Blackhumouristpress's Blog

November 23, 2009

I Vill Charm Your fu#*king Snake

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:47 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

“Who the fuck is going to pay for my fucking television? Huh? You mother fuckers killed my television.” Yelled a glassy eyed Mexican man with a strong accent.
Hector had come home from a small factory on Chicago’s west side. His job was to make grinding wheels for machine shops. The owner hired illegal aliens to make the wheels for him in a basement of the factory. It was an ingenious scheme. It would have been like putting Anne Frank to work behind the refrigerator. OSHA people would have closed the factory down in a second if they knew what was going on in the
basement. The air swirled with silica that went into making the wheels. The foreman wore a device that looked like a World War I gas mask that had two little air vents around the mouth. All the workers used paper masks and they were issued two a week. Hector worked ten hours a day and made eight dollars an hour. Hector had come from an area of Mexico called Jalisco. Hector paid a man close to $8,000.00 to take him across at Tijuana. The men, who took his money, provided him with fake papers. From there, Hector took a bus to Chicago to live in a studio apartment with his cousin and four other
men. A studio apartment is nothing more than a room that serves as everything but a
bathroom.
Hector started a side project of doing handy man repairs on the side. Sylvia, a seventy year old Jewish woman, hired Hector to fix some small items in her apartment and before long, Hector was living with Sylvia. Hector was a short dumpy Aztec looking man with dark, ruddy complexion and black eyes. Hector hated the United States.
Hector saw an invisible wall that kept his people invisible. Nobody seemed to notice that at all the restaurants, car washes and front lawns in upper middle class areas around the country, functioned because of undocumented Hispanics, primarily Mexicans. Hector knew that as an undocumented, illegal alien, he had to settle for whatever job and money he could find.
The silica made him wheeze and his eyes tear. Hector often coughed but thought nothing of it. Hector had been watching El Salvador playing against Mexico. It was a tied game in the 78th minute when six firemen axed the door open and began smashing all the windows out. Hector grabbed the arm of one of the firemen and as the fireman struggled; his axe went right through the 70 inch, high definition television that Hector had just purchased. It cost Hector the equivalent of ten days of work. The fireman apologized and walked out. Hector found out later at work that El Salvador won the match.
Sylvia stood on the sidewalk, trying to calm Hector while holding her parakeets in

a small cage. Hector had just downed several shots of tequila and wolfed down a six

pack of Tecate. All he wanted to do was watch the match on television and fall asleep on

the couch.

Hector and Sylvia found a motel on Lincoln Avenue called the Rio Motel.
Hector was checking into the motel that doubled as a convenience store too. Behind the bullet proof glass were cigarettes, pop, condoms, pain relievers and so forth. The Indian proprietor looked at Hector, a Hispanic man in his mid thirties and the seventy year old Jewish woman holding two birds in a cage, while dressed in pyjamas, was
impressed with that. Ajesh the proprietor was used to seeing all kinds of outrageous things but felt that the odd couple were the most unique of the night. Just as they were settling up with Ajesh, a young black, homeless man came in.
“Yo man, I’m just coming back for my cigarettes… I was in here back before y’all started foh the night and left my cigarettes here on the counter… You kin look at the tapes, I was here bout foh clock…”
“I don’t know nothing about no cigarettes, bro… You better leave now,” said Ajesh.
Hector slipped Fifty dollars cash under the bullet proof glass and handed it to
Ajesh. An Indian musical played in the back ground on a small television. There was one woman dressed in a Sari with twenty men, dancing in unison with her in front of a palace. Everyone of the dancers, were good looking people and light skinned to the point of looking Anglo with a hint of Indian. They were dressed in yellow and orange. They were all smiling, fit and happy. Ajesh was heavy and very dark and looked unhappy. He had a great disdain for the patrons who frequented the motel he purchased from a Korean couple several years back. The patrons used it to use and sell drugs, they used it to have secret rendezvous and some used it for prostitution. Illegal aliens used the motel as their
only means of living since they were fearful that a background/credit check would reveal the fact that they were not living and working in the country legally. Hector lived with Sylvia and so he had an apartment to go where there would not be four men to a room. Sylvia had companionship. She had someone other than birds and a television for interaction. Even though Hector was surly, he did appreciate the old woman letting him live with her. The relationship was non sexual for the most part. There had been a few
occasions where the chemicals within Hector, built up and drove him to do something that he would not have done otherwise. This poor decision making was aided by Tequila. Sylvia actually liked it quite a bit. It had been years since she had sex with a man. That night, there would be no sex and very little talking. They were both disturbed by the fact that they were instantly displaced from their apartment due to the fire.
“Hey man, I just want my motha fucking cigarettes… Look on the motha fucking tapes if you don’t believe me,” said the black man, with even glossier eyes than Hector.
“If you don’t leave now, I vill call the police,” said Ajesh, sternly.
“Fuck you, you fucking A-rab mothah fucking, carpet riding, snaking charming motha fucker.”
Ajesh emerged from behind the bullet proof room with a good ole Louisville Slugger. It was a thirty two ounce bat, which is to say that it had some weight to it. It was supposedly signed by Bo Jackson, who once played baseball for the Chicago White Sox and football for the Oakland Raiders. Ajesh held the bat up as if he were playing Cricket, which he was once very good at back in India. Ajesh was not a small man and was not afraid of black men who tried to intimidate him. In fact Ajesh was secretly hoping that one of them would cross the line so that he could brain them with his bat and then tell the police that he was being threatened with death by some transient.
“Who’s the mother fucker now? Mother fucker… Try some stupid shit, bro. I vill charm your fucking snake…”

With that, the transient man walked off and Hector and Sylvia went up to their
room. The room was musty as if mold was growing somewhere and the toilet smelled of urine like an outhouse. The bed had nothing but sheets on it and every spring on the bed
could be felt. Hector turned on the television to find two Indian men having sex with an Indian woman in a garden while sitar music played softly behind her feigned moans. Sylvia fell asleep talking to her birds, Hector fell asleep watching the Indian manage a trois. They too were good looking Indian people, this time with their clothes off.

Advertisements

September 9, 2009

Italian Chef Fire Chief

Italian chef fire chief
Now the lieutenant from the Chicago Fire Department, tenth battalion of the north west side, called Mort over by holding his palm up and pushing his index finger back and forth.
“I think you should know what kind of stuff goes on in your apartment building, sir.” Said the lieutenant in his clean white shirt and tie.
Mort suspected body parts of a serial killer or nude pictures of children. Mort braced himself for the worst. Once inside the second floor apartment that belonged to a doctor of philosophy from Northwestern University, was found mountains of newspapers that formed tunnels. Newspapers up to the ceiling in neat stacks. Mort followed the lieutenant through the tunnels to a bedroom in the back.
One of the bedrooms was used to sleep in and the other was used to store plastic.

Plastic.

Most of it made from carbon, which was drawn from petroleum. In the bedroom, packed to the ceiling were plastic milk jugs, two liter bottles, discarded household products and plastic grocery bags. The bags were being saved for years since the professor had lived in the apartment for over thirty years. Had these bags decomposed, they would have turned into pieces of plastic and then fine dust. The professor was worried about this dust eventually harming wild life and getting into the water or food chain and so he saved all his plastic. The papers were for reference.
It is true that plastic bags hang from trees and then find their way into streams and rivers and then eventually the oceans. Most people use the bags to cart home groceries and then later fill them with dog shit and never stop to think where the plastic eventually goes. Most swirls around like soup in the oceans… For a long time.
“What kind of a sick fuck does this?” Asked the lieutenant of Mort, as he tried to use his body weight to push open the bedroom door.
The plastic heated up from the intense heat of the fire and had melded together to form a ball of plastic. The milk jugs and old vinyl items got really warm and stuck together but did not melt. The smell was pretty strong and the fumes were really not that good to inhale. One of the firemen climbed across the mountain of plastic until he got to the window and used his pick axe to break open the windows in order to get fresh air.
The professor was not home. He was at work working on a computer. When the computer becomes obsolete, he will donate it poor inner city schools so that poorer children in Haiti or Cote d’ivoire, don’t smash the computer to retrieve valuable pieces of the inner components while at the same time, exposing themselves to harmful particulates that fill the air.
Say what you will about the professor but for all his inner demons, he knew what was killing the planet. As a recycler, the professor was first rate.
Mort was perplexed by the lieutenant’s anger. The lieutenant was more angered by the squirreling away of plastic than the actual fire. The lieutenant chewed his gum in a circular motion and could be heard breathing through his nose as if he had obstructions necessary to clear out. Between the gum chewing, loud breathing and the twitching mustache, all left Mort annoyed. The clencher for Mort was having to endure the strong scent of garlic on the lieutenant’s breath. The whole fire crew had just been at the fire house twenty minutes earlier and the lieutenant was preparing a delicious marinara sauce with garlic bread, soaked in butter. They were just minutes away from dinner when the alarm rang. This is what angered the lieutenant most. He would have to boil a new pot of pasta. The marinara sauce was a family secret that the lieutenant was very proud of. It dated back to Italy. The other firemen thought the lieutenant was an asshole but they loved his food. Here is what the recipe called for… You can try this at home.

8 cups of peeled tomatoes or canned italian plum tomatoes
10 tablespoons of butter. Real butter not margarine.
8 small onions, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
8 slices of bacon, cooked and crumbled
1 cup of marsala
1 tablespoon of oregano
4 cups of freshly grated Parmesan or Romano Cheese
Salt and pepper at your dicretion
Add meatballs

This all goes best with red wine. The lieutenant prefers a Chianti. In fact he insists that all the firemen eat his concoction with at least a half glass of red wine to help bring out the flavor.
While the fire was going on, the sauce was simmering on a low flame. No pun intended. Fortunately for all involved, the sauce and meatballs were not burned. http://www.blackhumouristpress.com

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.