Negrophobia
Page 8
DOUGHBOY
Hic! Excuse me! Hic! Hic!
The Licorice Men cackle. The Doughboy looks up. His face twists in terror.
A cork-eyed TAR BABY, wearing roped burlap pants and a plaid flannel shirt, totters through the shadows on awkward wooden legs. A corncob pipe is thrust in its button mouth. A straw skimmer is cocked rakishly on its sticky, domed head.
The Doughboy cringes with fright. His face wrinkles in woe.
DOUGHBOY
NO! NO! NOT THE TAR BABY—!
Entering through an opening in the circle, the Tar Baby stumbles toward the Doughboy like a toddler taking its first uncertain steps. It falls on the Doughboy and ignites in a whirl of flames. The fire burns with crackling vigor and dies away. The Tar Baby crumbles into a bed of fine, gray ash. A pile of eight dozen unbuttered biscuits lie buried beneath the mound.
Pinwheeling through the air like a team of championship midget wrestlers, the Licorice Men quickly pounce on the pile. They stuff their jowls with biscuits, spitting sprays of crumbs.
Screwing his face into a knot of concentration, ONE OF THE LICORICE MEN inserts a biscuit into the split of his ass and farts. The biscuit shoots across the cavern trailing in a plume of dark rectal exhaust.
The Licorice Man grins. He looks like Louie Armstrong.
LICORICE MAN
Poppin’ fresh!
Packing bulbs of baked bread dough between the cheeks of their twisting black behinds, the Licorice Men twitter and wiggle and bleat cacophonies of moist brown sounds. Dozens of biscuits sail through the air, coated with tremulant slime.
Shaded in obscurity, Bubbles strikes a match and tosses it into the cavern. The Licorice Men shriek as their asses flare in jets of blue flame. Bubbles escapes unnoticed in the confusion.
And Tar Baby, he ain’t sayin’ nothin’ . . .
INT. Cave
Paws patter along the cavern’s floor like a soft spring rain and stop before a set of large casket doors. Gaseous ether rises from the ground, and ghostly feline forms leap through the solid oak.
Bubbles propels herself from the wall, running the length of the cavern. She stops at the set of doors, placing her hand on the knob. Slowly opening a door, she steps inside. The door closes with a hollow, reverberating crunch.
FADE
After years of bouncing Miss Sally’s grandson on his lap, Uncle Remus could no longer resist the temptation.
With his eyeballs distended and agoggle, his trousers piled at his ankles, and his sagging buttocks exposed, Uncle Remus shuffled his withered organ between the cheeks of the child’s smooth white bottom. He popped his fingers to spectral moke music.
“Honey chil’, han’ yo’ po’ Unca Remus dat dere jar ob Brer Bear Grease. Yeah! Dat’s it! Slap it an’ slick it! Now ROLL DAT BONE!”
Miss Sally walked in on Uncle Remus and her grandchild unannounced, and fainted dead away.
Needless to say, Uncle Remus’ arthritic legs hobbled in the direction of the North Star.
—The Untold Tales of Uncle Remus
INT.—Church of Uncle H. Rap Remus.
Dusted in the paint pigment’s multicolored overlays, Bubbles stands inside the cavernous interior of the church with the casket doors looming behind her. She peers over the plane of her dark-lensed Wayfarers.
Under the high, concave ceiling, which is painted with pictures of dreaded, spliff-smoking, chocolate-skinned cherubim, restless throngs of RASTAFARIANS clothed in black leopard-head-hooded animal-hair hides, with withered white penile organs woven into the ends of their tangled dreads, face the stage at the rear of the church and wave clawed leopard paws mounted on wooden clubs in a fit of tribal frenzy.
An enormous poster of a bug-eyed black man in a stovepipe hat and a star-spangled, red, white, and blue striped suit hangs above the stage. He is crouched in a stoop with his trousers heaped around his ankles and his hands propped on his knees, holding a bar of butter in his right fist. He looks over his shoulder with a broad and toothless grin, offering his wrinkled buttocks in a coquettish pose. The poster exclaims in big block letters:
UNCLE SAMBO WANTS YOU!
Below the poster, UNCLE H. RAP REMUS, an arthritic old Negro dressed in green paramilitary fatigues, with gnarled gray dreads flopping on each side of his otherwise bald head, holds a luger P.08 to Uncle Sambo’s woolly skull.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
What was his crime against the REVOLUTION?!
LEOPARD MEN
He wanted his hot cakes greased!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
We all know what Uncle Sambo wants to do to you, but what do you want to do to Uncle Sambo?
LEOPARD MEN
Grease ’im!
Uncle H. Rap Remus pulls the Luger’s trigger and Uncle Sambo’s head explodes in a geyser of blood, bone, and burr. His corpse flops to the floor and is kicked from the stage.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
GREASED!
Thunderous applause rolls through the church. The Uncle Sambo poster is eaten away in the sudden appearance of flames. Underneath is a rear-screen projection of Idi Amin Dada. It reads:
IDI SEZ: “FIST ’EM HARD AND FIST ’EM DEEP!
The applause subsides. The stage lights dim. The church is cast in shadow. A single spot is lit for Uncle H. Rap Remus. He stalks the stage with mike in hand.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Bruthas ’n’ sistas, the Whyte Man is a Crazy Man. Must I repeat myself? I said, “The Whyte Man is a Crazy Man.”
Yeah. He crazy. Got to be.
The Whyte Man, the Crazy Man, has the nuclear capacity to kill hissef hundreds of times over, blowin’ ever’body ’n’ ever’thang SKY HIGH!
And there is no rational answer why. Except—
The Whyte Man, the Crazy Man, wants to die.
’Cause he crazy, see? Got to be.
The Whyte Man, the Crazy Man, has what psychoanalysts call a “death wish”—a wish to die.
The Whyte Man, the Crazy Man, is the single greatest defiler of the planet on the planet. He has polluted the air, the water, and the minds of his children. He has even poisoned the very land in which he grows his food.
Now only a man with a “wish to die” would jump on his dining table, unload the contents of his bowels, and proceed to eat it.
This explains why the Whyte Man’s mind is poison. Have you ever looked inside a Whyte Man’s brain, bruthas ’n’ sistas?
The X ray of a skull appears on the rear-projection screen. The skull is filled with a ring of turds. A cloud of flies buzz inside.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
You know how the Whyte Man complains of ringing in the ears?
That’s not ringing, bruthas ’n’ sistas. That’s the sound of flies feeding off the lump of offal the Whyte Man calls a brain.
Pardon my language, bruthas ’n’ sistas, but with shit for brains, how could anyone believe the Whyte Man is superior? Even he know he inferior. Why else would he want to blow hissef up?
Obviously, bruthas ’n’ sistas, we don’t need anybody like that with us on this planet.
The screen fades to black. Swirling to a slow, reggae back-beat, WRAITHLIKE FIGURES drone in sepulchral voices.
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Puke blood! Swell up! Turn purple!
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
As Aminites, we believe the living incarnation of God on Earth is not Haile Selassie, but IDI AMIN DADA, who, in his wisdom, created Whyte People so Black People could take advantage of them!
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
As Aminites, we wear the Whyte Man’s withered organs in our hair, to absorb his power, to end his spawn!
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
As Aminites, we believe in the INALIENABLE right of all Whyte People to self-combust! Ignite like match heads! Burst into a howling ball of flame!
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Or Our Flaming Tar Baby bombs will stick to your skin like napalm!
HAUNTED VOICES
All Whyte People
Pitch over
And die
Now!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
As Aminites, we have one pledge and one pledge only! WHAT’S THAT PLEDGE?!
The mob of Leopard Men salute with mounted claws.
LEOPARD MEN
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
WHAT’S THAT PLEDGE?!
LEOPARD MEN
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
LOUDER!
LEOPARD MEN
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
I can’t hear you!
LEOPARD MEN
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
That’s right! Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
The house lights brighten. The wraithlike singers disappear. Uncle H. Rap Remus’s eye is caught by Bubbles’ bobbing boobs. His tongue snaps over his lips in undisguised lechery.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
I see we have been joined tonight by one who seeks initiation into our fold.
Bubbles twitches and gesticulates like a Kangoled Krac Kidd in solid-gold chains.
BUBBLES
Yeah. Naw. I’m jus’ chillin—y’know—slummin’, bummin’, ’n’ checkin’ it out! An’ hey, yo’, I’m down wit’chall—from back here! Word up!
Bubbles displays her teeth in a sheepish grin, thrusting her fist in the air. Her bosom wobbles with a saucy quiver.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
No, sister, come join us. Your skin is emblematic of all colors. Unblended, perhaps, but Dada’s color. God’s color. Join us. Become one of us.
Shaking their mounted paws to the rising rhythms of the conga drums, the Leopard Men chant:
LEOPARD MEN
Ooga-booga! Booga-ooga! We accept her. We accept her. One of us. One of us. We will make you one of us. Ooga-booga. Booga-ooga. One of us. One of us. We will make you one of us.
The Leopard Men surround Bubbles, lift her off the floor, and carry her hand over head toward the stage. Springing like a jack-in-the-box in the confusion of arms and hands, a cocoa-colored PINHEAD in a polka-dot nightshirt, wearing a single, ribboned dread on top of his head, fires a plastic popgun. Its brightly colored ball bounces off of Bubbles’ nose.
PINHEAD
Ooga-booga backward!
Two Licorice Men stand on the edge of the crowd. Each wears a black leopardskin tunic held together by a single over-the-shoulder strap. One wears a bowler and sucks on the stub of an unlit cigar.
LICORICE LEOPARD MAN IN BOWLER
Fist ’em hard. Fist ’em deep, brutha!
SECOND LICORICE LEOPARD MAN
Right on! I’m tired o’ sittin’ on d’bottom shelf o’ d’candy case, passed over for a muthafuckin’ box o’ bref mints! I ain’t nobody’s nigga baby no mo’! From now on, my politically correct self-definition is Congolese Confection—the revolutionary sweet designed to kill whytey! Eat me, baby, an’ you one dead hunkie! Shee-it! A muthafuck a muthafuckin’ bref mint!
LICORICE LEOPARD MAN IN BOWLER
Right on right on!
Bubbles is passed from groping hand to groping hand. Black fingers defile her every orifice. The dreaded Leopard Men sniff their fingers with lascivious laughs. Bubbles’ brow is bunched into a wry frown. Her left cheek is lumped into a half smile.
BUBBLES
If you insist on poking your fingers where they’re clearly not wanted, you could at least rub a little faster!
The center-stage section of the floor slides open with an electric hum, revealing a rectangular pool of water. Sitting in a cradle of hands formed by the Leopard Men, Bubbles is swung from the floor and into the pool. A column of water splashes the stage. Her Wayfarers bounce from her head and sink to the bottom of the pool. Uncle H. Rap Remus shuffles his feet, swings his arms, and claps his hands with the unbridled enthusiasm of a chittlin’-circuit Holy Roller.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
We gwine wash dis wayward chile! We gwine slap d’whyte man’s stains from her soul! An’ den she be ready to come for Dada!
Bubbles sits upright in the pool, blinking water from her eyes. The paint pigments dusting her skin begin to run. Colors converge.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Dada be praised!
Uncle H. Rap Remus smacks Bubbles on the forehead with the palm of his hand. Hard. The blow knocks Bubbles below the surface of the water. Bubbles springs back like an inflated boppo-doll, sputtering water and gasping for air. She coughs. And a WORM—fat, black, and flat-headed—arcs from her mouth. It sails through the air, landing in the pool with a splash. It wiggles across the water. Uncle H. Rap Remus smacks her again. Thwack!
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Dada be praised!
Bubbles bobs back and forth in a daze. Her belly heaves with spasms. She gags. And another WORM twirls from her mouth. Splish!
Uncle H. Rap Remus slaps her for the third and final time.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
DADA BE PRAISED!
Bubbles disappears into the pool. Air bubbles gurgle to the top. The water is muddy with pigment. Uncle H. Rap Remus stares into the murky pool. The air bubbles slowly disappear. He turns to his followers. His expression is wrought with sorrow.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Bruthas ’n’ sistas, Dada has a higher purpose in mind. He has claimed this nubile young neophyte with the hefty bosom for his own. It is not for us to question his mysteries or ways. Let us pray.
All heads bow in silence. The two Congolese Confections sob in each other’s arms with thick rivulets of mucus dripping from their nostrils.
The bowlered Confection’s eyeballs distend in disbelief. The cigar stub drops from his mouth.
CONFECTION IN BOWLER
Great gugga-mugga ’n’ jumpin’ Jehoshophats! Does we get to fist dat too?!
Bubbles sits upright in the pool. The water has washed away the coats of powdered pigment, unmasking the true color of her skin.
Needless to say, the natives are restless.
The Leopard Men pound threatening rhythms on their conga drums, grunt indecipherable gibberish, and sharpen the claws of their mounted leopard paws. Some drag their knuckles on the ground in a drunken, apish ring dance, trailed by animal pelts hanging from the tails of their spines. The Leopard Men’s chant drones through the church with an insistent hum.
LEOPARD MEN
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
Fist ’em hard! Fist ’em deep!
A small, nude, uncircumcised BLACK BOY circulates through the crowd with a bucket of lard. The Leopard Men shove their fists into the bucket and massage the stiff, pale blobs into their skin.
Crawling from the pool, Bubbles stumbles about the stage on hands and knees. Her sto
mach heaves with violent contractions. Uncle H. Rap Remus backs away in revulsion. The dreaded Leopard Men surge toward the stage. Faces blur into animal fur.
Bubbles’ back buckles and folds up like a cheap lawn chair. Heaving again, she unfolds into a four-on-the-floor doggie pose. Her belly bloats to pregnant proportions and her skin shimmers with a golden underlight. A silver nimbus circles her head.
Her mouth a green rictus of salivating sickness, Bubbles turns toward the clamoring, claw-wielding Leopard Men in surreal slo-mo. A yellow spray obstructs her view.
On the edge of the stage, the small black boy stands in Bubbles’ line of vision. His belly protrudes. His legs bend slightly at the knees. Urine dribbles from his stubby, uncircumcised cock.
Bubbles’ tongue reaches out from her mouth. And she vomits. Worms. In great cresting waves.
Splattered with squirming slime and slither, the small black boy is knocked from the stage. He hits the floor—hard—buried under a mass of writhing putrescence.
Backing away from the stage, the Leopard Men grunt and gesture in superstitious awe at the retching, golden-hued BEETLE-GIRL.
His dreads untangled, shooting in electric shocks from the sides of his head, a chatter-toothed Uncle H. Rap Remus sits cringing on the floor in the wings of the stage. He clutches the microphone close to his chest.
Watching his flock retreat in fear, Uncle H. Rap Remus quickly regains his composure. He stands, points a finger at Bubbles, and speaks in a commanding voice into his microphone.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Ignore this bile-spuming demon spawn!
The Leopard Men stare at their leader in quizzical bemusement.
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Our only hope to save ourselves, bruthas ’n’ sistas—is to pass the plate!
Bubbles turns to Uncle H. Rap Remus, her face an ever darkening green . . .
UNCLE H. RAP REMUS
Dig deep into your pockets! Let me see your palms shine with gold!