Any Nazi worth his Iron Cross awarded for bravery in battle would understand.

Capt. Jones’ planned extermination of Big Bob had to explode with the fury of an Aryan Armageddon, a blaze of glory that marked the beginning of the ultimate final solution for weaklings deemed unfit for the new master race.

Gassing and burning Big Bob would take planning, building on the most elementary cornerstones of a new Reich, an American Reich that rivaled Nazi Germany for power and community control. But Big Bob wasn’t Jewish, so the execution would be anti-climactic, not half as much fun as eliminating those whom awakened white society scorned.

The good Germans got it right. Complicit in mass murder or not, these disciplined Krauts held up their part of the bargain, drinking foamy, overflowing steins of beer, shoving grilled sausages into their mouths at open-air picnics, wearing Lederhosen and doing Schuhplattler slap dances to oompa music as a joyous celebration of Teutonic legacy. No Jews need apply. The Third Reich wasn’t about murder but about survival of the fittest, thinning the herd and purifying the race. Evolution is about superiority.

That’s the way Capt. Jones saw existence, never imagining himself as a proponent of mass murder. Nor did he see himself as a cold-blooded serial killer, although a death list might be nice if he knew who to include in the future. He didn’t know any Jews and didn’t want to make their acquaintance. A Chinaman and a Puerto Rican already made up his death cont. If anything, Capt. Jones saw himself as an equal opportunity exterminator.

Hatred felt good.

Mocking, scorning, shaming and taunting provided power. Who wanted to be around the disabled, even amputee military combat vets who outlived their usefulness? Who needed race-baiting Black Lives Matter loudmouths? Pro-murder abortion rights protestors? Anti-poverty advocates? Gay rights lawyers? Feminists? Trans whatever they are?

Not Capt. Jones.

But building a homemade furnace for humans was out of the question. Even if Big Bob was Jewish, Capt. Jones couldn’t just break into that pizzeria and stuff Big Bob into the coal-fired oven where Vic’s ex-wife, that uppity Gina, welcomes that alleged virgin every night like the ghost of conceptions past.

Think, Capt. Jones ordered himself, think.

Symbolism meant everything, especially to a neo-Nazi. Direct action had to be carried out with aplomb. Working at the prison was getting to Capt. Jones. He expected to tender his resignation shortly. With the money he saved over the years by living frugally and his small pension, he’d have more than he needed to finance a new lifestyle, one far from the inmate dirt inside, the coloreds and loser white trash he hated with all his heart.

Killing Big Bob remained a challenge until Capt., Jones heard the chant on television.

Build the wall! Build the Wall! Build the wall!

That’s it.

Capt. Jones would build a wall on private property, on Big Bob’s property, a token wall that would draw right-wing tourists from all over the world, a big, beautiful wall that stood for white America’s defense against a dark-complexioned tomorrow.

Then he’d hijack the highly successful Big Bob’s Booze and Burgers with a notarized letter of sale he’d make Big Bob sign. So where did Big Bob go, people would ask? Retired to Hawaii, Capt. Jones would say. Here’s the video to prove it. Big Bob would smile for the camera to keep the gun in Capt. Jones’ hand from going off. I’m headed to Wahoo, he’d say, to learn to play the ukulele and spend the rest of my life on the beach.

All by himself in his mobile home, Capt. Jones got so excited he picked up the chant.

Build the wall! Build the wall! Build the wall!

How exactly would a wall solve his Big Bob problem?

Easy.

Build a big, beautiful wall, cement Big Bob inside and seal off all the airways.

Auf Wiedersehen, amigo.