Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 8, 2016

Donald Does Detroit or Let Them Eat Fluff

                One of the board of education members happened to be at a golf outing that was attended by Donald Trump.  It was at the Trump golf Mecca in Florida and Trump was going to join a friend, a friend of a friend and a Chinese dignitary that couldn’t speak English.  Trump didn’t have time for 18 holes but he said he could do 9 holes.  The friend of a friend put up the challenge that he could beat the quartet and if he did, rather than bet money, Trump would have to give a speech while in Detroit to high school students who showed signs of promise but were struggling to stay in school.  Trump told the friend of a friend to fuck himself, nobody beats Trump on his own course, and I will beat all of you and still speak to your kids.  Trump won but may have cheated.

                After the debate at the Fox Theater in Detroit, Trump took a motorcade tour of the city of Detroit.  He took out his phone and began to tweet.

                “Detroit will be great again.  The United States will be great again.  I just might buy up half of this town and see to it myself.  Travesty what has happened to a once great city.”

                Early the next day, the Fox Theater was filled with thousands of students picked by Deans and principals of various inner city Detroit high schools to receive a verbal pep talk, a bitch slap, a verbal dunking in the water tank of life.  Rumors swirled that JZ, Beyoncé, Kanye West and Cam Newton might be at the event to speak to chosen students.  After twenty extra minutes of waiting, secret service agents walked in ahead of Donald Trump.  There he stood with his thinning helmet of hair, orange face, a squint like Clint Eastwood and famous scowl.

                “I love this damn town so much that I decided to stay an extra night.  I told your school superintendents that I want to speak to the future of Detroit.  I want to try and reach them in some way.  I don’t know that I can, but I’m going to try…  Now who here is rich?  Let me see a show of hands.”

                A few hands went up and some laughter.  This triggered the inner Trump in the Donald.  They were all about being Trumpled.

                “You might misunderstand me.  I don’t mean wealthy enough to buy a used Buick and put a sound system that would blow out your hearing faster than if you were blowing off mortars in a battle field without ear protection.  I don’t mean having enough money to buy dope and sell it in an neighborhood the way say an Arab party store owner sells you a forty ounce and some blunts and maybe a box of Pampers…  I don’t know exactly what your immediate needs could be.  I’m talking could any of you here walk out and let’s say, buy a house, buy up a block, buy up the downtown and turn into something you think is positive for this town…  I could.  I could move every piece of property that I own worldwide and fill up the city of Detroit with what I own…  That my pupils is what it means to be truly rich.  Anything else is wannabe…  I could move everything I own right here in Detroit but that would take too much time…  I have a better idea, how bout I just buy up this town and turn it around myself…  This country is a lot like Detroit- a once great nation that built things and sold things to the world.  Detroit used to sell the lion’s share and I do mean Detroit Lion’s share of cars to the entire world.  Was JFK killed in a Toyota?  No, kids…  It was a Lincoln Continental made right here in Detroit.  When I’m president, we are going to make so many GM, Fords and Chryslers here that it will make your head spin.  Cars will be made here in Detroit.  Flint will get Detroit water again…  You’ll see.  Now all of you can do something to change your lives, better your lives so that you don’t die prematurely.  Die dealing drugs, die at the hand of the police who I love and are really treated quite poorly by the press who are not allowed to cover this meeting here today…  Die from eating really bad food and getting really fat because you can’t afford good food because you’re too poor to buy good food that won’t make you suffer.  You should want to be responsible, prosperous people who don’t try to sue each other on Judge Judy or figure out whose baby is whose on Morrie Povich.  Everyone here would like to visit Jamaica one day for a vacation… maybe Hawaii, am I right?  Sure, sure… but if you’re sitting in the state pen in Taylor, you’re not going to see anything but some of the worst people in the world, going nowhere and doing nothing with a wasted life.  Who wants to get pinched one day by the cops who I love dearly and end up in jail?  Who wants to do time and wind up on all fours in front of some big lifer staring at a prison wall and wonder how did I get here and how can I get out.  Don’t get there…  Let me say it plainly…  Are there any evangelicals in the crowd who I love so much?  I love the Evangelicals but don’t want to offend them.  They’re easily offended by profanity but it is a dialect I know all of you understand all too well so let me sum this up fast because I don’t want to lose you…

STAY IN SCHOOL AND PROVE TO THE WORLD THAT YOU CAN GET A DEGREE AND WHETHER YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT DEGREE OR WIPE YOUR ASS WITH IT, PROVE TO THOSE ABOVE YOU THAT YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE GIVEN A CHANCE TO RISE IN THIS CRUEL WORLD.  DRUGS ONLY MASK THE FACT THAT YOU HATE YOUR LIFE AND WANT TO GO TO A BETTER PLACE IN YOUR OWN FUCKING HEAD IF ONLY TEMPORARILY…  WHO WANTS TO BE SOMEONE’S BITCH IN PRISON?  WHO WANTS TO GET SHOT UP ON THE STREET?  I DON’T MEAN TO YELL BUT I WANT YOU TO KNOW I MEAN WHAT I SAY.”

                It got quiet.  Nobody clapped, nobody booed or murmured.  It was a strange moment for Donald.  He shrugged his shoulders, took a drink and went on.

                “People are gonna get offended in life.  That’s just how it is.  I can’t help that.  You make a comment about homosexuals, men who used to be women and women who used to be men, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Eskimos…  I actually might lose Alaska because I called someone an Eskimo.  You wanna know what?  Unless you came on the Mayflower, you came as an immigrant.  It’s just that simple.  Some of your people were brought on slave ships, some crossed the border illegally but you’re here now and you’re American.  For those who don’t follow rules and order, you will be sent back.  We will have a country, we will have borders, and we will be great again…  Detroit will rise again.  I love Detroit.  I love Detroiters.  I might just come back and buy this town and put the best minds on the job of bringing jobs back and bring them back first to right here in Detroit.  People want to sneer at Detroit?  When I leave office, you won’t be able to afford to live in this town.  They’re will be a Starbucks on every corner, gluten-free, lesbian safe grocery stores, boutiques with stuff so damn expensive, you’ll think you’re in Paris.  You stand with me and I’ll stand with you.  You do the right thing and I will do the right thing for this city, for this country and we’ll be great again…”

                Donald raised his right arm up.  It was more like a papal wave than a Nazi salute.  A few students rose to their feet and clapped.  Then before long everyone stood and clapped.  Stunned teachers and administrators clapped and they didn’t even know why exactly.  Where they bullied into clapping?  Where they inspired to clap?  Nobody could quite put a finger on it and really, it didn’t matter.  Trump was off to another town to inspire others to vote for him just like a half dozen other presidential candidates were doing across the land and why exactly?  To have old music played every time you walk into a room?  To be treated like a king and hated like a king on the way to the guillotine, oblivious to the plight of the commoners.  The messages and words vary from candidate to candidate but it all comes out the same- Let them eat fluff.  Nothing of substance.

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February 3, 2016

La Vie Noir

I knew when I opened the door and saw Raymond’s eyes, I had to accept things like a man.  Nowhere to hide, nothing to say except maybe to explain that it was all on me.  I keep this diary with me and I’m not really sure who is ever going to read this.  Some copper and then he’ll pass it along to my mother.  Who knows about those things.  When you’re gone, you’re just gone.  I’m getting cold and things are getting distant and fuzzy.  It’s hard to focus.  I’ll try to get this out while I can.

                I came in the joint as I always did.  You know the place- dark with the piano music going.  Some couples whisper to one another, others sit there with that look like they don’t want to be approached but yet are itching for conversation.  That night, Benny was playing Mona Lisa by Nat King Cole.  Benny plays a little piano and sings and then takes out his trumpet with the mute and softly solos over a few chords held by his left hand on the piano.  Benny has a talent for music and a knack for making people feel at ease.  A nice voice, a nice smile and everyone’s best friend.  I dropped a five in Benny’s jar and asked what he thought.

                “She ain’t like most, boss.  Something different bout this one…  You land this one and I think you really got something…  But I could be wrong.”

                Benny was never wrong.  A man sitting at a piano captures certain nuances in the way a person looks, how they sit, what they drink and the look on their faces.  Benny is there for their entertainment but really he’s studying human nature nightly and gets paid for it.  I sat a few stools over from her and made like I was really interested in Curling.  She looked engrossed.  At a commercial, she took a sip of her red wine and asked me what I knew about Curling.

                “It’s something that some people do and …  Well, everyone has got to do something.  Some people go to piano bars in the dark so that nobody really sees them or see what they’re thinking.  There is some comfort in darkness.  Everything doesn’t need to have the light cast on it…  You know what I mean?”

                She smiled a sly smile and looked at me with those sad eyes.  She was everything a man could ever want in a woman.  She was a rare beauty, calm and refined.  She had the type of body that sculptors hope to sculpt. 

                “That’s a profound answer regarding a really obscure sport…  I like it though.”

                I bought her a drink and had another.  I learned her name was Gretchen and that she spent a lot of time drawing things that she felt and then wrote things to go with the drawings.  She would sell her creations through an art dealer.  She never let me know how she made her money.  She asked me what I did.  I told her that I was in to research and development.  I used round about ways of getting to the point and she rather enjoyed analogies and philosophies.  I wanted so much to move over one more seat.  I was drawn in and could not stop it.  Dames don’t usually do this to me.  I like them and some times love them a bit but then things develop that complicates things and then things just change.  When they become routine and predictable, you have nothing.  People force themselves to slug along knowing that they’re going against the grain because they are conditioned to find someone, marry that someone, have some kids, form a family and feel like they belong to something and maybe have something but then like ole Raymond, what do you have in the end?  I’m getting ahead of myself.

                Gretchen asked if I would be interested in seeing her artwork.  How could I resist.  What do I know about art?  Nothing, but then again I was taken in.  We left the club and went up an elevator to a penthouse that overlooked the whole city of Detroit.  A bunch of lights along the river and then a lot of darkness and that’s just how it is in Detroit.  She showed me easels of gray, sad but beautiful sketches of a profile of a girl in a field, on a swing, at the beach.  I was tempted to ask if the girl was her.  I didn’t want to be so simple.  I think she liked that I was abstract and you can’t be abstract and obvious. 

                Gretchen put on an Edith Piaf record on her hi-fi and poured us each a drink.  She put the drink up to my lips and then set it down on a table beside us.  She gently took my hand and put it on the small of her back and leaned into me.  In an instant it all felt as though it was meant to be.  The smell of her, the feel of her.  I was drawn in so strong. 

                I left some time during the middle of the night.  I didn’t think it would be right to be there in the light of day. Nobody wants regret or the awkwardness of having to say something, to force something.  There’s a right way the first time.  You hope to plant a seed and see if it grows. Things change when you put light on it.  I left my name and number on a piece of paper.  I sketched a boy sitting near a pond on the paper with a few words.

                “It’s rare you meet someone that fits so well, so much so that you can’t use words.  I enjoyed the evening and believe I would enjoy other evenings just as much.”

                I slept on the couch and woke to the sound of my phone ringing.  It was Raymond.  Raymond had questions for me.  There was hesitation in my voice and I felt I sounded insincere to him.  He offered to pay me for my time and I told him there was no charge.  Maybe that was the red flag.  I didn’t give it much thought and why should I when I had Gretchen on my mind.  Whenever my mind went blank or had time to rest, my thoughts went back to Gretchen.  I thought about the feel of her body against mine, her smile, her voice and her touch.  I wanted badly to see her and then I heard from her.

                “I make the best food a man could ever hope to eat.  I make the food, you bring the wine.”

                Gretchen wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her.  Beginnings are always good and fresh and unpredictable.  The loving was above average, the companionship was everything a man could hope for and yet in the back of my mind, I knew this all couldn’t last.

                The older I get, the more I realize that things are transitory.  Things come and go and you take them for what they are and go on.  Gretchen wasn’t fading in my heart and I didn’t want it to end.  Men say they know what love is and I can’t say I do.  I could no more explain love than I could air.  I just know the two are things you need and when everything is good, you don’t have to worry about them.

                Gretchen suspected that the cleaners were at the door delivering her clothes.  She was getting ready to go out.  We were taking a boat ride on the Detroit River late night.  I opened the door to find a sweating Raymond with his tie twisted.  His teeth were gritted and he panted as he walked towards me.  He called for Gretchen to come out of the bedroom.  She emerged from the room wide eyed at Raymond who stood in front of her with a gun.

                “Raymond…  Why are you doing this?  There’s no reason for this.”          

                Gretchen was wrong.  There’s always a reason for everything and things like a jealous ex-husband with a gun, can be explained.  Raymond hired me and I couldn’t take the job.  I told him that there was nothing for him to worry about and so Raymond hired a detective to expose a detective.  Raymond’s lifeless body lays a few feet from me and there is Gretchen in my lap while I lean against the wall as I scribble into my notebook.  Should I call for an ambulance?  Will life ever get better than what it has been lately since I met Gretchen?  Probably not.  In fact I know it won’t.  If this is as good as it gets, then why go on?  I reached the top of the mountain and it’s beautiful.  Maybe it’s time to just let go and jump…  Give my best to mother.  That’s all.

April 20, 2015

Racial Profile- Detroit Style

Filed under: humor,humour,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:50 am
Tags: , , , ,

You’ve seen this before two lesbians with a black child that has hair like Buckwheat from The Little Rascals taking a photo with the crying child on Santa’s lap at some mall, somewhere safe in suburban America. Some of you think- It’s great that that little boy has a mommy and mommy to take care of them and love them unconditionally. Others of you think- when that child hits puberty and wants to fit in somewhere among his peers and identify with something that represents who they are, how many times will they hear from others who look like them, WTF?

Rich, well-to-do white people unable to travel a day by train from Moscow any longer to adopt a white child from a orphange in a region of the former Soviet Union which was closer to Fairbanks than Leningrad, resort to other options. Children from Europe, Asia, Central and South America are hard to come by but for some reason, black children either domestic or foreign seem to be plentiful. Occasionally the thought will come to someone- Can black people adopt white children?

Slip Hip Willy was born and raised in a part of Detroit nobody ever visits or sees unless they live or work there. Willy was left in an apartment crying and crying. Back then his name was Michael or Bob or Steven. Nobody is quite sure. Velma never said a word to anyone about entering the apartment below and finding a dead white woman next to a dead black man. It was grizzly- blood, organs sticking out of flesh and flesh attached to blood splattered walls. It was nasty. In the living room on the couch was a small crying boy with blond hair. Velma scooped the boy up and loved him and raised him and life was great for the young boy and his mother who could not conceive a child on her own. Willy’s mother and care giver passed on at a young age from cancer when Willy was a little more than eight years old. Willy went to live a plethora of questionable family members all over Detroit. Willy culturally lived like any other poor black child in a poor area of the poorest big city in the United States- he stole, gambled, took drugs, sold drugs, owned pit bulls, tried Rapping and did jail time several times. So how did Slip Hip Willy get his name, get his fame and fortune and a night club in downtown Detroit? Here’s how it happened.

Handsome Hank raised and sold pit bulls to guys who wanted to make a few bucks. Handsome hired Willy upon getting out of prison to gather up stray cats and dogs to feed to starving fighting pit bulls. Willy would get $50.00 per animal. Word got out about domestic pets being taken from suburban people out on walks. It was on 8 Mile heading east towards Schoener that two Detroit officers saw two gray poodles chained to a pole out in front of a party store/gas station. The sight of two dogs better suited for dog shows than a stroll in Detroit, piqued the interest of Officers Jones and Johnson. Willy came out of the party store with a 40 ounce of Olde English 800 in a paper bag, eating a giant pickle. The two small dogs followed Willy willingly as he ate and drank and walked south of 8 Mile on a side street. Willy had blond corn rows and an oversized Pistons jersey over a plain white t-shirt and a sagging pair of jeans and really white gym shoes. The officers drove along side Willy who was slightly high and slightly drunk. Willy was rapping some inaudible profane lyrics to a rap song you and I never heard of as well as the two former military officers who were part of Detroit’s finest. They asked Willy about the two dogs.

“If I had motherfucking pitbulls, y’all woulda bin up my ass bout having fighting dogs… I got me a dog walking business. I walk dogs foh rich motherfuckers who work during the day and I’m fittin to take dem home soon.”

The officers offered to take Willy by car to the home of the people who hired him to walk their dogs. They knew it was bullshit and Willy was too fucked up to think of something better. He resorted to what he saw black men do with white officers when they’re dead wrong- disrespect authority.

“Man… Fuck you two Uncle Tom motherfuckers. You think you almost white cause you got you a job, a gun and a badge. I ain’t doin shit and you fuckin wid me. I’m fittin to git this shit on my cell phone. Y’all want to see another riot in Detroit? Fuck with me and see what happens.”

The cops destroyed Willy’s cell phone after they tried to cuff him and he fought back. He pushed down one of the two cops to the ground and took off running with the poodles. Officer Jones shot Willy four times in the left buttocks until he fell and writhed as if he was about to perish. Willy didn’t die. The poodles ate his pickle while will laid in a puddle of blood and Olde English 800. It was an open and shut case. A potential dog thief resisted arrest and was shot in the ass trying to flee. A group of men drinking on the front porch of a nearby house filmed the whole episode on their phones. The audio was in audible which was Willy’s fortune and the city of Detroit’s misfortune. A short balding Jewish lawyer with a high-pitched, nasal voice, sold a jury on the fact that Willy was a victim.

“Willy Johnson found the dogs chained up and tried to reason with the officers that he had in fact, found the animals and was inquiring as to whether there was a reward. A poor man raised in inner city Detroit was nothing more than profiled as a thief because of his prior record… Was it necessary for the officers to discharge their weapon at a man fleeing with two small dogs in tow? Was it necessary to shoot not once but four times? Something is wrong with our system when the law becomes unlawful, when the law becomes the judge and jury. Mr. William Johnson will never walk properly again because of this incident and why? I ask you why? Was either officer’s life in danger?”

Slip Hip Willy walked with a jive bounce due to the fact that he had several bullets lodged into nerves around his hip. It was a cool guy, old-time pimp bounce. Nobody looked at Willy’s limp as anything more than a cultural bounce. Willy collected 50 million dollars from the financially strapped city of Detroit. Of course his attorney collected his 33% right of the top but it was still a miracle of life.

September 9, 2014

Last Day

Filed under: Detroit,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 8:25 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

“Ha! There he is, there’s the kid! You ready to go?”
Walt looked at his grandfather who he had not seen in a few months that had been stored away in a nursing home in suburban Detroit. Eddy was wearing a white summer suit, with white shoes and a white hat. He was sitting on his side of the room that had been his home for close to six months. The television was so loud that one could hear it half way down the hall. Eddy grabbed the remote control off of the nightstand of his cellmate who had the blaring volume going night and day. Eddy turned off the television, opened the window, which was always closed with drawn blinds and dropped the remote control to the ground below. Eddy’s roommate looked at him incredulously as he leaned forward and said the first few words uttered between them for close to a half-year.
“I know you’re not deaf. You’re just an asshole. Nobody visits you or likes you and so you keep that idiot box as loud as you possibly can stand for companionship. Peter Francis Geraci doesn’t know you or give a fuck about you… You following me? Are you Dracula? What’s with the blinds always being drawn and the windows never open? You are a selfish fuck, Seymour. I leave you with no television for the time being and a wide-open window. Enjoy the sun. You won’t get much when they bury your ass in the ground… I’m ready, Wally.”
The plan was for Walt to visit his grandfather who served as his father. Walt was living in Chicago and could not get to Detroit often enough to see the man who served as his dad, his whole life.
Eddy lived through The Great Depression as a child only to be sent to the Pacific during World War II for five years as a young adult. He raised two children and then raised two children belonging to his son who was unwilling and incapable of being a dad and father. Wally felt guilt over letting his grandfather rot in a nursing home and upon hearing that his aspiration Pneumonia was incurable, Wally intended on getting Eddy to his home in Chicago to live out his days with someone who knew him and loved him. Wally wasn’t ready to receive a feisty man capable of walking. He had heard from the person in charge of the nursing home that his grandfather was bedridden and incapable of walking anymore.
“You rented a Corvette?! That’s a good way to go, m’boy. It’s the car that is clearly American that the Krauts and Japs cannot bury… Put the top down on this honey.”
“Where are we going, grandpa? They told me you have trouble breathing and no longer could walk. Where do you wanna go?”
Walt had heard that terminally ill patients sometimes have a day unlike any day that they have had in years. Eddy was having one. Eddy wanted to see a baseball game.
Walt and Eddy sat out in the right field bleachers at Comerica Park where the Detroit Tigers play. Eddy sat smiling with his white Pork Pie hat and horned rimmed sunglasses. It was a sunny day with low humidity.
“When you’re young, you don’t think about a beautiful day like this. You’re gonna have a million more. You’re gonna live forever and old age is for other people but not for you. I got Malaria twice in my twenties during the war and my feet were so rotten from being in wet boots during the war, living on shit food and no sleep and I never thought I would be killed. Politicians send young men to fight their battles because young men think they’re invincible… You still invincible?”
Walt didn’t feel invincible any longer. Being in his forties, he knew that life was getting shorter by the day.
“As a young boy, I saw Ty Cobb play. I didn’t realize for a long time who he was and what he meant to the game and ball in Detroit… I said I would never come to this newfangled place but I gotta say that this is all right… Nice park.”
Eddy hacked and hacked and hocked up a clam and spit it in his empty beer cup. Wally watched his grandfather carefully. Eddy noticed the look of concern on his grandson’s face and lightened the moment with an old tongue twister.
“It’s not the coughing often. It’s the coffin they carry you off in…”
Eddy refused to walk around with an oxygen tank. After the game, they went to eat at a restaurant in Greektown. Eddy ordered some flaming cheese and only had a bite. Solid food was hard for him to swallow. Food sometimes went down to his lungs instead of to his stomach and the chance of choking was always high. Eddy had a red wine and smiled. Walt didn’t know what to do with his grandfather next and so he asked.
“I’d like to go to a strip club… There’s nothing more beautiful than the female body. Your grandmother was a rare beauty back in the day. Nice smile, nice legs… and real firm tits. Tits are an amazing thing. You can’t properly fuck them but they feel nice to touch the way a kid pets a dog or a rabbit… They just feel nice.”
The duo found a strip club around the corner. On the door of the place was a sign that said, “Tits and Tigers- get a free beer and half price lap dance with a Detroit Tigers ticket stub”. Walt drank his beer while a young woman writhed around on top of his grandfather while he groped her breasts and kissed her neck. Within an hour, they were back in the Corvette.
“I used to go to dance halls before the war. I’d meet a new girl every week. I always made that girl feel like a queen for the day. Sometimes you’d get a little action and sometimes you got nothing. It was a lot like fishing. Sometimes you got a trophy and other times your didn’t get a bite… Swell gal today. Fake tits are interesting. They didn’t have such a thing back when I was young. They flopped a bit if they were big and that was fine… Things change.”
Walt didn’t know what to do with his grandfather. He started to drive back towards the nursing home when Eddy asked if they could drive clear across the state to see the sun set over Lake Michigan. It was late in the day and it would be close. Walt drove the Corvette as fast as he could down the interstate towards Holland, Michigan and arrived after the sun had set. Eddy smiled as the dimly lit sky turned to black.
“And that’s how life is… You think you have more time than you do. Each day is like a lifetime and the morning holds so much promise. As the sun begins to set, you realize time is short and everything you want to do is no longer possible… Everyday is like a lifetime and every time you fall asleep is a little like dying. You close your eyes and float away to a place within your own mind.”
Walt found a hotel room with two beds. Walt propped his grandfather upright so that he could breathe easier. The wall A/C unit provided white noise that allowed them both to fall asleep and prevented Walt from noticing the change in the breathing pattern of his grandfather. Walt awoke to find his grandfather gasping for air and unconscious. Walt felt guilty that he allowed his grandfather to talk him into a whirlwind tour in one day while being so sick. Walt called for an ambulance that took a long time to arrive. It seemed like hours. Walt asked Eddy to squeeze his hands but there was no response. Walt kept talking to Eddy in hopes of keeping him alive knowing that life was slipping away. He suddenly said things he wishes he had said before.
“I stopped hugging you and kissing you at the age of twelve because I thought that men didn’t do those things. I never thanked you for taking over where my parents failed. I thought I had more time to show my appreciation… Had I known you were going to check out today, I would have stayed up all night talking to you. You’ve lived 94 years but you could live 200 and I would still miss you and turn to you with questions and guidance. I’ve had you my whole life… and I will miss you more than I can say… I love you, grandpa.”
And with that, Eddy’s eyes opened for a full second and then closed and he stopped breathing. Life had ended. There would be no funeral service or a casket for Eddy. He was cremated and his remains placed in a marble urn with a death certificate. Before returning back to Chicago, Walt sat on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan on a warm summer night. The beach and park on the bluff was filled with people waiting to see the sun set on a beautiful day. Walt sat quietly with the urn next to him as the large ball grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared. A million stars appeared around a half moon. Eddy was somewhere among the stars that go on forever.

Edward Arthur Calahan Jr. 4-20-1920 to 8-30-14-
The greatest man you never met.

October 31, 2013

Disney for Adults or Debauchery in Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:36 am
Tags: , , , ,

A good idea is really a good idea and leaves others to ponder why it was they didn’t think about it first. A place that serves coffee like heroin to addicts who need a fix just to function. A great idea worth a billion.
Now Thomas Washington, no relation to George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, bought land in Detroit for pennies on the dollar. After winning the Powerball at a party store on Livernois and some other street you don’t know or care about in Detroit, Thomas, who was living in his mother’s beat up two bedroom house south of 8 mile, bought a bottle of Thorn Rose sweet red wine and a Powerball ticket. Thomas’ chances of being hit by a satellite on a motorcycle travelling 62.5 miles an hour or 100 kilometers, which ever you prefer, was greater than landing the single ticket worth a half billion. Call it destiny with divinity.
Now Thomas reasoned that his town wasn’t such a bad town. It used to be a good town and upon visiting Las Vegas for a weekend and a week in Dubai, Thomas decided that buying vacant land in Detroit and turning into a Disney for adults or debauchery in Detroit, was a way of turning millions into billions.
After a few hotels and casinos popped up in northwest Detroit where a man-made lake was lined with love cabins and getaway destinations for lovers and others, big time investment followed. Soon came MMA matches, live sex shows and donkey shows. There were video game arcades for adults where they could redeem tickets to have relations with women from around the world or for hunks from next door. Hookah dens with hash and Marijuana, MTV reality shows, 5 star restaurants packed with stars and those wanting to be stars. Fake beaches and fake people flocked to Detroit to make the scene. Las Vegas became a subdued ghost town.
Forbes had a picture of a beautiful hotel overlooking a shimmering lake with a young woman in a thong wading in knee deep water. The caption read, “Detroit- The key to America’s renaissance”. The author of the article commented on how it took a genius to tap into the hidden desires of man to create a vacationland of hidden fantasies for people from around the world. Thomas Washington was pictured in a bowler hat and a cane lined with diamonds, dressed in a suit which was handmade by a man in Italy who charged $20,000.00. Thomas took a puff of a Cohiba, took a sip from a $1,000.00 a bottle cognac in a gold rimmed glass. Thomas picked tobacco or lint off of his tongue before contouring his razor thin moustache and speaking in a quietly smooth voice. He paused ten seconds before answering the journalist which only made Thomas seem deeper than he was.
“People are gonna do what they gonna do. I just make it fashionable to be a pig. When you have money, you a deep motherfucker. When you ain’t got a pot to piss in, you jus a dirty motherfucker… And that’s jus how shit is.

September 5, 2013

Das Capitalists

If you had your car towed in the city of Detroit, you made a tremendous mistake. Chances are your car is not worth the cost to spring it and then you might have to find the one of the most miserable parts of North America to claim your vehicle. Picture miles and miles of weeds growing through cracks in streets and sidewalks that used to be city streets. One of the biggest towing companies in the nation is housed in inner city Detroit. The owner had a morbid sense of humor. He named his towing yard The Happy Valley Sunday Yard for Wayward Vehicles and Singing Frog Sanctuary. It is quite wordy to be sure. A wrought iron fence fashioned to look like the entry way to Auschwitz says in German, “Geld macht frei” or in English, “money makes you free”.
Clement had a handlebar moustache, listened to opera music and was working on his PHD in philosophy. Clement inherited the pound from his dad who received it through death from his dad. Clement was going through a master’s program at Wayne State University when his father passed on. Clement immediately renamed the yard and fashioned the front gate to look like the entry way to Auschwitz. It was very dark but it amused him. A few old Jews recognized the gate. One old Jew just laughed.
It was a warm Wednesday night and Clement was thinking about capitalism and whether America was possibly on the wrong track. He thought about Karl Marx. Clement had the ability to remember verbatim anything he read or said.
“The commodity is the basic “cell-form” of a capitalist society, but capitalism is distinguished from other forms of production based on commodities in that here labor power becomes a commodity like any other. Moreover, because commerce, as a human activity, implied no morality beyond that required to buy and sell goods and services, the growth of the market system made discrete entities of the economic, the moral, and the legal spheres of human activity in society; hence, subjective moral value is separate from objective economic value… This motherfucker yelling on a cell phone.”
“If you want your goddamn vehicle, you will pay $198.00 to have it again. If not, it will be auctioned off to some other poor dope dealer. Is that clear enough English?”
“Fuck you, my friend… I hope god punishes you for what you doing.”
“I’m not a friend, my friend and god punished you for stupidity. Park your car in front of the casino looking like a terrorist who is out to exploit all the vices of America before catching a flight that will not land and god punishes you. That and Detroit’s finest capture your luscious ass on film. No bartering. I don’t need a goat, just greenbacks.”
Tristan und Isolde played loudly while Clemente looked unblinkingly at beat up Fords and Chevys. His busty and buxom secretary closed her eyes and listened to the music hoping that the animalistic tendencies of Clemente would take over and that he would bend her over his desk and be rough with her. The intro to Tristan und Isolde was not like the Flight of the Valkyries. Clemente could smell Veronica’s perfume but he was somewhere else. Veronica heard Tristan speaking but could not comprehend what he was saying.
“The economic crisis such as depression and recession that are rooted in the contradictory character of the economic value of the commodity (cell-unit) of a capitalist society, are the conditions that propitiate which has been collectively identified as a weapon, forged by the capitalists, whom the working class “turned against bourgeoisies itself… God damn it!”
A white kid with a cocked Detroit Tigers hat with a straight brim in red with a flashing gothic D, stood wearing a tank top or Dago T, baggy pants and a white pair of gym shoes. He was covered in cheap tattoos, one being a tear drop next to his right eye.
“Aye man, this is fucking bullshit, man… I had my fucking flashers on and was in the Coney Island picking my shit up for thirty fucking seconds. Y’all was waiting fo my ass to tow my shit away.”
Clement held up a finger, picked up a book with a phony cover that read, literate guide to conversing with illiterates.
“If your fucking ass had two ounces of sense, not to be confused with sensimilla, you would have taken ten extra seconds to park your shit in a legal spot for no money at all. Instead you felt you was so important that you didn’t think yo white ass was held to the same bullshit as every other motherfucker’s motherfucking ass, correct?”
“Fuck you, man… Just give me my motherfucking car.”
Paco pulled forward with the tow truck a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado, powder blue with 18 inch rims. The white male studied his vehicle for signs of abuse. He could find none. This young man lived in a house with his mom, his sister, his sister’s boyfriend, their child, his previous children with two other women and three dogs and a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado.
Veronica was turned on by Clemente’s indifference. She ripped open her blouse and plopped down upon Clemente’s lap, grabbed his face with her hands until his face looked like a sharpei dog. The music became soft again. Veronica spoke.
“You bet me that Miguel Cabrera would get 200 RBIs by the end of the season. We have less than a month to go til the end of the season and he is hurt and stuck at 135.”
Clemente smiled and took a sip of his tea. He shook his head and rubbed Veronica’s curvy hips.
“Yes… Even though I am not a Detroit Tigers fan or a fan of baseball, I bet you that he would get 200 RBIs based on his work for his team thus far.”
Veronica took Clemente’s index finger and put it in her mouth while he spoke.
“And when Miggy comes up short… Just remember that I get to put a mango in your ass and eat it down to the seed. 65 RBIs in a month would be a great accomplishment yet not possible. Just wanted to let you know where things stand.”
The music got loud and another car pulled up angrily. Clemente took a sip of his tea, smiled and winked at his assistant.
“Mango… Oh boy… Maybe I don’t understand baseball after all.”

August 20, 2013

When Pigs Flew Over Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:17 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

At 4:42 am on a July morning, angry clouds swirled and twisted as the sun behind a curtain of storm cover, began to light the sky. A loud boom and a flash of lightning hit the Fisher Body 21 building and illuminated it like a Christmas tree for a solid ten seconds. It was so beautiful to see the mother of all Detroit structural eyesores, shine as though rapture was going to take place at the site where chassis for Cadillac’s prestigious cars were once made. It has since become a haven for urban dwellers that tag walls and break windows, those who harvest metal to earn money and those without a place to live.
A semi carrying canisters of nitrous oxide slammed into the back of a livestock transporter full of pigs being taken to slaughter to make things like bacon, bacon dates, bacon bits, canned hams, ham sandwiches and so forth. The livestock transporter swayed hard to the left and then back to the right until the back end swung around and knocked the cab on its side. Sparks flew as the two large vehicles slid for the length of two football fields. A motorcyclist hit a large sow that had been released from the carriage and was running toward the motorcycle. It took several seconds for the brain of the motorcyclist to accept that a herd of pigs were running full boat towards him at daybreak, with a really angry sky and cars dodging animals and other cars on interstate 75. The motorcyclist hit a pig and flew over cars, over the barrier wall for the freeway and experienced the sensation of flying down a rollercoaster until he landed on the back of a scavenger’s truck that just happened to be driving under the freeway, filled with metal and a bedbug infested mattress to break his fall and save his life.
A car full of potential terrorists that had flown from the middle east to Canada, had hit some strip clubs and Caesar’s Windsor casino before crossing the bridge to America to punish Americans for infidelity to god, over indulgence and a lack of discipline and morals, for their weaknesses in giving in to cravings and twisted sexual desires and the idiocy of what they have seen on satellite television on Maury Povich’s paternity and infidelity shows. Infidels to be sure.
The church bus on the way to a retreat in the Upper Peninsula hit a two hundred pound plus hog and propelled it through the air and through the windshield belonging to the men on a mission to punish Americans for being Americans. They took it as a sign from Allah that maybe they were doing the wrong thing. They rationalized that if during a severe storm, Allah sends a pig through your windshield, forcing you to touch a forbidden and dirty, bloody animal during Ramadan, and then maybe it would be best to return home or at least back to Windsor.
A notoriously morally corrupt state trooper who had a knack for stopping attractive young women who were sure to be given a DUI for leaving the casinos drunk in the early morning hours, was touched by the storm and ensuing calamity of flying and running pigs, car crashes and leaking nitrous oxide. The truck with nitrous oxide that hit the livestock truck that caused the motorcyclist to fly onto a bed on the back of a beat up old truck, which distracted the church bus driver, who hit a pig that sent the pig through the windshield of wannabee terrorists (you’re not actually a terrorist unless you’re successful) who then hit the state trooper’s vehicle that was parked on the shoulder while he received oral sex from a young woman who could never have afforded the $10,000.00 in fees for a DUI, all exited their cars and watched the former Marine turned state trooper, walk through the pile up of cars with his zipper down and his bloody detached cock in his hand. The youth pastor of the church bus that was on it’s way to bring troubled inner city youth to a place they could have only dreamed of, exited the bus through a window and began to scream at the clouds. The minister truly believed that Christ had returned and took what he needed and had left the rest for Satan to sort out. The minister tried to quickly reason why it was that he had come up short. Was it the underage girl he had a relationship with when he was young and impressionable at the tender age of thirty-four? Was it the years of anti-war protests, LSD and free love back during the Vietnam days?
“You cannot leave me! I have walked the path I was shown and have shared your message for you. I have acknowledged my sins and have asked you to become my personal savior. How could you forsake me?”
The wannabee terrorists, the church campers, the truck drivers all stood around as the skies poured rain, became windy and brought about hail. Within minutes, the skies cleared and the nitrous oxide leaked and was inhaled by all that converged around the trucks. At first a few people near the leaking tanks of laughing gas, began to giggle and then others whose days and lives were temporarily ruined came over to see if the group of people were laughing or crying.
By the time the paramedics arrived, they found a rather diverse group of stunned people laughing and hugging one another. No apocalypse, no rapture, just a really bad start to a day in July. A day when pigs flew over Detroit.

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?”

July 23, 2013

Never Tear Us Apart

“My old man dies and doesn’t leave me his antique cars, his house, his summer house, his condo in Florida, his restaurants but he leaves me a fucking horse?”
“Yes… A horse. The horse is housed at the Hazel Park track and is a harness racer. Your father saw to it that all the expenses for the horse are taken care of. There is a note that goes along with this if you would like me to go ahead and read it.” Said the Attorney.
“Sure… Read the fucking note.”
Nicholas,
I had always hoped that you would have had my ambition to succeed and persevere. You had extraordinary talent for ice hockey and were content living in my basement to play beer pong and X-Box. The fact that I owned several Coney Island restaurants and you were content being counter help for minimum wage instead of helping me run things, sent up a red flag years ago. I have left the chain of restaurants to your sister as well as my homes and cars. You can have that beat up old home in Detroit that you now live in with your friend and I too leave you my horse. I was given this horse as a gift and I am giving it to you as a gift. I envision you and your bust-out buddy, sitting in the stands at Hazel Park betting your pittance against your own horse. It is yours to do with as you wish. Your mother always came to your rescue whenever I tried to push you along and you never amounted to much. I love you, Nicholas but could not in good conscience give all that I created to you just to have it melt away. Have fun with the horse.

Dad

“My dad was always a tight waded motherfucker… So when can I see my horse?”
Nick finished playing morning pick up hockey with Anthony at the Hazel Park rink in suburban Detroit and showed up at the stable where their horse was housed. In the stable was a small black man in a Speedo bathing suit and a pair of Timberland boots that was singing and doing Tai Chi moves. He had long hair and was ripped, as he was petite. Josiah sang the INXS song, Two Worlds Colliding. Josiah was unaware of the two large white men watching him as he closed his eyes and sang until tears came to his eyes.

Don’t ask me
What you know is true

Don’t have to tell you
I love your precious heart

I
I was standing,
you were there

Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart


We could live
For a thousand years
But if I hurt you
I’d make wine from your tears


I told you
That we could fly
’cause we all have wings
But some of us don’t know why


I
I was standing
You were there,
Two worlds collided
And they could never ever tear us apart.
“Fucking great… I inherited a broken down horse with a gay Sammy Davis Jr. horse jockey.”
The smallish black man stepped up to the two white men without fear. He spoke like the Geico gecko which surprised the men even more.”
“Take me for a fucking poofter will ya? I’ve shagged more female white and dark meat in me loife than Colonel fucking Sanders could shake a stick at, mate. Fuck with me and you’ll be feeding the fucking trees. Now then… Who the fuck are you?”
Josiah’s great-great-great grandfather had been taken on ship from England and dumped in Australia. Josiah’s ancestor was a former slave that was imprisoned and had found aboriginal people and mated with them. Josiah wanted to be a singer and actor and was working his way to Hollywood from Sydney, Australia and was stuck in a quagmire, which was Detroit. Josiah was talking with two career recreational, non-paid ice hockey players who never quite made it and they never made it because they lacked drive and dedication. They coasted throughout their twenties and at the cusp of thirty years of age, they were about to become inspired by a Prince look-a-like who was determined to win harness races, earn enough money and move to California to be discovered.
Josiah took the hands of Anthony and Nick and looked them intently in their eyes and began to sing again.
“You were standing… I was there… Two worlds colliding and they could never tear us apart… We were fucking brought together by a hoi-er being for the purpose of making it, mates. Let’s not fuck this up, eh?”
Nick and Anthony laughed hardy laughs and took their jockey to a Detroit Tigers game and then to the casino. They got trashed and then formed a triumvirate. Within a year, their horse won enough money for Nick and Anthony to buy a low-level minor league hockey franchise for $30,000 in the Michigan League. On Friday and Saturday nights, you can find them playing for their own team at a rink in Suburban Detroit. Patrons pay $5.00 to see fights and a little hockey. Working at a coffee shop in West Hollywood, California is a singing, small black man with a strong Australian accent, passionately desperate to realize his dreams so much so that he inspires all those that he touches to try harder and keep hope truly alive. Two worlds colliding.

May 7, 2013

Two Men and a Gator or Bombs in Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:41 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

People were sleeping in Detroit when Goose heard what sounded like an explosion, saw a bright light and then felt the shock wave in his chest that reminded him of a double barrel 12 gauge sawed off shot gun going off during a robbery of a party store. Goose had been feeding his pet alligator that was being hand fed catfish in the backyard of his Detroit home on a warm summer night when the explosion occurred.
A fireball, traveling at a speed of 19 miles per second, had blazed across the horizon, leaving a long white trail that could be seen as far as Montreal.
Car alarms went off, thousands of windows shattered and mobile phone networks were disrupted as well as Internet and television. Goose grabbed his four-foot alligator and carried him into the house. His cousin Rakeesh sat up on the couch that served as his bed after midnight and looked at the fuzzy television screen. He asked Goose about the explosion.
“Imma guess one of two motherfucking things; it either the terrorists and they pressure cookers or it’s the North Koreans but either way, Dee-troit is under motherfucking siege. The white folk up north done talked bout this shit and we jus think they crazy but some shit coming down right now. Git all you got which you and follow me. We taking the alligator with us. He too scared to be alone right now. I was in the backyard and seen this light that was as bright as the sun. We mighta been bombed, dog.”
The alligator was found last Christmas Eve in the field behind their home. Someone had put the alligator in a sack and dumped it. Goose saw something moving in the large burlap sack and thought it might have been a dying human. To his surprise, it was a three-foot alligator. Goose adopted the animal as his pet and loved it like a child.
The explosion was a meteorite, which weighed about 10 metric tons and may have been made of iron. It entered Earth’s atmosphere and broke apart 31 miles above ground. The energy released when it entered the Earth’s atmosphere was equivalent to the power of a small atomic weapon exploding.
“I seen this shit on TV once. We done bombed the Japanese to hell. I don’t know why the terrorist motherfuckers didn’t take out Chicago or New York or even LA. They probably was hiding out in Canada… Git dressed!”
The early-morning blast and ensuing shock wave blew out windows throughout Detroit. People were looting party stores and gas stations everywhere. Booze, beef jerky and diapers were in the arms of fleeing looters. Goose walked around holding his gator and Rakeesh walked around with loaded guns expecting to find Koreans or cab driver looking Taliban types but only found neighborhood residents running amok.

One piece of meteorite landed in the Detroit River and caused a wave that hit the GM building ten floors high. Water from the enormous wave covered Jefferson and rolled down Woodward.
Scientists knew that a meteorite had hit Detroit. Due to power outages, none of the residence knew what had occurred. Their minds ran with them and they gathered up as many items from stores as possible. Big black armored trucks with hundreds of police in riot gear surrounded the area off of Joy Road. A mousy woman’s voice came over a loud speaker.
“People… Listen! It’s not what you think. If you have anything in your possession that does not belong to you, now would be a good time to drop it and return to your homes.”
Three large Detroit cops surrounded Rakeesh and Goose who was holding his scared alligator. The cops had weapons lock and loaded ready to shoot Rakeesh and Goose if needed. They looked at the two men with the alligator with flash lights pointed in their faces and lowered their guns. A cop who was a former Iraqi War Veteran walked towards the two men and the alligator shaking his head.
“I thought I saw it all but looting an alligator is something special…”

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