My cousin went off the deep end. Cute expression, huh? Like a kid falling into a pool. Ahh, that dumbass kid fell into the deep end! Tweet! Here comes the lifeguard! But Kyle didn’t rate a lifeguard. And there’s nothing cute about his plunge. His deep end was a sick, bloody, ugly, whirlpool. Its swirling waters sucked him in. Just dragged him down, bit by bit. Little things at first. He’d …
Impatient waitress. Again.
“Brianne” according to the nametag. But she looks like Molly Ringwald.
“You ready to order?”
New order.
“I’ll stick with coffee for now. I’m meeting somebody.”
“Partner?”
“Cousin.”
“Partner.” Kyle would hate that.
“Antifa?”
She jerks her head to the street. Where the Antifa marchers had just passed. Some kind of respect in her eyes; she thinks Kyle’s fighting the fascists. But I shake my head no. Her respect fades, turns into disgust. She even steps back.
“This ‘cousin’ of yours. He wouldn’t happen to be one of those alt-right assholes?”
“Nah. Triathlete. Totally non-political.”
Total bullshit. But he’d get kicked out if he gave her a “yes” answer.
“Kyle got into Charlottesville last night, gave me a call. We set up a lunch—on the same day everybody’s marching and fixing to kill each other. What are the odds?”
Obvious lie. Lies are always too damn specific. But it’s the best I can do on short notice.
She shrugs, freshens up his coffee, vanishes. Snake tattoo on her arm. Kyle would hate that, too.
Because he was one of those alt-right assholes. But let’s not sugarcoat it.
Kyle was a straight-up Nazi.
Little things at first.
They were more or less the same age. We grew up together in Charlottesville, Virginia. Then Kyle’s parents moved to Illinois; mine stayed put. Few years later, Kyle got a scholarship to engineering school, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. (Same place HAL the killer computer from 2001achieved sentience.) I studied English at UVA. (Same place Thomas Jefferson laid the groundwork for American democracy and kept Sally Hemmings on a leash.) No free ride, but it was in-state tuition. And my parents could afford it.
They alternated family visits between Charlottesville and Urbana. Mostly in the summer, when "the boys" were back from school.
So, we’d ditch the parents and get high together, like we’d done for years. Kyle’d start riffing, like a wannabe standup comic. Then ...
[Pauses, not a good memory.]
Then in the summer of 2014, Kyle started making these twisted cultural observations. We’d be watching TV, some sitcom. Some chick would bust a guy’s balls. He'd rear back.
“You notice that?”
“Notice what?”
“They’re tearing down men. They want to replace men! That’s the Hollywood Jew agenda.”
“Hey … Am I hallucinating … or did you actually just say ‘Hollywood Jew agenda’ …?”
“Fuck yeah, cuz. So what? Take that PC stick out of your ass. Where’s your sense of humor? I’m being ironic, man.”
No, he wasn’t.
Racism. Like an infection in Kyle’s bones and blood. Dormant at first, then virulent. Breaking out like herpes sores.
Kyle got worse over the summer.
Jew this, incel that. Cunts, dykes, niggers, ZOG, blahbah.
His sick eloquence made a deep impression on me. See, I wanted to be a writer. Scratch that. I am a writer. Hunter S. Thomson was my idol. I thought I could follow in his footsteps. (laughs) At least back then.
And it occurred to me that my cousin was a gold mine. If I played my cards right, I could get a bestseller out of the bastard.
Illinois Nazis: A Strange and Terrible Saga.
My Cousin, the Illinois Nazi.
The Most Unforgettable Illinois Nazi I Ever Knew
Over the years, Kyle got worse and worse. In the process, I got his rants inside a Sony digital recorder. (holds up recorder) After which, I got the MP3 files into his computer, and painstakingly transcribed them.
You know what’s funny about it?
I had Kyle’s permission.
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—Why’re you studying me, cuz? You writing a book about me?
—N-no.
—Y-yes. You fucking liar! But that’s cool. Study me all you want. Hell. You can tape record me—like you been doing in secret. Just no video. Don’t put my face online.
—Why not?
—Cause they’ll dox me, that’s why the hell not.
—Dox? What’s that mean?
—Put my picture up on fucking Antifa websites and get me harassed and fired and blacklisted.
[Clicks recorder off.]
Long story short, Kyle’s plunge in the Nazi pool got deeper and deeper. He … mutated. Kyle 1.0 was a science fair nerd. Kyle 2.0 had a skinhead buzzcut, six-pack abs, unblinking, 200-watt eyeballs, and talked a mile a minute.
Most of the talk was useless horseshit.
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—Sex is rape. Chick don’t want you asking permission. She wants you doing her whether she wants it or not. That’s what she wants, OK? That’s not politically correct. But it’s the fucking truth—get it?
[Clicks recorder off. Then on again.]
—How many pushups can you do?
—None.
—I can do 50, 30 one hands. I can deadlift.
(Grunting sounds)
[Clicks recorder off.]
But some of it …
Some of it was pretty damn good. In an evil sort of way.
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—Hey! You know how they say ‘I wanna be part of the solution, not the problem.’ Well, I’m working on a solution.
—What kind of solution?
—The final solution.
(Kyle hoots)
—I’m just fucking with you, man. There was no final solution! The Holocaust was a myth invented by Jews to create the state of Israel. That’s why they all need to die.
—You’re a sick bastard.
—And you’re a lousy journalist.
—Why?
—No follow-up question. I say ‘final solution.’ You didn’t ask me what the hell that means.
—No … I did. You said you’re just fucking with me.
—Happy to tell you, cuz—soon as I figure it out. Work in progress, you know? But I got few ideas.
—Like what?
—Like, you ever hear of Andrew Kehoe?
—No.
—May 18, 1927. He blew up the elementary school in Bath Township, Michigan USA. 44 dead, 45 counting Andy. The gummint fucked him over. He fucked them right back.
—You’re seriously thinking about …?
—Hell, cuz. I’d never kill innocent people. Heh-heh. Hey, I’m just fucking with you.
[Clicks recorder off.]
After that, we kept up on Skype. Kyle would hint and tease about his solution, than laugh it off. His sick rants were pretty near worthless.
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—I think you ain’t getting it. You want to be a cuck? “Please, may I touch your pussy? May I eat your pussy?” Fuck that shit.
[Clicks recorder off. Then on again.]
—You have a sexual fascination with me.
—Fuck you.
—You wanna fuck me?
—Sorry, I don’t swing that way. Heh. Just fucking with you cuz.
—I’m not gay. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
—Seinfeld, right? Seinfeld’s a Jew. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Except there is.
—I can’t tell when you’re …
[Clicks recorder off.]
I stubbornly kept recording him. But Kyle was not a goldmine. Kyle was boring. I was ready to chuck the whole bestseller idea. Then …
Bastille Day, 2016. 85 people, dead in the city of Nice. Some pissed off Tunisian drove a truck through a crowd of people on the promenade. It made a big impression on Kyle.
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—These towelheads have the right idea.
—What towelheads?
—The ones in France. Ploughed through those cheese-eating surrender monkeys like a knife through Brie, ha-ha.
—That’s not funny.
—Damn straight, it’s funny. Those Islamofuckers are going to hell, sure. But I admire their methods.
—Killing people with trucks?
—Fucking-A.
—Why the hell would you admire that?
—‘Cause I know why they hate us.
—“Us” as-in the French?
—As-in Western civilization.
—OK. Why?
—Because we’re a decadent society.
—What’s that mean?
—What do you think it means? You’re a fucking English major! You tell me. The root word and all that shit.
(Silence)
—Hell, I know you know. “Decadence” means decay. A state of decay. What’s the essence of decay? A lack of self-preservation. A lack of cultural identity. If you don’t fight for your own survival what good are you?
—So … let me get this straight. French tolerance for Islamic refugees is evidence of French decadence … and justification for Islamic refugees to kill them?
—You got it cuz! What do you think it feels like?
—I don’t want to.
—Well I do. Fuck. You ever hit anything with your car?
—Anything?
—Anything like anybody.
—No. What?
—I hit a deer once. Thump. It’d be like that with people.
(Silent pause)
—Man, you should see yourself! (laughs) Your face just turned white! I’m just fucking with you, cuz. You think I’m going to rent Ryder and kill hippies, right? You fixing to call the cops on me?
—N-no.
(Kyle speaking in a stage whisper.)
—I’ll let you in on a little secret, cuz. I’m no fucking Nazi. It’s one big act! (laughs) I’m undercover, get it? I’m writing the book, not you. It’s my goddamn material, get it? If you publish a word of what I’ve said, I’ll sue your ass. For the time being, I think we’ve outgrown these little talks, huh?
[Clicks recorder off.]
That was almost two years ago. Two years of silence followed.
Kyle didn’t murder anybody.
He’s all talk. Right?
(Smiles, walks off. End first segment.)
INTERMISSION
OK. I’m back. You probably want the rest of the story. Most of it’s pretty dull.
I stayed on at UVA. Kyle dropped out of engineering school. Pissed the scholarship away, didn’t show up for his fall 2016 semester. He cut off contact. With me.
No more visits. No more Skype chats.
But I had 37 hours of Kyle’s twisted rants.
333,187 words.
And 666 pages of transcripts.
Give or take.
But most of it was dull as hell.
(Shrugs)
So, I put the book on hold. But never gave it up. Not entirely.
Then, like a bad dream, this happened.
(Gestures to window)
Yeah. A horde of these alt-right neo-Nazis showed up in the streets of Charlottesville for this “Unite the Right Rally.” These good old boys were evidently upset about the city’s plans to take down that statue of Robert E. Lee. Kyle was upset, too. And that’s why he’d joined the party.
I know all this, because Kyle had called me. From a payphone or a burner … I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the number. Ignored it, but the calls kept coming. So I finally picked up. I kinda suspected who it was, so …
[Holds up recorder, clicks it on.]
—Who the hell is this?
—Kyle. Who the hell do you think, cuz? I’m in town. You ready to talk about my final solution?
—Uh … sure. Or we could talk now?
—Fuck you. I know you got me on speaker, asshole. You’re recording me on that pussy-sized Jap …
—I’m not …
Don’t bullshit the bullshitter, cuz. I’m undercover, remember? One of the good guys. It’s an Antifa solution, that’s all I’m gonna say.
—You say so.
—Let’s grab lunch, OK? We’ll talk in person. Bring your goddamn tape recorder. You wanna book? I’ll give you your goddamn book. 1:30 p.m., Red Pump Kitchen. Be there or be square.
[Clicks recorder off.]
So that was that. We’d officially set up a meeting.
I showed up a half-hour early. The appointed time rolled around. Kyle didn’t show up. 15 minutes later, he’s still not there. 30 minutes later, I’m ready to bounce. Then …
Then a muscle car flashes by the plate glass window. Just a blur, but I recognize it. 2010 Dodge Challenger. Kyle’s car. He gives me this friendly wave from the driver’s side, flashes a toothy smile. Then he’s gone.
A few seconds later, there’s a thud. Then the sound of screaming.
The final solution.
So I grab my notebook.
Drops a twenty on the table.
The Molly Ringwald ringer is wide-eyed.
“Oh God … what’s happening?”
Craning her head, looking out the window. Actually shaking.
“Do you know what’s …?”
“No.”
Actually, I have a pretty good idea.
Ding.
And I’m out the door, walking down the street. Away from the Red Pump Kitchen. Past the Impeccable Pig. Away from … As fast as I can, without being obvious.
Something horrible is happening behind me. Screaming. The screaming has a rhythm to it, like unholy music. Some girl is keening oh god, oh god, oh god. Over and over. Some guy is doing the bass line with a guttural howl.
I can hear the horror. If I turn, I’ll get a good look at it. I don’t turn.
I walk past a cute green tennis shoe. In pool of red blood.
Keep walking.
Back at my apartment, I immediately burn the notebooks, delete the documents and MP3 files, wipe the backup, optimize the hard drive, run several eraser programs to scrub any stubborn file fragments, and degauss my Sony recorder for good measure.
(takes a breath)
After that, I wait for the FBI to call. And then call me in for a grilling session. I already know the big question they’ll want to ask.
—Did you have any prior knowledge of your cousin’s intentions?
—No, sir. I knew he was a racist asshole. But this? I had no idea.
That’s what I’ll say. It’s the truth.
But nobody calls.
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