Alright, here is my entry. I made it as short as I could while still having the point that I meant to make. It might be over the word count, and if so I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure Copperhead's is too. So we're even I guess.
This is a story of a different sort. Most Warriors related things have an antihero as the main character. Someone who, while technically a lawbreaker, still has some honor and you can't help but like. This story's protagonist is anything but. He is the embodiment of villain. The type of person who you would never associate with. The kind of person whom you would dread meeting. This is his story.
I must place a disclaimer here. I am not a racist. I am not an anti-Semite. I do not idolize Adolf Hitler. As a matter of fact, that douchebag killed half my grandparents' family. I like Jewish people and have no problem with them at all. However, I felt that I needed to use the POV of a neo-nazi in order to get across a message. That message being that racism and antisemitism never pays off in the end. Just read the story to see what I mean. I realize it's probably offensive, but just note that I don't mean to come off as a neo-nazi myself. It's purely fiction.
Just in case that was somehow missed:
THIS IS NOT MEANT AS A RACIST TYPE THING. IT IS PURELY FICTION AND HAS NO BASIS IN REALITY. PLEASE DON'T GO INTO A MORAL PANIC AND BE OFFENDED BY ANY OF THIS, AS I PURPOSELY TRIED TO MAKE THEM SOUND AS TERRIBLE AS POSSIBLE BECAUSE NEO-NAZIS ARE TERRIBLE PEOPLE. THANK YOU FOR READING THIS DISCLAIMER. CAPS LOCK IS COOL.
With that out of the way, on to my story.
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The Best Brawler
I always knew I was the best brawler. Oh, I never said anything, but I knew it. That night... well, it just proved it. Anyone who doubted it before believed me then. I was the best brawler. I guess I should explain it to all of you.
Back in the seventies, I was living in the South Bronx. My parents weren't exactly rich, so I worked to help them pay the rent. My dad was always looking for someone to blame for his being a deadbeat. Usually it was me. He would beat my ass almost daily till I was about fourteen. Every time he beat me, I would resolve never to let it happen again. It kept happening though. I trained myself against it, fighting street kids in back alleys and using cinderblocks on a metal bar as weights. Yet every night he would beat me into the ground. Finally, one day I was strong enough. Not only did I wipe the floor with him, but I tossed him right off the damned balcony. Boom, one dead body. I got off because it was pretty obviously self-defense, but I was hooked.
I fell in with a rather bad crowd around 1977. I was sixteen and hated the world. Isn't everyone the same at that age though? I met an older man one night a few months later. I had been walking through Claremont Park when I saw him. I guess I figured he'd be an easy target, so I told him to give me his wallet. He replied by pinning me to the ground with a Mauser in my face. After I got up, we sat down and talked about my life. It turned out he was a German immigrant. He'd fought in the Waffen SS during World War Two, then he'd run to New York in a so far successful attempt at avoiding Nuremburg. As we started to talk, he started to tell me things. Things about the Jews and their role in society. Things about how they run everything in the background. How the banks are all in their pockets. All of that. And guess what? He was right. It'd been right in front of my eyes all along, I'd just been ignoring it. I never saw that man again after that night, but he left a mark on me.
One week later, The Webster Avenue Aryans were formed. I had explained what I'd been told to our leader, Randall, and he passed it on to my bretheren. Before long, we were a real heavy outfit. I remember our colours. All black, army boots, shaved heads. It was the time of my life. By 1979, we had over fifty members. It doesn't sound like much, but when one of us was capable of taking down ten other brawlers, it becomes a considerable amount more. Nobody questioned us, nobody dared to. We just went about our business, and others went about theirs.
We tried to educate people. We told them about what a great man Adolf Hitler was, and spoke of his genius. We told people of the hoax that is the Holocaust. We tried to warn everyone about the Zionist Conspiracy, and how the State of Israel must be stopped. The few that believed us joined up. The rest called us fools. They tried to have us arrested, but nothing could touch us. We were called "skinheads" and "Neo-Nazis" as though it was a bad thing. They were the fools.
I remember the day I killed my first Jew. It was early 1979, April 20th. Our master's birthday. In honor of the Reich, I decided I'd beat up some of them. I found an old Jewish man walking down the street after dark. He was in front of the bodega at the corner of Claremont and Webster when I struck. Ran right in and beat him down I did. I guess I cracked him in the head too hard, cause he stopped breathing. I didn't see it as a huge loss, I just ran like hell and left him to die. It was exhilirating, and I was addicted.
Over the next months, I'd go out a few times a week and lay a beatdown on them. I did some blacks and a gypsy or two as well. After a while, the cops took notice. The one time they tried to take me down, I just pulled a gun and capped the pig. Anyone who tried to take us down was an enemy of the cause, and had to be dealed with as such. We started to get into drug production. We sold crack to the blacks and the Jews. Figured that we could take them down with the drugs. I can't count the amount of money we made from them. Not that they had a lack of it.
We tried our best to catch the eye of the Riffs, cause we heard that they were going to try something. A meeting in Van Cortlandt Park. We tried and tried, but they refused to invite us. It went so far that Randall actually took the train down to Gramercy and asked Cyrus himself. Cyrus called us the scum of the Earth and told him to leave or be killed. Randall didn't move, so Cyrus shot him in the head. He died with the monkeys surrounding him. His mantle was passed to his brother Rick. Rick wanted revenge, but I managed to talk him down. Taking on the Riffs was way, way beyond us. So we waited.
The early morning of July 13th, we were avenged by a mousey fellow called Luther. Cyrus got capped by him during his little get-together. Serves him right. We kept doing our business, selling rock, beating up the inferiors, and generally furthering the cause. Eventually, we started to attract some attention from outside the Bronx. A gang of Jews from Brooklyn started making forays into our turf. Called themselves the Ocean Parkway Stars. They got beat back every time, but it pissed me off that they'd even think of trying to take us out. There was only one problem.
One member of theirs, a big, burly guy feared the city over. He was a few hundred pounds of pure muscle. I think his name was David or something, I don't pay attention to their names. Anyway, he was the one that always gave us the most trouble. He only ever retreated when the rest of his guys were beat, and even then that was more a grudging concession to his men than anything. We tried shooting him, we tried knifing him, hell, one of our guys even fashioned a crude explosive and it barely budged him. He was able to withstand anything we threw at him. It was like he was a modern Rasputin. Just our luck that his reincarnation would be Jewish.
Summer turned to Autumn, Autumn to Winter, and 1979 to 1980. As the cycle turned to Spring, it was decided. We had to do something about these bastards. I was our best brawler, so I was elected to be the one who takes down muscle-mountain. It was only fitting that we pulled it off on April 20th, again the birthday of Adolf Hitler. We would have made him proud. So that night, we headed over to 170th Street and took the train. A couple of cops gave us some lip during the transfer to the F at Jay Street-Borough Hall, but we busted their chops pretty good. Finally, we ended up at 18th Avenue.
First thing we saw was a few of the bastards upon exiting the station. I just watched while the others mopped them up. They can't fight worth a damn, I tell ya. We headed over to Ocean Parkway proper, and there we saw it. He was standing there, eating a bag of chips from a hot dog stand. The second he spotted us, the others broke off and circled around the two of us. They all knew what was going to happen. Only one of us was going to walk away from this.
He threw the first punch. I managed to dodge it and circled down to try and get my arms around him. He jerked his arm back and caught me in the jaw. It was like a brick smashing into my face. Found out later that there was a hairline fracture in my jaw. Asshole. I hit the ground and he went to kick me. I managed to roll away and he overcompensated, nearly falling on his face. I jumped up and kneed him in the chin. He gave a scream of pain and blood came pouring out of his mouth. The retard had bitten a chunk out of his tongue. I seized the opportunity and got a few good punches in on his face. Broke his nose but good.
That just served to anger him, so he grabbed me and slammed me into the concrete. God, it was like the pain of a thousand suns. That one busted two ribs and bruised my pelvis, I found out later. He went to break my skull on the pavement, and I shoved one of my boots into his nuts. He fell, howling in pain. I had the upper hand now. One, two, three kicks to the head. He was trying to get up, so I kicked him in the throat. It's a wonder what steel-toed boots can do to help a beating. He fell again, this time struggling to breathe. I kept going at it, kicking at any exposed spot. Finally, he stopped resisting and just tried to get away. No way in hell was I gonna let that happen. I grabbed him and dragged him over to the curb, shoving his face up to it. With one mighty motion, I brought my boot down onto his head. His teeth snapped off and his jaw shattered. Blood was pouring out onto the concrete as my boot turned his brain to pulp. With one final, shuddering breath, he tried to stand. Immediately, he fell over. The Jew was dead.
It was at that moment that I knew it. I was the best brawler. I had beaten one of the best fighters in the city. He was lying on the ground bleeding out and I was standing, slightly hurt, but alive. Nobody could beat me. Nobody. We ended up running back to the station and taking the train back before the cops got there. The cops always suspected us, but they never had any proof that we were responsible. I was the best brawler.
Over the next two years, I beat more and more people. Hernandez, of the East New York Crazies. Martin, of the Tottenville Thrashers. Ajax, of the Coney Island Warriors. I beat them all. I didn't kill most of 'em, but I sure let them know who's boss. That Ajax one was the toughest. When I left though, he was crying like a baby. Of course, all good things come to an end sometime. I got caught beating a Jewish girl up near Pelham Bay Park. The cops all had their guns on me, so I didn't even try to fight. They got me on charges ranging from murder to assault on an officer to rape. Right now I'm serving life in prison on Rikers Island. I've been here 25 years now. You know what? It's all worth it. Even here, nobody challenges me.
I am the best brawler.