The Flock

“So, what can I get for you fellas?” The server was wearing her value-added outfit, tight slacks and a knit top with a scoop neck revealing about twenty percent of her tits. Brant figured it was the same amount as the tip she hoped the flash of flesh would elicit.

“How come you’re not home making babies?” Wolfgang leered at the server.

“Pardon me?”

“Save it for our buddies on Stormfront, Wolf,” Brant said.

The young woman either didn’t hear, understand or could care less about her patron’s remarks.

“A burger,” Adam said. “Double patty with cheese, bacon, a fried egg and extra fries.” Adam was at least three hundred pounds and was serious about carbohydrates.

Wolf ordered a cheeseburger, Brant the Schnitzel Neptune.

“And to drink?” The server looked toward the door. “I’ll be right with you,” she said. Two black men had entered and were waiting to be seated.

“Hey!” Wolf shouted. “The blacks can wait.”

“Excuse me?”

“Three Heineken,” Brant said.

The server shook her head and left.

“That THOT blew us off,” Wolf said.

“Forget it, we got more important things to discuss,” Brant said. Wolf’s temper was both an asset and a liability. He was about six feet, with muscle going to fat, long, dark, stringy hair, and shaggy goatee. Clad in black jeans, red work shirt and sleeveless denim jacket, he looked intimidating. Things could quickly escalate with him, and everyone had a cellphone. The next thing you knew you were called out on a viral video and the cops were up your ass. Unfortunately, that kind of nonsense was the price he paid for associating with these morons. He didn’t need that kind of negative attention right now. Still, they had their uses.

Adam looked up from his phone. “Like what?”

“This lobster fishing controversy next door in Digby,” Brant said. Blank looks, both his companions didn’t know what he was talking about. “Don’t you ever watch television?”

“Sure, what show?” Adam asked.

“Not a show, the news.”

“The news? You watch MSM fake news?”

“Illegal fishing by the Indians is destroying the lobster breeding grounds and the livelihood for white fishers and their families here in Nova Scotia.” Brant gave his abbreviated version of what was happening in a small town two hours away on the other side of the peninsula.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Wolf said. “Everyone should be made obey the law, not just us Euro-Christian Canadians.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. He went back to whatever was commanding his attention on his cell phone, probably a video game.

“This is an opportunity for the True North,” Brant said.

“Fucking right. Let’s put real Canadians first.”

The server arrived with their food. “The double patty with cheese, bacon, a fried egg and–”

“That’s mine.” Adam grabbed a handful of fries and shoved them in his mouth before the plate touched the table. “Starving,” he said, masticated potatoes spewing on the table.

The woman shrank back in disgust. Brant didn’t blame her. He wouldn’t want to come between Adam and his food.

She approached Brant cautiously. “And a Schnitzel Neptune, for you.”

“Thanks.” He smiled.

She placed the cheeseburger in front of Wolf without a word.

“The reason white birth rates are dropping is because of THOTs like her,” Wolf said. “We need more trad women.”

The problem with traditional women as far as Brant was concerned was they weren’t supposed to work outside the home. Kinder, Küche, Kirche, was a Nazi edict the alt-right had adopted that meant “children, church, kitchen”, a return to roles suited for women. Before his breakup with Marlene, her income had paid most of the bills.

“Bitch forgot the ketchup,” Adam said. Yolk from the egg streaked his pale chin.

“Not European. Can’t have it. Traditionalists don’t eat food that originated in non-white countries and ketchup came from China.” Brant could care less but enjoyed the crestfallen look on the faces of his companions who had to eat fries without their favourite condiment.

The Halifax chapter of the True North was formed when the Canadian government designated Proud Boys a terrorist organization. The designation deemed it a crime to personally donate, purchase merchandise from or “to knowingly deal with the property” associated with Proud Boys. It also prohibited financial institutions from processing payments by or to Proud Boys chapters or offering known members a loan. Overnight, income from Brant’s lucrative online business selling the group’s paraphernalia dropped to a trickle. It was fucking fascism not to mention a gross violation of the Bill of Rights but there was nothing he could do about it–for now.

When he formed the True North, he was careful to express the group’s ideology and actions in more positive ways like putting Canadians first, expressing concerns about the negative impact of immigration on employment as well as the erosion of white Canadian culture and traditions with those of Third World immigrants. He didn’t want to jeopardize his revenue stream again, so nothing was said about preparing for a race war or the removal of certain individuals and sectors in society.

The downturn in the oil and gas industry meant many Maritimers were struggling financially. That included Wolf who worked as a roustabout on the offshore rigs and was laid off a year ago, though Brant suspected it also had something to do with his attitude. The guy had a toxic mix of low self-esteem and a volatile temper, and it was frequently directed at authority, including his foreman, the employer, the government, deep state, Jews–all those nefarious motherfuckers who conspired to keep him down.

The economy was beyond their control but that didn’t mean they weren’t looking for scapegoats. Membership was growing and Brant was working on a website with the new name that would be legal to donate to and sell merchandise from. Without any international extremist affiliations, The True North should be able to get the message out and bring the money in for quite some time before it came up on the radar of some liberal advocacy organization like the Southern Poverty Law Center, got called out, and shut down.

Their meal finished; the server slapped down the bill in front of Brant without asking if they wanted another round. He slid it over to Adam who took out his credit card. His parents were a virtual ATM for their only son, who also lived rent-free in the family’s basement suite. The movement had its patrons, and among them were Adam’s mom and dad, even if they weren’t aware of it.

“We need to drive to Digby and help out our fellow Canadians,” Brant said.

Wolf drained his beer and slammed down the bottle. “Fucking right!”