By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
The racism of the literature they distribute today takes many forms -- subtle and otherwise. The Nationalist Times, for instance, which promotes itself as the "Voice of Real America," is rather well written. Some of the commentary is thought-provoking, such as an article describing how the agenda of big business favors liberalism and globalism. Hand-stamped on the front of the newspaper in red ink are the words White Rights Hotline, and a phone number. The number is that of an answering machine in Port St. Lucie, where the Rev. J.D. Alder (see "White Greetings,"June 21) leaves a new message every Monday.
Each paper contains some loose fliers. One of them pictures a little girl in an oversize train conductor's hat, sitting on railroad tracks and holding a lantern. Above the little girl's head are the words, "She Needs the Truth. Where will she find it? On Jewish-controlled television, with its racially mixed couples and multicultural propaganda?" Another has a picture of a white baby girl with the scrawl, "Missing: A Future For White Children." These particular leaflets are the product of a group called the National Alliance.
Other reading material passed out today includes some WCOTC information. "Facts that the government and the media don't want you to know" is in and of itself an attention-grabbing read with a racial twist. (Example: "Do you know who really brought the slaves to America? The Jews!")
Then there are the leaflets that Doug and his pals usually don't bring out until late at night, when the Werwulfes go on their stealth missions. One screams "REVOLUTION!" across the top and rails about the white man's struggle for survival. "The time is now to stand up and fight!" it reads.
Another pictures convicted teenage killer Nathaniel Brazill on the front, which you know is going to be bad: "Assuming there is a difference between blacks and niggers, isn't it about time we got rid of the niggers?"
In broad daylight, on a busy intersection, these white knights generally leave the N-bomb at home. Even with their less-militant approach, they still look pretty intimidating; the reaction of the motorists is mixed. Some accept the literature, some roll up their windows when approached.
Smiley has the best luck. He's a young guy who charms the ladies into taking a paper. "Come on, you're breaking my heart," he tells one. She then bashfully rolls down her window and accepts The Nationalist Times. She takes it, rolls up her window, reads some, rolls her window back down, and tells him she likes the paper.
Quinn is making some headway on another corner. A red Chevy Blazer gets into the turning lane just to talk to him. The guy is a "racialist" himself and gives the three other men on the various corners a honk and a wave. Quinn replies by striking a Sieg Heil pose in the middle of traffic.
After an hour of recruiting in the blazing sun, the men retreat to the nearby hole-in-the-wall bar -- the kind decorated with bumper stickers that read, "If I'd have known then what I know now, I would have picked my own cotton," and "American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God" -- for some beers and chitchat.
They talk about their successes on the street corners. Smiley tells how he wooed some gals. Sean talks about his sympathizer. Mike, as usual, doesn't say much, and Doug tells how he scoffed at some black drivers.
"A couple of spades held their hands out for a leaflet, and I just looked down at them and was like, Yeah, right," he says.
At 11:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night at the Lakeshore Motel in Coconut Creek, five men line the upstairs banister and gaze down at me like turkey vultures contemplating fresh carrion.
Doug and Quinn (neither of whom is here at the moment), were as good as their word: After days of phone messages, e-mail correspondence, and two previous cancellations, I'm finally face to face with members of the South Florida Aryan Alliance, the racialist group that is the most physically visible and perhaps most baffling in all of South Florida.
A photographer and I ascend the staircase to meet them. Their names are Doug (not Werwulfe Doug), Dennis, Bobby, and Charlie; the fifth doesn't give his name or speak at all. They range in age from 19 to 32. All wear black T-shirts and most wear black cargo pants tucked into their black boots with white laces (which symbolize White Power).
I'm taken into a small, standard motel room with two twin beds and nondescript floral wallpaper. Some of the Aryans begin smoking immediately, casting an eerie fog over the room. Others are straightedge and don't even drink coffee.
The first to speak is Doug, a marked behemoth: Tattoos cover his entire body, including his neck, which sports a huge W.Ptattoo (White Power). Doug describes how he met Dennis, the founder of the Aryan Alliance, at a tattoo parlor two years ago. Doug is from a white, middle-class area of Cleveland; he moved here to fit pipe. "But all the fucking beaners work for half of what a union worker would make. In fact there aren't any unions for pipe fitters in South Florida." (He's misinformed. In fact, the United Association of Plumbers, Pipefitters and Sprinkler Fitters is a sponsor of the Florida Marlins radio broadcasts.)