This is the first chapter of “alt-right fan fiction” I have been writing over at TheRightStuff.biz’s message board. Based on true events.
Richard straightened his cuff links as he waited for the meeting to start. Jared Taylor, the slender and well-composed leader of Whyte Shield, sat across from Richard at the opposite end of his prized mahogany desk. Also sitting at the table, to Richard’s right, was Sam Dickson, lawyer extraordinaire.
Sam Dickson was known for his exceptional judicial powers. He was also Jared Taylor’s number two. Together they were a formidable force and orchestrated Whyte Shield. They both plotted, secured resources and gathered intel while most of us slept in our beds, took our kids to birthday parties, or visited Home Depot and silently cursed to ourselves the trucks filled with Mexicans in the parking lot.
While the alt-lite was conjuring meme magic at Trump, hoping to imbue him with the strength needed to establish Neo Rome Proper, but with Civic Nationalism, these two men, and the heroes under their wing, were busy building walls around society’s ills and keeping normies safe.
“Richard. How was the operation at Au-burn? I heard it was a success?”, asked Jared Taylor as he clasped his hands together and leaned forward.
Richard cracked a smile and snorted so quickly one could almost miss it, then looked into the glass of bourbon he held in his hand. His head was brimming with thots surrounding the operation, and its after party, but none that would be appreciated by the two straight-laced gentlemen in his presence.
“It was very much a success.”
“Good, good.” Jared Taylor replied.
“…Unfortunately Sven couldn’t make it…” Richard added before taking a sip from his glass.
“No, Sven couldn’t be there. We had him directing choppers in Operation OOSH. He sends his regards.”
Golden beams of afternoon sunlight swept past the edges of the large oriental window curtains hanging behind the men. Sam Dickson peered above Jared Taylor’s head at an old clock on the wall. The formal meeting was ready to start.
The entrance to the study opened. A young lady in a tight dress, very much a woman, entered the room. In her arms she held a file folder. She tilted her head forward, adjusted her glasses then walked towards the men seated at the table.
“Good afternoon, gentleman. Sorry, I am late.”
Richard coyley took another drink from his glass then tilted his head towards the visitor and admired her tender form.
“Ms. Pennypincher, have you met Agent 0014?” Jared Taylor asked the woman while gesturing toward Richard with his hand.
“I…I have not. It’s a pleasure to meet you 0014.” she said to Richard with a smile.
“This is Ms. Pennypincher. She was formerly a member of Zog, but was recently cast out for her…Let’s say, unorthodox beliefs. She is with us now and has been thoroughly vetted. She is one of our edge cases and hired to meet a diversity quota which we cannot fight in the courts, even with Sam Dickson’s help. But she’s hwyte in my eyes.”
“It is nice to meet you.” Richard replied with a charming grin. His blue Aryan eyes practically piercing her blouse and melting the threads keeping its buttons fastened.
“Our briefing will need to be delayed, gentlemen. Something has come up. I have news from Berkeley that members of Whyte Shield are in danger.” Ms. Pennypincher informed the men as she stepped away from Richard’s side, reluctantly.
She walked over to an old television sitting in a bookshelf that held several copies of The Bell Curve and many other great tomes of Western knowledge. The click of her heels punctuated every step she made. Sam Dickson and Jared Taylor grew uncomfortable as they tried to keep their thoughts pure.
She turned on the television with the turn of a knob then stepped to the side.
The images were devastating. Berkeley was in flames. A reporter frantically explained the situation as fiery cars flew past him and the sides of buildings exploded. Normies were pushing each other over on the streets just to find cover.
“What you are watching is a small army of Antifa retaking Berkeley. Half of them have full-blown AIDS.” announced Ms. Pennypincher.
“We have heros on the ground but they are in retreat. Their positions are being overtaken.” She added.
Ms. Pennypincher turned a dial on the television. When the static on the screen subsided the form of Mike Enoch materialized.
Jared Taylor leaned forward then spoke.
“My-ke, what is happening on the ground?”
Mike, visibly angry, took a few deep breaths before giving his response. His tiny eyes seemed to disappear with each controlled breath like the eyes of anime characters do when anime characters blush and become excited. Mike needed to compose himself, lest his rage — his power — took hold of him and he lost total control.
“We’re being overrun! OVERRUN by these fucking degenerates! Antifa are climbing over the rubble! They’re scaling over buildings! Based Stick Man is dead!”
“What?…” Sam Dickson could hardly believe it. While Based Stick Man was not officially Alt-Right, some in Whyte Shield tolerated his presence.
Richard lifted his eyes towards the ceiling and calmly clenched his fists in quiet celebration.
“Yes, he’s laying in a pile of rubble. Bits of him are flying through the air as Antifa pick him apart for trophies! The front-line red hats have also been wiped out. The black dudes in the Trump hats — apparently fucking BASED! — were the first to go!”
“What about Nathan? What about his team?” Jared Taylor asked. The concern in his voice was enough to lower Ms. Pennypincher’s heart rate, even as she kept her eyes fixed on the contours of Richard’s Aryan jawline.
“Identity Evorpa had to retreat. They had no choice.”
The camera turned away from Mike. A clearer picture of the devastation began to emerge. Fixed on two buildings, the camera transmitted back images of a plume of gray smoke, maybe dust, moving towards the camera in Mike’s direction.
A figure emerged.
It was MoldyLocks. Her breasts bare, with one tiny adult, a gender-ambiguous Anfia hanging from her neck dressed in black, suckling one of her breasts.
Her dreadlocks were suspended in the air, striking normie bystanders as she passed them. One old lady was decapitated as she frantically turned her stroller away from the villainess and tried to escape.
Antifa swarmed past MoldyLocks from the dense plume of gray like feral monkeys in hoodies chasing a heroin needle down a storm drain.
Jared Taylor had seen enough.
“Mike, get out of there. Find a safe space. We’ve lost this one. There will be others!”
The transmission was abruptly cut.
Jared Taylor turned his attention to Richard.
“We will need more team members from the Alt-Right to join Whyte Shield.”
Richard nodded in agreement. “I will head to Europe.”
Sam Dickson turned to Richard and pointedly reminded him, “…But you are banned from Europe.”
“Richard Spencer is…But not double-o-14.” Richard replied.
Sam Dickson nodded. Richard was an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, how could he forget.
The folders Ms. Pennypincher held slipped from her cradled forearms and landed on the floor in front of her.
“I..I am so sorry.”
Richard turned his gaze towards her once again and gave her a reassuring glance. His eyes twinkled.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had women drop much more in my presence.”
Jared Taylor interrupted before Ms. Pennypincher could respond. He offered his approval to Richard’s plan.
“Well, 0014. You are immediately dismissed. You will travel to Europe and gather new recruits for the upcoming war.”
Richard nodded and stood from his seat. He handed his empty glass to Ms. Pennypincher.
“It will be done. I bid you gentlemen — and Ms. Pennypincher — farewell.”