He stared at Uri in awe for he saw another just like him. Another who must have hated as he hated. Someone else devoted to the destruction of the white race. He stroked the pale, scruffy skin atop his head and looked at his reflection in the glass of a framed picture of his fifth-grade class. There were exactly 100 students. Statistically, some of them should be dead or have dropped out of school, or committed r***s, or been r***d. Maybe 3 or 4 out of 10. He ran his finger along every white face and counted, hoped, and prayed for the sake of the few and the destruction of all.
Somewhere else, someone else was running his finger over the same picture.
Now in his twenty-second year, Clive McDermott lifted his finger from the photo and looked at his shone head that would never shine and won
