The Fuhrer's Medallion By Jim Hauenstein

The Fuhrer's Medallion 

  

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with someone else, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

    This eBook is a work of fiction. The use of Historical Figures, Political Organizations, Religious Groups, Medical Institutions, Locations and Events are not necessarily depicted accurately, but from the imagination of the Author. Any other resemblance to people used in the story, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. These other characters, places, events, and locales are product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

    This eBook is dedicated to my Father. A person I still look up to today, even though I'm taller. A man who loves a good mystery and as it turns out, I have been his biggest puzzle throughout the years. I believe he feels that he has finally figured me out, so let us see if I still have a few surprises up my sleeve with this manuscript. Love ya Dad! 
    I would also like to thank a very special individual who passed away in 2012, Mister Jeffery Keyes. During those dark days, where a lot of people would give up hope because of becoming handicapped, you always found it in your heart the time to push me forward with my writings, encouraging me to always stay positive in life, and you always talked about doing new things in your future as if nothing was wrong with you. I miss our daily conversations about music, science, and our lives. Thank you my friend for being part of my life. I know we have talked about the “After Life” extensively, and I do believe as you, that energy can't be destroyed. So I'm sure you are in a better place today, watching over me, like the good friend you have always been for the last forty years.

The Fuhrer's Medallion

SATURDAY, JUNE 22^nd

10:30 a.m.

Sitting slouched on a dog haired covered three cushioned couch, drinking his first beer of the day, Wilhelm Kiel recites his usual verse after taking that initial swig. “Ah, the breakfast of champions!”

He is seated there surfing through the cable channels, his daily unemployed occupation, when he finally comes across a story on the local PBS channel that looks kind of interesting. He presses the record button on the remote control while yelling, “Mickey, get in here. You need to watch this!”

Mickey is actually Mikkel Bernard Schmidt. A six foot five, two hundred sixty-five pound, clean shaven, chest like a barrel, Germanic skin head. He especially does not like being called Mickey, the nickname given to him by his five foot eleven, one hundred ninety pound, beer swigging roommate. Mikkel has repeatedly tried to hammer this point to Wilhelm, but now is as good a time as any to remind him of this fact.

He isn't particularly fond of the name because of a famous Mouse, whose billboards are strewn in every direction, in and around a two hundred mile radius outside the Greater Los Angeles area. He associates the name as someone who is afraid, timid, or weak. And Mikkel knows he isn't weak, he is a man, not a mouse. A blond, blue eyed, pure Scandinavian color of a man. With the fine jaw line and perfect cheek bones, he admires about himself daily, which would have included him, in an earlier time, into “The Perfect Race!”

This reflection he has about himself and the state of his life always makes him feel as if he was born too late. If only he could have been there to help his beloved Fuhrer, he thinks to himself, surely things would have turned out differently.

So today, he is bound and determined to prove what his pure breeding can bring to the local chapter of the “White Power” movement! Nothing is going to get in his way or change his mind. Not even Wilhelm Kiel, the roommate who is always getting under his skin by his blatant disregard for Mikkel's wishes.

Wilhelm has a nickname of his own, Willie. Given to him by Mikkel and it stems from the pure act of childish revenge. Yet, the revenge he plans on inflicting today will taste the sweetest of all.

Willie doesn't have the same ambitions Mikkel has. He is just happy that a group of individuals accept him for what he is and that they never ask him to do too much. He just likes to drink beer all day.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Mikkel lets his anger reach its boiling point. Suddenly, you can hear the military boots he wears stomping on the kitchen’s old cracked linoleum floor. With each Earth quake like stomp, the fattened cock roaches inside, outside, behind, and underneath the kitchen cabinets, scurry in the opposite direction of every percussive step. His massive legs are almost goose-stepping as they pound their way towards the worn away varnish of the wood floor in the living room.

Dressed in only fatigue pants and boots, due in part to the lack of household funds to operate the central air conditioning, Mikkel starts breathing heavily to puff out his chest even further. He is bound and determined to loosen a few of the teeth Willie still owns with the frying pan he has just grab off the gas stove.

After rounding out of the kitchen, barging his way though a short corridor, and turning into the living area, he screams, “Willie you asshole, I had it wit you!”

This was all the warning Wilhelm needs to squirm his way from the oncoming blow. Willie knows from experience, and he had the scars to prove it, that Mikkel always bellows a few words of warning to freeze his intended victims before he lays a hand on them. He knows that Mikkel is into seeing the fright in someone’s eyes as much as he is into the beating itself.

Willie ducks to his left from his sitting position in the center of the davenport away from the oncoming menace. Narrowly missing, getting clobbered by the two handed tennis like stroke Mikkel uses to swing the skillet. Knocking over an already rocky metal TV tray in his path that carries his three empty beer cans from the night before and the fresh cold one from this morning.

The pan comes flat upon the cushioned backrest of the couch, shooting up a cloud of dust and dog hairs, obscuring Mikkel’s vision just long enough for Willie to have a two step jump for his escape.

As the small cloud starts to settle, the former owners of those hairs, both German Shepherds, begin growling and barking as spectators, not daring to intrude or succumb to a swift kick to their chest cavities.

“God Mickey this is important!” Wilhelm squeaks as he heads his way towards the front door. He figures if he can get outside, there will be enough room to maneuver. Adding to that, Mikkel’s weight and heavy boots, these additional factors will help tire him out sooner.

“I want to tell you something about Hitler!”

These last words are barely audible as the thrown skillet comes crashing onto an over decorated, swap meet purchased, cheap ceramic lamp which shatters louder than his pleading words.

As Wilhelm closes in on the front door he sees his opportunity to slow down Mikkel’s assault. A metal softball bat lying upright next to the door to ward off unwelcome solicitors.

Grabbing it with both hands he swings it around, lifting it high above his head to do an ax like blow upon his assailant’s cranium. Mikkel doesn’t hesitate though, even with Willie now having a weapon of his own, he keeps on coming.

Until they both hear that distinctive metal clasp!

The two men immediately recognize the sound of the harden steel of a break action, side by side ten gauge shotgun clasping together. An audible noise, usually only heard, just after the gun has been loaded. They recognize the fresh odor of gun oil, which now tickles their noses almost simultaneously. A sent, which drifts down from above them, hitching a ride along side a cool breeze.

That draft of cold air originates from the Master Bedroom's opened doorway, which holds the only windowed air conditioner. Coming down to warn them along a flight of steps, that lead to the three upstairs bedrooms, all occupied or used by the home's owner.

Halting their battle, which now seems like child’s play compared to the danger looming above, both men turn to look up towards the top of the stairwell. The only staircase in the house which enables access to those second floor rooms occupied by the matron, Grandma Kiel and all the worldly possessions she still cares about.

The two stand there, perilously close to one another, watching as the elderly woman aims both barrels in their direction. She slowly uses two arthritic fingers to squeeze the gun's triggers.

She knows by experience that if you point the shotgun at the lowest point of your targeting area and slowly lift the barrels of the weapon up with your left hand while squeezing those triggers with your right, when the hammers hit the shotgun shells, the backlash of physical energy from the recoil will dissipate more with the upward movement of the side by side, instead of the full force pressing squarely against her shoulder.

Before her sclerotic fingers can force enough pressure to finish their squeezing, Wilhelm drops his bat and dives to his right, heading into an unfurnished dinning room. While Mikkel, taking a cue from Willie, dives left for the protection of the couch, as both barrels rain rock salt against the heavily dog scratched oak door and cedar panels inserted along side the wall. Rectangular slots that once housed small stained glass windows which have been blasted away years before.

“Grand-ma-ma, what was that for?” her Grandson whines, while getting up on one knee in the empty room.

The gun toting sixty-six year old Matriarch of the house is a toothless, filter-less, Camel smoking dowager who never dresses properly except for a multilayered pink nighty and a sky blue house coat which she adorns daily in the home the local skinheads call “The Club House.” Used monthly for the local chapter of the White Power Movement's local meetings.

The Club House is recessed far enough from other homes and passing motorists out on Mission Road, the main thoroughfare leading into The City of Fallbrook, that any of the occasional gunfire, loud drunken yelling, and heavy metal rock music being blasted during their gatherings never seems to be heard by anyone.

The front of the house is hidden from travelers by the scattering of uncut native California foliage and a row of eighty year old Eucalyptus trees that border the front of the property.

Surrounding the north and east sides of the fifteen acre parcel of land are avocado trees, grown on the property to supplement Grandma Kiel's Social Security income. On the west side are the mounds of stone boulders the San Diego County locals like to call mountains. Not like the tree infested mountains of the Appalachians in Eastern United States or the dry desert types of the southern Rockies, just pushed around mounds of rock from the last ice age, formed thousands of years before.

The closet neighbor to the Kiel household is at least twenty-eight acres away which would account for the seldom recorded complaint at the Sheriff’s Department or the City of Fallbrook Police Department. A township best known as the “Avocado Capital of the World” and home to one of the best publicized chapters of any White Supremacist Group in California during the Nineteen-Nineties.

Now with the economy of the State going down the toilet once again and unemployment rising to its highest levels since the Depression, the area again sees an influx of disenchanted white youths coming into town, who are looking for answers. The perfect ingredients for the rise in power of Carl Hostetler. Grandma Kiel's friend since he became of age.

He has just enough charisma and youthful looks to organize the prejudices of these young people, bringing, once again, the rise of the Neo-Nazi Party into the town of Fallbrook.

“I told you boys ta stop with all tha' raucous in my house!” Grandma Kiel gums, not having the time to put in her teeth.

The two could have certainly over powered the old lady at any time, but Grandma Kiel has a quick German temper and that deep raunchy cigarette laden voice that still belts out commands with authority. And these boys, boys because of the lack of an education for one and maturity for the other, fall in line when she gives them an order.

“Mickey, git outside n pick up all the dog crap in da yard!” Grandma Kiel orders, “You know there's a meetin’ tomorrow, na' git go-in!”

Mikkel knows it will be useless to argue with her so he heads towards the front door, slightly side stepping into the dinning room area just far enough so he can give Wilhelm a good shove, sprawling him back onto the wooden floor.

“Willie, git up off the floor ya lazy bum and git to printin’ out our new pamphlets for the meetin’ tomorrow.”

Since Wilhelm's father was imprisoned for the killing of a migrant worker, he had been raised since the early nineties by his Grandmother and brought up in a household based solely on the virtues of the Aryan race. He didn’t know his mother but was always told she was a coward of a woman that had left when he was just an infant. He always knew his Grandmother as a head strong woman that demanded complete submission to her commands or you would end up on the wrong side of the shotgun pulling rock salt out of your ass. Rumor has it, a couple of fellows that used to bunked in the Club House during the Nineteen Eighties might not have been so lucky when shot with the rock salt Grandma Kiel had used. The legend goes, if you are close enough to the gun when the salt hits you, you have little chance of survival! It will tear away flesh, right to the bone!

Nothing has ever been proven, but with her temper you don’t want to be the next one to find out.

As the boys go about there business, Grandma Kiel turns from the top of the stairway to return to the air conditioned comfort of her bedroom. Bringing out her cleaning kit to work on the shotgun. Remembering what Carl Hostetler had always told her. “The salt will ruin the riffling inside the barrels without proper cleaning. If left alone, the small particles and scratches left by the salt would eventually eat the barrel from the inside out. Exploding one day when regular buckshot was used!”

What the hell did he know, she thought. This was her father's shotgun and he always used rock salt on those ungrateful migrant workers when they came around asking for a little bit more money to feed their family’s.

“That's what's wrong with these inferior races!” He would say, “Give them a days work, with a days pay, and they ask for more! If they can't feed those little rats of theirs, why don't they stop breeding like rats!”

It brought a toothless smile to her face thinking about her father and the good old days, when nobody cared on how many of those Mexicans you killed. Look at today, her son Johan is behind bars for chopping a hand off of one those filthy Mexicans when he caught him stealing. Isn't that what the Bible says people used to do to thieves, chop off their hands when they stole something? How could my son have known that the wetback would bleed to death!

 

This is,

Not A Book In Favor Of Neo-Nazis

Or What Hitler Did.

Read Each Chapter As They Come Out

And You Will See That I Am Not Condoning Their Actions.

Jim Hauenstein,

And,

“The Nazis learned as much from American Gangster Organizations, as their propaganda was learned from American Business Publicity.”
- Hannah Arendt, -

That is my story and I am sticking to it!

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