Prison guard and white militiaman commander Capt. Jones crossed off the date on the busty centerfold calendar hanging on his double-wide trailer’s kitchen wall, counting off the days until he kicked off the local race war.

Capt. Jones’ mind crackled with anger.

White vs. Black.

White vs. Brown.

White vs. Red,

White vs. Yellow.

White vs. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Pluto and Uranus.

That’s right, illegal aliens and everybody else with a shaded complexion can shove it right up their anus.

Deep in paranoid thought, Capt. Jones contemplated ideas from the lengthy manifesto he had begun writing but had not yet completed to share with those who believed as he did, including skinheads, neo-Nazis, outlaw bikers, Klansmen and their women.

White is bright.

White is right.

White is might.

Caucasian children particularly needed to embrace their master race roots so they grew up confident, supreme and superior. White senior citizens needed to know their lives mattered most, that sacrifices of low wages with no benefits, poverty, unemployment or a lack of education in a rigged government system still entitled them to an afterlife of transformation into valiant white gods who lived youthful lives of cosmic resilience.

Hatred made sense. Tyranny made sense as long as you’re on the side of the tyrannical. Dogma made senses as long as you believed in pit bull persuasion. Harsh consequences hurt only those who strayed. Survival of the fittest, even though Capt. Jones was far from fit, made perfect sense.

Fast research taught online scholars and authoritarian wannabes like Capt. Jones that KSK is the elite military unit trained to fight terrorism in Germany. Highly skilled, the men in this Special Forces group also comprise a core group of right-wing uber-patriots who support their holy nation. True Knights Templar in a new crusade, these warriors advanced their mission to the extreme, plotting and planning a new Reich to reclaim their tribal heritage of yesteryear.

Women staff only auxiliary positions in this exclusive unit. Women are subordinate. Civilian females who support the mission are allowed to serve beer, grill sausages and get pregnant when their warriors come home and need refreshment. A women’s place is traditional, like rolling  Apfelstrudel pastry dough.

Thinking about beer hall rituals made Capt. Jones hungry for hot baked pretzels with spicy mustard, sauerkraut slathered over fat knockwurst and biersuppe, a beer soup made with fresh cream, egg yolks and thick creamery butter.

What is the enemy eating? Fried chicken, rice and beans for weaklings.

Because KSK calls the moment they expect the German system to collapses Day X, Capt. Jones borrowed the title to christen the start date of his coming war.

Rising abruptly from the small kitchen table, he threw a straight-armed salute. All hail Day X from sea to shining sea, he said out loud in a booming voice, imagining a tightly wound squadron assembled before him. All hail Capt. Jones, he imagined his men responding. Posterity will judge us by our whiteness, Capt. Jones said to the centerfold tacked to the wall. Apfelstrudel maidens for everybody.

As a major in the state National Guard, Capt. Jones did all he could to emulate his brothers in the KSK. Mimicking these super Germans included drinking beer, of course, but also stealing PETN plastic explosives, detonators, fuses, knives, live ammunition and guns. Nobody noticed the equipment disappearances since he was a high-ranking officer and soldiers obeyed high-ranking officers, especially if the high-ranking officer’s political philosophy appealed to your most base instincts. Many young soldiers agreed with Capt. Jones. Yet he played safe, not yet trusting his underlings with the tricks of his corrupt and murderous trade.

So far, just for practice, he only killed one Black soldier in his command during a training weekend. Like the gas masks Capt. Jones commandeered, nobody missed him. Drug overdose, said the report Capt. Jones wrote, failing to mention the sleeping pills he slipped into the private’s beer before injecting him with a needle full of overprescribed opioids he kept from wisdom tooth surgery and stored in his own medicine cabinet.

When the commanding officer asked how such a terrible event could happen, Capt. Jones responded with contempt. What did you expect from his kind, he asked?

Mass recruiting of Day X troops would begin soon. Capt. Jones needed several non-thinkers to open fire on people of color in the early hours of the uprising. Local dullards in the Big Boob Brigade simply didn’t rise to the tumultuous occasion.

For whatever the reason, Capt. Jones never shipped out to Iraq or Afghanistan and never asked to go. But, to listen to him drinking off base, he understood every nuance of battle as well as anybody and knew exactly how to survive the worst combat hell. Capt. Jones knew the absolutely best way to come home from war in one piece was to never go to war in the first place.

Day X would note his baptism by fire.

Capt. Jones marched in all the parades, rode in all the veterans’ motorcycle runs and appeared at a variety of holiday military gatherings. He visited demented patients at the VA hospital and spoke regularly at graveside services.

Speaking of cemetery plots, Big Bob had to go as soon as possible and become a great addition to the local symbolic version of that great big, beautiful wall of Trump. Big Bob’s flea-bitten hound, Clancy, needed to go, too. If the mutt gave Capt. Jones even the slightest hint of a problem during the execution, he’d brick him up in the wall as well.

That setter didn’t even look Irish.

Way back in the mutt’s Celtic bloodline some Chihuahua must have jumped into the mix and forced himself on one of Clancy’s potato-sucking ancestors. Like Trump said, Mexico’s definitely not sending their best people.

Or dogs.

Either way, as bad as the Irish are, the Mexicans are worse, Capt. Jones concluded.

If Dos Equis beer, Two X’s, is a good way to start a Mexican fiesta, Day X is a better way to end the party once and for all.