Negrophobia

by Darius James

  . . . And gobs him in a torrent of undulating worm vomit!

  Uncle H. Rap Remus’s eyes stare large, round, and white from within the slithering black heap.

  UNCLE H. RAP REMUS

  Dis am regustin’ . . . !

  TWO WORMS with gnashing, nightmare teeth chew holes through his pupils and leap from his eye sockets. The HEAP OF WORMS caves in on itself and leaves a writhing chalk-white skeleton.

  SFX: The wet, thrusting sound of a vigorous cock slish-sloshing a bubbling cunt filtered through an electronic wind tunnel.

  With her legs bent at the knees and her feet thrown in the air. Bubbles lies on her back, rolling and grinding her ass against the floor.

  Her skin’s radiant underlight turns a dark olive green and her swollen beetle belly deflates. Wrinkled nodules the size and shape of small walnuts sprout on her legs and chest, ripping through her leopard-spotted bra. They swell to three times their original size and erupt, spurting a milky, green pus.

  Big-lipped, cotton-topped, and broad-nostriled HEADS pop from the pustular pods, blinking mucus from their large, rolling eyes.

  TWO BURRHEADS, grinning in fish-eyed close-up, supplant Bubbles’ Brazil-nut nipples. Showing off rows of straight white teeth, the Burrheads lock eyes with Bubbles.

  RIGHT BURRHEAD

  Say, Lefty, how do you babysit a Niggerhead?

  LEFT BURRHEAD

  I don’t know, Mister Tit-Top. How do you babysit a Niggerhead?

  RIGHT BURRHEAD

  You lick its lips and stick it to the wall!

  The boob-top Burrheads cross their eyes and stick out their tongues, expelling razzberries of spit and air.

  The other Burrheads in bloom on Bubbles’ bod peal with slaughterhouse squeals and spring from their burrows of ulcerated flesh, leaving a trail of mucus and pus. Thick, muscular tails extend from their necks. They slap the floor of the stage. Thwack!

  Bubbles’ wounds mysteriously heal. And her color returns to normal.

  The WORMS wiggling in the scattered puke piles grow larger and larger. Their heads inflate and form faces. They rear up on the tips of their tails, open their mouths and screech!

  The Leopard Men panic. Pandemonium prevails.

  They flee in confusion. Withered penises fly in all directions. Club claws are flung to the floor. CHILDREN are trampled underfoot. Blood spurts. Eyeballs fly. Intestines dangle.

  Bubbles fishes her Wayfarers from the pool, rolls to her feet, and leaps from the stage. She drops to the floor, adjusts her shades, and runs through the crowd. The horde of squealing NEGROID VOMITOIDS slither in pursuit.

  Bubbles cuts a path through the surrounding chaos. The Leopard Men bow in supplication. And the supplicants, in ecstatic reverential awe, are devoured by the squealing hordes.

  INT. Underground passageways.

  Backlit in silhouette, Bubbles wings through a maze of cragged passageways with the echo of human pain howling behind her.

  Soon, a circle of light looms at the end of a tunnel. Bubbles runs in its direction, exulting in its brilliance, her ankled feet rattling in rhythm with her pounding heart.

  A harsh whisking sound skitters across the ground. And a horde of Negroid Vomitoids turn into the passage, squealing and grunting and nattering their teeth.

  Bubbles leaps through the light, landing on her feet in the lurid glare of Times Square.

  The squealing Negroid Vomitoids slither through the opening of a sewer drainpipe, slapping to the ground with a sick wet sound.

  Bubbles quickly runs through the doors of the 42nd Street Multiplex Grindhouse.

  The 42nd Street Multiplex Grindhouse’s marquee reads:

  “THE ROCKY-HORROR NEGRO SHOW”

  INT. Multiplex Grindhouse—Night.

  Bubbles sits in the theater’s semidarkened auditorium with an outlaw bandana tied around the lower half of her face, surrounded by a sea of bulbous SOFT-SCULPTURE FACES with a topiary of fluorescent, grafittilike wildstyle designs cut into the fountains of hair flowing from their cotton-stuffed skulls.

  As music swells, the muppetlike audience sways in happy-face sing-along. MALCOM X’S CADAVER strolls onstage. Maggots squirm in his jellied eyeholes.

  MALCOM X

  Hi! My name is El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.

  Remember me? I was shot back in the sixties.

  He sprinkles a handful of sand onstage, shuffles his feet in soft-shoe, and sings.

  MALCOLM X

  It’s astounding

  Time is fleeting

  Ideas are getting old.

  So listen closely—

  We haven’t got very much longer.

  Fictions have taken hold.

  You think—

  “Consciousness rising!”

  But I say—

  “Worms are writhing!”

  Eating your very soul!

  Now I remember,

  Eatin’ that swine pork,

  When blackness hit me

  And a Voice called—

  “Never mo’!”

  No mo’ pig tails

  From another

  Dimension.

  Or eatin’ ham hocks

  With mystical

  Pretensions.

  Pork is

  A Whyte Devil God’s

  Invention

  To hinder

  The Black Man’s

  Ascension!

  AUDIENCE

  Don’t eat the swine pork again!

  MALCOLM X

  You feel a sensation. It’s

  Black frustration. And you

  Cop another bag of sedation.

  Then you realize it’s just

  Another form of castration.

  But after losing the coke dip,

  Or slipping the duji chip, and getting

  Out of the swine trip, you will

  Never be the same.

  I speak to you

  From another dimension

  Addressing

  Your Afrocentric intentions.

  Well-secluded

  I see all.

  AUDIENCE

  Don’t eat the swine pork again!

  Malcolm X bows. The auditorium’s lights slowly fade to black. And his arm peels from its socket, dropping to the floor. Malcolm X walks backstage, followed by his crawling arm.

  FADE UP:

  INT. Theater—Movie screen.

  Grainy, black-and-white World War II stock footage of a razed Eastern European city flickers on the movie screen. Plumes of smoke rise from the ruins. In undulating lines scratched directly on the film, graffiti of Mickey Mouse’s head bob on the remainder of the city’s standing walls. CORPSES, blobbed on the film’s surface with black paint, litter the landscape.

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  Having armed and organized themselves into efficient paramilitary units in the second decade of the twenty-first century, the forces of white supremacy finally claimed victory in their war on the hordes of “lascivious mongrels” in the American homelands.

  CUT TO:

  A succession of propaganda posters modeled after the Real Adventure magazine covers of the 1950s. Drawn in the Disney house style, the posters feature distressed femmes fatales with large, projectile-shaped hooters and distended, bullet-shaped nipples captioned with recycled Nazi slurs lettered in German Gothic. Caricatures of sweating Blacks rip off Snow White’s bodice and pinch her rosy nipples, a ring of Jews ejaculate jets of sperm on a fluttering Tinkerbell in competitive circle jerk, slit-eyed Asians sodomize Cinderella with a glass slipper and oily Hispanics gang-bang Sleeping Beauty.

  Intercut with stock shots of a Gestapo raid on the Warsaw ghetto. The faces of the persecuted are blotted on the film stock with minstrel black, detailed with cartoonish eyes and lips. Mickey Mouse heads are scratched over the swastikas on the armbands of the Gestapo storm troopers. Signs are scratched in for fried chicken joints, liquor stores, storefront churches, check-cashing rooms, beauty parlors, barber shops, and Black M
uslim mosques. The animated scratched lines of a swaggering B-boy with a boom box bops down the street. Musical notations dance from its speakers.

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  After a ruthless campaign of mass terror, brownshirt brutality, and outright assassination, the white supremacist armies won public sympathy to their cause by evoking the holy names of God and his only Son, claiming their actions were for the overall “White Christian good.”

  CUT TO:

  Stock footage of the Nuremberg rallies in all their pageantry and zealous hysteria. The swastika-emblazoned flags, banners, and armbands, as well as all pictorial representations of Adolf Hitler, are masked on the film by vibrant, airbrushed images of Mickey Mouse with a halo sunburst effect. A dirge version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song plays under the crowd’s roars of “Sieg heil!” and “Yea, Mickey!” On close-ups of the actual Adolf Hitler, his face has been digitally reshaped by computer to resemble the world-famed rodent.

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  It was in this spirit of “white Christian goodness” that the Endlösung, or “Final Solution,” was put into effect. . .

  CUT TO:

  Montage of Auschwitz-Birkenau death-camp atrocities. Atrocity upon atrocity is layered in explicit, stomach-turning detail, culminating in the final pyramid of bodies “clawing and mauling each other even in death” inside the camp’s “delousing” chambers. The figures, again, are blotted over by blobs of minstrel black. End montage on crematorium door. Its sign reads:

  FOR COLORED ONLY

  Up Music: “When You Wish Upon a Star”

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  As in the words of that old Negro spiritual, the white man finally laid his burden down . . .

  The crematorium’s door swings open on whining hinges and a pile of ash and charred bone pours from the oven to the floor. A toothless skull crowns the ash mound. The title pops onscreen:

  THE ROCKY-HORROR NEGRO SHOW

  Music: Gothic speed metal.

  Fade to black behind title. Roll credits.

  Starring Hundreds of Dead Negroes

  Fade music.

  Fade up scorched ruins of New York City in long aerial shot. Manhattan’s legendary skyline is obscured by voluminous clouds of black smoke. Lightning bolts flash at regular intervals. Slowly zoom in to rubble of blackened stone and melted steel.

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  The United States’ Second Civil War in the twenty-first century had reduced the nation to a vast boneyard of ruinated cities and extirpated lives.

  Wide shot of rubble-strewn terrain with an immense black cloud swirling in the background. The cloud flickers with an ominous underlight.

  Camera up on FIVE “NEW WORLD” BLACK GUERRILLA SOLDIERS in ragged, blood-sopped uniforms. The THREE MEN and TWO WOMEN crawl from a heap of broken concrete and twisted steel, their hands ulcerated and blistered, their faces lined with exhaustion and defeat. The guerrillas run at a plodding pace, their arms dangling lifelessly at their sides. The swirling black cloud drifts closer and closer behind them.

  ONE OF THE GUERRILLAS looks back. He screams. An enormous metal manta ray floats from within the swirling cloud. On its silver hull is a circled silhouette of a young black man crossed by a bold diagonal line.

  A concentrated beam of heat shoots from the manta ray’s beak. The guerrilla dissolves in the heat ray’s backlight. His rags burn, his flesh melts, and his skeleton turns to ash.

  Cross-fade to:

  INT. Manta ray’s observation deck—View screen—Day.

  Wide aerial shot of Guerrilla Fighters in the crosshairs of the observation deck’s view screen. A beam of light blasts the ragged band. They fry up gold and crispy, falling on the terrain like pieces of batter-dipped chicken.

  The view screen buzzes and whistles and blinks with an assortment of colored lights. An imposing DEATH’S HEAD appears on the screen with the question:

  ARE YOU READY FOR LEVEL THREE OF LASER-FRIED COON?

  Their fists balled around the view screen’s joysticks, two small Mouseketeer-eared BOYS in rubberized flight suits with inflated ribbing come into view.

  SPINNER

  Bull’s eye! Burned the wool right off his head! Neat, huh?

  CORKY

  Yeah! And they look good enough to eat, too!

  SPINNER

  Eatin’ niggers makes me fart! What’s for dinner?

  CORKY

  Mom’s makin’ our favorite. Macaroni ’n’ cheese!

  SPINNER

  Macaroni ’n’ cheese! Yum, yum! That sounds like a bellyful of big fun! Let’s go!

  The two boys run off in excitement.

  CORKY

  Hope there’s a mountain o’ mashed ’taters!

  CROSS-FADE:

  INT. The Disney Magic Mall.

  Bluebirds circle the spires of Sleeping Beauty Castle. A stylized yellow SUN with laugh-wrinkled eyes whistles in a cartoon sky. Musical symbols pop from its puckered lips. An elevated monorail hums through the caverns of the multi-leveled mall. The monorail stops and the two mouse-eared SPACEBOYS hop aboard.

  Tilt down to MECHANICAL PUPPETS singing “It’s a Small World” in a woodland campfire tableau. The freckled, rosy-cheeked, white-child puppets, in Naziesque Mickey Mouse uniforms, click their boot heels and fling straight-armed salutes around a naked, skewered, and trussed NEGRO roasting in the campfire’s flames. A large red apple is lodged in his mouth.

  BBC COMMENTATOR

  (v.o.)

  But far below the city’s rubble was another world. A world blinded by fairy dust and cheap, sleight-of-hand tricks. A world populated by cantankerous ducks and talking mice. A world with holographic signs promising low, low prices and bargains galore. An underworld fun world for children of all ages. A live-in shopping world for the whole family. A Disney World.

  CUT TO:

  High-definition television screen in the spherical shapes of Mickey M’s face. The screen crackles in a blizzard of snow, static, and white noise, which recedes into a blip. The television broadcasts a picture of Sleeping Beauty Castle at night, a fireworks display bursting above its battlements.

  Doe-eyed, busty, and swathed in leaves, TINKERBELL flutters onscreen in a trail of pixie dust, waving her wand. The U.S. Presidential Seal appears in a ring of radiant concentric circles, its eagle replaced by Mickey M’s face. The ONSCREEN CAPTION reads:

  A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT BY THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT-FOR-LIFE

  Tinkerbell grasps the folds of her translucent wings, curtsies, and flies away with the grace of a humming bird. Lose super of “Seal” and onscreen caption. Dolly in past screen for medium shot of castle.

  The castle’s drawbridge lowers across the moat with the rasp of rusted chains. A glass coffin slides from the mouth of the castle on a bed of dry ice. Its frosted lid creaks open. A MAN dressed in a conservative blue suit with icicles encasing his head like a ball of porcupine quills rises from the coffin. The prickled iceball turns to slush and falls away in chunks. The man smiles and clears his throat. The man is WALT DISNEY.

  WALT DISNEY

  Two score and twelve years ago, a great marksman, in whose symbolic shadow we stand, took aim, pulled the trigger, and shot a rabble-rousing nigger. His shot rang out as a foreboding death knell to millions of Negroes living happy as hogs on the tax dollars of hardworking Christian white folks like you and I.

  “Uh-oh,” they thought. “Dere go d’monthly welfare check! Weeze gwine haf’ta go back ta robbin’ chickens fum d’hen house!”

  But fifty years later, we rejoice in the marvelous fact that the Negro is no more. Fifty years later, we no longer suffer the indignified presence of “the blues” and “jellied pig-foot knuckles” that were the Negro’s life. Fifty years later, we no longer hear the Negro complain he is “sadly crippled by the chains of discrimination,” as he languishes on the urine-stenched street corners of American society, singing “do
o-wop” and swilling from his jar of King Kong corn. Fifty years later, we no longer hear the Negro whine that he is “an exile in his own land” as he mounts our naive and trusting daughters, who offered up the golden down of their loins in an act of misguided compassion, impregnating her with his evil seed.

  America found tranquility by laying the Negro to rest. We stripped him of his claim to humanity. We put down his revolt, which threatened to shake the very foundations of our nation.

  I say to you today, my friends, through the miracle and power of imagination, I wished upon a star and made my dream come true.

  I wished upon a star—

  That one day this nation would rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “Hang the nigger and burn the Jew!”

  I wished upon a star—

  That one day in a wondrous shopping mall, beneath the red hills of Georgia, filled with rides and amusements for the whole family, the sons of former slave owners would dine on the sons of former slaves, secure in the knowledge their silverware was safe from theft.

  I wished upon a star—

  That one day the content of this nation would be judged by its lack of characters of color.

  I wished upon a star—

  And made my dream come true.

  I wished upon a star—

  That one day every Coon Town would burn to the ground, every Jig Stop and Cat Fish Row made low, the black places made white, up would be down, mice would talk, elephants would fly, the glory of Fantasy Land would be revealed, and all of Mickey’s friends would see it together.

  And when the hour of death knelled for the Negro, America became a nation of unsullied whiteness. Negroes burned on the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Negroes burned on the mighty mountains of New York. Negroes burned on the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

  Negroes burned on the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado.

  Negroes burned on every hill and molehole of Mississippi. On every mountainside, Negroes burned.