New Dark Ages: The X Gang by Warren KinsellaNew Dark Ages: The X Gang by Warren Kinsella

New Dark Ages: The X Gang

byWarren Kinsella

Paperback | November 10, 2018

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The X Gang face off with Earl Turner, a presidential candidate straight out of their nightmares.

It is a dangerous, divisive time in America. A far-right political candidate is seeking the presidency and stirring up hatred against minorities. The X Gang, meanwhile, have lost one of their friends to that presidential candidate - and are encountering manifestations of hate practically everywhere they go.

With his band, the Hot Nasties, about to embark on its first North American tour, and several recent murders in the punkscene linked to its gigs, Kurt Blank and the rest of the X Gang have some difficult decisions to make.

New Dark Ages is about surviving in a nasty, brutish, and short-sighted time - and whether one should just go along or fight back.
Warren Kinsella is an author, musician, lawyer, and political consultant. Recipe for Hate, is book one in the X Gang series. Warren plays bass in a punk rock group called SFH and runs the popular blog The War Room. He lives in Toronto.
Title:New Dark Ages: The X GangFormat:PaperbackDimensions:320 pages, 8 × 5 × 1 inPublished:November 10, 2018Publisher:DundurnLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:145974215X

ISBN - 13:9781459742154


Read from the Book

Hello, you bastard.It was hard to believe. Like a bad fucking movie. Butit was happening, right there, right then, right in frontof our eyes. It was that night. The night before the last day. I looked over at X, and his eyes - one pupil dilated,one not, as always - were squinting at the TV. His fistswere clenched. He looked pissed, as if he was going topunch the screen or something. The TV cast a bluish glow over my non-family's familyroom. My mother was standing in the doorway to thekitchen, and she was watching, too. She had her armscrossed, but she seemed to be nodding about some ofthe things being said. By him. I looked back at the TV, and at Earl Turner, whowas still standing behind the podium in downtownPortland. There was an American flag on the front ofthe podium, and below that, in big block letters, was theword RIGHT. His slogan. His word. As usual, Turner was wearing a white button-downshirt with the sleeves rolled up. As usual, his regimentaltie was loose at the neck. You could tell he workedout. Behind him, an enthusiastic crowd of supporterswere assembled. They were clapping and noddingtheir heads. X and I weren't really watching Turner. We werewatching one of the people just behind him who wasclapping and nodding his head, just like the rest of theassembled crowd. I could not fucking believe this shit. I hated it.And hate was what Earl Turner's speech was allabout, pretty much. It usually was. Hate for refugeesand immigrants and welfare moms and anyone, basically,who didn't look like Earl Turner and his friends. Hatedressed up in fine-sounding words about patriotism andfamily and country and all that horseshit. Hate was EarlTurner's thing, and it had brought him to this, his bigmoment. The confetti and the balloons - red, white,and blue - were ready to be dropped from above. Turner was coming to the big wind-up in his speech.He always ended it the same way. "America," he said,his booming voice sounding tinny on my mother's oldRCA. "America is for Americans. America is for therighteous. America is for the bold. America is for thosewho believe in God, those who love God, those who fearGod. America isn't for everyone. America is for normalpeople like us!" He paused, a big fist hovering abovethe podium. We couldn't see them, but the crowd at thehotel had started to chant: "RIGHT RIGHT! RIGHT!RIGHT! RIGHT!" Midway through - and this had happened before- "RIGHT!" changed, and the crowd started to chanta different word: "WHITE! WHITE! WHITE! WHITE!WHITE!" Earl Turner smiled, that big square-jawed quarterbackall-American douchebag smile of his, and wavedfor the crowd to settle down. "Right," he said. "Rightis ."The crowd screamed as one, like a beast. "WHITE!" Earl Turner leaned into the gaggle of network microphones.He smiled. This was his moment. This was it.He had won. He knew it. Everyone knew it. He started to speak. It was the part of the speechabout how God "created" America. At that point, theyoung guy behind him - the one we'd been watching- stepped forward. He was wearing a white shirt andtie, just like his hero. We could see his broad, freckledface clearly. At that moment, Turner saw him, too, andclapped a big hand on the young man's shoulder. It was our friend, Danny. When he was drummingin my band, his stage name had been Danny Hate.He looked different now. He was different. He andTurner looked at each other and smiled, like fatherand son, like some fucking Norman Rockwell painting.Behind me and X, my mother whispered just oneword: "Danny."The crowd kept on cheering, calling out RIGHT andWHITE. They were screaming it. "Enough," said X, and that was all he said.

Editorial Reviews

This book will hit home for older, politically aware teens looking for a story of unconventional heroes rising up against reckless hate. - Booklist