Blackhumouristpress's Blog

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

July 7, 2014

Saying Goodbye to Father

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:00 am
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Delice, named after the Freshman school teacher that helped her mother accept the fact that she was going to become a mother at the age of 15, arrived at the hospital to see her father who was dying. She arrived wearing dowdy Amish clothing with her eldest daughter who was cross eyed and full of acne. Denise, the daughter of Delice, strummed an autoharp while her mother alternated between receiting bible verses and singing hymnals in German and English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


November 12, 2013

Happy Veterans Day

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor — blackhumouristpress @ 8:17 pm
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Wade watched his son walk out alone through the tunnel. He saw a skinny kid with a lot of feathered hair. He thought his young son looked like Shawn Cassidy, an androgynous looking teen star. Luke held out his hand to the man who looked like Charles Manson in an olive green army coat. The man with intense eyes left his son’s hand to hang in the air until he dropped it.
“You came from Frisco?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there still a lot of queers in Frisco?”
“I don’t know. I live in Oakland. My mom works at Berkeley. She said it was cheaper to fly out of San Francisco than Oakland.”
“Berkeley huh? Lot of fucking hippies at that school. You’re not a Shawn Cassidy fan are you?”
“No sir. My sister is though.”
Wade was a Vietnam veteran who had come back from an eighteen month, two tours of duty to Detroit. He was an infantry sergeant whose job it was to walk from village to village through the jungle after Agent Orange, a defoliant, was used to cause the foliage to die instantly, making it possible to see the forest through the trees as the saying goes.
Luke looked at the beat up looking house in a beat up looking area of a town he was born in but had not visited since being an infant. In the front yard with knee high grass; behind a six-foot cinderblock wall with razor wire at the top and a sign that read, “Trespass if you want to go to heaven today”. In the yard were three Doberman Pinchers. The three dogs growled at Luke. Luke was frozen with fear.
“If you act like a scared little pussy, you’ll always get your ass kicked. Don’t think them dogs don’t know you’re frightened like a girl. Just be cool and they won’t fuck with you… Hey, you got my money, motherfucke!r?”
A chubby man with aviator sunglasses and a thick black moustache was loading his belongings into a car in the driveway at that same moment. He had been renting a bedroom from Wade and decided to vacate upon not having rent money two months in a row.
“Well, I have just recently become gainfully employed and will be able to send you money from Cleveland just as soon as I get my first check.”
Wade held up his index finger motioning his renter to wait a moment.
“Wait here. I got a little something to give you before you go. Don’t take off yet.”
Wade went into his bedroom, brought out a double barrel 12 gauge shot-gun and pointed it at his renter. The truck lid was open. Wade shot a hole in the trunk as his former renter raced off in his car.
“Rule fucking one- be a man of your word and don’t bullshit people especially if they are not stupid enough to swallow bullcrap. He thinks I would kill and I would. He won’t ever send me a nickel. He deserved the scare for being a lying ass deadbeat. You hungry?”
Wade took Luke to a Coney Island and let him order a hot dog with fries and a soda. He thumbed through a book called Dianetics by a man named L. Ron Hubbard while smoking a cigarette. Luke, an eleven year old boy wondered why it was that the man who was his father, never asked him any questions. What’s your school like? How’s your mom? Does your sister ever ask about me? After about five minutes of silence, Wade started to speak.
“I had a friend named Lester. A bad ass Jew boy who lived in Southfield. He had a Dodge Charger and wouldn’t take no shit from nobody. He went to reform school and when he got out, his family wouldn’t let him back in the house. I had a job with your mom’s father working at a Plymouth plant and Lester was living with your mom and I. Well old Lester had no fucking job and he was at home all day with your mom while I was working. You were a baby and about a year later, your sister was born. When your sister came out, she was born with a hook fucking nose. I’m wondering where she got the hook. Maybe a Jew with a hook nose himself? I know your sister is Lester’s kid. She looks like Lester in all them pictures your mom sent me.”
Luke went on to hear the same story several more times before he returned home. Upon returning home, Luke confronted his mother with the question about Lester being the father of his sister. Luke’s mother slapped him and replied that Lester was a pig and the very idea of being accused of being with him, made her violent.
Two men came in to the restaurant and began quietly robbing everyone at the Coney Island. Wade took notice and put down the book on Dianetics. Eventually the men walked up towards Wade and Luke. One man plopped down across from Wade, next to Luke as he picked his teeth with a toothpick.
“Hey man, we collecting money foh little brothas of the poor. We poor brothas and we collecting. Take out all you got in your pockets and just be cool, dig?”
Wade took a drink of his coffee with his left hand and rammed the barrel of his gun into the crotch of the man sitting across from him calmly.
“I was in a village you ain’t never heard of or cared about some 10,000 miles from here. Some motherfucker strapped a bomb to a kid who came up and begged for candy and then died and took two friends of mine with him. I then rounded up ever man in the village, put a gun in their mouths like the one against your balls right now and sent them to see Buddha. I would have no fucking problem pulling the trigger right now and splattering your nutsack all over the wall behind you. I went to fight so that motherfuckers like you could coast, right? Great country. Now you two motherfuckers clean your pockets of the shit you just took and set it right here on the table. I might then let you walk the fuck out of here.”
Luke couldn’t eat anymore. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. His father asked if he was cold. It was eighty-five degrees out. Before Luke returned to Oakland, his father threatened people who looked at him, bumped into him, cut him off in traffic and even pulled out a sawed off shotgun to shoot at what he thought was pheasant in a field in inner city Detroit. Luke never came to visit his father again. Years later, a nurse from a hospital in a burn unit in Las Vegas was able to find Luke via Facebook to let him know that his father had been burned over 65% of his body in a house fire. Most people die from the intense pain, Wade was a strong man who could endure great pain. All his life he endured the pain of living a life that went wrong. Was it society and war or just an inability to adjust to speed of life in America? There’s no answer.
Luke read through magazines and sent text messages to his wife back in Northern California. Wade opened his eyes and saw a baby girl on the screen saver of his son’s laptop. Luke was unaware that his father was conscious.
“What’s your baby’s name?”
“We named her Joyeaux… It’s French. We call her Joy for short.”
“Everyone has fucked up names today, don’t they? Who does your baby look like, you or your wife?”
Luke smiled and looked at his dad before responding. He wondered how it was that the man looking at him was more of a stranger than a random person on the street. Luke asked himself often how it was that this man never contacted him and apologized for never being a part of my life. He reasoned that you cannot miss something that means nothing to you.
“Well dad… I have to be honest with you. Joyeaux looks like Lester… How bout that?”
Dedicated to my dad, a Vietnam Veteran. A man I’ve known since birth that I still really do not know.

March 29, 2012

Delerium at 36,000 Feet

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 10:45 pm
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Terrance had been a pilot in Vietnam and then commercially for Eastern and Pan-Am and a slew of other airlines before they went under.  Terrance had a strong libido for a man in his sixties.  The Asian route was his favorite because he could hit the boat cruises with underage waifs where they would drink and tryout their broken English on him and then they’d consummate the meeting on a mattress somewhere behind curtains.


Marriage had been one of those things that just seemed wrong one day to Terrance upon watching an animal show late one night with a glass of Scotch in his hand.  The male animals disappeared for most of the year except when it became time to mate.  When it was time to mate, a new mate or any mate was acceptable.  The male species would clear it’s head and then take off to do what guys do when they’re together.  Terrance thought to himself while almost fully crocked that humans had it all wrong.  After watching the animal program, he woke his wife and told her that the most natural and correct thing for him to do was to spread his seed anywhere and everywhere and if she wanted to remain his wife, that would be alright.  It wasn’t alright and they soon parted.  Terrance couldn’t have been happier.  The thrill of falling in love for an evening is what Terrance loved most about life.  The variation and selection of different sizes and colors of the women.  Hi, my name is Terrance and I fly airplanes…  Can I buy you a drink?


                Out of the blue, Terrance developed high blood pressure.  Terrance’s parents had high blood pressure and it was a matter of time before he would also.  At the age of sixty two, Terrance began taking high blood pressure medication and then promptly stopped when he realized that it prevented him from gaining and maintaining an erection.  Before long, the high blood pressure killed off his kidneys to do their work.  Terrance had to begin dialysis which meant he would have to retire from work.  Alcohol and a mixture of several medications had a strange effect on Terrance.  He constantly felt as though he was forgetting something and found himself often sitting motionless or hunting for things that he did not even know what it was that he was looking for.  Sort of rummaging for the sake of rummaging in a sock drawer and then getting lost re-reading old love letters from women that he dated for a short period of time.  All those that worked with Terrance knew that the end of his working days were drawing near but nobody realized that something seemed to be off mentally until one sunny day.  When the clouds rolled in.


                “Whatever happened to wooden coffee stirs?  If I wanted a fucking plastic one, I would have dipped my pen in and just stirred the creamer with that.  Do you have any idea, Mr…  What’s your name?”

                “Thomas.  It’s Rich…”

                “Rich…  short for Richard.  I remember when men could call themselves Dick without batting an eye.  Things were happy and gay and it had nothing to do with wanting to corn hole another man.  Things have gotten so dirty and twisted over the years.  We can’t blame it all on Hippies and Nixon, can we?  I mean something happened somewhere that sent a message to men that it was okay to wear frayed jeans and have their goddamn gut sticking out.  Someone sent a message to you young guys that it is okay to dress like pigs and let yourself go.  One way or another, you’ll still get ass and you don’t need to look or act like a gentleman.  Just take a look at these people, Dick.  We are on a plane going to a major city in the United States.  Where did the glamour go in travel?  Women in smart pill box hats and a matching ensemble that hugged her ass just so, so that you had to use your imagination about what you might find under that knee length skirt.  A man in a suit, a man with a hat. Now it’s ball caps all over this goddamn plane.  Who the hell here is playing ball right now?  I don’t give a fuck if you want Ohio State to win some basketball tournament.  That is no reason to parade around like a school boy when you’re middle age…  Is any of this reaching you, Richard?  Wooden coffee stirs is just part of the issue here.  You want to save a tree so you make plastic coffee stirs just to release toxins into your coffee.  It isn’t enough that some sick cow is being jacked up with steroids and antibiotics so that it can produce enough milk, cheese and beef to feed the masses of people living in this goddamn land.  Is it any wonder women today have more facial hair than they used to and young men need something to support their tits?  How is that eight year girls have hips and boobs?  Not enough people are worried about what is really going on here.  You got a job to do and I don’t want to tie you up.  I will have my coffee after you find me a goddamn wooden coffee stir and then we will make it San Diego without incident.”


Rich hunted around and even asked passengers if by chance they might have purchased a coffee in the airport and happened to have a wooden coffee stir.  The announcement made passengers uneasy.  Richard’s effeminate voice quavered and cracked as he spoke due more to the fact that he was getting over a cold.  People began to wonder what kind of a strange question was that to ask.  A large hum rose in the plane.  Terrance told his co-pilot to take over as he opened the cockpit door and stormed towards the passengers like an angry parent.

                “I don’t know what is going on here but I can tell you that if anyone has any strange notions about overtaking this plane for any sort of reason or belief, I can tell you that you will meet your maker sooner than later.  I’ve been closer to death than this on a random Tuesday so I will tell you calmly now to pipe down and sleep, read a magazine or re-read your text messages and don’t make things hard for yourself or Dick here.  His job is to make your trip as facile as possible…  Do we have an understanding, people?”

                Terrance suddenly felt flush and he could feel his pulse in his eyes.  He plopped himself back down in his chair, looked at his co-pilot and calmly told him that they needed to go back.  The co-pilot asked Terrance to elaborate on where they were going back to and for what.

                “Joe, you never served.  Your generation only served themselves.  If I say we have to go back, it is because it is the right thing to do between one human being and another.  You wouldn’t want to be left in the lurch would you, Joe?  You probably threw a fit when your mother wasn’t waiting in the minivan for you when soccer practice was over.  You cannot appreciate waiting.  Try to step outside yourself for a second, Joe and you’ll understand where I’m coming from…”

                Terrance grabbed  the microphone, flipped the  switches and made an announcement to all the passengers.  Terrance sounded sane and scripted accept for what it was that was coming out of his mouth.

                “Attention, this is the captain speaking.  We are cruising at an altitude of 36,000 feet and have a strong enough tail wind to get us to Saigon early.  Sit back and relax and we should be arriving in Vietnam ahead of schedule.  I have taken off the fasten seat belt sign.  Be sure to keep your belt on incase of any unexpected turbulence while seated.”

                There were several doctors that evaluated Terrance including psychiatrists and the FBI.  Everyone came to the same conclusion that the perfect storm occurred within Terrance’s body to create a delirium capable of making the frightening situation what it was for passengers and the crew: High blood pressure medication, Scotch and Viagra.

January 4, 2011

The American Lawn

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:54 am
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Charles, Chuck, Chucky, Charlie and Chas were all the names that Charles Schmidt responded to by all the patrons of his Proud American Barber Shop which was on Telegraph Road in Detroit. 

            In the barber shop were pennants of the Detroit Tigers, Lions and Red Wings with bowling trophies and a plethora of Vietnam War era photos of Charles Schmidt and his one employee, Eugene Nurgy.

            Nobody called Eugene by his first name.  Most people called him, The Nurg.  The Nurg wore a flattop hair cut with a pencil thin moustache with tattoos up and down his arms and a gold chain of the Marine Corps symbol.  Nurg was a hair above six feet in height, chewed gum while smoking and loved listening to Dean Martin songs on his cassette player while he and Charles told dirty and racist jokes and discussed why the city of Detroit, the United States of America and the world as a whole, was going to implode soon.

            “The way to handle them swamis is the way they would handle you…  String em up by their ball sacks and let them swing in the goddamn wind,” said Charles.

            “Fucking A right…  Tell em, Chas,” said Nurg.

            “So now you got Obama running things and we ain’t got nothing to show for the two years he’s been office.  The economy sucks and we still ain’t found Bin Laden yet.  You got Harvard instead of West Point conducting a war and that’s the problem here.  That was the problem in Nam and that’s the problem now.  If the fucking Russians had to pull out of Afghanistan and they were some ruthless sommabitches, how we supposed to win a CNN war?  You fucking tell me…” declared Charles.

“You goddamn straight, Chas.  Me and Chas spent two fucking years covered in Agent Orange in the jungle.  I think we know a thing or too about running a war,” said Nurg.

            Everybody Loves Somebody Sometimes, played through tinny speakers while two old white men got their hair cut and three more sat in chairs waiting for their turn.  All the patrons of the barber shop were white and above the age of sixty for the most part.  A few grandsons and sons of older patrons patronized the shop.  Almost all were of the same mindset.

Every man has something to occupy their time when they are not making a living or scrounging for enough money to exist.  For Charles and Eugene it was finely manicuring the entire premises that was the lot belonging to Charles in the Brightmoor section of Detroit.  Charles one day decided that if he could not and would not move from a street that was nearly completely deserted; he would make his home look like a palace.  Charles added onto his home and created a beautiful garden in the front yard with a fountain and perfectly maintained lawn that looked as if it was painted green without one weed to be found.  Charles was paid by a fertilizer company to show a picture of his front yard on the cover of all their bags.  Charles was extremely proud of his home and the local gang bangers, prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts and dealers all had respect for the home of someone who was trying to improve the neighborhood by making their own property beautiful.  All but one.     

Charles had won a beautiful home of the year award for the entire state of Michigan and had the award in a frame which hung proudly in the barber shop. 

            Charles like Nurgy lived his entire life in the home of his parents and when Charles mother died a few years back, Charles inherited the only home he had ever lived in that had a value of $32,000.00 or equal to a Cadillac Escalade without any bells and no whistles.  A good used Escalade actually. 

            Charles grew tired of getting hand and blow jobs from the neighborhood sluts that needed a few bucks to get a fix and so he signed up on a website that promised western men a pretty, hardworking, subservient wife from Vietnam or Cambodia.  Charles began to correspond with a girl who used translating software to write to Charles in English.  Charles proposed over the internet to a woman less than five feet in height who liked to cook, watch American movies and listen to music.  Tran loves to listen to Elvis and Madonna and wanted to eat hamburgers with French fries.  Tran accepted the invitation to marriage and a life of bliss in Detroit, Michigan.  After paying several thousand dollars and spending nearly that much to claim his bride, Tran came to live in America.  Everyone wants to live in America.

            Tran’s life consisted of cooking and cleaning.  The house was immaculate and meals were always served on time.  For all her efforts, Charles would take her out to one of several casinos in downtown Detroit or occasionally a baseball game, movies and miniature golf.  All of which were usually with Nurg present.  Date nights almost always included Nurgy.  Tran didn’t mind.  Her prison-like existence was better than a life of prostitution in Cambodia and so she was content living in an attractive sanctuary in an area that looked like Hurricane Katrina had hit it.

            A young African-American male who had done several years in jail for armed robbery, drug dealing and rape was back on the street after serving four years of a twenty year term.  The state had to decide that others more dangerous needed to be rehabilitated more than Travis and so Travis was cast back out into the world once again.  Travis understood that dealing and stealing was going to lead to nothing but jail or death and so he began breeding Pit bulls for fighting.  Travis bought several females that he bred and then he sold the dogs to people all over the country for a good price.  Travis then held dog fights in the backyard of the rundown home across the street from Charles that had not been burned out or razed.  Men came from all over in good weather to bring their dogs to fight.  Travis had a strong male that killed just about every other dog he was pitted against.  Travis was proud of his champion fighter and to ensure that he kept the fighting instinct up, Travis would send out two of his assistants to steal small house pets from nice suburbs so that Travis’s prized fighter could kill for sustenance. 

            Now the dog fighters ignored Charles’s home and Charles and Nurgy kept a wary eye on the goings on across the street, ready to go to war if necessary.  It was late one Sunday afternoon that a young man in metallic green vintage 1972 El Camino, texted on a cell phone while his pit-bull jogged behind the car.  The dog’s tongue hung to one side as it loped behind the classic car that had a sound system that was booming enough bass to make the windows rattle in all the vacant homes on the block.  The dog broke off from following the El Camino, made a left turn and ran up towards the front porch where Charles and Nurgy sat in the shade drinking lemonade.  The dog crept towards both men with gnashing teeth.  Both pulled hand guns from their belt lines and got ready to shoot the dog.  The dog’s master parked the El Camino in the middle of the street and sauntered up towards his dog that was disobeying his command.  The young man wore a Detroit Tigers cap with a straight brim with the D lined with sparking fake diamonds, a long white tank top shirt, a baggy pair of jean shorts and whiter than white tennis shoes.  The dog pissed on the lawn while snarling and then defecated.  Charles and Nurgy were horrified by the display.  The garden club would be sure to disqualify the house from the contest if there were to be a yellow urine stain anywhere on the grass.  Nurgy stood with arm extended, looking through the scope of the gun, ready to off the animal.  The young man who bought the home across the street to breed and fight dogs, was incensed by his dog’s disobedience and the strange white man who was willing to shoot his dog for doing what dogs do when they are outside: shit and piss.

            “Old man…  You shoot my dog an see what happen to yo place.  You won’t need to worry bout yo damn grass cause you won’t have a fucking home no mo,” said Travis defiantly.

            Neither Charles nor Nurgy responded to the brazen words.  They took note of the dozen or more men who were waiting for Travis that were now walking up towards Charles’s home.  Several yelled out threats and one busted a forty ounce bottle of beer on the curb in front of Charles’s home.  Over several weeks, more and more dogs crossed Charles’s lawn while he was home and when he wasn’t.  Before long, the front lawn had yellow spots scattered about.  It would be impossible to repair the damage.  It was at the Assembly  Line Buffet at the Motor City Casino that Nurgy laid out with Charles a plan action.  The three of them ate plates full of food and discussed what needed to be done.  Tran just listened.

            “Chaz…  The damage is done.  It is fucking done, man.   Tran, excuse the langois. You have to ask yourself what Clint would do?  What would John Wayne do?  What would Rumsfeld do? Walking fucking tall, my man…  Tran, forgive my French.  Remember that movie?  He took no shit.  We didn’t go to Nam to protect inconsiderate punks who allow their dogs to destroy.  This is not damage, Chas.  This is destruction of property and you have to respond by any means possible,” said Nurgy.

            “Nurg…  When you’re right, you’re right and that’s all.”  Said Charles.

            Nurgy and Charles worked hard and fast one night late after the dogfighters had concluded their fights for the night.  Nurgy pulled up with a rented John Deere digger, ropes and traps and the two men worked hard through the night and finished just before dawn.  The Charles and Nurgy then rested and returned to the front porch in the early evening to wait for the bait to be taken like two patient fishermen.  Travis eventually came down the street in his pimped out El Camino as his prized dog jogged behind as a warm up for the night’s fights.  Travis glared at the two men and they calmly returned the stares behind aviator sunglasses.  Nothing happened during the night until the wee hours of the morning.  Nurgy could hear yelping at about 4:00am.  He sprung to his feet and called for Charles.  The two men ran out the front door of Charles’s home with guns loaded and cocked and large flashlights.  In the ten foot deep pit that was lined with wooden spikes, smeared with dog excrement was Travis, one of his friends and their two dogs. A ten by ten hole was made and covered with a heavy sheet of plastic and sod on top of that.  To the unaware eye, the front yard appeared to be as it always had instead of a pit. The two men and dogs were injured by the fall and jagged spikes.  Lassos went around the ankles of the men and dogs as they were pulled up out of the hole.  The dogs were put into cages in the basement and Travis and his friend were tied with their hands behind their backs and led to the basement.  Once in the basement, Tran began recording on a small camera on a tripod while Charles and Nurgy placed burlap sacs over the heads of the two young men.   Nurgy did the narrative.

            “Boys…  You probably never heard of a movie with Paul Newman in it called Cool Hand Luke.  There’s a scene where the warden smacks Paul Newman and then says what we have got here is a failure to communicate…  Some men you just can’t reach.  This is the way he wants it.  This is what he gets…”

            The two men were strapped to boards on the floor as if they were going to be quartered.  Tran then walked over with a watering can for the roses out in front and doused the men’s faces as they struggled to breathe.  Tran knew these tactics very well since her father was part of the Khmer Rouge during the days of Pol Pot in Cambodia.  Tran’s father was in charge of torture.  Tran would then go back to the utility tub to fill the can again with water as Nurgy spoke to the choking men in between.

            “We don’t want no trouble with nobody, boys.  We fought in Nam for our country to get rid of communism and help America stay free and proud.  A simple thing like keeping your animals off of the fucking grass ain’t too much to ask, is it boys?”

            Tran came back with the water can and poured the water with a smile and a slight curtsy for the camera as the men gasped and coughed.  This took place three times before the two men were placed in the back of the El Camino still bound and blindfolded with the dogs in the front seat of the truck/car.  Nurgy whispered in the ear of Travis before walking back to Charles’s home with him.

            “I hope we have an understanding now.  Don’t ever go to war with those who went to war.  You may consider taking us out when we least expect it and where would that get you?  Back in the Wayne County slammer?  You want someone making love to your ass for another ten or twenty years?  I say we learn to live together cause I know we can just all get along… Cool?”

            Charles and Nurgy cut the bindings from the wrists of the two men and walked home just as the sun began to rise above the tops of trees in front of abandon homes in the Brightmoor section of Detroit.  To date, Nurgy and Charles have had over two million hits on Youtube.  Most people believe it was a hoax but those that really understand torture knew that it was the real deal.  Travis and company thought about assassinating Nurgy, Charles and Tran but understood that they picked the fight and Charles and Nurgy finished it.  There was an understanding and communication.  Charles again has prize winning grass and the pit bulls know not to cross the street.  All is as good as it can be given the circumstances in Brightmoor.  And they lived happily ever after.

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