Horatio, ambidextrous Neo-Nazi

Horatio, ambidextrous Neo-Nazi, a two-handed ‘Sieg Heil!’ then, ambidextrous Neo-Nazi Horatio weeps and falls, ambidextrousness all the way down to his feet, except this time, broken German, beer and Jack D’s took a toll.
Horatio ‘the joiner’, an always looking for-rrr causes man, and here was that new beginning for character shine.
Common threads pushed common cause non-Free-Holding Commoners to a Party of John Locke’s ‘Fundamental Constitutions of Carolina’ pass-bys.
Party time, Horatio meets girls with temporary buzz-fuzz and black boots up to their knees, other well-tattooed men, uglier well-done tattooed women.
Yesterday, Horatio 1 – Magazine subscription Nil – not before going through Checkout – 

1 poster of ‘Addy’,
1 ‘SS’ Flag,
1 Swastika mug,

Horatio taught Mugs history, a 1920’s Germanic competition’s origins – ‘Addy’ won, a dentist second, and his wife sewed the first armbands.
Beer-drinking cunt with high standards on race-mixing Horatio, facts & figures to celebrity genetics professors almost every day, point and points forever made for a beguiling footnote.
City bus-driving Horatio, small killer brain behind the big black wheel of a big white bus, a hundred Rosa Parks look-a-likes paying fare, “every fucking day!”
Never heard of ‘Rosa?’  Horatio, “fucking bus-licking chimps!” as a Confederate banknote collection sprung about its elastic holder in a secret wallet compartment, but company policy was company policy, thoughts in head, eyes on road.
What was a Neo-Nazi to do?  except strap on black boots, medicate, rampage and cry as his country “lost its meaning, destiny and soul”.
That meeting, and a Party Leader’s words of introduction for a man who knew a man who once met a real Nazi, “Brilliant.”
Verbiage, right-thinking comfort, console a Horatio, the feeling-down Horatio, the let-down Horatio, “Washington Again!”
A majority citizen, no passport, geography began at a front door, ended at a front door, distance in-between relative.
Passport here, Horatio there- Auschwitz Berkanua, there with a measuring tape and a leaping head-first jump into the Ovens for a ‘selfie’, and diplomacy always cheaper than prison.
Relatively speaking, back in his Stars & Stripes boxers with mirror image fatigue, but all not lost, except the place.
One more time through Checkout, Horatio’s new black boots, up to his calves and looking good before landing on enemy’s heads, arms, legs, asses, testicles, and vulva, patent leather gale-hit horizontal flag poles swayed at riot police dogs.
Kicked random brown people and old chess-playing park bench sitting black men in their heads, but Horatio left his boots on his ambidextrous feet for ‘top-drawer’ stuff.
Ambidextrous thumping punches on baseball-talking “little fucking Jews” leaving Hebrew school, accompanied with the tongue-tied hissing-gas melody-“hhhssssssssss!”, a gift-wrapped fear for the breed with a propensity for victim-hood.
That was an own-backyard pleasure trip, without a passport, then, somewhere in America, someone confused, sung -“Oh Tottenham Hotspur, Oh Tottenham Hotspur; Yid Army! Yid Army!”
The arteries were clogging, the muscle was tiring, and the head shone always, then one more Party atmosphere, the rousing calls of “No Surrender!”
Spotted then, laughed at now.
On chat shows with Black men, in Confession with Jewish women.
A Memoir of regrets and a well-practised signature, Horatio’s footnotes unfurled, he took an oath, ate a bagel and drank a coffee at a Diner owned by a man who introduced a man who once met Sammy Davis Junior.

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