Your Next-Door Neighbor Is a Dragon (21 page)

Finding attractive women willing to play the victim for vore videos has limited the number of live-action videos on the Internet. I don’t know, something about going down into a strange man’s basement, putting on nylons, and climbing into the mouth of an alligator must not appeal to most women. Redd has bypassed this impediment by hiring professional models to portray the hapless morsels in his video vignettes.

“When you hire the women, do you tell them you’re making a monster movie?” I asked. “Or do you explain vore to them?”

“I explain vore to them,” Redd answered. “Certain aspects need to be captured in the images. For example…good leg struggling.”

Many of his videos include the classic vore image of a woman’s legs in stockings and high heels sticking out of the mouth of one of his monsters and kicking impotently in an effort to escape. Sometimes they kick for a while and then stop moving and disappear into the fabric mouth of Chompps or Sloppy Joe. In other videos, Redd spends a great deal of time focused on the legs as the women kick until they are completely swallowed.

“At what age did you become interested in vore?” I asked.

“Young!” Redd replied. “Maybe age ten. I didn’t know it had a name, I just thought it was cool.”

“Was your interest triggered by some event or memory or TV show? Was there something that served as a gateway?”

“Yes,” Redd replied after a bit of hesitation.
“The Muppet Show.
I saw a human guest being eaten. I think it was Carol Burnett, but I’m not sure.”

After my conversation with Redd, I went through an episode listing for
The Muppet Show
and discovered that Carol Burnett guest-starred on a single episode in the show’s fifth season. I tracked down a copy of the episode with relative ease and watched for the fetish-forming moment Redd mentioned to me.

About ten minutes into the episode there is a “Pigs in Space” sketch. The pigs have brought aboard a very large and shaggy space monster with wandering eyes. Miss Piggy is trying to communicate with the alien. Link and Dr. Strangepork are competing in the dance contest that is the episode’s theme. Miss Piggy asks them for their help and they are distracted dancing with each other, but Dr. Strangepork suggests Miss Piggy try dancing with the alien.

“Dance is the universal language,” Dr. Strangepork observes.

She demurs haughtily, as she is wont to do, but before she can continue the monster grabs her and pulls her to its enormous face. Miss Piggy screams. The other two pigs seem unconcerned with her safety.

“What’s he saying?” wonders Dr. Strangepork.

“Hungry!”
declares the monster.

It grabs Miss Piggy and pulls her into its huge maw. For a few seconds her porcine legs stick straight up out of the monster’s mouth. Hooves that resemble black high-heeled shoes kick ineffectually. The alien forces Miss Piggy’s kicking feet into his mouth.

“Well, look on the bright side,” notes Link. “She’ll probably be happier in there.”

“We’ll probably be happier out here!” agrees Dr. Strangepork.

There is more to the sketch and the episode, including more with Miss Piggy who truly is unharmed by the alien.

No Carol Burnett, but the resemblance otherwise is uncanny. And like Redd said, it was all just a prank.

Last Chance to Make a First Impression

I was twenty miles out from Ruby and her family’s farm, still thinking about the volume and luridness of the images in her secret binders. Her ranch was the first of three planned stops for me in the great state of Texas. All three were remote and all three were distant from each other.

I had another long drive ahead of me and in the Texas badlands I needed to do a little planning before I drove myself into an irreversible situation. I needed gas, a bathroom stop, and some refreshments before I attempted to tackle the 350 miles to the tiny town of Grundy.

The nearest town big enough to show up on the rental car’s GPS was a tiny town called Marigold. The GPS had the little gas pump icon. Unless they were siphoning gasoline straight out of the ground in Marigold I would be able to take a leak and stock up on caffeine and snacks. Junk food and Pepsi amounted to survival rations on the long, lonely Texas roads.

I turned the wheel and was just about to ease the car back onto the road when my phone rang. I dug through my man-purse full of notepads and recording equipment and managed to catch it just before it went into voice mail.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver.

“Ah don’t believe we have been acquainted fully.” The voice on the other end was sweet as caramel poured on an apple. “Mr. Parsons, my name is Canyon Fish. My brother is Travis Fish.”

I was all too familiar with the Fish family, or at least Travis Fish. The name sent a cold chill up my back.

“Uh, how did you get this number?” I asked.

“That is not important, Mr. Parsons,” said Canyon. “I am given to understand you are attempting to contact and/or visit a member of our community. On our property.”

Canyon Fish’s younger brother Travis is an end-times prophet operating a reclusive Christian sect called the Fishes. They recruit their members from the Internet and enforce strange and strict rules on their Gideon Flats compound.

It took weeks, but I set up an interview with one of the cult members, an ex–massage therapist from California named Barney Winston. He never said he feared for his life, but he did seem to dread the wrath of the Fishes if they realized he was betraying their confidence. All of my conversations with Barney Winston were kept very secret. After our first few he insisted on contacting me. I wasn’t even allowed to e-mail him.

“I can meet him somewhere else,” I suggested.

“It might be better for just about everyone involved and especially Mr. Winston if you just went ahead and did not come to visit us at all.”

“I—”

“There might be some safety issues,” Canyon said coldly.

Before I could formulate a reply, the line went dead. I’d like to pretend I was worried about the safety of Mr. Winston.

I would watch Sports if the teams were not 90% Black. The NFL used to be White now it has been taken over. White people invented these Sports like Football Soccer and Basketball the Blacks would have never have invented these Sports. The Blacks should thank Whites for inventing Sports because now the Blacks are worshipped as heroes and are rich.

 

—A disgruntled sports fan on Stormfront

 

G
rundy was one of a handful of sand-blasted shitholes creaking in the corrosive winds of southwest Texas. It looked like the sort of town the Army Corps of Engineers would build to test the effects of an A-bomb blast on a populated area.

Their plans were foiled when a bunch of dusty vagrants and fat kids wandered in and started living there. No more A-bomb tests for Grundy.

Which was frankly too bad. There were lots of clapboard houses and aluminum trailers just sitting and waiting to get picked up and tossed around by a thousand-degree tornado. This doomscape was populated by plenty of ugly, low-wattage mutants doing ugly things in ugly shopping centers. Folks waiting to have their shadows seared into the curb outside a barbecue rib restaurant or liquefied as they walked out of the Dollar Store with a sack full of Chinese truck nutz.

My rental car looked like someone had taken a powder puff covered in chalk and smacked it from above. I spent the preceding two days traversing the staggeringly vast state of Texas to reach Grundy and my arranged meeting with Luther Kitchener, head of the American Protection Unit. Kitchener founded the APU in 2003 as an organization to protect against “Jews, negroes, homosexuals, and the tide of illegals threatening to drown white America.”

Kitchener was a white-power militant, neo-Nazi, a singer-songwriter, and a video game enthusiast. More established hate groups pointed me to Kitchener as a sign of the future of white nationalism. In their view, Kitchener’s use of the Internet to grow the movement and spread the word, “revolutionized white power.”

“Not since Stormfront has a group used the Internet so effectively to broadcast our message and attract new members,” wrote one delighted hater who wished to remain anonymous. “If you want to talk to one guy at the forefront of the twenty-first-century white pride movement then Luther is your man.”

I really didn’t want to talk to anyone at the forefront of the twenty-first-century white pride movement, but potentially violent hate movements like the APU represent one of the most troubling subcultures on the modern Internet.

Hate movements were a dying breed in the multicultural atmosphere of the 1990s. The younger generation, possibly due to the influence of corrupting pro-negro forces like MTV’s
The Grind
and
Yo! MTV Raps
no longer found it “cool” and “hip” to hate people of other races. Old guard haters like David Duke were being publically humiliated by the liberal media. Big-city Americans rushed to embrace a wide range of evil agendas, including the Zionist agenda, the gay agenda, the black radical agenda, and the Mexican agenda.

White pride was at an all-time low. Whites could barely stand to look themselves in the mirror and think about their superiority.

Then, in its moment of defeat, the white nationalists were saved. It was as if Kampfgruppe Steiner broke through the ring of Soviet steel surrounding Berlin to rescue Der Fuhrer in his beleaguered bunker.

The Internet! It was the birth of a technological panzer for the neo-Nazi and white nationalist movement to regain their ability to recruit and reach out to a new audience. The Jew-controlled media and the Jew-controlled government could no longer suppress the voice of white pride in America. From 1999 to 2005 Internet hate sites grew in number by an average of 20 percent each year. By 2007 nearly a thousand hate groups were active in the United States, recruiting through the Internet and spreading their message through message boards and popular content aggregators like Digg and Fark.

This latter technique was one of the favorites of the APU. Luther Kitchener often penned hate-filled articles or collected “facts” that cast Israel or minorities in a poor light and then turned to his legion of online followers to promote these articles on sites like Digg.

Kitchener’s article “ZOG Plans New 9–11 Attacks” received almost two thousand Diggs. Another article, detailing a mummy supposedly discovered in Iran with blue eyes, received almost three thousand positive ratings from users.

There was little doubt in white power circles that Kitchener had figured out new ways to harness technology and that his star was on the rise.

I followed the directions Kitchener gave me, winding my way through the windswept town of Grundy. There were a few signs of civilization. I passed the smallest Wal-mart I have ever seen and two half-full strip malls. There was a hardware and lumber store, but it looked closed down and its parking lot was empty except for a few overturned carts.

Even the main strip of the town, a series of folksy shops like Button’s Sodas and Nancy & Joe’s Diner, looked like it had been barricaded up to weather the zombie apocalypse. I turned off Main Street onto Sam Houston, passing through dilapidated residentials, a dusty trailer park, and into a newer subdivision that was nonetheless desolate.

The houses there were small, split town houses. Dead grass and bare dirt yards were present on nearly every other house, suggesting either a low occupancy rate or the worst homeowners’ association north of the border.

There was nothing to distinguish Kitchener’s town house from any of the others. I walked up a small ramp onto the concrete block of his porch and rang the doorbell.

My surprise must have been evident when he answered.

“Yes, I am
the
Luther Kitchener,” he said.

Luther Kitchener was sitting in a wheelchair.

“Just because I can’t walk don’t mean I can’t hate,” he said. “I hate just as much as anybody else. I hate more, cuz the nigger can run and I am stuck in this chair with my superior white mind.”

He was a skinny man in his late twenties or early thirties, with pale skin and a clean-shaven head. There were little red spots of razor rash on his scalp. He wore khaki shorts and sandals and the collar of his cream-colored polo shirt almost concealed the cross-and-circle tattoo of the white pride movement on his lower neck.

Kitchener extended his hand and I shook it.

He seemed about to invite me in when his neighbor poked his head around the wall.

He was an older African American man, dressed similarly to Kitchener. He waved and flashed us a white-toothed smile as he walked out onto the grass holding a hose in his other hand.

“Hey there, Jack,” he called to Kitchener.

“How you doin’ today, Reggie?” Luther called back.

There was not a trace of rancor evident between the two neighbors. They smiled and waved to one another. Reggie offered to water “Jack’s” lawn.

“I would be mighty grateful,” Kitchener said. “It’s a pain in the ass gettin’ the hose out in my chair.”

“I hear ya,” Reggie said. “Well, I’ll let you and your friend get back to it.”

The inside of Kitchener’s town house was painted in adobe colors. The walls were a darker terracotta color and the faux tiles were lighter brushed sandstone. It was cheaply furnished with modern fixtures and cabinets. The whole house was a straight shot down a hall leading to the back bedroom, with living room, office, and kitchen off to the right side.

I was surprised how clean it was and the air-conditioning was doing a great job of keeping the Texas summer heat down to a reasonable level. The decorating was sparse, but it seemed to have a Southwestern theme of tasteful wolf-and-Indian-on-mesas-bullshit.

“You were expecting a Nazi banner maybe?” Kitchener asked as he wheeled into the kitchen. “Something with the swastika?”

“I guess,” I replied. “Honestly, I just didn’t expect this. It seems so…average.”

Kitchener chuckled.

“Then the ruse has worked,” he said, and chuckled again, his laugh beginning to sound a bit more sinister.

He reached over to a large jar on the counter.

“Would you like some sun tea? It just finished brewing.”

A Sit-Down with the Evil That Cannot Stand

“The Jews control the banks,” Kitchener said as we settled into his living room. “Do you think they would give a home loan to someone that wanted to open up a Nazi bunker? They can’t get their gelt from the mortgage of a survivalist compound.”

“So you leased a town house?”

“That’s right.” Kitchener sipped the iced sun tea. “One of the advantages to doing the majority of my work on the Internet is that I am able to work out of almost any location. When I started this movement, I was using an old Pentium three in my mother’s garage. I was literally sleeping sitting up in my chair.”

“It sounds awful,” I said.

The sun tea was good. There was a hint of lemon and the tea was not too sweet. It was a fine racist brew.

“No, it wasn’t awful. It was difficult, but we all must struggle. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

“Can I ask you a question about your neighbor?”

“You just did,” Kitchener said. “But continue.”

“Well, forgive me for stating the obvious, but he’s an African American. Doesn’t that fly in the face of your ideology?”

“Common misconception. That the white man wants to exterminate the nigger. It’s a common thought. It’s just not true.”

I admit, hearing someone casually drop the “hard r” n-word into the middle of a conversation was bizarre. By the time I left Kitchener’s house I was completely used to hearing it.

“The white race is interested in self-preservation and self-defense.”

“You’re talking about racial purity,” I said.

“That’s a part of it.” He pointed a finger at me. “But make no mistake. Reggie over there is a monkey in a person suit. He’s a trained ape. Trained to act and look like me. But when times get rough, you can bet your ass he will join in with the rest of them.”

“The rest of who?”

“The niggers,” Kitchener said. “Ain’t you been payin’ attention? Racial warfare is comin’. The niggers and the liberals are gonna elect them a coon president and when they do the holy war begins.”

“You said a racial war and then you said a holy war. Which is it?”

“Ain’t no difference. The war against the Zionists is behind it all. We been fighting them for thousands of years. Long before Hitler. But the race war is what people will see on the TV. Niggers enslaving the whites, raping in the streets, deflowering our white daughters. All because of the Jews.”

“The Jews?” I asked incredulously.

“And the homosexuals,” Kitchener added.

“Before I came here, I read several articles on the APU’s website, your website, that said the Republicans were accelerating the racial holy war. How do you blame the liberals and the Republicans?”

“Make no mistake,” Kitchener said. “I will vote for any white man over a dumb animal like the nigger. Any man but a Jew, which is a devil not even a man. But that don’t mean the Republicans ain’t acceleratin’ the race wars.”

He took a sip of his tea before continuing. “They invaded and killed Aryans in the Middle East. That John McCain is a white traitor. If he gets elected it’ll be almost as bad, cuz he will invade Iran and the Persian is an Aryan people.”

“So why not vote for Obama?” I asked sincerely. “You might consider him an animal, but he’s not going to invade Iran.”

“Maybe not,” Kitchener granted me. “But he wants to raise the capital gains tax. I got a lot of money in the stock market right now.”

He cocked an eyebrow and looked at me over the line of tea in his glass. “Beats havin’ your money in a Jew bank.”

We finished our drinks and Kitchener invited me to his office. Unlike the rest of his house, which I would describe as very neat and tidy, Kitchener’s office was a mess of papers and books. He had two computers and a microphone stand.

“That’s where I record my podcast,” he said, pointing to the computer with the microphone. “White America Truthcast. They took it off iTunes.”

“Do the Jews run iTunes?” I asked.

“Nah.” He shook his head. “The Jew doesn’t understand the computer, which is why we done so well on the Internet. But the faggot, now he is a clever one. He works for the devil Jew and uses his white craftiness against us to destroy us.”

“So homosexuals run iTunes?”

“Obviously,” Kitchener said.

I looked around Kitchener’s office. In this room there were some examples of the racist regalia I had expected from the outset. A framed portrait of Adolf Hitler hung above the computer. Another framed photograph of David Duke standing next to Kitchener shared shelf space with a number of other photographs. I stepped over a stack of old computer game boxes—
The Sims 2
was on top of the stack—and looked at the framed photos a bit more closely.

There was Kitchener on stage at a rally, yelling into a microphone. There was Kitchener doing a Nazi salute with a swastika armband around his arm. A number of chubby and bald white guys with goatees stood around him in various simulations of Nazi uniforms, also saluting in the direction of the camera.

Then I noticed the other pictures. Pictures of Kitchener with an attractive woman with brown skin and dark hair. I picked one of the pictures up and turned to ask him, but he already knew what was coming.