Chapter 3: Schleiss & Dice (Honest Adolph Volume 2)

Wallace Runnymede Novel

Otis yawned and poured himself another Southern Comfort. This time, it was President Milton Clement Schleisser’s response to Senator Willow’s speech on the recent warmongering. Some media outlets had not paid sufficient attention to Willow’s gestures of affection towards the repudiated Senator Friedman. Was Willow’s reticence cowardice or courage?

It doesn’t matter.

My opinion doesn’t matter.


‘And if mine don’t, yours sure as hell ain’t one frickin’ whit more consequential!’

Otis tried to summarise the speech, taking mental notes as went along.

Saul Friedman is an asshole.

Saul Friedman sucks.

Yada yada yada.

Dog-whistle politics.

Dual loyalty traitor.

Saul Friedman sucks at baseball.

Yada yada yada.

Saul Friedman sucks the bleeding dick offa Cassie-Jane Helman and those goddamn dirty Ayyyrabs!

I’m not lying to you, I’m just telling it to you how it is.

Believe me! Would Uncle Milton ever lie to his precious little girl?

Big Daddy Milty loves that little boy o’ his!

The Jews.

The Arabs.

The intellectuals.

Jewish Arab-sympathising dual-loyalty intellectuals.

Jewish Arab-sympathising fuckin’ dual-loyalty intellectuals just like Saul Freakin’ Fucktard.

Just like Saul Fucktard..

By the way, did you know this guy sucks at baseball?!

The fuck… you ever hear about this little short-arse autistic retard guy who sucks at baseball? Oh by the way, this guy is a fuckin’ retard.

Why does Senator Willow think he’s so good?


You know what else the Jews are good at?

Sweet and sour pork at Christmas? You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?

Yeah so he raped a few kids, so what? Saul Friedman is a fuckin’ pacifist who hates our freedom!!!

No he really does hate it! Believe me, my friend. He really, really hates us!

Where does the money go? Huh? Huh? Where does the fuckin’ money go, bitches?!

Just come ‘n’ good ol’ Uncle Schleisser, what does good big ol’ Bogey-Abraham think about our glorious nation?

Nation? What’s it mean? Ah would ya just quit it, kid; you’ll understand soon enough.

He really does suck at baseball, I tell ya!

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

You ever hear of a Jew who eats pork at some shanty dive in Chinatown? Wait, let me tell another one!

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Pacifists are destroying our country.

Not one in inch of victory against the enemy without…

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Until we have paved a thousand leagues over the tattered manifestoes and broadened phylacteries of the enemy within.

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Intellectual media.

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Zionist media.

Shut the fuck up!

Jew media.

Shut the fuck up!

All about the jews.

Shut the fuck up!


‘Another one?’ asked Miranda.

‘I’m tell you when I’m ready,’ murmured Otis, as he picked up his hat and prepared to head for the door.

The waitress smirked and resumed polishing her glass.

Until then, shut the fuck up! Otis inwardly voiced, as he headed for the door.


The night was cool.

Still no sign of rain.

‘Listen, son. It’s… it’s been kinda hard. Hey… like hey, hey-hey-hey son, I mean would you, you h-hhappen to have…’

Otis turned on his heel.

‘What do you think?’

‘Just… just askin’. Please, please. Help a poor boy, it’s just, I mean, it’s just, it’s, it’s been…’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Otis grunted, as he strode away in irritation. The bum inwardly wailed…

But the unspeakable pain and terror in his wrinkled face was horribly, deathly silent as the grave.

‘I’m… I’m a vet…’ the guy tried to mutter, his dull grey eyes brimming over with tears that were hardly once abundant, but never far at all from that last dread gladsome haven, from faucet’s end.

No words came out.

For what words ever could?

Otis strode away.


The old man’s shoulders heaved and shook, as he burst into uncontrollable sobbing. The pitiful moaning and plainting of this once rugged and mighty man o’ war quivered and trembled in the frosty air. The man’s palms trembled, trembled, bony, long clawed fingers buffeted on the merciless gusts of ages. The plaintive weeping was soft and dreamy as a forgotten morning’s frost. Like a stranded kitten crying out in misery for her mama, this six foot gentle giant rocked and swayed with a sight that could have moved the most stubborn, obdurately callous, heart of stone…

If so be that there were windows in heaven.

But there are those who say there aren’t.

And who are you or I to disagree?


Otis walked and walked.

He heard a child crying in the distance.

‘He’ll be back soon, I promise. Daddy soon,’ soothed the mother from some place out there, God knows where.

As far as the bank.

His legs buckled.

Otis trembled, struggling to master himself.

At last, he let out a deafening roar.

He awaited the slamming of doors, the yowling of cats, the barking of hounds, even the odd ‘Shut the fuck up, ya rowdy nigger!’


Can’t even feel surprised at that.

Like they were all dead inside…


Otis, boy, now are you going to tell Pastor Duffy you aren’t going to come to seminary?

Better you did it in person.

I’m decided.

Otis, Otis, I can’t say anything more. You have broken my heart. But this last thing I say to you, and it’s probably the last thing I will say to you before I die:

What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the world, but lose his own soul?

It was no use.

He couldn’t forbear any longer.

He sobbed and sobbed.

How many minutes?



Weeks, even?

6 days a week we will perform our labours. But the seventh day shall we anoint unto the Lord our God, to keep it holy.


At last, the faint stirring of a breeze. Otis resumed his step. Finally, he reached his apartment block. As he reached for his key, he saw the wretched man to whom he had so callously closed his heart sprawled out on the pavement.

It was a long way from the top of that bridge.

But his fall, no doubt, had been short and merciful.

‘P… please son, just can you, can you just help a poor boy out, just a little cent or two,’ the crumpled ghostly frost-heap of a man implored him still, his plaintive moans of junk still echoing in his ears.

This time, Otis didn’t cry.

‘Congratulations!’ he smirked, as the door swung open in a rusty greeting.

Now you’re just like them!’

Author: Wallace's Books