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Chapter 21: Dark Horse Democrat (Honest Adolph, Volume III)

Chapter 21: Dark Horse Democrat (Honest Adolph, Volume III)

The cold wind whistled down the street. A curious place to meet a stranger! The normally unflappable Adolph shivered a little; and the chill air was not, by any means, the only reason he was curiously set all-a-quiver, as he inched towards the decrepit tavern; a remnant of an Olde Worlde he was unwilling voyaging towards, with all his waxen-eared comrades.

He remembered an old vision of his; has it not been well said that old men shall have vision, and young men shall dream dreams?

***

Adolph and his friend Saul had spent long hours into the night discussing Adolph’s supposedly ‘idle and pretentious’ fancy.

To Adolph’s dismay, Saul had spent half the night guffawing and snorting at what Adolph had written in his ‘Athenian Journal.’

If only I could be tied to the mast forever more, like Ulysses.

The spray, the wind, the gushing sea.

I should then be carried away forever, and no man should disturb me.

The cruellest cut of all was when Saul spat out his cheapy, shoddy Jack Daniel’s all over Adolph’s nice new ‘Fidelio and Marzelline’ manuscript. ‘HORSESHIT!’ Saul cackled and choked, almost beside himself with mirth.

Seeing the gentle Adolph burst into tears, Saul began crying too, and almost strangled Adolph in a conciliatory bear-hug.

The next day, Saul went away for the holidays. After he came back, something seemed to have changed. Most of the time, Adolph met Saul with a weak smile; Saul lowered his head, grunted, and muttered something under his breath; nothing particularly hostile, by any means! So far as Adolph could tell.

One late evening, Adolph could have sworn he had heard his clumsy, clunky, lonely Jewish classmate staggering past in the distance, howling half-joyously, half-mournfully, the words of the Prophet Zechariah. “The House of my friends… The House of my Friends…” Adolph whispered; reverently and fearfully, the words stabbed him to the very marrow.

For several days, he could think of nothing but these words. Generally sceptical of religion, but utterly in love with the beauty and power of Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion, Handel’s Messiah, Haydn’s Creation, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis. Although, his favorite text of all was Charpentier’s Te Deum. He used to dance to it in the privacy of his room, for he was sure that nobody could see him.

***

Adolph moved into the dimly-lit tavern.

He said down.

Someone moved out of the shadows; a ‘strider’ of menace, in his thousand-league boots?

The words of the ancient, hopeful, helpless-aching rabble-rouser Joel stormed the corners of his mental tapestry like a silver hammer!

The sinister prophet of ‘American carnage’ squeezed down next to Adolph on the couch.

His fusty breath made Adolph mildly nauseous.

“We know what you did on that mountain, with that Arab. $10 000 dollars, or the MSM are hearing about it tomorrow. That’s the end. The Zioliberal establishment will win.”

“I never used that word, ‘Zioliberal,'” Adolph gently protested; not without a hint of urgency in his voice.

“No you didn’t… Honest Adolph,” the hooligan snarled. “Race-traitors gonna race-traitor, as you and your stupid coon-enablers are always saying. An Adolph who is a freakin’ anti-white Marxist!”

Beginning to lose his temper, Adolph got up and prepared to leave.

The stranger pulled him down.

“We must secure a future for all white children. That means no more niggers. No more coons. No more Jew comedians, like that filthy kike Ziotrash you’ve been bending over for. No more spick rapists and ragheads. So give me $10 000 to help us, and to finally keep our… network… afloat. Or else it’s all over. You are the only non-establishment boy out there from the two big treasonous, Ziotard cuck parties. So I’ve come to you. If you don’t help us, there is no future.”

Adolph jumped up, staring at the man in utter horror.

“Of course… If you’re still too damn proud… We have friends who can fix up your and your friends. Remember how that fuckin’ broke-ass cotton-choppin’ nigger, Food Stamp Bunty…”

“Ubuntu Grace,” Adolph corrected him, so furious at the truckload of unconscionable provocations he could barely breathe.

His hideous enemy continued:

“Remember what Food-Stamp Bunty said before she died? You won’t even get a chance to woke out that kinda ‘prophetic’ jive talk. Show us the fuckin’ money, Adi baby! Or it’s all over for you. And we have ways and means of breaking the establishment; ones that don’t involve talking to niggers, bribing Zioroaches, or dealing with faggots. Understand?”

Adolph paused for a moment, feeling utterly helpless.

“Kurgan coin? Safe, rare… more or less legal!” the hideous stranger cackled.

Adolph scowled. “Give me 24 hours to make a decision.”

The stranger snarlingly consented.

Adolph strode out of the tavern, sweating from every pore.

 

Find more books by Wallace Runnymede at Amazon.

 

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