Trying not to come across as disrespectful, Richard figured the only way was the direct one, so he asked him point blank how he knew so much about him.
“One of the guards asked me when you were going to join the Aryans. He said you belonged with us. Well, I hate it when those fucks know something I don’t, and that asshole guard was grinning at me like I should have known about you the second you hit the yard.”
Suddenly, it dawned on Richard what was going on. Tank knew about the crimes that landed him in jail for twenty-five years. It was also clear where his new nickname came from.
Not long after Tank took Richard under his wing, he demanded that the other Aryans treat Richard with the same respect. A few of them felt slighted that Richard did not express an interest in joining their operation. They couldn’t really figure the guy out. He hardly said a word and didn’t react to much of anything. He always appeared to be deep in thought. Tank kept assuring them that Richard would come around. He was one of them, he had proven himself worthy.
“Oh yeah, what makes you so sure about that Billy?” asked an older skinhead one day when they were playing cards in the common area of their cellblock. Tank had brought Richard along hoping that they would accept him.
“I’ll tell you why, Jeff. My man Richard here beat two niggers to death. One of them he beat to death in front of other niggers. They couldn’t do nothing but watch! Tell me, Jeff, how many inferiors have you killed? How much trash have you taken out to make this world a better place? Huh?”
Jeff did not respond.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Jeff, I killed my share and your share of monkeys, so think about who the hell you’re talking to!”
Jeff pretended to study his cards and kept his mouth shut.
“You boys hear about what got me a life sentence?”
I really don’t want to know this, thought Richard. I already hate this animal enough.
“My hometown was really going down the shitter. Niggers everywhere. They just kept moving into white neighborhoods turning everything to shit. Pretty soon the schools were full of little monkeys and not long after that, most of the teachers were niggers. Then they started with all the Black History bullshit and African Studies. Can you believe that shit? What does a pure, white kid need to know about African Studies?
Richard didn’t know if the question was rhetorical; Tank was looking at him so he nodded his head. Richard wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He wanted to get up and leave. No one was listening to Tank; they were all studying Richard to gauge his reaction.
“I had enough; no one was doing a damned thing to stop it, so I knew it was up to me. I loaded up my cargo pockets with shotgun shells, and me and my Mossberg 464 took a trip down to the high school to put a stop to that school turning our kids into nigger lovers.”
Richard doubted, more like hoped, that Tank hadn’t brought a junior Nazi into the world. The world could do without Tank, let alone his offspring.
“I walked in, shot the nigger principal first. Then I went from class to class and shot as many nigger teachers as I could find. A little nigger kid must’ve thought his football playin’ would help him tackle me down. Nope. Blew his kneecap clean off.” Tank laughed hysterically when he remembered the look on the kid’s face.
Everyone at the table was studying Richard very carefully. Richard felt like throwing up. He knew he had only a few seconds before they all caught on to his disgust.
Richard faked a smile, clapped Tank on his massive shoulder and replied, “Damned good thing you did that. White folks everywhere should be grateful.”
“Fuckin-A right! The rest of you wannabes better recognize what I done and have some respect for my man Richard here!”
Richard was smart enough to realize just how valuable Tank was in terms of a tactical advantage. With the help of Tank, he managed to move into his cellblock, and later became his cellmate. Richard ignored the rumors and gossip that he was Tank’s bitch. The other inmates were sure that Richard would eventually emerge one morning from Tank’s cell wearing lipstick and nursing a sore asshole. Tank had far too much respect for Richard to even think about attacking him. In fact, he had never laid a hand on him.
With the stench of Tank’s morning bowel movement still lingering in their cell, Richard somehow managed to get dressed and put his running shoes on without passing out. A few minutes later, the guard came around and unlocked the cell doors so they could make the trip to the chow hall for breakfast. Richard and Tank always ran before breakfast so they hit the track instead.
After breakfast they returned to their block, showered and decided to play some basketball. Some other skinheads already had managed to secure their own court. Tank and Richard sat in the bleachers and joined in a conversation between two other guys named Spider and Head.
Spider was a skinny little kid in his late twenties. He was always cracking jokes about the guards; he even did passable imitations of a few of them. Richard liked Spider; he was always good for a laugh. He was a complete moron, but his idiotic ideas were fun to listen to and riling him up was one of Richard’s favorite forms of entertainment. Richard had no idea how he got the name Spider and quite frankly didn’t care. The kid was skinny, ugly as sin, and nothing about him evoked the thought of an arachnid.
Spider had been the typical juvenile delinquent. The high school dropout had a bad habit of car-jacking unsuspecting motorists. When he starting viciously beating elderly black people for their cars, his luck changed. He spent the first six years of his incarceration working his way up the ranks of the Aryans. To the casual observer, Spider might come across as a hyper man-child trying to impress everyone, but underneath, his hatred and anger were eating him alive.
Head’s nickname, however, was not difficult to figure out. It had nothing to do with intelligence, but rather his enormous skull. Richard had never seen a bigger head on a man in his entire life. It was enormous. You would think that shaving the hair off that boulder would make his head look smaller, but it didn’t. Head was maybe a few years younger than Richard and the same height. The large-headed man maybe had fifty pounds on Richard but was not in the best of shape.
Head was proud of his nickname. He thought it was because of his signature fighting move, the head-butt. Head’s favorite move was known to knock a man smooth on his ass and end a fight. Richard often wondered if Head would ever figure out that his nickname was not in honor of fighting prowess, but rather served to mock his freak show of a noggin.
“I’m telling you man, no fuckin way man, not possible!” Head protested.
“What are you idiots talking about?” asked Tank.
“Spider is on one of his idiotic conspiracy theories again,” Head replied.
“Fuck you, Head. You know it’s true,” Spider said with a sheepish grin.
Head was right; Spider was constantly rambling on and on about every conspiracy theory you could think of. If you were stupid enough to get him going on one of his rants, he wouldn’t stop until you agreed with him (or at least told him what he wanted to hear) about the moon landing being a hoax, aliens at Roswell, and 9/11 being an inside job. Spider proudly proclaimed that he was there and saw the Twin Towers fall, even though he was either an infant or a toddler at the time.
“So, what is it this time?” Richard asked.
Head cut Spider off. “Our young friend here is convinced that Hurricane Luther was a conspiracy.”
“What?” Richard laughed. “How can a natural disaster be a conspiracy?”
Head continued to speak for Spider. “What was it, Spider? Aliens are out to take ov…”