"Yeah, but we hunt monsters. People already think they're going to be accused of making up crap when they talk to us, and we don't let it bother us."
"I'm not making it up!" a voice rang out.
Turning, Dean and Sam watched the officer lead Jeffries into the room.
"I'm not making it up!" Jeffries repeated as he sat down at the table.
"We'll take it from here," Sam told the officer, dismissing him.
"Making what up?" Dean asked Jeffries.
"Higgins. He's undead."
"Undead?" Sam asked.
"And I have proof!" Jeffries insisted, a hysterical tone entering his voice. "I shot him in the head and he's still alive! The two of you can stand there trying to intimidate me, but I won't stop telling the truth!"
Sam exchanged a glance with Dean. "How did you find out? That he was undead?"
Some of the mania seemed to drain out of Jeffries as he realized that, finally, maybe, someone was taking him seriously. "At first I thought that he was a vampire, but he goes out in the daylight. So he must be a zombie. But not like the zombies in movies. Because he can talk. I knew that no one would believe me. So I had to shoot him in public. That way, no one could deny the truth. And it worked. He's fine. They're saying that the bullet just grazed him. But I've been shooting since I could read. I'm a good shot. I hit him dead in the center of his forehead."
"We saw the video," Dean told him. "But how did you know that he was—a zombie, or whatever?"
"He's my great-grandfather."
"You're related to him?" Sam asked, surprised.
"My daughter found a photograph of him in my mother's attic. It looks just like him."
"So?" Dean jerked his chin. "Lots of guys look like guys. The picture couldn't have been all that good if it was that old."
"But I also found my grandmother's diary. She talked about how she used to call her father 'daddykins.'"
"I'm sorry, 'daddykins'?" Sam clarified, ignoring the way Dean scoffed.
"'Daddykins,'" Jeffries confirmed. "So I went up to the mayor at the Labor Day parade, and I told him that Ester—that's my grandmother's name—I said that Ester wanted me to ask how her 'daddykins' was doing."
"And?" Dean asked, holding back the smirk.
"And he said 'Daddykins is fine.'"
Dean had to concede. "Ok, that's weird."
"It is weird," Jeffries confirmed. "And then Higgins realized he'd made a mistake, because he tried to ask me who 'daddykins' was. But it was too late. He'd given himself away. And then his goons started threatening my family. My wife had to take the kids to her mother's."
"Higgins would threaten his own flesh-and-blood?" Sam asked.
"My grandmother's still alive, barely, you can ask her for yourself. Her father was deep into 'tradition.' You know, the kind that wears sheets and thinks 'separate but equal' is a thing." Jeffries grimaced. "He's a monster. I tried to tell everyone. I even shot him in front of all of those people and they still don't believe me."
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"So good of you fellahs to check in on me," Higgins smiled congenially at Agents Draiman and Brink. "But as you can see, I'm well and fine."
Dean glanced around the mayor's office. "You haven't gotten any other threats? Any reason to think that this was part of a wider conspiracy?"
"No. I'm pleased to say that my constituents love me." Higgins tapped a small American flag dangling from a stand in the corner of his desk. "I think that Jeffries is just a sick man. It's sad, really."
"You're running for reelection this term," Sam said. "How's your opposition doing?"
A shadow crossed over Higgins' face. "Oh, I suppose she might have something to do with this. It would explain a lot. But she only speaks for a disgruntled minority. Not real Americans."
"Real Americans?"
"My supporters are the backbone of this country. We're the ones who should have a say in how things are run."
"But you did have a say, right?" Dean asked. "I mean, you're seeking reelection. So don't they already have a say?"
"That's a matter of opinion."
Dean cocked his head to the side, not buying it.
Sam stepped in. "It would help to know what's motivating Jeffries. You know, any dirty laundry. Skeletons in the closet. That sort of thing."
"Why gentlemen, ah have no dirty laundry. No skeletons. Ah am as clean as they come."
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"A 'clean' politician?" Sam jeered as he worked on disengaging the house alarm. "He'd be the first."
"And you want us to vote. How are we supposed to pick who to vote for when all of the candidates are crooks?" Dean was keeping an eye out, scanning the darkened lawn of the plantation-like estate as Sam eased the door open.
"There are gradations of evil," Sam argued, slipping through the door with Dean on his heels.
"So we pick the least crooked?"
"Exactly."
"Awesome."
"Hold up." Sam paused in the hallway. "This looks like an office."
The brothers made quick work of searching the office, going through the desk and checking all of the obvious places for a safe.
"Bupkis," Dean complained, as he held up yet another copy of what appeared to be the local tax code.
"Well it's pretty clear that Higgins and his friends are raking in the money," Sam said, glancing up from a stack of reports. "His legislation has forced all of the small businesses in the area to close. He's created monopolies on groceries, gas, everything."
"Proof that he's evil. But not our kind of evil."
"So what do you think?" Sam asked, returning the reports to the desk where he'd found them. "Higgins gets home and we splash some holy water on him? Try a little silver?"
"We can—"
Dean's voice cutoff as he heard voices coming from the hall. Quickly tidying up, Sam and Dean covered the evidence of their search, then ducked through a second doorway into what looked like a sunroom. Hovering near the door, they paused to eavesdrop as Higgins entered the office with at least one companion.
"Do we have enough voters this time?" Higgins complained.
"You would be vell advised to remember not to take that tone vith me."
"Commandant Specter, I'm just worried," Higgins said, back-pedalling. "It was a close call four years ago."
"I'm seeing the funeral director tonight. It vill be taken care of."
"Good."
"It vouldn't be necessary if you vere better at your job."
"Keeping constituents happy isn't easy."
A harsh laugh broke out. "Lie to them, isn't that vat you're good at? Just keep telling them that their money problems are someone else's fault."
"There's only so long that you can make someone believe that."
"Nein. People vant to be lied to. They prefer to be lied to. If they don't believe you, you aren't doing it right. Now, I must go to the funeral home to find your voters. Auf wiedersehen."
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An hour later, Sam and Dean were sitting in the Impala outside Smith's Funeral Home, watching as a well-heeled fellow, obviously Commandant Specter, moved with the stiff-legged precision of a soldier on parade as he entered the mortuary.
"So I'm not saying it's Nazi necromancers again," Dean started. "But it's Nazi necromancers again."
"Yep," Sam agreed.
"And that headshot Higgins took—"
"The body wasn't burned. So he just reanimated."
Dean nodded. "Which means that he's either a Nazi necromancer himself or—"
"Or Commandant Spector is using him."
"Nazis and the KKK," Dean scoffed. "Who'd a thought?"
"Match made in heaven," Sam concluded.
"But what the hell are they doing here, in the middle of nowhere USA?"
"Maybe they're recruiting."
"For what? A KKK hoedown?" Dean's tone of voice said just how little he thought of that idea.
"You want to take-over the government, you've got to start local."
"Seriously? You're not serious right now. Nazis and the KKK taking over America?
"The Commandant—Specter—he said something about voters," Sam reminded Dean.
"You think that they're raising people from the dead just to vote for this Higgins' guy?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe. From what Higgins said, it sounds like it's going to be a tight race."
"Is it that easy, though? I mean, can you just pretend to be a dead person and vote?"
"It wouldn't be easy. Among other things, you'd be taking a chance that no one at the polling station would know about the death. And to do it on a large scale like this, you'd need someone on the inside."
"Someone like Higgins."
"And someone on the electoral board. People aren't supposed to be able to do stuff like this. But it's happened before."
Dean huffed. "And you want us to vote? Why should we bother?"
"There's next to zero evidence of voter fraud in the country. Yeah, it's happened before, with stuff like Tamany Hall, but just because something's corrupt doesn't mean it can't be fixed. And it doesn't mean that you shouldn't vote."
"It just seems like a waste of time."
"We hunt monsters. They keep coming but we don't give up."
"You're seriously trying to say hunting's the same thing as voting?" Dean sounded skeptical.
"Higgins is a bad guy. If casting a vote's going to get him out of office, then yeah, a person should vote."
Dean didn't want to fight anymore, so the two brothers sat in silence until the Commandant reemerged.
Watching Specter climb into a black sedan, Dean shook his head. "What I don't get is why this funeral director would work with Nazis."
"Maybe he doesn't realize what they are. Maybe he thinks that he can do some good on the inside."
Dean snorted, watching the sedan pull away. "Or maybe they're paying him off and he's just greedy."
"So you want to question him?"
"Damn right, I want to question him."
Sam and Dean exited the Impala and edged along the side of the park behind the funeral home.
Alas, they only made it as far as the porch before they were set upon by Nazi necromancers. It was a close fight, but Sam and Dean were badly outnumbered.
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Randall Washington was on his way home from the night-shift when he heard a crash coming from the warehouse as he passed.
Randall had been avoiding this particular shortcut all week, ever since he'd been jumped by two guys. He wasn't mugged, just roughed up, and warned that negroes (a stronger term had been employed) weren't welcome in the voting booth. Randall had reported the attack to the authorities, but the officer taking his statement had laughed right in his face. "Stuff like that doesn't happen here," the officer had said, making it clear that little or no investigation would be conducted.
Needless to say, Randall had been wary of returning to the scene of the crime. He was only taking this shortcut today because he was in a hurry. He needed to be home in time to escort his sister, Sophia, to the polls. She was bound and determined to vote—it would be her first time and she was so very excited, not even complaining about the money she had to spend and all of the hoops that she had to jump through just to get the necessary identification with all of the new voting ID laws. Randall and Sophia had to go back to city hall three times just to get all of the paperwork turned in and stamped. Then they had to keep checking the list of registered voters to make sure that they hadn't been deleted. "Washington" wasn't exactly an uncommon last name for blacks, and with voting boards only looking at first and last names in their search for duplicate registrations, there was a good chance that Randall and Sophia would get removed. Then, on top of everything else, the two nearest polling places had been closed, so Randall and Sophia were going to have to take a bus clear across town in order to vote. And Sophia had to be first person in line at the poll, otherwise she'd risk being late to work. Of course, Randall wasn't going to let her go alone—not if there was a chance that there would be thugs waiting outside to discourage voters like her—so he was in a hurry to get home.
Hence his decision to take the shortcut past the warehouse.
Startled by what sounded very much like fighting, Randall hesitated on the sidewalk.
Suddenly, the door of the warehouse bounded open and two guys came tumbling out, throwing punches as they reached the street.
Randall recognized one of the guys as the thug who'd split his lip open.
Now Randall didn't know what this fight was about. In fact, it was probably in his best interests to stay the hell out of it. But his foot seemed to be acting of its own volition as it inched forward—
Inched forward until it was directly behind the thug who had attacked him, causing said thug to trip and fall.
The thug's opponent who, unbeknownst to Randall, happened to be a certain Dean Winchester, grabbed the thug by the front of his shirt and knocked him out just as another guy, this one being a certain Sam Winchester, ran out of the door.
"We need to hit the Beaker Street polling place," Sam said, clearly out of breath.
"Beaker Street?" Randall asked warily, wondering if he'd made a mistake in getting involved in whatever was happening here. "What do you mean 'hit' Beaker Street?"
Dean glanced at Randall. "Thanks for your help."
Randall ignored that. "What's happening at the poll?"
"Don't worry about it," Dean said. "Thanks again." He and Sam started tugging the thug back inside the warehouse.
Randall stood uneasily on the sidewalk.
Should he call the police about what he'd just seen? Probably.
But the police at laughed in Randall's face when he reported the two thugs who attacked him.
Randall was still standing there on the sidewalk when the Winchesters emerged and disappeared down the street.
Carefully, Randall eased the door of the warehouse open and crept inside. The two thugs that had beaten up Randall were unconscious, bound and gagged, along with two other men that Randall didn't recognize.
Randall was satisfied that they were safe for now. He would call the authorities after he'd found his sister.
But as he checked his watch, Randall realized that it was later than he thought. Knowing that Sophia would have left home already, Randall set off for the Beaker Street poll.
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Fortunately, Dean and Same came across the Impala parked just a block away from the warehouse. Escaping from their captors only a few minutes before the polls opened, the brothers were cutting it close as they pulled into the parking lot of the Beaker Street polling station.
"They said that Specter would be accompanying Higgins to cast his ballot," Sam said.
"There must be fifty people already in line," Dean said in a tone of surprise, as he and Sam exited the car.
"Some people actually care about voting," Sam pointed out.
"Whatever. Where's Specter?"
"That must be him—"
They spied the individual in question, standing beside Higgins, who was laughing and joking with the crowd. Higgins was the very first person in the queue.
"We need a distraction," Dean said.
And Dean got his distraction alright.
"Are you even a citizen?" a man's voice demanded.
"Mr. Simmons, you know I'm a citizen," a woman's voice replied. "I've lived here for twenty years."
"You got papers?"
The young police officer at the front of the line stepped forward, a worried look on his face.
"What the hell is your problem?" someone else demanded. "Leave her alone!"
"Maybe people shouldn't just get to vote," a fourth person complained. "Not until their family has lived here for a while."
"Your parents were born in Hungary."
The officer called for back-up as shoving broke out.
"You just going to stand by and let this happen mayor?" one of the observers yelled, but Commandant Specter was already pulling Higgins through a side door.
Sam stepped forward, trying to separate people, while Dean pushed his way through the crowd, "accidentally" elbowing Mr. Simmons in the gut as he worked his way to the side door, trying to follow Specter.
Finally making it through the door, Dean came face to face with Commandant Specter.
"It's just you?" Dean asked. "No other little Nazi necromancer friends?"
"This is just a little election," Specter said. "I'm more than capable of handling it on my own."
"Right." Dean's fist caught Specter by surprise.
Staggering backwards, Specter knocked into a flag pole. Righting himself, he grabbed the flag and drove it towards Dean's chest like a spear.
Dean deflected the blow and spun to the side, driving his knee into Specter's chest.
Specter threw an elbow, slamming into Dean's nose.
"Here are all of your great leaders," Specter huffed, stepping back and waving an arm at all of the presidential memorabilia decorating the walls. "Vie do you vant to sully that history?"
Going for a clothesline, Dean ended up wrestling with Specter, trying to force him to the ground.
Specter dropped the flag and twisted, attempting to throw Dean off of him. Grabbing a wooden bust off of a pedestal, Dean slammed it down on the back of Commandant Specter's skull.
Specter went down, sprawled at Dean's feet, unconscious.
Glancing down at the bust in his hands, Dean smiled. "Man, I love my black president," he said, carefully returning the bust to its pedestal.
Confident that it would take another necromancer to get the Commandant back on his feet again, Dean took a peek outside, and wondered for a moment if he was the one who'd been hit on the head.
The parking lot was strewn with corpses. The deceased individuals procured from Smith's Funeral Home had been reanimated and driven to the polling station in buses that arrived while Dean was inside. The "zombies" had just disembarked from the buses when the Commandant was killed, and the bodies immediately collapsed. Alas, the individuals driving the buses had escaped.
When Dean found him, Sam was, no surprise, helping a sweet old woman up from the ground. She'd been knocked down after swinging her purse at the deplorable Mr. Simmons, who'd been shoving and pushing, causing most of the ruckus.
"Good thing you were here to take care of the really hard work while I was fighting off a Nazi necromancer," Dean joked.
Sam rolled his eyes.
Neither of them noticed the young man who had just reached the parking lot.
"Sophia," Randall panted, finding his sister. "Are you ok?"
Sophia was gazing at the chaos in the parking lot, glowering.
"They had better let me vote, Randall. I don't know what's going on, but I swear to God, I will not leave this parking lot until they let me vote."
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Sam and Dean spent the night breaking into various funeral homes and incinerating all of the recently de-reanimated corpses. Smith was not the only one who'd supplied corpses.
Unfortunately, they discovered that thugs that they'd left tied up in the warehouse had somehow escaped. And they were unable to locate the men who'd driven the buses to the polling stations, Beaker Street being just one of many.
Needless to say, neither Dean nor Sam were in the mood the next day to hear that their efforts were (perhaps) all for naught.
Scanning his phone, Sam sighed. "Looks like Higgins won the vote even without all of the dead people voting."
"You're kidding me," Dean complained, glancing over from the driver's side of the Impala. They were on their way out of town.
"His opponent's demanded a recount, but apparently there's a law that says they can't recount the votes if the number of voters listed in the poll books doesn't match the number of total votes."
"Wait, what?"
"Apparently, there's a discrepancy between the number of people listed as voting and the number of actual ballots. So they can't do a recount."
"That doesn't make sense. Wouldn't you want to do a recount if they don't match?"
"It's the law," Sam said.
"That's crazy, right? Like that just doesn't make any sense."
"The woman who lost is saying that Higgins' people overstuffed the ballot boxes on purpose, so that no recount could be done."
"I tell you man, it's people," Dean said. "Forget monsters, it's people that get to me."
"And just think, if the Thule society is here, in a town like this, they could be anywhere."
"Monsters are everywhere."
Sam stared at Dean. "But you don't think we should vote. This is how they start, you know. A party takes over the local government and gerrymanders the districts so that they win the big elections too."
"Some jerk named Jerry is behind this?!"
"Gerrymander," Sam explained. "It's when the party in control sticks all of their opponents in one district. That way, even if they lose the overall election they still get more representatives elected."
"And that's legal?"
"Not really. But they get away with it."
Dean sighed. "Man, am I glad that I don't have anything to do with politics."
"Don't you see Dean, that's the problem," Sam complained. "People like you not giving a damn. Not voting. Apathy. That's all it took to let Hitler take power."
"Come on. You think my vote is going to be the vote that stops a guy like Hitler from taking power?"
"Why do we bother hunting then? With all of the monsters in the world, why do we bother hunting down one or two? Do we really think it's going to make a difference?"
"Yeah, but it's just one vote."
"What if it was the president?" Sam asked. "What if we were talking about the person who was going to be president of the United States?"
"Come on, Nazi necromancers aren't going to get a man elected to president."
AN:
You can find my articles at mindsworth dot blog and find me on Twitter at JuliussenAnn
Regarding the deletion of voters from the registry, the closure of polls and the difficulties low income voters face obtaining the documentation required to vote in states with voter ID laws, and lack of evidence for voter fraud see the articles at mindsworth dot blog.