Peak Oil by Arno Joubert

his shades over his eyes and lay back in the pool lounger as he baked in the early morning sun.   He could get used to this. It was probably too early to drink, but he didn’t care. He had never had an opportunity to do exactly what he wanted to, whenever he wanted to.  
    He felt a pang of rebellion in his gut.  
    He had been brought up in a strict family, a legacy of the East German communist regime. When he left, the French Foreign Legion perpetuated the disciplined lifestyle.  
    And he was getting sick of it.  
    The smell of bacon and eggs wafted toward him from the dining room. Missy had invited him to breakfast, on the house. She seemed to be warming up to him ever since he had fixed up the room. He had received a list of odd jobs to do around the lodge, which he didn’t mind at all. He had always been good with his hands, and he enjoyed being kept busy.
    Now that the captain was here, he had taken a backseat in the investigation, and he didn’t mind that at all, either. He wasn’t cut out for all this Sherlock and Watson shit.  
    He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift back to the past. He did that regularly these days.
    He had joined the League to get away from a neo-Nazi skinhead gang, the notorious Meisterbande or Gang of Masters, in Dresden, Germany. His dad had been the ringleader, and the next logical step was for Reg to be initiated into the gang. He would have to fight to become his dad’s successor, defeat the strongest member to take up his rightful place.
    But there had been a complication.
    He had fallen in love with a Schwarze , a black girl. She had been his first girlfriend, his first true love. He had proposed to her. And he had been besotted.  
    The news had not gone down well with his dad nor with the fellow gang members. They harassed Amalia and her parents—hung around outside her father’s workplace, intimidating the patrons at the confectionery shop where he worked. They threatened to kill her and her family if they didn’t leave.
    Amalia’s parents then did the only logical thing they could think of. They fled from Dresden. And Reg was shattered.
    A month later, he had received a letter from Amalia, posted from a small town somewhere in France. She told him to leave her alone, to not come looking for her. He had caused the family a lot of suffering and misfortune. And she said that she still loved him, no matter what.
    He sighed. Ah, the vagaries of a doomed relationship.
    During the following weeks, he had been inconsolable. He hung out at pubs, drinking himself to the edge of oblivion, trying to find that place where he could drift around in a blissful stupor, maybe drink himself to death. But no, life was complicated, and she had more punishment to dole out.
    One evening, three members of the Meisterbande arrived at the bar he frequented. The evening started out innocently enough. They played pool and darts, and he drowned his sorrows, as he usually did. But then the mode changed. The drink made them courageous, made them forget what he was capable of. They mocked him about his chocolate fetish. They teased him about his Schwarze laub , his black screw. When they tried to hold him down to see if his dick had changed color from dipping it in an inkpot, he snapped.
    He stabbed the first guy. The others tried to get away, but he knocked them down and started jumping on their bodies, until all that was left of the heartless punks were bloodied piles of meat and broken bone. And then he ran.
    A nationwide manhunt ensued. The only place he could go was the French Foreign Legion.
    The general had said that he only expected one thing from Reg: honesty. So he had told Laiveaux what had happened and what he was running from. Then life wove another unexpected twist into his path.  
    Amazingly, the old man took pity on him.  
    The general would visit him in the early morning hours, and they would take leisurely strolls around the compound