Joshua loaded up in the truck with a small group of younger peckerwoods, the plan was pretty straightforward, the Faceless were operating in Pico-Union, a bad neighborhood on the best of days, and with MS-13, the Faceless and Desert Rats about to be active, there was no way any cops would show face tonight. Joshua checked his gun for the fifth time since starting the drive. It was going to be bloody, between the three gangs, the streets would become flooded with the blood, piss, and shit of violence and hate. It would be easier for the Rats, if it was brown, kill it. If it were white, don’t. With more than one Latino gang stalking the streets in his city, they would have to think twice about one another, while he and his clique could blast indiscriminately.
Joshua walked through the streets of Fontana, proudly displaying his tattoos from under the tight white t-shirt and suspenders. He didn’t bother to hide his bald scalp with a hat or bandana either, to do so would be to hide who and what he was, and he had no shame in either. He was proud to be a white man fighting for white families in the streets of America. Those streets were quiet at the moment, and until he was ready to make his move, Josh wanted them to stay that way. He didn’t hide or keep to the shadows, but he kept to back streets that he knew there wouldn’t be as many cops patrolling.
Just a small warning, this story contains plenty of violence and racism.
Joshua reached out and crushed the life out of the roach crawling along the windowsill, listening to the way the crunching sound rang so clear and loudly to his chemically boosted senses. He examined the white and black entrails on his fingers, the way the ichor didn’t run down his hands like blood should. Finally wiping his hand off on his jeans, he became aware that someone was talking to him. One of his favorite side effects of the meth was his ability to focus so intensely on what he wanted to focus on when he wanted to, drowning out the unpleasant side effects of life. Joshua didn’t look immediately at the source of noise, he knew who it was and what it was about. Instead, he let his eyes linger on the smoke coming from his cigarette and how dull the cherry looked through the washed out lights of their trailer home.
April 7th, 1723
Praise her, the veil is torn open, reality’s womb spilling forth a perfect creature. As promised with book and ritual, I went down to the larder as was joined by the compatriots, those loyal to our cause, and began the ritual. It is unnatural to perform such a ritual hidden away, it should be done in the starlight, under the moon and trees as sacred as our Mistress, but the necessity of hiding our actions forced us into this hole.
February 26th, 1723
We near a time of conjunction, the season when goats will breed and give birth is nearly on us, and I must make ready. The true education of Atohi has gone swifter than I had hoped, her natural inclination towards lust and anger give her the truest path towards the worship of the Holy Mother. I have decided that when it is time, that she will be given to the Thousandth Child and bring the Mother’s offspring into this place, it is only fitting that I reward such slavish devotion. Of course, the changes in such a new convert are harder to hide, and I have taken to keeping her hidden from the rest of the mission as much as I am able.
February 17th, 1723
I was correct in my last entry, Paulo continued to ask questions, his infatuation with ideals not holding him back from questioning my directives. I have been making inroads with the natives, the key, as any church founder of Christianity could explain, is to bend the teachings of both the population in question and the faith you wish to instill until they seem indistinguishable. Give the savages the utter belief that their gods are in fact merely a mask worn by the God you wish for them to worship.
February 4th, 1723
My name is Fray Jose Martinez, and I came from Spain to the New World in order to bring the savages of this land to the worship of my God. I keep this journal now, so that those that come after me may continue this holy work, and understand how the divine came to inhabit this place.
Michael approached the front doors of Douglas Security, ready to begin his first day on the job. It had been a long job search, jumping from industry to industry, lowering pay expectations and finally, just looking for anyone who would take him on. Security was certainly the last place he had thought to look, but his friend, Nathan, had suggested it, even said he could get Mike into his firm. Michael was a big guy, and he had gotten into trouble more than a handful of times. It’s part of what made finding a job so difficult, even with experience and a good CV, few people could see past the words felony charge or aggravated assault. Nathan assured him that privatized security wouldn’t bat an eye, so long as he wasn’t a thief.
“Prime numbers are what keep us safe, what stands between us and them, they are the only thing in place that stops . . .” Marcus trailed off, probably seeing the look of pity and disbelief written across my face. We were in a small cafe in a seedy part of town, sitting over coffee that smelled like it had been brewed from recycled coffee grounds in a pot that was never washed. It wasn’t the sort of place I had expected to meet with him.
Marcus had been a brilliant student in high school, his understanding of physics and mathematics rivaling that of his magnet program teachers. His ego, combined a lack of interest in anything any other high school aged kid cared about made him unpopular. I had been his friend, if only in passing, maybe I was one of his only friends. Maybe that’s why he was reaching out to me now. His e-mail had been cryptic at best.