It was a cold, dark, October night just after the War in which six million precious Jewish lives - and a great many more worthless Gentile ones - were snuffed out, and Larry the Pimp was on the streets with forty-two members of his gang, lying in wait for his prey. The gang had received word from a member of the goy gang, a fascist named Bill who’d been working under deep cover with Sir Oliver Merman. Actually, Bill had been recruited into the fascists at the tender age of eighteen because he’d hated Jews, blacks, Italians and everyone else. He’d been a loyal party servant, a fine orator, and as brutal a street thug as they’d ever recruited, but last year he’d fallen behind with his mortgage and had offered his services to the Board of Bastards at Purim House in return for thirty pieces of silver, and a paid-up Abbey National endowment.
The Board had told Bill they weren’t interested, but shortly afterwards, he’d received a call from Larry. Since then he’d fed Larry a string of fantasies about the activities of the goy gangs. How much of this nonsense Larry believed was difficult to say, but the names and addresses Bill supplied came in useful. Larry passed these on to the Board of Bastards, who pressurised the goyims’ employers to sack them.
Larry stood rooted to the spot, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, one of them masturbating his circumcised prick through the hole in the bottom; Larry was a total degenerate, and many years later his sexual depravity would earn him convictions for running shiksah whores, and sodomising blond Aryan boys, but tonight he was less concerned with seminal emissions than with keeping his prick warm. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t been circumcised; he’d hated his father for that. In fact, Harry hated all Orthodox Jews with their long, black beards and their 613 commandments which they kept rigorously, including all their stupid peccadilloes like not riding on the Sabbath. They were worse than the goyim, most of them. Sometimes Larry thought he hated them more than he’d hated the Nazis.
Where the fuck were these goy bastards, Larry thought? There was no sign of them; he hoped that fascist Bill hadn’t been winding him up again; if he had, Larry wouldn’t let him fuck his sister Rebecca anymore. Stupid bitch, she was. Surely she was worse than any shiksah; you’d think she’d suffered more than those poor bastards who’d fried in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and Dachau. Or was it gas ovens? He never could remember.
Just then, a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young thing came running up to him. Larry’s eyes brightened as he took in the yellow-white features of Terry the bagel seller. Terry was only ten years old, but he was a bright young thing. And very sexy too, Larry thought, but he wasn’t in the mood for interfering with little boys tonight. There were better ways of keeping his prick warm, like sitting in front of a log fire with a nice cup of his Auntie Alice’s chicken soup.
“Hello, young Terry,” said Larry, “what are you doing out so late?”
“My Dad says there’s gonna be trouble, an’ I wanna see it, oy vay,” replied the young lad, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, which had turned red with the cold.
“I see,” said Larry.
Larry knew Terry’s father, Wally Bastard they called him; that was what the Jews called him, the goyim had a number of less flattering names for him. Wally Bastard knew Larry the Pimp too, and had warned him on more than one occasion not to come too close to his kids, especially the youngest one, Morris, who would be seven years old this week.
“Well,” said Terry, “is there gonna be trouble?”
“You bet,” said Larry, “those filthy Aryan goyim will be here soon, putting up their pitch here in Riddle Road; we’ll wait until they’ve unpacked their gear, then we’ll kick shit out of them.”
“Oy vay!” said Terry, “can I join in, too?”
“Of course not!” said Larry, disapprovingly, “you’re only a tiddler.”
“I’m not,” said Terry, “I’m the biggest kid in my class.”
“You’re er, big, are you?” said Larry, but swiftly dismissed the double entendre as the workings of his own diseased mind.
“You bet I am; I can fight just as good as a boy of twelve. My Dad’s a boxer, don’t forget.”
This was something Larry was never likely to forget, he remembered only too well that Wally Bastard had once punched him in the face for trying it on with him.
“My Dad says I’m a fighting Jew,” Terry continued.
“I’m sure you are,” said Larry, “now be quiet, there’s a good kid. We don’t want the Aryans to know we’re here until they’ve unpacked their gear.”
“Oy vay!” said Terry, “Do all Aryans hate Jews?”
“Of course”, said Larry, “Especially the ones who supported the Nazis, and those who don’t want their daughters to have half-caste babies, of course. That’s why we call them fascists.”
“I see,” said Terry, “but just because they want their grandchildren to be white doesn’t mean they hate Jews, does it?” asked the youngster with the insight to which his teachers had become accustomed.
“No, that doesn’t mean that they hate Jews, but they soon will after we’ve kicked shit out of them. They’re filthy anti-Semites.”
“I see,” said Terry, “but why are they anti-Semites?”
“Because they hate Jews.”
“Oy vay!” said Terry, “I knew there had to be a reason. That’s why they desecrate synagogues too, because they hate Jews. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Larry, “do you go to synagogue?”
“I haven’t been since I had my pricked clipped,” said Terry.
“I bet you’ve got a nice little prick on you,” said Larry.
“I beg your pardon,” said Terry, politely.
“Oh nothing,” said Larry, “just wishful thinking.”
“Do you go to synagogue?” asked Terry.
“Now and again,” said Larry, ’usually after dark with a paintbrush and bucket’, he thought to himself smugly, thinking how much he hated the pious, black bearded Jews; those stupid people were worse than the fucking goyim; he didn’t know which he hated most. At least goyim weren’t so imbecilic as to walk everywhere on the Sabbath for fear of being sent to Hell if they rode on a bus, and to refrain from adultery under penalty of excommunication. And like himself, most goyim had no qualms at all about enjoying a nice greasy bacon sandwich.
Man and boy stood waiting on the corner for what seemed like ages to the young scamp, then Terry said, “I’m cold, Larry. Do you think they’re going to show?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” said Larry, moving close to the young lad and saying, “here, put your hands inside my coat. That’ll keep you warm.”
“Thanks, Larry,” said Terry the bagel seller. “Gosh, you are warm,” he exclaimed as Larry drew his fresh young body close to him, shielding it against the October wind.
Yes, Larry was warm, and hard as a rock, he thought to himself, as he touched the youngster on the head, with more of a caress than a pat.
They stood there in the silence for a good ten minutes, then a low hiss sounded behind them. They turned around together and Larry stood face to face with Izzy, his trusted lieutenant.
“The fucking goy bastards aren’t going to show,” said Izzy, “I’ve just heard from that fucking fascist.”
“Bollocks!” said Larry, “I knew this was a fucking wind-up.”
“I’ll get off,” said Izzy, “I’m working tonight.”
“Okay,” said Larry, “see you in the pub tomorrow night.”
Larry looked down at Terry the bagel seller and said, “D’you hear that, kid?”
“Yes,” said Terry, “I suppose that means we won’t be kicking shit out of the fucking filthy Aryan goyim tonight.”
“We?” laughed Larry, “oh, you are a spunky young thing!”
Terry sighed.
“What are you up to now, young Terry?” asked Larry.
Terry shrugged his shoulders, “My Dad’s working tonight and my Mum’s in hospital, so I’m supposed to stay home.”
“All by yourself?” asked Larry.
"Yeah," said Terry, wiping his conk with the back of his hand again; “our gran is looking after Morris, and my elder brother is away fighting for the Irgun against those filthy A-rab scum.”
“So you’ll be all alone tonight?” said Larry, his prick hardening again.
“Yeah.”
“And what will you be having for supper?”
Terry shrugged his shoulders, “Bread and jam, I guess.”
“Wouldn’t you like something hot to eat?”
“I suppose so,” said Terry, “but my Dad won’t let me use the oven if he’s not home.”
“Instead of bread and pull it, how would you like a nice hot pork pie and mushy peas followed by a cup of coffee laced with rum?”
“Yummy,” said Terry, “but I can’t have that.”
“Oh yes you can, son. What time will your Dad be home?”
“About seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Terry.
“Well,” said Larry, “he’s not to know what you’ve been doing in the meantime. Why don’t you come home with me?”