The 'N' Word, Book 1 Read online

  Other tattoos that line my body include the number 14, which represents the fourteen words that represent what I fight for all day, every day: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ One of my most prized pieces of body art, however, sits on my back—my Valknut. The design showcases three interlocking triangles, which stand for my willingness to sacrifice my life for the movement.

  As much as I love everything I’ve described that covers countless inches of my flesh, I do not have any tattoos that cannot be covered by clothing. The swastikas are low enough on either side of my neck so that a jacket or high collar can disguise them if need be. I do not have any on my fingers and definitely no facial tattoos… That is one of the stupidest things some of my comrades and these young knuckleheads have done. I can wear a long sleeved shirt and no one would have any damn idea of my political and religious beliefs, because yes, this is a religion for me, too.

  All of this is not because I am the least bit ashamed of what I do, but the need to blend in, take care of my duties without aggravation, and assist my white brothers and sisters, in some circumstances, make decorum and a reserved presence is necessary. When I was younger, I had much less control over myself, and though I do find myself in predicaments from time to time, by the moment I’m ‘dealing’ with someone hands on, they’ve left me no choice but to make things a bit more personal, close the gap of anonymity.

  I give people a choice. They can either have a quiet meeting of the minds, where no one is the wiser to our private situation, or I can take it to an entirely different level where the whole goddamn world will know I’ve arrived and I’m not leaving without a piece of their tattered self-respect in my palm … sometimes even their valueless life. I prefer that people not push me to that level, but wishes and desires vary greatly from what actually IS. This is why it is important to protect oneself.

  Camouflage is important. No creature hunting prey wears a sign that states, ‘Enemy number one.’ He doesn’t pop up and wave, with a big ass smile, saying, ‘Hey! I’m here!’ No, he lurks behind thick bushes, belly crawls along the ground, stays still and quiet until everything is perfect for the kill. And then, only then, does he reveal his true intent. This is the same for armed forces and any successful militia in this world. Declaring yourself well in advance is not only a mistake and foolish; it could cost you your life. The brain is the most important organ in our bodies, but few use theirs.

  There are plenty of dumb sons of bitches that profess to be National Socialists, but they can’t tell you anything about Adolf Hitler’s existence, biography, or doctrines! Mein Kampf is not just a text; it’s a way of life. I have been instrumental in the movement, and I follow the traditional rules and values of the Aryan nation. Adolf Hitler and George Lincoln Rockwell are the men who walked the walk, and talked the talk. I can only hope to be half as devoted and effective as they were. I have been interested in the movement since the age of fourteen and became fully educated and a full member at the age of twenty.

  Though there are no longer ranks in the American Nazi Party, I am considered a visionary and leader. I’m called the commander of my chapter, but a title is not necessary. I garner respect whenever I walk into a room. I know how to carry myself, how to speak. I’m articulate when I need to be, can talk to you as if I have a PhD in English. When I’m with friends, I fall into the comfort of my natural voice—Alabamian Southern comfort… I am many things to many people, but what I am to myself is what’s most important. All anyone has to do in order to avoid getting on my bad side is to follow one rule: Don’t fuck with me, and I won’t fuck with you.

  You may wonder, besides age, what caused me to be more concerned about my actions in the movement as of late? What caused me to become more strategic and work in a cerebral sort of way, versus being the loudest in the crowd? Well, I had a child.

  I had been called into a unit, a local chapter of my brothers and sisters, a dysfunctional group with tension and upheaval in the organization. I’m known as a mediator and motivator. I breathe new life into the dead, and exterminate that which isn’t worth salvaging. Only the strong survive, and I’m the one who assesses who is worthy and who is not. Some call me God.

  During this process, I met a woman in the party with the same beliefs as I, and I’ll be the first to admit this… her physical appearance lured me. She was fucking gorgeous. I’m a man, and though I pride myself on self-control, in this case I fell for her within the blink of an eye. She took a liking to me, and we began to talk, and go out and spend time together. We became an item, and were respected as such. After a couple of years, however, the relationship grew sour, and I made provisions to leave. As fate would have it, about that same time she became pregnant with my child.

  I love my daughter more than life itself, but her mother is the worst damn choice I ever made. If I had followed my own rules regarding finding a mate, I’d never gotten caught up in that shit. I’d seen red flags every damn where. But, in thinking with the wrong damn head, I paid the consequences. I learned the importance of marriage and a traditional family unit while being involved in the movement, despite the fact that I didn’t have this structure growing up. Notwithstanding, despite the pregnancy being unplanned and she and I having a tumultuous relationship by the time she conceived my daughter, I was prepared to propose marriage until I realized emphatically that, no matter my wish for the contrary, she was not marriage material.

  Now, what is marriage material, you may ask? For me, it is a rare and beautiful thing. I have very specific expectations and particular needs. Some would say I am overly meticulous, but I have to be. This is my life and my future we’re talking about. I’ve been accused of being a chauvinist, uncaring, dominating, controlling, iron-fisted, and unyielding. Call me whatever the hell you want, but I will make a great husband to the right woman. I don’t think this; I know this. She will be at the center of my world. The woman is the most essential and important person in the movement, contrary to how some of my brethren behave. She is who determines if we grow in numbers or not. She is the one that regulates the domain, and we, as men, are to protect the Queen at all costs, for without her, we have nothing. Therefore, my choice in a mate must live up to these standards, because I will be working not only for the movement, but also for her and our children. Women thus give birth to our nation; they are the backbone of society. I need a woman with traditional values, is shrewd, can think quickly on her feet, understands vital concepts, knows her history, understands her culture, and doesn’t mind listening as well as giving her view point.

  I have no desire to walk all over a woman, bully her, make her do what I say and change herself based on my needs alone. No, I want her to be an equal partner, not another child—but, regardless of that, I need her to accept me as the head of the household and trust my judgment. I need her to want to be a mother, and to desire to create more white children and teach them our important beliefs. I want our sons and daughters educated and protected from the liberal, brainwashing media run by mind numbing, domineering, greedy, disgusting people—Jews in particular…

  The more you educate yourself about what is happening around us and in our world, the better you will be prepared to go to war, and trust me, a race war is eminent. Know thy enemy.

  Enemy… Do you know what an enemy is? A true enemy, that is? It is the person you never deemed could be out to harm you. It is the unknown, the uncharted and undiscovered that, once uncloaked, is a recipe for your demise. In a world like this, a life partner, a mate is essential. You have to have that one person that is in your corner.

  I discovered myself and know full well what I want and need. And what I NEED is a life partner. The prison psychiatrist here enrolled me in a pen pal program today, and my hope is that through this process, I may continue my search for my bride… even behind these bars…

  Now, I need to stop right there. I think that is enough.

  The reason I am stopping is because everything you just hear
d was a written account of my personal thoughts, which I penned while incarcerated at the Holman Correctional Facility in Atmore, Alabama. As I read this now, I feel sick to my goddamn stomach. The person who said those things, and far worse much of the time, had meant every damn word. You see, I went through a journey, a life-altering situation, but you’ve not heard the worst of it… Those words, declarations—all of it—pales into comparison with the evil that resided inside of me, that I mistook for love of myself and my people. I’m not asking for forgiveness from you, or anyone else for that matter. I did what I did, said what I said, and behaved in a matter befitting of what was inside of my soul. What I am asking you for now is your time. I am asking that you listen to what I have to say, not as an explanation, but more as a map in regards to how my story unfolded.

  You can’t possibly understand me, or people like me, without a guide to our twisted, perverse pride. That’s right; I readily admit what I was, and still am to some degree. You notice I haven’t told you my name up until this point and that was intentional. I had no identity outside of this rhetoric, didn’t know who the hell I was, so why even bother? Everything I did, said, thought, walked and talked was embedded deep within me and flowed like blood through vein vessels into the movement. No one could shake me from my resolve. I’ll humor you never the less and tell you what is on my birth certificate.

  My name is Aaron Joshua Pike, and I am a former Aryan Revolutionary. I stand 6’4, have light hazel eyes and dark brown hair, and weigh 256 lbs. I’m a big motherfucker who had no conscience. I still wrestle with that a bit, but I’m a work in progress. Anyway, I wouldn’t even flinch as I inflicted pain on someone I deemed an adversary. At that time, there was absolutely nothing anyone could say or do to me that would change my belief system. Have you ever changed your mind about your deep-seated, long held convictions after an argument with someone? If so, you are not the norm.

  Usually, things like that require a process, a history of back-to-back events and a deconstruction of the person from which they originated. Deconstruction is a painful process. Have you ever noticed how long it takes to pack a bag, but seemingly even longer to unpack? You have to drag it home, open it up, take everything out, wash and fold, and put each item away. It is far easier to swallow a fatty meal than to work the calories off. I was raised and indoctrinated in hatred. It was second nature to me. To take this one step further and embrace radically racist views was a mere skip and short dash to a finish line in the near distance. I was molded into the person I became, but falsely believed it was all of my own doing. It’s been said many times, but bears repeating. A child isn’t born racist.

  No child comes into this world knowing what race is, or even ethnicity or culture, for that matter. All they know is that they need to be fed, given affection, and to rest. They crave love; although they don’t know what to call it, they sure as hell know when they haven’t gotten any. I am sure you won’t be surprised by this next revelation: my childhood was a bit of a slow torture with no end in sight that I couldn’t escape. It was the perfect breeding ground to nurture the creature I grew into, the man I became and embraced. Until fairly recently, I had not discussed it in detail and broken it down to the bare bones to take a look at it and examine it closely.

  In that process, I saw myself for what I was.

  Demonic. Damned. Death walking.

  I became a man that the local and national police watched, the FBI investigated, and even some of my fellow brethren tested and pushed to the limit. I walked into a room and instantly provoked fear in the hearts of others, even in members of law enforcement while I strolled, shackled, to my fate. I was someone you did not want to be alone with or feel safe with, even if you happened to be surrounded by a crowd that offered a sense of space and protection. I enjoyed that reaction; I ate it up raw.

  I love hurting people, too…yeah, that’s present tense. It’s still an issue. One thing I will be with you is completely honest. I’ve come too far not to be, and besides, I hate liars. You will see me for who I really am, not a fuckin’ chaser. Anyway, I enjoyed administering physical abuse, but psychological and emotional torture had a special flavor that I couldn’t quite give up.

  To me, my power to influence, to manipulate, maim, and destroy made me proud and worthy. I saw my deeds as a sign of intelligence, too. You see, I’ve always been a smart kid, and I knew it. I realized early on that the best way to deal with someone that was making your life difficult was not to try to talk over them or use rational discussion, but to hit them where it hurt, sometimes literally. However, when you feel inherently superior to someone, sometimes you don’t know where that level is. You think that you do, but you find yourself at various intervals stumbling about, losing your balance, and having to correct yourself over and over again.

  The messed up part is that sometimes we don’t live long enough to do this, to get another break and try our hand at the game of chance once more. I wasn’t battling the enemy like I thought I was; no, I was battling my own hidden, cloaked-away insecurities. My life behind bars became part of my story, my existence, my history, my present, and almost my future. It became a doorway, a path from the old me to the new me. Many men enter prison and leave worse, if they ever get to leave at all.

  Matter of fact, I’d say that is what happens to the majority of men I’ve had the displeasure of sharing a cell with—or should I say, they had the misfortune of sharing a cell with me. Soon, I was no longer placed with anyone else due to my affiliations and vast correctional influence, but I had enough friends on the outside and inside to know that a man’s worth existed in his own mind, and whatever he believed, if it didn’t match up to his own expectations, some pretty bad shit just might happen after a while.

  Prison is a world within a world, and we can be restrained in our mind, long before we step foot inside the penal system. I’d built bars around myself so that nothing could touch me, rock the world and ideas of myself I’d painted. There was no one getting past, beside, or within unless I invited them, and that happened never.

  But then, one day I changed my mind…

  I began to correspond with someone, and her perfumed, pastel colored letters smelled like jubilee and freedom. Her handwritten penmanship was loopy, feminine, and perfect. Her words were straight forward, but laced with the kindness and compassion that comes from an antebellum Southern woman. She was perfect, and just like I’d created my own image of myself, I did the same with her; only this time, I was only 99% right…minus one…huge…detail.

  That detail became my undoing, my transformation, and my heartbreak. It shook my core, caused me unbelievable pain—but somewhere deep inside of me, I knew it was the central component to my sovereignty, too. She slid into my life, jammed a key into my heart, and released me from my self-inflicted cell. She proved to be a cruel, beautiful joke, but when the smoke cleared, I wasn’t laughing. No, I found nothing funny about the shit at all…

  I’d fallen and hit the floor hard. I’d drowned in desire. The situation was grave, treacherous, and most of all, devastatingly ironic.

  I was in serious trouble.

  In too deep…

  And so, I was determined to keep her. I’d become obsessed with her; so much so, that if anyone or anything looked like they could pose a threat to what I wanted with her, well… let’s just say I’d devise a plan and address it.

  …And I knew what I had coming to me if I did…

  …And it could very well cost me my life.

  But is life truly worth living if you don’t stand up for what you believe in? Doesn’t the saying go, ‘If you don’t stand up for something, you’ll fall for anything?’ Yeah, well, somehow, I did both.

  I stood up for something, but fell anyway.

  You see, I fell in love…

  Only in this case, there would be consequences, Hell to pay, and the Devil wanted my soul back, intact. How dare I turn away from my master? For I did just that—I ran away from my teachings.

  Fact
was, I didn’t fall in love with just anyone. No, I fell in love with the enemy…

  And the enemy was me…

  Preface

  Slavery can only be abolished by raising the character of the people who compose the nation; and that can be done only by showing them a higher one.

  –MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN, speech, 1855

  SHIT BROWN WALLS, paper thin, frail, and easily blown over with a careless whisper… The courtroom was a box, smelling of stale, stagnant summer air, the stench of mounting fear, and timeworn resentment. The unholy body heat meandered from the hard, wooden pews towards the low ceilings with nowhere to go but back down, coating everyone in a thickness that only Hell could appreciate. Aaron stood there in his crisp white shirt, rotating his sweat-covered neck and shoulders as occasional murmurs from the crowd behind him tickled his ears. The judge looked down, then at him, a steely dark gleam in his eyes.

  He’s a traitor… a liberal, forgotten the stock he came from. I can see it all over him… The niggers put him in office, but my people will take him out.

  Like a great world-renowned psychic, Aaron predicted the next moments to transpire as the gavel slowly rose in the air in the tense grip of Judge Cole. He slammed it against the block as a cluster of panic struck the room in the form of cries and muffled curses.

  “Come to order!” he began, then cleared his throat. “Mr. Pike, your heinous actions, lack of remorse, and previous history of hateful conduct has led us here today. I sentence you to one year in Holman Correctional Facility in Escambia County,” he announced.

  “One year?!” someone screamed out, their voice piercing his eardrum. The incredulity was dyed in tones of horror, disbelief, and, more than likely, a dire need for invasive revenge. “All he gets is one year for beatin’ my brother half to death?!”