The Passover Protector

Summary: Two Neo-Nazis face more than they bargained for while desecrating a synagogue.

Notes: This story has some strong language, prejudice, drug abuse, and Nazi symbols. It's in the context of two Neo-Nazi characters meeting a peculiar circumstance. The events of the story are fictional, but sadly, the characters (and their behavior) are based on numerous real-life examples. I hope you enjoy reading this dark comedy as much as I did writing it.

Dick yanked Bill below the pews as gunfire traced a line behind them. It wasn't their first drug fueled breaking and entering session, but it was among the most surreal.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" shouted the life-sized statue of Christ, suspended above the altar. Jesus blazed away with Uzis akimbo, each submachinegun blowing away chunks of the walls and splintering wood.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Bill asked, as his hammy hands pushed off the ground.

Dick felt his wiry, emaciated crushed beneath his companion's whale-like body. Bill staggered to his feet, as his cellulite-etched tattoos of Norse hammers and swastikas rebounded like elastic bands. He staggered to his feet and leaned against a pew, which Dick swore was blasted to splinters just moments earlier. The short man rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and he drew the Desert Eagle from his oversized jeans.

Dick pointed the pistol at the altar, while Bill stared disparagingly at him. He saw the altar itself was unchanged, not covered in the brass casings from a dual-wielding Christ. Instead, the crucified Jesus was suspended silently above the altar, eyes closed in acceptance of his death. Dick felt something warm trickling down his leg, and Bill step back in disgust.

"Piss yourself again, fucker?" Bill mocked.

"Shut up, fag," Dick replied. "You've never been on a trip."

Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pills. He dumped them into his wide, sagging cheeks. He swallowed with one gulp and stared condescendingly at his companion. "Been on more than you ever did."

Before Dick could respond, church's front door flew opened. "Who's in there?!" shouted an irate voice. "The cops are coming!"

Dick ran towards the fire exit, which they'd pried open earlier. His fat companion lumbered behind him, each footfall sending waves up his voluminous folds of skin. If Dick was not so obsessed with his own escape, he'd have laughed at the fat man panting for breath from a fast walk. Behind them, the flashlight beam of a caretaker fell upon Bill's rear end. The caretaker shouted incoherently behind them, but Dick sprinted out first.

Dick warmed up the engine of their stolen car by the time Bill reached it. He'd already made up his mind to leave Bill if he had to, and part of him even reveled in the concept. Aided by lingering effects of the hallucinogen he'd taken earlier, he imagined himself finally free of Bill's coercion. The pleasant fantasy only lasted until he heard the door slam shut behind him. "Drive, fucker!" Bill shouted.

Dick floored it, sighing to himself. He mentally revisited how he'd ended up in that situation. He'd dropped out of high school, after experimenting with drugs. He'd burned his house down, after his parents threw him out over the drugs he bought with their money. He'd went from misdemeanors to felonies, increasingly covering his skin with white supremacist iconography. His only companion for all of that time was Bill, urging him ever-down that slope. He momentarily considered stopping, only to instinctively stop thinking once Bill talked.

"Pissed yourself again," Bill said. "Like a fucking baby."

"We gotta get out of state again," Dick replied, trying to change the subject. "Cops'll be out."

"You should've just shot that bastard," Bill said, an infernal grin marching across his face. "But I got a better idea."

"What next? Another stupid robbery? Grabbing purses? Knocking over gas stations?" Dick said. "None of those has worked!"

Bill raised his hand, as though he was preparing to slap him, but the blow never came. Instead, Bill sneered at his companion, as another idea crossed his head. Dick shuddered, worried about whatever half-assed ideas germinated in his companion's head.

"You're right," Bill said. "Time we go for something bigger. You know where there's easy money?"

"Banks?"

"No, retard. Banks are too well guarded. Even corner stores and gas stations are harder. But you know who always has money? And ensures we live like rats?"

"Who?"

"Jews," Bill said. "And remember that synagogue we passed an hour ago?"

"You can't be serious. That place was in the middle of a suburb."

"Exactly. A soft target surrounded by wealth," Bill said. "And we can send those Christ-killers a message they won't forget."

Bill reached into the backseat, and he pulled out a spare can of gasoline. He flicked open his cigarette lighter, which had the Ku Klu Klan logo of interlocking "K's" painted on. His leering face was illuminated by the insufficient flame, like a grotesque monster before a doomed explorer's torch. Dick looked away and continued driving. He obeyed when Bill ordered him to turn around, heading back down the same road they'd taken to get there. That was the last time entertained anything approaching introspection.

They pulled into the parking lot before the synagogue, which was completely deserted apart from them. Dick slipped the oversized pistol back into his pants with the safety off, as firearms safety was always an unfamiliar concept to him. He took a prybar, while Bill took a sledgehammer with him. They carried the duffel bag of tools and the spare gas can with them.

Dick noted that Bill carried the heavy load entirely by himself, moving with an alacrity defying his pudgy form. He'd already convinced himself of some easy treasure that waited within the synagogue, like a pirate beholding unguarded plunder. He doubted Bill's delusions would result in anything other than trinkets and trouble. Nevertheless, he did run in once Bill smashed the front doors open.

Dick saw Bill spray-paint a crude swastika above the front door before going in. The fat man sprinkled gasoline around the edge of the building, with the care of a gardener watering flowers. He grabbed the sledgehammer in his left hand, and he saluted to an invisible Hitler before charging inside the smashed door. He felt something amiss, as though an unseen sentinel was now aware of them.

Dick sensed something was amiss as he approached. He was used to Bill smashing and breaking objects in his way, and then rushing out with bags of stolen goods. The thought of running while Bill was within never crossed his mind. He approached the entrance carefully behind him, drawing the pistol from his pants. He put his finger on the trigger, ready to shot anyone they saw.

Dick stepped into the synagogue, crossing the threshold with great apprehension. He looked up to see the ceiling and walls were a peculiar type of stone he'd never seen before. It was dark gray, and almost organic. Something dripped from elsewhere inside, pulling into a dark puddle in the corner of the antechamber. He stepped inside with both feet, nervous about a watchman or caretaker ready to ambush them. He told himself to avoid his imagination, but he'd never felt like this before.

Dick found Bill in the corner. His remains were ground into a fine, putrid pool of crushed door. It reminded Dick of the time they'd put a puppy into a hydraulic press. White, viscous lard intermingled with powdered bone fragments, pulverized organs, and arterial blood. From the tattoos on the sagging flesh, he recognized the mess of carnage as Bill.

Dick imagined himself fleeing the room with superhuman celerity. Instead, he pressed onwards, with his pistol extended. The irony of a Nazi using an Israeli weapon, the Desert Eagle, was totally lost on him. He almost slipped on a pool of clotted blood, only to stop himself from falling by leaning on the wall. Then, he saw something move. He fired without thinking, sending a .50 AE bullet into the wall.

Dick fired again, but to no effect. The stone embraced itself around him, like a blanket eager to warm him. It was firm at first, and soon got thicker and harder. His ribcage cranked as his lungs collapsed. He would have screamed, had any air left his lips. Instead, his organs were juiced and regurgitated onto the floor in the pool that once was Bill. Even in death, Dick could not escape his former companion's fate.