Seth Fischer in The Rumpus:
When my family and I pulled up to my cousin’s new house in Redlands, California, he was waiting to greet us, leaning against a pickup with wheels the size of our rental car. He smiled that smile that had led him into the beds of countless women and got him out of trouble with as many cops. He looked happy to see us. He wore a tank top that put his tattoos in full show. Across his arms was a parade of swastikas, iron crosses, and skulls.
His tattoos weren’t a total surprise. He had a reputation, had been flirting with Nazi ideas his whole life. We’d heard from other family members that lately the flirting had moved more toward heavy petting. But no one thought he was serious, and anyway, in my family, blood trumped everything, we always said. So there we were, in his driveway, smiling right back at him.