The beginning

I must have been trapped in the depths of a dream, because the world feels so unreal. Hovering before my eyes is a sincere chocolate face drawing ever closer. Thick lips form a smacking pout that envelops the nose. The lips pull back wetly.

"What the...?"

A series of kisses hits cheek and forehead, all that for a man is usually private or should be. Under bushy eyebrows, I see burning eyes that can terrify anyone, but for me glow with a rare warmth. The fog from the dream landscape swirls and dissolves. Reality gains ground. The person standing bent over me is familiar. Only one person on this earth can love me so much.

"ABE! BUT FOR FUCK'S SAKE! IT'S YOU!"

The chair topples clattering as I rise to embrace the towering figure. Now it's my turn to shower his face with tears, drool, and kisses. Good old Abe Froberg. A lady in the reading room scolds us, but we barely hear it as we slap each other's arms.

"Sorry, an old friend and..."

"I SAID SHH!" continues the hag.

How many times shall I experience that? Every attempt at explanation is met with further displeasure. Perhaps except with this man. A warrior from tropical regions. In a good time, he would have been the most dangerous man in the jungle, like I am invincible as the wolf panting on the snow-covered plains.

Good to see you, young Mr. Tranøy," says Froberg.

We are important men, therefore we have long ago learned to address each other by last names, as in the military and in other official contexts. Now it is we who should steer the fate of nations, not the poor excuse we have for leaders today. A merchant from the middle class cannot even be the object of contempt, because there is no expectation there that the soul dwarf can fail. But we, we are the foremost of our kind. The natural aristocracy and lords in the realm of spirits. Every action we take, and the omission of it, is a source of great sorrow and joy. For ourselves, of course, but also for the subhumans we touch by the application of our manly power.

I get the chair cleared back in place and sweep up the reading material. William Blake's collected works, which I devoutly put back on the library shelf under Froberg's watchful eye. A true visionary, centuries ahead of his time in his understanding of man's duality. The only flaw he had was that he was too soft. That flaw is not mine.

"So what brings you back to this hellhole?"

"Had to find some protocols."

"For the firm and shit?"

"Yeah. I found what I was after."

On the way to the cafeteria, we pass some long-legged rubber men sitting with a younger appendage of aspiring youth criminals. They shoot me hostile glances, but don't dare more now that they see I have company.

"Kss!" I hiss briefly as I pass the kufi-clad scum.

"And you, Tranøy, are still broke?" says Froberg inside the sterile premises. All the chairs are turned upside down among the tables.

"You guess right."

He claps me on the shoulder and winks up a yellow icon that appears on the eye. All costs covered. I know that hesitating or expressing too much gratitude will offend him, so I order a carrot cake and a large cup of black coffee from the dispenser. I make sure to avoid all dairy products, which are more like a chemical soup because of all the methane inhibitors. The goods slide out on a tray from a hatch after a few seconds. Chairs are turned and kicked into place. Froberg orders himself a half-liter and regards me quietly as the foam marks his lips.

"So, Øyvind..."

The use of the first name immediately sharpens the senses.

"...still a Nazi?"

I bare my canines in what I know is a clear display of aggression.

"Now I must say you deeply offend me..." I snarl. "Of course I'm not a Nazi."

Froberg leans back and gets an uneasy expression.

"I stand above the Nazis as a reinforcement of every stance they ever had."

Genuine relief spreads over my counterpart's face.

"He he...! You should find yourself a sweet blonde girl. Move out to the forest. Have many blonde kids."

That talk again. It's painful to hear. I'm spectacularly unsuccessful with women. To lock down a future-bearing creature, you either have to be a primitive violent criminal or roll in status and money. Natural gender relations are gone with the future hope for this country, something I also tell him.

"I won't say no thanks to the gift if it arises," I say. "But I plan to resign. Live on social benefits in a twelve-square-foot studio and write novels, until something changes. No point in working. The money goes to niggers anyway."

"Become self-employed like me. If I can, you can too. It gives freedom, money, and honor."

"No ability. No urge."

I regard my counterpart. The suit jacket has gold cufflinks that he constantly fiddles with. A colorful and freshly ironed shirt in full blue tones. The tie even has a gold pin. There's a reason I sit in loose everyday clothes that at least give good freedom of movement. My secret is that I can't even tie a tie. I remember it well. The Windsor knot is supposedly the simplest. I sat down with the instructions on the monitor cube. No matter how much I cried, and no matter how much I raged, I couldn't get it. Everything fell apart in my hands. The end of the story was that I had to ask one of the social worker whores at the youth home to fix me a pre-made tie. The clothes twisted in all directions over time, but to this day I guard the tie like a blacksmith. When it falls off, I have nothing to show in official contexts.

Superficial, you say? An external trait? These things are connected. I can't manage to relate to paragraphs and laws and have never filled out a tax return. The cells in a spreadsheet are prison cells to me. Never will I move into them.

"You are a white man...!" Froberg bellows.

"My friend!" I say. "Dare I suggest that you perhaps see with, eh, colored eyes. Yes, for why are we friends, really?"

"We fight for the same cause."

"Exactly, but from different starting points."

So I tell. I am a supporter of the Aryan race for two reasons, and two reasons only. Only from the god-blood of Atlantis can one achieve true beauty and true spirituality. All other peoples, and just a drop of their unclean ape blood, will bring it to degradation. The foremost of beauties will never arise, nor with the pure knowledge from the topaz-clear mind.

"So you must realize it," I say. "That I am partly priest and partly warrior. I understand the spiritual and I understand the need for violence. But I can never understand merchant craft. My foothold in the purely material world is fragile. I am a Light Elf, you see. For that reason, I cannot even be an aristocratic leader figure, who must deal with hassle and nagging from the outside world to maintain his position."

The sorrow in Froberg's eyes, which is always there, seems to grow. But I am merciless, and also know that my truthfulness is one of the reasons he likes me. No one else speaks so straightforwardly and sincerely, and the strongest of men like it that way. Another secret is that I have an enormous attractiveness to men, where women shun me. Almost a shame I'm not homo.

"Where my starting point is the highest ideals, free from inferiorities like hate, feelings, and details, I see only what is necessary and seek to do it, your stance is entirely different. You base yourself on a kind of class contempt that is extended into the racial."

I elaborate my argument. One can imagine a negroid washerwoman who over time has gotten leadership in the misery. She looks down on the lower classes and dumb, lazy niggers, and she looks up to the rich, who happen to be white, because she among other things associates it with sophistication. Her aggression, her disgust, yes, and her admiration are based on the tangible. The hallmark of being mixed-race is that one understands the material terms only. All qualities in body and spirit have been reduced to the lowest common denominator, because otherwise they diverge in all directions.

"Thus are you too," I say. "You recognize the beautiful, the spiritual, and sophistication, but you cannot explain why beauty is beautiful. It becomes like a proletarian who heard a trumpet blast at Yale in days of yore. He understands the power, but he doesn't understand what it means."

Slightly imperceptibly, Froberg has pushed a half-liter in my direction. It fits well. The throat is a bit dry.

"What does it mean, then?"

"That the hour shall come when the gods walk the earth again, and that this shall be entirely ordinary. I will remind you that in the golden age, there are no insects. So too with all else of the low-standing life."

I pause a bit.

"Because we shall live, you must die. Nothing personal, of course."

The joy is back in Froberg's eyes. I understand why. He so wants me to be superior. He wants to be whipped. He wants to be tamed. More than that, he wants to be scorned by what he perceives as superior, because that is how the superior can at the same time be placed higher and give him attention from some imagined pedestal. Man is a strange animal. Fortunately, I stepped away from my humanity long ago, step by step on light, ethereal elf feet.

"I like Norwegians because you are the most empathetic and good-hearted people that exist," he says. "For me, it is terrible that you have been exploited as you have. I will do everything so that you can continue to exist as a people."

"For your contribution to the fight, I would have given you ten years' salary and a wife in the Caribbean," I say. "But unfortunately, it's not up to me."

The fight is its own thing. There we were slaughtered and persecuted by both activists and the authorities. It's a shame about the poor guy. A Norwegian father and a Gambian mother. He didn't fit in anywhere. Not among Norwegians, not among Africans, not among the immigrants who live on our blood.

"So the racial extermination shall happen later?"

"Uh, yes, that belongs to the golden age. Before that comes probably hells we can't even imagine. In the end, humans shall become dwarves. Nigger dwarves," I conclude.

I empty the beer glass. Alcohol has always had a strong pull. A new glass slides into place on the table by a service-minded hand. Too service-minded. Just look at us. A stiffly dressed one, with brown skin he has despised his whole life. The other with the rebel's long hair, who loves the one he according to all conventional wisdom should hate, and who long ago removed himself from what he was ordered to love. Work. All men's brotherhood. The idea of rationality.

"But there you see. Our friendship is a paradox. You like Norwegians because they are empathetic, at the same time I am the least empathetic Norwegian that can be conceived. Moreover, I despise so-called Norwegian 'men' and Norwegian 'women.'" I make air quotes for the words I spit out. "For their cowardice and for what they allowed to happen, and because they had to persecute me! Me! With all means and methods, I who have not committed a single crime!"

"Listen, Tranøy. I think the time has come for me. I can't stand this country anymore. Not after everything that's happening. There's a reason I'm at the library gathering protocols. I want to move my business out of the country."

"You already live half and half in Bulgaria."

"It's possible I go farther. To South America. There I shall find myself a mixed-race wife. You know I don't sleep with white women anymore. It may be we won't see each other again."

"Fuck..." I say.

"Therefore I want to see that you are making progress. Assure myself that you are doing well and will manage."

"Take it easy," I grin. "I'll always be able to lie and steal something for myself. Not hard to outmaneuver these pigs."

"To the victory comes, and the golden age."

"To the golden age!"

We toast and sit drinking in silence. Froberg asks how I'll get back. Not home, because I don't really have any home. Live on a damned institution, after all.

"Have to take it carefully. Some are after me."

"Who?"

"Some blacklings here at the library."

Froberg looks at me with burning eyes. That gaze that scares everyone else, but that I have learned to see through like one of Maya's other illusions, because the hellfire doesn't burn for me. Slowly he removes the gold ring from a thick finger.

"We shall show them what it means to harass a proud Aryan."

With that, he gives me a gift. The gift of violence. Because violence is the only thing I have known in this world. Now, finally, I can be the practitioner. A new secret, unknown friend. No quality exists without deed. To be a man, you must first be a doer.