The Orange Man

William van der Boer, known to his friends as Bill, was a proud man. He was proud of his heritage and religion. His father was John van der Boer, a New Yorker who was the descendant of a prominent Dutch family in the days of New Amsterdam. His mother was Anne Musgrave, an Ulster-Scot immigrant from Northern Ireland. Because of this, Bill was extremely proud of his Protestant heritage. He spent the summers of his youth during the 1980s in the wilds of South Africa, staying with an Afrikaner family who were his distant relatives. According to him, he was so Protestant that his blood ran orange. Along with his fiery red hair, and his propensity to wear clothes of a citrus color, he was known by many as the Orange Man.

For his summer vacation, Bill was staying in Belfast with his cousin, Donald Musgrave. The two were taking a stroll through town. After taking in the unionist side of town, with its Presbyterian and Anglican churches, beautiful murals dedicated to fallen British soldiers and UVF fighters, and DUP campaign posters, Bill and Donald decided they would have a bit of fun and head over to the republican side of town.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Bill began, as the two crossed the street. “I love coming to Belfast and visiting family. But damn, I do miss South Africa.”

“I can imagine,” Donald replied. “Those savannas sure look beautiful in pictures.”

“They are so amazing in person. My relatives lived in a farm town right by the Highveld, and I saw all the wild animals. We nearly got eaten by a lion once. Definitely gonna remember that one. But now, I can’t go back. Last time was the World Cup, back in 2010. I had so much fun rooting for the Netherlands. Fucking Spain beat them, but what are you gonna do? Anyways, I was doing usual football hooligan shit, and some fucking kaffir cops arrested me. I reckon those ANC terrorists put me in the same cell as Mandela.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard about the white genocide they’re doing down there. Shameful is what it is.”

“Damn right. My relatives are lucky they haven’t been raped and killed by kaffirs yet.”

As Bill and Donald continued to discuss how backwards and uncivilized the Bantu peoples were, they came across some republican campaigners. Two men were campaigning for Sinn Fein. They were tall and athletic; one wore an Antrim GAA tracksuit and the other wore a Celtic FC tracksuit. They were shouting republican slogans in Gaelic and pumped their fists into the air. Looking to be too intimidating, Bill and Donald left them alone. They instead found a campaigner for the Social Democratic and Labour Party, a scrawny little socialist git. He was sitting at a booth that had the Irish flag and the European Union flag, and was handing out SDLP flyers.

“Top of the morning to ya,” the campaigner greeted. “Would you be interested in supporting the SDLP?”

“Tell me, son,” Bill asked. “You really think Ireland should be unified?”

“Well yeah,” the campaigner said. “I support Irish reunification. It’s only right that Britain give up the last remains of colonialism here.”

“What’s your name, lad?” Donald asked.

“Oh, I’m Tommy Murphy. Former Chair of SDLP Youth.”

“So, Tommy. You seem like a loony left progressive, so you ought to hate the Catholic Church, right?”

“Well, I’m an atheist myself, but I value cultural Catholicism.”

“What’s with the EU flag?” Bill scoffed. “Didn’t this country get rid of those globalist freaks?”

“Well, we do support the EU. Personally, I’d argue reversing Brexit is a more pressing issue right now than reunifying Ireland.”

“I’m a unionist, but that’s just sad,” Donald laughed. The two cousins chuckled and grabbed Tommy. Donald pulled down Tommy’s trousers and grasped his underpants, giving him a tight wedgie. Bill grabbed a cosh from a random person’s front yard and began beating it against Tommy’s buttocks. Then Bill ran to a local restaurant and ordered a side of mashed potatoes to go. He ran back and dumped the mash all over Tommy’s face, and the two cousins lifted the socialist git up and hoisted him from a street sign by his underpants, exposing his reddened arse for all of Belfast to see. Bill and Donald then scattered the SDLP flyers into the wind, tore the flags to the ground and spat on them, and then ran off, giggling like schoolboys.

As they continued along the papist side of town, they passed St. Brigid’s Academy, an all-girls Catholic school. Donald chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

“Being here reminds me,” Donald began. “I used to be a race mixer in my youth.”

“What do you mean?” Bill asked.

“Back in the day, I would sneak to this part of town and sleep with girls from this school. You know what they say about Catholic schoolgirls. So sexually repressed they’ll fuck the first erect nob that pokes itself at her. And Belfast was a fucking war zone around this time, so I nearly died at times to get some pussy.”

“That is insane,” Bill gasped. “That pussy must’ve been too good to risk your life for.”

“Oh, it was spectacular, but it felt like sleeping with the devil. Now there’s probably papist gits running around with Musgrave blood in em, cause Catholics don’t wear condoms…or get abortions.”

“Guess I missed my chance, New York was filled with them when I was a teen. Well, I’m ashamed to admit, but I did fuck a few kaffir girls in South Africa. Gross, I know, but sometimes the ass is too thick to care about racial purity.”

“I get you, mate. I used to wank a lot to pictures of Scary Spice. Real fit woman, that one. But let me tell you, papist girls are a whole other level of freaky. They’ll let you do anything to em. They’ll beg you to bash their tits with a cosh, or pour a bottle of beer into their arsehole and drink it all out.”

In what was very inappropriate timing, three teenage schoolgirls exited the academy’s main doors. Bill took notice of them. They wore
tacky emerald blazers, stockings that hugged their legs, and plaid skirts that nearly showed their fanny like the degenerate papist whores they were.

“Why are you out of school so late?” Bill called out, much to Donald’s surprise. “They keep you in there to make you pray to every saint in the book?”

“Not at all,” one girl replied. “In fact, we were just running our literature club. We discussed great Irish writers like James Joyce and Oscar Wilde.”

“Who cares about that nerd shit?” Donald scoffed. “Oscar Wilde was a queer anyways. This whole school, all the papist traditions, it’s paganism is what it is. You might as well be praying to Lugh and the Dagda.”

“It is not!” a second girl chimed in. “Anyhow, the United Kingdom has freedom of religion, so you shouldn’t call us pagans, much like we shouldn’t call you orange fellows fascists.”

“You Catholics are the real fascists,” Bill sneered. “Mussolini, Franco, Salazar, even the German Hitler was a Catholic!”

“Leave us alone!” the third girl cried out, in what was a thick Polish accent.

“Oh, a polack?” Donald laughed. “Are you two girls taking her home to clean your loos?”

“We won’t be bothered by these creeps,” the first girl announced. “Kate, Hanna, let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, yeah, run along,” Donald said. “You fucking taig lassies.”

“Run along like the little Catholic whores you are,” Bill cackled. “Why don’t you lift up your skirts and show us where Father O’Malley touched you?”

“Jesus, Bill,” Donald cried. “I know they’re papists, but they’re kids.”

“Fuck off, you paedophile cunt!” one of the Irish girls yelled. “My father was a Provo and he’ll have your head if you keep bothering us!”

Bill got extremely angry and charged at the girls. They screamed and fled like birds. In an adrenaline-fueled frenzy, Bill and Donald ended up getting arrested. The arrest report charged William Martin van der Boer, 47, and Donald Ian Musgrave, 48, with harassing Mary Kennedy, 16, Kate Finnegan, 15, and Hanna Wojciechowska, 16. However, Donald’s father who was an influential official in the PSNI had the charges removed and paid for their release. Now returned to the unionist side of Belfast, the two cousins went to a pub for a drink, and treated it as if everything was normal.