{ ... }

 

۞

  They were stoppèd at the door and askèd for credentials. Namely, which party. Also, no drug policy. 

  “Free thinkers don't need to do drugs,” said a hard-case, 

  {on-the-door} 

  Some skin-heads were playing wraps, cards on knuckles. An elderly dowager dusting by on a duster. The crone was keeping-it-dusty, making more mess than she was cleaning up with all her dandruff coming off.  

  “What a flake, that Nan!” said one.  

  {slightly annoyèd}  

  “This is supposed to be a serious meeting. Can someone please, tell her to stop dusting.”  

  “Well, that's employment,” said her skin-head grandson.  

  “Ouch, my knuckles!” said a wrappèd to the wrapper.  

  “I'm voting British National Party. Who are you voting for, skinhead?” 

  “English Defence League. No question.”  

  “Well, we're all white, we should have the jobs, either either, it doesn't matter. Just remember that you're white.”  

  “No probs, we can just smash the shit out of every paki shop on the corner.”  

  Just around the corner another racist movement was happening.  

  {above the shop}  

  The paki shop.  

  “Darkness is all around us,” said Asif to Iziz.  

  “We're living through dark times,” said Iziz to Asif.  

  Above the shop it read COHEN. An Ishmaelite family, a Jewish name. Hereditarily and momentarily, a family. Like cousins, actually.  

  “It'd cost my family a hell of a lot of money,” said the son of the one with the dowry.  

  “Why, are you family?”  

  “Yeah, she's my cousin, actually.”  

  Hunty: the father of the community. He knew everyone and everybody. EDL security. He likèd to go and get into a fight every single Saturday. 

  “Is that his family?”  

  “Yeah, cousin actually.”  

۝