Blackhumouristpress's Blog

May 30, 2011

Money from Nigeria

Filed under: Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:09 am
Tags: , , , , , 
Dear Friend,
 
Please accept my apology for not contacting you earlier before now due to
my tight schedules. I am very happy to inform you about my success in
getting that money under the cooperation of a new partner from Paraguay;
Presently I'm in London with the partners for some new projects with the
money.
 
Contact my Priest in Lagos state, federal Republic of Nigeria, because I
have left the instruction with him on your behalf and instructed him where
to send the $5,000,000.00. without any further delay for your
compensation.
 
Remember that the $5,000,000.00. Is in draft, not cash, so you need to
send to him you’re full Information where the draft/check will be
posted/delivered. I appreciated your efforts at that time very much so
feel free to get in touched with him.
 
As at the time I was leaving Nigeria he was the only one I could trust
with that kind of money, he is a very simple and understanding person. His
name is Rev. Father. Tom Chukwu of ,Email( revfathertom@rocketmail.com )
NOTE: BELLOW IS THE REQUIRED INFORMATIONS YOU WILL SEND TO MY PRIEST:-
 
(1) YOUR FULL NAMES:
(2) YOUR HOUSE ADDRESS:
(3) YOUR DIRECT CELL PHONE NUMBER AND HOUSE PHONE WITH FAX IF ANY.
 
So feel free to get in touch with him and discuss with him how the amount
will reach you. Please do let me know immediately you contact him to
receive it, so that we can share the joy after all the suffering at that
time.
 
As at the moment, I am very busy here because of the projects which I and
the new partner have at hand. Finally, remember that I had forwarded
instruction to the priest on your behalf to receive that money, so you get
in touch with him and he will send the amount to you without any delay.
 
Here is his email address again ( revfathertom@rocketmail.com )
 
Regards
 
MR.KENNETH HOWARD
 

Dear Kenneth,

                         I’m not sure how you found me other than I had given money to the Slayten boy who had gone to Africa to be a missionary.  From what I understand, he is working with Africans who only speak Portuguese.  The country escapes me at this point and since my wife has passed, I don’t save Christmas cards like she did.  I gave the Slayten boy a few hundred a year for years and that helps to keep Uncle Sam off my back if you know what I mean.

I had a chance to actually speak with Father Tom and I told him it was against my nature to get involved with Catholic Charities since I am a Baptist.  When I found out that he is Anglican, I Googled that and found that you’re all basically Episcopal and that isn’t so bad.  Many of our presidents until this current Muslim one, have mostly been Episcopal.  Nixon was a Quaker gone wrong.  It is hard to say what happened to the man but he did seem to have fallen from the grace of god.

Well without rambling too much, I discussed giving a fair chunk to Father Tom to help start a library right there in Nigeria for some lads he’s looking after in Lagos.  I agreed to skim $10,000.00 off the top and although I will get no credit for this from the American government, I think it’s a worthy cause.  I am getting my passport in order to actually collect the check in person from father Tom.  He has promised to show me around while I’m there.  I jokingly said that I didn’t want to end up in a hot pot and have to scream for help from Tarzan.  He assured me that I would not leave disappointed.  I was quite impressed with his command of the English language and then came to find out that that you were all once colonized by the British.  The British certainly did a good job taking your people from the bush and educating them.  Father Tom sounded just like a Brit. I told him not to feel badly since America was once colonized by the British too.  My people came from Belgium and spoke Flemish and a touch of French.  I can’t speak a lick of either and probably owe that to the British.  Seems like the whole world speaks English these days.

In any event, Father Tom said that you might be available when I arrive in Nigeria and that we should all share a Belgian beer and celebrate in the joy of sharing money bestowed upon us all by the lord.  I say amen to that and I’ll have two beers.  Thanks again and I look forward to meeting you after your trip toParaguay.

Sincerely

Jim DeJonge

May 15, 2011

Imported to Detroit

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:09 am
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Johannes would run right down the center of 8 Mile Road with two Doberman Pinchers in any weather.  It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, snow or rain and in Detroit, you could get some of the coldest weather in the world and the most hot and humid.

The Warren Police on the north side of Eight Mile referred to the strong looking man as, “The Bad Santa”.  The Detroit Police on the south side of the dividing line referred to him as, “Zeus”.  The Blacks thought the man could very well be the devil himself and the trailer park whites just thought he was a bad assed old man who was fed up. Whatever one might call Johannes, he was unique, intense, driven and racist.

Johannes would often walk into a Detroit mini market where unemployed young black men would go to buy cheap flavored cigars so that they could house their marijuana and taunt them and the Indian clerks.

“Say boys, do you know vat zee lesbians und dee black mans have een common?”

“Fuck you, old white bitch..”

“Ah you give up so easily.  Zee lesser minds.  Trained monkeys who drink malt liquor and smoke zee weed all day…  And you got zee pusher behind zee bullet proof glass.  He ees safe een zee cage while zee animals crave zee fix.”

One of the young men pulled out a nine millimeter while he popped open a bag of salt and sour potato chips by squeezing the air out with his free hand.  The thin, young black man with a blue faux diamond studded Detroit Tigers hat with a straight brim and a long white t shirt pointed the handgun sideways at the large, muscular white man who was wearing a t shirt that read, “whiter than white”, a pair of black shorts and long white hair and a long white beard.  Picture Sean Connery on steroids, with long hair and a beard and a whole lot of hate that would be Johannes.

“Vi ees eet that zee black men point zee gun sidevays und zee white men holds eet straight?  You small minds cannot answer zat.  You got zee balls to pull the trigger, do eet.”

The young man did pull the trigger and just like trying to kill wild game, if you miss the kill shot, you most likely will be killed.  Johannes grabbed the hand gun that was crafted in Austria, released the clip and sodomized the young man with his own weapon while his shoulder oozed blood onto his whiter than white shirt.  This was all captured on closed caption film which eventually circulated on Youtube and then was used by the American Nazi Party that had set up camp in suburban Detroit to try and entice disgruntled metropolitan Detroit whites into joining their hate group.  The ANP felt Detroit was ripe for growing the membership.

Johannes was a German born neo-Nazi that was barred from his own country for hate crimes once he left Germany to help prop up the white government in South Africa in the early 1990’s.  From South Africa, Johannes moved to theUnited States and lived in Idaho for a number of years before the ANP sent him to set up camp in Detroit.  Johannes job was to spew racist propaganda on the internet and troll hard core Punk Rock gigs to engage angry young white men into taking pride in the fact that they were white.

When Johannes wasn’t working, he was lifting weights, riding a stationary bicycle and jogging close to ten miles a day.  Johannes stood a hair short of 6’4 and 260 lbs with less than ten percent body fat.  Johannes had a string of young chubby tattooed girls he met at Skinhead gigs with bad straight bang hair cuts and nose rings that would shack up with him in hisDetroit home that had razor wire; a fifteen foot iron fence around his home with dozens of German Shepard’s roaming free.  The front gate had a saying in German, “Arbeit Macht Frei” or work makes you free.  Johannes drove around in a bulletproof 1988 Ram Charger truck provided for by the ANP.

Travis and Lemont were twin brothers who were born and raised in the city of Detroit and by the age of nineteen, they had spent their entire adulthood in the Wayne County Prison.  They had been arrested for armed robbery, home invasion, car jacking, illegal weapons and open liquor in a car that wasn’t even theirs.  The twins couldn’t be blamed really for the path they took in life.  Their mother who was a prostitute, died and the boys were raised by their grandmother who was thirty years of age when they were born.  Some fifteen children and grandchildren existed and managed to grow up in the home despite the neglect.

Travis and Lemont after spending close to eighteen hard months in prison among some of the worst people in the country, they decided that they would give conventional work a chance.  A fat white man with a pencil thin mustache, gave them both jobs holding signs in front of large retail shops that were about to go out of business.

EVERYTHING MUST GO.  70% OFF OF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE

In good weather and bad, the twins held signs while they listened to music on street corners throughout the Detroit area.  The mustachioed white man had an old Oldsmobile Delta 88 circa 1980’s in light blue.  The car had been hot three times over and was given to Salvio in exchange for a debt.  The car sat in under a tarp in storage for years.  Salvio brought the twins over to see the car.  They were immediately in love.

“You willing to sell this car to us foh $500.00?”

“Whaddamygonna do with a car like this?  It’s a fucking car for kids.  It’s a kids car for chrissakes.  What’s an old fuck like me gonna do in a car like this?  You boys are good boys and I wanna get this outta my space anyway.  I gotta guy who can get you all the legal stuff for this.  You get pulled over by pigs and everythings gonna check out.  You want it?”

The twins shared the car, detailed it, raised it, put on large wheels and rims with a stereo system that could be heard blocks away like distant mortar fire on a battle field.  The twins were living a civilized, dignified life where they made honest to goodness money under the radar in cash.  They helped their grandmother pay for the dish they had installed so that they could watch anything they wanted at anytime.  Life was good.

The twins found girlfriends who happened to be sisters but not twins themselves and would drive south to hang out with them at a community center off of Mc Nichols inDetroit.  One day the two sisters stopped by to see their boyfriends play basketball at the park and then the four of them went downtown to the Lafayette Coney Island and then to hang out by the river, kiss, sweet talk around Hart Plaza and then drive to a remote spot to consummate their deep undying affection, while a Snoop Dogg tuned quietly played in the classic car with steamed up windows.

“I wanna..” bust a bitch upside her motherfuckin head
for talkin shit to a pimp
Limp on ‘em, flip on ‘em, dip on ‘em
Crip on ‘em, and put this motherfuckin dick on ‘em
This sorta fish called a bitch oughta hush up
Rolled a fat blunt and smoked this motherfuckin dope up
Cause you know what? (Whattup?)
Shit a nigga know you’re so tough, but bitch I wanna go fuck
“I wanna..” take you upstairs, and do dat dere
Hell motherfuckin yeah
See I’m a real player and I won’t waste your time
I’ve been a starter, I ain’t never sat the fuckin pine
Stay on the frontline, it’s all by de-sign
Nigga done the crizzime, ain’t never dropped a dizzime
Everything is fizzine, rollin up a dizzime
D-O-double-G I got bitches waitin in lizzine

Across town Johannes was speaking on stage at a VFW hall.  Six Skinhead bands were playing.  The crowd was full of mostly sweaty young, white bald boys and men scattered with dumpy girls with razor cuts and bangs.  Johannes was a celebrity among the young skins.  Nobody yelled out stupid things or taunted him.  They were in awe of his physique and ability to say all the right things to make them proud to be white.  All in a German accent no less.

“You government and zee media calls us all sorts of zings but who runs zee government?  Who runs zee media?  A black president and Jew media tells you that you should be ashamed of youselves for being proud to be white.  Der ees no shame een being white.”

Cheers rang out in the crowded hall.  Johannes smiled and took it all in.  After thirty seconds of chants of “White Power”, he posed a few questions before getting off of the stage for the next band.

“Who ees proud to be white?  Who feels eet ees an honor to be white?  Who here has zee courage to stand up and tell the world dat you are white and white is right.  White ees right!”

The twins drove slowly towards home feeling good about the night as they drove down 8 Mile Road on a beautiful summer evening.  They played basketball, ate, laughed, drank, made love and it was all mostly legal.  Life was good.  Travis boosted the volume to a Jadakiss song at a red light, unaware that two cars had pulled up next to them on their left and right.

            Hustle after hustle - tryin to be a rich nigga
If I get caught up, I'll never be a snitch nigga
We pimpin hard charge it all to a bitch nigga
Under my denim is a big fo'-fifth nigga
fuckin with me is like, jumpin off a cliff nigga
And I don't practice I was born with this gift nigga

Johannes was pumped up from the show and couldn’t unwind even though he had made rough love to a girl named Gina from Taylor who moved out of her parent’s house and had been living with her boyfriend who had beaten her up.  Gina was moved by Johannes’s speech and so she left the VFW hall to spend a night in a bed and have sex.  Johannes left Gina in his bed, got dress in his running clothes and decided to go for a jog with his two prized Dobermans; shotzie and Frtitz.  Johannes hit the button on his ancient walkman that played a cassette of a Skinhead band called, Sick of it All.  The song was called, Breeders of Hate.

My mouth spouts
these words of anger and fight towards the other man
I’m bent out of shape
I’m feeling irate
feel that blood flow
the relic of sin I’ve always confused with black and white
Guns on the street, a message complete
Breed self hatred tonight
Save your insanity
you die for my needs
fuck them up now
take my advice and
breed your hate at home
the world wont be at peace
until my brothers are alone
my mouth spouts
these words of anger and fight towards the other man
Guns on the street, a message complete
Breed self hatred tonight

A shot rang out and missed the heads of both Travis and Lemont.  Travis hit the accelerator and a chase was on between the twins and the two cars that had pulled along side them at the red light.  Johannes new goal was trying to get his heart rate to forty five beats per minute, bench 300 lbs twice and run a mile under eight minutes.  All of which are high goals for a man close to sixty years of age.  Travis watched the needle on his antique automobile reach 100 mph.

The 1980’s model Oldsmobile was found in the middle of a vacant lot about a half mile south of 8 mile. A day later, on page three of the Detroit News was a brief detail of what the Detroit Police found.

Detroit-The dismembered body of Johannes Schwig was found in the back seat of a 1987 Oldsmobile registered to a deceased man in Flint,Michigan.  Cameras along 8 Mile Road captured a high speed collision near Van Dyke between the automobile and the pedestrian.  No further information has been gathered at this time.

May 10, 2011

Covalent bondage or Schopenhauer’s girlfriend

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:09 am
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Covalent chemical bonds involve the sharing of a pair of valence electrons by two atoms, in contrast to the transfer of electrons in ionic bonds. Such bonds lead to stable molecules if they share electrons in such a way as to create a noble gas configuration for each atom.

Hydrogen gas forms the simplest covalent bond in the diatomic hydrogen molecule. The halogens such as chlorine also exist as diatomic gases by forming covalent bonds. The nitrogen and oxygen which makes up the bulk of the atmosphere also exhibits covalent bonding in forming diatomic molecules.

   

 

 

            Phoebe woke up early to go over her chart about Covalent Chemical bonds for her first lesson plan as a student teacher at theJohnElroySanfordHigh Schoolon the north side ofChicago.  John Elroy Sanford, better known as Redd Foxx or Fred Sanford, had donated a large sum of money to the Chicago Public Schools. 

            Phoebe showed up early to class before the students showed.  She wore a sleeveless dress and wore her black horned rimmed glasses which she felt made her look more adult than without them.  Phoebe at best looked to be twenty years of age although she was closer to thirty.  Hall monitors asked her for hall passes and male students tried to talk to her on more than one occasion. 

The Chemistry teacher was a man by the name of Bill who mistook Phoebe’s smile and approachable demeanor to be interest.  Bill showered that morning and doused himself in Chocolate Axe.  He had heard some teenage boys talking in the hallway about how the cologne was loaded with pheromones and how females could not resist a man wearing the said cologne.  Bill died the gray from his hair, flossed his teeth and bleached his breath with mouthwash and gum.  He wore a spandex shirt under his collared shirt that kept his slight gut looking flatter and his man tits from looking too missile like.  Phoebe proudly showed Bill her chart about Covalent bonds.  Bill stood beside Phoebe, careful not to rub up against her even though he was itching to touch her caramel colored skin.  Bill had heard that Filipino girls were wild for white men and so he was oozing confidence. 

            “That is a wonderful chart, Feebs…”

            Phoebe was completely disgusted that a man old enough to be her father, had breached the space between two human beings in western cultures, lowered his voices and whispered near her ear.  Fortunately for Phoebe, the first two students entered the class.  They were loud and obnoxious for8:00amin the morning.  Several more students filed in until all the seats were filled.  Phoebe nervously began to speak to the students that looked to be her age.  The boys were sizing her up; they looked at her arms and legs and studied her pleasant face as she spoke about things that they did not care anything about.  The girls in the class criticized her appearance to make themselves feel better.  Phoebe felt like she was under a microscope.  Her mentor whose eyes never left her form, the boys in the class that thought about sex every four seconds on average and the young women that looked like they wanted to work her over after class.  Phoebe did all she could to conduct the class with clammy, shaking hands and a voice that cracked several times.  All Phoebe wanted to do was go home.

           Phoebe got home to find her roommates boyfriend loading up furniture into a moving van with three other young men.  Three young white men with hair that stuck straight up in the air, all three with tight shirts and white shoes, it almost appeared to be a uniform.   Clinton, the Doberman Pincher that Flavius, had bought for his fiancée, Monica was barking in the back of a racing Honda with fins on the back, lowered and outfitted with neon blue lights around the bottom of the car.

            “Yo man, that fucking dog fucks my fucking shit up, Imma shoot it in the fucking head.  I take pride in my shit, yo.  You should just leave that fucking dog here.  You gave her the fucking dog, let her ass take it.  I would take the fucking X-Box and leave the bitch ass dog.”
            Flavius yelled into the open window at the dog that gnawed on the slightly open glass in an effort to bite Flavius.  Flavius then turned to his friend who was worried about his car and threatened to kick his ass.  The third guy was rapping along with a song as he blasted the music to the point of rattling windows in the apartment complex.

            “Motherfucker…  Turn down the music.  One of these old ass bitches gonna call the po-lice.  Help me get the couch out this place and we gone… Clinton!  Shut the fuck up!”

            Phoebe and Monica arrived at work which was called Ye Olde Skokie Ale House.  Monica’s eyes were bloodshot and mascara had dripped down to her pink tank top.  Rubin, the bar manager who wore a Hawaiian shirt and shorts with calf high white socks and sandals, was visibly upset that Monica looked unfit to work the floor.  The Chicago Bulls were in the playoffs and the entire bar would be filled with overweight patrons looking to eat chicken wings and drink too much beer.

            “I don’t like to ask you girls too much bout your private lives but what the hell happened?  I can’t have you working here tonight looking like a bloodhound.  Go to the washroom, wash your face and put some eye drops in your eyes…  Tonight is gonna be the biggest night since the Superbowl,” said Rubin.

            Phoebe explained that Monica and her fiancé called off the wedding and so all the furniture they bought together was collected and taken to garage belonging to the boyfriend’s parents. Clintonthe Doberman was on a leash barking in the backyard of the former beau’s parent’s house.  Rubin called his friend Calabrese whose six foot Chinese wife was the bartender at The Ale House.  Fu came fromBeijingand was a mail order bride belonging to a 5 ‘5 Italian cop with a thick black moustache and hair all over his body.  Calabrese chewed his gum obnoxiously; thumbs in his belt line while he listened to Monica tell her story.  Calabrese winked at his tall wife who could only really serve beer since she didn’t understand English very well.  Fu was tall and pretty.  Calabrese wrote down a number of things on a pad of paper, took the palm of his hand and rubbed his face before asking Monica if she wanted to press charges.  Monica didn’t understand, Calabrese became impatient.

            “If he stole your stuff, it’s theft.  If it’s theft he goes to jail and his momma posts bond…”

            “Well, all I want isClintonback.  He will be so nervous.  He one time ate all the stuffing to a comforter and I had to take him to the vet to get it removed.  He did this because I left him alone for a day.  I just know he’s freaking right now.”

            Monica and Phoebe pulled it together and served close to a hundred people over the course of eight hours.  People ordered pizza, fries, wings, shots, beer as they watched very large men lope up and down on a basketball court for forty eight minutes.  The poker king came in took his seat at his table and challenged anyone to beat him.  He wore a cowboy hat and aviator glasses.  The poker king had just lost on television at4aminLas Vegastwo weeks earlier.  He was a transitory celebrity for those that deemed card playing a sport.  Joe, the cook from a neighboring bar, ordered a sixteen ounce steak with seasoned fries and fell asleep at the table as his food was served.  Marjorie, who lost her job, was playing pool with a guy named Ted who was married but said he was single.  The more they drank, the more Ted was going to take Marjorie toEuropeandAustralia.  He ordered Marjorie Fosters and spoke in a really bad Australian accent. 

            Phoebe’s final customer every night was a professor of philosophy from Northwestern.  Phil drove a twenty year old Honda Civic with a bumper sticker that said Nixon-Agnew 1972,  which illustrated his dry sense of humor.

            “The usual, Phil?”

            “If I were to change one thing in my daily routine, I may ruin the balance we have on this planet.  This world that spins at 1,450 kilometers an hour might wobble just enough to cause all sorts of issues of gravity.  We naively believe our problems have been solved by the killing of one man who is responsible for us having to face the indignity of being groped and frisked at airports all across this land and yet it isn’t clear who has won Dancing with the Stars, just as it isn’t clear who the stars actually are.  Change at this point in time might be detrimental, dear Phoebe.  Here you are scurrying about like an ant on an ant hill, serving those seeking a momentary diversion from their mundane existence by numbing themselves through legal means so that they can face their drab home life and their unfulfilling occupations and nary a man would guess that the optically pleasing Phoebe tried to teach those that we will one day entrust to carry on our human legacy.  Might I ask how you fared today?”

            Phoebe thought about lying to Phil who looked down at everyone and everything, who hated life and had nothing but disdain for anything seeking order.  Phil was a nihilist, atheist, anarchist and misogynist who constantly over analyzed the simplest things and then ridiculed them.

            “I think I reached them, Phil…  I think the kids have a basic understanding of what a covalent bond might be now and in some small way, I feel as though I may have taught somebody something.  Hopefully one day when the students are old enough to drink at a bar, they can dazzle someone they hope to sleep with, with the knowledge that they learned today from me,” said Phoebe.

            “You can only hope that the electricity leads to a stable bond,” joked Phil, as he swirled his ice cubes in his empty glass.

            “One more Scotch, Phil?”

            “One more Scotch, dear Phoebe, and then I shall sleep like an infant.”

            Phil jotted down some words on a napkin as a heavy set young lady with pig tails sang an ABBA tune in front of the Juke Box while her boyfriend in a Cubs jersey hugged her from behind.  Phil smiled and shook his head.  Phoebe was pettingClintonwith Monica and the Mexican chefs in the kitchen.  Calabrese had proudly delivered the dog to the bar before closing.  Phil left a 100% tip for Phoebe and a message on paper napkin before climbing into his ancient Honda.  This is what it said:

“The very first
Of human life must spring from woman’s breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench’d by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman’s hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.”

May 2, 2011

Boris the Greatest or The Ice Cream Socialist

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:25 am
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            Boris’s father played ice hockey in the oldSoviet Unionfor ЦСКА Москва otherwise known as Красная Армия.  For those of you who don’t read in Cyrillic, it was the infamous Red Army team.  Boris’s father had told him many times about the exhibition games he had played against NHL teams back in 1976 and how his team had dominated theUSSRleague right up until the end.  It had always been Boris’s dream to play for the same team as his father.

            At the age of nineteen, Boris had entered the KHL and ripped up.  He led the league in penalty minutes, goals and assists.  Boris could stick handle in a phone booth, skate like the wind and fight with the toughest of the toughest.  It had not gone unnoticed by the NHL.

            The Detroit Red Wings grew tired of being a contender but not a team that could any longer win the Stanley Cup.  The Swedes were excellent but they just weren’t winning the way the Red Wings were when they had the Russians.  The Red Wings found success with Kozlov, Larionov, Federov, Konstantinov and Fetisov.  When all five were on the ice for a power play, it was quite and exercise for the announcers.

            Of course the Red Wings had the great Pavel Datsyuk but they wanted a similar player like Pavel who could be rough.  Big Boris was drafted by the Red Wings and started his rookie year at the age of twenty four.

            Boris made a good living inRussiain the KHL but the money the Detroit Red Wings were offering him was absurd.  The brash young Russian put on a red Detroit Red Wing jersey at a press conference with the number 0 on the back and only his first name.  The Red Wings had to get permission to use a first name only and the number 0.  The league granted both.  The first press conference went something like this:

Press- Boris, what is your last name?

Boris- Eet tiz Boris only.  Jus like Bono andCher.

Press- It was Sonny Bono…

Boris- Wat!  Stupid, man… Next question

Press- How do you think you will do in the NHL?

Boris- Cis league ees you know gut but Boris ees the greatest.  I’m like Mohammad Ali of hockey,      

          Man.  I’m gonna make hockey a sport in cis country like it ees eenCanada…  You see.

            Boris first year, he scored the most goals, assists and had more fights by himself than the rest of the team had in total.  Boris had a beautiful wife and a giant compound of a home within the city ofDetroit.  Boris bought up a whole city block and turned it into a villa.  He grew grapes on his villa and sold his fortified sweet red called, Five Buck Boris.  It was twenty percent alcohol and had a hammer and sickle under his smiling face with a missing tooth.  Boris could be found at casinos inDetroitmost nights and there were pictures of him in the papers with various black women.  Several black women claimed that Boris was the father of their children.  When questioned about siring so many out of wedlock children with black women, he innocently answered.

            “Zee womens love Boris and I loves zee womens.  All womens not jus black ones.”

            And that statement was untrue.  Boris’s beautiful blond wife returned toRussiato make films again and divorced Boris.  When that happened, Boris was like a child without parents. Boris gambled and had wild parties.  The Red Wings hired a Russian driver to be Boris’s personal nanny.

            Vlad was paid handsomely by the Red Wings to drive Boris to and from Joe Louis Arena to his villa just north and west of downtown.  Vlad’s mother came to Boris’s fifteen bedroom house and cooked her famous Baklazhanovaya Irka recipe and borscht.  Boris loved Vlad’s mother’s cooking and loved Boris like a brother.  It wasn’t long before Boris had corrupted Vlad.  Vlad’s job was to troll the casinos and dance clubs and invite beautiful black women back to his compound.  Boris would invite rappers and basketball players to party at his nightclub within the compound that was within his villa.  Boris had a ten thousand foot nightclub with lights, smoke machines and a fantastic sound system.  Boris reasoned that if he could not hang out at the clubs, he would create his own.  Black basketball players would show up to his parties with white women while their black wives were at home and Boris did the opposite. Boris was an underground hit with Hip-Hop culture inDetroit.  Before long, Boris made his own video called, Boris in the D.  The video was a Youtube sensation and aired occasionally on BET.  Snoop Dog did a cameo as did Kid Rock on the video.  The hook of the song went as follows:

            Boris in the D playing hockey…  Joe Louis Arena and the bitches love me.  Bullet proof Mercedes, lots of ladies, riches, bitches, 100 proof…  Boris in the D, gonna put you through the roof.  The roof, the roof, put you through the roof.  The roof, the roof, put you through the roof.

            Images of Boris scoring, stick handling and fighting flashed along with images of him lifting weights, running, swimming and then driving in a convertible Mercedes stuffed with young smiling black women in sunglasses and bikinis.  It wasn’t long before the highlife caught up with Boris and Vlad.

            Vlad was fired by the Detroit Red Wings and hired by Boris as well as a dozen other young men that were part of the entourage of body guards.  An average night for Boris was to play hockey, dress, visit the casinos, send Vlad out to invite women over to the compound.

            “Excuse me, missus…  Dat ees Boris dee Greatest over there.  He is not at leisure to speak to you at thees time because he ees with the daughter of the owner of the Detroit Red Wings but would like to know eef you vood be interested to join heem at he’s home not far from here to have a drink and get to know you gut…  You can bring you friend too.”

            Most women understood that it was just a romp for the night, a chance to ooh and ahh over a palace within the city limits ofDetroit, drink, have some sex and disappear again.  One particular woman decided that she was not going to be just like the other women in his life.

            Felicia was a tall black woman with high cheekbones and a dimple on her left cheek.  She wanted to be a singer and a movie star and did not want to be just another conquest for a celebrity.  Felicia was content being who she was for the most part. Felicia went to Boris’s compound and refused to get drunk and have sex with Boris.  Boris was stunned.  An unbelievably beautiful black woman with a voluptuous frame and pretty face had turned down Boris.  Boris took it as a challenge.  It was like finding a goalie that he could not score against.  He had to find a way to put the puck in the net to add to his statistics.  Boris had to find away to convince a beautiful woman with standards and morals to give in to his flashy temptations.

            “You know dare ees a lot of vimans thaat vood like to be where you are tonights…”

            “Boris, you are a handsome man with a lot of money and I have to say it was poor judgment on my part to come and have dinner with you tonight.  If you thinking you bout to get you a piece of ass, Imma tell you, you wrong.  I ain’t a bitch or a ho.  Imma beautiful Christian woman that got to go to bed with myself at the end the night and atone for my actions.  So I don’t know whatchu thought inviting me all up in yo Dee-troit Kremlin west.  You thank you the tsar and Jesus Christ all rolled up into one sharp suit.  I’m looking for a gentleman who appreciate me for who I am and willing to do some work to see the fruit of thy labor…”

            “Vat?  I don’t know vat you are sayink…  Eet ess a lot of sound but don’t having meaning for Boris.  You saying you vant to be the one woman een my life?  Come on…  There ees a lot of Boris the world ees needing.”

            Boris went on drinking and partying and fornicating as well as fighting, stick handling and scoring goals.  Things were going well for the Detroit Red Wings.  It looked as though they were going to cake walk into the finals and manhandle their opponent in the Eastern Conference for the Stanley Cup.  Boris seemed unhappy and bored with life.  Vlad asked him what it was that he could do to make Boris happy again: more cars, more women, more parties, a trip toMiami.  Boris responded by pursing his lips and banging his fist on the table.

            “Nobody weens over Boris.  Boris ees thee wiener at all times.  How can Boris be the greatest and still hear no?  I vill vin thees thing…  You vill see Vladi.”

            Felicia had received flowers to make a florist jealous, calls to have dinner and drinks but Felicia would not respond to Boris.  After dozens of phone calls, Felicia answered the phone to send Boris off once and for all.

            “Look you Russian Valentino…”

            “Who?  Thees ees Boris.  Who ees thees Valentino.  I vill beating heem like dog.”

            “No means no, Boris.  I want more than you can or want to offer.  I want a man who wants me and ain’t running around all over, planting seeds wherever he be allowed to.”

            “Seeds?  Vat ees seeds?”

            “You cain stop calling me now.  I ain’t going wid you now or never.  You got a whole lot of women takin in by your world.  Go send yo boy to find them.”

            After the Red Wings had won the Stanley Cup, Boris did not return toRussiaor take off for tropical places.  He hired a woman to teach Boris about the bible and Jesus and Christianity in general for about a month before he decided to show up at the Motor City Missionary-Baptist Church within the city limits of Detroit.  Boris walked into the church and took a seat in the back, wearing an off white suit with a pair of sunglasses.  His three Russian body guards stood in the back of the church with black suits and sunglasses on.  Many in the church had ideas on who the FBI agents were there to nab.  Even the minister of the church had some thoughts that the white men were there for them.  Nobody recognized Boris the Greatest, the best hockey player in the NHL and savior of white hockey loving people in theDetroitmetropolis. 

            The minister sweated as he began to give his sermon.  He decided to inquire as to who the visitors were to their black only church.

            “It appears as though we have some new folks that have joined us today… Brother, what’s your name and where are you from?”

            “My name ees Boris and I am fromMoscowbut leave right here eenDetroitnow.  I verk here een the city ofDetroitfor a team you are having called the Red Wings…  Maybe you are knowing them?”

           A laugh went up in the church as people suddenly recognized the face and accent.  They were stymied as to why a white, Russian, partying, hockey playing, brash young man, would enter a poorly air conditioned black church at8:30amon a Sunday.

            “Romans 2:1 says and I quotes, “You therefore, have no excusing, you who pass judgments on someone else…  Uh… You condemning youself because you passing judgments. John 8:7  as you are knowing says, “if any one of you ees without sinning let her picks up a rock now and throw eet at me.”

            Boris boldly walked up and took the hand of the ravishing woman who was singing in the choir and kissed   her hand as he kneeled before her.  It was a penalty shot, one on one with the goalie who had stoned him so many times earlier.  Boris pulled out everything he had for the shot.  The puck went in the net.

            Vlad goes to bars and drinks alone or with other friends and tells people in his heavy Russian accent how for a few years, he was the body guard and personal bitch fetcher for Boris.  Vlad told stories of driving drunk, bagging women and the number of celebrities that hung out at the compound.  The question at the end of the story was always the same and Vlad always had the answer.

            “Every man needs to learn that he can lose…  And sometimes ven you lose, you winning.  The von who made Boris losing von.  Dat ees the one he needed.  Dat ees the one he gots now…  So sad for me.  No more parties, just backyard barbeques and church.  My man sings in the choir… and is an ice cream socialist…”

April 27, 2011

Condo Meeting 7PM or Fuck the Tiger Lilies

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:06 am
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The spring meeting of the Stony Meadows Condominium Association was supposed to be held on the first Tuesday at7pmin the fitness center which is next to the meter room and where bicycles are stored.  The same six people who always came to the association meeting showed.  There was the president of the association, the treasurer, the secretary and then the same three concerned, displeased, disgruntled, disenchanted and wholly disgusted property owners who missed the days when they were renters.

Robert- Okay, I would like now like to call this meeting to order for the first quarter association meeting of the Stony Meadows Condominium Association.  Abby, is your recorder working?

Abby- Um no.  My son got hold of it last week while playing in the Lu.  It wasn’t until I was about to use the toilet that I noticed it floating about… Georgia, do you mind taking notes and I will print them up and post them on the association portal?

Georgia- I can do that.

            Robert, during the day trained unmotivated and semi-motivated people to get back into shape.  He owns a small gym where serious body builders spend eight hours a day or more, working out.  Robert has been taking steroids for a number of years and had arms that looked like most people’s thighs.  His body fat was 5.2% and he is striving for 4%.  When he sits on the toilet to relieve himself, he notices that his stomach makes a roll.  Robert believes it is fat and doesn’t reason that it is skin that is bunched up together in one spot due to the fact that his body is at a 90 degree angle while he defecates.  He has been eating a dozen eggs, sixteen ounces of lean ground beef and chicken breast with a vegetables and fruit for years.  Robert knows he looks good but wants to look better than anyone and everyone on the planet.  Robert spends most of his time admiring himself naked in front of his mirror at home.

            Abby moved fromEnglandsome years back. Abby is English and not Scottish, Welsh or Northern Irish.  She married an American and decided to follow him wherever he may go.  He opted to move back fromLondonto the Midwestern part of theUnited States.  Abby is short and squatty and has close to thirty percent body fat.  She is a stay at home mother who is trying to get a book published about her experiences as an English mother in the colonies.  Abby calls theUnited Statesthe colonies throughout her manuscript.  She thought it was a bit cheeky and agents for the most part thought she was speaking aboutBermudaor some other remote outpost that had not been cast aside byGreat Britain.

           Georgiais an educated African-American woman who works in an all white law firm.  She was being lined up to be a partner in the firm when her superior and ally decided that her calling was to represent those detain inGuantanamoBay. Georgiajust received an email from her mentor who was interviewing her potential client who vowed to behead all Americans and Israelis if ever set free but would consider living in harmony with them if theUnited Statesgovernment would be willing to move his family toNew YorkfromSaudi Arabia. Oh and give him five million dollars for informing on the movers and shakers within his terrorist organization. Georgia’s mentor was negotiating the deal with the government. Georgiain the meantime dreaded working for a mealy mouthed, beady eyed Harvard graduate that constantly let everyone know that he had graduated with Obama and finished second in his class. Georgia’s boss was fearful of the fact thatGeorgiawas more competent than him and quicker in evaluating a case and making sound determinations. Georgia’s boss found her to be “forbidding, hostile and distant”. Georgiatold her boss that her name was actually Sapphire and wanted to be called Sapphire from then on out. Georgia’s name wasn’t such but wanted to get the message out to other blacks in the law firm that she was being viewed as a defiant Negro a la Sapphire from the old Amos and Andy show.

            Timothy- Okay, I really don’t have time to be here with you people and go through this whole charade like you have some business that you’re attending to and then we get to voice a few things and after an hour, you then give lip service to our concerns and nothing gets done for three more months.  What I have seen thus far this spring is Tiger lilies.  What about the yellow spots of female dog urine, the Irish lads who are occupying units by our former developer fromIrelandwho has turned over this association to you fine people and pulled the wool over all our eyes.  What about our unfinished porches, leaking roof and plumbing system that backs up constantly.  I want this addressed.  my feeling?  Fuck the Tiger Lilies…  Pardon my language.

            Martha- That’s a good start…  I want to discuss the guy on the third floor in my tier who beats the shit out of his girlfriend constantly and flicks his cigarette butts out of the window onto the grass outside my window.  Now I’m a smoker but not one who pollutes the common area that is here for us all to enjoy.  I have to listen to him yell in Greek or Italian.  He isn’t the owner but a renter of Andy who has moved toWest Germanyto finish his doctorate in something or other.  I don’t understand how people just come and go and we don’t got any say in who rents here.  How do we know if we’re living with criminals?  I know we’re living with rude, women beating slobs.

Johasophat- Is there still aWest Germany?  I thought that died with the tsar.  In any event, Prudence and I are devout Buddhists and we try to meditate at an hour that is convenient for us. The people upstairs have dogs and children that run all night.  I have tried to discuss them being aware of others and respectful.  I know they are trying to do a short sale.  I propose that the association buy their unit and turn it into a facility such as a library or a meeting room, possibly a place where we could meet periodically and really try to cultivate a sense of community.  We all live here.  We are in a sense a family of sorts. 

            Timothy sneered.

 Timothy rides his bicycle to a nearby grocery store that he has worked at since his junior year of high school.  When his grandmother passed, he was left her condominium.  Timothy constantly tells people that he is a land owner and has certain rights under the law that those who just rent, do not have.  Since becoming a land owner, Timothy has become interested in the Tea Party and truly believes President Obama is a foreign born citizen.  He spends his time watching Fox News and looking at his neighbors in his dark living room through a high powered telescope.  Timothy has seen everyone present at the meeting doing things within their apartments that nobody should really know about nor see.  Timothy likes to know a lot about a lot of things.  He has an inquiring mind.

            Martha is a chain smoking woman in her fifties that appears to be in her sixties.  She has three Pug dogs and visits the tavern on the corner occasionally for a beer and to watch baseball games.  Now and then a male patron will engage her in conversation and wind up in her bed for a few hours.  When that doesn’t happen, Martha usually goes home and watches taped episodes of Dancing with the Stars and uses a wide variety of sex toys on herself that she bought on what she calls, “The Dildo Channel”.

.

            Johasaphat is actually Joe.  Joe gave himself that exotic name upon moving toKoreafor a year.  While inKorea, he met a woman named Jun that took his English class.  Joe gave his wife the name Prudence.  Joe became a Buddhist, a vegan and opened a bookstore devoted to Buddhism.  Joe used to be in a Skinhead band back when he was younger called Vehrmacht.  Joe is still bald but is quite peaceful and loving of all things and all colors now.  He no longer listens to loud and aggressive music anymore.

            Now Timothy interrupted everyone who spoke and muttered little things under his breath until Robert who was always sort of edgy, threatened to beat his ass if he said another word while someone was speaking.  Timothy said he would go to the state board and police if he were attacked physically.

  Johasphat tried to reason with the two men while Martha discussed Dancing with the Stars with Abby who talked about her children.  Georgia took notes and noticed an email on her Blackberry. It was a message she from a man she met through a dating site.  They had several dates and something was growing between them.  The man from the dating site told her that all he could think about was her since the last time they saw one another.  He wanted to know if she was available for dinner on Friday night.  Georgia reread the message three times while the rest of the board discussed and argued about painting, porches, leaking roofs, Irish renters, cigarettes butts and Tiger Lilies.  Georgia responded with the word yes in block letters to the invitation for dinner.  Georgia was a million miles away and in a happier place than her neighbors.  Georgia sat smiling as people complained around her.  She was no longer taking notes.   She was in that place that we all find ourselves when we feel truly drawn to someone and can think of little else except being with that person who has captivated us.  Georgia was in love and nothing else mattered.  And that is really one of the few things that matter in life

April 7, 2011

Baseball is not a Sport or Vishnu at the Plate

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:20 am
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            Vishnu Patel was able to anonymously come to the United States without having to wear a scarlet letter or fear for his life so much.  In India, Vishnu Patel was simply known as Vishnu since Patel is about as common a name as Jones is in the ghetto.

            Vishnu was a Cricket playing prodigy who was a fast bowler.  Bowling is much akin to pitching a baseball and has nothing to do with the sport of bowling even though Vishnu came to love that over time upon moving to the United States.

            Vishnu was a rich young man in India.  He could bowl fast and spin the ball so that when it hit the ground, it would bounce like a superball.  Vishnu was sponsored by all sorts of companies that wanted his name on cricket bats.  He was in songs and in movies and drove sports cars and had a big home.  At bat, Vishnu easily scored and had several centuries meaning that while at bat, he scored over 100 points all by himself.  Vishnu was the Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretsky, Brett Favre and Babe Ruth rolled into one.  Like the Hindu god of the same name, Vishnu seemed to walk on water but like all mortals he had something about him that tarnished him in the eyes of Indians; homosexuality.

            Vishnu had kept his secret under close wraps in India.  He was always seen in public with a pretty girl.  It was during a test match in Australia that he was photographed dancing and kissing another man in a gay night club.  Vishnu had crushed his supporters upon the revelation that he was in fact homosexual.  There were death threats and Vishnu’s kept man and he fled the country in 2008.

            Endorsements dried up and Vishnu fled for the United States for fear that he would be killed or jailed.  There was a fear among Indian parents that perhaps their sons might deem homosexuality as something that would be, “not so bad” because the great Vishnu fancied lads. 

            Vishnu took whatever money he had left and bought a Tim Horton’s franchise right outside of Cleveland, Ohio.  Tim Horton’s was quickly becoming the biggest Canadian export after beer.  Vishnu was satisfied being just another Indian in America.  People mistook him for a cab driver and a computer technician but nobody recognized him as a former great cricket player except one sports columnist who wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

 Tim Jones, who never lived in the ghetto by the way, relished being a thorn in the side of the Cleveland Indians.  It was Tim Jones who recognized the former star who single handedly decimated the West Indies Cricket Club in Barbados.  Jones was on had to witness Vishnu’s feat.  Vishnu had five wickets as a bowler and batted over a century to defeat the West Indies more or less, by himself.  Tim Jones went after the Cleveland Indian’s front office in his column.  Here is what he had to say:

“Chief Wahoo should have a tear in his eye just like the crying Indian from the early 1970’s commercial who was saddened and dismayed by what had become of his land.  What has become of Chief Wahoo’s Indians?  If the Cavs and Browns don’t make you cry, maybe this year’s Indians will.  A mere 9,000 fans managed to make it out to see their team win 7-1 against the Chicago White Sox.  David Hasslehoff might draw more than that if he were to perform at Progressive Field.  If you didn’t hear it already, the Indians turned their first triple play since 2008 on Sunday.  It is nothing like the front office’s triple play of getting rid of their three best players and expecting a dwindling population to step up and pay to see a shell of what once was a proud franchise.  Proud like an Indian.  Speaking of Indians, most of you would never know this but one of the best players to have ever played the sport of cricket owns Tim Horton franchises right here in the state of Ohio, right in the city of Cleveland.  I’d be willing to bet my wigwam and teepee that The Great Vishnu could save the franchise single handedly.  Picture any of our current has-beens or never-will-bees pitching like Cliff Lee and batting like a healthy Grady Sizemore.  I throw out the challenge to Mr. Patel and Mr. Acta.  Do something different.  Bring back the crowds. Let an Indian, a real Indian save the Indians from oblivion.  Wipe that tear from Chief Wahoo’s cheek and restore that stupid smile once again.”

Everyone who read Mr. Jones’ column knew that he was brutal on sports teams in Cleveland and knew that the Cleveland Indians held the most promise of success in the city of Cleveland before losing several players who may one day end up in the baseball hall of fame.  Tim Jones caught up with Vishnu and was surprised what he had to say about the sport of baseball.  Vishnu had laid down the gauntlet.

“Meester Tim…  I dawn vant to put dawn dee national pastime of a nation but ven I pass by parks and I see over-vait, middle aged men hitting a beach ball, under hand at a speed dat ees barely able to support it in dee air, I liken eet to a hunter tracking a cow.  How caan you meese shooting a grazing cow who looks at you stupidly vile lining up her head weeth a scope?  Now hitting a baseball might be a tad more difficult but eet ees naught cricket.  Cricket ees a sport.  Baseball ees a hobby.”

Native Clevelanders or rather white people and blacks who were once owned by whites, who have resided on indigenous people’s land that were mistaken by Christopher Columbus for Indians, were indignant by the brazen comments of Vishnu.  It was one thing for Americans residing in Cleveland to attack their own team and their own beloved sport; it was another thing to have a gay foreigner verbally bitch slap baseball.  Vishnu had no choice but to face those who loved baseball and the Indians.

Vishnu studied tapes of baseball for a few days and even watched some games on ESPN before contacting Tim Jones to set up a meeting between him and the Cleveland Indians.  If you can imagine this, Progressive Field sold out every seat in the stadium to watch the exhibition between a former cricket great and professional baseball players.  The Cleveland Indian front office loved the publicity.

Vishnu emerged from a tunnel wearing a collared shirt that had the letters, INDIA across the front with his name on the back with the number 13.  Vishnu swung his arm in a circle a few times before facing the first batter.  Manny Acta sent up a pitcher to face Vishnu.  Vishnu came running up from second base, hit the mound and threw the ball in a windmill fashion, delivering a pitch that did not bounce. A 160 km/h fastball or damn near 100 miles an hour pitch for a strike.  The speed gun registered 101 mph.  The pitch twisted in the air and dropped like it fell off a cliff.  Vishnu struck out two pitchers, then two batters that would be lucky to pinch run and then some real big fish.  The guys that might make more than entire population of the average worker in the city of Cleveland combined.  One of the bonus babies got a few foul tips before being felled.  It was then Vishnu’s turn to come to the plate.  Vishnu stood on the plate as though he was protecting a wicket.  He wore what looked like a jockey’s helmet with a protective grill with gloves and leg guards that one might find on a goalie in ice hockey.  Vishnu whacked everything that came his way whether it was a strike or a ball.  The last pitch was an 85 mile an hour fastball.  Vishnu took two steps towards the pitch and knocked it into the right field stands where a group of Indian expatriates were banging drums, waving an Indian flag with painted faces.  Vishnu carried his bat with him as he would have in cricket as he rounded the bases.  Backwards.

It would be fair to surmise that baseball fans, The Cleveland Indians and Americans in general felt badly about the publicity stunt and that would be correct.  Upon signing Vishnu to a multi-year contract as a relief pitcher and designated hitter, the Indians suddenly began to win and fans returned to Progressive Field.  After a while nobody seemed to notice or care that their star player was not only not American or a baseball player, that he was gay too.  As Americans often like to say to one another: Only in America.

April 1, 2011

Cool Hand Ray

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 12:17 am
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                Maeve was one of those really lucky people who were born unto money.  Her father made money on simple things like parking garages, laundry mats and gumball machines.  He made Maeve a partner in a Jazz club he owned and purchased her house for her as well as paid her taxes.  To make her feel as though she was doing something more than just spending money, Maeve’s father purchased a club and made her “The Boss”.  There were accountants and general mangers and everything worked just fine without Maeve.  Maeve’s main job was to travel the world to find good wine.  They stopped serving food for a while and people stopped coming to the club for the most part.  They once served juicy steaks that commanded $45.00 a plate.  Free range, grass fed Bison was their specialty.  These bison roamed not far from where Custer met his match and then they wound up on plates in downtown Detroit.  This all came to an end when Maeve took over.

                Maeve physically accosted the chef and sous chef and then invited food shelters and the homeless to take all the meat in the restaurant and so they did.  For a good week or so, the most fabulous smells emanated from vacant lots not far from downtown Detroit.  Salads with nuts and alfalfa were served and not too many people cared for that.  Maeve’s father convinced Maeve that she had to at least serve exotic cheese from Spain, France and Germany.  Maeve picked the cheeses herself from farms that she visited while in Europe.  She wanted to be sure that none of the animals were being abused or exploited in the giving of milk.  The club began to rebound a bit.

                The next order of business was to make the Jazz super club a Jazz club once again.  Maeve’s unwashed, unshaven, slovenly bust out of a husband was only allowed to play his homemade Blues on Sunday nights after 9pm until everyone left which was usually around 11pm.  George spent the rest of his week watching their toddler son who spent his time watching Elmo and throwing handmade German blocks with numbers and letters on them at their cat.  George was very nervous about their son Nathan being abusive towards the house cat since his wife was a member of PETA.  George hated the indifferent feline for pissing on his 1959 Guild Guitar that was once played by Dwayne Eddy.  George tried to get the pungent smell of cat piss off of his guitar but it was to no avail.  The cat urine had saturated the wood.  And so George played his $20,000.00 collector‘s item and had to put up with the smell of piss.  For that he hated the cat.  Their son just loved making the cat run and hiss by throwing finely crafted blocks from Germany.  He was after all a boy.

                Now when Maeve was not finding exotic wine and cheese for her Jazz bistro in Detroit, she was flitting around the world in a quest to find stuff that was good but that nobody had ever heard of.  Maeve came back from Bilbao, Spain and featured a Basque guitarist that she met and managed to have relations with while visiting a small farm.  Dunixi played at a small café near the ocean and was handsome with long hair and a rugged four day growth on his face at all times.  He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top four buttons unbuttoned and clam digger pants rolled up.  He wore a tortured face and banged Gypsy like music on the guitar and sang in Basque.  He spoke no English and nobody spoke a lick of Basque and so for a week the Jazz bistro featured the great Dunixi.  Some people swore they had heard of him and really they hadn’t.  After Dunixi, there were Mexican guitarists and Brazilian guitarists and even a large Samoan looking man from New Zealand who played the Didgeridoo while another man played dissonant Jazz on a tenor saxophone and read poetry.  Maeve made it with all these men.  It was like big game hunting for her.  She loved her husband and her son dearly but at the same time the domesticity bored her and besides, saving animals was really her passion.

                Wherever Maeve went, she donated money to people that were fighting zoos or stores that sold leather goods or even grocery stores.  She didn’t have the time and energy to be a foot soldier and so she showed up at rallies to speak and throw money at those that had given up their lives to more or less walk in the path towards a non-carnivore existence for humanity.

                Maeve came home in her H3 Hummer that was gift from her father late one evening to their Farmington Hills mansion that had a large circular drive, two water fountains in the front and a pool sized Jacuzzi in the back.  Maeve decided after closing the club for the night to come home and go directly to the back yard and hop into the Jacuzzi.  The light sensor light in back that detected motion was out and the night was as dark as pitch.  There was no moon and not enough starlight to see one’s hand in front of their face.  Maeve crept down the wooden staircase to where the dial was to start the jets.  Maeve stumbled and fell buck naked over a bag of garbage that was left on the bottom step.  As she was falling she kneed the head of a large raccoon that was feasting on the garbage left in the bag.  George didn’t make time to change the light earlier in the day and was afraid for himself that he would cross the path of a coyote and so he made the decision to leave the plastic bag full of garbage on the steps until morning.  Maeve had interrupted a large male raccoon’s feast.

                Maeve screamed George’s name as if she was being killed.  She stood on the dewy, wet grass.  The raccoon was not moving aside for Maeve to climb the stairs and get into the house.  George was paralyzed with terror himself.  He was too afraid to go outside and risk being killed by robbers or rapists and thought did come to him that if they offed his lovely wife, he stood to make a lot of money.  George stood in the shadows of the kitchen and let the chips fall where they may.  He was rooting for a violent finish.

                Ray, an architect from next door, was single and liked it that way.  He built his home and modeled it after a Frank Lloyd Wright home he had seen in Wisconsin.  Ray was in bed watching a movie when he heard the blood curdling scream.  He grabbed his Maglight and the only weapon he had which was a great household appliance called a Swiffer.

                Ray jogged over in his University of Michigan shirt that had a huge yellow M on a blue shirt and a pair of shorts.  Ray was shocked to see his neighbor who was tall and shapely with breasts that were not too droopy for a woman of forty and not a strand of hair that could be detected around her vagina.  Maeve actually had five out six visits necessary to complete the laser surgery and the last one was sort of like taking out the weed whacker after cutting the grass: just to get those hard to reach areas that the mower and edger cannot reach.  To the untrained eye, Maeve was as bald as the day she was born. 

                After a good three seconds of the Maglight which was directly on Maeve, was then focused on the raccoon that was showing his teeth and growling.  The raccoon was not going to leave the buffet he created without a fight.  Ray poked at the animal that swiped at the Swiffer.

                “Get him!  Oh my god!  Please get him!” Exclaimed Maeve, as she did her best to cover herself with her hands.

                Ray jousted with the raccoon that hissed and edged closer to him in an attempt to climb the fence and take off.  Suddenly Maeve didn’t seem to care if the animal was in danger of dying.  She came to understand what animals know all too well; it is either the raccoon or them that were going to lose.  Ray swung the Swiffer like a Louisville Slugger and smacked the raccoon in the ass, sending it tumbling over the fence.  Maeve cried tears of relief and hugged Ray as she sobbed.  Ray wanted to put his hands on her firm ass but instead patted her on the back the way a parent consoles a child who skinned knee.  Ray had from a distance admired the woman’s free spirit and take charge attitude as well as her body.  Ray gambled that to be forthright would be welcomed and so he rolled the dice.  He spoke in a fake drawl.  Ray was after all watching Cool Hand Luke on DVD when all hell broke loose.

                “Anytime you need a real man…  I mean a man you can depend on; you know where to find me.  Whether you scream into the night or ring my bell.  I am here for you Ms. Maeve Magorn.”

                Ray grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and planted his warm tongue in her mouth.  Maeve did not mind since she was already numb.  George stood at the kitchen window and watched his wife kissing the neighbor who was still holding his wife with one hand and the Swiffer in the other.

                Maeve slipped on her polka dot underwear with little  ties on the side and walked in through the back door to find her husband standing in his white briefs with a bit of rust stain in the front holding the telephone.  George’s hairy man boobs sagged as did his second trimester gut.   His helpless expression only angered Maeve more. George couldn’t speak or blink as he stared at his angry wife.  Maeve’s nostrils flared and her lips disappeared.  George knew he had to speak and said the only thing most humans say when they cannot fix a situation properly.

                “I’m so sorry…”

                Like most other situations, it did nothing but further angered Maeve.  Things were thrown and there was screaming and the sounds of an infant crying.  Ray thought to himself as he settle back into bed in his quiet room and resumed the movie that maybe having nothing, like Luke said, was a cool hand.

March 25, 2011

Ray of Life

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:21 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Lars Lindvistdagen was a life long student in Sweden and was commissioned by the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences upon achieving a doctorate.  The Swedish government became very interested in the effects of electromagnetism and so Lars took off for Lapland to understand what life was like in the pure darkness of winter and efflorescent lights.

            The Sami people primarily lived in Norway, but at the near northern most border of Sweden where the sun never seemed to set in the summer or rise in the winter was where Lars met Helga who was teaching the Sami language to Swedish children whose parents had to relocate to northern Sweden for work.  Lars was completely smitten with this carefree woman who was a hair under six feet tall, with blond hair, large breasts and a firm b

ody. 

            Helga’s people had herded reindeer for centuries and with technology being what it is, there just wasn’t the need for so much reindeer husbandry as their used to be and so Helga taught her language to Swedish people who mostly spoke English anyway.

            Lars at the youthful age of forty eight, after being a student in the university system of Sweden, married a much younger Helga and lived in Bjokliden.  They married at midnight on the longest night of the year.  Something about that time of year made Helga feel more alive than at any other time of the year.  The sun set at about 12:24am and they made love over and over until the sun rose again at about 3:57am.  They slept, made love and got ready to move to Los Angeles, California.

            Lars and Helga spent there honeymoon at Disneyland and in Malibu and both agreed that the overabundance of humans in such a concentrated area would be perfect to study the effects of electromagnetism.  Lars and Helga had lived in a part of the world where there were very few people.  In the summer, they would walk through the forest of pine and rocky hills that were greener than the color green.  In the winter when the wind wasn’t howling, they would walk in the snow and marvel at the beautiful mountains and herds of reindeer, take deep breaths of clean air and then went back indoors to have sex.  Lars understood that Helga could get herself to cum if he was under her and really that was the best view of his young wife who wasn’t yet thirty years of age.  Her long blond hair and perfect smile and enormous breasts moving in perfect syncopation and his sunken chest with a few wispy hairs on his chest, thin face with horn rim glasses and a beard that made him look like Sigmund Freud.  The Royal Academy asked Lars to work in tandem with scientist at UCLA.

            Helga began to feel strange in a strange land.  Eating Del Taco, going to health clubs, drinking expensive coffee concoctions, driving long distances for a long time was all taking a toll on Helga who began to show signs of depression and unbridled anger. 

            One night while watching an Ingrid Bergman movie in Swedish, Helga became confused about what it was that she was thinking of doing.   She stood holding a bowl and began to cry and then scream.  She broke a leg off of their teak table and began to smash things until there was no sound and no light.  After several minutes of crying, Helga got into their late model Volvo and drove full speed down Santa Monica Boulevard.  She drove the Volvo through the front window of a Starbucks.  It was nearly ten in the evening and people were still drinking coffee, doing things on laptops and texting people.  At the moment the car came crashing through the front window, a Madonna song was playing softly Helga could hear subliminal messages like high pitched frequency sounds that only canines can hear.  Helga heard it earlier in the day when she was drinking a green tea and thumbing through the Los Angeles Times.  It was laced in Madonna’s song, Ray of Light.

            Faster than the speeding light she’s flying

            Try to remember where it all began

            She’s got herself a piece of heaven

            Waiting for the time when earth shall be as one

            Quicker than a ray of light

            Quicker than a ray of light

            While the music played and Helga looked around the room.  A fat young guy with a dirty t-shirt talked into a Bluetooth as he nervously bounced his legs and discussed a bet about which Hollywood star would freak out next as he scanned Popeater.  A woman in spandex talked loudly on a cell phone while she poured six packets of sugar into a caramel frappichino.  A little boy was glued to a hand held game while his Haitian au pair drank a coffee black, without milk or sugar and spoke in a patois to someone in New York about the weather and whether a relative had died yet of AIDS in Miami.  Suddenly everything seemed to speed up to Helga.  Cars moved faster, clouds seemed to zoom by and pedestrians seemed to be running.  A Pakistani cab driver came in and spoke on his cell phone in his native tongue and it sound like an auctioneer.  Helga could hear her own heart beat and the electricity in the room buzzed like high tension wires in a misty rain.  Helga was afraid to blink.  Helga was afraid to move.

            Faster than the speeding light she’s flying

            Try to remember where it all began

            She’s got herself a piece of heaven

            Waiting for the time when earth shall be as one… And I feel like I just got home

            Fucking speeding life is dying

            Try to remember a safer place

            She used to have a bigger land

            Waiting for moment when this will end… And I feel like I can’t get home

            As the Volvo smashed into the barista’s bar and sent people flying, Helga pulled out a double barrel, twelve gauge shot gun and began to shoot at lights, computers.  Carefully and slowly reloading the shells after each shot.  Patrons and workers scattered as if an earthquake was taking place.  Helga plopped down in a chair as the same Madonna song played.  Helga reached in the cooler and popped open a mineral water as the song slowed to the chorus.

            Zephyr in the Sky at night I wonder

            Do my tears of mourning sink beneath the sun

            She’s got herself a universe gone quickly

            For the call of thunder threatens everyone

            Laser surgery may be the answer

            For unwanted hair

            Six minutes a day to get the shape you want

            Buy info tapes today to get yourself out of debt

            Miller Lite or any light?  A ray of light? 

            Lights out, lightology, lighthouse, lightening

            Light my fire, you light up my life…  I am the way, the truth and the light

            Lars book became a best seller in Sweden when it became know what his wife Helga had done in Los Angeles and their well publicized deportation.  When interviewed on American television about the incident, Lars had good answers for his wife’s behavior.

            Not all compact fluorescent lights are the same and not all full spectrum

lights are safe.  There are problems with CFL that go beyond the mercury

problem. Some of these health concerns are namely that they can cause

irritability, depression, hyperactivity, fatigue, headaches etc.  Compact

fluorescent lights (CFL) produce radio wave frequencies. These frequencies

radiate directly from the bulbs and go on the electrical wiring in the home

or school causing poor power quality or dirty electricity. The closer you

sit to the bulb the greater your exposure. Because the high frequencies

travel along the wire you can be exposed in other rooms of your home as well

as the room that contains the CFL.

Many complain that they cannot be in a room

with fluorescent lights because they feel “unwell”. These people have

difficulty shopping in large department stores because of the lighting and

often go with list in hand and spend as little time in the store as

possible. Their cognitive functions diminish and some have difficulty

recalling where they parked their car…  My wife parked our car in the middle of a Starbucks in

Santa Monica, California… She couldn’t recall why.

March 16, 2011

Conjugal Love

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:03 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Klaus came from Cairo.  Not the Cairo you think about with pyramids, pharaohs, the river Nile and most recently the deposition of the president for life Hosni Mubarak.  This Cairo is pronounced CARE-O and is at the southern most tip of the state of Illinois.

            Cairo is a dying southern town in a northern state.  The downtown looks like a prop for movie set.  Klaus was born and raised in the town that began to dwindle some forty years or so ago.  Upon working in a mortuary, Klaus became fascinated with the idea that people, who appeared to be sleeping, were in fact dead.  They’re marbleized; cold skin had to be drained of fluids and then came the task of making them look as though they were still alive.  Klaus’ uncle Fritz learned the trade by his father who learned from his father back in Germany.  Fritz was a magician with drunks who died of elements or fell over the levees and died.  Even those that were badly decomposed, Fritz made to look like they were taking a nap.  Klaus helped his uncle with removing fluids, sewing up eyes and mouths.  As gruesome as the job was, Fritz and Klaus would talk about things like baseball or fishing.

            Klaus became obsessed with living things becoming dead and so Klaus began to troll cities over the Kentucky and Missouri borders for pretty young women.  They had to be young and fair skinned and thin.  Klaus hated dealing with fat remains of billowing fat that when floppy breasts or skin on skin was exposed to the light of day, smelled of skunk and were usually covered with skin tags like mushrooms around a tree stump.  Thin, almost bony women with nice, light, taut skin was ideal for Klaus’ tastes and needs.  Without going into too many gory and disgusting things, Klaus made love to victims that he lured into his home after they were dead.  Saving the left hands of females was like collecting the skulls during time of war by soldiers for Klaus.  He had a deep freezer full of hands when the authorities finally discovered the morbid hobby Klaus was involved in.

            Klaus never tried to deny taking the lives over close to thirty women.  His response was that he loved them all with all the love he had to offer.  Klaus always posed the vague and double sided question to all of them.

            “I could die tonight knowing that I have found the perfect love of my life…  Couldn’t you?”

            Those taken in by his chiseled jaw and strong wiry arms would give themselves totally to the moment and Klaus always meant for the height, the crescendo, to be everlasting and as we all know, death is everlasting.

            Klaus was an intelligent man albeit twisted and sick.  He read about as much of the bible, books of Moses and the Koran as a person could retain and digest.  He read Sartre on a lark but studied Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche and Marx in German.  After all was said and done, Klaus decided that there had to be a reason that some superior being created everything and decided to give humans the intelligence to ponder their own existence and demise when not watching television.  Klaus came to decide that the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church was what god intended humans to believe in.  Klaus came to the decision that the bible was inerrant meaning that it came from God and it essentially is what it is.  In any language.

 Klaus began to proselytize to other inmates and even created a choir.  Klaus always knew he had good pitch and could sing well.  Klaus soon came to learn that he had an exceptional voice.  Klaus listened to Luciano Pavarotti on his headset and came to imitate Pavarotti impeccably.  During Christmas Eve, Klaus sang Ave Maria and brought hardened criminals and sadistic guards to near tears.  Klaus’ voice was so strong and beautiful.  A video clip with audio started to circulate on the outside and before long, Klaus was a sensation.  People began to question if it was right to put to death a human with such an angelic voice who was reformed and understood the errors of his ways and so on.

            The suspension and then abolition of the death penalty in the state of Illinois came just in time for Klaus who was set to die on December 21, 2112.  It wasn’t long after that the state legislature in the state of Illinois passed a law making conjugal visits legal.  Studies showed that with so many broken families and marriages, incarcerated individuals tended to have strong and loving bonds when allowed physical, tangible contact with loved ones.  This study was based on inmate’s abilities to love cats. Allowing the fucking common law wives, talking with offspring about grades and tending to felines all pointed in the direction of positive corrective behavior for even the worst of the worst.

            Klaus began to receive letters and CDs from a woman in Kentucky who claims she had fallen madly for him.  She wrote poems and songs that she sang and played on an acoustic guitar.  The German version of, You Light up My Life sang by a woman named Eloise from Kentucky brought Klaus to tears.

            Es Kann nicht falsch sein wenn es fuhlt sich so richtig denn du sie leuchten auf mein leben…

            A light had gone on in his heart.  Just like the women in the past, he desired a love so strong that he wanted to exclaim from the highest mountain around and there aren’t any in Illinois, that the thin woman who strummed chords on a guitar and sang Debby Boone tunes to him in German, that resembled the plain but beautiful images of the Virgin Mary had she been born in the Netherlands, this was the woman that Klaus loved.

            As time went on, Klaus’ superb tenor voice and his love affair with a woman from Kentucky caught the attention of Oprah during sweeps week.  Oprah showed success stories of former inmates that went on to lead productive lives as cogs in the wheel which is the American dynamo of progress.  Men who became tailors or cooks or hairdressers and then there was Klaus.

            The soft music and kind words from the thin framed woman who hardly spoke above a whisper and Klaus’ proclamation that he had totally transformed into a man who could walk the streets of Cairo or just about anywhere else and not be a threat.

            “Oprah, you have to understand that when you are totally consumed in the work of making the dead aesthetically pleasing for the loved ones that are left behind, it is easy to blur what is real and what isn’t, what is acceptable and what is verboten.  I understand now what I did not as a younger man.  As one of our former presidents often said; he was guilty of the mistakes of youth…  I believe that I love Eloise and that she loves me and am thankful that the humanitarians within the state of Illinois understand that taking a life and not allowing that life to be redemptive and to strip them of their humanity by not allowing families to be families and couples to no longer be couples is the wrong way to set about righting wrongs.  These are correction facilities and punishing loved ones by not allowing the human touch is wrong all across the board.”

            Oprah paused and looked intently into the handsome man’s eyes trying to decide if he was sincere or full of shit.  Klaus returned the look unblinkingly.  Oprah smiled and as she so often has changed the lives of common everyday people in the past, let Klaus know that she had made it possible for Eloise and Klaus to be together.  Oprah put her hand on Klaus’, smiled and posed a question.

            “Are you ready for this?”

            In came Eloise looking more beautiful than any Jan Van Eyck painting could ever look.  The music was soft and they embraced and held each other for close to a minute.  Several cameras captured the looks on their faces from different angles.

            “Isn’t this FANTASTIC!”  Oprah exclaimed.

            Moments later, a man who resembled Val Kilmer walked into the room holding a bible.  Oprah introduced him as the son of Oral Roberts Richard Roberts and host of, The Place for Miracles: Your Hour of Healing.  Eloise and Klaus married on the spot and it made everyone who watched feel really good or really bad for a while until other more important things took precedence like tsunamis, bible proportion earthquakes and Charlie Sheen.

            It was during the third conjugal visit that Eloise was able to sneak in a switch blade knife hidden inside a beautiful homemade cake which was made of chocolate with strawberries.  When the visit was up, Eloise emerged smeared in blood and cake batter.  She was immediately arrested.  Upon questioning Eloise pinned the whole premeditated event on her neighbor’s cat that was possessed and ordered her to befriend Klaus and kill him.  Klaus sustained close to twenty stab wounds while fellatio was being performed on him.  Klaus recovered and vowed to stay celibate for the remainder of his life and sing for those that loved to hear beautiful music in Italian.  During an interview regarding the incident with Eloise, a mindless reporter posed the question as to how he felt about Eloise.  Klaus was direct and polite.

            “These sorts of things can make you sick.  I don’t let anger eat me up.”

March 4, 2011

My Way or Zimbabwe

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:51 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The word had come down from a federal agent to Salvatore Scarpelli that the FBI would be rounding up many gangsters wanted for murder, narcotics, prostitution and money laundering. Sal “The Horse” or “The Hammer” Scarpelli quickly gathered up all his liquid assets and took a trip to Zimbabwe. When his wife asked where Zimbabwe was and why he would want to go there, Sal had an answer. “Dey got dem falls there that is like one of dem seven wundahs of the woild. I always wanted to go to Africa… You know to kinda look around.” It sounded crazy to Sal’s wife until about four days later when a dozen or more federal agents came in through the door while Sal’s wife was smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee and watching live footage of federal agents rounding up suspected and confirmed mobsters. Sal’s weeping wife called Sal who at that moment he had an audience with the dictator Robert Mugabe of Zimbabe. They were drinking wine and Robert Mugabe was trying to explain the rules of the sport cricket.

 “Eet t’is a fantastic game… So you ave a bowler much like a pitcher een your baseball. The blowler ees trrrying to spin the ball so as to knock down dee wickets behind the batsman. The whole team at bat must get out firrrst before your team takes the field… Thee world cup ees going on now in India. Eet ees a fantastic time. I don’t meese a match. Thaat an Two and a Half Men. Fantastic show.”

 Sal had to take the phone call of his frantic wife who had a house full of federal agents ransacking their home and holding her for questioning as to where he was exactly. Sal’s wife couldn’t remember the name of the country and so she asked Sal to speak with one of the agents in charge.

“That’s right… Zim-bab-we… No extradition laws here, my friend so you can go fuck yourselves, ya hear me? You motherfuckers got some fucking nerve coming in my fucking house, upsetting my fucking wife foist thing in the morning…”

Now Zimbabwe is a landlocked country just above South Africa that used to be Rhodesia and has been ruled by one man since 1980. Their national motto is, “unity, freedom, work”. Close to 94% of the country is unemployed; and dissent of any kind is dangerous for one’s health. Despite the fact that Mugabe was able to stamp out dissent over the course of thirty one years, the new wave of political unrest in countries such as Bahrain, Egypt and Libya did not go unnoticed by the president of Zimbabwe. President Mugabe understood that Sal Scarpelli was a diamond in the rough, an ace in the hole and an answer to prayer. Salvatore Scarpelli was a ruthless gangster who received the nickname, “The Hammer” because he actually killed many people with a claw hammer when he was young and on the rise. The other nickname, “The Horse” was given to him due to the fact that when his penis was fully erect, was nearly nine inches long and 2.75 inches in circumference. Sal relished both nicknames. Over the course of thirty years, Sal went from a young foot soldier on the streets of New York to a multi-millionaire who owned land, businesses and had friends in law enforcement and government. Sal’s generosity most likely saved him when, if you’ll pardon the pun, when the hammer dropped.

Robert Mugabe laughed and shook his head as one of his assistants put on a cricket match between Zimbabwe and New Zealand. Zimbabwe was up 137-8 and it did not look good. New Zealand could probably match that score with two batsmen. President Mugabe spoke to Sal who was speaking to the feds but Sal wasn’t listening. When the conversation ended for Sal, President Mugabe got to the point of wanting a visit with such a high ranking mob figure from the United States. Sal was all ears as the saying goes.

“Your rrrrecord, your methods, your elusiveness is trrruly fantastic. I use the word fantastic when things are trrruly above board, top shelf… You my friend are thaat such perrrson. Things thaat need to be done without emotion or merrrcy is what I need. As you may ave erred, this Facebook, Twitter sensation has rrrun amok in northern Afrrrrica. I cannot afford to go out like Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette. No guillotines, no Rrrobespierre or new age of enlightenment… Dissent comes about like a brrrush fire and I need a rrrreally good fireman. I cannot allow dissent. I would like to make you ed of omeland security. South Afrrrrica add thees during the old days of aparrrtheid. Eet ees a way of keeping everrrything calm… I think eet aas a fantastic rrring: Salvatore Scarpelli, director of omeland security.”

 Sal got to work of amassing an army of men who secretly kept an eye on cafes and bars or anywhere where people congregated. Anyone accused of dissent went before a tribunal. Sal oversaw the hearings. The hearings went much like this:

“Peter metah… meetah coomboh… Ya know it would be fucking helpful to me if someone here who knows how to pronounce these fucking names might prompt me a bit on how to say this shit. DON’T JUST FUCKING STAND THERE! GO THROUGH THE FUCKING LIST AND WRITE DEM OUT PHONECIANLY SO I’M NOT TRIPPING ON MY FUCKING COCK HERE! Now then Peter… I will call you Peter for now until I get a bit of assistance. It has been brought to my attention that you have been brought here on charges of trying to foment a riot. Are you now or have you ever been a subvoisive?”

 It Worked as planned. Before long people from all walks of life were informing on each other to escape prison and possible torture. People were deathly afraid of the foreign white man who showed no mercy. It was like the Salem witch hunts and Red Scare rolled into one. The Department of Homeland Security worked with the efficiency of the KGB. Nobody trusted anyone and feared death or imprisonment for expressing an opinion. The President felt safe again to watch television and nap during the day. Sal when not presiding over the fates of Zimbabwe nationals, tended to his harem of women. Sal liked women of all colors and had new ones in his small mansion at all times. Sal liked two women at a time usually. Life was good for Sal in a country where white people were scared of black reprisal. Black people were now scared of a strange white man given full authority to keep peace by any and all means necessary.

 “In New York, we would take a fucking guy like you and string him up with a cement block attached to his ankles and drop him in the fucking river. That would keep him from ever getting ideas in his head again about going against the machine. Zimbabwe is the machine and the machine must work if it is to survive and flourish… Four months. We’ll review your case again after you’ve had some time to think about your delusions of fucking grandeur… Take his ass away from me… Next!”

 Sal was big tabloid news in the United States. Television networks wanted to interview Sal Scarpelli but only one interview was granted and that was to Eliot Spitzer. CNN sent Eliot Spitzer to Harare, Zimbabwe to conduct the interview that was doctored up to keep the public from hearing profanity. Rolling Stone Magazine got a hold of the real interview and the entire interview became an instant sensation on the internet. Sal answered all the questions asked of him and then had questions of his own.

 “I got a question you proly don’t want to answer but maybe one the public back in the United States might wanna ask themselves. How is it that a former district attorney and governor of New York who prided himself on going after so called, “organized crime”, gets fucking whacked for paying tens of fucking thousands on high priced call girls while he at the same time is fighting it? And then CNN give him a fucking show where he has the fucking balls to cross the fucking woild to ask me if I have any remorse for what I’ve done. Well I can tell you I won’t cry like a fucking bitch while my old lady stands next to me stone faced at a press conference. You can fucking bet your last fucking peso on that. Private failings is what you called it, am I right, Eliot? You fucking got caught and that’s the difference between you and me. I’m director of Homeland Security in Zimbabwe. That should be a big enough thorn in your fucking ass. As they say in every one of these countries that drive on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car: good day, sir.”

 The winds of change blew over parts of Africa but Zimbabwe remained as tight as a drum. Sal was heavily rewarded for keeping order. Sal lived like a French king and loved living in a land that had so much disparity. Sal rode around in his bullet proof Lincoln Continental and looked at emaciated, barefoot blacks hanging around aimlessly. Privately he thought to himself that it was no different than driving through Harlem in New York.

 While driving through Harare one day, Sal spotted the most beautiful white woman he had ever seen wearing a tight Red Cross shirt, talking to a group of children. Her hair was reddish and her face was angelic. Her athletic frame attracted Sal. He liked women who could sprint over those that could pull a wagon. Sal ordered the car to stop. He popped a mint in his mouth and smoothed back his salt and pepper hair before exiting his vehicle. A dozen men with machine guns surrounded the perimeter. Sal approached the woman with an English accent.

 “I noticed your Red Cross shirt and was wondering if I might be of some assistance to you ma’am… I work for the government.”

 The beautiful woman smiled and fluttered her eyes nervously before speaking. Sal was mesmerized by every facet of the woman’s being.

 “So kind of you to stop… Yes, well as you can see, these children are orphans who are forced to beg in the streets and though it is Africa and they very well might not die of the elements as say… Brooklyn in January, they nonetheless are hungry and without shelter.”

 Sal, unable to blink resolved to do everything in his power to help the situation. The woman who went by the name of Rachel was invited to dine with Sal at his home. Sal learned that Rachel played guitar and wrote poetry and decided it was her duty to help those less fortunate than herself for a few years before going on with her life. She wore a summer dress that showed ample cleavage and contoured her flat stomach and shapely bum. Love was in the air for Sal and the idea that Rachel would eat his food, drink his wine and converse with him and then leave, was an impossibility. Sal nearly demanded that Rachel stay the night with him but Rachel prevailed. Upon leaving, Rachel sent Sal a text message some twenty minutes after her departure. The message went as follows:

 I realize now I should have stayed. I want you too so very badly. Please come to see me at my room in Harare. I will be waiting for you, counting the minutes : )

 Sal showered and perfumed all areas that might sweat due to being anxious and desirous. Sal dismissed his guards and told them to wait in the lobby of the hotel where Rachel lived. He approached Rachel’s room alone. Waiting at the door in an ivory colored negligee that draped every so daintily over her firm breasts was Rachel. She had one toned arm up, holding the door as she greeted Sal with a smile.

 “I promise you won’t be disappointed…”

 Sal came to some time later on an airplane while wearing a straight jacket. Sitting on either side of him on a small jet were two white men. One was reading a fitness magazine and the other was napping with folded arms. Sal in a groggy state asked the man who was reading the magazine what was happening. He explained that he had been captured by the FBI and was being taken to a federal court in New York on a slew of charges. Sal became instantly despondent and remorseful that he allowed his libido to trap him like a preying mantis. Before being sentenced, the judge in federal court asked if he wanted to make a statement. Sal thought about it for a second and then asked to speak. The judge nodded his approval to Sal.

 “Um Robbie… Thanks for shot. I’m my own worst enemy. My advice to you: get the good looking dames outta the country. It’ll be your Waterloo.”

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