Sir Reginald Can Taste the Cheap in Your Beer
“A pint of
bitter. Or Guinness. Or a sherry. Please, just something that pretends to have
a bit of class,” Sir Reginald all but begged the barman.
“Schlitz is a dollar a can.”
“For the love of…give me seven, please, and a packet of cigarettes that doesn’t have bloody filters.”
The barman tossed over a pack of Lucky Strikes and pulled a six-pack from a small fridge under the bar.
“You come back when you need the last one,”
Sir Reginald dropped a twenty in what he hoped was a very stale pool of something terrible and carried his bounty back to the table where the man in the balaclava was waiting.
“Now, young man-“
“Don’t presume to know my age, or even my gender.”
“Oh, for heavens sake, everybody is young to me, and I can see stubble. Now, if we want something productive to come of this meeting, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“One question…how do I know this isn’t some sort of set-up?”
“Because if it were a set-up, somebody would eventually find out that I was drinking terrible beer in a bar where the jukebox has Conway Twitty. And I can’t have that, now can I? Regale me with your qualifications, and I’ll let you know if you’re what I’m looking for in this particular situation.”
"Two weeks ago, I killed a half-dozen white niggers for attempting to fill the space left by the recent gang fighting. Nobody even knows they’re gone yet.”
“White nigger? Is that like a straight fag, or a Christian Jew?” Sir Reginald asked, peeling back the tab on his beer. The masked man made no response to the comment, but kept talking.
“I’m currently on the FBI’s Most Wanted List twice, both times with names and faces that aren’t mine. I have over a dozen safehouses and over five hundred men around the country ready to regain the white man’s dominance through violent and non-violent means at my command.” He paused for a moment and took a sip from his glass of water.
“Now, I understand you’re some sort of Occult Mastermind. What can you do for me, Reg?”
“First, I can not be called “Reg,” if that suits you. Second, there’s no such thing as magic. It’s all a fraud. Smoke and mirrors. Utter bullshit, but it works if you know how to fake it,” he finished his first Schlitz and popped open a second.
“What I want to know, masked man, is why you’re working only on the fast solution. Why you aren’t approaching this sensibly, like the gradual erosion of the blacks, Jews, and whatall through negative public opinion. Or eugenics, that was taken quite seriously for a while…”
“Our media campaigns are being stymied at every turn by the Zionist controllers, and eugenics takes too damned long to do anything worthwhile.”
“Oh,” mused Sir Reginald, “I don’t know about that…”
He flashed an open palm at the barkeep-who would later testify under both oath and hypnosis that he had never met Sir Reginald before the moment he ordered beer, and that he had never in his life kept a gun in his establishment-and the man promptly overhanded a Mossberg pump shotgun at Sir Reginald, who caught it neatly in his hands, pivoted, and pulled the trigger.
Sir Reginald stood up, walked a few paces to the body, and used the barrel to lift the ski mask. He studied the face beneath for nearly ten seconds, then reached back and grabbed his four remaining beers by their thin plastic holder. He hefted the shotgun in his right hand and gave it a kiss on the still-warm barrel.
“Thanks, Eugenics. Now let’s get out of here before we start enjoying a good line-dance.”
b
Current Music: “This is Music” - The Verve
“Schlitz is a dollar a can.”
“For the love of…give me seven, please, and a packet of cigarettes that doesn’t have bloody filters.”
The barman tossed over a pack of Lucky Strikes and pulled a six-pack from a small fridge under the bar.
“You come back when you need the last one,”
Sir Reginald dropped a twenty in what he hoped was a very stale pool of something terrible and carried his bounty back to the table where the man in the balaclava was waiting.
“Now, young man-“
“Don’t presume to know my age, or even my gender.”
“Oh, for heavens sake, everybody is young to me, and I can see stubble. Now, if we want something productive to come of this meeting, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“One question…how do I know this isn’t some sort of set-up?”
“Because if it were a set-up, somebody would eventually find out that I was drinking terrible beer in a bar where the jukebox has Conway Twitty. And I can’t have that, now can I? Regale me with your qualifications, and I’ll let you know if you’re what I’m looking for in this particular situation.”
"Two weeks ago, I killed a half-dozen white niggers for attempting to fill the space left by the recent gang fighting. Nobody even knows they’re gone yet.”
“White nigger? Is that like a straight fag, or a Christian Jew?” Sir Reginald asked, peeling back the tab on his beer. The masked man made no response to the comment, but kept talking.
“I’m currently on the FBI’s Most Wanted List twice, both times with names and faces that aren’t mine. I have over a dozen safehouses and over five hundred men around the country ready to regain the white man’s dominance through violent and non-violent means at my command.” He paused for a moment and took a sip from his glass of water.
“Now, I understand you’re some sort of Occult Mastermind. What can you do for me, Reg?”
“First, I can not be called “Reg,” if that suits you. Second, there’s no such thing as magic. It’s all a fraud. Smoke and mirrors. Utter bullshit, but it works if you know how to fake it,” he finished his first Schlitz and popped open a second.
“What I want to know, masked man, is why you’re working only on the fast solution. Why you aren’t approaching this sensibly, like the gradual erosion of the blacks, Jews, and whatall through negative public opinion. Or eugenics, that was taken quite seriously for a while…”
“Our media campaigns are being stymied at every turn by the Zionist controllers, and eugenics takes too damned long to do anything worthwhile.”
“Oh,” mused Sir Reginald, “I don’t know about that…”
He flashed an open palm at the barkeep-who would later testify under both oath and hypnosis that he had never met Sir Reginald before the moment he ordered beer, and that he had never in his life kept a gun in his establishment-and the man promptly overhanded a Mossberg pump shotgun at Sir Reginald, who caught it neatly in his hands, pivoted, and pulled the trigger.
Sir Reginald stood up, walked a few paces to the body, and used the barrel to lift the ski mask. He studied the face beneath for nearly ten seconds, then reached back and grabbed his four remaining beers by their thin plastic holder. He hefted the shotgun in his right hand and gave it a kiss on the still-warm barrel.
“Thanks, Eugenics. Now let’s get out of here before we start enjoying a good line-dance.”
b
Current Music: “This is Music” - The Verve