National Socialism isn’t one clear thing. Germany’s National Socialist Workers’ Party used the word socialist to bait the working class. Hitler borrowed Mussolini’s take on Gentile’s “Perfect Democracy” and added two things: a racial mythology of Aryan purity and centralized authority under himself. Our vanguards behaved in ways that felt socialist to get around the awkward fascist cosplay. Because it’s the correct vibe and that makes it true.
Nazism, despite its name—National Socialism—was not socialist in any meaningful economic or ideological sense. It was a fascist, ultranationalist movement that weaponized state power to enforce racial hierarchy, suppress dissent, and engineer annihilation. The term “socialism” in its branding was a strategic lure, designed to attract working-class Germans disillusioned with liberal democracy and wary of Marxism. The Nazi regime rejected class solidarity, abolished independent labor unions, and subordinated workers to the goals of the state and its industrial allies. It did not advocate for worker ownership, wealth redistribution, or international cooperation. Instead, it fused mythic nationalism with racial purity doctrines, elevating the Aryan “Volk” and criminalizing entire categories of human life.
Nazism was totalitarian. It centralized control and used bureaucracy to erase memory and dissent. Its economic system was corporatist—technocratic, hierarchical, and deeply entwined with private industry. It tolerated capitalism as long as it served the regime’s goals, and it crushed any movement that threatened its racial or ideological purity.
YOUR A NAZI!
Why? What makes this old boomer a Nazi? My ancestry? My father’s success? What? We defeated Nazi Germany eighty years ago. Kids these days hold up their phones and stream video of anything they believe will get them clicks. So instead of bricks and sticks it is a sea of arms extended with streaming phones. Because if it’s streamed everyone will behave. And fascist cosplay needs clicks.
Sure. Publicity assures desired behavior, am I right? Facts! Not. When everything is something then nothing is something. When leaves begin to turn and fall so that’s Nazi violence against trees and so all trees are oppressed the shout, “Nazi” becomes a farce.
It would be funny if it weren’t justification for crime. “Trump is a Nazi!” Ok. Then some use that as a reason to riot. Here is the thing. If you accuse someone else of being a Nazi and then behave in a nationalist and authoritarian manner the accused is innocent. That accusation is yours. It isn’t an accusation. Instead, it is a confession that you are the Nazi.
Meanwhile . . .
Let me show you what fascist cosplay looks like in fiction—where the stakes are real and the escape costs everything. Scene change. To my fictional, post-USA fiefdom, the Citadel. Vexton, the Citadel’s authoritarian war lord, is upset. Not news. His baseline is to be upset at something. This time the reason for the tantrum was existential. His wife, Queen of the Fiefdom, left him. She walked out with her purse and nothing else.
Marisol Quyen died a digital death in seventy feet—the width of Ashby Avenue. The north side of Ashby Avenue belonged to Vexton’s fiefdom. Across the street at the old Ashby BART station the land belonged to what remained of Oakland and Alameda County. Walking seventy feet to the southside of Ashby Avenue was defection. In that distance the Citadel promised to erase the life of anyone simply crossing the street.
Becoming a hated ghost of her husband and his fiefdom took 15 seconds. The Citadel’s broadcast pages (pagers. Remember those?) accused her of consorting with underage boys. She was a whore with a taste for pubescent children, an insult to mothers, and a desecration to the holy sacrament of marriage. Her aura poisoned the spirits of everyone she came into contact with. Quyen stunk up the air with her defilement of the sacred order.
Inflection Point
A digital death in fifteen seconds. The parking lot in front of her was overgrown with horseweed and fast-food wrappers. A few used needles shared potholes with Mallow (Malva neglecta). In Marisa’s purse were the necessary things for a woman of status inside the Citadel. She had a little cash but was unsure if her money was good outside the fiefdom.
It wasn’t far to the bodega at MLKJr. Way and Ashby. She needed something to trade. And a coffee. The apples in the bodega were kind of sad. But something to trade was progress. She paid for the apples and the coffee and walked to the old BART station.
Someone before her left a few milk crates and some plywood in the parking lot. With a little work she had a table and a seat. She left with the usual tech stack: phone, laptop, and smart watch, all satellite connected. All her stuff was charged when she left. She set herself up in the parking lot and waited.
God’s Grace
After an hour or so and near the bottom of her coffee a woman approached her. The weight of what she’d done landed hard in the last hour. Marisol was good when she started across Ashby Avenue. Now? Not so much.
The woman was dressed for work at Berkeley Bowl, “You ok?”
“No. Not ok.”
“I recognize you. What are you doing in the parking lot of the old BART station?”
“I defected. Vexton was too much. And his rules meant we were living on Ramen noodles. I got tired of fascist cosplay. So I left.”
“I heard your man was an asshole. Sorry you couldn’t make it work.”
“I didn’t try to make it work. I tried to survive it. But his toxicity was killing my soul.”
The woman looked at the purse, then the cracked pavement, searching for words, “You got somewhere to go?”
“Not yet.”
“You can crash on my couch. I don’t live far. I’m Janelle.”
“Nice to meet you, Janelle. You’ll give me a ride?”
“No need. We can walk.”
Marisol smiled, “I didn’t get my steps in today.”
“Then let’s make it so!”
Marisol walked with the woman to her apartment at Parker & Ellsworth. She was right. It was only a fifteen -minute walk.
Home Cooking
The dining table is small—four seats, two used. The wall behind it is painted a muted sage, a soft contrast to the kitchen’s off-white. No art, just a calendar with handwritten notes: union meeting, Orbit’s vet check, “Marisol?”Janelle sets two plates. One fork is slightly bent. One napkin has a plum stain she didn’t notice. She walks to the microwave, retrieves her meal—Trader Joe’s chicken tikka masala, steam rising. She places it on her plate, then pauses, “Are you eating?”
Marisol stands near the bookshelf, arms folded. “I’m not hungry,” she says. Her nose replies: “Like hell you’re not.” Her stomach growls like a kitten who smells the treat pouch, “don’t lie.”
Janelle opens her bottle of Culture Pop. Marisol’s eyes go wide, “You have Culture Pop?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“That’s banned! You get lashes if you get caught drinking that!”
“Ok, well, you defected. Want one?”
The war in Marisol’s heart raged, “I guess.” Her heart leaped like a starving kitten. This side of Ashby Avenue was incredible. Culture Pop just a soft drink? Janelle opens a second Culture Pop and gives it to Marisol. Marisol’s face flushes as she tries to contain the rush of emotion flowing through her. The microwave beeps that the Shawarma-Spiced Chicken is done, “You better eat before your dinner gets cold.” Marisol’s Mom used to say that. A tear leaked down her cheek because this day, this normal hospitality, had been stolen from her in the name of obligation.
The Turn
Morisol picked up the fork and took a bite. The last time she ate like this was before she was betrothed to Vexton. It was just boxed MacNCheese made by her Mom. Still . . . since becoming Queen every meal basline nourished. But it didn’t feed her. She ate slowly, tears seasoning her meal.
“How long has it been since you had a good meal?”
“Since I married him.”
“You are the queen. Why can’t you get what you want to eat?”
“Exactly. I’m the Queen. Everything I consume is tracked, measured, reported to ensure it complies with policy. It’s all optimized for my health. And heartless as fuck.”
Janelle drank a bit more of her Culture Pop, “That sounds harsh. You survived it, though.”
Morisol giggled a mixed cry/laugh, “I did. Holy shit. I did.” The new friends finished their meal in silence. Now Marisol started to come off the intensity she’d been feeling. Janelle cleared the table, washed their dishes and finished cleaning the kitchen. Morisol watched this with interest. At home she had servants bring her food. She never saw the prep or the cleanup.
Fitful Sleep
Janelle helped Marisol make the futon into a bed. Marisol slept under the covers of a Rocket™ comforter and soft cotton sheets. It was weird not being woke every two hours to let the staff take vital signs or wear an automated blood pressure cuff.