“Well, brother, my mother was insane. That’s how I got to where I am. The courts never award custody to a father. So my old man, a sergeant in the Marine Corp, smuggles me into South Korea. He could not keep me in military housing—the crazy woman is looking for me—so I lived in a taekwondo school, which was my school, and where I learned how to fight.

“Us military brats had our gang, we ran the streets—and fought the Korean gangs. We even used the same whorehouse during the day that our old men used at night—probably had relations with the mothers and sisters of the Korean foe. That’s where I lost my virginity, my innocence, and my interest in sex all at the same time. All in Krishna, baby.

“Eventually, I’m back home, In Baltimore—old man has his new thing, woman, more female complications. So I’m out on my own. Nineteen-eighties, white boy, Baltimore, good luck.”

[I intentionally did not pursue details about Baltimore Area Skin Heads due to my antagonistic relationship with one of their members. He also seemed reluctant to discuss specific aspects of his association, other than to confirm that a platform member of the group was a black dude named Thad, and that he was a key member of the organization, respected.]

“Basically, my skinhead brothers were all idiots, jealous of blacks for getting all of the good jobs at McDonalds and doing janitorial work, which they aspired to. We stuck by each other though—I thought. That was the allure, brotherhood in adversity. We supported our fraternity through manufacturing PCP, Angel Dust, you might have heard it referred to. One night we’re cooking up a batch and my hands dip into it all the way up to the elbows. I get soaked and the shit is in my system. I was in a bad way, dying, having the trip of the ages.

“Do my brothers call an ambulance?

“Hardly.

“Do my brothers dump my ass off in front of an emergency room?

“Why bother.

“They wrapped me up in a sheet and stuffed me in the closet. They think I’m dead—a body, and go about their business. I can hear them as I trip. They don’t care about me at all. The only thing that matters is the product. At some point, after Krishna only knows how long—I’m having dreams of God and Jesus—seeing the light—this man, a preacher, who had been witnessing to me, because, you know, I had to have someone to talk to with two thoughts to rub together, comes to the door. He had a vision that I was in need and came, would not leave until they gave him my body—out of the closet I come without a lot of brotherhood.

“Of Course, I am now a born again Christian, a real holly roller!” [He smiles reluctantly, his eyes brightening up but distant.]

[Randy declines to discuss the nature of his relationship to the church, its denomination, the identity of the preacher, and the name of the congregation.]

“Let’s just say that I soon found that Christians had one crucial thing in common with skinheads—two, let’s say: they are stupid—at least mine were—and easily led, which is a passive activity I have some problems with. Being led around by anther fallible human, seems to me to be counter to God’s purpose. I want a direct relationship with My God.”

[We discussed Genesis, the psalms, Judges and Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. Then went through a McDonalds drive through where he was very charming to the black female clerks, who seemed immediately to fall in love with him. He ignored this, and when I brought it up, evoked his celibate status. He became tight-lipped as we approached the temple.]

“I am a devotee of Lord Krishna, and his shrine is contained in this temple. The floor is filthy, but we must take off our shoes, just like on the mat at the school. You don’t have to make any offerings—better if you did not. Try not to let the suspicious looks get to you.”

[Out of respect I put the pad and paper away and followed Randy through the devotions at various shrines as he said prayers in silence. The many Indian people there, mostly far wealthier than us, did not seem happy with this scary, bald, tattooed white guy venerating the various shrines. I was fascinated, viewing the place as a museum of sorts, and we spent about an hour. He made offerings of fruit and vegetable sticks, and seemed content.]

[Upon leaving I asked Randy about his choice of Hinduism.]

“The Hindus are Arуans—albeit mixed. However, they have Arуan roots like I do, have a place for the warrior in their faith. Although there are elements of the slave philosophy in Hinduism, it is not a religion of slaves.”

[I smelled Nietzsche somewhere in the background and did not bring him up.]

The last time I spoke to Randy was in 2005 when he invited me to camp with him at some commune with a bunch of hippie chicks that he thought I might like. Work began demanding too much of my time to keep in touch with anyone I was training with, and Randy, who was out of my immediate training circle, fell through the cracks in my life along with the rest of my friends.