The Paper Game

by Ryan McMahon

July 26, 2002

Part I of...?

It was the lemonade that put him over the edge.

That little white strip. That goddamn stupid strip. Every single time he pulled it to remove the top of the cheap 49-cent concentrate can the thing ripped off. Then he had to pop the top like a zit, with the sticky stuff spraying all over his bare arm, the sink, the counter and the floor. "Every damn time," he said to himself, grimacing redfaced as he bent to wipe up the floor. Annoying as hell. Couldn't anybody do things right?

He picked up a bat and began demolishing his rented house. He smacked the refrigerator. The blow left a mark, but failed to effect the structural change his rage demanded. He hit the couch a couple times, but the stuffing swallowed the blows like the sea. He splintered one of kitchen chairs. That was more satisfying, but not completely. What he needed was glass and electronics exiting this world in one quick spray.

He walked into the den and bam, there went the tv, glass shards dusting the carpet. He pounded the lifeless console fifteen or sixteen times until he began to breathe heavy. The telavivor was dead. That simple. He settled back on the beaten sofa with his glass. He sipped two times and set it down. His body was satisfied but his mind was still restless. He picked up the paper.

The same whining. Niggers demanding this. Mexicans demanding that. Jews demanding everything and denouncing any who disagreed as "racists," "haters," "homophobes," "sexists" until you wanted to puke. It was a paper like every paper printed since 1900, he figured. Normally he'd shake his head, spit, and set the stupid thing aside. He only got it for the listings. This time he had an idea...


Mike Strait was a racist. He learned to hate niggers and Mexicans in his eight-month stay in the army before he got kicked out for fighting. Not that he'd ever done anything about it but bitch privately. He'd noticed at his job that niggers and women and other "disadvantaged" groups got all the perks. That had always bothered him. But it wasn't until they linked his promotion and paycheck to numbers of coloreds hired and promoted that he really began to pay attention to just what the hell was going on.

He'd worked long and hard to reach his modest supervisory position at Ubertel. Twelve long years. After wasting his twenties drinking and traveling, he finally had found a decent job at 32. And stuck with it. Now he was 44, and no longer a spring chicken. His bones and ligaments and muscles were less springy, and so was his mind. He was still in good shape, but there was definitely some aging kicking in. He just wanted what he deserved and had worked for. He was real, real tired of any crap that got in the way. Too tired.

But crap was all there seemed to be these days. New accounts manager at Ubertel was a challenging position, especially from the human relations standpoint. Right now he managed a department of about 100. Ubertel had a monopoly in a region that encompassed a town of about 100,000. Its accounts department used to be a staid, cut and dried area for processing accounts. That had all changed with technology. Ubertel's market had been opened for competition. Cable and satellite were vying for customers with the 80-year-old telco.

Strait noticed that at the same time the business was opening to competition, internally competition was being weeded out. As Ubertel had grown, promotions became by the book. The capable people did the work, but he noticed they weren't the ones promoted so much anymore.

Perhaps nothing would have happened if that day he hadn't learned that a female he had hired not nine months ago would be promoted over his head to vice president of new accounts. Ridiculous. Paper-pushing position the woman wasn't qualified for in any case. He hadn't even wanted to hire the fat greasy negress in the first place. Valtrexia Oreliqwa Jones had been pushed on him by another department. He picked her up for numbers. Had tried to train her. She'd brought him nothing but grief. Her office skills were best described as taking up space and phone bandwidth, polluting the toilet, gossiping about coworkers, stealing office supplies, coworkers' lunches and hogging party spreads. The other employees hated her. She had taken twice as long as average to learn the lowest-level customer service supervisory position, over 15 people. And now she was, in effect, to be the new branch manager for new accounts! Making $65,000 with barely more than two years experience and only six months in any kind of supervisory capacity. Ridiculous.

The more he thought about it, the more he burned. He picked up the paper again, his eyes squinting lasers. And there he saw the story that would change his life. Something picked up by the national wires. A local story out of Pulaski County Virginia. Something about a girl suing to be admitted to the boys' wrestling team. A Richard Douchestein, her ACLU attorney, was quoted, blithering on about Title IX, and how retrograde the mores of podunk Virginia. Mike saw red. Then he read this.

"I don't know when these redneck principals are going to wake up and enter the 20th century, let alone the 21st."

In a crystal flash, Mike Strait saw White -- and he knew what he had to do. Kill that Jew. That motherfucking, trouble-causing, nation-wrecking, self-regarding sancitmonious asshole-mouthed little homunculus-kikeling called Douchestein. He felt his rage boiling anew within. He was ready to move. All it would take was a little plotting. He decided to go hunt squirrels...


Mike stashed his gun and bass pole in the back of his sedan and took off for the woods, nice half-hour drive away. It wasn't his property, but belonged to a friend who let him use it to do a little fishing and hunting. He brought a backpack for the squirrel carcasses, and some ice to ice them down.

As he drove, he played some country music on the radio and let his mind wander. He thought of his daughter, whom he hadn't seen in two years. Still sent the check, though. A full 33% of his income went to his ex-wife Samantha. Sandy had cheated on him and he'd been the last to figure it out. When he did, she'd turned on him angrily and initiated a divorce. That was horrible enough, but she'd gone on to take his daughter Brianna with her and move out to California with her new fling. He didn't have to like it, as opposing counsel had said in a cold backroom meeting, he just had to pay for it. And, gritting his teeth and ignoring his wife's evilness, he had. The thought of that poor kid doing without made his guts hurt. So he ponied up regular, just like the corrupt jew-court ordered. There's no term for that dad that pays, he thought darkly. Upbeat dad? No, that didn't really capture it either...

He pulled the truck off the side of the gravel road and parked in the tall weeds. He climbed over the aluminum gate, picked up his .22 and pole and cooler and headed down to the medium-sized lake a couple acres in.

He walked around for an hour and a half, shot three squirrels. He cleaned them with his hunting knife, put them on ice. Then he kicked back on the grass, unwrapping a sandwich he'd made before he left. He chewed the roast beef and watched out over the water for bubbles. Sunset was about an hour off, and he looked for feeding ripples to try his topwater. He tried to puzzle out the epiphany he'd had earlier that evening.

It was that Jew. That dad-blamed jew. Every time you saw one of these stories, it occurred to him, the operative factor, the catalyst was a jew. Usually a jew lawyer, but always a jew. It seemed to go two ways. If his type wanted to do something normal, like pray at school, or meet with Cub Scouts to pick up trash and do a campfire in a public park, why, that was always illegal. Everything normal seemed to be illegal these days, he pondered. And not just that, but illegal in the name of freedom!

And yet, the minute somebody wanted to do something abnormal -- like that girl who wants to wrestle with the guys on a mat in front of howling fans instead of private in the back of a pickup with her boyfriend -- that same jew's there saying how that's a protected right, guaranteed by the Constitution. How come the normal majority is always wrong, and the weird minority is always right? And how come it's always, ALWAYS, a jew lecturing us about it, arguing before the court, reporting it in the paper, and making the final decision? Why is it always a jew who decides what goes and what doesn't? He couldn't remember any Jewish signers of the Declaration of Independence. Where did they get this right to take all the decisions for the rest of us whose forefathers built this country?

Mike wasn't a deep thinker, he worked mostly on instinct. But given time, he could put two and two together. Somehow, deeply, he knew there was a relationship between that Douchestein messing up happy Virginia wrestling folks and his own situation at Ubertel. And you know, he realized in a sudden insight, my divorce probably figures in there too.

And dammit! There he was again. As he glanced down at the paper he'd wrapped his sandwich in, he saw another story! Some Jew lawyer was demanding that Guatemalans be able to use third-grade graduation certificates as legal IDs. "These are just good, honest, law-abiding folks who come here to take jobs normal Americans won't do," the paper quoted one Jerry Shitlipz. Always a jew...

Mike moved onto the dock and made some casts. Nothing much stirring. He put on a Mepps, worked the last half hour up the banks, caught a few decent ones, all under a pound, but good eating size, put them on the stringer. Chartreuse black furies always do the trick. They don't always catch the biggest ones, but they always catch the most, he thought to himself. The last half hour he decided to up his aim and go for the big boys. He put on a topwater, perfect for late spring action, the fish still hungry off winter for a few more weeks. Ready to spawn. He worked all the way around the pond, caught one keeper. No huge fish offered. He packed his gear and headed back to the car.

The ride back was very pleasant. Nothing better than warm air coming over your arm as you ride back home at dusk with the window open in the late spring. He plotted. What had become crystal clear to him this afternoon, and what had taken the rest of the day to digest, was that something had to be done about this jew problem. Somebody had to get the jew off America's throat. Mike felt he had nothing left to lose. His life wasn't particularly unpleasant, but there was not much hope it would get much better, either personally or professionally. And in his time he'd seen enough degradation and degeneration, and he'd read enough about the reason for it to ponder what he could do. Now he knew.

He could assassinate second-tier jews.

And, if he did it as carefully as he did most things, he could get away with it for a long, long time.

His first target would be Douchestein.


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