Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 21, 2012

F#@k Las Vegas… This is Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:14 pm
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            Trev and Tracy, both exceptionally good looking and best friends, were bailed out of jail by a man they had never met by the name Bruce. Trev and Tracy had all the qualities of a tandem that could possibly go Columbine.  They were each other’s best friend, hated everyone and everything and lacked empathy for others the way any respectable sociopath like Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy or the Son of Sam lacked compassion.  Trev and Tracy grew huge in a short period of time from using steroids.  Both long haired, young men, stood a hair below six feet of height and weighed about 215 lbs.  Among ordinary men, the were formidable and knew it.  The two were arrested for starting a bar brawl at a bar on Woodward in Ferndale that was holding a gay Tango dance night.  Trev and Tracy taunted the patrons until they were confronted.  Trev and Tracy beat up several guys, broke chairs, glasses and mirrors within the establishment before the Ferndale, Michigan Police collected them.  Bruce came to their rescue with bond money.

            Neither Trev nor Tracy knew who Bruce was. They came out of a holding pen to see a short and stocky Jewish man with a bad toupee that looked like a black helmet.  Bruce was talking on a cell phone with his elbow sticking out at his side and his pinky finger with a large sparkly ring, pointing daintily in the air.  He wore a Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned down to the third button, his gray chest hair contrasted against his tan skin and a large star of David.

            “Boys…  You two are bad motherfuckers.  I’ve been hearing about your escapades for some time and found out from a friend of a friend

of some other fucking guy, that you were locked up for some fisticuffs with a bunch of fags. I myself would kick the shit out of anyone for doing the Tango.  Who does the Tango anymore?”

            The boys looked down and shook their heads in agreement.  Bruce was a strong presence even though he was paunchy and short.  Bruce put his arms around both boys and walked them down to a 1963 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors.  Trev recognized the car and asked Bruce if it was the car that Kennedy was killed in.

            “You are a very astute student of American history, son…  This is a replica of the exact automobile that our

late president was assassinated in.  I was a young boy when he was killed but you want to talk about hope and change…  That motherfucker was a breath of fresh air after a decade of Red Scares, witch hunts and what have you…  I could put the top down if you want but there is always a chance that some motherfucker in a vacant book depository might take pot shots at us.  After all, this is Detroit..”

            Bruce’s driver was a large black man with mutton sideburns.  They listened to the Isley Brothers while Bruce’s assistant made Mai Tai’s in the back of the massive vehicle for the boys.

            “You boys have a rep…  You are both known as bad motherfuckers in a bad motherfucking town.  Detroit is serious bad.  It’s hard to be a bad motherfucker with palm trees around.  You walk the desolate streets of Detroit, that is some shit and you two motherfuckers got the shit I’m looking for…  You know what I’m saying?”

            The boys shook their heads like bobble heads; up and down and sideways.  They pretended to know what Bruce was saying but they motherfucking didn’t know.

            ”Boys…  I am a promoter of a fight league of true brawlers.  I am associated with raw, brute strength.  You two are built like motherfucking Greek gods. No fat and nothing but muscle with the knowledge of how to fight.  I back fighters in fighting matches.  This ain’t no fucking fake wrestling shit with fat fucks swinging chairs.  This ain’t some octagon shit with a ref to stop you from dying.  This is a ring where the fight stops when someone stops moving. I know you two could kick some fucking ass.  My money is on you two.  So here’s the thing; you win, you get 10k, you lose, you get 2k.  I give you each a grand now and the remainder when the match concludes.  Now this isn’t some weak shit.  You two will be put up at the Motor City Casino and chauffeured over to the arena on Rosa Parks near Corktown.”

            “What’s the name of the arena?”  Asked Tracy.

            “The motherfucking Bruce the Bruiser’s emporium of ass kicking…  Whaddya say?”

            “I wish it were in Vegas…” said Trev.

            “Fuck Las Vegas.  This is Detroit.”  Said Bruce.

            Come fight night, a Saturday night.  A limousine came to collect the two young men.  They were driven to a desolate area of mostly vacant buildings on a street in Detroit that was named after a black woman who was a bit of a pioneer.  Neither boy knew who Rosa Parks was.  Tracy thought she was Betsy Ross, the woman who made flags for President Washington or something like that.

            The boys were whisked into a dank hallway that smelled of mold where the floors were covered with water that had seeped through holes in walls.  Their outfits were laid out for them. Two purple colored Speedo like trunks with sequins were on a rudimentary board under a bare lamp that hung from the ceiling.  A rotund man with hair on both sides and nothing up the center, entered with four chins and a thick moustache.  He held a large can of mineral oil.

            “I’m here to oil you both down and mousse your hair.”

            Two large men came in and escorted Trev and Tracy who were oiled and moussed in purple trunks down a long hallway where they could hear Euro music blaring on a sound system.  The boys watched scantily dressed men, wearing chaps with nothing on the ass, serving beer to patrons only attended by men.  Men who looked macho like bikers or truck drivers and wimpy looking English teachers and artists, singles and couples.  In to the ring stepped two large men that were slightly smaller than seven feet in height and about three hundred pounds.  They had long blond, curly hair and huge muscles. They wore Speedo style trunks that had Texas on the ass and a white outline of the state where their cocks would be.  They both had erections that looked like a tent pole holding up a tent.  Sideways.  They wore cowboy hats and had whiter than white teeth.

                “Harry… Which one them you want?  Imma have the smaller one.  I like when they small.  They scream louder.”  Said Larry.

                “Larry…  Don’t much matter ta me.  I love em all jus the same…  y’all bout to git yer asses beat.”  Said Harry.

                Trev and Tracy tried to climb out of the ring.  The door was locked to the chain link fence that was twelve feet high and slathered in oil too to prevent any sort of climbing.  Both Trev and Tracy found it was impossible to climb the fence.  Trev and Tracy ran around the arena, afraid for their lives.  It was a surreal moment for both of them.  They looked at the faces of the ordinary people in attendance and could see the perverse excitement on their faces; they wanted to see blood, gore, violence and rape.  Eventually the Texas twins were able to catch both Trev and Tracy.  It was like MMA meets Deliverance.  Once back in the cold holding pen that served as the “visitors” locker room, the prep/oil man, handed them two towels and soap.  Trev and Tracy were bloody, sore, bruised and humiliated in a way they never thought possible.  Bruce walked in with three large men and dropped two envelopes of cash for Trev and Tracy with a sadistic smile on his face.

                “I got  two asskickers coming in from Boston.  Tough Irish kids with pseudo black accents who fancy themselves some really tough motherfuckers.  It will be quite a show tomorrow.  We are in nowhere fucking Detroit in a home made five thousand seat arena where sick motherfuckers are coughing up $100.00 a ticket, $500.00 ring side to see the male equivalent of the donkey show.  As PT once said, there is a sucker born every second and I’m there to take em…  Have a nice evening.”

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August 14, 2012

Nighthawks

Filed under: Ethnicity,obama,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:15 am
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Mathilde, a name she created for herself, decided when she opened up her Jazz club, that she would only speak French to her bartender, whom she was sleeping with on nights when she really wanted to have sex.  Jasper would then watch Mathilde light a cigarette, flick her wrist towards Jasper and say, “va t’en…”

Mathilde inherited money from the husband of her grandmother who had married the last of five husbands. George never had children and had saved well after serving in World War II.  Mathilde lived in Paris for a year and then returned to the states to claim her money and open her club.

Mathilde was into Film Noir and a look among women and men of days gone by.  She tried hard to recreate something that didn’t exist any longer.  Jasper wore a red sports coat and a thin black tie.  The television screens in the club were from the 1950’s and only played old movies.  Mathilde could speak perfect English but chose to only speak French upon returning from France.  The job description online for a bartender was that he not she, had to be fluent in French.  Jasper was born in Montreal.  Jasper was not French but had to learn French in a French-speaking city.  Jasper found Mathilde amusing.  He did not mind fucking the thin woman with tangerine shaped tits when the mood caught her.

“Sir, there are very few people in this day in age that would selflessly give to their country and join the armed forces.  I have chosen the infantry so that given the opportunity; I can send those Allah loving towel heads up to heaven to get their 72 virgins in the afterlife.  I feel very strongly about this sir.”

“How old are you, son?”

“21 today, sir.”

“Well thanks for that.  I forgot to check your ID.  I used to live in Los Angeles, West Los Angeles to be exact.  I used to take a number 2 Santa Monica bus from Westwood near UCLA down Wilshire Boulevard to where I lived.  The bus would cut through the VA and cemetery where thousands of boys laid silent.  Boys just like you.  I hope you make it back and go on with your life, kid.”

“Sir, it is what god has chosen for me.”

“Another mango rum, kid?”

“Better make it two.”

Mathilde sat on a stool in the center of the bar and listened to all the patrons speak to Jasper.  She would comment to Jasper in French.  Of course.

“Pourquoi?  Il est tres jeune et beau …”

“Right…  Like Rousseau said; a blank slate.”

“These Jazz dudes think they got it all figured out.  They all tend to play the same shit from a ten-year period where colored dudes were shooting heroin and turning Benny Goodman on his head.  This was the American classic period, man.  This is Beethoven, Mozart and Bach for Americana.  Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane and these young white dudes play it and play it.  Don’t get me wrong, man.  I dig it.”

“Colored…  Now that takes me back to a simpler time.  Pay phones, UHF and Richard Nixon.  Say Mack… Why the Steven Segal look?  Nixon had a similar hairline to you.  He would never have pulled it back in a pony tail, had a vodka with a splash of cranberry and called a colored an African-American.”

“You’re right about that, Jasper…  It is sort of redundant, isn’t it?  I mean they all came from Africa so why always push that back in their faces every time you refer to one of them with the obvious?  Am I right, Jas?”

“Who could argue with that logic?  Another splash of cranberry with your vodka?”

“Easy on the ice and easy on the cranberry…”

“Doucement avec l’alcool…  la coute pour ca c’est trop cher.”

“Jasper…  You are an ageless creature.  You must be a half-century but look to be under the age of thirty-five.  How do you do it?”

“Well, I eat well, exercise and try to keep in mind that everything happening here is transitory.”

“Transitory…  I like that word.  It is a polite way of saying that everything doesn’t really mean shit, correct?”

“Righto mate…  Some slob stood in this bar 100 years ago and discussed the Titanic slipping into the sea and breaking up the huge monopolies like US Steel and Standard Oil.  Guys like you ordered a whiskey for under a nickel and guys like me made thirty cents a day and lived in a flophouse.  I live in an apartment and make…  not that much more than thirty cents a day and is it really living versus existing?  Le plus les choses changent, le plus ils sont le meme…”

“My exact words…  Another Hemingway, please.  Absinthe with a hint of champagne, please.”

“Tu gagne beaucoups d’argent et les autres chose sont plus important que d’argent, mon vieux.”

“Bien sur, madam…”

“Romney picked wisely.  I think the kid looks presidential actually.  So Romney takes a job that nobody should ever want.  One of these smelly punks who sit in parks, strumming guitars, worrying about the rich, suddenly becomes furious that their hope has changed and buys a gun from the same guy who is hooking them up with drugs and kills Romney.  This leaves the job to the kid from Wisconsin.  Mind you that this hippie assassin, this modern day Lee Harvey Oswald’s family is contributing to a Protestant church somewhere in suburbia and is also one of those families who gave  $250.00 to help Romney defeat the incumbent while also sending money to their bust out son who lives in a park somewhere, protesting  everything…  What do you think?”

“I think that any restaurant that only offers you two choices on the menu, cannot be too good.”

“That sounds very communist.”

“Freedom or the illusion of freedom is the heroin of the masses…  I think Marx said that, didn’t he?”

“Never mind…  Give me another one of those Belgian beers.”

“Of course.  That sounds very American.”

“Jill…  I don’t mind the whole French thing in front of the consumers but you don’t need to do that when we’re alone.  We both speak English as a first language.   Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind just once?”

Mathilde spoke in a clear Midwestern accent while laying on her side, smoking a cigarette out of a holder while listening to Nat King Cole sing in French.

“Life sounds better in French…  Even if it is not even close to being ideal.”

Jasper lifted his eyebrows as he slipped on his pants and readied himself to leave Mathilde’s house for the night.

“D’accord…  C’est votre vie et j’habite etre avec vous…”

August 9, 2012

MC Puppet Master- 1% of that 1%

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 8:12 pm
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I’m that one percent of that one percent.  Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha!  I’m the real puppet master.

 

Candidates pointing fingers in debates, fluxuating interest rates.  I make money when rains and when it shines.  Think it’s yours?  It’s mine.

 

I feed the elephants and feed the donkey, I’m the scariest motherfucking honkey.  I got an army that works for me.  I’m bigger than Mobile/ Exxon and BP.

 

To know me is to love me.  Red carpet, white glove me.  I could put the NBA and every rapping NWA and have the entire CIA in my deep pockets.  The rich own jets- I own rockets.

 

I’m the real Anglo-Saxon, my phone is blownin up from my cousin-the queen she’s relaxin at a quaint palace in London- nice place- I own mother fucking islands.

 

I own heads of state and real estate larger than Texas or Alaska and all other 50 states.  Your piece of the pie comes off my plate. People hate me but they need me.  I’m the one who makes the economy.  So how y’all feel knowing your just cogs in my wheel?

 

I’m that one percent of that one percent.  Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha!  I’m the real puppet master.

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