ANGER AND RESENTMENT

By Cole Sid Charles

I threw a smile at the woman with orange hair and delicate olive-skin who I’d been eyeing all night. We kept sidelong glancing unto one another; each of us would shyly avert gaze. I couldn’t figure if she was the police, the army, a terrorist, or merely a woman I was going to take back to Hotel Suave to make love to. But an old man interrupted my thoughts and halted my plan.

He was a withered, black, funny looking old man who ignited a feint foreboding within my soul with his giddy, interrogative patter. It was against my every wish and without consent we got talking at the bar. Having accosted me precisely when I was going to go after the woman he irritated me at first. But I somehow warmed to the old dog as we got into Anglican history. The ginger barman was trying to enter the conversation but the freak, strawberry-blond wretch of a man had been pissing me off all night and I wanted to strike him. He said something, and I turned my back on him.

The old man was preaching to me about the clear (to him) but subconscious anger and resentment in my heart; that I had animus. This irritated me, his clothing irritated me, and his timing made me curious. He was wearing a Feyenoord-mackam t-shirt, but it was the six-inch silver hair sticking out of his throat really getting on my nerves too. But he was alright, he was really alright. “The military on the streets will only go after the immoral and debased,” The old shit said. “Don’t worry, my friend.”

“I’m not worrying.”

I wasn’t about to get into politics or any wedge-issues of the day with him. I glanced at the ginger barman, and then, over the old man’s shoulder, smiled at the woman once more. She did not reciprocate the smile on this occasion. Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ was playing loudly, really irritating me. I wanted to ask the barman to sort the music out, but I refused engage with him.

“I’m a Christian” announced the old black man, attempting to involve me while sucking slowly and conservatively at his tonic and gin. He was advising me to ignore race, and how everyone will mingle and intermix and live under a system of love. His definition of love was preposterous, so I said nothing. I merely indulged him and smiled at the woman with the skin and the orange hair.

“So everyone can have an identity apart from the white man and the indigenous peoples of a nation?” I asked. His eyes fell to the floor, evidently planning his response.

The woman walked to the bar; we smile unto each other and I throw a brief wave. I was about to go over, to buy her a drink and test her properly. She was even prettier under the bright lights of the bar. But the little old black fellow would not relent: “The whites are falling into a trap by advocating for fairness and white-well-being”.

“I agree,” I said, “but it is that whites are being pushed into the trap forcibly. Non-whites are not. You see. It’s easy for the non-whites to say that.” I explain. “We’ve seen what has happened to my country over the last 100 years; ‘my’ occident.”

?I click my fingers at the Barman. “Oi, put Eye of the Tiger on lad.” I nod at the laptop behind the bar, turn and face the little old black fellow. “You are living and benefiting from this latest development toward the white-system–living an anti-white life, and telling me I’m not to consider that fact.”

“I said being led into the trap.”

“And I said we are being forced into the trap.” His eyes fell to the floor once more, and over his shoulder I watch the woman leave with her drink and take a seat near the dance floor. I could see her looking at a group of men on the other side of the bar, and I grew mildly jealous.

?“Are you a Christian, boy?” the old man asked.

?I exhale. I didn’t have time to tell him about the essay I wrote explaining why I am, but that Christianity isn’t what it is; how they subverted it and have had the strength and traditional white-Euro morality sucked from it, that it weakened. There was no time to explain that we’re in a war. There’s no time to mention Natural Law, or that I didn’t appreciate being called boy. “Yes.” I said.

The barman addressed me with a big smile on his ugly face: “What did you ask me, mate?”

“I said put Eye of THE FUCKING TIGH-ER ON PLEASE.”

The woman glanced at me disapprovingly from her seat near the dance floor. I smiled, and she forced one back.

I was accepting another drink from the old fellow, and I could see the barman look at me funny again. I click my fingers at him. “And don’t you spit in my drink again, YOU.” I said.

?“Pardon?” asked the barman.

?“Nothing.”

Then, the old black man stepped in. “You can’t organise around ‘whiteness’ otherwise they’re going to destroy you all. That’s all I’m saying.”

He was getting on my nerves by now, and the barman was getting on my nerves too. I click my fingers at him “What are you looking at you ginger freckly bar-boy?” I ask. He looked at me like I’d just raped someone.

The old man said. “Hey man, hey, what’s wrong?”

“HIM!” I said, pointing at the ginger barman. “I’m tired of everyone looking at me funnily. I’m tired of this racial discrimination toward me, particularly that peculiar and snide and very covert racial discrimination administered by my own race toward the indigenous peoples.” I said. I was speaking to the barman, the woman, the bar, the city, the country, and even the world rather than merely the irritating little old black man. I was speaking to anyone who would listen.

The bar man said sorry and the old black fellow said: “You have anger and resentment in your heart; you can’t organise around whiteness. You are being led into a trap; just relax – it’s all going to fall into place within a new system of LOVE.”

“If you said a system of Natural Law, then I’m with you. But you didn’t. I’m for full-on Authoritarianism if the science of Natural Law and the correct use of terms rendered immutable. We’ve now got the technology to shut everyone’s mouths.”

Sadly, we haven’t got the technology to shut this old man up, as he seemed very offended when I mention Natural Law as a science–the ultimate truth. He clearly doesn’t understand what I mean. Like most so-called Christians today. Anyway, he was rabbiting on to stop me braying the barman and going after the woman. I know of his game. He was yapping about Rosetta Stone and the Rosicrucian’s metaphor. He was a dull-witted sap.

I tell him about the essay I wrote explaining that Christianity isn’t what it is; they subverted and manipulated all its strength and morality; they sucked everything from it as regards to a philosophical system. I explain that we’re in a war, that Natural Law is the only option and is the deepest root philosophy of Christianity. He wasn’t listening to me. He continued spouting non-sense. It was time to introduce myself to the woman. She was finishing her drink and readying to leave. “Mate, it’s been nice talking to you. I need to have a word with the woman with the skin.”

“No,” he said, rather stricken. “She’s the bitterest of all the irrational reparations seeking revolutionaries; she’s tied in by osmosis. She’s cultivating you, intimidating and cajoling. She’s with the Cultural Adjustment Ministry.”

“You are crazy, man. You look like Spike Lee. Hahaha” I said. “But it was nice talking to you, yeah?” I offer my hand. But he would not shake it because of the virus. THIS IRRITATED ME TO NO END, the anti-white, old bastard, the cheeky fool of a man. “The cheek of it!” He’s been slavering on me all-night, spitting on me, breathing in my face and getting so up-close to me I’ve been inhaling his toxic, black, old-man’s breath all night... but he won’t shake my hand? The bloody cheek of it, I thought. So we bump elbows to say goodbye. I stand and predatorially stare at the barman for several seconds, then I noticed the woman with the skin and the hair had just left and so I necked my pint and followed her outside.

It was cold, and so I fastened the top button of my shirt and zipped my jacket to my chin. A lovely canal, mildly rippling at the surface was ahead of me. Left or right? I turned right, and I walked at a pace. I could smell the perfume and oestrogen, so I trot, almost at a run.

To my right a shirtless man with a thin moustache and a gold hoop in his nose had stepped out from the shadows, shouting: “Free sex, free sex.” He was wailing like drunkards do; a drunken, bloody fool. I passed, ignoring him. “Hey, hey you.” I made the mistake of looking at him. “Yes, you.” I turn away and carry on walking, but shockingly there was soon a hand on my shoulder which sent shivers right through me. It was the drunken man. “Free sex, my friend?” I looked over his shoulder and saw the woman from the pub lurking in the shadows, smiling and waving at me.

“With whom?”

“With me!” he said. He was smiling a toothless one.

I lost it! I just fucking give him a backhander, a slap of disrespect. He stood in shocked delirium, like he was going to step forward to me, so I slapped him with another backhander, my left hand this time. It was a nice backhander but there was no power in it, because I’m right hand. I’m a right hand, a right foot and I played right-wing at the football.

The woman approached me, mouth open and wide-eyed, looking at the man on his knees holding the side of his face.

“Look,” I said, “I’m very, very sorry for shouting ... hitting.”

My face was wet and pummelled by the wind. She was staring, watching my lips, studying my face. “Don’t worry about it” said she. “Let me walk with you and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

?“I’d prefer a beer.” I said.

She stopped, stared at my lips. It was her testing me properly. “Alright” she said, “a beer then.”

I gave the man who I slapped some Euros and apologised.

The words of the old man lingered in my psyche as we walked.

The heavy rain pezzled the pavement before us as we sought a place for a drink. We were talking, and she’s alright with me, this woman. Around us many stragglers fasten their collars and their hats and they cuddle into one another and spout banalities, denoting and condemning both their terrible luck and the weather inflicted upon them.

“Are you a Christian?” she asked.

“Yes. Do you work for Cultural Adjustment Ministry?”

She hesitated and said ‘yes’.

There was silence for a little while as we walked canal-side along the Prinzensgracht, and then she asked me: “So are you from England?”

“My grandparents on my mama’s side are Surinamese and Sudanese, and on my father’s side, Iranian and Chinese.” I lied.

We stopped, and she stared at my face, studying my lips once more, trying to place my words with my skin, my Englishness and my decaying Anglo-Saxon tutti-pegs.

But she smiled, took my hand and said. “Let’s go to your Hotel, shall we?”

Now it’s me studying her lips, her eyes, her hair and that magnificent skin. I was testing her properly. “Alright, Hotel Suave it is then.” I agreed.

“I’m ready to go with thee into darkness and death,” said she.

Only smatterings of truth (little bits) – I attempt in vain to unravel her snafus.

I was thinking of the dummy motor-mouth whom I did smote.

She listened with much attention, spoke, interrogatively, softly and snatchily.

“Will you have sex with me, will you?” she aked.

I didn’t like her forwardness, her flirtatiusness, and I‘m tired of being used and objectified. So I ran away and didn’t stop running or didn’t look back till I was three blocks away, where I intermingled with the slowly moving crowds at the Sex District. No social distancing, just many people coughing and sneezing and slavering over every cunt.

Wet rain squeaked under my feet; the pouring had produced puddles and overflowing areas at the embankment of the canal, and the air fumed with weed and petrol and sex and love.

Outside the Old-Church, sadly graffiti-ridden and defecated by the cruel and moral-less folk, some homeless souls had gathered: the blind and maimed, with their hands outstretched or with a Styrofoam cup, some with a little message written on the cup. I read a couple of them. I give ten Euros to a woman. She’s rather cute so I feel sorry for her and if she had two arms, it might tempt me to take her back to Hotel Suave too.

It did not seem like Lupercalia was only days away, if that’s not cancelled alongside the heroes, the whites, the morals and ‘reason’ itself.

Then the woman from the bar with the orange hair and the delicate skin approached me with two armed guards, military personnel. My heart sunk, butterflies emerged and I nearly dropped my guts. I made to run away but the guns were real and the intent behind their eyes was real.

“Mr Redschild, you are under arrest under the racial discrimination Act, on the grounds of refusing to have sex with this woman on the grounds of the color of her delicate skin. You are so hateful.”

THE END

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