Heart Check

By Jordan Harper

(return to Stories)

Shermer hits the Huntsville yard hard as teen love. He peels the shirt to let the tats do the talking. Everyone on the big yard knows his jacket the moment he touches turf. Henry Shermer is goddamn notorious. Hair on the ceiling/ brains on the wall/ evening news notorious. Cons shoot side-looks at him – no eyefucking allowed.

His skin is a textbook of white power numerology. “14 WORDS” inked across his stomach, read as: We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.  An “88” on his throat – 88 equals HH equals Heil Hitler. Between his shoulder blades, “28” as in BH as in Blood and Honor. An Othala rune like a vertical Jesus-fish swimming on top of his heart. And Shermer knows he has heart – check the five blue lightening bolts on his shoulder. He got them done in jail during the trial by a con who’d strung together a sweet homemade rig. Five bolts means five bodies laid low on an Aryan Steel greenlight.

He scans the yard, classifies and organizes. The yard is Mexi Heaven. The Texas Syndicate rules Huntsville. Shermer isn’t worried about their numbers. They’re too busy beefing with California transplant Eme soldiers to bother a white man. Shermer scans more spics. The wetbacks have mucho splinter factions. Raza Unitas: They look clean and play dirty. Hermandad de Pistoleros Latinos: crazy as anybody, grinning yellow through .45 handgun face tattoos.

Scan, scan. Crips hold down the weight benches – Bloods seem at peace in the background. Cocaine money keeps the Mau-Maus from going buck wild at each other too much these days.

Scan, scan. White men playing handball. But no go -- AB tats on a back showed them as Aryan Brotherhood: peckerwoods too fucked up on crank and the rep built by better men to be real soldiers. Perry Mashburn broke with the AB ten years ago sick of setting up meth deals with wetbacks in the name of the white race. He formed Aryan Steel -- white men building a wall against the brown swarm with a kill-crazy rep alone. Brother Steels on the yard somewhere – scan, scan, scan.

One of the AB brothers cuts Shermer off in the yard. Two more back his play. The ABs scope Shermer out and he sees his jacket write itself on their faces – Shermer is goddamn notorious. Shermer killed on a greenlight from Perry Mashburn himself – Shermer’s name means massacre.

In his cell Shermer has his clippings from goddamn Time magazine. Time knew dick-all. Every white con in the world knows the real score: Zach Taylor got sprung from Leavenworth owing the Steel money – took a loan and then moved to Protective Custody when the Steel wanted him to pay back. Perry Mashburn spread the word when Taylor got sprung back into the world. The word was greenlight on the race traitor, full brotherhood for the trigger. The greenlight had a condition: leave no witnesses.

Shermer –-two years on the outside after his first real bit, bone-tired of hauling rebar for shit money. Hauling rebar kept his jailhouse swoll on, real pussy was better than prison-punk chokefucks every time –  but straight life bored his tits off. Shermer knew Zach, asked around and learned the lame bought heavy meth from local peckerwoods with Perry Mashburn’s money. Shermer tracked him down I-44 through Oklahoma. Missed him in Okmulgee. He put out feelers, found the score: every town he went, Zach made the scene at the white power rock shows. He followed Steeltoe H8 on tour, selling meth blasts at the show to pay his way.

Shermer checked the Steeltoe H8 website for coming gigs, drove all night, leapfrogged Zach at Tyler and set up camp in Houston – the locals called it Space City and ate migas while cussing out wetbacks.

Shermer sat in the parking lot of the punk club while Steeltoe played their set for a room full of Hammerskins and peckerwoods. He could have iced him in the parking lot, but the greenlight said no witnesses. Shermer wanted full-tilt brotherhood or nothing at all. He had to be sure.

He followed Zach from the show to a motel on the edge of Space City. The dude had people inside the room. No witnesses. Shermer mounted up with a shotgun and a head full of Viking dreams. He came through the door with the twelve gage breakdown in his hands. Five seconds in Zack looked like Picasso painted him – head over here, arms over there. Two more pumps wiped out his partners. Shermer breathed blood mist. Some little featherwood just picking up some crank made it halfway out the door; a buckshot rip left half of her in the room and the other half rolling down the sidewalk.

Four bodies, no regrets. Perry said no witnesses.

He found the featherwood’s six-year-old son hiding behind the shower curtain. Sirens on the highway said hurry. The kid cried and cried while Shermer reloaded.

If he was a nigger they would have gassed him for it.

Instead they sent him for a ride at Huntsville that would last as long as he did . All day. All day wasn’t shit. And neither were these AB lames set to give him a dick-measuring right out in the yard. Shermer checked hands. No shanks – didn’t mean shit. Convicts know how to hide, how to stash. Motherfuckers could have a goddamn samurai sword hidden somewhere – Shermer wouldn’t see it until the word go.

Shermer weighed odds – best bet said these peckerwoods were straight-up heart-checking. A yard shank was plain stupid. Shanks don’t have blades, shanks have points. No throat-cut, no slashes, just stab stab stab. Try to stab a man to death – it ain’t easy. Can’t slice open the arteries, can’t dump guts onto the floor. Stab a man a hundred times and maybe he dies, maybe he doesn’t. Doctors work miracles on septic shock and puncture wounds. Stab a man on the yard, pigs in the tower lay you out – and high-powered rifles do kill easy – and your man spends a month in the ward and walks out good as new.

“What’s up?” The guy in front, billygoat pubes on his chin, drops it: Greeting/question/challenge. Shermer smiles – fuck your sister spelled out in teeth.

They don’t swarm. They just want to see what kind of man he is. They are fucking lames. They are heart-checking Shermer – Shermer turns it back on them. He drops major eyefucks on them. He dares them to say boo. In a few seconds they’re going to have to tangle just on general principal. Shermer knows he just has to hurt one of them bad and not stop fighting when the stomping starts.

“You kill a kid and still call yourself a white man?”

This shit here is why the Brotherhood ain’t shit. This shit here is weak. Fucking lames. Fucking punks. Shermer can’t say what needs to be said – a Perry Mashburn greenlight gets followed to the letter, and that’s what makes us white men and you shit. Fuck the law, fuck life, fuck dead kids, fuck the whole motherfucking world. It is what it is.

Shermer can’t say it – these lames wouldn’t understand nohow. Shermer gets ready to get down. His muscles don’t move. It’s all in the eyes.

“Hey, now.” The voice comes from behind the AB lames. The dudes turn/ part.

Aryan Steel – the cavalry has swastika neck tattoos. Four brothers – Shermer counts quick – eleven blue bolts between them. The one in the lead – he’s got a ring of shank scars like a sharkbite on his torso. He’s got a screaming eagle tat over his heart. He’s got four blue bolts on his arm. He’s got a name that rings out in every lockdown – Craig Hollington/Crazy Craig. Crazy Craig pushed Blood Nation OG Goldie Webber off a third floor walkway with a bedsheet noose around his neck – Crazy Craig brought lynching back to Huntsville. He got sprung from Death Row off some lawyer shit. He ruled Texas for Perry Mashburn. He’s the thick dick in this yard.

A Real White Man.

“He’s with us, y’all hear?” Crazy Craig talks direct to the one with the billygoat beard. Shermer makes sure to remember billygoat’s face– he’ll ask the Steel for details later.

“Fuck it, man, you guys stand up for a dude what kills –“

Crazy Craig gets closer to the AB dudes.

“We take care of our own, Billy. That’s how we do.”

Violence hangs heavy in the air. It smells like that Space City motel room. Shermer wants to smash/stomp/kick/gouge. Shermer wants to get down.

The AB dudes step off. They moonwalk back to the handball court. Shermer slaps hands with Aryan Steel. He meets Crazy Craig and Moonie and John-O and Dag. They compare tats. They walk over to the heavy bag – Aryan Steel’s yard turf. Shermer calls it home. He gets the scoop – long-term truce with the Brotherhood and most of he esses. A war simmers with the smokes – they still got a hate-on for Crazy Craig thanks to Goldie’s swan dive.

“I know you ain’t no fucking lame,” Crazy Craig tells him. “But we got to see what you got, y’all hear? Get on that bag. Let’s see how you gonna take it to the jigs.”

Moonie holds the heavy bag. Shermer wraps his hands. He’s got focus. He’s a wicked streetfighting southpaw. He goes to work. Right-right-left-right-LEFT-right-right. And again.

Jab-jab-HOOK-jab-cross-HOOK-HOOK. Moonie lets the bag hang free. Shermer sets it swinging. Crazy Craig tells him to move his feet. The Texas sun drinks his sweat. His blood thumps inn his head. He punches to its beat. Jab-jab-feint-cross-jab-SHOVEL HOOK. The bag hits back on the swing. Shermer’s arms jelly up. He takes a step back to catch breath.

“Get back in there, son.” Crazy Craig grins. Shermer reads it. They’ve seen he’s got guns. Now they want to see if he’s got heart. He steps back in low: HOOK. Sounds like a shotgun blast. The Steel whistles and hoots. Minutes pass. Jab-jab-HOOK. They want to see how far he can go.

Left-left-right-LEFT. His pulse so hard his eyeballs throb. He shows them more. Jab-jab-jab. He can barely get the arms up. Left-left-left. He trips on his feet. He goes down. He can’t breathe fast enough.

The Steel picks him up. They clap his back. They tell him good show. Yard time is over. They walk/run him down the halls. He still can’t lift his arms. He still can’t catch his breath. Colors come out of nowhere. His heart swells twice as big. His ribcage feels its every twitch.

“Good job there, Sherm.” Moonie tells him. In a crowded hallway. They stop. Moonie takes the wraps off his hands – fingers red/raw/flopping useless. Moonie puts the wraps on himself. He looks at Crazy Craig. Craig nods. Moonie walks down the hall.

“What’s – what’s happening?” Shermer can barely get it out. His lungs feel rusted.

“Part two of your initiation, brother. You got your blood pumping.”

“Hell –hell, yes.”

“Well, check this shit out.”

Moonie walks into a crowd of Bloods and swings – a perfect punch, a tripod of feet, fist and skull. The Mau-Maus step back – Moonie stomps – the Mau-Maus swarm him. Shermer understands – he’s next. They still got to see his heart. He tries to pick out the biggest smoke in the room for his victim. The hacks are all over the swarm. They toss everyone to the floor. Before Shermer can see if Moonie is in one piece Crazy Craig puts a hand on his shoulder, leads him down a hallway Shermer hadn’t seen before. John-O and Dag are at his back. He can still hear the hacks screaming, trying to get control.

Shermer gets it – Moonie made a distraction. The real business was here. A secret initiation far from hack ears.

“Y’all got heart, brother.” Crazy Craig tells him. “You truly do. Perry Mashburn sends his regards.”

Shermer triumphant.

“But he says you shoulda know better than to kill that kid.”

John-O and Dag grab his arms. A waste – Shermer couldn’t lift them if he tried. Crazy Craig brings out the shank – looks like a railroad spike. He sticks Shermer in the center of his Othala rune. Under the spike his heart still beats crazy mad.

“Fuck you.” Shermer barks. He thought they had the code. They didn't have shit. They didn't have shit.

Crazy Craig shrugs.

“Some other day, some other dude, maybe fuck me. But today it’s you.”

He hammers down the shank with his palm. Shermer’s heart crazy pumping – punctured – spray. He sees blood hit the ceiling. He sees the world turn grey. He sees nothing at all.