I overhear them talking of justice served brusquely — of a red white and blue slap on the face. I hear them consider who to bring justice to next: the sliver of sharp approbation, the soft formless rejections of mercy. They’d kill just about anyone if they could get away with it, and they get away with an awful bruising lot. No cause for concern if you don’t cross their smoke-filled path, their grimy brows, or their sweat-impregnated clothes — the smell of fetid napalm drops absorbed on the hem of their soiled pants. One slicks his hair back in the countenance of Lugosi’s Dracula. Another has hair perfectly combed and sprayed in all the right places. One has an oily, dandruff speckled shock — the combination of the two as improbable as snow in Homestead. They mean business, and their business is booming.
“Who the hell wants unity with Nazis until and unless they stop being Nazis? … Deference to intolerance feeds intolerance.”
— Rebecca Solnit / “On Not Meeting Nazis Halfway”