Kowalski tugged on his hood, adjusting its eyeholes while peering in the rear view mirror. The tip drooped sadly, and the fabric smelled vaguely of Taco Bell. He still hadn’t done laundry, and Laura wasn’t around anymore to iron it. She’d always starch it just enough to stand up straight.
Not that he could exactly take it to the dry cleaner.
Though honestly, the Korean guy behind the counter probably wouldn’t even blink. He’d just accept it solemnly, hand over the claim ticket with both hands, and bow slightly.
Kowalski sighed and forced himself out of the pickup. He wasn’t sure he could stomach this again, but he’d already paid his imperial tax through December.
Holding his robes up, dainty as a debutante, to keep them from dragging along the red-clay parking lot, he hurried behind the Deja Vu strip club and knocked on the back door in the assigned rhythm.
The door creaked open. Another robed and hooded figure stood waiting.
“K.I.G.Y.,” the man said.
“A.K.I.M.,” Kowalski replied automatically.
The figure nodded approvingly and swung the door wider. The two exchanged an awkward secret handshake before stepping inside together. Kowalski still hadn’t mastered those.
The strip club’s back room was already crowded.
“Greetings, citizens!” proclaimed the hooded figure at the front of the room, as though everyone had been waiting for Kowalski before beginning. “How go preparations for the next mission? Nighthawk Wilson, do we have enough nooses prepared?”
The man who had answered the door, Nighthawk Wilson, cleared his throat and raised his voice through the confines of his hood.
“Our old rope supplier shut down,” he announced. “I’m trying to find another one that carries the thick kind. The really menacing stuff.”
“I guess all the good suppliers are on the coasts,” the Nighthawk continued. “Shipping’s astronomical.”
“Gosh darn it!” proclaimed a robed figure slumped in a wheelchair situated by the back door, his hood on nearly sideways.
“But we may have found a supplier in Colorado that can get us quality hemp line for a reasonable price,“ continued Nighthawk Wilson, “if we buy in bulk.”
“Any other updates from the wrecking crew?” inquired the man at the front.
“I’ve got the four-by-fours cut for the cross,” another man called out. ”But the lumber really needs a full forty-eight-hour gasoline soak, and gas prices are just so high right now.”
“Not as bad as two years ago.”
“Still up a buck fifty from last year.”
“Mother lover,” slurred the man in the wheelchair.
Kowalski tried shoving his hands into his pockets before remembering, once again, that the robes didn’t have any. He had never bothered to have slits cut into the sides so he could access the ones in his Levi’s. The cheap polyester was making him awfully hot.
“Schubladen Schmidt, do we have enough in the treasury to cover gasoline expenses?” asked the man at the front of the room.
“Yes, Grand Cyclops,” answered Schmidt, “And if we need more, I have a private donor I can reach out to.”
“I should hope all our donors are private,” chuckled the Grand Cyclops In response. “Is there anything else we need prior to the mission in Pastor Washington’s front yard?”
Kowalski froze.
Pastor Washington.
D’andre’s father.
Suddenly he was back under Friday-night lights: churned turf beneath his cleats, blood where he’d bitten his cheek during that last tackle, sweat running into his eyes.
And D’andre touching his shoulder pad.
“I gotcha, man.”
Then D’andre stepping in front of the biggest linebacker Kowalski had ever seen, ready to throw his body between Kowalski and disaster, then glancing back over his shoulder and giving him a nod.
A present day drop of sweat stung his eye under the polyester hood. Kowalski ripped it off his head.
“This is wrong!” he burst out. “All this hate. All this stupidity. All this bullshit!”
“Baloney,” corrected the old man in the wheelchair flatly. “Malarkey.”
Two robed figures hurried to Kowalski’s sides.
“Stop talking,” hissed Nighthawk Wilson, grabbing his elbow.
“We need to get you out of here,” whispered the other man urgently, the one who’d been talking about lumber.
“Quiet, brothers,” boomed the Grand Cyclops. “Let the young man speak.”
Kowalski swallowed hard. Every pair of eyeholes in the room turned toward him.
“Shhhhhhhoot,” sighed the old man in the wheelchair.
Then Schubladen Schmidt stepped forward.
“I believe,” he announced, “that what Citizen Kowalski is attempting to express is that modern civilization depends upon human rights, democratic values, and the rule of law. In contrast, white supremacy represents racism, violence, and domestic terrorism.”
Kowalski blinked.
Yeah, he thought. That.
Schmidt removed his hood.
“Saul Schmidt,” he said. “Southern Poverty Law Center. Guess the jig’s up.”
The nighthawk next to Kowalski pulled his hood off next. “Chad Wilson,” he said, “Metropolitan Police.”
“Deputy Hank Savage,” said the man on Kowalski’s other side, pulling off his hood as well.
Another man removed his hood. “Special Agent Skulder. FBI.”
One by one, men all over the den pulled off their hoods, revealing their true identities.
The Grand Cyclops then doffed his hood. “Agent Smith,” he said. “CIA.”
“The CIA can’t spy domestically,” shouted Special Agent Skulder angrily.
“Because violent racism isn’t nearly as bad?” shot back Agent Smith. “Is there anyone here who isn’t a white supremacist?” he added, looking around.
“I still am!” announced a still-hooded figure leaning against the back wall of the room, grasping a white cane. “I can’t believe all of you suckers are betraying the pure race!”
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Officer Wilson, “It’s way past time anyone told you, Blind Dave. You’re Black!”
“Dag nab it,” offered the man slouching in his wheelchair.
“Really?” asked Agent Smith. “There are no real white supremacists here? What about our oldest member, Citizen Burns?”
“Fudge,” answered the man in the wheelchair.
“Hi,” said a figure, removing his mask and lifting a hand from one of the handles of the wheelchair in an introductory gesture. “I’m Vivek Srikarthikeyan, Mr. Burns’ home health aide. I’ve been bringing him to these meetings for years because he really seems to like them. But between the Tourette’s Syndrome and the dementia, it’s hard to tell if he’s really a white supremacist anymore.”
“Darn right,” muttered Mr. Burns.
“His mother may have taught him to be a racist, but she also taught him not to use obscenities. I’m guessing he’s probably forgotten any real curse words he ever learned.”
“Jiminy Cricket in a chicken basket,” added Mr. Burns.
Discussions, arguments, and ordinary chit-chat were breaking out around the room. Kowalski made his way to the back door, swinging it open himself. He looked back, and decided he wouldn’t be coming back inside again once he left. He pulled his robe off over his head, leaving it on the ground where it fell, and reached into his jeans pocket for his phone. He might still have D’andre’s number. He started closing the door behind him. He heard one last outburst from the old man in the wheelchair, the only person still wearing an off kilter hood.
“Poop.”
