The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “There is no future for Kyle in today’s world,” Hans said bitterly, folding his arms, voice like a cannon. “And forcing your obviously healthy son, in his formative years, to play with an unambiguously homosexual doll is fucking sick. You can play the grays’ game for as long as you want. You can teach him—force him—to be powerless. And what the hell does he get for it at the end of the day? Fuckin’ nothin’. An ignoble existence in solitude and despair. Why not teach him to be strong? Why not instill in him traditional American notions of heroism and honor so one day he and his white brothers and sisters can stand up and reclaim their rights?”

  “You have to watch your language, Sweetie! No F-word!” whispered Kim, lightly kicking her boyfriend’s leg under the table.

  Kyle did not comprehend much of the athlete’s recommendation. But he stood up on his chair, brandishing the headless body of Gaiety Gray.

  “Raaaaaaa.” His tiny vocal chords strained their utmost to project a battle cry. His bottom lip was distended and curled in defiance. “I’m a big, strong, white guy!” he bellowed, his voice comic and deep.

  Addressing the gray cadaver in his hand, he continued.

  “I hate you Gaiety Gray! I hate you! I don’t have to play with you anymore!” Then, he began bludgeoning the toy repeatedly against the table. After four or five such thrashings, he looked directly at Hans, his face eager. The titan smiled and congratulated him with a thumbs up.

  Kyle’s mother gasped, and her mouth hung wide.

  At that moment, a sinewy gray man wearing a white apron and hat marched out from the kitchen. His thin purple lips were pulled back exposing teeth roped with saliva.

  “Help us!” cried the mother. “This . . . this . . . barbarian man is corrupting our impressionable young son with heresy.”

  “Shut up!” the manager said to the mother. “You’re just an Alien yourself. So what are you gettin’ so worked up about?”

  “But, but . . . look at them, sir. The way they were sitting before, holding hands—it was offensive for my family and I to see. And look at him, what kind of white man is he? He looks deformed. It’s unhealthy for a young boy like my son to have to endure the sight of something like that.”

  “Sir, I just want you to know that I found it offensive as well. That brute should be institutionalized,” chimed her husband with a flick of his wrist.

  “Didn’t you hear me the first time? Both of you, shut up!” growled the gray. “Now listen,” the manager addressed Hans and Kim, “You aren’t welcome here together like this. If you want, one of you can wait outside while I prepare your food to go. But I don’t want your kind coming in here together and holding hands or anything. You’re too young—you’re not supposed to want to date each other. You, young lady, you should be holding hands with a guy like Dante over there or better yet with another girl. And you, you overgrown freak, you should just put a damn gun to your head and put yourself out of your misery. How long does it take for you people to go extinct, anyway?”

  Hans threw his head back and laughed long and hard. His laughter was deep and carefree, and Kyle listened in wonder.

  “There’ll come a day,” the youth vowed, eyes flaming, “when Nature is gonna punish you. A stronger, healthier, hardier race will run right over you. My only question is, will your death come by Arab scimitar or Aztec obsidian? Because there are people out there who are mean and fierce as fucking spit. And they won’t listen to your bullshit guilt-trip dogma, because they’ve got a damn strong will to survive and conquer and be strong. They’re busy having children, honing their weapons, and plotting your destruction you God-damned gray son-of-a-bitch.”

  The manager’s purple lips slowly formed a circle, and his eyes widened as mental images assaulted his mind. “Stop it!” he cried, his face contorted, feet retreating. “Just, just shut-up about that, okay? Just, just get out of here. President Swan won’t let that happen.”

  “Can’t you hear it?” asked the youth with relish. “Can’t you hear their strong, undying cries to Allah? What, you don’t think you could disarm a Muslim fanatic with a diversity guilt-trip? Ha! He’d curse you, cut you up into gray fillets, and serve you to an Aztec high priest for dinner.”

  “Oh my. Oh my.” The manager gasped for air and sweated profusely, his forearm held guardedly against his forehead. “Please . . . please leave,” he blustered.

  “Gladly—your breath stinks,” said Hans, and he and his date rose and made for the door. “Hey, manager.” The youth projected his strong voice to get the cowering man’s attention. “Just out of curiosity, why did you turn yourself gray?”

  “To keep my job,” he uttered. “To keep my damn job.” Slapping down a dish rag, he melted back to the kitchen.

  Chapter 12

  The director crossed his legs high, and reclined to a side in his chair. His hair was thinning, and he was dressed in slacks and a multicolored button down shirt. Around him loomed a dark studio replete with sound and video stations. Spotlighted in the center was a set made to look like a suburban front yard and house. Three young girls stood in a triad, conversing, off to a side. One was black, one white, and one Asian—all had very short, jagged hair.

  “This commercial brings me bliss,” the director whispered to an aide, his breath hot and fetid. “I want the President and Hommler to witness my latest creation of genius. It’s best to watch my creations live. Call them up.”

  A short, malformed gray man tinkered at a station in compliance.

  The director reached for a toy replica of a monster truck from a pedestal at his side. The black vehicle was lined in chrome and dwarfed by its four large tires. A revolving gun mount rose from its pickup bed.

  “Come here, child,” he beckoned to the young white girl standing with her friends. Her hair was clipped crew cut style. She wore dirty jeans and a black t-shirt stamped with a sneering skull.

  “Your eyes look sad,” he observed perturbedly.

  “I’m not really sad, Mr. Gibbles,” she said. “I just feel kind of weird in these clothes. And I don’t like my hairstyle.” The girl felt her spiked hair gingerly.

  “Don’t you touch that, Lauren!” he snapped. “It took a stylist two hours to perfect it. We’re about to take the final cut, and the president will be watching. So behave yourself and remember that you’re about to be a role model for millions of little girls. So get with the program and make sure you don’t break character.” He shoved the toy truck into her hands. “Remember, in this commercial you’re a rough, tough, dirty-em-up kind of girl. You’re the kind of girl,” he gestured, eyes narrowing, “who wants to grab a white man by his nuts and just rip them off! And when you throw that punch at Luke, I don’t want it to look weak. Follow through with it and if you hit him a little bit, well, tough luck for little Lukie. It’s what he gets paid for.”

  “I’ll do a good job, Mr. Gibbles,” she said respectfully, then shot a dejected glance at a white woman standing near the perimeter of the set. The woman smiled giddily, and waved at the little girl.

  “Hi, Mom,” Lauren shouted, and waved back. “After this shoot let’s grab some lunch.”

  A rectangular pane of light began to materialize to the right of Gibbles. The director watched the glowing form rapidly populate with tiny squares of iridescence. Slowly, a man’s form delineated, and within moments President Swan clarified on screen. His face was deep gray and a bit fuller than usual.

  “Jackson, how are you today?” asked Swan.

  “I’m doing wonderfully, Terry.”

  “A lot better, I’m sure, than if you were languishing in a jail cell planning how to avoid the next lynching attempt by the Aryan Brotherhood and MS-13.” Swan laughed. As he shifted in delight, his slender body appeared on the image. It was strangely incongruous with his robust cheeks. “Oh Jackson, you’ve got to tell me sometime how a pedophile stays alive in prison for two years.”

  “Very carefully.” The director smiled wryly. “Are you fishing for more thanks for springing me as
you began to accrue power? Well, I’ve already showered you with thanks for that years ago. Ah, I see that your Protean Phenotype system is still functioning.”

  “At the moment I do believe I’m mostly Pacific-Islander. Such a glorious people! I’m so delighted they ate Captain Cook. But, hey, did they ‘cook’ Captain Cook, or just eat the evil demon raw?” The president boomed with laughter.

  Gibbles applauded daintily. “Bravo, my president. That was clever. As I recall Cook wasn’t the only white explorer who managed to find his way into an indigenous GI tract. For all their purported ‘genius’ many of those white maritime fools ended up becoming steaming piles of excrement on a Pacific beach.”

  “Well said, well said. So what do you want my presidential stamp of approval on today? A movie trailer or a poster?”

  “Actually, a toy commercial and two posters.” The director stroked his gray neck and eyed the young girls.

  “My, my, you’ve been productive lately, then,” congratulated the president. “Our silly detractors claim that we’re inefficient. But they don’t know the hard hours Jackson Gibbles pours into his work.”

  “Thank you. Hey, when is the bodybuilding contest that Smith is entering. Are you going?”

  “Going? Why of course I’m going. What kind of boyfriend would I be to miss an event like that? Besides, I’ve got something special planned.” Swan laughed. “It’s on October 25. He’s so finicky about his diet lately. He’s absolutely petrified of sodium.”

  “Well, I suppose he really wants to win the contest,” reasoned the director.

  “Yes, well, he certainly deserves to win it. And he will win it. I understand that these contests are so subjective anyway—it shouldn’t be hard to grease a few palms. It’s in Pittsburgh this year. Apparently, since the Aztec insurrection, Pittsburgh has become the new Mecca of bodybuilding. What did it used to be, Muscle Beach or something? No matter, we will reacquire California soon enough. By Divine Color’s glorious plurality, I miss San Francisco so deeply.”

  “As do I, my president. And you can count on me to be at the contest to oversee that it is properly televised nationally and worldwide.”

  “Good.” Swan grinned. “I want a big turn out so invite all of your American friends—the most boisterous and patriotic ones, I should say.”

  “Yes, sir. Now, prepare yourself for my latest works of art.”

  Swan sat up in his chair at attention, and folded his hands on the oak table.

  A second pane of light began to materialize to the left of Gibbles. Hommler’s face, distorted by its close proximity to his screen, was captured in midair. His eyes were unfocused, and he languidly drew himself away from the screen.

  “Why do you summon me?” he inquired, as a stream of crimson escaped from the corner of his mouth. It was intercepted with a flicker of his tongue.

  “We summoned you, genius of the night,” said Swan, “because our wily propaganda minister has devised new ways to beguile the Aliens that he wishes to share with us.”

  “I ap . . . apologize,” stumbled Hommler, “I’m a bit . . . disoriented at the moment.” The secretary of state adjusted his silver curls and left drips of redness where his fingers touched.

  “All right everyone,” projected Gibbles from a mike, “take your places and commence on my signal.” Lowering the voice projector, he whispered to himself through grit teeth, “Look at those succulent little girls.” After adjusting his crotch, he pressed a button on his chair that activated a robotic voice.

  “Commercial commencing in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.” All lights dimmed except those focused on the set, and a fast-paced theme song generated from speakers, complemented by the deep voice of a female singer.

  “Danny Dare, Danny Dare. Where, O’ where is Danny Dare? Is she tough? Is she rough? Better watch out boys ‘cause that girl is buff! Watch out for Danny Dare!”

  Cameras filmed the set from multiple angles as Lauren emerged from the house holding the black truck. Two of her girlfriends rushed up to meet her.

  “Guess what I just got?” she asked excitedly.

  “What?” they asked back.

  “The new Danny Dare monster truck! It’s got monstro tires to tear up white boys and a plasma gun to blast Aztecs. Diesel Darla rides shotgun and Bianca Butch mans the gun in the pickup bed.”

  “Wow! Cool!” they exclaimed.

  “And each truck comes with a white boy to run over!” Lauren produced a figure from her pocket, lying prostrate, and showed it to the cameras. “Gee, I sure would love to meet the real Danny Dare someday. I wish she’d come and save me from my totally boring life.”

  Suddenly, the roar of a heavy engine ripped through the darkness, and a monster truck pulled out of the studio’s recesses. It ploughed on to the set, jumped the curb, and rolled on to Lauren’s front lawn.

  “Could that be who I think it is?” screamed Lauren.

  “It’s Danny Dare!” squealed her friends. The driver punched a button and flames burst from valves along the hood.

  A tall, gray, broad-shouldered woman kicked open the truck door and jumped down to the curb. She hit the ground roughly, like a Homeric warrior leaping from a chariot. Her dirty blond hair was shaved close along the top and sides but extended in rat-tail fashion from the back. Each ear gleamed metallically with riddled piercings, and she wore work boots, jeans, and an undershirt with sleeves rolled high.

  “Howdy girls!” she thundered. “I’m Danny Dare!”

  “Danny Dare!” A willowy father opened the front door and attempted to sound menacing. “Look what you did to my lawn. Get out of here!”

  “No way, white man!” Dare countered huskily. “I’ve come to liberate your daughter from your oppressive patriarchy!”

  “Yay!” the girls squealed in cheers and excitement.

  “Hey, son,” the man called into the house, “get out here quick and help your father. Danny Dare’s here to take your sister—we have to mobilize!”

  The father rushed on to the lawn to engage Dare. He approached her in a squared-up, comic stance. His fists were clenched, but his eyes were flinching as he drew near.

  “Come on, Dare,” he challenged with face slightly turned and quivering, “let’s duke it out.”

  “My pleasure, tyrant!” she bellowed lustily.

  The man threw a weak slap that the gray woman sidestepped. Upon missing, his face winced and his eyes batted. It looked as if he were contemplating disengagement. But that wasn’t in the script.

  Observing the body language of her combatant, Dare quickly grabbed the man by his collar with her left hand and threw a hard, linear punch with her right delivered from the shoulder. There was an audible crack as her front two knuckles hammered the man’s jaw and sent him stumbling into bushes near the porch. As he fell, his head banged against the house. His upper body was obscured by the foliage, but his spindly legs, projecting out, were unmoving.

  “Yeah!” Lauren and her friends screamed, pumping their fists and jumping up and down.

  “Careful, girls,” warned the gray woman, “we have a new assailant! It’s an aspiring tyrant.”

  The young boy jumped down from the porch, arms akimbo.

  “Run into the house, girls, and call Uncle Joe. He’s the next line of defense. I’ll hold off Dare as long as I can,” commanded the boy.

  “You idiot!” mocked Lauren. “Don’t you know that I want to leave with Dare? I hate my family and I hate you too! Females don’t need families—not when we’re girls and not when we’re grown women. All they do is hold us back.” Action music amplified.

  As Lauren strode toward the boy she could see his eyes wince and his lips curl. Remembering Gibbles’s exhortation, she went with the moment and music and threw a punch with all her strength, the way Dare had taught her to throw it while rehearsing.

  Lauren’s fist slammed into the boy’s nose. He fell to the synthetic grass, blinking, blood streaming from each nostril. Trying to rise, he fell back dow
n, eyes rolling. Gibbles peppered his palms together and smiled ghoulishly.

  “Yes, yes! We do have a winner!” roared Dare, raising Lauren’s hand. “Come on, girls, let’s go ridin’! Then we’ll get y’all some tattoos and piercings. Who here wants their tongue pierced?”

  “I do! I do! You’re the best, Danny Dare!” the girls said in concert, and crawled into the monster truck’s open door. The gray woman followed, slammed the door, and grabbed the wheel.

  Fire pulsed in orange jets from valves, and Dare floored the accelerator. In a rage of horsepower the vehicle tore over the lawn, smashed through a picket fence, and sped into the darkness. In a far corner of the set, supplies were being moved through a large garage bay. The truck screeched into a turn toward the daylight, then gunned for the opening.

  Swan rose from his seat slightly, captivated. Hommler had by now oriented himself and watched intently.

  “Uhm . . . this isn’t part of my commercial,” remarked Gibbles.

  A deep horn sounded from the vehicle, scattering workers. In a final show of pyrotechnics the truck ripped into the daylight, belching fire, and raced down a side street. Its juiced engine could still be heard over the coming seconds.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” Swan clapped. “How romantic! Where do you think this Danny Dare character is taking them?”

  “Who knows?” mused the director. “She . . . she was supposed to pull the truck over to the side and park it here on the set.”

  “Thrilling! Thrilling!” exclaimed the president. “This ‘Dare’ woman—she’s absolutely. . . absolutely American!”

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” Lauren’s mother approached Gibbles and the flanking images. “Uhm . . . I loved the commercial, but where did my daughter go? Where did that woman take my daughter?” she asked a bit nervously.

  “Do you really want to know?” The director smirked, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, yes . . . of course I want to know. I want to see Lauren and tell her what a great job she did. I mean, we’re supposed to grab lunch,” the woman replied.