The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  The chants for the vice resident amplified, and Joe and Hassan shot each other a wide-eyed glance. With a hand signal, the two veterans fired into more unorthodox posing. Joe mimed pulling in a heavy rope, while Hassan drew back an invisible bow and shot an arrow toward the heavens. Scott kept pace by planting his feet squarely, rolling back his wide shoulders, and raising a straight left arm, fingers outstretched and slightly separated, in Swan’s “Hail to Color” salute.

  Vociferous approval registered from the crowd—deafening, almost maniacal cheers. In the midst of a pose, his tanned face fixed in startlement, Hassan noticed for the first time the demographics of the auditorium. The vast majority of the crowd wore the hue of stormy ocean water—a shade of gray that was salty and cold.

  Their black eyes transfixed the vice president, who revolved his flexing, rigid, outstretched arm to all sections of the crowd. Many in the audience saluted him back, slaver gushing over purple lips.

  Within moments, the techno music faded, and the announcer emerged onstage. The bodybuilders fell into a line facing the audience. Joe scrutinized the judges—three blacks, a Hispanic, and a white. They stuck out in the gray crowd, and by the hesitant looks they were giving, they were uneasy about their minority.

  “Let’s have a hand for all of our competitors here tonight,” the announcer requested, and thousands of gray hands clapped vigorously.

  The chant for Vice President Smith began anew, and the clamor was augmented by a tattoo of stomps on the floor.

  “The judges . . .” The announcer waited until the crowd quieted. “The judges have made their decision, and have beamed their choices to my receptor.” He raised the electronic device in his hand. “As you all are aware, there is no second or third place in the Mr. U.S.A. competition—one man, and one man alone, will be chosen to represent the United States of America in this contest of size, leanness, symmetry, and aesthetics.”

  The Americans sat on the edges of seats. Some rent their fingernails with sharp teeth, while others batted their eyes or writhed like gray slugs.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, the winner of the 2084 Mr. USA competition is . . . the Vice President of the United States, Mr. Scott Smith!”

  Techno music resumed, and a payload of multicolored confetti snowed from the ceiling. The audience’s celebration was boisterous when the announcer hung a gold medal around Smith’s neck.

  As the vice president raised his arm once again in the Hail to Color salute, two grays stormed the stage. In their mania they buffeted the announcer over the stage lip. Before he could rise, the gray masses swarmed forward and over him, stomping the ground to effect the percussion of a drum beat. He never rose again.

  The two grays that had mounted the stage fell obsequiously at Smith’s feet.

  Mr. U.S.A. looked hard at Joe and Hassan, who glared back scornfully.

  “If I gave the word, I could have you both ripped limb from limb—literally. As I recall, you called me a fag.” He looked coldly at Joe. “Most of my brothers and sisters here would say you should die for that.”

  The two grays, hunched over, shot looks of hatred at Joe.

  “Hey, man,” Joe raised his open hands, “this isn’t the movies, man. Just calm down—you got your prize. I’m sorry about what I said. No way a guy should be killed for saying anything. That’s crazy . . . that’s sick!”

  “I agree,” said Smith. “But don’t expect the next gray person you call that hateful name to be as lenient. Both of you need to swim in the spectrum of Divine Color. You need to be treated. Don’t you both know that that’s why I won tonight?”

  Joe and Hassan nodded hesitantly, unsure of how Smith viewed the blatant partisanship.

  “Yes, I won because I’m a superior human being. I’m a superior human being because I’m one with Divine Color. Do you think I could have endured all that hard training I put myself through without the strength of my deity? Of course not! Do you think I could have pulled off building the awesome physique I have without blessings from Divine Color? You two need to be treated, so you can have the spiritual strength to build a super-physique like mine.”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Hassan murmured, and looked at Joe.

  “Well, we’ll definitely think about it.” Joe eyed the two rabid grays, who were now circling him. A guttural rasp was generating deep within their chests. “So, uh, can I give you my autograph, man?”

  Smith folded his arms and laughed.

  “I don’t want your stinkin’ autographs. Besides, I’m Mr. U.S.A. now. You should be asking for my autograph.”

  One of the circling grays looked Joe directly in the eye and exhaled effluvia.

  “People say whey isolate is the best source of protein because of its biological value and assimilability,” the gray caricature of a man garbled, still circling. “But I tend to think the protein from human muscle tissue might even be better than whey. Care to volunteer yourself to see which is better, tough guy?” The creature opened his mouth and unwound his long tongue. With a grunt of resolve he thrust it up into one of his stalactite canines, and blood streamed over his mouth and down his chin. The wounded, roving tongue apprehended the scarlet trickle, and the gray creature’s eyes rolled back in delectation.

  “Man, I would . . . I would love your autograph, Mr. Vice President.” The black man wiped sweat from his brow. “And I’m sure Hassan would too.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I want it too,” assured the Arab hurriedly.

  “Well,” Smith laughed, “it will have to wait. Look who’s coming. Doesn’t he look sharp in that new suit?”

  President Swan marched quickly up a side ramp to the stage. His face was sardine gray, and the large afro projecting from his head, trimmed like a planet, glistened with gel. His eyes were sharply ascendant, and he hailed Smith with a stiff-armed homage to Color.

  The crowd cheered raucously as Swan embraced Smith and raised his arm. The president fished in his pocket for a small, conical device, which he clipped to his lapel.

  “I don’t know what happened to the announcer; he must have run off,” Swan commented glibly, his voice booming through the speaker system. “Well, it’s a good thing I always come prepared with a pocket mike. Gee, it’s already detected the speaker frequency and everything . . . isn’t technology wonderful?” Swan patted his afro.

  “My fellow Americans, I have a confession to make. When that strapping lad right there told me of his intentions to enter this competition tonight, I thought he had gone crazy. I said to myself, ‘Terry, you better prepare a penthouse suite in your nearest asylum, because your VP is going to need checking in.’”

  The crowd guffawed hideously. Joe, Hassan, and the seven other contestants stood by. Some feigned interest in the speech, and laughed along with the grays.

  “I thought, why should the vice president of the United States strive with Alien trash for a paltry medal? I knew the competition would be fierce—these hulking Alien brutes you see before you on stage devote their lives to the gods of iron. Why, I asked myself, would your vice president deign to mix with them and vie with them on their own turf, under their own rules and paradigm?

  “But then the answer became obvious. Vice-president Smith wished to bring diversity to the world of bodybuilding! He was called here to arc the rainbow of Color into a monochromatic and bleak world of racism and lunacy. Women and men of America, look at the array of nine Aliens standing before you. Their minds are provincial—for them the perfection of Divine Color is unperceived. I see blacks, Hispanics, and a smattering of Arabs and Polynesians. At one time, such a lineup, absent of worthless white men, would have brought tears of joy to my eyes.” The president turned a sentimental gaze toward the bodybuilders.

  “But times change—and standards change!” Swan raised his index finger, and flourished it in the air. The crowd clamored savagely and stomped their feet.

  “This medley of Africans, Aztecs, and Arabs is no longer the gold-standard it once was. The white menace is practically destroyed—we m
ust now begin to reevaluate our notions of diversity—we must devise a new criterion!”

  The audience expressed its approval with haunting ululations.

  “Fellow citizens, for the past century diversity has been a synonym for non-whiteness. Over the decades, it slowly acquired theological significance. Today, it is not merely a word, it is not merely a world view, it is not merely a lifestyle—it is the principal tenet of our religion. We, my fellow Americans, are the steadfast apologists, servitors, and votaries of Divine Color. And we must turn perceptive ears at all times toward our deity, toward Its holy plurality, to best understand Its wishes.”

  Swan pushed his afro aside to cup a hand to his ear, and peered at the audience. Seconds passed, and the president slowly began to nod his head, as if comprehending a revelation.

  “Divine Color has issued us a challenge. It tells us that we cannot be content with the unprecedented progress we have achieved in the past few years. We must tirelessly strive to better ourselves and our country. We must proselytize the blasphemous Aliens in our midst! For if a person cannot contribute to diversity, what right have they to exist?”

  A white usher was snatched in the back tiers of the auditorium and pulled to the floor. His cries were buried under monstrous howls.

  “Divine Color has challenged us to question our understanding of diversity. Diversity, first and foremost, will forever mean non-whiteness. But can it mean anything else? Anything deeper?”

  “It means us! No one else! It means the grays—it means Americans!” a supporter roared from the back ranks, his mouth smeared with usher’s blood.

  “And what country, may I ask, do we live in?” asked Swan rhetorically.

  “America!” was the unison response.

  “Well, isn’t it reasonable and logical that Americans should live in America, and Aliens should become Americans or pack their bags and leave?” asked the president.

  The audience pressed forward, howling, and some of the front-most grays were crushed and trampled against the base of the stage. The judges had been pulled under the churning waves and were by now so trampled that their bodies were slick and pliant like mud underfoot.

  “My fellow Americans, this is the juncture before which we now find ourselves. We must not sit on our laurels! We must forever challenge ourselves with new ways to embrace sacred diversity! My fellow Americans, we are the new standard! We are the new whetstone by which to judge diversity! We, and no one else!”

  Swan raised his left hand in the Hail to Color salute, and thousands of stiff gray arms hailed him in return.

  “I tell you that your vice president is a man ahead of his time. With the courage and determination of Jack Lewis and Jackie Robinson, he brought diversity to this athletic competition. He challenged the sacrilegious Aliens to their own game—and he beat them! He proved that Americans are the master race! America over all—over all the world!” The president snapped out his salute, and the crowd burst into a cacophony of screams and roars.

  “So let me ask,” Swan paced the length of the stage, “can an Asian man be diverse?”

  “No!” responded the audience.

  “Well, that one was easy—Asian men haven’t been very diverse in fifty years. What about a lesbian Hispanic woman with enough body piercings to rival her Aztec ancestors? Can she be diverse?”

  “No!”

  “What about a black bisexual voodoo priest who sodomizes young boys and girls in his tribe?”

  “No!”

  “Excellent!” Swan chuckled. “I thought that last one might trip you up, because what, prior to gray America, could be more diverse than a black, bisexual, pagan, pedophilic tribal leader practicing Third-World magic? One more question, my fellow Americans.”

  Swan’s face was somber, and he stopped pacing in front of Smith.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, is this brave man here before you diverse?” He pointed at the vice president.

  A sonic boom of affirmation pounded the auditorium.

  “That’s right!” congratulated Swan. “In fact, he’s the only diverse competitor on this stage. Look at his luxuriant gray skin!” The president ran a finger along the vice president’s glistening arm. He then licked his finger, pondering the flavor of sweat and oil.

  “My fellow citizens, now let me tell you about the plans that Divine Color has conveyed to me through psychic reception.”

  The audience instantly quieted. Some bowed their heads or folded their hands.

  “Our deity has devised a three-stage process to shower the world in Its spectrum of Color. Stage one is nearly complete—the eradication of our nemesis, the Caucasian race. The execrable descendants of aloof Greece, oppressive Rome, pompous England, and racially-obsessed Germany are almost dead! We are now on the cusp of stage two. Everything I’ve said tonight has been aimed to prepare you for this new challenge we face—the complete Americanization of America. Within the next year, we will strive to turn the entire country gray. Once this stage is complete, we will face our biggest and final challenge—would you like for me to divulge this final objective to you, oh blessed citizens of America?”

  The throngs boiled and frothed.

  “Divine Color’s third and final directive is of plenary scope. My brothers and sisters, our deity asks that we Americanize the entire world! Once the final stage is complete, planet earth will be properly consecrated, and Divine Color will descend to our world to bless us all with everlasting life and happiness. There will be no hatred. There will be no strife. There will be one people, living under one leader, on one planet. My fellow Americans, finally, wherever you turn, wherever you travel, wherever your bright minds can fathom . . . there will be diversity!”

  The audience cheered feverishly. From a raised platform, Jackson Gibbles oversaw his video and camera team. He flashed an unctuous grin at Hommler, who was peering over the platform at the audience.

  “They’re amazing, Jackson. Look at them . . . like a legion of undead coughed out of Hell.” The secretary of state pushed a hand through his silver curls as he drank in the sight of the roaring masses.

  “The world will tremble at our power,” Gibbles said after a deep breath. “Come here, Herbert. Stop looking at the citizens and come see your president. I think he’s about to do it.”

  On stage, President Swan sniffled, and placed a hand to his cheek. His eyes fluttered, and the fingers of his right hand jogged along the palm of his left.

  “Oh, my,” he mumbled. “I thought this moment would be frightening. I had no idea of the reservoir of emotions it would unleash.”

  The captive bodybuilders looked at each other searchingly. Slowly, they began to inch back toward the recesses of the stage while the attention was focused on Swan.

  “Scott Matthew Smith,” the president of the United States slowly spoke, his bottom lip trembling, “when I chose you as my vice president, I knew that we would achieve wonderful things for America and ourselves. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, and that I want to spend the rest of my life with you exploring the blessed mysteries of Divine Color.”

  A collective gasp echoed throughout the auditorium as the walls lit wildly with camera flash. The president fell to a knee, and took each of Smith’s concrete hands in his own.

  “Scott Matthew Smith,” Swan uttered, his face contorted with emotion, “will you marry me?”

  The vice president of the United States sighed heavily, and his contest posture broke and rounded. His eyes gushed—his face was stretched like gray dough. Trembling, he nodded slowly.

  “Yes, yes, I want us to be joined together as husbands!” Smith broke down, the tears rushing freely now. “I’ve been dreaming of this day for so long . . . achieving my teenage dreams of becoming a great bodybuilder, and now this proposal . . . this is the happiest day of my life!”

  Swan rose on wobbly feet. The two kissed and embraced, and the crowd’s exultation was deafening. The grays pushed forward, and many were swept up as if by a gray tide on
to the stage. More followed, and within moments the whole audience was attempting to ascend the stage.

  At first they were reverential of Swan and Smith, genuflecting and affording them a wide berth. But then Joe and the other competitors turned and ran for the backstage exits.

  Feral eyes noted their escape. Joe tore through a dark labyrinth of pulleys, ropes, ladders, and curtains. First one gray gave chase, then another, and another and another, like lint flakes compelled by a magnetic bauble on an executive’s desk.

  Joe could hear the killers at his back. Within moments the entire audience had disregarded Swan and Smith and were channeling backstage. The vice president stood guardedly in front of his lover, his body a nicked cutting board from flailing claws. Soon the onrush became too violent—Smith was punching and kicking wildly to prevent from being dragged down. A bloody claw caught hold of Swan’s afro, and the president was pulled beneath gray waves.

  “Stop the cameras, stop the cameras!” exclaimed Gibbles.

  “By all the gods by all the gods by all the gods how is this fucking happening,” Hommler swore under his breath, flying down the ladder to the auditorium floor. “Damn! I don’t want to have to do this.” A black cape billowed around the slender vampire as he ran for the stage. Producing a tiny device from his pocket, he raised his hands majestically and pressed a key combination.

  “In the name of Divine Color, I command you to stop! Stop! Calm your rage!” he ordered. “Divine Color demands that you cease!”

  And with that final utterance bodies began to drop, faces twisting in anguish, hands clutching ears. Gibbles was berating a cameraman for continuing to film the pandemonium when a high pitched whine tidal-waved his senses. The minister of propaganda clutched his ears with both hands, and trembled under the pressure of an inconceivably powerful migraine. He batted his eyes, but could see only darkness. Stumbling, he fell to the floor and his body wrenched into a curled position. Some of the grays had developed such speed in their pursuit that they crashed to the floor and rolled for a ways like misshapen balls of putty.