Sing-a-long with the Aryan Nations
My hospital roommate is singing “Karma Chameleon” in the shower. He has a surprisingly good voice. I am still astonished that anyone who flags Elmer Fudd could possibly be a Boy George fan.
Chris is a bit of a mess. He’s in his early forties, I guess, but his body is so beat up that it is difficult to tell. He has a skinhead haircut, listens to Slayer, and is covered in crude black inked tattoos.
The Elmer Fudd on his left shoulder blade, and the Spike the Bulldog on his right bicep, signify that he used to belong to the Aryan Nation. The Woody Woodpecker (or Peckerwood, as he calls it) on the left breast indicates prison time. The rest of the tattoos are partially obscured by old bullet wound scars.
It would seem that he has been shot many, many times. Thanks to an old TESFest panel by Leather Edge, I remembered enough code words to get him talking.
“It’s not about race, bra”, he mumbles. He seems to refer to everyone as either “bra”, “mama”, or “that batshit biddy up the hall who keeps yelling all the time”. He has a soft Arizona accent, and talks in vague run on sentences. I think it’s the morphine.
“It’s about, I don’t know, who you hang out with and shit like that, you know? But people these days, it’s all about the almighty dollar. Everyone just does this shit for money and they don’t care about what’s right. Like these guys owed me four thousand, so I went to the Aryan Brotherhood and they didn’t help me, so I talked to the Mexican Mafia and they shot me.” He looked hurt. “That ain’t right. They owed me money. They shouldn’t have shot me. You have any smokes, bra?”
He is in the hospital for a flare up of Krone’s disease, and a weird fast growing infection on his face that they haven’t quite diagnosed. He makes a lot painful trips to the bathroom, watches a lot of Law and Order, and is obsessed with precisely when he will get the next dosage of his pain medication.
“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse!” yells the batshit biddy up the hall, “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I have to go to the baaaaathroom!” She keeps yelling the same phrase with the same tone and intonation for a few minutes. I find it comforting. It’s a little like the mating call of a loon. Chris seems genuinely concerned about her.
After his pain medication finally arrives, he begins a rambling account of some old conflict between the Aryan Nations and the KKK. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. He paints a vague picture of a half assed group of petty criminals more concerned with drinking and turf battles than anything political. “So there was this thing between the Aryan Nations and the KKK, and people weren’t getting along”, he mumbles. “So I’m out at Mama C’s and suddenly I’m surrounded by all these guys with guns and baseball bats and shit. I don’t think they saw that I had my 44 on the seat next to me, but I’m about to reach for it when they just stop and stare at me. So I roll down the window and tell ‘em that this shit has nothing to do with me and I’m just heading over to see my girls. I don’t even know these guys, and they’re going to shoot me. That ain’t right. I was just minding my business, but eventually they let me through. Thought I was gonna be shot again.”
He drifts off and goes back to watching Law and Order. I know he watched the same episode a few hours back, but he’s nodding at it like it’s new to him.
The batshit biddy up the hall takes up a new call. “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I have to go to the baaaaathroom and shit”. We exchange glances. This seems like an ominous development. The new call continues for a few minutes.
It turns out that the he used to make his money pimping two underage girls. He mentions offhandedly that one of them was seventeen, but he doesn’t mention the age of the other. I can’t bring myself to ask him. “So I had these two girls - real sweet girls. I had this house, and we lived there. It’s important to give kids a good home environment to live in, otherwise they grow up fucked up, you know? It ain’t right for kids to be living on the street. So we had a good family. Family is important. But if you have a family, someone’s always wanting to break the shit up. People get jealous. So they came and tried to take them away from me, and then they fucking shot me. That ain’t right. Girls like that need a family. You shouldn’t make em work on the street. They shouldn’t have taken em away from me. They were mine. It ain’t right. I owned ‘em.”
So, right then, things seem a little different. The guy in the next bed isn’t just some broken down old man made pitiful by constant, painful, staggering trips to the bathroom. He is also a sweet talking violent tough, constantly aggrieved that others find it necessary to shoot him.
He owned children, and he made them work the streets for him. He seems genuinely unaware that he is, in fact, an evil man.
The batshit biddy up the hall takes up another call. “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I need a new diaper”.
“Damn”, says Chris, looking worried. “I really hope they are taking good care of her. It ain’t right for people to suffer like that.”
Chris is a bit of a mess. He’s in his early forties, I guess, but his body is so beat up that it is difficult to tell. He has a skinhead haircut, listens to Slayer, and is covered in crude black inked tattoos.
The Elmer Fudd on his left shoulder blade, and the Spike the Bulldog on his right bicep, signify that he used to belong to the Aryan Nation. The Woody Woodpecker (or Peckerwood, as he calls it) on the left breast indicates prison time. The rest of the tattoos are partially obscured by old bullet wound scars.
It would seem that he has been shot many, many times. Thanks to an old TESFest panel by Leather Edge, I remembered enough code words to get him talking.
“It’s not about race, bra”, he mumbles. He seems to refer to everyone as either “bra”, “mama”, or “that batshit biddy up the hall who keeps yelling all the time”. He has a soft Arizona accent, and talks in vague run on sentences. I think it’s the morphine.
“It’s about, I don’t know, who you hang out with and shit like that, you know? But people these days, it’s all about the almighty dollar. Everyone just does this shit for money and they don’t care about what’s right. Like these guys owed me four thousand, so I went to the Aryan Brotherhood and they didn’t help me, so I talked to the Mexican Mafia and they shot me.” He looked hurt. “That ain’t right. They owed me money. They shouldn’t have shot me. You have any smokes, bra?”
He is in the hospital for a flare up of Krone’s disease, and a weird fast growing infection on his face that they haven’t quite diagnosed. He makes a lot painful trips to the bathroom, watches a lot of Law and Order, and is obsessed with precisely when he will get the next dosage of his pain medication.
“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse!” yells the batshit biddy up the hall, “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I have to go to the baaaaathroom!” She keeps yelling the same phrase with the same tone and intonation for a few minutes. I find it comforting. It’s a little like the mating call of a loon. Chris seems genuinely concerned about her.
After his pain medication finally arrives, he begins a rambling account of some old conflict between the Aryan Nations and the KKK. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. He paints a vague picture of a half assed group of petty criminals more concerned with drinking and turf battles than anything political. “So there was this thing between the Aryan Nations and the KKK, and people weren’t getting along”, he mumbles. “So I’m out at Mama C’s and suddenly I’m surrounded by all these guys with guns and baseball bats and shit. I don’t think they saw that I had my 44 on the seat next to me, but I’m about to reach for it when they just stop and stare at me. So I roll down the window and tell ‘em that this shit has nothing to do with me and I’m just heading over to see my girls. I don’t even know these guys, and they’re going to shoot me. That ain’t right. I was just minding my business, but eventually they let me through. Thought I was gonna be shot again.”
He drifts off and goes back to watching Law and Order. I know he watched the same episode a few hours back, but he’s nodding at it like it’s new to him.
The batshit biddy up the hall takes up a new call. “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I have to go to the baaaaathroom and shit”. We exchange glances. This seems like an ominous development. The new call continues for a few minutes.
It turns out that the he used to make his money pimping two underage girls. He mentions offhandedly that one of them was seventeen, but he doesn’t mention the age of the other. I can’t bring myself to ask him. “So I had these two girls - real sweet girls. I had this house, and we lived there. It’s important to give kids a good home environment to live in, otherwise they grow up fucked up, you know? It ain’t right for kids to be living on the street. So we had a good family. Family is important. But if you have a family, someone’s always wanting to break the shit up. People get jealous. So they came and tried to take them away from me, and then they fucking shot me. That ain’t right. Girls like that need a family. You shouldn’t make em work on the street. They shouldn’t have taken em away from me. They were mine. It ain’t right. I owned ‘em.”
So, right then, things seem a little different. The guy in the next bed isn’t just some broken down old man made pitiful by constant, painful, staggering trips to the bathroom. He is also a sweet talking violent tough, constantly aggrieved that others find it necessary to shoot him.
He owned children, and he made them work the streets for him. He seems genuinely unaware that he is, in fact, an evil man.
The batshit biddy up the hall takes up another call. “Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! Nuuuuuuuuuuuuurse! I need a new diaper”.
“Damn”, says Chris, looking worried. “I really hope they are taking good care of her. It ain’t right for people to suffer like that.”