CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

“I can’t do this anymore, Cypress. I don’t know why I keep falling back into this trap—”

“But—”

“—of hooking up with you. I hate everything you stand for, and you’ve always known that. It’s like…”

“It’s like what, Chris? Just say what’s on your fucking mind already.”

Cypress Glades lit a cigarette. It sat wedged between her fingers, which rarely came within an inch of her lips. The burning tip was a red, evil eye.

“It’s like I’m sticking my dick in Eva Braun.”

“I’ll take that as a fucking compliment. You sure weren’t complaining a few minutes ago when I was going down on you. Asshole!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I just— No, I’m not sorry. I’m sick of bullshitting myself. Being with you goes against everything I stand for.”

Christopher Faith began his move toward the front door. He looked hesitant, as if the soles of his shoes and Cypress’s floor were glued together. He fiddled with his bangs, parted them like curtains.

“You know better than that,” Cypress said. “All bets are off when the lights go out. Everyone’s a hypocrite in bed.”

He turned his head just enough that she could only see his face in her peripheral vision. “I’ll never convince you to change, but I’ve got to…”

Cypress squinted her jealous emerald eyes, twirled the left side of her Chelsea cut, dug her white-laced 14-hole Doc’s into her filthy floor. She did not have to put much effort into holding back tears, remaining cool and calm. She would never, under any circumstance, cry about a fucking guy. That would have been so far beneath her it might as well have been in China.

“You’d better watch your back,” she said. “Toro’s been itching for a good curb stomping.”

Christopher snorted. “So typical…”

“Typical what?”

“Braggin’ ‘bout curb stomps with no pearly-white proof.”

“Oh yeah? Yeah? We’ll see about that you…you…race traitor!”

Christopher laughed again, still inching away from her.

Cypress rummaged through the top drawer of her dresser, searching for a photograph of a recent victim she had personally stomped. Shards of teeth and chips of concrete decorating the gutter like confetti. Blood splattered across the sidewalk in some bastardized form of street art. A caved-in head that now looked closer to a partially inverted rubber Halloween mask.

Of course, this photograph did not actually exist. But Christopher didn’t need to know that.

“There’s somebody else,” he said. “So that’s that. I’m done. I met someone else.”

Cypress knew he was lying, but she didn’t feel like calling him out. Wasn’t even worth the breath she would take.

“You were a lousy fuck anyway,” she said. “Goddamn limp-prick pussy. What was I thinking?” Her temper and vocal decibel level temporarily under control. Then: “Get the hell out of here! Ugh!” She pointed to the door, her arm straight like an arrow with true aim.

Christopher’s body was now hanging halfway out the door. He paused, as if he had something more profound to add to the conversation, then flashed her a sarcastic peace sign with his fingers and left without another word. The door slammed, vibrating the jamb. A frame slipped from the wall and fell to the floor. Cypress picked it up, dusted it off, and set it on her dresser, briefly glancing at her favorite photograph: a live shot of Ian Stuart, vocalist of Skrewdriver, torn from the pages of Skinned Alive issue Number One.

She glanced around her room in a puffy haze, grabbed the next inanimate object she saw—a Goebbels and Göring salt and pepper shaker combo—and threw it against the wall as hard as she could. It shattered into porcelain snow and sprinkled across her bed. Cypress immediately regretted destroying this one-of-a-kind item she had found after some intense digging at the Doomston Flea Market only two months ago. Too late. She’d roll around in the debris later and let the small of her back get nice and sliced. Maybe find the sharpest shard and use it to carve a swastika into her thigh. Bleeding reminded her how alive she was. Made her forget about stupid boys and their liberal politics. Oftentimes, it was even better than sex.

She turned to the frayed red swastika banner on her wall, offered it a brief, halfhearted Sieg Heil, brushed strands of her Chelsea out of her face, then grabbed her Mickey Mouse phone and started punching numbers as if determined to break the little squares right off. After a few rings, a groggy voice muttered a hello on the other end.

“Samuel? I need some Candy. Now.” Samuel began to answer, but Cypress hung up before he could finish. She had a sudden urge to pee.

On the toilet, she finally shed a few token tears. She counted the red X’s on her menstrual calendar tacked next to the sink.

Figures, she thought. Even I’m not tough enough to defeat the mighty power of hormones. Fucking fuck! This would never have happened to Ilse Koch.

It was so hard to find a decent hetero white guy in this nowhere town, much less one who had at least a few attractive physical characteristics, even much less one who would put up with her unwavering views. Whatever happened to American freedom? It seemed like everyone in Sweetville was mulatto-this, bi-that, pro-everything, and everyone was so goddamned touchy about every little word she spoke.

Cypress extended her tongue and made a faux gagging sound. Oh, excuse me. “Racially disabled” or “gender impaired” might be more politically correct. Blech!

It didn’t help much that the few Nazi skinheads in Sweetville were about as desirable as blobfish wearing red suspenders. Probably less intelligent, too. Still, she fucked them when she was extra horny and needed to escape her day-to-day existence—only when there were no preferable options available. Masturbation only held her interest for so long. Working as a receptionist at the Gunther, Gunther and Hayes law firm had taken its toll on her soul. A girl had needs beyond the professional world, though. Prurient needs. Cypress figured that as long as she was in charge of the when and where of said booty calls, these lunkhead Nazis wouldn’t have a chance to latch onto any delusions of romance. And she hadn’t really wanted something serious and long lasting with Christopher, either. But she wanted to be the one who was in control of ending things when they had run their natural course. It was supposed to be her decision. She needed to remain in power.

Cypress completed the expelling of her impurities and decided she would need to go hunt for a new temporary boy-toy in the fertile feeding ground of the clubs tonight. Or, more specifically, Club Club, as the only decent spot for underground social gathering in Sweetville was so cleverly named. Samuel might do in a pinch, but he was often a tad…mucky, to say the least. Trying to find a clean spot on his body was about as easy as searching for Waldo at a candy cane convention. Was it too much to ask of a guy to shower on a regular basis? Eau de toilette took on a whole new meaning with that scummy punk. At least he was an Aryan male. That had to be good for something. His darkness and grime could be rinsed off with generous soap and water to reveal the shining whiteness beneath.

Cypress fingered through her magazine rack and pulled out a recent issue of White Woman’s Witchcraft. She flipped straight to a page with a folded corner and the article titled “Human Pheromones: Myth or Untapped Potential?” by Professor Winifred Savant. In recent months, she had become obsessed with this article that made reference to several sections of Dr. Dorian Wylde’s final medical essay. Dr. Wylde, along with a man named Dr. Julius Kast and a group of uncredited psychology graduate students, had been conducting controlled experiments intended to tap into corridors of the human mind that would otherwise remain dormant. Wylde’s theory was that a person with the right genetic makeup could, if a certain meditative level were reached, take full charge of his or her own flesh. Shape, color, complexion, texture—the limits seemed endless. The process was referred to as Positive Mental Shapeshifting, but it had never been fully tested or proven before Wylde’s passing.

Cypress stood up, still clutching the magazine, and became absorbed by her mirror image. She pinched her eyelids and puffed her face until she felt her features looked perfect. But her pure white illusion only lasted so long before her true colors were in danger of being exposed. There was only so much makeup she could cake on her face before she looked like she had been accepted into Clown College.

Professor Savant’s article had been a revelation to Cypress. Could Wylde’s theory become a part of her reality? She supposed it was possible that it amounted to little more than a parlor trick or attempt at mass hypnotism, but just the idea of it made her nipples hard. She chose to put her faith in science, even if this particular science seemed to contain peculiarities not so easily explained.

Savant had taken some of Dr. Wylde’s notes and improved upon them, making them accessible to the public and creating a discipline from the medical mess. There were three rules that Savant claimed would lead to the gift of Positive Mental Shapeshifting: taut posture, technique and practice, and tantric persuasion.

Cypress knew it was possible. She was a firm believer that her dreams were premonitions. Savant’s rules became her scripture.

Once, in a particularly vivid nightmare, she had focused too tightly on shifting and swore her nose had expanded a good half inch, taking her directly into what she considered Jewish territory. She hadn’t been able to force the effect to revert immediately. Once she woke up, she refused to leave the house for two days straight. She spent hours in front of the mirror, attempting to contour her nose with makeup. This only made it thin and pointy, making her look like the Wicked Witch of the West. An incident like that could never be allowed to happen in real life. She would have to study and practice. Stay focused. Stay positive. Stay white.

Cypress preferred not to work so hard to maintain what she considered a genuine appearance, but she still found the concept of Positive Mental Shapeshifting promising. It seemed her devotion had also led to some powerful side effects. Increased pheromones. There was nothing in Savant’s article that explicitly stated why these side effects might occur, but there they were. She wasn’t about to start complaining. Her physical presence was already such a powerful tool, working wonders with trapping men in her clutches. But these additional secretions could act as even tighter vices to keep these men in her grip. At least temporarily. Depending on the guy, she could usually keep someone interested for a few weeks. Christopher was a perfect example of this. The combination of the Positive Mental Shapeshifting and pheromones must have worked its magic on him. He was so innocent. An almost-dullard, not the brightest crayon in the box, the definition of oblivious. Like most young men in their early twenties, he was filled with naïveté and excess seed. He never saw the effects coming.

Cypress wished she had legitimate proof of Aryan blood flowing through her veins. Her birth father had bailed on her family—if their grouping of man, woman and child ever had the option of being graced with such formal terms—when she was still in diapers, never to return. It made her ill to think she would likely never know his side of her racial heritage. She was convinced her whiteness would never be complete. These days, Cypress had depressing suspicions that her racial purity was severely lacking. It all depended on how she angled herself in the mirror—or “Angloed,” as she liked to jokingly think of it. She shuddered at the thought of being some sort of half-breed. She was better off not knowing the truth if that’s what the answer would end up being. She felt being a full-blown Jew would have been a better option.

Her mother was no help in trimming down the family tree. She kept herself so doped up she could barely even remember the guy’s name, much less his nationality. There was no family photo album with pictures of Deadbeat Daddy cutting the birthday cake. Only worthless, nonexistent memories. Cypress had found one photo tucked away deep in her mother’s underwear drawer, a slightly blurred image of a man who was likely her father, though her mother would never admit it. The man in the photograph looked suspiciously Jewish, perhaps even Hispanic. Difficult to tell based on the quality of the image. She wasn’t sure which one would be worse.

Cypress couldn’t tear herself away from the mirror. She frowned at the disgraceful reflection and proceeded to apply a lightly caustic bleaching product to her face with a scrub sponge. The sting only tickled for a few seconds as she had adapted her pain threshold long ago. If the tissue tore a little bit, well that was just a bonus. The fresh flesh might begin as pink, but the surface below would eventually be far whiter than before.

There was no color more right than white.

* * *

After Samuel had come over for a quick romp and left her apartment, Cypress still felt a substantial jones for sex. Her desires were often twisted and insatiable, and even a small dose of Sweet Candy gave her a ravenous libido. Club Club could still be a viable option for an entertaining evening.

In her mind, she conjured up a carnal grocery list for a prowling night on the town: hearts for breakfast, pride for leftovers and cocks for a midnight snack. Check, check and check.

With coitus the weapon, her body the luscious bullet, she yearned to dance with demons that walked as men, to discuss the future of White America with people who waged fewer wars than those they mimicked. Usually, though, no one wanted to talk much about racial purity while loud industrial music was blaring through the speakers. They were more about wearing fashionable armbands to shock their parents and teachers than being actually committed to the cause. The politics were just sketchy enough for the crowd there, but a tad too serious for the club environment unless she happened to find the right conversationalist. Most of them would rather dance and fuck the night away, reserving the pseudo-intellectual discussions for post-coital coffee the next morning.

When she arrived at the club that night, she was dressed for the predatory occasion, preparation for cavorting with the denizens of what was often referred to as “Lower” Sweetville by the upper classes. She was a modest Mephistopheles clad in skintight black patent-leather pants, fuzzy leopard platform creepers, and a Brutal Attack t-shirt with the sleeves and neck cut out to expose her shapely torso. Her breasts heaved and defied gravity. They seemed to say, “Come and get ‘em, boys. The milk’s whole, fresh and plentiful!”

She rolled her eyes at the cracked neon lights on the sign that had been in dire need of repair for months now. The defect made it look like the name was Clu_ C_ub. Toro was working the front door, as always. He was a bald beast of a man, as well as one of Cypress’s faithful skinhead crew, so she knew she would never have to pay a cover charge as long as it was his shift. He nodded at her, grunted a few mush-mouth words she couldn’t quite understand and allowed her to pass. Rumor had it that Toro had earned his nickname by scaring off a bull with only his voice. Booming as Toro’s larynx could be, Cypress figured this was, well, bullshit. Where the hell was anyone ever going to see any bulls roaming around Sweetville? No cows in this town. The nearest farm was probably 200 miles away in Plain Grove. Cypress had it on pretty good authority—from Stacey King, one of her bitchy wannabe skinbyrd “friends”—that Toro was referred to as such due to the impressive size of his joystick and accompanying testicles. She’d find out the real truth for herself if she got desperate or drunk enough, but not tonight.

Probably not.

She sure as hell hoped not. The last thing she needed was another dead fuck. A girl had to have some level of taste.

Cypress entered the floor. Ministry’s “Burning Inside” rattled the speakers, making them sound like a ticked off nest of hornets. It always took a few seconds to adjust to the epileptic strobe lights that shocked and awed within the walls of Club Club, but they proved effective at masking any potential racial ambiguity. They worked better than any brand of makeup she had ever tried. She glanced at the familiar Wheat Paste Wall, where posters for upcoming shows and DJ nights stuck together like old porno mags. Beneath them were the browning flyers from years long past.

She floated through the crowd, a sex-starved specter. The first faces she saw in the dim light were those of the Zane brothers. They appeared to be chatting up a Goth fatty with a passably cute face who might or might not have squeezed her way into the club with a fake ID. Cypress wondered if the Zanes ever stopped trolling for snatch, if those douchebags even had any standards. Just sliding themselves into anything, as if their dicks were quarters and the random orifices were slot machines about to hit the jackpot.

She did not make eye contact with the brothers or their potential conquest. She had done the deed with the twins a few times, both separately and together, but had determined they were too freaky even for her. Too bad, since they were ghost-white and filthy rich. A girl could maybe get used to the deviance with those sorts of benefits, but Cypress preferred a stronger sense of loyalty in her mates. They needed to be closer to senseless little puppy dogs that would lick her boots and like it. Still, a successful white man really lubed her labia.

A pack of Junkie Creeps hung around the edges of the bar. Most of them had long, greasy hair and twigs for bodies. They all wore navy blue jumpsuits. Unless there was obvious facial hair, it was almost impossible to tell from afar which were male or female. Their clothing and entire appearance was vaguely free of gender.

She was fairly certain, though, that she recognized a girl named Sara who she had been acquainted with back in high school. Their friendship had failed to blossom once Cypress discovered the wonders of white supremacy in her sophomore year. Sara was too deeply attracted to R & B music for Cypress to have taken her seriously at that point. Skinheads didn’t dabble in silly love songs, especially those written and sung by the lesser races. Cypress questioned what could have happened to Sara over the years. She had everything going for her and still managed to screw it up. A disgrace to her heritage.

A couple of the Withering Wyldes lurked at a booth in the far corner, whispering their inaudible secrets to each other. It wasn’t like them to frequent a club like this one, but she knew from experience how difficult it was to find new recruits for a cause, so she shrugged it off. Probably scoping out the Junkie Creeps since they were already about the right size for their needs. Wouldn’t take much of a leap to get some of them into their fold. Cypress was certainly strong enough to ignore their temptations. Anyone who chose otherwise pretty much deserved what they got when it came to those cultists.

She noticed a peculiar looking man chatting with the Withering Wyldes at their table. Short, wearing a funny hat. His face looked scarred as if badly beaten. It almost appeared as if his eyes were glowing. Perhaps the result of some wild type of contact lenses. Wouldn’t be the weirdest fashion choice that had passed through the doors of Club Club. This guy was definitely not someone she’d noticed on the scene before, though. He looked a little older than the average clubgoer and very out of place. Cypress shook her head in disgust. Fucking hell, she thought. Is this place turning into the cantina from Star Wars or something?

Seemingly out of nowhere, Samuel strolled up to the table where this strange man and the Withering Wyldes sat. What the fuck, Cypress thought. Had Samuel mentioned he was coming, they could have carpooled and saved on gas. How did he know these freaks anyway? Probably just dealing some Candy or something. Whatever. She wasn’t interested enough to find out. Time to ignore stupid Samuel and move on to find some actual fun for the night.

Lithe, wishfully vampiric dancers glided across the floor to Skinny Puppy’s “Assimilate.” Some waved their hands in front of their faces as if trying to escape a nasty, never-ending cobweb. Others made overly exaggerated steps like they were attempting to avoid a fresh pile of dog shit, while a small group swayed in place like decrepit trees on a windy day. And all of their faces were oh so serious.

Cypress stood in the corner twirling her Schutzstaffel Totenkopf pendant in her fingers. Her first boyfriend, Sven—at that time the Big Daddy of the skinhead scene—had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday. Even though it was more than half a decade later and Sven wasn’t getting out of prison anytime soon, Cypress still cherished this trinket. She had painted the edges of it with pink nail polish and thought it looked particularly cute.

Cypress spotted her next conquest: an emaciated Goth boy doing some sort of dramatic Peanuts dance all by himself. Not that all of the other dancers weren’t flying solo as well. For a scene that seemed so sensual on the surface, the dancing distinctly lacked any erotic qualities. His whiteness may have been mostly pancake makeup, but that was good enough for a night like this one.

His name was Bastian, and she found out later that night he was fond of cutting himself too.