William C. Dietz Deathday (com v4.0)

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had been transformed into a bedroom, an Aryan bedroom with a mural painted on
the wall opposite the bed. It featured a faceless warrior framed with the
wreath of the German knight s cross, all on a field of red.
Springs squeaked and the frame creaked as Ella built toward her climax. Ella
liked to have sex at least twice a day. Partly because she enjoyed the
process, but partly because she wanted to produce a son, or failing that, a
daughter, who, according to one of her father s prophecies, would lead the
race into a new age of power and prosperity. Of course, Ivory had to do his
part, which, thank God, he had so far managed to do.
Ella, who preferred to be on top, where she could control the pace of their
lovemaking, was a sight to see. Her hair flew, sweat fell like rain, and her
hands cupped small, hard-tipped breasts. The sheer wantonness of her movements
kept Ivory hard.
In spite of his enjoyment, however, part of Ivory s persona remained
eternally on guard. Rather than lose himself in lust, he preferred to perform
some analysis. Even if Mother Howther was correct, and he had been sent to
father the great white hope, problems loomed, not the least of which was the
manner in which the old lady controlled her daughter, and even worse, the
extent to which Ella governedhim. It wasn t fitting, not according to Aryan
doctrine, but that didn t change how things were.
Ivory s wife made a noise deep within her throat, increased her speed, and
screamed. His signal to let go.
Ivory did so, and the intensity of the orgasm served to silence his internal
voice and grant him a moment of peace.
Five minutes later, after the glow had dissipated, both were up and around.
Unlike the women he d been with before, Ella felt no need for prolonged
cuddling. Slam, bam, thank you, sir. Women like that don t come along every
day, Ivory thought. It was as if God had taken a guy and dumped him into a
female body.
Together the twosome made their way up through a series of galleries to the
room where he had first been interviewed. It was warm relatively so, at any
rate and filled with the rich odor of slowly roasting meat.
The fact that a stranger was standing there, waiting for their return, was in
no way surprising.
The average day brought five potential recruits. Some held promise; some were
Jews, or what Ella called proto-Jews meaning they weren t actually Jewish but
couldn t be trusted and some were obvious halfbreed muds, bent on polluting
the race.
So Mrs. Howther maintained, although Ivory figured a lot of them were just
plain hungry, and would have been willing to join damned near anything to get
some food. After all, if one drop of black blood made someone into a mulatto,
then who was safe? And how would you know? Especially without sophisticated
testing procedures.
Still, according to the seedline doctrine laid out by the American Institute
of Theology (AIT) Bible study guide, the muds had been createdbefore Adam and
Eve, and after the Adamic or light-skinned race was conceived, it was with
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them andonly them that Yahweh formed the Holy Covenants.
Generally, when five people showed up, it seemed like one of them always
wound up being classified as a mud or a Jew regardless of how they looked.
That being the case, the other four, those whom Mrs. Howther had blessed as
founders, would be instructed to shoot their less fortunate companions.
Those who obeyed were in. Those who didn t were killed. The process was
cruel, but functioned to separate the weak from the strong, and made for a
memorable initiation ceremony.
Ivory had popped a few, just to prove that he could, but generally left that
sort of thing to the skins.
It seemed that this particular day was a bit slow and that only one potential
recruit had been caught in the security net that encircled the steadily
growing compound.
The moment the woman met his eyes, Ivory knew she was a far cry from the
fertile-hipped race mothers that old lady Howther took such an interest in.
No, this female was a hard-assed take-no-prisoners warrior of the typehe
wanted to recruit, and if Ella hadn t sucked him dry, hit the hay with. The
ear hole, which she made no effort to conceal, gave the woman a piratical air.
Ivory kept his face blank, collapsed into a chair, and watched his wife
accept a folder from an assistant.
She opened it, scanned the contents, and handed the file to Ivory. Old man
Howther had been a stickler for good records, a predilection that paid off in
numerous ways, not the least of which was the area of recruitment.
Ivory opened the folder, saw the newspaper clippings, verified that the woman
standing in front of them was Marta Manning, skimmed the accompanying text,
noted her credentials as a bona fide white supremacist, and found a copy of
the letter old man Howther had sent to Purdy.
Howther followed the stories about Jack Manning, had heard the sound bite in
which Marta defended not only her brother but also white separatism in
general, and had taken the opportunity to send his respects, a copy of the AIT
study guide,and an invitation to Marta to visit Racehome when she was
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