Blackhumouristpress's Blog

September 1, 2016

They Got Your Number

Dirk’s phone rang while he picked his nose and read text message while standing and pissing over the toilet at work. Dirk had to roll up his sleeve and reach into his piss to retrieve the phone. The ring tone of a barking dog was what went off every time Dirk’s wife called. Dirk had the ring tone on high. When it rang, the bark echoed in the large men’s room at work. For others that were in that room at that moment, it sounded like a real German Sheppard in the bathroom. One puzzled pisser looked under the stall to find a guy kneeling and swearing over the toilet bowl. It was 9am and it already had the making of a bad day.
While Dirk was sitting on the red line, elevated train which ran parallel to Lake Michigan on Chicago’s north side towards downtown, he made a few phone calls and paid a bill over the phone.
“1776 1812 1942 911… expiration date 1-21… numbers on the back? 9000… zip code? 60203 and the name on the card should be Dirk P. Eller. E L L E R.”
Sitting next to Dirk was a chubby young man with a bike helmet on, holding a skateboard with a long beard like a relief pitcher in baseball, a post Civil War president or even a religious Jew. The young man had recently been deposed from his city of Chicago job for sleeping on the job. His job was to place the Denver Boot, wheel lock device on automobiles that had collect more than three unpaid tickets to the city of Chicago. The man’s name was Bill. Bill got off of work and played video games all day at home, on his couch until he noticed the sun was gone through the window. Bill got home from work, ate cold cuts and pizza crust that was two days old out of a box resting on the garbage, turned on his X Box and literally played until he had to return to work. Where did the time go Bill wondered to himself. He finished work at 8 am, got home by 10 am, ate, took a shit and then played until 10pm at night. No sleep. Not even a nap and it was time to return to work. A couple of No-Doze pills and a Red Bull gave Bill the runs quick and then he was alert until about 4 am. At about that time, Bill pulled behind a car that he was supposed to be placing the boot on and fell asleep until 9 am. When he opened his eyes, the world was fast at work. Cars everywhere, people walking and the sun was high in the sky. He had 24 missed calls on his phone which was on silent. This was the third time. Bill lost his job. Nobody feels pity for tow truck drivers or those that place the boot on autos or for sheriffs that need to evict people when they lose their jobs. All are well hated. Bill happened to be recording all the information Dirk was giving over the phone. Dirk was well dressed and looked like a smug, rich fuck. Bill was going to have a little fun with his ex-boss and charge it to Dirk’s card. Bill reasoned that the goods would be returned and Dirk wouldn’t actually have to pay anything.
Dirk’s phone in the toilet? Yes, it was Dirk’s wife who discovered a charge of almost $10,000.00 to an online sex toy outlet. A semi truck full of boxes addressed to Bill’s boss who had fired him, arrived at their city office off of Addison street, just west of Wrigley Field. Hundreds, maybe a thousand dildos crafted, pink tips painted with care by hand by genuine Mexicans in Mexico and imported to the United States. Wait until Trump hears about this!
When Bill’s boss went down to shipping and found a room full of boxes addressed to him, he became curious. He cracked open a box and pulled out one of the containers and found a 12 inch black penis. Others were white. Some had huge veins and were wide. circumcised and not. Some were double and triple dongs. Dirk’s wife looked at their statement and found that their was a huge purchase to an online sex merchandise company and jumped to the conclusion that her husband was still a deranged sex fiend and a repeat offender. He had been caught skyping a Russian woman in the past. She was on the bed plowing herself with a cock that looked much like the one Bill’s boss received when Dirk’s wife Dawn woke up one night to find Dirk beating off and moaning in the basement. After marriage counselling and vows to give up such fantasies, the huge purchase put Dawn over the cliff. She jumped to conclusions. How could he spend so much on sex but I can’t get granite counter tops in the kitchen?
By the time Dirk got to the Apple store and replaced his phone, Dirk had received dozens of text messages from his wife.
I want to tell you that the merchandise was sent back and the culprit was caught. I want to tell you that the money was put back in the Eller account and that Dirk’s wife believed that fraud took place. The bank told Dirk to check with the City of Chicago. Dirk talked to numerous people, explained what had happened only to be hung up on or put on hold. Nobody gave credence to such an outrageous story. The bank held Dirk responsible for the charge since he and his wife failed to contact the bank within 24 hours of the fraud. The bank suggested he go to his local police office and ask for a detective. Dirk went to the local police station next and was further frustrated. Dirk lost his cool with the woman behind the bullet proof glass at the police station after having had to repeat the chain of events several times.
“I’m speaking English to you… I shouldn’t need to repeat myself! Somebody bought $10,000.00 worth of dildos and charged it to my account. The bank won’t reimburse me and they suggested I go see a detective at the police station nearest to my home.”
The indifferent clerk behind the glass asked Dirk the wrong question which set him off.
“Sir… This isn’t a job for detectives… What do you want me to do?”
Dirk suggested to the woman that he would come behind the glass and insert every last dildo up her ass. That prompted cops within an ear shot of the conversation to come out and detain him. He was charged with a misdemeanor offense of threatening an officer of the law. He got out on bail. It really was a bad day for Dirk. And some days are like this.


July 4, 2016

240 and Counting

Independence- 240 years and the descendants celebrate with wings, malt liquor and parades.  Bill of Rights and the rights of the dead, a bullet piercing the side of the head somewhere on the west side, south side, Chicago’s apartheid red line zone where the tourists never go.  But I digress- this is a process of processed food, entertainment and education.  Back when we were all English and white, on paper the ideas seemed right- Liberty and justice for all… or maybe some or none.  Manifest destiny, all for you and me from sea to shining sea.  You’re free above this line and slave below this one.  A war between brothers and in the end freedom with an asterisk- there was a fix.  You give us the presidency and we’ll look the other way for nearly a 100 years til someone refuses to give up a seat, sit where they want when they choose to eat, vote, protest and integrate, separate but equal became the Civil War sequel.  Well I’ve jumped ahead again.  The Kaiser, Sarajevo, trench warfare, mustard gas the rise of the working class.  Comrades in a sea of red, the Czar was dead.  The treaty left them angry and needy after reparations of Versailles a charismatic character, a director, a rector sold the scape goat- many die and why?  A bomb to stop a war and within a few years a little more and a truce that lasts til this day.

Unbridled growth and prosperity, suburbs and the interstate, sock hops and roller skates.  We liked Ike and then came JFK, Bay of Pigs, assassins and then LBJ and the KKK.  Just advisors to advise those who love and cherish democracy, imperial imposition of freedom for Vietnam.  Baby killers, draft dodgers, free love, and women’s lib.  Drugs and Nixon, the fix was in.  Watergate, oil crisis, a cancer on the presidency, end the war with dignity.  Ford, Carter Reagan- morning again in America.  This aggression will not stand- draw a line in the sand, new world order, Perot, Clinton, stained dress, Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill congressional hearings on the hill.  W, 9-11, weapons of mass destruction, mission accomplished, quagmire, Afghanistan/Taliban=Vietnam, Obama, Osama, Arab spring, ISIS, crisis of confidence, we’ll build a wall for our defense, terrorists, xenophobia, first woman presidential candidate, with shadows of doubt…  Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot… Wait!  This just in…  Citizen Trump

December 13, 2015

Chicago’s Finest… At a Bad Time


                “Every damn cop that ever fired a shot at something or someone will have a hearing…  Am I fucking clear to you?  All cops who ever pulled their gun out will have their day in court. Dig up everything you can find before others do and we will have a special committee to hear every case…  DON’T STAND HERE LOOKING FUCKING DUMB!  GET TO WORK!”

                And so it was that every cop alive that ever pulled or fired a gun, was put in front of a Chicago tribunal.  Those willing to purge themselves of wrong doing, might be able to keep their jobs if it was found that the lives of the officers were in danger.  It was sort of a truth and reconciliation tribunal like South Africa had after apartheid whereby white officers went before a commission and apologized for wrong doing and then went on with life without penalty.  Why?  So that the mayor could keep his job.

                The city called in the Altgeld 20.  Altgeld Gardens as it was called, was a housing project where poor African-Americans lived.  It was named after a former German born Governor of the State of Illinois.  Nobody in the early 2000s gave a shit about the name of their blighted housing project.  It was bordered by landfills, steel mills and constructed during a time when asbestos was widely used in the construction of the buildings.

 The police got a tip that the Gangster Disciples were gun fighting with the Black Disciples.  Why?  Drugs, territory, territory to sells drugs, retribution and so on.  Ten squad cars raced in a line down 130th Street towards where the gun fighting was taking place.  It was alleged that four innocent men were gunned down by police that night. The four innocent men were gang members who terrorized the residence of Altgeld Gardens.  This fight took place nearly ten years earlier and was captured on a VHS recorder from a window.  On the film, you can see the mostly white cops surrounding and shooting the gang members in a clearing among buildings, like fish in a barrel.  Anyone who did not drop their weapon immediately was shot.  It was the commission’s belief that none of the officer’s lives were in danger and for that reason, at a minimum, all who took place in the murders, should be fired and their pensions taken away.   Residents of Altgeld Gardens took turns reading accounts of the confrontation that day.  The last to speak was a little old woman by the name of Dorothy.  Dorothy had the same hair style that she wore back in the 1950’s.  She was a tiny old woman in a nice dress and a pill box hat held in with hair pins.  She sat on the witness stand with white gloves covering her hands and her purse on her lap.  She smiled a serene smile and waited her turn to speak.  The whole crowd of angry protestors and former neighbors of the since closed housing development laughed at what Ms. Dorothy had to say.

                “Now y’all fixin to crucify all these here officers.  Nevah the mind dat we killin each other an little ones who happen to git in the way.  There one man among all these officers who never pulled his gun and wadn’t even part the whole ordeal…  Officer Miller…  You want to tell them all or should I?”

                Officer Miller looked down and picked at a loose thread on his cuff.  He had a hard time looking at Dorothy or any other of the people in the room.  Officer Miller was horrified by what was about to be said about him.

                “Well then…  He won’t talk, I will.  I was watching ma television bout 9pm.  The lottery numbers was about to come up and I was all ready to look at what I got.  I don’t nevah win but I play.  Some call it gambling but I don’t see no harm in pickin a few numbers and maybe git a few dollars off it.  Ain’t like no casino.  Anyway, I had all ma tickets spread out and I was waiting for that woman to pull the balls that bounce around in the air puffer that make them move round.  I suppose I nevah heard them numbers cause all the sudden the door was knocked down clear off the hinges.  There stood Officer Miller.  He wad out breath an he aksed me where I keep ma crapper.  I toll him dat ain’t no way to enter a person’s home and ain’t no way to aks where the bathroom at.  I looked at him and say- excuse me?  The man was sweating and panting.  He removed his gun and begin to unzip his pants while he walk to the washroom.  He slammed the door began a moaning and crying.  I believe it wad comin from both ends on him.  Now this went on foh a good few minutes maybe five.”

                Officer Miller recalled stopping off for lunch and eating something with sour cream.  The cream was truly sour.  It hit Miller when the call went out that ten squads were needed to quell a gun fight at a housing project.  Miller began to sweat and it felt as though he had rodents running through his intestines.  He felt waves of nausea come and go and had to use all the muscles possible to keep from shitting in his pants.  Miller turned to his partner, Officer Termini and told him to stop the car.  Termini told Miller that it would not be possible.

                “Are you fucking nuts?  You want me to stop now so you can take a shit?!  If I stop, every car behind us is stopping too.  I can’t do it.  You’ll just have to fucking hold it,” said Termini.

                “You have to stop or I’m going to shit my pants.  I’m sick.  Something is wrong and I have to fucking go now,” said Miller.

                Termini drove faster and told Miller he could just shit in the field when the got there and hope that he wouldn’t be shot while relieving himself.  When all twenty cars pulled up, Miller went into the trunk and pulled out the battering ram.  It was a heavy cylinder shaped metal with two handles meant to break doors down with.  Miller found the first door he could reach and broke down the door without knocking.  Once in the bathroom, the shit poured from Miller’s ass while vomit flew from his mouth.  Miller turned his head while sitting on the toilet and filled the sink with vomit.  It felt as though the end of the world had arrived for Officer Miller.  After five minutes of expelling food and fluids from every orifice possible, Miller opened a small window and closed the door behind him.  His shirt was drenched from sweat.  Dorothy looked at the man who looked like he was about to pass out and guided him to the couch and laid him down.  She wet a washcloth and put it across Officer Miller’s forehead and held his hands.

                “You gone be alright, baby.  You jus sick.  You coulda knocked and I woulda opened up but now I understand what you was up against.”

                “Ma’am…  I’m so sorry.  I will have this door fixed immediately and get cleaners in here for your bathroom.  I feel so bad about this, ma’am.”

                While Dorothy and Miller spoke to one another, gun fire popped in the night like popcorn in a popcorn maker.  It was nothing new to either Dorothy or Officer Miller.  Both were used to hearing gun fire.  After all- it was Chicago and a part of Chicago where nobody white ever went unless they had to.  It was poor and gang infested.  Dorothy was just a widowed church going elderly lady who kept to herself.  The gangsters knew it and left her alone.

                “And so…  I don’t know what you all fixin to do to these here gentlemen.  They might be wrong or jus doin they job.  It ain’t foh me t’say.  I can tell you this- Officer Miller was in a bad state that day and he had nothing to do with deaths or gun fire dat day.  I ain’t got no reason to lie nor stretch the truth.  God as my witness- this man look like he wad gone die on ma couch.  Officer Miller was a man of his word.  He got someone to install a new door dat night.  In a day, I got it painted.  I had two Polish women come to ma place and clean the entire bathroom.  Nice ladies but none could speak a lick of English.  I aksed them thangs and they just laughed and kept saying yes.  I say girl, what’s your name an the one laughed an jus say yes.  I jus laughed and said thank you.  So y’all do whatchu want but this man here ain’t like the rest.  Maybe he a shot someone ifin he wadn’t sick but on dat day, this man could barely stand.  He innocent as the day he born…  And dat’s all I got t’say.”

                Officer Miller was found not guilty that day.  And faith in humanity was restored to the jaded if only for a day.

December 5, 2015

And They Broke Bread and Gave Thanks…

Filed under: chicago,elections,Ethnicity,humor,humour,ISIS,Short Story,trump — blackhumouristpress @ 2:23 am
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The Flannigan’s got together every Thanksgiving like just about every American with family does on the last Thursday of every November.  Thanksgiving is the first of three mandatory holidays that they all submit to gathering for every year.  Thanksgiving, then Christmas a month later and then it ends with Easter.

The Flannigan’s had a very Irish name but actually they were more Swedish than anything.  They had converted to Protestantism back around 1955 from Catholicism.  They became Evangelical Christians and so it became necessary and a duty to discuss god with anyone with ears.  Some of the Flannigan’s took the oath of accepting Christ as their own personal Jesus and in turn trying their level best to in a sense, sell Amway for god by asking people what their walk with the lord was.  For most people the question was like asking their sexual preference or even seedier personal sexual desires.  The devotion to Evangelical Christianity varied among the Flannigan’s from atheist to front row crusader.  Some among them decided that it was possible that god was not Evangelical Christian and then others concluded that just maybe there was no god.  On this particular day, god was not discussed during their Thanksgiving dinner.  Dinners with the Flannigan’s was always lively.  Someone inevitably throws out the first pitch while turkey gets passed with cranberries, string bean casserole with dried onions, rolls, sweet potatoes and so on.

“Did you guys see that video of the colored kid being shot like 60 times?”

The question was posed by Wade who now after the death of his father, Art, a World War II veteran, was the patriarch.  Wade, a Vietnam Veteran who had longish hair, tattoos, a Harley Davidson and a Corvette with a bronze medal license plate. After the war, Wade decided that there could not possibly be a god that would let such horrible things happen to innocent people.   He purposely called black people colored to get under the skin of his politically correct granddaughter who just happened to have an African-American boyfriend.

“Colored, grandpa?  Are we in the Deep South in the 1960’s?  Are we gonna git in the truck aftah dinnah and lynch us a colored?   That colored child was only shot sixteen times.  The cop ran out of bullets at sixteen.”

Edina, was racially cool.  She started attending an Episcopal Church that had a lesbian minister and all the people were really inclusive and mostly interracial couples.  Edina sort of wished she could be with her boyfriend RJ for Thanksgiving.  Last Thanksgiving was a bit of a cultural shock for Edina. It was as if she had gone to a foreign country.  RJ’s grandmother made a few recognizable things and some things she had never seen on a Thanksgiving table before.  Nobody really sat and had a meal together.  Men sat around the television and watched football.  People young and old came by and picked at stuff that was out and the women gave Edina the stare down- just another skinny white bitch who stole another good looking black man from the small pool of desirable men.  It would be weird among family or weird with her boyfriend’s family.  It was just going to be weird for her either way.

“Did you all know that this is the 50th anniversary of the death of JFK?  My what a good looking man and his wife was just a princess of a woman.  So refined and she could speak French and redecorate…  What a shame.  They say his head went flying all over the motorcade.  Cops had brains and blood splattered all over them…  That must have been something.”

Everyone stopped eating and talking and stared at Lorie, the matriarch who discussed some grizzly details in the middle of a meal.

Lorie, the wife of Art who was had recently died, was ninety years old.  She married after Art returned from World War II.  They had two children and moved to the suburbs.  Her job since 1947 was to be a wife, a mom, a thrifty shopper, a cook and a maid.  Instead of sitting to eat, she was folding the clothes that Wade had brought over to his mom to wash.  Everyone at the table kept telling her to sit.  She was slightly hard of hearing and then selective.

“It’s fifty two years, grandma.  I was born in 1965 and he died in 1963… Every Thanksgiving you bring up JFK.  Did you have a thing for him?”

Mathew was her grandson, father of Edina, son of Wade.   Mathew was indifferent to religion and politics but was very much into sports and music.  He grew up a Punk Rock kid in the 1980’s.

“I remember those horrible shirts you used to wear of one of those crazy bands.  Dead Kennedys…  After everything that family had to go through and to wear a shirt like that.  You had no respect for nothing back then.”

It was a famous photo of a Vietnamese man wincing just before being shot in the temple with a handgun with the words, Holiday in Cambodia.  It stirred Vietnam memories for Wade.

“I could have choked the life out of you when I saw that shirt.  I went over there to make democracy safe for young punks like you just so you could go around looking like an asshole and wearing shirts that piss everyone off.”

“Come on, dad…  That was a long time ago.  I grew up and got jaded just like you.  You don’t think I look at just about everyone under the age of twenty five and shake my head?  Glued to their cell phones, pants hanging off of their asses, stupid tattoos, and piercings.  Guys today want to be Olympic athletes and then turn chick…  I had a Mohawk and wore offensive t-shirts.  Look what’s going on today.  If you really hate the establishment and your government, you become an Islamic terrorist and kill fellow Americans…  You thought the world was coming to an end with Punk Rock.  Look at where we are today?”

Ryan, the ex-hippy turned born again Christian, wore a Ted Cruz button on his suit jacket.  Nobody else wore a suit.  Ryan’s wife was from Brazil.  Her name was Martha and she was black, Chinese and Hispanic that spoke Portuguese.  Everyone sort of forgot what she was exactly.  All they knew was that she was extremely born again, vegan and gluten free.  Martha didn’t quite understand everything being discussed but found it interesting.

“Martha… come on, sweetie.  You gotta have some of that good turkey and ham.  I got it at Honeybaked.  I would think you couldn’t get Honeybaked out there in Portugal,” said Lorie, while folding clothes.

“Ma!  Put the clothes down and come eat…  She speaks Portuguese.  She’s from Brazil.”  Said Ryan.

“Well, I know they don’t have Honeybaked there.  You’d be lucky to get a Mc Donald’s.”

Nobody had a response to that.  The television break from the football game flashed a picture of a young black male being shot in the street of Chicago by a police officer and the protesting going on in front of prestigious stores in Chicago’s downtown.

“If a cop tells you to stop and you don’t, you’re rolling the dice.  Carrying a knife and not listening to a cop is asking to get shot,” said Wade.

“Sixteen or sixty times, right grandpa?  They would have shot a white kid too, right?” Said Edina

“Fucking A right…  Let’s just drop it.  Cops are wrong, criminals are right.  Blacks got the right to thumb their noses at authority.” Said Wade.

“Grandpa, why are talking about this when we have so many terrorists coming here from Syria to infiltrate us and kill us.  Cops are only killing one segment of society but Syrian women and children are coming with bombs strapped to their chests to kill us unless we elect Trump to deport all illegals and refugees and when were done with them, deport all non-born Americans except his beautiful wife and any other super models and once we’ve gotten all of them, we’ll get rid of red haired people, freckled people and create a new master race of people with really bad hair.”

“Well honey, once the moderates have taken over Europe and North America, sharped tongue cuties like you will be stoned in the city center.  Hope you have a good head scarf and can recite the Koran when they come for you.  In the meantime, maybe you can come up with a way to re-educate the police here so that let criminals do whatever the hell they want.  If Hilary becomes president she can take care of all those things for you.  Chicago will look like Benghazi,” said Wade.

Several people groaned at the interchange.  Mathew asked what the score of the football game.  For a full five seconds nobody said anything.  Silverware clicked against plates and the announcers in the back ground commented on the football game.  Martha took break in the conversation as an opportunity to say something.  Nobody interrupted the woman who rarely spoke.  They had heard that she was taking an English as a second language course for four hours a day, every day.  Her English was coming along quite well.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Everyone stopped eating and turned to the exotic looking woman.  This was a watershed moment.  The quiet foreigner who seemed to sit in her husband’s shadow asked everyone present if they wished to know what she thought.  Of course they were all interested.  Everyone looked at the exotic looking woman.

“China makes everything that anyone could ever want to buy and has an army of more people than there are people in the United States and they never have to send any troops to fight.  They don’t have terrorism and people are not shooting each other every day.  Why do you think this is?”

Everyone kept coming up with things on China for about a half hour until dessert was served.  Ryan received a text message from Martha who was sitting next to him.  It read-


May 20, 2014

Incredible Ride to the Heart of Darkness

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:14 am
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Dr. Thompson and his wife Dr. Thompson loved to go to a local restaurant where a man by the name of Woody played piano trumpet and sang. Woody’s name came from Woodrow. Woody’s dad was a Woodrow and so was his grandfather who was named after an old white president. Woody chose the military over jail and joined the top Army band. After six years in the military, Woody was sequestered in a five star hotel in South Korea where he played piano, trumpet and sang. The Koreans loved that he looked and sounded a bit like Louie Armstrong. After several years of eating well, living well and fucking regularly exotic Korean women, Woody returned home to the west side of Chicago.
Now where Woody lived, houses were boarded up and beat up. Car radios thumped and people hung out on corners in front of liquor stores or currency exchanges. People sold drugs or their bodies. It was dismal as it was depressed and a part of Chicago that people never saw or never visited. It was almost like a township near the glimmering, shinning beacon on a hill that was Johannesburg back in the days of Apartheid. There is no mandated Apartheid in Chicago but rather a social and economic segregation that has not changed since the days of Martin Luther King. Woody knocked around bars and restaurants in nice suburban neighborhoods where well-to-do white people liked to know genuine authentic black people. It made for good conversation at liberal and white parties.
“I have a friend… An African-American gentleman who is one helluva performer. If you closed your eyes, you’d swear Satchmo was there in the room.”
The Drs. Thompson put a fifty dollar bill in Woody’s tip jar, bought him dinner and a few drinks and invited him to sit with them between sets. One thing lead to another and before long, it was decided that Woody would come to their home once a week for an hour and work with their son who was playing trumpet in the school Jazz band. The doctors felt their son was good but that he lacked soul and Woody had soul. Woody had pizzazz, style and swag. They wanted their boy to be more self confident and proud of his playing and they didn’t feel that would come from an old fat white man who hated kids and teaching. So it was decided that for $75.00 an hour, Woody would come to their home and work with their son.
Woody was amazed to find that a family of three, lived in a house as big as his twelve unit apartment building. The house was large among other large homes with large front yards and trim MILF looking trophy wives waving from large SUVs with stickers of their children’s sports activity stickers on the back windows. St. Fuckface Lacrosse, hockey, water polo and so forth. Woody walked into the living room to find a chubby teen wearing a collared shirt. He asked the kid to play. It sounded like a dying goose. Nate, the chubby teen was nervous.
“Do dat sound good to you?”
“Then why play it? Play something you know sound good.”
Nate thought for a moment and then played a pretty good version of Miles Davis’ So What.
“That ain’t bad… Now solo. Come up with ya own shit. Feel what goin on and lit it go.”
Nate was flat and farty sounding. Woody went up to the large bar off to the side of the living room and cracked open an unopened bottle of whiskey. It was something expensive and meant not to be opened from the Drs’ trip to Scotland. It just so happened that Nate’s parents were at their condo on the Dutch side of St. Maarten for a few days. Woody poured one for himself and one for Nate.
“Fuck music foh the moment. Let’s talk. Picture the finest piece of ass getting undressed foh y’all here while you sippin on some fine ass shit like this stuff. $20.00 a glass shit and some beautiful bitch got yo shit so motherfuckin hard, it hurt to keep yo shit in yo pants… You picture dat shit?”
“Yeah… I totally do.”
“Cool… Now pick up yo fucking horn and play dat shit like you was rubbing the legs and ass of dat fine bitch swaying and taking shit off while you sittin there.”
Nate played something smooth and tasteful without farts or bad notes. Woody smiled, shook his head up and down and poured himself and the kid another. Woody asked the Nate if he had ever played a live gig before. Nate claimed to have played a few high school recitals. Woody commanded his student to grab his horn that they were about to play together at a club on Chicago’s west side. Woody had a twenty-five dollar gig playing burlesque music at a bar on Cicero Avenue. Woody would keep all the money but give his student the gig.
The duo drove in Woody’s Cadillac convertible past the security of suburbia to something that looked like another country. Nate looked at young men standing around with blank looks on their faces, old men drunk out of their minds, staggering around laughing and talking to themselves and young women selling their bodies. It was a field trip like none other for Nate.
“You mean you pull up and they get in and you give them money and they…”
“And they give you head or fuck you til you cum. It a job foh dem…”
Nate and Woody walked into a dark place that had a sign out in front with a word he didn’t understand in French “Encroyable”.
“It French for incredible… The woman who own it toll me dat.”
Once inside, a movie played on a wall. The name of the movie was called, “Butt Pirates of the Caribbean”. There were good looking women bent over the side of a fake looking boat getting plugged in their rumps by good looking young men. There were several patrons drinking beer and watching the movie in the dark with blank expressions. The men were not neighborhood black men. They were white, middle and upper middle class men coming to see an underground event.
“Now imma play the piano… Simple assed Blues shit. Easy to follow. You jus play wat you feel while some shit happen here. You wanna make sure what you playin ain’t distracting nobody. It like when yo parents come to the restaurant. People want to focus on other shit and the music jus help… Here, take some mo this shit. It will keep you cool.”
Lights went on and a well built black woman who looked a little bit like Serena Williams danced around on top of the bar in high heals and a belt made of flint to a song called Chameleon by a band called Escort (it goes well with the story if you Youtube while reading). She picked up a power saw and sent sparks flying off of the belt around the room and off of her vagina as well as the white midget with a large penis who was waiting for her to lower herself onto him. A black man in a chicken suit gave each patron a shot of something on the house. The man’s head was exposed. The Chicken suit made no sense. Nate was drunk and overcome with so many odd things occurring at once. He blared on his horn and did things that sounded good and wild equally. As the woman rode the midget on top of the bar, Woody shouted out encouragement to his student.
“Dats the motherfucking shit, boy! Let it go! You doing it, boy! Dats how it’s did.”
Nate played what he saw and how it made him feel inside. Those in attendance would have never guessed that a high school junior from one of the richest suburbs in America was playing appropriate music to a live sex act in a bar.
A week later, Woody saw the parents of Nate, the good doctors. They were so excited to talk with Woody about their son’s transformation and awakening. They gave Woody an envelope full of hundred dollar bills and asked him what it took to bring their son to life. Woody smiled and cocked his head.
“Well… I toll him to look deep into his soul. Deep into the darkest part of his heart and then jus let it go… I think he know what I meant.”

January 14, 2014

Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms

Filed under: humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 9:23 am
Tags: , , , , ,

If you live in a place like Australia or Brazil, it would be hard to imagine it being colder than inside a freezer with wind and snow. Not a soul stirred outside a small restaurant five miles west of the United Center on Madison Street in Chicago. It was the sort of night when police officers are directed to pick up homeless and dump them off at centers designated for warming during extreme cold.
The owner of the small bar washed dishes, toilets, tables and salt off the hardwood floors that was tracked in by patrons alone. The Chicago Blackhawks were playing the San Jose Sharks at the United Center just a few miles away. A man with a voice best fit for opera, sang the national anthem of the United States. Over weight, mustachioed buffoons stuffed into hockey jerseys like casing around sausage of white, black or red colors with a the profile of a Semitic looking indigenous American Indian plastered across their chests, cheered wildly for a song that they really didn’t like or revere all that much. The proprietor leaned on his mop and watched the display of temporary patriotism prior to the start of the game and wondered how many of the “fans” actually understood the game of ice hockey. As the owner pondered something that could not be quantified, a neighborhood patron entered the establishment. There he stood with long flowing hair a la Fabio and a deeply assertive voice.
“I take it you have the game on…”
“If you want me to turn on the Bachelor, I could do that for you…”
“Quite droll… Fix me a Motherfucker post haste, my good man.”
A Motherfucker is composed of Gin, Rum, vodka, triple sec, Galliano, Hennessey and a splash of whatever cola you have available. The former marine who went by the biblical name Matthew downed two Motherfuckers before two other patrons entered the bar. The pair who soon entered the bar was already liquored up and only entered the bar because they saw humans watching a television screen together in front of a wide array of liquor. They were old, white, rich, drunk and obnoxious. The bartender, floor washer braced for idiocy as he asked what it was that they wanted to drink.
“A really good bourbon that would remind a man of a warm day at the Kentucky derby where debutants team up waiting to be tapped like kegs. Yes a bourbon for me and whatever beer my accomplice might want.”
The accomplice rattle off a slew of obscure microbrews that most people never heard of and then settled for a Harp. The bourbon drinker appeared to be a bloated Richard Gere with money. He spilled a little of his bourbon on his white shirt and then went on to tell the other two men how he bought the suit jacket in Bermuda while on vacation with the wife of a close friend.
“Do you have a Lear Jet? Have you ever been to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun?” Asked the barman.
“Only an old fart would refer to a song written by a young woman who is now in her seventies.”
“Your only as old as you allow yourself to feel, my good man.”
“Fuck both of you and this long haired pussy motherfucker right here. Only a faggot wears his hair that fucking long, hoping to get butt plugged by a priest or a Penn State football coach…”
Mathew took a look at the thin man dressed as though he had escaped from a country club, raised his Motherfucker to his lips and then posed a question.
“What kind of a J. Crew looking dork wears Topsiders with no socks on a day when it’s colder here than in Alaska. You wanna make fun of my hair? I can still comb and grow my own. In fact I’m willing to donate the hair off my nut sack so that a fuck stick like you can grow a little on top of their head… Calm down Sally before you get hurt. I’ve fucked tougher guys than you in prison when I had nothing to do. I am a Marine and have fought to keep this country free for people like you. Enjoy your first drinking experience and fuck yourself.”
Everyone but the longhaired Marine laughed. The mince man with beer muscles decided to accost the longhaired man because he was indeed jealous that a nearly middle-aged man could wear his hair like a debutante. Mathew covered his drink with a bar napkin and went out to the sidewalk to have a cigarette. Within a minute, the other two men walked out to the sidewalk to have cigars. The Richard Gere-esqe man bragged about a one night stand with a young woman that he had landed the night before and how he had referred to something from the 1980s and went on to learn that she was born in 1991. The country clubber began to sob about his recent divorce and how he missed his kids. Matthew flicked his cigarette into the street and went back in to watch the hockey game. Chicago was up 2-1 in the third period. Matthew told the barkeep how good the Blackhawks were and how they were going to go on and win another Stanley Cup this year. The bartender with the Detroit Red Wing tattoo on his left arm that was visible listened and politely disagreed.
“Corey Crawford is playing about as good as Joan Crawford. I will bet you $20.00 that he let’s in a goal to tie and they lose in OT…”
Matthew slammed down a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Not more than a minute later, San Jose scored a goal to tie the game. Matthew ordered another Motherfucker. Richard Gere and the country clubber returned from the cold smelling of cigars. The man with Topsiders playfully punched Matthew’s shoulder, as he was about to take a sip of his Motherfucker. The Motherfucker spilled on Matthew’s shirt. He stood and grabbed the shirt of the thin man. The manager reached over the bar and pushed both men away from each other. The man with a sweater draped over his shoulders like a Princeton co-ed laughed in the face of the longhaired military man. It only serves to stoke the flames of anger in a man who angered easily.
“I like blindly patriotic fucks like you… You sign up to die for causes that don’t even exist. You cry during Chevy truck commercials and love the president because he’s the commander-and-chief. Never mind that he was born in Kenya.”
Matthew took out a small revolver and set it on the bar. The sweater-clad man pushed Matthew off of his barstool and laughed. Matthew grabbed his gun, pressed it to the foot of the offender and discharged his weapon. The bullet went through the foot of the thin man, bounced off of the floor and lodged in the ceiling of the establishment. The thin man howled in pain and then laughed so hard that he urinated in his pants. Richard Gere slapped down a $100.00 and told the barman to keep the change. He didn’t want any part of a police inquiry that could last all night. Matthew was suddenly scared for what he did but remained stoic. He apologized to the barkeeper for a sudden lapse of sane judgment but justified the act by stating that the victim was an asshole. The victim agreed that he was an asshole and asked for a cab to be called.
“I’m a dick. I know it. My wife would agree with me. I’m just going to take myself to the hospital and claim that some punk with a hood on shot me when I wouldn’t give him any money for panhandling… Oh shit. The Blackhawks did lose the game. Looks like longhairs lost twenty bucks.”
“Do you want me to shoot your other fucking foot?”
“No… How bout a shot of tequila before the cab comes and it’s on me… Bartender, pour yourself one.”
The three men had a shot of tequila and then Matthew helped the thin divorced man with a sweater draped over his shoulders, no socks and a hole in his foot get into a cab. Matthew accompanied the man to the emergency room where they both agreed it was a young guy with a hood on who shot the thin man in the foot. The desk clerk, a black woman asked for a description of the offender. Both white men looked at one another before answering. Matthew decided to answer.
“It would be racist of me to say that the offender was of a particular race consistent with this sort of crime, ma’am”
The black woman held her pen to her lips and squinted while listening to Matthew. She surmised that the crime was a drunken mistake. She posed a question.
“Do you want to admit to shooting this man in the foot or should I just wait for the police to ask you?”

August 13, 2013

When Maeve Met Medgar

“So if you cannot see, what can you describe to me to help me understand what you know about the color black? As in black people. I’m so interested to hear what you have to say.”
A beautiful young blond and blind woman happened to plop down at the first table she could find at the food court in a mall she had never been to before. She was pouring water into a bowl for her seeing-eye dog. A tall man was eating an ice cream for 49 cents from Mc Donald’s. Medgar loved eating soft serve ice cream going back to the days when he would visit his grandmother in Mississippi in summer months and take pocket change with him and his cousin to the Tastee-Freeze.
Maeve was dropped off by her aunt’s caretaker who was livid that the woman she had cared for, for close to thirty years while she declined with Alzheimer’s, willed her small fortune to her blind niece from Detroit. Aside from assuming that she would inherit the home and money for being a friend and constant companion, Sarah had a thing against German Sheppard dogs whether they were seeing-eye dogs or not. Sarah was Jewish and lost relatives in death camps at the hands of Nazi in Germany. As a girl, Sarah heard stories of German Sheppards snarling and biting hiding Jews in cities in Germany. Oddly enough, Sarah’s great-grandfather was a man who was responsible for creating chemical warfare during World War I and a pesticide called Zyclon A that was eventually modified to kill humans in Nazi death camps and renamed Zyclon B. Sarah was related to that unique man attributed to a lot of death during two world wars. A definite player in human history, German history, modern warfare and a German Jew.
In any event, Maeve would inherit a large Frank Lloyd Wright home in Oak Park, Illinois, Sarah the Caretaker and a few million dollars after the death of her wealthy aunt. The end was drawing near and so Maeve moved from her small apartment in suburban Detroit to suburban Chicago. One warm summer day, Sarah dropped Maeve off at a indoor mall in a lower economic area that had very few Caucasians milling about to buy gaudy t-shirts, cheap jewelry, gym shoes and hip-hop wear. Maeve was told by Sarah that the mall was a nice mall, with nice people just like at home in safe, homogenous Troy, Michigan which is a good fifteen miles from the muck and mire of inner city Detroit.
Maeve, unbeknownst to her, plopped down at the same table as the ice cream eating Medgar. Medgar startled Maeve by speaking to her.
“What a beautiful dog you have, Miss…”
“Oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t know this table was taken. I’ll take another.”
“No need, no need. I’m just sitting here enjoying an ice cream and some air conditioning. Can I buy you an ice cream?”
“Thank you kindly. I am on a strict diet. I’m trying to eat as healthy as possible. I have done research on partially hydrogenated products that are the causes of heart disease. I’m trying to stay away from anything with too many additives. This is my first week in Chicago and I’m truly lost here. I told Sarah that I visited the Summerset Mall in Troy, Michigan nearly everyday. So she decided to bring me here. Is this a nice mall?”
“Well, malls are malls, Right?”
In Troy, the mall had a glass atrium with faux palm trees and resembled a place in Dubai. The mall had granite floors polished so that one could see their reflection and was as clean as if it had just opened. It housed five star restaurants and top shelf department stores. The mall near Berwyn, Illinois catered to lower economic people. There was an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and all the fast-food kiosks that one would find out on the boulevard. People were obese and poor and people of color by in large. Maeve didn’t learn this during her first visit. Medgar, a sensitivity trainer for union workers who were disciplined for racial slurs, was between classes. Most of Medgar’s clientele were white, blue collar, under educated and under cultured, suckled from the tit racists with a fear and disdain of others unlike them. In order to keep their union jobs, they would need to take fifty-hour courses that illustrated the fact that all Americans were immigrants and that all immigrants had taken their turns as the lowest rung on the ladder. There were also testimonials from Asians, Hispanics and African-Americans who had been discriminated against. Most whites left more resolved in their racism but they learned to keep their racism private at work.
“Black… Hmm… Dismal, dank, despair, no light.”
“Light? What is light? “
“Something warm like the sun. I can feel the sun. The sun feels light and airy. The smell of trees and flowers. At night, it is cold and I hear the night is black and black is cold and it doesn’t have sun and warmth… You know?”
“Forgive me for asking but I just think it is so interesting to speak to some who is visually challenged…”
“Visually challenged? Please… That is insulting. I’m blind not stupid.”
“Okay, as you wish… Blind. It is interesting to hear what the blind perceive.”
“I see… Sorry, I hear that all the time. Just thought I would use that phrase even though I can’t actually see.”
“Ha… I got it… So Detroit. Motown. What was that like? Lots of black in Detroit.”
“I was born in the city of Detroit and never went back. All I heard was how screwed up Detroit was going back to the riots after Martin Luther King Jr. From what I hear and know, Detroit was like Rhodesia and has become Zimbabwe and there were too many Robert Mugabe like mayors that ran the city into the ground instead of a Nelson Mandela.”
“That is an interesting analogy. Detroit went from being a prosperous white city to a bankrupt black city. What do you think will save Detroit?”
“White people, white money. It’s okay to have a black city but you cannot exist without whites. I have studied the differences between Chicago and Detroit and the whites have not abandoned Chicago.”
“Did you know that Chicago had a few black mayors?”
“Yes. Did those mayors work with whites?”
“You got me there, Maeve… I am so glad that our paths crossed today. It has been so interesting to me to get your point of view. You being blind and discussing your views is like me being at a dinner party and being invisible. Just listening and taking it in. Good luck here in Chicago.”
Sarah was standing off to the side listening and watching the interchange between a good-looking black man and a good-looking white woman, Maeve. When Medgar departed, Sarah approached Maeve.
“I didn’t hear everything that transpired between you and the gentleman at your table but I do want to make you aware that he was a black man. Did you know that? Did he tell you he was black?”
Maeve furrowed her brow. She felt duped and used. Every black man she had come across in the past had a pseudo, bastardized Deep South accent. Medgar didn’t sound like Amos or Andy. He sounded white as if a color could have a sound. Maeve was embarrassed by the assumption that she was speaking to a white man and ashamed to admit it to Sarah who had been less than nice to here during the short amount of time she had been living with her and her aunt. Sarah asked Maeve what he sounded like to her. Maeve gave a snide answer.
“Well Sarah… He sounded much taller than he looked to me. Can we go home now?”

June 4, 2013

Mr. Rumsfeld comes to Chicago

Chicago gave birth to a new mayor and we shall call him Emanuel (Matthew 1:23) Meaning God is with us in Hebrew. This new mayor, who was once the president’s chief of staff, took the reins of the city of Chicago and came to realize that within the city of Chicago, there was a war going on that he could not win; gang violence that was leaving more people dead in the city of Chicago than in Afghanistan.

After brain storming with numerous people who came up with various weak strategies, the idea came to Emanuel to contact Donald Rumsfeld. The same Rumsfeld that ran the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Rumsfeld came to the mayor’s office, had bourbon on the rocks and talked about some of the best restaurants he ever ate that were right in the city of Chicago. The question came up of Rumsfeld on a strategy to stop the murders in Chicago. Rumsfeld swirled his drink, smiled, squinted, paused and then spoke.

“Strategy is a general plan of action fashioned to achieve a major goal. It is the process by which goals are prioritized and resources marshaled to achieve those goals. Tactics are then used to implement the strategy. Strategy doesn’t begin at one point and end at another. It involves planning and evaluation, requiring trade-offs and decisions along the way. It takes work, thought, and time and then tactics.”
The mayor raised one eyebrow, smiled like the grinch who stole Christmas and asked what Rumsfeld about tactics. Rumsfeld, always elusive danced around the question.
“There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don’t know we don’t know… Follow me? So if you follow a strategy, a true formulated strategy with a major goal in mind i.e. ridding Chicago of the current nemesis, you must be willing to deal from a position of strength and speak a language that can be understood and respected… My question to you is how willing are you to truly take this on?”
Rahm Emanuel allowed Donald Rumsfeld to turn closed Chicago Public schools into neighborhood detainment centers for questioning. After a drastic drop in murders, the mayor was interested in seeing for himself how the magic worked. The mayor and Rumsfeld sat behind a two-way mirror in what was once a neighborhood grade school and watched a pudgy man by the name of Sal who had a bushy moustache, smoked a cigar, conduct a questioning session.
“Sal was one of our best in the old days,” said Rumsfeld.

“Hey! Fucking look at me!”
Sal grabbed a young eighteen-year-old man by the shirt around the collars and pulled him towards him with the cigar puffing into the face of the young man. Sal then separated his fingers and open-handedly cracked the young man across the face.
“I will ask you again what you know about the murders that occurred on your street while you were on that street…”
“I don’t know shit… I ain’t saying shit and fuck you. Y’all ain’t let me sleep, it cold as fuck in here, you done let snakes out in this room and then they disappear, I pissed in my damn pants cause you got my hands tied up so I can’t get to my shit and then you keep playing that bullshit over and over. 555 and 666.”
The mayor chuckled and asked Rumsfeld about the song. It was the Heretic’s Anthem by Slipknot.
“I heard the song and a lot of it means nothing to me but the idea that we’re dealing with heresy and heretics sold me on using this song to try and induce the desired results. I think we’re close on this one.” Said Rumsfeld.

“So you ain’t got nothing to say?”
“I got this to say; fuck you, your cigar and yo fat white ass…”
“Okay… Time to go for a swim. You know how to swim? Every fat ass white boy knows how to swim. Let’s go swimming.”

The young man was bound securely to a bench, with his feet elevated. A cloth was placed over the forehead and eyes. Water was then poured on the cloth, and the cloth was lowered to cover his mouth and nose. 
 Breathing was then restricted for up to 40 seconds at a time; this caused an increase in carbon dioxide in the young man’s blood. It was designed to simulate suffocation and panic. This last tactic worked.
“Okay… I know who killed that dude. Imma tell you. Just take me out this water.”
Rumsfeld smiled, looked at the mayor who was stunned by what he just witnessed.
“And this is how it works. Wash, rinse and repeat if necessary. Just follow the instructions.”

July 31, 2012

Rendezvous in Chicago

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 10:25 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

Lena came from a small town you never heard of in the south of France.  For as much as most French seem to look down at the United States, Lena was quite taken in by the pop culture, brashness and general oblivious naivety of believing that Americans believe they are the smartest, trendiest and most free in the world.  Americans to most French, were like that middle of the road, slightly above average looking woman at a party that truly believes she is the hottest thing in the world and believes that everyone wants to be with her or emulate her.  Lena loved Americana.
            Lena decided upon Chicago to spend her time in the states primarily because her admiration of Ernest Hemingway and Frank Lloyd Wright who both lived in the village of Oak Park, some six miles west of the center of downtown Chicago. 
            Lena ate hot dogs with all sorts of foreign things on it and ate foie gras and sipped white wine in the bleachers at Wrigley Field as she tried to speak English to two fat former frat boys that identified themselves as former University of Notre Dame students.  One of the fat Americans had a tattoo of the fighting Irish symbol on his chubby arm that resembled a leg.  They bought her a beer and jokingly told her how much they appreciate French fries.
            Lena listened to Jazz and Blues.  She did tours and visited museums that had better French impressionist art than they had in France.  It was on a Sunday that Lena decided to take the green line from downtown Chicago, through the heart of darkness which is Chicago’s west side.
Chicago’s west side is about as third world as you might find in North America.  There are no grocery, department or drug stores between Ashland Avenue and Austin along the green line that follows Lake Street from west to east.  Lena watched black people, Americans of African descent and thought about the suburbs of Paris where Africans rioted and trashed their own neighborhoods.  A white far right Jean Le Pen follower who was a police commander, insulted the African immigrants on a bullhorn by refusing to address black men with the polite “vous” form used among adults in France and used “tu”.  Tu would be used for children or someone you are really familiar with, not to be used with angry, unemployed Africans by a white cop.  Cars burned and businesses were looted.  The west side of Chicago resembled the Paris suburbs to Lena.
 Zombie looking street walkers with missing teeth and track marks,  hooking up with suburban white men in Volvo station wagons with stick figure decals of a husband, wife, two children and a dog, holding hands.  Black men filed in and out of liquor stores tucked in between store front Baptist churches and barber shops.  Lena was startled by a middle aged black man who plopped himself down in the seat next to her.
            “Look miss…  I was jus let out of a half way house not far from here, see this is the picture of where I was.  I am jus looking for some change to help me git a meal.  Y’all could be a really good American by giving jus a little bit to help me git by.”
            Roger sat in a seat near by wearing large framed glasses with a .44 magnum tucked into his belt line.  Roger loved movies like Walking Tall and Taxi Driver.  His bald head was white and shiny and he glared at the panhandler who was shaking the attractive young white woman down for pocket change.  Roger spent all of his free time preparing for the apocalypse or a coup d’etat against the first black president in the United States.  Being 100% disability from inhaling burning oil in Kuwait, Roger spent his days lifting weights, taking target practice and practicing martial arts.  Roger lived alone in an apartment in Oak Park and rode the trains waiting for a chance to intervene between a robber and a rider.  Roger saw his chance.
            “This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
         Leviticus Jones looked at the man wearing a trench coat, pointing a hand gun at his head and didn’t worry much about the prospect of dying.  Life on earth had been hell for Leviticus so the afterlife couldn’t be all that much worse.
         “Bitch…  I will take that mutha fucking toy out yo crazy white hands and stick it up yo ass.  Keep pointing that shit at me and see what happen to yo crazy shit, motherfucker…  Ma’am, scuze my French.  I am a good Christian man but when push come to mutha fucking shove, this nigga ain’t bout to turn no other cheek.  Do unto others befoh they crazy ass do the shit to you.  That in Proverbs or some shit like it…  This yo last chance to pull that gun way from my heed.”
         Leviticus sprung to his feet and grabbed the barrel of the gun before Roger could discharge it.  The two men rolled around with a loaded gun.  It was just like in the movies.  One bullet went through a window and another ripped a hole through the wall the size of a golf ball before a black woman pushed the emergency button to alert the conductor of a problem.  The conductor walked up and grabbed the gun from the two struggling men.  He threw the black man off of the train and said nothing to the white man.  The black woman who pushed the emergency button questioned the conductor.  The conductor looked bored and bothered.
         “You throw a man off who was accosted by this here man off the train with out calling the po-lice?  Foh yo information, this here man pulled the gun.  You black as night jus like me, jus like the man you done thrown off the train an you assume some brother pulled the gun…  Shame on you.  Shame on you foh jumping to conclusions and shame on you foh not calling the po-lice.  This man, this white man here is the damn criminal.”
         Roger walked into the next car and then opened the door and escaped.  Lena was visibly shaking and crying at the display of Americana that Europeans hear about; racial incidents involving guns.  Lena asked the people on the car to hug her.
         “I need one of you to jus hug me…  Please… Anyone?”
         The angry black woman, a quartet of gay men, a Filipino au pair and a young white male college student, all ignored Lena’s plea.  A young black man who had just worked ten hours cutting vegetables at a five star restaurant and was looking forward to seeing his young daughter and wife stood and embraced Lena.  Nothing was said.  Lena grasped the stranger’s shoulder and cried.  The young man in a white chef’s coat, sat holding Lena until she exited at Oak Park Avenue, walked north towards Hemingway’s childhood home.  Lena thought about the song from Westside Story and began to sing.
         “I want to live in America, everything is good in America.”

June 2, 2012

Nato Torturers- Happy Talk

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,

Talk about things you’d like to do,

You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream,

How you gonna have a dream come true?

The happy, syrupy, musical song from the movie, South Pacific played loudly through speakers in a stainless steel room.  Russell sat naked and shackled to chains on the wall.  The lights cut out and suddenly fire hose force jets of cold water ripped at Russell’s skin.  Water filled his ears, went up his nose and caused immense pain to his testicles.  The dousing lasted thirty seconds followed by a drop in temperature within the room to a crisp 45 degrees with giant fans from the ceiling that sounded like a World War II propeller plane.   The cold temperatures and high wind, made it difficult for Russell to catch his breath. The music suddenly stopped, as did the fan.  The lights, as bright as the sun went on and standing with their heads cocked towards one another as they studied Russell was Phil and Andy.  Phil was a giant of a man with broad shoulders who wore a white lab coat splattered with blood.  He wore a Hilary Clinton mask over his face.  Andy, a legal midget wore a white lab coat also stained with blood and a Mexican wrestling mask over his face.  The music resumed loudly as Andy used a remote control switch to elevate Russell to Phil’s eye level.  The chains that held Russell suddenly tightened so that his back was plastered against the wall.

Talk about a moon floating in de sky looking like a lily on a lake,

Talk about a bird learning how to fly making all the music he can make

Happy talk, keep talking’ happy talk, talk about things you’d like to do,

You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?

Andy took a bat used to play cricket and smashed the bottoms of Russell’s feet.  Russell screamed about his civil rights and rights as a human.  Phil took a feces stained washcloth and stuffed it into the mouth of the career protester.  Russell gagged and shook his head in an attempt to get the washcloth out of his mouth.  Phil took duct tape and ensured that the rag would remain in Russell’s mouth.  Russell was then lowered so that his head could be placed into a tub of water.  Phil held Russell’s head in the tub for about twenty seconds as electric contacts that were attached to Russell’s finger tips, suddenly carried a current from the bike that Andy pedaled furiously.  It was a 1970 gold Schwinn with a banana seat and blue poms that hung from each side of the handlebars.  With each revolution of the pedals, a current ran from a car battery and caused a painful shock.  Russell, whose head was underwater when the initial shock took place, gasped for air while his head was underwater.  Before Russell could drown in twelve inches of water, Phil pulled the choking Russell out of the water and into a plastic bag.  Russell went from immense pain to complete panic for close to thirty minutes while the song, Happy Talk played over and over.  The Asian woman with an accent sang about dreams and happiness, the moon, the stars and birds while Russell nearly passed out from the torture.

Talk about a star looking like a toy, peeking through de branches of a tree,

Talk about a girl, talk about a boy, counting all de ripples on de sea

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,

Talk about things you’d like to do

You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true?

Russell’s head was covered in a dark pillowcase as he was transported and dumped in a park near Lake Michigan in Chicago.  Russell cried and whimpered as other protesters untied him and asked what happened.  Across town at an all night diner, Phil had a steak with eggs while Andy ate oatmeal and read the paper.

“How bout that, Phil…  The paper says that the city of Detroit is a safer place to be this week than the city of Chicago.  The article says we can expect about 10,000 protesters.” Said Andy.

“Well Andy…  You know what God said in Genesis 18 about the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah?  God said, “If you can find fifty good people there, I won’t destroy the city.” Said Phil.

Andy took a sip of his coffee and looked out of the window at a group of unwashed kids passing out literature to disinterested people walking by.

“Hmmm.  Well maybe we should get the hell out of here and go to Detroit.  I don’t want to be here when god decides to torch this town.  It happened once, it could happen again.”

“Amen, little buddy, amen…”

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