It was fear, he supposed, that lay at the bottom of it. Fear of change. Fear of the unknown. Fear of loss of control and autonomy. Fear, as the eggheads would say, of the Other.
He could remember the photocopied newsletters they brought with them every time they came to visit, the murky photos supposedly depicting United Nations armored vehicles somewhere in Nebraska, proving that the New World Order was already at work, setting up concentration camps for any true Patriots who resisted the impending switch to the One World Government. Grandpa kept his old hunting rifle handy, ready to go down shooting when the ZOG storm troopers came for him and his hoarded gold.
After the totalitarian thuggery at Ruby Ridge and Waco, it was easy to believe that the clamor for gun control in Washington was identical to the gun control in Germany that Hitler had instituted early in his rise to power. It was easy to believe that the black helicopters could appear on the horizon at any moment, that black Suburbans could roll up to their door. But even at fifteen, he could make the leap past the easy fear. He could decide that this was no way to live.