“I’ve lived for thousands of years, starting wars, initiating the slave trade, the KKK, Apartheid in South Africa, Jim Crow laws, the urban drug trade, and the war on drugs. Shit, nigga, I even invented gangsta rap. I’ve been here forever, wearing different faces in different lands, but always there, whispering in the White man’s ear and shouting in the Black man’s ugly fuckin’face. Making sure you ignorant monkeys never got a moment’s peace.”
“You tryin’ to say that Dr. Yaccub created you? An evil white muthafucka that kills niggas and eat their brains? Just so he could fuck with us?!” My finger tightened on the Sig Sauer’s trigger, but Scratch’s own pistol was still pressed against my forehead.
“There’s a lot more to this shit. More than you could ever imagine. See, Dr. Yaccub had to be certain the two races would never unite. Never ever. And he couldn’t be sure that just having a White man running around raising havoc would be enough. I mean, what if Black folks got wise to what was going on and forgave White people? What if White people failed to take this devil’s lead? He had to make sure that the hate went both ways and White people hated Blacks just as much. He needed a Black devil. That’s you, Snap. Yeah, nigger. He created you too.
“Every generation we are born, we fight each other, and we die and then we are reborn, resurrected, to do it all over again. Even our battles against each other help keep the races divided. What do you think will happen when your friends find you dead at the hands of a White drug dealer? What do you think is going to happen all over the city when it hits the news? And if you had managed to kill me it would have caused a backlash in the White community. I have many respectable businesses in the suburbs and there are many people out there who know nothing about what I do down here in the ghetto. It would look like another innocent White man killed by a Black thug. When you die some industrious Civil rights lawyer will uncover enough dirt on me to make it look like a great big conspiracy among middle class whites to flood Black ghettoes with crack. The racial disharmony will continue all because of you.”
I shook my head slowly. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to unhear his words, to convince myself that he was lying even though a part of me, a large part of me, knew he was right. I could feel it. I was every bit the devil he was accusing me of being.
“Bullshit! You’re lying! I had a mom and a dad. I was born in a hospital in front of witnesses. I ain’t some monster a mutherfucker made in some laboratory!” I wanted to shoot him so bad I was trembling but I was afraid that he’d still have enough time to kill me before he died.
“You weren’t born, Snap. You were reincarnated after we killed each other sixty years ago in a Civil Rights demonstration in Alabama. Your cells decomposed in a grave somewhere and then they started to multiply again and reform into a new body. The first thing you did when you were born was crawl your way out of a grave. Then you climbed into some newborn’s crib, murdered it, and replaced it. Just like I did. You’re not Malik Black. That was the name of the baby you killed so that you could steal his life. Reborn but with all the same instincts, the same genetic programming that Dr. Yaccub gave you.”
“That’s bullshit! I ain’t believin’ none of this. You’re just fuckin’ lyin’!”
“Am I? Look at your life, Snap. You are a walking stereotype. You’re what White America fears the most. You define the word nigger. Your lifestyle validates it. You live in a ghetto murdering people for drug money. Murdering your own people! You travel to middle class White neighborhoods and kick the shit out of innocent kids just for being White, and you even date a White woman that you treat like shit because she’s White. You’re a fucking racist who blames White people for every fuck up you’ve made in your life, taking no responsibility for your own actions. All your ideas and opinions about your own people and mine are racist as fuck. You are every redneck’s worse nightmare. You are what the Grand Dragon of The Ku Klux Klan describes to his congregation when he preaches hate. Your example makes it easy for White supremist groups to recruit new members. You have performed your role perfectly. But now it’s time for you to die so the cycle can continue.”
I loosened my grip on the Sig Sauer and let it slip from my hand.
“So why even tell me all of this? Why not just shoot me?”
“Because I need that Baby! You tell me where that little mutherfucker is and I might even let you live… for a little while anyway.”
“But why? What’s the deal wit’ this baby? Why do you give a fuck about a damned crack-baby?”
“DON”T FUCK WITH ME! You know damn well he’s more than just some crack-baby!”
“You’re tryin’ to tell me that baby’s really Jesus Christ?”
“I’m tellin’ you that if you knew who he was and how he fit into all this you’d kill him yourself. As long as he lives he’s a threat to both of us. That’s why I ain’t shot you yet. That’s why I’m tryin’ to talk some sense into you.”
“But why? I don’t know what tha fuck you tryin to say.”
“Alright, you really want to know? That baby is God’s attempt to intervene. Deus Ex Machina in a fucking diaper. He is forgiveness. His life will mean peace between the races, unless he dies before we do. Once he’s dead then we can kill each other, be reborn, and start this war all over again for the next generation. But, if he’s still alive when we die, then we don’t come back. You see what I’m sayin’? If that baby lives then there’s no resurrection. We’re dead for good and the races will come together just like in Dr. King’s naïve little dream. Yaccub’s curse would be ended. You see? That’s why I can’t let that little mutherfucker live. Because I like what I do and I want to keep doing it. Forever!”
“If I’ve been around for as long as you have, then why don’t I remember any of this?”
“Because, maybe the doctor figured you wouldn’t go along with it if you knew what you were and what damage you were doing to your race. We are still human despite Yaccub’s spells and potions. Maybe he figured that if you were just some angry misguided hoodlum that thought the world owed you a favor then you’d do all the evil he needed you to do without even knowing it. I’m hopin’ you’re smarter than that. That’s why I’m tellin’ you this shit now.”
“You’re wrong. You’re wrong! You’re the devil! Not me! I know who I am!”
“I can’t waste no more time with you. The cops could be coming any minute. You don’t want to tell me where he is, I’ll just have to find him myself after I body your ass.” He licked his lips and started to squeeze the trigger. I closed my eyes and thought about my life, all the pain I’d caused my family, my friends, my entire neighborhood, and perhaps even my entire race. I thought about my Grandmother and my mother and how they had tried so hard to raise me right. I thought about Christina and how I had taken her love so lightly. I waited for the bullet in complete calm. If Scratch was right, then this would be a blessing. Maybe the baby would still live and it would all be over.
I heard a loud crack and waited for the pain and the welcome oblivion, thinking he had pulled the trigger. Then I heard it again and again. I opened my eyes and Scratch was gone. When I turned my head to look for him I saw Huey standing on his chest smashing the butt of the AK 47 against his skull over and over again.
Breathing short shallow breaths and with spots dancing before my eyes, I scrambled to my feet and tried to join Huey in stomping the devil back down to hell. My feet rose and fell with all my weight behind it and Huey continued to pulverize bone and muscle with the butt of the assault rifle until Scratch’s skull came undone and his brains decorated the ground with globs of pink and red pulp. I brought my dusty leather Stacy Adams down on his mouth and knocked out the last of his gold teeth. They tumbled to the ground and lay there catching sunlight. I stopped to stare at them and the world tilted and rolled. I collapsed on my ass in the dirt as my consciousness began to fade, my ruptured lungs no longer able to take in any oxygen. Just before the darkness swooped in and sucked me down into dreams, I saw Huey kneel d
own and scoop Scratch’s brains up in his hands.
“What are you doin’, bro?”
It was the last thing I said before everything went black.
— | — | —
Chapter 21
“The lower socio-economic Black male is a man of confusion… He faces a hostile environment and is not sure that it is not his own sins that have attracted the hostilities of society… He looks around for something to blame for his situation, but because he is not sophisticated regarding the socio-economic milieu… He ultimately blames himself.”
—Huey P. Newton, “To Die For The People”
««—»»
I think the gun will fit now. Now that all the words are out. My guilt is no less though. That wasn’t the point. I’m not seeking forgiveness or absolution. If Dr. Yaccub really did create me to be a pawn in his plan for eternal racial disharmony then forgiveness is impossible, absolution is impossible. Perhaps I could still have been a good person despite the genetic instincts programmed into me by that mad man long ago. Maybe there is something to the Christian’s free will argument. Perhaps I could still have been an asset to my race somehow. All I know is that I wasn’t. I murdered my own people for money. I assisted in the drug trade that has crippled the Black community out of greed. I lived my life as the very stereotype so many of us have fought to overcome. I am every bit as evil as Scratch ever was.
The baby is safe. Huey and Iesha are raising him. I tried to talk to Huey about what Scratch told me. About how all White People are not devils and how Yaccub had manipulated us all into believing they were by exploiting our own natural tendencies toward prejudice and bigotry. How the same trick was being played on the White community. I don’t know if he understood. Maybe he will after I am gone. Maybe the baby will teach him. Scratch said the baby represented harmony, peace, and forgiveness. God’s gift to the world. I can only hope that the kid will do his job. I can only hope that Scratch and I will never be resurrected.
I pick the Beretta up again and slide it back into my mouth. I slide it back until it touches my tonsils and makes me gag. The taste of metal and gun oil is overpowering. My eyes water. I think of Christina and realize that I love her. I want to pick up the phone and tell her goodbye, but I know the sound of her voice would steal my nerve away and this has to be done if my people will ever have a chance at peace. I think of all the rap songs and videos, movies, and video games that glorify the type of life I have led. It’s so much to overcome. I think of the baby again, the soft ancient eyes filled with wisdom and patience. He has his hands full.
The trigger is taut and anxious. So many nights I have sat with this gun in my mouth and every time I have found a new reason to live. This gun has hungered so long for my blood. Now, I have finally run out of reasons. No more excuses. I pull the trigger and quench the weapon’s thirst.
— | — | —
Epilogue
Huey looks over at the baby as he pilots the Monte Carlo through traffic. Iesha mockingly named the kid Jesus. Huey smiles at the name as he whispers it at the child and watches his tiny head turn in response. Already he knows who he is, understands his destiny.
The sun is setting and the shadows have begun knitting together into large patches of darkness. The Monte Carlo cruises to a stop at the entrance to Wissahickon Park. Huey tries not to look in the child’s eyes as he unstraps him from the car-seat. He hugs the child tight to his chest as he walks into the park.
The trees have formed a ceiling over the trail, hiding the moon and stars and making the darkness total. The trickle of the creek water running down stream helps give Huey direction as he walks. The sounds of animals he can’t identify follow him every step. The chirp of the crickets and the whisper and giggle of the creek water enhance the feeling of solitude.
He leaves the trail and carries the baby down the side of the embankment to the edge of the water, careful not to drop him. When Huey reaches the creek he steps out from beneath the trees and the sky opens wide above him. The moon and stars light up the night, twinkling off the miniscule waves rippling across the creek. Huey sits down on a fallen tree and lays the baby beside him. Only now does he look down at the baby. His eyes peer deep into Huey’s and he frowns, those ancient eyes still patient and unafraid.
“I know you know who I am. You’ve known it all along. I could see the recognition in your eyes the first night I saw you. I want you to know that this ain’t got nothing to do with any hate towards you. It’s the White man that I hate and I just can’t let you forgive them. I don’t want peace. You understand? I don’t want it. I want all those bastards to die even if I have to kill them myself one by one. I didn’t mean for Snap to kill himself though. I didn’t think he’d really believe Scratch about Dr. Yaccub creating him to encourage White folks to hate our people. If I thought he really believed it, that he was really going to off himself, I would have said something. I’d have told him the truth. It’s too late now. Too late for all of us.”
Huey takes out the Sig Sauer and puts it to the baby’s skull.
“Goodbye, little bro.”
The sound of the gunshot echoes across the surrounding hills and out over the highway. A flock of ducks take off into the sky, startled by the loud report. Huey watches them disappear across the horizon before turning back to look at the baby’s ruptured skull. He reaches down into the pile of chunky gray matter leaking out of the infant’s head with both hands and begins to feed.
When Huey finally stumbles out of the woods back to his car he feels no better than when he left the house. Killing the baby did nothing to quiet the unease in him.
How could it have been the wrong fucking baby?
He drives home with his emotions running from rage, to fear, to panic.
It’s all over. If that baby lives it’s all over.
The house is silent when Huey bursts through the door and collapses onto the couch with his thoughts whirling through his head like a tornado. This had never happened before. Scratch had failed and now Huey had failed as well.
I know that baby is close. I just know it is.
Iesha walks into the room smiling from ear to ear, oblivious, as usual, to Huey’s foul mood. She sits down next to him on the couch and smiles at him, trying to get his attention.
“I felt the baby kick. You want to feel?”
She grabs Huey’s hand and places it on her belly as what looks like a footprint stretches against her skin from inside.
It has to be somewhere that neither Scratch nor I would have ever thought to look.
He feels movement beneath his hand as the baby kicks against Iesha’s stomach.
“See? Can you feel that?” She beams at him jubilantly
Huey looks down at Ieasha’s distended belly as it continues to undulate with their child’s movements. He looks back up into Ieaha’s eyes and smiles, then the smile falls hard into a twisted scowl.
“What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because God has one fucked up sense of humor. That’s why.”
Iesha’s eyebrows knit together in puzzlement as Huey gets up off the couch and walks into the kitchen. Seconds later he comes back with a knife.
“Jesus!” she shrieks as he plunges the blade into her stomach.
“Let’s hope it is.” Huey replies.
— | — | —
WRATH JAMES WHITE is a former World Class Heavyweight Kickboxer, a professional Kickboxing and Mixed Martial Arts trainer, distance runner, performance artist, and former street brawler, who is now known for creating some of the most disturbing works of fiction in print.
He is the author of Succulent Prey, The Book of a Thousand Sins, and His Pain. Wrath is also the co-author of Teratologist co-written with the king of extreme horror, Edward Lee and Poisoning Eros co-written with Monica J. O’Rourke. Wrath lives and works in Las Vegas, Nevada with his two daughters, Isis and Nala, his son Sultan and his wife Christie. When he isn’t writing or working he continues to compete in kickbox
ing events and train mixed martial arts competitors.
New Title 1 Page 32
