A west side short story VIII

March 20th of 1984

In a deserted alleyway, Walter and five others were in hot pursuit of two frightened young men who cried out for help. The sound of their boots echoed against the pavement, still wet from the previous night's rain. As the chase progressed, one of the pursued individuals tripped and fell to the ground, making it easy for his pursuers to catch up with him. They quickly surrounded him, laughing heartily, and gave up the pursuit of the other young man, who managed to flee the scene.

"Look at us now! Already tired?" the oldest member of the group asked as he shoved the man to the ground. "What are you going to do now?" he taunted.

Another member crouched down beside the man, spitting on his face. "What did you say earlier? Don't touch my friend?" he sneered.

"PLEASE! WE DIDN'T DO ANYTHING TO YOU!" the man pleaded before Walter delivered a brutal kick to his ribs. He continued to pummel the defenseless victim while shouting curses.

"Look at this piece of shit," another member remarked callously, laughing as he unzipped his pants and began urinating on the helpless man.

"Watch out!" Walter yelled as the urine splashed onto his boot.

"Sorry, brother," the other member apologized.

"Clean it!" Walter ordered their victim, shoving his face into the urine-soaked ground. "Lick it!" he added, grinding his boot onto the man's face. "I SAID CLEAN IT!" he shouted as he continued to strike the man's head with his foot, causing blood to pour from his nose.

The senior member of their group stepped forward, looming over their victim, and told him "Hear me now. This is a sacred land. It's not for Faggs, Rag heads, camel jockeys, or fucking gooks. Keep that in mind" before he turned to his friends," let's go".

Before leaving the alley, they took turns spitting on him. They strolled leisurely down the main street until they stumbled upon an empty bar. The barman was taken aback when they loudly burst into his establishment. They spent the majority of the afternoon drinking there until the group eventually dispersed. Walter followed Horst, who had offered to host him for the week, to his small apartment. They spent part of the night watching an old movie and indulging in the remaining cocaine. However, their leisurely night was abruptly interrupted when Horst's girlfriend showed up. Walter soon found himself on the couch he had been sleeping on, listening to his friend have sex with his girlfriend and jerking off himself to sleep.


March 21st, 1984:

The small concert hall was a dimly lit, improvised space located in the basement of an old building. The walls were adorned with posters of past performances, some of which had been there for years and were now peeling at the edges. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, making it almost difficult to breathe.

Dozens of young men and women were packed tightly together, their bodies moving in sync with the beat of the rock band on stage. The band members themselves were bathed in the spotlight; their movements frenzied as they played their instruments. Behind them, a big banner hung on the wall, displaying the band's name in bold letters and their colors.

Walter had managed to sneak away to the bathroom before the concert and snorted a line of cocaine to help him keep up with the energy of the crowd. Despite the drug, however, the heat and the crush of bodies left him exhausted, and he had to make his way to the back of the room and lean against the wall for support.

From there, he watched the band and the audience with a sense of detachment, the smoke stinging his eyes and the sweat clinging to his skin. But as the band played on, he found himself getting caught up in the excitement, swaying to the music and singing along with the crowd.

When the band finished their set, a man walked on stage, and the audience erupted in cheers. He greeted each member of the band warmly, his smile brightening the already electric atmosphere. As he turned to face the crowd, he raised his right arm in greeting, and the room fell silent.

Walter watched with bated breath as the man took his time, his hesitation evident as he scanned the room. Then, finally, he smiled and began to speak. "I suppose I don't need an introduction," he said, his voice low and smooth. "The newspapers call me the devil, and as for television... well, let's just say I'm banned from appearing there." The audience erupted in laughter and applause, and Walter couldn't help but smile along with them, feeling as though he was part of something larger than himself.

"In reality, my name doesn't matter," the man said, pacing across the stage. "What matters is who I am. I'm a weak man who lost faith, hope, and has been struggling with depression for the past two months."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the audience. "When this group of young men called and asked me to speak, I had to ask them why. Did they want to make a career or ruin their lives by associating with me? But do you know what they said?" He leaned forward, his voice low and intense.

The audience leaned in, hanging on his every word.

"They said they don't give a damn about a career in music or money or fame. They care only about the future of their country and want to use the small platform they have to resist," he said, eliciting cheers and applause from the crowd.

"I drove for five hours to get here and seeing you all so young and yet so proud and attached to your identity gives me hope. You make me want to believe again," he continued, his voice rising with emotion. "They have tried everything, but we are still here, facing them up!"

He then pointed his finger at a couple in the front row and asked, "You! How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen," the boy replied.

"And you?" he asked the girl.

"I'll be nineteen in a month," she said.

"Nice. And what about you?" he turned to another audience member. "You look older."

"I'm twenty-six," the man replied, surprised to be singled out.

"Okay, then. Who here was around in 1939-1945?" he asked the audience.

The room erupted in laughter, and the man grinned. "As I imagined. So why the hell should you feel guilty for something that might have happened, and was never even proved, forty years ago?"

"I don't feel guilty at all," said the lead singer of the band.

"You're absolutely right," the man exclaimed, turning his attention back to the audience. "And none of you should feel guilty either! It's all part of a larger plan, you see. We may have lost the war, but our enemies didn't defeat us. Their disloyalty, deceitfulness, and fraudulent enterprise were pitifully smashed against an impenetrable wall - the genius and nobility of the Aryan race. Doesn't that sound familiar?" He paused, scanning the crowd before continuing.

"No? Well, let me give you a little history lesson. Centuries ago, there was a city with walls so high and so thick that no army could pierce or climb. The invaders were always humiliated and forced to take their shame back home with them, while the city continued to prosper. But then, someone had an idea. Instead of continuing to try the same way, they set a trap for the city by offering them a gift - the Trojan horse, inside which a part of their army had previously hidden. Once inside, they opened the doors of the city to the rest of the army, resulting in a bloodbath. The city that had remained pure and advanced for centuries became a story for children," he concluded, before sitting down on one of the large amplifiers, looking visibly tired.

"Globalism, immigration, Americanism, Jews, Communism, capitalism, feminism, and homosexuality - these are the Trojan horses that our enemies have chosen to destroy our people from within, to dilute our race! Their ultimate goal is for our bloodline to mix with barbaric peoples, brainwash our children and brothers to make them weaklings incapable of taking up arms, and replace our cathedrals with mosques! Make no mistake, what is happening today is nothing less than a real genocide of our race, carried out with the collaboration of traitors to their own blood! And you, my sons and daughters, are the only ones who can oppose it!" The man declared, leaping to his feet and throwing the microphone to the band's singer before they launched back into their music.


Walter strolled aimlessly through the streets, puffing on one cigarette after another. The constant bickering between Horst and Meike had grown tiresome, prompting him to seek refuge outside. He caught a glimpse of the first half of the game through a bar window but had already spent all the cash he had pilfered from his sister's wallet and couldn't even afford a beer. As he loitered outside the establishment, the owner eventually appeared and shooed him away, prompting Walter to wander aimlessly without any particular destination in mind.

Eventually, he found himself in a dimly lit street where he paused to crush the last cigarette from his pack. It was at that moment that he heard a sudden banging noise that transported him briefly back in time to his childhood. He recognized the sound as emanating from a nearby gym, and after a moment's hesitation, he wandered in. Inside, he was greeted by a young man in a blue keikogi who was hastily fastening his black belt.

"Hello there! Are you interested in trying out a class?" the instructor inquired cheerfully.

Walter shook his head. "No, I'm just here to observe. Can I still watch?"

"Absolutely!" the instructor replied, closing a large book before hurrying over to the tatami. He slipped off his flip-flops, exchanged greetings with the other students and the instructor, and asked for permission to join the class before stepping onto the mat.

Walter made his way slowly to the bench and took a seat next to a girl. At the sight of him, she smiled, but the smile faded as soon as she took in his outfit. She promptly rose and moved to the other end of the bench. Walter remained seated, watching as the judokas went through their warm-up routine before the class commenced.

Throughout the class, Walter battled the urge to join in and demonstrate his skills, eager to prove to himself and others that he had not lost his touch. He smiled as he reminisced about his early days of training under the watchful eye of his father and sister, recalling the image of his sister with her yellow belt tied too high around her waist helping him tie his oversized white belt. However, as the rain began to fall outside, Walter's nostalgia gave way to a profound sense of shame and disgust with himself, prompted by the memory of Ingrid chasing him down the other day, yelling his name in pursuit of her stolen wallet.

As the class came to a close, Walter departed the gym first, embarking on a tour of his friends' apartments in search of a place to spend the night, hoping to avoid returning to Horst's place.


March 22nd, 1984:

Walter sat on a bench in the park with his hands in his pockets. He was bored out of his mind and couldn't stop yawning. He had been wearing the same clothes for over a week and had no money left. To make matters worse, he had just had an argument with Horst that morning and was no longer welcome to crash on his couch. Apparently, Horst could no longer afford to house him. That fucker didn't mind when the money Walter had stolen kept the fridge stocked and paid for their coke.

As he sat there, the warm sun on his face was suddenly blocked out by someone standing in front of him, casting a shadow. Squinting to get a better look, Walter asked, "Do you need anything?"

"See guys? Wasn't I right? As soon as they're not ten against one, they become polite and friendly!" The newcomer was joined by three other young men of Walter's age. Recognizing the badges on their chests, Walter jumped to his feet but was pushed back down onto the bench by the boy in the middle.

"Sit! We're not done yet," the boy commanded, before starting to beat Walter up.

Walter skillfully evaded the punches and boots raining down on him, taking advantage of his small stature to dodge them. As the group leader lunged at him, Walter quickly retrieved his brass knuckles from his pocket and struck the other boy's skull. In the heat of the moment, he couldn't tell if it was a deliberate move or just an unfortunate coincidence, but the impact knocked the boy out cold.

Walter and the other two boys stood frozen in terror, staring at the unconscious boy bleeding on the ground. Without exchanging a word, each of them fled in different directions, leaving the boy behind.

Walter sprinted towards a pub, pushing himself to the limit until he finally arrived at the entrance. Taking a moment to compose himself and catch his breath, he pushed open the door and tried to act as nonchalantly as possible as he walked towards the bathroom. Once inside, he locked himself in a stall and immediately vomited into the toilet bowl. As he leaned against the stall wall, he noticed that his hands and clothes were soaked with blood.

Panicked, he rushed out of the stall and desperately tried to wash the blood off his hands under the faucet. Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open, and Walter instinctively put his hands up in surrender when he saw a police officer pointing a firearm at him.

An hour later, Walter was still handcuffed to a chair, anxiously waiting in front of a police inspector's desk. The inspector calmly smoked a cigarette and read through a file, seemingly ignoring Walter's presence. His hands trembling, Walter waited in tense silence for what seemed like an eternity before finally regaining his composure.

"Did I kill him?" Walter asked, his voice trembling with fear and uncertainty.

The police inspector stared at him for a long moment before finally responding, "He's currently in the emergency room. You're entitled to a phone call if you wish."

Walter shook his head, "I don't have anyone to call," he replied. "I was just trying to defend myself. They attacked me."

The inspector picked up Walter's ID card and examined it briefly before responding, "Frankly, I don't care about your excuses. This country has already suffered enough from scum like you. I don't have time for your nonsense. You'll spend the night in a cell, and we'll deal with you in the morning."

Walter felt a chill run down his spine. "Am I being charged with something?" he asked nervously.

"If the man doesn't make it, you'll be charged with murder," the inspector said bluntly. "If he does, we'll investigate and determine what happened. The prosecutor will then decide whether or not to press charges. My advice to you is to pray that he pulls through tonight."

With that, the inspector signaled for an officer to take Walter to the cells, and he was led away.

The officer escorted him down the stairs into a damp and pungent cell. "Take off your boots, untie your laces, and throw them towards me on the floor," the officer instructed, pointing at his own boots.

"Can I have a different cell? There's urine and feces all over the place...Someone smeared it on the wall," Walter pleaded.

"Does this look like the Adlon to you? Are you expecting a visit to the spa later? Do as I say!" The officer barked.

Reluctantly, Walter removed his boots and settled onto the bed, making sure his socks didn't touch the floor. The stench of urine and vomit made him nauseous, and soon he too was retching. The night promised to be long and torturous.


The following day, Walter hadn't slept at all. He sat huddled against the cold wall with his legs drawn up to his chest. The sound of the lock on his cell door finally opening and the fresh air rushing in brought him relief. An officer tossed his boots at him and gruffly said, "Zimmer! The inspector wants to see you!"

A few minutes later, he was once again seated before the inspector's desk, this time without handcuffs. The inspector yawned loudly, stretching over his coffee and croissant lying on top of a file.

"Did you sleep well downstairs? I had a great night!" The inspector remarked, biting into his croissant, the aroma of the pastry making Walter's mouth water.

"What do you think?" Walter retorted.

"Bad?" the inspector guessed.

"Yes, horrible!" Walter exclaimed.

"Well, you can sleep soundly tonight...You're free to go...The man you assaulted woke up two hours ago. He claims it was an accident and refuses to press charges," the inspector said, stirring his coffee.

"Really?" Walter asked, surprised.

"He has a criminal record, a violent past, a stadium ban...Unlike you, who somehow have a clean record. In short, if it's your word against his, he doesn't stand a chance...So, you're off the hook for now," the inspector said.

"So, I can just leave?" Walter asked.

"That's what I just said," the inspector replied.

"Just like that?" Walter inquired.

"What do you want? A speech? Do you expect me to lecture you, tell you to straighten out your life? I don't care about you! You're a worthless scumbag, a hopeless case...If you walked out of here and got killed, the streets would be safer. If not, it won't be the last time we meet," the inspector said.

"Really?" Walter asked, smirking as he stood up.

"Yes...trash like you always come back. It's just a matter of time before you kill or rape someone...Now get out of my office," the inspector said, dismissively.

Walter turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob, when his eyes landed on a wanted poster on the door. He recognized the face on it, even though there were numerous darts sticking out of it.

"Who's this?" Walter asked the inspector.

"That's Sirius Black...a terrorist. Get lost" the inspector replied, scanning through his files.


Walter left the office and gathered his belongings. However, the officer refused to return his sister's wallet to him. He hurried out of the station and walked away, but a car pulled up in front of him, blocking his way. Horst popped his head out of the passenger side window and smiled at him. "Get in!" he told Walter. Walter climbed into the back of the car, and Dietrich, who was driving, started the car.

"We heard about what you did, brother! A true warrior!" Horst exclaimed.

"Did you kill him?" Dietrich asked.

"He wouldn't be here if he had! But that doesn't change anything... Anyway, you've been noticed!" Horst said.

"By whom?" Walter asked his head against the window, fighting off sleep.

"The commander, brother... He's the one who sent us to pick you up," Dietrich said.

"You've shown everyone your value. Now you're truly a part of the resistance," Horst said, stopping the car in front of a house.

"What are you talking about?" Walter asked.

"You'll find out soon enough!" Dietrich said before getting out of the car.