Hi! OK, first of all... yes, it's been a while. However, I've produced a lot of other fics in that time, AND this was ready four days ago, but I had no internet until now. Sorry! Oh... and this is a pretty long one. :)
Anonymous Review Responses:
Sara-san: OK, here goes: Yes, who doesn't love Rob's mom? She's awesome! Happy-dancing - meets my approval. :) Yes, he did, and that was such a fun moment to write! Especially his panic when he realized what he'd done, heh. :) Oh yeah, he's whipped - only difference is, now he knows it! They are.... thank you! And don't worry, I put your vote in for ya. :)
Jade: Hey, you're back! Where were you?!?!?! Nah, it's okay, I forgive you. Although, I'm not letting you marry Rob now. Nope. :) Thanks for voting! And... I'm waiting for that cake! ;)
Sami: Thank you very much! Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)
Okay. I won't lie. As angry as I was – why, Chick, why? Why did you have to finally get those snowmobiles this year? – and as certain as I was that Jess was going to be in some way, possibly fatally, injured – about 75 percent sure – when I saw those snowmobiles, well… I wanted on one. Bad.
And yeah, there was a little part of me that, all through the ride up to Jim Henderson's House of Doom, was hollering, Hell yes! This is awesome!
But, you know, the rest of me was very mad.
And, when we finally pulled up in front of the barbed-wire fence that marked the edge of the True American's property, and just sat there, engine switched off… the mad part was very much in control, along with his trusty sidekicks annoyed and resigned.
Oh yeah, and I was cold.
What? I'm not whining – it was chilly out there. Late November, up deep in the Indiana woods, sitting in recent snowfall – my bones were freezing. And my fingers. And toes.
Okay, so I don't really like the cold much. Can you blame me?
"So what are we waiting for, again?" Jess asked from behind me.
I considered growling. I was especially mad at her. But, growling would probably prompt more conversation, so I went for the classic one-word answer instead: "Reinforcements."
But, of course, everything prompts more conversation from Jess. "Yeah," she said, "I get that part. But can't we just, you know, go and wait inside?"
Ha, she was cold too. Well, she deserved it.
"And what are we going to do," I asked, resigned to the conversation, "if we find Seth?"
"Bust on out of there." Jess was possibly attempting to sound motivating, but she still just sounded cold.
"Using what as a weapon?"
Jess paused for a moment, thinking… "Our rapier wit?"
I rolled my eyes. "Like I said."
Jess made an annoyed noise, and sort of shuffled around a little bit on the back of the bike. I'm not sure why. I mean, it wasn't going to make her any warmer. It was just as good to just sit still – like I was doing – mentally fluff up your feathers, and wait it out. Your toes would freeze exactly the same amount, and you would have a lot more energy and be a lot less noticeable than you were if you wiggled all over the place.
It makes no sense to me, anyway.
Actually, you know, a lot of that sort of stuff makes no sense to me. You know, girl stuff. Even Jess does it, so I figure that it's some sort of requirement for the entire sex. Like going to the bathroom in groups together, or always wanting to talk, or seeming to over-exaggerate some things. I mean, yes, Jess! I get that you're cold, really I do. But can you stop with the little sighs and shuffles and rubbing your arms and…
Agh.
"Listen," Jess said suddenly, and I had to resist a melodramatic sigh myself. "Rob, I – "
"Mastriani," I interrupted. I just didn't have the patience for this right now. I just didn't. "Now now, okay?"
"What?" she asked, sounding all offended. I rolled my eyes again. "I was just going to – "
"I am not going to tell you," I informed her firmly.
"Tell me what?"
Exasperated, I burst out into a little speech that apparently took even Jess by surprise, judging by her long pause after I finished: "What I'm on probation for. Okay? You can forget it. Because you're never getting it out of me. You can drag me out to the middle of nowhere," I ranted, "on some lunatic mission to stop a murdering white supremacist. You can make me sit for hours in sub-zero temperatures until my fingers feel like they are going to fall off." – they did – "You can even tell me that you love me. But I am not going to tell you why I got arrested."
And I won't tell you, either. Because, Goddamn, that is way too humiliating. If I can't stop myself from going out with Jess and doing pretty much whatever she asks me to – god, I'm whipped – at least I can keep from being laughed at by her. I can do that much.
As I said before, Jess paused for a long moment, considering this. Then she said, "I didn't tell you that I loved you because I wanted you to tell me what you're on probation for. Although I do want to know. I told you that I love you because – "
She had to stop there, however, because I had spun around and covered her mouth with my hand. "Don't," I told her. "Don't start on that again. Remember what happened last time."
Yeah, I'd lost all control and pretty much attacked her. But seriously, do you have any idea what that does to me, hearing that Jess is in love with me? I mean… Jesus.
"I liked what happened last time," Jess told me, not bothering to move my hand out of the way, so it actually sounded more like, "I iked wu app-ed as ime."
I took my hand away. "Yeah," I scowled, "Well, so did I." Did I! "Too much, okay? So just keep your I love yous to yourself, all right, Mastriani?"
Of course, Jess completely ignored me. She does that a lot. "Rob," she told me, hugging a little closer. "I – "
Luckily for me, and probably for our safety – I doubt I would be very aware of any sentries or whatever if I was busy eating Jess's face – we saw (and heard) a figure moving towards us in the trees.
"Shit!" I whispered, and snatched up Chick's flashlight, pointing it at the shape. "Who's there?"
You would not believe who it illuminated. No, not a True American. Not any sort of reinforcement. Not even Bigfoot, though I think I would have preferred him to the reality, and they might just be distant relatives, considering the man's freaky seven-and-a-half-foot height (just guessing here).
Yeah, you got it. Krantz.
"Shit!" Jess echoed me.
"Shhh," the devil incarnate hushed her, "Jessica, please!"
"Well, whatever," Jess grumbled. "What are you doing here?"
As she spoke, I took the time to look him over, raising a skeptical eyebrow. The guy was rolled up in so many layers of gigantic puffy winter clothing, that from a distance, he really could be mistaken for Bigfoot. Well, not really, since it was camouflage color, but you get my meaning. He was way over-prepared. I think I preferred freezing my fingers off to looking that ridiculous.
"I followed you, of course." Krantz said. Of course. "Is this where they're holding Seth, Jessica?"
"Would you get out of here?" Jess spoke for both of us. "You're going to ruin everything. How did you get out here, anyway?"
At that, I frowned and glanced around. She had a point. And it better be something that worked both ways, because he was not getting a ride back from me.
"Never mind about that," Krantz said, "Really, Jessica, this is just too ridiculous. You shouldn't be here. You're going to get hurt."
It's a mark of how much the man annoys me, that as soon as I heard him say that, I was filled with the urge to snap, "No she won't!" even though that was exactly what I'd just been thinking.
"I'm going to get hurt?" Jess laughed. Not happy laughter, though. She sounded kind of bitter. Hmm. "Sorry, Doc, but I think you got it backward. So far the only person who's got hurt is one of yours."
"And Nate Thompkins," Krantz added. "Don't forget him."
Jess looked briefly upset – or, more upset, anyway – and I once again cursed the scarecrow's lack of tact.
"Nobody's forgetting about Nate," she whispered fiercely. "We're just going to take care of this in our own way, all right? Now get out of here, before you mess everything up."
"Jessica," Krantz said. "Rob." He didn't even look at me, but I suppose the fact that he acknowledged my presence at all was progress, even if he did it in the middle of the conversation. "I really must object. If Seth Blumenthal is being harbored on this property, you are under and obligation to report it, then stand back and allow the appropriate law enforcement agents to do their – "
"Oh, bite me," Jess interrupted, instantly gaining my everlasting respect and admiration.
"I b-beg your pardon," Krantz stammered, obviously shocked.
"You heard me," Jess told him. "You and the appropriate law enforcement agents don't have the slightest clue what you're dealing with here, okay?"
She was my new hero, all right.
"Oh," Krantz said, "And I suppose you do." He really couldn't pull sarcastic off like me. But I gave him points for effort.
"Better than you," Jess asserted. "At least we've got a chance of infiltrating them from the inside, instead of going in there blasting away, and possibly getting Seth killed in the crossfire."
"Infiltration?" Krantz exclaimed in tones of horror. "What are you talking about? You can't possibly think you have a better chance at – "
"Oh, yeah?" Jess asked. "What number comes after nine?"
I could have laughed out loud. She was giving him the Grit test. Krantz, getting the Grit test.
You see, the Grit test is this thing that some of the Townies in high school do, asking their victim two seemingly simple questions. If you get them right, you're a Townie, no problem. But if you answer them with the more pronounced Southern accent that most of Grits have, then you're mocked and shunned. It's a favorite of the Ernie Pyle cheerleaders. I had never heard Jess give it to someone before, of course. She treats us all the same – but that doesn't mean she wasn't aware of it, and to hear her using it on Krantz was, quite simply, hilarious.
Maybe it would have bothered me, but, you know, Krantz was going to be confused (always a plus), and anyway Jess had never done it herself, so it wasn't really a big deal. I'd never really gotten the Grit test myself, being kind of scary to most of the Townies who regularly did it, so it wasn't like it brought back any traumatic memories or anything, either.
"What?" Krantz asked, "What does that have to do with – "
"Just answer the question, Dr. Krantz," Jess told him firmly. "What number comes after nine?"
"Why, ten, of course."
"Wrong. What are Coke cans made out of?"
Krantz was shaking his head in confusion. "Aluminum, of course. Jessica, I – "
"Wrong again," Jess told him. "The answer to both questions, Dr. Krantz, is tin. I've just administered a Grit test, and you failed miserably. There is no way you're going to be able to pass for a local. Now get out of here, before you ruin it for the rest of us."
Krantz was horrified, and probably a little embarrassed, and for some reason – I have no idea what – he turned to me for help. Maybe he considered me the voice of reason. Then again, it could have just been that I was the only other person there. "This is ridiculous," he said. "Rob, surely you – "
However, I never let him finish his sentence. All the time Jess and he had been talking, I'd been keeping an eye out, and now it paid off. I saw a faint light coming towards us, from around Jim Henderson's house.
"Bogey," I said, "at twelve o'clock. Krantz, if you don't get the hell out of sight, you're gonna find yourself with a belly full of buckshot."
Proving himself utterly useless (knew it), Krantz just stood there nervously, looking around. "W-what? What are you – "
Before he could finish his sentence, I'd leapt off the snowmobile and shoved him back into the trees. He made a muffled flump! as he landed in the snow on his back, but before I could grab Jess and follow, the light I'd seen – a lantern, as it turns out – came closer, enough that we could see a large guy wearing a red-plaid jacket, holding it and a rifle, and accompanied by a huge dog.
The dog saw us first, and started barking and running over to us. Luckily, the guard yelled, "Chigger! Down!" before he leapt the fence.
In between thinking, Oh crap, oh crap, over and over, I took a moment to consider the name he had chosen for his dog. Chigger, seriously? He named his gigantic guard dog – which I could now see was a German Shepard – after a little mite? Even worse, one of those little mites that live under your skin and make it all itchy and blistery? I mean, that seemed to be downplaying the whole 'menacing' factor, there.
I dunno. Maybe it's just me. After all, Chigger is an original name, unlike Fang or Patches (I repeat: seven years old!) or something. But it just didn't strike any fear into my heart. Actually, it made me want to chuckle a little.
I didn't, though, because the next thing I saw, the guy was putting down his lantern and pulling something out of his pocket, most likely another gun. And that brought the Oh crap right back.
"Hey," I said, my hands in the air, and eyeing Chigger. Scary name or no, he was a really big dog. "Hey, don't shoot. We don't mean any harm. We just want to talk to Jim."
But instead of a gun, the man pulled a Walkie-Talkie out of his pocket and spoke into it. "Blue Leader, this is Red Leader. We got intruders over by the south fence. Repeat. Intruders by the south fence."
"We aren't intruders," Jess said indignantly, and then seemed to remember our cover, going, "I mean, we ain't intruders. We want to join you. We want to be True Americans, too."
See, the plan was that we would go on up ahead, while Chick gathered up a whole bunch of guys to follow us and hide around the compound. Then, we would get 'captured' and pretend to want to join up with Jim, and once we found Seth, we would scram, and all the people hiding around would help us out and stop anyone trying to shoot holes in us.
Not the best plan, I know, but – well, actually, I'm not defending it. I disapprove too.
Red Leader never answered Jess, instead listening to Blue Leader, who, with a burst of static, replied, "Copy that, Red Leader. Tag and transport. Repeat, tag and transport."
Which basically translates to: get them on in here, and then we can decide if we want to kill them or not.
Well, at least we were in. Sort of. If we could stop them from shooting us.
Red Leader stuck his Walkie-Talkie back in his pocket, then pointed his rifle at us and beckoned us in. "Git on over here," he grunted.
It really wasn't too much fun climbing that fence. I mean, I've done it before, but never with a gun pointed at me and a hungry German Shepard just waiting for the go-word. And, you know, it was barbed wire, and that makes everything more difficult.
Still, I made it up without too much trouble, and then held most of the barbed wire down for Jess. She still ripped her jeans on it a little, but we made it into Jim's mostly unscathed.
"Git on, then," Red Leader said, waving his rifle in the direction that we were supposed to go.
I hesitated, glancing back over the fence. "What about our ride? Is it safe to leave it there?"
I wasn't, of course, asking this merely out of fear for the ride. If that had been my only concern, I would have done it before I climbed the fence. No, I was asking mainly to find out if Red Leader and Chigger had realized that there was a third person there. Much to my relief, though, it seemed that my throwing Krantz into the snow (that had been a fun moment, right there) had done an adequate job hiding him from view, too, because Red Leader, instead of mentioning (or shooting at) him, just laughed and spit tobacco juice out into the snow.
"Safe from what?" he asked, "The coons? Or the possums?"
Thus relieved that the guy I hated was safe – see, I really am a good guy – I was ready to get going. So when Red Leader again jerked his gun and told us to "Move," Jess and I did so.
And did so. And did so. It was really a long walk to the house, hampered by the snow, and made even more uncomfortable by the rifle at our backs. Oh yeah, and knowing that Jess and I were stuck up here, without any backup.
And it was still cold.
Still, eventually we reached the buildings – just a ranch-house, a barn, and a couple trailers – and Red Leader led us to the big barn, flinging the door wide, and revealing the True American HQ to us.
I was actually a little impressed. Well, not that I thought any of it was good or anything, but you know, it wasn't as badly run as I'd expected. At first glance.
Yeah, at first glance things looked kind of organized, what with the long tables and all the men (mostly blond) sitting there, eating dinner, with their huge DON'T TREAD ON ME flag hanging behind them, women and children serving them food.
Of course, they were all pretty dirty, and didn't exactly possess the best table manners. And they weren't really dressed nicely, either. And the women were all wearing pretty stupid dresses, the kind that I'd seen on a couple of girls who belonged to some local religious sect. I'm not really sure what they worshiped, but apparently it involved snakes and not wearing jeans. And all the kids looked pretty dull, kind of just hanging around and picking their noses, not even noticing us.
Actually, on second thought, it looked more like some twisted family reunion than a military headquarters. Well, except for the guns.
"Jimmy," Red Leader said to a man who I presumed was Jim Henderson. Yeah, I'd never actually seen him before. And it was kind of amusing to do so, actually, since he was about a foot shorter than me, and kind of greasy-looking. Definitely not great military campaign leader potential, no matter what the numbskulls around us thought. "These're the kids we found sneakin' around by the south fence."
Jim seemed very annoyed by this, maybe because it interrupted him right as he was about to take a bite of some pretty decent-looking chicken. "What the hell you want?" he snapped at us.
I probably should have said something there, but I was just a little bit too shocked. Jim Henderson's voice was pretty damn loud, sort of like those tiny dogs whose barks are so incredibly deep and loud, like they belong to something three times their size. It was a little stunning. Plus, there was this whole situation – it was just so weird. It kind of rendered me speechless for the moment. So Jess stepped in and spoke for me.
"Gee, Mr. Henderson, it's a real honor to meet you. Me and Hank here, well, we just been admirers of yours for so long."
Great. So now I had to pretend to be Wendell. Oh, joy.
Henderson sucked at the chicken on his fingers, raising his eyebrows. "That so?"
"Yes," Jess nodded, "And when we saw what ya'll did to that, um, Jew church, we decided we had to come up and offer our, um, congratulations. Hank and me, we think we'd make real good True Americans, because we both hate blacks and Jews, and stuff."
Oh, god. I tried not to wince. But I was still too busy trying to figure out what I would say, so I just ignored the shocked silence that had descended into the barn, and hoped that Jess would answer Henderson's next question better.
"Why?"
Jess took a deep breath. "Well, you should take us because Hank here, he is really good with his hands. He's a mechanic, you know, and he can fix just about anything. So if you ever got a tank, or whatever, and it broke down, well, Hank'd be your man. And me, well, I may not look like it, but I'm pretty swift on my feet. In a fight, you wouldn't want me on your bad side, let me tell you."
OK, Jess hadn't done too badly there. Sort of. Maybe.
"That ain't what I mean," Jim said in a bored voice, chewing on a little piece of chicken. "I mean, why do you hate the blacks and Jews?"
…Shit.
With that question, I knew Jess would fail Henderson's little test miserably, and she did not disappoint.
"Oh." First of all, she obviously hadn't been expecting it, which meant she wasn't prepared, which meant that all that followed was just pulled out of the air. "Because as everyone knows," Jess said, "the Jews, they made us that Holocaust thing, you know, so they could get their hands on Israel. And black people, well, they're taking away all our jobs."
And just like that, Jess was out. Jim Henderson looked away from her, clearly dismissing her, and his eyes landed on me, along with the rest of the room's. "What about you?" he asked me. "Or do you let your woman do your talking for you?"
All the True Americans had a good chuckle over that, even the women, sexist idiots that the whole bunch were, but it was obvious that I had to choose my words carefully, if I wanted to keep us from being shot. Jess had already killed all her credibility. It was up to me to convince them that we were exactly like them.
I can just thank God that by then, I'd had enough time to figure out what to say, drawing heavily from public access cable TV. And, of course, their own attitudes. "To be white," I told Jim Henderson, "is an honor and a privilege. It is time that all white men and women join together to protect this bond they share by their blood and faith. The responsibility of every American is to protect the welfare of ourselves – not those in Mexico, Vietnam, Afghanistan, or some other third-world country. It is time to take America back from drug-addicted welfare recipients living in large urban areas…"
I paused dramatically to take a breath and glance around. Shockingly enough, Jim & Co. seemed to be lapping this up. "It's time," I continued, "to protect our borders from illegal aliens, and stop the insidious repeal of miscegenation laws and statutes. We need to do away with affirmative action and same-sex marriages. We need to prevent American industry from slipping into the hands of the Japanese, Arabs, and Jews. America should be owned by Americans – "
At this, one of the tables started clapping and cheering, followed by others, and the silence surrounding my words was broken. Obviously, the majority of them approved of me – but I couldn't relax yet. As Jim climbed to his feet, the crowd fell silent, and I knew that if he decided to, they wouldn't hesitate in shooting me, no matter what I'd just said.
He stared at me for a long, tense moment, then dramatically pointed a finger at me. "Get… that… boy… some… chicken!"
The cheering began anew as a woman shoved a plate full of the fried bird at me. I took it awkwardly, with a 'shy' smile, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the smell. I hate fried chicken.
Jess, standing next to me, asked out of the side of her mouth, "Where'd you come up with that horse shit?"
I answered the same way. "Public access cable. Would you get this chicken away from me before I barf?"
She whisked it away, just as I was surrounded by a whole bunch of pleased True Americans, welcoming me into their midst.
Not long after, Jess was yanked away by some lady with a kerchief on her head, and I was left alone.
Alone, in a group of fifty or so racist, xenophobic, dirty white supremacists, who kept offering me tobacco and chicken, and who thought that I was one of them, but who, I knew, would turn on me in an instant if I said the wrong thing.
I had a feeling that Mom expected my night to be going a little differently.
