Blackhumouristpress's Blog

July 21, 2014

Operation Crowbar or I Gotta Guy

At city hall in the city of Chicago, early on a Monday morning after reading about a dozen murders and over thirty shootings between Friday and Sunday, the mayor threw a fit.
“How is it that we have more fucking murders in this goddamn city than Baghdad or Kabul? I’m tired of press conferences where I hear that the murder rate is actually down but shootings are out of control. It’s a tribute to medicine that thirty people get shot and only a dozen die… THIS BULLSHIT HAS TO END NOW! I’M READY TO HEAR SOME IDEAS OUT OF YOU ALL INSTEAD OF DUMB FUCKING LOOKS… ANYONE?”
The common reply among men in Chicago when someone needs something fixed; I gotta guy. One of the mayor’s guys had a guy.
Now the mayor of Chicago knew about apartheid South Africa about as much as most Americans. It was a terrible thing that a white minority instituted separation of races. A guy named Mandela went from being a Communist perpetrator and an enemy of the state to president and so on and so forth. One of the mayor’s aides knew a guy, who knew a guy who knew the guy necessary to straighten things out in a way that could be understood in the hood. When a large smiling man with a sizable space between his two upper front teeth arrived at a meeting at city hall, it was clear he had the strongest personality in the room. With a strong Afrikaner accent, Jan used an analogy to explain the task ahead of him.
“Thees prrroblem you arrrre having ees nothing. Whaat you arrrre asking of me ees like asking a chef to make you a hard-boiled egg… Now you have to ask yourselves eef the peace you will get ees worth the price you are going to pay. Peace costs money, my friends.”
The large man was once responsible for keeping order in South African townships where angry black people were unhappy about the oppressive laws forced upon them. Jan also overthrew dictators in Africa and lead South African troops to a war in Angola. Dissuading random gangbangers from randomly murdering innocents and others deemed deserving did not seem like a difficult task to Jan. A huge price tag would be accompanied by a huge presence not seen since the riots after Martin Luther King Jr.
Jan stopped talking for a moment. He took out a marker and began writing on a blank sheet of paper. The squeak of the marker was the only sound in the room. Jan stood up and walked over to the mayor’s desk and ripped off a piece of tape and taped the paper to the wall. One word was written on it that nobody understood since it was a Dutch/Afrikaans word.

KOEVOET

“You all know the word Apartheid… Learn thees Dutch word, my new frrrriends… Like a fucking hard boiled egg.”

Nothing was announced and nothing was said beyond the walls of city hall. The following Monday, it was front page news that nobody died or was shot within the city limits of Chicago other than one domestic dispute gone wrong. The papers tried to analyze why. The mayor came out with the chief of police to announce that the authorities were turning the corner and getting a handle of the situation and other canned catch phrases used by politicians and athletes alike. So what really happened?
Dozens of enormous trucks with steering wheels on the right side of the vehicles pulled up in every neighborhood with high incidents of murder. These trucks were like Hummers on steroids. They were like angry Land Rover limousines capable of withstanding landmines. For those who liked jacked up vehicles with large rims, these high riding trucks were an item to inspire true awe. Close to thirty former South African Police trucks called Casspirs rolled into rough streets where tourists never tarry. People who stood on corners and front porches began to notice soldiers of fortune filing out of the Casspirs with automatic weapons and scopes. These weren’t fat, old, white men in cop cars. These were white and black men equally in full soldier uniform that were soldiers of fortune from South Africa. Chicago residents in the shit neighborhoods who followed the law and rules and never sold a drug or carried a weapon, smiled and waved at the stoic soldiers that walked around with their fingers on triggers. Something serious and different was afoot. At the press conference with the mayor and chief of police, the mayor responded to the questioned that was posed repeatedly; what did you do to stop the violence?
“We used a crowbar… Sometimes you need to pry back to get at things… Next question… Nobody was murdered this weekend in the city of Chicago. Let’s talk about other things that need fixing… Let’s talk about the Cubs.”

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July 14, 2014

When Terry Met Terrance or Death by Viagra

“Is this a sick joke? Did you do this on purpose? Take this away from here this instant! This cannot stay in our cell another moment!”
Terrance never really knew the details of his cellmate and fiancé’s offenses. Terry shared a cell with Terrance at Statesville prison in the state of Illinois, in United States. Terrance, a large man among men, was what slave owners and NFL football owners alike looked for in a man. Terrance was wrongly accused of killing a police officer on the south side of Chicago. Terrance has served five years and he will eventually be exonerated but things such as murder and wrongful conviction take some time to sort out. You understand.
Terry arrived a little over two years ago and became not only a cellmate of Terrance, but also his girlfriend and fiancé. Terry spends a lot of time trying to get a judge to marry him to Terrance. The prison officials have told him repeatedly that such a thing in prison is not possible. Terry has written to the governor several times and the governor has read the letters and thought to himself; why not? A Democratic governor running against a well to-do Republican challenger, does not need to hand cannon fodder to his opponent and so the idea of a marriage between men in prison will have to be entertained after the election. You understand.
Terrance knew that Terry was responsible for killing a rich elderly man by forcing him to swallow three Viagra pills at gun point while having his 25 year old girlfriend ride him until he had a heart attack. What Terrance wasn’t aware of was that the rich elderly man, made a fortune making fur coats. Mink to be exact. Terry could not wrap his head around people killing such cute little animals for coats and coats for rich people to be more precise. Terry worked hard to be hired to cook for the rich elderly man in his home and when the time was right, Terry chose death by Viagra.
“Fucking swallow all three pills, you goddamn killer… All three or I’ll blow your fucking head off, so help me!”
Before long, the elderly man was as stiff as a board. At that time, Terry ordered the young gold digging girlfriend to mount the old man in a reverse cowboy so that she would have to face Terry with a cocked revolver. Within an hour, the mink killer had passed. And so it goes.
Terrance being a black man had always wanted a white woman. He never quite got around to finding one to his liking. Terrance was not willing to settle for an obese, slovenly white chick with a bad dye job. With the prospect of being in prison for the rest of his life, the idea of being with an attractive white male who was effeminate and truly a woman trapped in a man’s skin was not so bad. Terrance never fancied men but over time, the idea was not repulsive to him.
Like any couple, Terrance and Terry had their problems and differences. Terry was overly interested in the lives of the Kardashians and liked gardening while Terrance liked watching violent movies and MMA and boxing matches. Terry liked to be kissed and caressed before penetration and Terrance wasn’t much for foreplay. Terry would lay in Terrance’s arms after love making and eventually doze off to the sound of Terrance snoring in his ear. When you take away the differences, Terry loved that Terrance was strong and protective and Terrance liked Terry’s feminine tendencies and delicate manner except for when Terry would get angry.
“Look… You my baby and I got to take care of you. When I was on the outside, buying a fur for the one you love was a good thing. I know you cold most the time and I thought that having a fur, a good and expensive article of motherfucking clothing, would be something good. You don’t want it, then don’t wear it. I’ll git my money back. You an ungrateful bitch. You never went without ya whole life and so when you git something nice and good, you don’t give a shit.”
Terry was shaking and crying and trying to think of what he would say in response. It was obvious that Terrance was not understanding the evil in killing a harmless little animal for prestige.
“You could have given me anything else for an anniversary present and I would have loved it but this is a spit in my face… You are either stupid or insensitive but either way, you are oblivious to my feelings and that hurts more.”
Terrance lifted weights later that day, hurt and angry while Terry weeded in his garden. At meals, they ate separate and went to bed in separate beds quiet and angry at one another. Terrance couldn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned and thought about apologizing several times but couldn’t bring himself to do it for hours. Terrance didn’t believe he intentionally did anything wrong but knew that the only way out of it was to kiss ass. At 1:07am, Terrance whispered to Terry.
“I apologize for whatever you think I did wrong…”
That did not go over very well. You understand.

July 7, 2014

Saying Goodbye to Father

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:00 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Delice, named after the Freshman school teacher that helped her mother accept the fact that she was going to become a mother at the age of 15, arrived at the hospital to see her father who was dying. She arrived wearing dowdy Amish clothing with her eldest daughter who was cross eyed and full of acne. Denise, the daughter of Delice, strummed an autoharp while her mother alternated between receiting bible verses and singing hymnals in German and English.

Delice was raised in a broken home as they were called in the seventies. She smoked pot, had sex, wore Van Shoes, Ocean Pacific clothing and had a thing for surfer boys in Los Angeles where she was raised by her mother.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Delice moved from Los Angeles to the no-mans land in Michigan south of Detroit and north of the Ohio border. It was while working at an interstate 75 road stop that she met a young Amish man who was on his way from Michigan to Pennsylvania with family. The thought came to Delice that maybe a simple life without drugs and random sex, might be a good life. She told the young man who stopped to urinate at the rest stop and marveled at the gawdiness of the Sunoco gas station, that she had a dream about marrying an Amish man who looked exactly like him. The young man was visually taken in by the shapely and pretty young woman and so he took her with him. As time went on, Delice became more and more Amish. Maybe too Amish for most Amish.

Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art!

Now Delice had a brother who was raised in southern California, became a Punk Rock kid who moved out of his mother’s home at age fifteen and joined his sister in nowhere Michigan with their dad. Mathew Luke or Luke Mathew as he was sometimes called, lived with his father, a former Vietnam Veteran for a lot of his life. Delice’s short time with her father prior to becoming Amish, left her with different memories of life with father.

Luke Mathew’s wife, a buxom black woman who owned several hair braiding salons in and around Detroit, sat next to her husband and texted a suitor who loved her pretty smile, large ass and breasts. Dominica loved the attention but had yet to act on her urges to be with other men who were less cavemanesque than her husband. Mathew Luke’s and Dominca’s twin sons played Mindcraft on hand held computers. They really didn’t know their grandfather nor did they like him. He was old and angry looking and really white. They were kind of white but not really.

Picture this: It is a hospital room with a patient and six other people. Two are Amish, one is a white man with no hair, tattoos, scars and a sleeveless shirt to show off his arms, his buxom wife who happens to be black and their twin boys who care most for their hand held electronics. And then the patient.

Mathew Luke waited for his sister to finish praying, singing and crying over a man she never really knew. After a thirty minute prayer that was more like a eulogy, Luke Matthew was given the chance to say a few words to his dad who was left unable to speak due to a stroke.

“Pop…you were a mean motherfucker. As a kid, my friends and all thought you looked like Charles Manson. You were a drunk, a mean drunk that shot at people who owed you money, made racist comments my whole life including calling my two boys, “the little brown ones”. Your fixation with young Asian girls is warped, your hygiene is poor as is your attitude. You should have died in that house fire ten years ago when you were burned over 65% of your body. I was told then that you would die and I knew you wouldn’t. I told them that any man who could drink and smoke for a week straight without eating and sleeping, could suddenly stop the self abuse, eat a yogurt and then jog ten miles, could not die so easily by a mere burn. Most people would have died from the pain but you lived off of the pain of life. It keeps you going. Sure you can hear me and you love the idea that your daughter who has joined a Germanic cult has come to sing songs and recite bible verses that need to go through a translator. It ain’t a bad thing. I look here today at my two boys who cannot hear me right now because they are engrossed in some mindless bullshit that I don’t understand on computers. They will stand over me one day hopefully and say something kind. So I will say something kind too. You are a strong man with a will to go on despite the fact that you have abused your liver for over forty years. On the other hand you are a racist and an angry loner. You were given the gift of a high metabolism and great stamina to have a physique of a thirty year old man while in your sixties. You helped me at times of self doubt to not be a pussy. You made me fight other boys that I was afraid to fight or face you. I was always willing to fight others than have to face you. When I thought I was impotent because I couldn’t maintain an errection due to nerves as a teen, you told me to relax and have the girl, “pop it in her mouth the way your mom once did for me”. So in closing, I don’t think you are on the way out. I think you’ll bounce back as you have so many other times before…”

Wade, their father motioned with a slightly operational right hand for a pad of paper and a pen. Wade scribbled something barely legible. It was short and to the point. It astounded Delice but not Mathew Luke. This is what it said:

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PUNK ASS BITCH.

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