on that face and those arms. In truth, no one would ever attempt to describe mr. supreme. Except for the crimson and purple nose, the usual human landmarks were now practically invisible, obscured beneath a collection of acronyms and arcane symbols. Even police bulletins and prison records did little more than describe the writings upon his skin. The identity underneath had long ago been lost.
The Aryan Nation tattoo was the newest and it was located on the forehead, between the eyebrows. The tattoo was so fresh that the needle holes beneath his hairline were still bleeding. The insignia was little more than a muddle of scabs, blood, and ink. Somehow the supreme being had managed to tattoo himself using the broken refill from a contraband ballpoint pen as a needle, and the metal flush handle on the toilet as a mirror.
“From here that thing looks like a third eye,” said Dr. Wooden.
“A third eye that’s bloodshot,” added Eddy.
“Given enough inbreeding…” mused Jesse aloud.
On his chest, covering his upper abdomen and pectorals, there was a huge American bald eagle with green wings that swept upward to touch each of the man’s shoulders. The defiant head and beak of the creature reached up to his Adam’s apple. On the man’s arms were several swastikas, a topless hula dancer, and a list of arcane numbers that commemorated the dates when federal authorities had abused their powers by oppressing the only real human beings on earth. Interspersed among these were various badly rendered symbols of the White Aryan Resistance, the Silent Brotherhood, and even the Aryan Olympics.
“What the hell is an Aryan Olympics?” asked Eddy.
“They have events just like any other Olympics,” answered Jesse, “only they’re held in a trailer court somewhere up in Idaho. They have tobacco-spitting marathons, and I think they toss cans of Spam for distance. There’s only one running event because they believe there’s only one race.”
The din on the mainline diminished and died away when the supreme being was taken through post eight and dragged into the interview room. Sykes pulled out a chair, and his partner roughly shoved mr. supreme into it. The huge black man bent down until his face almost touched that of his prisoner.
“Listen here, Mr. Skelley,” growled Sykes, “my name is Norman Sykes, and my partner here is Norman Porter. Any more shit outta your so-called Anglo-Saxon ass and we’re gonna have another Norman Conquest right here. Do you get my drift?” He turned to face the lawyer. “Do you want one of us to wait outside the door?”
“No, thank you, officer,” answered Jesse, “I think Bernard will be fine.”
“Fuck you!” screamed the tattooed man. “Don’t ever call me Bernard.”
Outside the interview room the huge officer lifted his walkie-talkie to his lips to answer an inquiry about their 10-20, their location.
“Roger, post nine, we’re ten sixty-six at post eight, over.” There was a huge smile on his face as he slapped his partner’s open hand. All the sheriffs who heard it knew that 1066 was not a proper call sign. Most just shrugged and went about their business. Few if any of them remembered what had taken place in the British Isles in that distant year.
“Bernard Skelley,” said Jesse, “that’s your true name, isn’t it? Your Christian name?”
“I don’t want to talk to none of y‘all muddy son of a bitches! I didn’t ask for the last interview and I ain’t askin’ for this fuckin’ interview ! If y’all want to talk to me, you can address me correct, as a foot soldier of the New Aryan Army.”
“Aryan Army?” asked Jesse incredulously. “Soldier?”
Dr. Wooden and Eddy glanced at each other warily. They had both seen the veins rising in Jesse’s neck. They noticed that his fists were clenched and bloodless.
“What would you paintball, potbellied militia idiots know about being soldiers?”
Dr. Wooden placed a firm hand on Jesse’s shoulder.
The Aryan Nation tattoo was the newest and it was located on the forehead, between the eyebrows. The tattoo was so fresh that the needle holes beneath his hairline were still bleeding. The insignia was little more than a muddle of scabs, blood, and ink. Somehow the supreme being had managed to tattoo himself using the broken refill from a contraband ballpoint pen as a needle, and the metal flush handle on the toilet as a mirror.
“From here that thing looks like a third eye,” said Dr. Wooden.
“A third eye that’s bloodshot,” added Eddy.
“Given enough inbreeding…” mused Jesse aloud.
On his chest, covering his upper abdomen and pectorals, there was a huge American bald eagle with green wings that swept upward to touch each of the man’s shoulders. The defiant head and beak of the creature reached up to his Adam’s apple. On the man’s arms were several swastikas, a topless hula dancer, and a list of arcane numbers that commemorated the dates when federal authorities had abused their powers by oppressing the only real human beings on earth. Interspersed among these were various badly rendered symbols of the White Aryan Resistance, the Silent Brotherhood, and even the Aryan Olympics.
“What the hell is an Aryan Olympics?” asked Eddy.
“They have events just like any other Olympics,” answered Jesse, “only they’re held in a trailer court somewhere up in Idaho. They have tobacco-spitting marathons, and I think they toss cans of Spam for distance. There’s only one running event because they believe there’s only one race.”
The din on the mainline diminished and died away when the supreme being was taken through post eight and dragged into the interview room. Sykes pulled out a chair, and his partner roughly shoved mr. supreme into it. The huge black man bent down until his face almost touched that of his prisoner.
“Listen here, Mr. Skelley,” growled Sykes, “my name is Norman Sykes, and my partner here is Norman Porter. Any more shit outta your so-called Anglo-Saxon ass and we’re gonna have another Norman Conquest right here. Do you get my drift?” He turned to face the lawyer. “Do you want one of us to wait outside the door?”
“No, thank you, officer,” answered Jesse, “I think Bernard will be fine.”
“Fuck you!” screamed the tattooed man. “Don’t ever call me Bernard.”
Outside the interview room the huge officer lifted his walkie-talkie to his lips to answer an inquiry about their 10-20, their location.
“Roger, post nine, we’re ten sixty-six at post eight, over.” There was a huge smile on his face as he slapped his partner’s open hand. All the sheriffs who heard it knew that 1066 was not a proper call sign. Most just shrugged and went about their business. Few if any of them remembered what had taken place in the British Isles in that distant year.
“Bernard Skelley,” said Jesse, “that’s your true name, isn’t it? Your Christian name?”
“I don’t want to talk to none of y‘all muddy son of a bitches! I didn’t ask for the last interview and I ain’t askin’ for this fuckin’ interview ! If y’all want to talk to me, you can address me correct, as a foot soldier of the New Aryan Army.”
“Aryan Army?” asked Jesse incredulously. “Soldier?”
Dr. Wooden and Eddy glanced at each other warily. They had both seen the veins rising in Jesse’s neck. They noticed that his fists were clenched and bloodless.
“What would you paintball, potbellied militia idiots know about being soldiers?”
Dr. Wooden placed a firm hand on Jesse’s shoulder.
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