With her non-villainous-sounding villain theme song blaring, it took everything in the opponent’s Horseshoe Theory to not drop her horseshoe boomerang and run. Not that there’d be a difference between remaining in her stance or fleeing, of course.
“It is I-” A booming, though high-pitched voice echoed.
“Nazbol.” H.S. finished for her with a sneer. “Extreme Fashie-Commie hybrid.”
Through the murky violet haze, a blinding sharp grin appeared. A loud yet graceful cackle escaped her. “What’s wrong, stupid centrist? You sound all-too ready to surrender.”
Tightening her grip on her weapon, H.S. Held her place, brushing away her brown strands that flapped in her view due to the wind. “The way I see it, there is literally no difference between surrendering and declaring victory… But I ought to teach your poor soul a lesson.”
From her smile, a face emerged. Pale as snow like her Nazi Mutti, facial outline structured, almost chiseled like her Commie Mama. Piercing heterochromia red-and-blue eyes peered down at the Centrist. Her light violet hair, matching scarf, and red and blue square pendants that slung in the mysterious wind was so mesmerizing, H.S. failed to notice the two bronze-colored hammer and sickle weapons that Nazbol had waved her hand into existence.
At once, H.S. whipped her horseshoe up and down to shove her to the side- to no avail. Another cackle belted out to H.S.’s terrified expression.
Nazbol had never been vaunted. From the first Centrist meeting, she had been rejected, ridiculed. She had been mocked by the Wackies for not wanting to join their club. Even her two moms seemed embarrassed to admit that she was a byproduct of them. Nazbol had been predisposed to failure, mockery… Yet, she was exuding a murderous aura that did not correspond with her known-loner reputation.
Fear quickly set into the centrist’s mind, voice thickening with her midwestern accent as she stumbled back to escape but tripped over her dark brown cowboy boots.
“There is no need to run-” Something soft clung onto H.S.’s wrist. “Because you won’t be able to soon!”
Another round of laughter echoed in the gray meeting room where the Centrists had been cornered, which seemed to shrink as H.S.’s fear increased. That was when H.S. realized- it felt suffocating as the scarf wrapped around her, immobilizing her.
Nazbol let out a satisfied chuckle, just as the mysterious wind in the room began to die down, violet hair ceasing to flap, and eyes returning to their non-glowing state. The two knew she had her cornered (ha) right where she wanted. Military boots clicking on the tiled floor, without bending a single knee, Nazbol leaned down to pluck the horseshoe out of the bound woman’s grasp with her sickle. She then hooked her weapons onto her military belt so she could free her hands and physically examine the brunette’s choice of destruction.
“A sour defeat, or a vicious victory?” Nazbol asked with no intention for H.S. to answer, as the scarf had stifled her mouth. “Oh, it does not matter. My, your toy looks old-”
An antique, from the previous Horseshoe Centrist reincarnate, H.S. would’ve said if she could.
Nazbol examined the horseshoe, turning it at every angle. Her face was tense with concentration, though she didn’t seem scornful of the ‘toy.’ “Huh. But there is no rust?”
H.S. tried to speak against the fabric.
“Mmmmm!” The Russo-Germanic woman mocked. “Don’t waste your words, Untermensch. After all, you won’t be an enemy much longer.”
With each step she took closer to the Centrist, she attempted to wriggle out of the scarf further. She could hear Nazbol try to call her, though she could only hear her erratic heartbeat. Even worse, Nazbol had begun to lift H.S. to dangle her from the air- like some cruel puppet master.
Each attempt only tightened the scarf’s grip- to the point H.S. gave up, for the fear it could crush her ribs. “Good girl.” Nazbol cooed. She reached a pale hand out, brushing her victim’s cheek with her long and delicate fingers. “You are not wrong. Nazi and Commie are quite the same- if only Nazi wasn’t a capitalist kulak, or if only Commie hadn’t passed down her inferior Russo-Mongoloid genetics to me.” The violet-haired girl gave an exaggerated frown.
“I have never seen two pretty gay moms. It’s always one of them always gotta be racially inferior. Alas. At least I get the best of both worlds. But nobody understands that…” Nazbol let out a dramatic sigh, which was when H.S. realized she was getting into her ‘theatrical mode,’ which she was infamously known for, hosting a series of dramatic movements when she spoke of something dear to her. At least the brunette would have some entertainment before she would pass out from how tight she was being suspended in the air.
“You see. I am a legitimate ideology- I am the result of the two strongest ideologies. I am authoritarian in both spheres, socially right because I believe in the eugenics that so clearly rule our world, and hold strong, leftist economic policies.” The woman began to pace around the room, voice increasing in volume and accent as she went on.
“I am the perfect combination! The Auth Center is who I am! National Bolshevism! My name ought to be praised in each worker’s breath, my people living in a robust and homogenous state!”
The binds on H.S. relaxed, perhaps due to Nazbol’s attention slipping away from her and to her little rant. “Well, I see literally no difference between your commie mom and nazi mom. If you have the best of both worlds, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be considered a ‘real ideology.’”
“Not quite, but… do you mean it?”
Seeing that the woman seemed to forget that H.S. had beaten up her maternal figures just moments prior to their meeting, H.S. nodded, almost frantically. “Yes ma’am.”
“You.” Nazbol leaned in, whisper low, eyes glimmering. “You get it. I am neither Wacky nor Centrist. Because I am the official blend of two legitimate ideologies. Therefore, I am one, too.”
Her heterochromatic eyes were now soft. “You are probably the only good centrist out here.”
“Well, the way I see it-”
“‘I see literally no difference-’ Shut up, I know your stupid line, you Centrist. What’s more important is that you agree with me, right?”
“Now why would I agree with one of you damn extremists? Bless your heart, but you’ve caused nothing but irreversible brain damage to the political sphere of ours.”
The violet-haired woman jerked the brunette forward by the collar, forcing her to squeak as the scarf nearly flipped her entire body over. Her pupils dilated, voice somehow echoing. “You agree with me because I am the balance of Communist and Fascist ideals. You Centrists are all about that center- well, look at me. My far-left and far-right values equalize me into the middle. Therefore, you must agree with me if you’re really Centrist. Da?”
She stared intently, grinning wider as she watched H.S.’s gears in her head turn as she absorbed her argument. “Come on,” Nazbol whispered. “You know you agree with me.”
“I… I guess so.”
“You’re the only one who understands. Don’t you realize what this means, mein Schnucki?”
“Did you just call me a slur?”
Nazbol didn’t respond, only loosening her scarf’s grip and lowering H.S. to the floor. H.S. looked up, standing up only when Nazbol nodded. Afraid to be bundled in the scarf again, she held still unless Nazbol asked her to move.
“The Quadrants, Centrists, or even Wackies won’t let me in their little club. But we do not need them. We can be our own league... Like... Like... Nazbol Gang.” Nazbol held a hand out. “What do you say, Horseshoe Centrist?”
H.S. took the outstretched hand, noticing how perfectly her slim, tanned hand fit into Nazbol’s larger, pale palm. “I don’t see why not. I see literally no difference in joining or not joining your Nazbol Gang.”
Grinning, the two women linked arms and raced out of the Centrist headquarters. The sapphic Nazbol Gang pioneers.