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Actually there's lots of great things to do here in KC. The downtown area has lots of high-class events that are attended largely by whites, such as the ballet, the Lyric Opera and the Quality Hill Playhouse. My favorite area is Westport, which is a largely Irish community and has lots of places to eat, drink and be merry. There may be heathen and aliens in some of the clubs, but on the whole they are well-kept by bouncers and the KCPD patrol the area well on weekends. Lee's Summit has less to offer but is also a predominantly white area. A word of caution: its lakes are becoming increasingly polluted by heathen and aliens, so travel at risk.
The Swope Park area (the Zoo, Starlight Theatre) is overrun by heathen and aliens, be careful there.
Outside of the area, Weston is a great white community with a wine garden and excellent Irish pub. Overland Park in Kansas is a nice area, only it was built by Jews, who welcome heathen and aliens, so again be cautious. Traveling down the I-70E, Columbia is a nice town but being infested by heathen and aliens. St. Louis is lots of fun but infested even worse than Columbia.
And, if you're overly allergic to heathen and aliens, avoid the casinos everywhere, they're breeding grounds.
So when he called me a month later to ask if I wanted to go grab a beer, it was no surprise that he asked to meet in Westport. Sunday was his free day, though he had to reschedule his Bible study group. We agreed to have lunch that afternoon at Chili's. Turk said he would wear a black hat and a black shirt with an iron cross. I arrived half an hour early for our 2 p.m. meeting.
The hostess took me to a booth behind two distinguished-looking black women. I asked if she could move me. She tried a booth next to a Hispanic family.
"If it's possible, could I get that seat in the back?" I asked. It seemed better to avoid anyone overhearing us, and I wanted a spot where I could watch the door.
Forty minutes, one nacho platter and four Cokes later, Turk called my name from over my left shoulder. He must've come in from a side entrance I didn't know about. It wasn't until then that I realized how wired I was; I had to suppress the urge to throw my drink in the direction of the voice.
The oddness of the situation was compounded by having to answer to a name that wasn't mine. He thought I was serious about fighting for white supremacy. He'd even suggested that the two of us should found a Klavern — essentially a local gang with Robb's blessing. I immediately regretted ordering the nacho platter.
Turk was short and fat, and the black hat he wore was stitched with a skull and bones. The visible sides of his head had been shaved, but when he turned, I could see the end of a limp mohawk. He giggled when he said "nigger" or "Jew," like a little kid with a pornographic picture, not quite understanding what he sees but sure it's something naughty. His face swelled up like a bullfrog whenever this happened. He ordered a glass of beer.
"Independence used to be real Klan-friendly," he told me. "People would just pick up the phone book and randomly call people, asking them about joining the Klan or telling them about us. And they wouldn't hang up. I go down to the Apple Market there once a month or so and put up some literature on the community bulletin board. Most times when I go back, it's still there. Maybe people don't notice it."
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