Lords of the Lash

Lords of the Lash Page 10

by Frank Kale

 

   

   “So we can see that of the 24 who have been tested 13 are CMR positive: Donald, Chase, Mick, Yetta, Nikkie, Nolene, Betsey, Charles, Alburt, Teal, Presten, Dwade, and Hazel.  And the 11 CMRnegative are: Kaci, Fara, Posy, Tori, Jonni, Park, Fayne, Laural, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carl…” 

   

  “Interesting -- with an approximately even split like that I bet we are looking at a lot of situations were one parent has the trait and one does not,” said Omar.

  “You know your Trait Theory, Omar, yes that is the most likely scenario, though I wasn’t always able to test both parents so we don’t know with 100% certainty.  But the overwhelming probability points towards this cause.  Now we can further break the results down by gender.  There are 7 CMR positive males: Donald, Chase, Mick, Charles, Alburt, Presten, and Dwade.  There are 5 CMR negative males: Park, Fayne, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carl.  There are 6 CMR positive females: Yetta, Nikkie, Nolene, Betsey, Teal, and Hazel.  There are 6 CMR negative females: Kaci, Fara, Posy, Tori, Jonnie, and Laural,” said Zachary.

  “Okay, I’m sure that is completely accurate.  But what is the point of giving Windsor a visual breakdown of the data like this?  Why should it matter how many males and females are CMR positive and negative?” Samantha asked.

  “Windsor is going to give one of these family members a massive inheritance of 3.5 billion dollars.  He has charged us with the responsibility of using Trait Theory to identify the CMR trait.  So we have done that and it was straight forward and we have succeeded in that mission.  Sure we could just stop there, pat ourselves on the back, and move forward  But I would like to go the extra mile and provide him with extra information that he can choose to use or not, but I believe that this extra information will help him to make a better informed decision,” said Zachary.

  “Okay, so what is the extra information?” Omar asked.

  “We’ve been talking about Herod’s Curse off and on.  If we can provide more information about Herod’s Curse by using the data that we have already gathered then we can provide that information to Windsor.  He can then take that information and do whatever he wants with it.  But at that point he will be making a more informed decision, and for all the money he is paying us, and also considering all the good that he does for the world, I feel that we owe it to him to go the extra mile --.”

  “Zachary, the man wants to eat African Americans, like my husband here,” said Samantha pointing at Omar.

  “Actually Zachary and I have already met,” said Omar, with a chuckle.

  “And he is not the type of person that we owe anything to,” said Samantha.

  “The man has restrained himself from acting on his deepest impulses.  We have no idea how difficult that may be for him.  I can’t even restrain myself from eating a donut when I walk into a bakery,” said Zachary.

  “A donut and my husband’s flesh are two different situations,” said Samantha.

  “You know what I mean.  Hey, we don’t have to agree on this issue.  Believe me I felt the same way you do now when we started.  But in imagining everything he has had to go through, I don’t know, I’ve just begun to respect him,” said Zachary.

  “The man is a ticking time bomb.  What do you think Omar?” Samantha asked.

  “I agree with you,” said Omar, though feebly.

  “Do you?  Do you really?  Because you wanted to go test him – you wanted to go walk right into his house,” said Samantha.

  “Please, I’ve told you a thousand times that that was a mistake to suggest that and that I’m not going to do that,” said Omar.

  “Guys – I’m meeting with Windsor today – Hopefully I will be testing him and then one other Thurmond and that should be it.  So even if you don’t like him -- which is completely understandable -- then let’s admit that it makes sense, maybe even good business sense, to go the extra mile for him.  There could be referrals,” said Zachary.

  “Anyone this guy knows I don’t want to touch with a ten foot pole,” said Samantha.

  “Samantha, be reasonable,” said Omar.

  “Oh, don’t talk to me about being reasonable, Mr. I-wanted-to-test-the-cannibal-who-wants-to-eat-me,” said Samantha.

  “Guys, do you want to hear what I have figured out about Herod’s curse?” Zachary asked.

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead,” said Samantha.

  Zachary sighed.

  Samantha continued, “No, I do want to hear it Zachary.  I know you have put a lot of work into it.  I’m just giving you a hard time because sometimes I think you forget that your boss wants to eatAfrican Americans.”

  “Okay, point taken,” said Zachary.

  “That’s my man Zachary.  The only way to get out of an argument with Samantha is to wave the white flag,” said Omar.

  “He wasn’t waving the white flag he was taking my point,” said Samantha.

  “Okay.  You are right,” said Omar, waving his napkin.

  “All right guys so back to the data here.  I have broken the Trait Theory down into as many small sections as possible to try to find a pattern – and if you follow along with me for just a couple minutes you will see that I do think that I have found something,” said Zachary.

              “Okay – continue on then, professor,” said Samantha, and suddenly Zachary felt a bump against his leg.

  Did she just kick me?

              “Right,” said Zachary, breaking eye contact with Samantha as she grinned. 

  She did kick me.  She probably has some new footies study going and I’m her subject.  Come on, seriously?

   “So we can further break the results down by generation.  For the sake of simplicity I’m calling Windsor’s generation, generation 1 --.”

              “For a simple statement this all sure does seem complex,” said Omar, while staring at the generation chart.

              “Well then maybe you should pay closer attention hunny.  Zachary is not speaking in Mandarin.  You know this is the same problem I have with you sometimes.  You think my…”

              She kicked me!  Right in the middle of her statement she kicked me!  Are her abilities to connive actually increasing?

              “…statements are complex when they are in fact simple.  I don’t know why this has begun happening,” said Samantha. 

  She kicked me again!

              “Darling you know I was just joking.  I understand what he is saying.  That was a joke, just a joke,” said Omar. 

  Zachary thought Omar looked worn down. 

  Probably from defending all his statements to Samantha and possibly defending his shins too…

              “So anyway, yes, when we break the data down by generation we find that in Thurmond generation one 100% of the generation is CMR positive, in Thurmond generation two 66% of the generation inCMR positive, and in Thurmond generation three 46% of the generation is CMR positive.

   

   

   

     

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Okay so what does this tell us?” Omar asked.

  “By itself, nothing,” said Zachary, handing Omar and Samantha another chart, “But we can also break the data down by looking at the generation and the gender within that generation.  In generation one 100% of the males are CMR positive.  In generation two 100% of the males are CMR positive.  In generation three 37% of the males are CMR positive. There are no bloodline Thurmond females in generation one.  In generation two 50% of the females are CMR positive.  In generation three 50% of the females are CMR positive.  And as you ca
n see for these charts I identified the positiveCMR percentages within generation and gender.”

  “Okay, so what does this tell us?” Omar asked.

  “For all of this data and these charts it isn’t so much what it tells us as what it does not tell us,” said Zachary, pausing and wondering if Samantha would fill in his thought.

  “Wait a minute here.  Let me see if I can figure out where you are going with this,” said Samantha, spreading the charts out in front of her.

  “I knew you’d want to give it a try,” said Zachary, and both Zachary and Omar sipped at their drinks. 

  After a few moments she shook her head from side to side, saying, “I’m sorry I just don’t see it.”

  “That’s okay.  You’ve had five minutes to look at this stuff –.”

  “I’ve got it,” Samantha interrupted, tapping the paper in front of her.  “It does not take into consideration the CMR status of the Thurmond boys who died.  Therefore within these charts there is a lot of missing information.”

  “Precisely, very good,” said Zachary.

  “I don’t see why that would matter,” said Omar.

  “So have a look at Norman’s, Donald’s and Charles’s sons – they are all CMR positive.  So Omar, according to trait theory what might we assume about the parents?” Zachary asked.

  “Well, we might assume that they both had the trait.  If only one parent had the trait in which case the parents had a 50% chance of having a CMR positive child the chances of having two children who were CMR positive would be ½ times 5 – which I believe is about 1 out of 32 – possible, just not probable,” said Omar.

  “Right, except what Samantha just pointed out is that they had children who died, Henry, Mandred, Aldric, Edbert, and Elvin.  What if some of them or even all of these children were CMR negative?  Then that would make it less likely that both parents had the trait – which is what we are assuming, that only the bloodline Thurmonds have the trait,” said Zachary.

  “Okay, sure, I follow you.  So why does this matter?” Omar asked.

  “We can use that same line of reasoning to look more specifically at the question.  Charles was a widower – so we don’t know if she had the trait or not – and in all probability she did not as the control group showed that this is not a trait out in the general population – it is instead a specified trait that we are finding within the bloodline Thurmond family.  But let’s put that aside.  I was able to test Donald’s wife and she, like every other non-bloodline Thurmond tested, was CMR negative.  That means that their children had an approximately 50% chance to inherit the trait.  But when we look at Donald’s children what do we see?  Four out of Five children are CMR positive.  That is certainly a possible outcome.  That is just like a man and a woman having four girls and one boy.  For healthy couples where the man has no Y chromosome difficulties, while it’s not a likely birth ratio it is certainly possible – in fact the odds are: 20%.  But Donald also had two children who died prematurely, Edbert and Elvin.  Were they both CMR negative?  If they were then he would have had three children who are CMR negative and four children who are not – a much more likely outcome.  What about Charles, were his two deceased children Manfred and Aldric CMR negative?  That would have brought his ratio closer to 50% as well.  In fact it makes me wonder if all the Thurmond boys who died young were CMRnegative,” said Zachary.

  “Okay, this is somewhat interesting but it is also all mere speculation.  There is no way for you to ever know the CMR status of the prematurely deceased Thurmond boys,” said Samantha.

  “That is true.  But I also further broke down the data which I believe will lend more credence to this theory --.”

  “But even if true what does this theory prove?” Samantha asked.

  “Obviously it won’t conclusively prove anything, but I believe it does indicate something, something perhaps troubling – though if you just follow me a little longer we’ll get to it,” said Zachary.

  Samantha nodded her head.

  “Right, so we can also break the data down by looking at the early Thurmond boy deaths.  How do they compare to non-early Thurmond boy deaths?  Here are the results,” said Zachary.

  “That is, until the Thurmond males in generations 1 through 4 reach age 13, at this point in time, they have a 34.7% death rate.  If we look at an actuary chart the number is not even 1%,” said Zachary.

  “Okay, but as PHD’s familiar with the study of statistics we know that you will see the largest swings in probability in a small population.  This population is only 23.  We need a population of at least 30 to start comparing percentages with, say, an actuary chart – and a population of 100 would be much more preferable,” said Samantha.

  “That was my thought exactly.  But we can break the data down again by asking a more specific question.  Did the early Thurmond male deaths occur to bloodline Thurmond fathers or bloodline Thurmond mothers?  And here the results were staggering.  Have a look,” said Zachary, handing them the chart.

   

  “So this has never happened to a bloodline Thurmond Mother?” Samantha asked.

  “It has not happened in generations 3 through 4, and for Henry we don’t know the CMR status of his parents.  So now we can further break the data down and ask the question: If a child is born as a male to a bloodline Thurmond father what are his chances of dying before the age of 14?  Take a look,” said Zachary.

  “Omar what do you notice about this number?” Zachary asked.

  “Well, when we break it down this way the death rate gets a lot closer to 50%,” said Omar.

  “Right, and it could actually be even higher.  Three of the non-early Thurmond males deaths are Thurmond males who have still not reached age 14 – and therefore I didn’t really have to include them in this data.  If I did not this death rate would be exactly 50% -- a shocking number indeed.  So we can further break the data down by asking the question: If you are a male Thurmond born to a bloodline Thurmond father what are your chances of being CMR positive?  And, if you are a male Thurmond born to a bloodline Thurmond mother what are your chances of being CMR positive?  Let’s take a look,” said Zachary, handing them the chart.

  “Okay, so there unfortunately is not enough data here to come to a conclusion on the Thurmond female bloodline side.  For bloodline Thurmond females the number is 0 for 1.  There was one bloodline Thurmond mother who was CMR positive and she only had one son and he was CMR negative.  But for the bloodline Thurmond fathers they were 6 for 6.  Charles is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his son is CMR positive.  Alburt is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his two sons are CMR positive.  Donald is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his two sons are CMR positive.  Mick is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his son is CMR positive,” said Zachary.

  “Where are the CMR positive bloodline Thurmond fathers with CMR negative sons?” Samantha asked.

  “Precisely – that is precisely the question that we should be asking.  But before we do let’s ask one more question: I also wondered if one is born a CMR negative male Thurmond what are the chances of living past age 14 if you have a bloodline Thurmond father compared to having a bloodline Thurmond mother.  I didn’t even make a chart for this because the answer is so clear cut.  There is no instance of a CMR negative Thurmond son with a CMR positive bloodline father living past the age of 14.  However, this has occurred with a CMR positive Thurmond mother – which leads us back to my original thought.  The male Thurmond boys who died early were either mostly or all CMR negative – And that leads me to your question Samantha and to my conclusion: these CMR positive bloodline Thurmond Fathers did have children who were CMR negative, but they just aren’t living anymore,” said Zachary.     

  “Okay, so even if that is true then what is the reason?” Samantha asked.

  “I have no idea by looking at this data what the reason could
be.  But the data does not lie and it troubles me because Windsor told me that he wished to bestow his inheritance upon a male Thurmond.  I’m also assuming that he wants to bestow his inheritance upon a male Thurmond who is CMR negative. Therefore, his only choices will be Fayne, Park, Sawyer, Teddy, or Carl.  That means that because Herod’s Curse has effectively killed off many, and in all likelihood eight Thurmond males who were CMR negative, now he will only have five choices.  So when I present him with this data I would reopen the subject of including females in the discussion.  If he were to include females he would have many more options to choose from,” said Zachary.

  “So you’ve analyzed all this data and made all these charts and that is what you have extrapolated?  Include females in the discussion?” Samantha asked.

  “You don’t agree?” said Zachary.

  “No, I completely agree because predetermining that the money will only go to a male heir sounds ridiculously sexist and causes me to like Windsor even less – which I didn’t think was possible by the way.  But I also extrapolate something else from the data,” said Samantha.

  “And what is that?” Zachary asked, glancing at the charts, wondering what he had missed.            

  “Why the fuck did all these potentially CMR negative Thurmond males born to CMR positive Thurmond father’s die before the age of 14?” said Samantha. 

  “The data can’t answer that question,” said Zachary.

  “We don’t need the data to answer the question.  We’ve already got Windsor.  We know the psychopath that he is.  These CMR positive fathers are probably eating their CMR negative children for dinner,” said Samantha. 

  “Putting aside the absurdity of that statement, it wouldn’t even make sense because their children are white,” said Zachary.

  “Well, something is certainly happening and it can’t be good,” said Samantha.

  “I interviewed all the Thurmond fathers, and though they seemed to be a little odd a times, they also all seemed to be law-abiding citizens,” said Zachary.

  “Omar, what do you think?” said Samantha.

  “You guys are the experts but my gut opinion is that we are looking at cold data here and that we’d have to look closer at the facts, and unfortunately we aren’t getting paid to do that,” said Omar.

  “This is ridiculous.  I hate Windsor and I hate his fucking family and I haven’t even met his fucking family – but these charts paint a picture for me – a picture of some kind of evil.  I mean we talk about Herod’s curse as if it is an actual thing, like malaria,” said Samantha.

  “We could substitute in the term unknown variable for Herod’s Curse, but I don’t know I liked the ring it had – in any case we will be done with this job soon, it will be over, and we can all put the Thurmond family behind us,” said Zachary. 

  “Amen to that,” said Samantha. 

  Kicked again…

  “Oh, and one more thing: I actually made a chart looking at Personal Adjustments scores of CMR positive Thurmonds along gender lines.  I have no strong theory as to why the data came out this way but I thought it was interesting.  Here take a look,” said Zachary, handing them the chart.

   

   

                  “So the CMR positive males are much better adjusted with their place in society than the CMR females?” said Omar.

              “Yes, they actually scored higher than the control group – and I thought it was fascinating to find such a huge disparity in the personal adjustment scores across gender lines.  I’m thinking that perhaps males are better suited to bury this trait deep within their subconscious so that they do not have to think about it on a daily basis – while for females the urges are closer to the surface,” said Zachary.

              Samantha replied, “Or maybe the CMR positive Thurmond males have sublimated their desire to eat black flesh by eating their male children who they sensed to be weak, aka CMR negative – and therefore they are happy and content with their place in society, while the CMR positive Thurmond females have not done this and therefore they are not happy and content with their place in society – which brings me back to my original thought: these CMR positive Thurmond fathers are psychopaths just as Windsor is a psychopath.”   

              “Samantha, again, if you had come on the Thurmond testing circuit with me and met these Thurmond fathers you would not in the least have that ridiculous opinion.  Furthermore, I took interview data and found that CMR positive Thurmond males and females had similar sublimations for the CMR trait and that those sublimations mostly occurred through excessive dedication to their work environments, frequently work in the financial sphere.  But anyway I thought you guys might get a kick out of this – I think it speaks to that whole men are from Mars women are from Venus thing,” said Zachary, while beginning to gather his papers.

              “Oh I am familiar with that Zachary,” said Samantha.

              Kicked again…

   

              Boston, Commonwealth Street:  After meeting with Omar and Samantha, Zachary traveled to Windsor’s Boston mansion to present him with the preliminary results.  Alexus, Windsor’s African- American servant, met him at the door.  

  I still have misgivings about her working here. 

  But why?  Windsor’s self control has been paramount. 

  She led him to the second floor where Zachary found Windsor in a lavish bathroom, about 200 feet square, reposed in a lion-footed tub.  Four skylights and a large wall of windows faced east, the tub shrouded in sunlight.  Walls of white marble contrasted with darkly polished furniture and fixtures.  A piano recording played softly.  Zachary could see Windsor’s naked flesh from the chest up and noted the brawn of his shoulders and the heft of his arms. 

  As Zachary neared the tub, Windsor opened his eyes, suds splashing about, and he motioned for Zachary to hand him a drink just out of reach.  The drink was pink and topped with three orange slices. 

  “It isn’t often that I imbibe alcohol other than wine my good boy.  But from time to time I indulge.  It seemed to me that today, the day of the presentation of the preliminary data, should be a day of celebration.  For so long the chains of responsibility have kept me grounded, but they have also worn me down, like an old baseball glove, happy to remember its glorious catches but wearing thin at the palm.”

              “It’s good to see you Windsor.  I mean that.  The last time we spoke you didn’t want to hear any of the compliments I had for you --.”

              “Please, you have said enough, the mere hint of your admiration for my daily charitable work means more to me than I ever deserve --.”

              “Please, just let me say --.”

              “No, Zachary, you’ve said enough.  I understand how you feel.  I understand that you admire me because you can’t comprehend me, can’t comprehend my pain.  And you, a doctor, a PHD, a scholar, a professor, well it is only natural for you to admire the things you do not easily comprehend because you comprehend so much --.”

              “No, but it is more than that --.”

              “Zachary, Zachary, I mean it.  We do not have to pass words on this subject – the subject being the way I am in the world and your feelings about it.  Believe me, I caught that hint during the phone conversation and I appreciate that you respect my sacrifices,” said Windsor, gulping from his pink drink.

              “Okay, but at some point we are going to have to sit down together so I can tell you just what kind of a good old boy I think you are,” said Zachary, using Windsor’s descriptive term as a display of endearment.

              “Agreed but not today: this is the day when I will learn about my family and about matters that only you could tell me,” said Windsor.

/>               “Okay, do you want me to tell you here?  Or do you want me to give you a chance to dry off and we’ll go someplace else?” Zachary asked.

              “Maybe it is the booze or the celebratory atmosphere of the day, but I have carefully weighed the request you made before we last parted,” said Windsor, placing a serious stare upon Zachary.

              The CMR status of his mother?         

  “You must not remember or perhaps you are just being polite.  My mother Zachary – you wanted to know all that you could know because as you stated, you knew little and wished to know more,” said Windsor.

              “Yes, I remember.  It would be helpful for the final report, but I already have plenty of data,” said Zachary.

              “Do not confuse the matter with wishy-washy statements good old boy because the offer will probably never come again,” said Windsor, his eyes shut as they had been when describing his experience as a boy covered in black flesh.

              “Windsor if this is going to be one of those emotionally draining conversations you don’t need to feel obligated to do it for my sake because I was hoping to get some CMR testing done with you today and I know from the last time I was here –.”

              “Zachary, I’m not going to tell you anything.  To speculate on my mother’s position would contort my mind into such knotty positions that I fear it would never come untied, condemned to a fate tangled as a ball of yarn.  No, my old boy the offer is this: when my mother passed she passed here in this home and I ordered the servants to make no changes to her bedroom.  So today, while I towel off, I give you the chance to gently look about her things and to draw what conclusions you may based upon that brief and gentle looking,” said Windsor, his eyes opening.

              “Yes, okay, so I should --.”

              “Let us talk no more of this because even just the briefest talking brings the blackness to the fore of my head.  But one point I must quickly make and you must remember always old boy: never tell me what you discover – for I have never entered that room and so I never shall.  Her memory is the single memory that keeps my spirits alight,” said Windsor, his eyes closed again. 

              “Certainly Windsor, just tell me where to go,” said Zachary.

              “I have informed Alexus.  She waits for you now in the hall as perhaps my mother’s spirit waits for you in her room,” said Windsor.

              Zachary nodded.

              “See you in a few -- and should you see my mother’s silhouette resting on the bed or should you feel her soul wafting around, remind her that I have never forgotten her words or the sweetness of her smile,” said Windsor.

              The alcohol really is opening him up.

              “Okay Windsor, I’ll be back in a few…”

              As Alexus led Zachary to the room of Windsor’s mother, Virginia, she told Zachary that most of the servants tried to avoid its weekly cleaning assignment because they thought the room creepy. 

  Creepy as it may be, it offers me an opportunity to unearth some case history concerning Windsor’s mother. 

              Fittingly, the door creaked open.  The curtains were drawn and the room was dark and in its present lightless state Zachary could see only as much as the light from the hall provided: the outline of a canopied black bed near the door and the shadowy figure of a statue near the bed.

              “May I open the curtains?” Zachary asked.

              “Sorry, nothing can be changed.  Those curtains have been closed since the day of Virginia’s death.  But Windsor gave me a flashlight in case you want to use it,” said Alexus, handing Windsor a red flashlight.  Zachary thanked her and began shining the light around the room, a room which appeared mostly bare, though like all other rooms that Zachary had observed in the house, it was large, perhaps forty feet long and forty feet wide.  The walls beside the bed contained two, practically life size, paintings of angels. 

              “Do you know the artist?” Zachary asked, impressed by the style.

              “Virginia made these paintings,” said Alexus.

              “She was an artist?” Zachary asked.

              “I don’t know.  I’ve just noticed her name down there in the corner,” said Alexus.

              Creating angel paintings is a soothing endeavor and one that supported Zachary’s original hypothesis: that Virginia was CMR negative.  A hypothesis originally made because Windsor’s father, Norman, was a bloodline Thurmond and from descriptions that Zachary had already received from Windsor, Norman appeared CMR positive.  Furthermore, as of yet Zachary had not discovered even a singleCMR positive non-bloodline Thurmond, in either the control group or otherwise.  However, any Virginia narrative details learned, such as her proclivity for painting, could be included in the final report’s case history section and so he continued to poke around the room.  

  Dresses and shoes reminiscent of old Hollywood movies filled the closet, probably made by designers who were the toast of the town in their day but who had long since been buried deep underground.  Holding the flashlight between his knees, he spread the dresses apart to see if anything was hidden by the closet’s wall.

              “Just be careful, work isn’t so easy to find these days and I don’t want to get fired,” said Alexus.

              Although if you knew what I knew you just might quit.

              “I understand and I will be careful.  Don’t worry,” said Zachary, dropping to the floor and shining the flashlight under the bed – nothing.  Standing back up he dusted off, retrieved the flashlight from the floor, and headed towards a black armoire.  Opening the armoire he found more clothes of a bygone era and searched for anything hidden between, underneath, or to the sides of the clothes – nothing. 

  He shut the armoire and moved back towards the bed – the place where Virginia had probably spent her last moments and whispered her final words to Windsor “Do not look back.”  To the right of the bed was a statue of a grotesque figure engaged in a gloating dance, its expression an eerie smile as if celebrating some mischievous occurrence.  Bronzed, it loomed over the bed like a shadow of increasing darkness.  Gently placing his hand on the statue, Zachary observed that it easily wobbled and with an accidental tilt he caught the glimpse of a small book hidden beneath its hollow base.  His first instinct was to snatch the book and flip through its pages with the time that remained but realized that might not be time enough. 

  Not for the contents of a hidden book anyway. 

  He tilted the statute back, pretending to examine the details of its face – and in the pretending came face to face with its mocking eyes and beastly horns – and backed away, forming a plan to later steal the book. 

  What will Windsor care?  He never comes in here anyway.  And some other time I can return it.

              “In your cleaning have you ever found anything interesting in here?” Zachary asked, hoping that she would not mention the book beneath the statue.

              “Mr. Dunbar, I bring in a feather duster, dust what I can see, and leave with my job intact – as do the other servants in Windsor’s employ,” said Alexus.     

              For the next 15 minutes Zachary continued to search the room but finding nothing further of interest he told Alexus that he was ready to leave.  After they had left the room and were half way down the hall, Zachary feigned panic as best he could and stated that his keys must have fallen out of his pocket when he dropped to the floor. 

  “You wait here and I’ll be right back,” he said, jogging down the hall.
/>               “Windsor wouldn’t like that.  I’ll come in with you,” she said, though lagging behind.

              Immediately upon entering the room Zachary procured the book, fortuitously small enough to be stuffed inside his pocket. 

  As soon as Alexus entered Zachary exclaimed, “I just remembered that I left them in my ignition.” 

  Alexus commented that she hadn’t thought she’d heard the sound of keys falling upon the floor and they went in search of Windsor.

  A few minutes later they found Windsor sitting in the kitchen.  He wore a yellow bathrobe and held another fruity beverage.  As Zachary entered, Windsor offered him crackers and cheese, saying, “This would go better with wine, but I can’t seem to put the hard alcohol down.” 

  “How many drinks have you had?  I’m thinking about the CMR testing,” said Zachary.  Yet another reason to postpone his test…      

  “This is only my third good old boy, and though I am feeling quite lofty, my senses are clear,” said Windsor.

  “Would you mind finishing that drink after we complete the testing?” Zachary asked.

  “Agreed,” said Windsor, handing his drink to Zachary, “But first allow me to change into clothing suitable for a test that will judge the contents of my mind.”

  “It really doesn’t matter.  You will test the same in a bathrobe as you will in a business suit,” said Zachary.

  “As a man in an electric chair will die just as easily in shorts as slacks, though any man making that final journey would prefer the slacks I am sure,” said Windsor with a wink.

  “Windsor this is not your final journey.  We are just getting a number for the magnitude of your CMR.  But I understand if you want to change your outfit,” said Zachary.

  “The clothes have already been placed at the foot of my bed and so the changing will take but a moment.  If you would like to prepare your testing materials here then we can commence my assessment shortly,” said Windsor. 

  As Zachary waited for Windsor to return, he ate all the crackers from the platter.

  Although I suppose with 3.5 billion he can afford another box. 

  Then thinking that the cheese looked lonely he ate all that too. 

  I have a PHD and yet I fail to mix my cheese and crackers.  Sometimes I think my highly developed ability to compartmentalize can be a detriment. 

   

              The walls of Windsor’s bedroom were covered with plaques complimenting his charitable achievements.  In keeping with the protocol of many charitable donors, Windsor made the bulk of his donations anonymously.  Yet the various recipient organizations often sent his lawyers plaques of thanks which were eventually delivered to Windsor.  He wondered if, after he died, people would examine this display of accommodation upon his walls and think him vain. 

  But that isn’t it at all. They remind me of who it is I need to be. 

  He knew that before he died he could take them down and bury them in storage. 

  But what would be the point? 

  He removed his yellow bathrobe and placed it in his closet, as naked to the world as the moment his umbilical cord had been clipped. 

  Everything is coming full circle and soon I will be with you again, mother. 

  Above his suit, which he had earlier laid at the foot of his bed, he had tied a rope to the solid beam which passed just above the top of his canopied bed, a quirk of his old mansion – and yet a beam high enough for a rope with a noose to hold his figure suspended from the ground.  The noose had been tied with the precision of a man who had tied a noose many times, and though after each previous tying he had decided against his hanging, he knew that today he would finally slip his neck into the noose, kick away his chair, and sleep peacefully for the first time since his memories had begun.  To the right of his suit -- his funereal suit --was the will his lawyers had drawn up, and as instructed the single name to whom his inheritance would be bestowed had been left blank.  After Zachary presented the preliminary data and Windsor had thoughtfully analyzed that data, the heir’s name would be penned into the will and Windsor’s obligations to the world would have been completed.  He felt as if he was entering a season for which there was no name.      

  Having completed the ceremony of his final dressing, he glanced once more at his plaques, satisfied that he had lived a good life and had achieved many goals beneficial to humankind -- though his singular desire to consume black flesh occupied a space in his mind even at that moment and he thought it unfortunate that man was capable of holding simultaneous and contradictory thoughts.

  And soon I will discover if others in my family must also grapple with my particular strain of cursedness.

   He left his room and met Zachary in the kitchen where over the next half hour he  completed his CMR testing.

  “Well, how did it pan out?” Windsor asked after Zachary had printed the ten sheets containing Windsor’s data sets.

  “Actually Windsor it takes me a bit of time to fully analyze the results.  However, my CMR testing becomes more accurate by combining the scores, after multiple administrations, of alternate versions.  I convinced some of your family members to take the alternate versions, though I was not only interested in improving the accuracy of their scores but also in deriving the test’s inter-test reliability, which I found to be quite high by the way.  And in your case I would like to do the same and administer the alternate versions.  Would you mind engaging in some further testing?” Zachary asked. 

  “Old boy I don’t have anywhere else to go,” said Windsor – except underground – and he spent nearly two hours completing not only five alternate versions of the standard CMR test but also other measures.  Meanwhile, Zachary began analyzing Windsor’s results from the first test.  After Windsor had finished the final alternate version, Zachary explained that this was the point when he would normally engage with interview procedures, “But in your case we have already settled that that is not a good idea.  So I will look over these results and get back to you with what I find.  But now it is finally time to turn our attention to the presentation of the preliminary results.”

  Placing his hands upon his heart, Windsor drew a deep breath.

  “Windsor are you okay?” Zachary asked, moving closer.

  For a few moments Windsor said nothing, staring as blankly as if the world did not exist.  Then, his face pale and his voice quivering, he slowly stated, “This day has been a long time coming like a letter carrier seen from afar down a long winding path.  And yet seeing that letter carrier there at the end of the path I feel an urge not to meet him welcomingly from the sidewalk, but to close my doors, shutter my windows, and retire to a dark room where little sound can be heard.”

    “Windsor, I’ve gotten to know you a bit and I know you like to delay these types of events.  But there is no reason for you to fear my presentation,” said Zachary.

  “You may be right old boy, but I do wonder if I should have invited my four therapists here in case things should go awry, in case the past is awoken, in case I break down the way a potted flower can be broken down through excessive watering, good intentioned though that watering may be,” said Windsor.   

  “Don’t worry good old boy, I won’t over-water you, I promise,” said Zachary with a smile. 

   “I’ve gotten to know you a bit too old boy and I’ve gotten to know that your promises hold true.  Therefore, continue, Zachary and tell me things which, though difficult perhaps to hear, are of the most vital and pressing importance,” said Windsor, attempting to relax his heightened senses. 

  For the next two hours Zachary presented the Thurmond CMR preliminary data, and Windsor, throughout the presentation asked no questions, maintaining such total concentration on the hypothesis’s unfolding that he found it necessary to take 3 five-minute breaks to calm the pounding of his temples.  However, the presentation having finished, Windsor made a rapid decision. 
That it did not matter which of the five CMR negative male Thurmonds he bestowed his inheritance upon, because they were all equally well-suited, and that he would pick one of these names at random, perhaps only moments before he completed his final act with the rope. 

  The important thing is that my affairs will have been settled and they will have been settled in a satisfactory manner.

  “Windsor, there is one more things that I wanted to talk to you about?” said Zachary.

  Windsor nodded.

  “I just wanted to suggest, and I don’t want you to get angry, but I wanted to suggest that perhaps you should reconsider your decision to not allow any Thurmond females into the discussion,” said Zachary.

  “Old boy, I apologize if I ever got snippy with you over the course of your testing endeavors.  However, I must also apologize for the fact that your suggestion is not a possibility and that this is because of reasons that I cannot disclose. Therefore let us speak of it no more,” said Windsor.      

  “Well then allow me to apologize for pressing the matter, but it is just that after all the early male Thurmond deaths that occurred, you would have many more options if you were to take the female Thurmonds into consideration,” said Zachary.

  “What early deaths?” Windsor asked.

  “The ones listed on the family tree,” said Zachary.

  “I have never looked upon it,” said Windsor, gruffly.

  “Never?” Zachary asked.

  “In looking upon that document I might be tempted to look back, so I have left it alone,” said Windsor.

  “Well, other than your brother Henry who died quite young, each of your other brothers had 2 male children die between the ages of 11 and 13.  Also in the next generation there was a child who died at that age too.  Your family calls it Herod’s Curse,” said Zachary.

  “Herod’s Curse?  Why?”  Windsor asked.

  As Zachary proceeded to explain the term’s history, Windsor rose from the table, pacing about.  Lost in thought, Windsor wandered from room to room with Zachary silently following and eventually they landed in a study where Windsor continued to contemplate the rundown he had received.  Suddenly, as if possessed by inspiration, Windsor requested that Zachary detail his hypothesis for the CMRnegative status of the deceased children.  Zachary laid out his hypothesis and the reasoning to support it.  After he had finished his presentation, Windsor began pacing again, this time slower.

  “What is it?” Zachary asked.

  “I am looking back,” said Windsor, intently. 

  “Is that a good idea?” Zachary asked.

  “No,” said Windsor, still pacing.

  “Then don’t do it,” said Zachary.

  “Old boy, revelation is a one way street, though I have the unsettling feeling that in driving down this one way street I’ll be driving in the wrong direction.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Zachary.

  “Neither do I and that’s the problem because I must find out and immediately,” said Windsor, distraught that once again his hanging plans had been undone.  He knew that the only way back to his rope’s promised soothing sleep would be to fully complete his earthly affairs -- affairs which had suddenly become upended and could only be resettled though a confrontation with his brothers.

  Yet that assumes I am mistaken and that they will set me straight – If I am correct then other measures will need to be taken, measures that would best be completed through the use of a gun. 

  However, taking a gun on a flight would be a bureaucratic nightmare.  Therefore, he decided to hire a limousine to shuttle him to D.C.

  “What is it?  You look like you are thinking about something important,” Zachary said.

  “It is nothing old boy, but you did a good job and I’ll instruct my lawyers to make sure you are paid in full, and today,” said Windsor.

  “Thank you, but I’m worried that something is not right,” said Zachary.

  Windsor assured him that the matter was of minimal seriousness and he managed to change the subject.  For the next ten minutes they spoke of Zachary’s adventures while on the testing circuit, but all the while Windsor considered the day’s unexpected turn.  From what he remembered of his first memory he had been covered in a black man’s flesh from head to toe while under the doting supervision of a hoard of onlookers, one of whom had been his father.  This event had neither a before nor an after and existed in his mind merely as a snapshot, and though when his brother Henry died from pneumonia he and his mother had already separated from the family, he overheard her speaking about the boy’s death and later wondered if pneumonia had actually been the case or if he too had undergone a covering with black flesh and that perhaps something had gone wrong and that during that covering he had contracted a sickness and had died as a cause of it; in any case, the fact that his brother’s children had died at a young age too, coincidental as it may have been, at least suggested a possible nefarious cause, and though Windsor knew not what this cause might be, the combined reasoning of his earliest memory and Zachary’s judgment concerning Donald and Charles’s CMR status led him to believe that before parting this world the necessity had arisen to ascertain the nature of his family’s intentions.

  After a few minutes of contemplation, he decided that if those intentions proved proper, all would be well, and he could get along with his business with the rope.  Conversely if he discovered his family to be a barbarous people the gun would need to be brandished.

  Too long I have looked away from what I knew might be lurking in my bloodlines bones! 

              When Zachary finished his story Windsor said, “Today has been a magnificently important day in my life and I applaud again the hard work you have completed.  But this day has also wearied my mind and I feel that rest would now suit me well.”

              “Sure, sure, I’ll call you when I have analyzed all your results and I’ll let you know how they compare.  Also, when the final report is completed I can give you a presentation,” said Zachary, shaking Windsor’s hand.

              “No, No, the preliminary data has been sufficiently eye-opening.  Mailing, or hand delivering if you wish, the final report will suffice.  Save your next presentation for your honorable scientific peers.  Good bye Zachary, you are a good man and I wish you all the best and we shall have to have dinner together soon,” said Windsor, though knowing this untrue because his death would occur just as soon as he settled his affairs.

  Which I hope to be very soon indeed… 

              “Yes, I would like that very much.  As you are tired I will not take this opportunity to try to slip in a compliment before I leave, I promise, because I know that would pain you very much old boy,” said Zachary, laughing.

              “Well, thank you, you understand my peculiarities completely,” said Windsor.

              “Hey, by the way, whatever happened with John the photographer?” Zachary asked.

  Windsor fidgeted upright, saying, “I thought he met you out on the last couple of testing sites?  He didn’t meet you?”

              “No,” said Zachary.

              “He hasn’t called me either.  I better call his company.  After everything I have learned today I hope all is well,” said Windsor, though more to himself and almost forgetting that Zachary was still present.

              “He doesn’t have a company.  He works for himself,” said Zachary.               

              As Windsor searched for John’s phone number in his wallet, he realized his mistake. “Sorry, Zachary, I just let it slip and so I might as well let you know.  John’s position as a photographer was a bit of a subterfuge.  That old boy works for a private investigation company.  I didn’t let you know because I know that you are a man of high principles and I didn’t think that you would think it right to be toting around a snooper.” <
br />
              “You’re serious?” Zachary asked.

              Windsor nodded.

  Zachary was momentarily silent. 

  “I can’t believe you did that!  To use me as a shill so that covert activities could be conducted is completely unacceptable!  Even though I participated unknowingly, that is an ethical breach on my part.”

              “Good old boy you weren’t a shill, you were the whole shebang. Bruce, that is his real name, was merely a sideshow--.”   

  “There is no excuse…”

              Suddenly Windsor regretted his admission that the photographer was a PI and decided that a more thorough explanation might sooth Zachary’s wounded pride.  “It wasn’t right I know.  But I was worried about the type of people that my family may have become – namely that they may have become very adept at hiding their true nature from the world, even from a competent tester such as you – and I thought a private investigator might shine a light upon their personal lives.  The plan was two pronged, one, to test them with your Trait Theory evaluations, and two, to sample their daily doings through the use of a PI.  I thought this plan would best enable me to make an informed decision about the inheritance.  That I could not divulge the entirety of the plan to you, a scientist and man whom I much admire, was eventually the cause, I believe, of significant gastric difficulties.  If you feel that financial compensation is required --.”

              Zachary interrupted, “It might be necessary.  Dunbar and Associates could be sued, and honestly, Windsor, at this point we are not much better than a break even organization so any lawsuit would likely put us under.”

              “It goes without saying that the forces of my prestigious legal representation would be made available to you.  But I’m not trying to bribe you off here.  I’m trying to make the best of what is admittedly a rotten situation,” said Windsor.

              Zachary sighed.

              “If I could go back in time I would take it back.  But some days I feel that I have had a successful day merely when I succeed in my objective not to consume black flesh --.”

              “Playing the-I-have-CMR card doesn’t work on me Windsor.  You have crossed a boundary in our relationship.”  Zachary sat down on a bench, taking the pose of a despondent version of Rodin’s The Thinker, a few moments later saying, “Windsor, I apologize for my emotional outburst --.”

              “Old boy you don’t have to apologize to me --.”

              “No it was unprofessional and should not have occurred.  However, you have made me aware of a fact which must be dealt with immediately --.”

              “Yes, of course, whatever I can do!” said Windsor, happy that the problem seemed to be coming to a resolution.  

              “Okay, I think we need to call any of your relatives who came in contact with – what is his real name?” Zachary asked.

              “Bruce, his name is Bruce Johnson,” said Windsor, glancing down at the PI card to make sure he had the last name correct.

              “Very well, I’m thinking it would be best if we get the reports first, call the Bruce-contacted-Thurmonds, inform them of the situation, and fax them the reports followed by photographic evidence of the shredding.  From there the ball will be in their court.”

              “I’ll call Bruce right now,” said Windsor, who then called Bruce from his cell.  However, the call went unanswered.  Windsor called Bruce’s PI company, Cloaked Solution Inc, reaching a secretary and asked to speak with a manager.  The secretary transferred his call to executive manager Bill Lawless and Windsor asked Bill if there were methods for reaching Bruce besides his cell.

              “You said your name is Windsor Thurmond?” Bill asked.

              “That is correct,” said Windsor.

              Bill posed a series of previously agreed upon queries to ascertain Windsor’s identity, and satisfied, said, “We were going to contact you soon.  But we had to wait until all of Bruce’s family had been contacted.  Bruce is not going to be able to complete the job for you.  I’m sorry to inform you that Bruce has died.”

              “Died?” Windsor said, while Zachary moved closer and whispered for Windsor to place the call on speaker.

              “Did you know him other than from the present case?” Bill asked.

              “No, I just met him the one time in relation to my case.  That’s awful, how did it happen?  Was it during some task that he was conducting for me?” Windsor asked, growing alarmed. 

              “No, his death occurred during his personal time.  He left a suicide note stating that he planned jumping off a bridge.  Apparently he was swept out to sea, though the authorities are still searching for his body.  An unbelievably tragic occurrence.  I don’t know if he told you but he has -- well had -- a wife and kids.  I’ve known Bruce 30 years – grade A detective,” said Bill.

              “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Windsor.

              “Thank you Windsor.  Today at Cloaked Solutions it has been a day of mourning for the entire staff.  But if you need us to send someone else to complete the job --.”

              “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary.  Bruce did just fine, and you can tell his wife that too, that he completed his final job thoroughly and with great competence,” said Windsor.

              “Yes, I will inform her just that,” said Bill.

              “One last thing, Bill, and I hope you don’t think this unsympathetic as I am asking you during this time of mourning, but if Bruce finished any paper work, if you could immediately fax that paper work here to this office that would be much appreciated,” said Windsor.

              “Yes, I remember that that case was proving to be a difficult one and that there were roadblocks to him even getting started.  If I find anything of course I will pass it on to you right away,” said Bill.  A few moments later the conversation ended. 

              This was an unexpected turn of events and Windsor tried to recall Bruce’s comments the last time he had phoned.  “He said that his company had figured out a way for him to use phony background check documentation.  I didn’t suspect from his tone that he was distraught.  But I only knew him on a professional level.  Then again, as I know from personal experience, the public and private spheres of life can sometimes be two completely separate universes.”

              Zachary replied, “He didn’t seem at all down during the two days that I worked with him either.  However, he wasn’t exactly being honest with me, pretending to be a photographer, so who knows what else he was hiding, on a personal level that is.  I must say as tragic as this is, I’m not sure that it changes matters.  The only thing it changes is that we do not know if he got started or not.  If Bill sends a fax where will it arrive?”

              “Here in this room.  This is where I keep my office supplies,” said Windsor.

  “But it is possible that no fax will arrive because perhaps Bruce did not even start his investigation.  In that case I wonder if we even need to tell your family at all.  At that point there would have been no ethical breach because the job was not started.”

  “That would be quite fortuitous,” said Windsor.

  Zachary nodded.  “Now that I think about it with a clearer mind, the only person that I would have to tell about Bruce would be your brother Charles, because I don’t think Bruce came into contact with any other Thurmonds.  And if it came to just telling your brother Charles, I think that perhaps I would be all right.  Your brother Charles and I seemed to get along swimmingly.”

  “Is tha
t so?  Even though he is afflicted like me, he seemed like one of the good ones?” Windsor asked.

  Perhaps I am just being paranoid.  Perhaps my family turned out just fine after all.

  “The fact of the matter, Windsor, is that Bruce and Charles butted heads a little bit during their brief meeting.  And I think Charles would believe me if I told him that Bruce lied to me about his true profession,” said Zachary.

  “Good,” said Windsor. 

  Perhaps it isn’t necessary to contact my family.  Perhaps I can get back to my rope.  Zachary is a discerning fellow and he sensed nothing untoward about my family.  I’m being paranoid because I am thinking of my own peculiar madness and projecting it onto to others, something that my team of four therapists has repeatedly warned me not to do.  Besides Zachary told me in his preliminary presentation that my relatives CMR was repressed and why shouldn’t I believe him?  He is a scientist of the highest regard and I am merely a dabbler.  No, if the fax does not come I will proceed with the rope, and if the fax does come I will write Charles a letter and then I will proceed with the rope.

  “Windsor, the only thing to do now is to wait for the fax and see how it plays out.  If the fax does not arrive tomorrow then call Bill and ask him if any reports were started,” said Zachary.

  “I will do just that,” said Windsor, who then wished to dispel any trace of lingering doubt about the intentions of his family, adding, “And what exactly was the nature of the disagreement that occurred between Charles and Bruce?”

  “Something ridiculous, it was that Bruce had not completed his background check.  But of course as we now know he could not complete it because he had assumed a pseudonym for himself,” said Zachary.

  “That must have been a strange argument,” said Windsor.

  “Well, I think what happened was that Bruce was attempting to get away with not completing the background check by claiming that in his capacity as a professional photographer, he had never before had to complete a check.  However, Charles called his bluff and he was rather biting in his remarks.  But the thing that set them both off was when the race issue got involved,” said Zachary.

  “Race issue?  How so?” Windsor asked.

  “Well, when Charles saw the expression on Bruce’s face I think he believed that Bruce thought he was pushing the background check matter so thoroughly because of Bruce’s race, so Charles, anticipating what Bruce might say, rather bluntly told Bruce that it wasn’t on account of his race at all, and that it was merely a procedural matter.  But I think that it was at this point that feelings on both sides were hurt,” said Zachary.

  “That’s odd.  It is quite a routine occurrence for a Caucasian to complete a background check.  So I don’t see why the feelings should have been hurt on either side,” said Windsor.

  Zachary paused and Windsor observed that some of the color had faded from his face.

  “What is it?” Windsor asked.

  “I thought you knew, and I almost told you more than once – but you told me that your ability to discern blackness had been a skill that you had acquired,” said Zachary.

  “You’re not saying what I think you are saying old boy?” said Windsor, a surge of adrenaline rush through his body.

  “Yes, I’m sorry I thought you knew.  Bruce was an African American.  I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to insult you,” said Zachary.

  “Insult me!  I’m only human.  I may have acquired the skill to perceive blackness as blackness, but as I previously expressed it is an effortful procedure and one that may not always be completely accurate.  Knowing what I have described to you about CMR, you thought it appropriate to take along an African American as an assistant?” Windsor asked, instantly realizing that this changed everything.  Now it was quite possible to wonder if Bruce had not committed suicide but had actually been murdered.  And yet if he had been murdered it could have been for one of two reasons (a) for discovering something that he should not have discovered in his capacity as a PI or (b) for merely being an African American PI attempting to poke around in the affairs of a family replete with CMR.  And now because of the addition of these possibilities the rope would have to be untied and Charles would need to be confronted.

  Zachary may be a competent scientist but sometimes, as I manage to overlook the black race, he manages to overlook the obvious.

  “Yes, but it shouldn’t matter.  As I have already told you their CMR has been successfully repressed.  I could have taken along ten African Americans and it would have had the same effect,” said Zachary.

  “That is mere speculation!” 

  “What is it that has you so worried?  You think that your relatives’ CMR is active?  You think that someone in your family may have eaten the PI?” Zachary asked with a chuckle.     

  “I don’t know old boy, but that’s just it: I don’t know.  Sometimes coincidences are too coincidental.”

  “Windsor, as I have expressed to my colleagues, there is absolutely no chance that your relatives’ CMR is active.  And the reasoning for this will be even easier for you to understand than it was for them.  CMR is an obsession that overtakes your life, isn’t it?  Do you think you could work in a demanding profession, such as finance, with such an obsession hounding you?  Yet the members of your family are highly successful members of society.  Mostly they have learned to sublimate their CMR desires through an increased work load…”

  As Windsor continued to politely listen to Zachary’s explanation, an explanation which lasted for over ten minutes, he mentally prepared himself for his confrontation with Charles. 

  The time for listening to academics has ended.  It is time to listen to myself. 

  After Zachary had completed his explanation he asked Windsor if he had understood the crux of his main points.

  “Yes, old boy, I see that I was mistaken.  And so I think that I will be able to take that nap after all,” Windsor lied, sensing that at this point in time Zachary was incapable of separating himself from the odd logic of his data and looking instead to the simple logic of common sense.

  “Good, I’m glad that you can see that.  So, again, before I leave, let me state one more time that if that fax arrives to give me a jingle and that if it does not give Bill a call tomorrow,” said Zachary.

  “Will do old boy…”         

                  

                

              Arlington, MA:  As soon as Zachary arrived at home he plopped himself on his couch and began examining the hidden book.  He quickly realized that it was Virginia’s private diary.  Remembering that he had promised Jasmine that they would meet for drinks, he sent her a text:

                  Jasmine, I’m sorry.  I’m going to have to cancel those drinks.  Something has come up.  Yes, it has to do with my work.  Let’s meet up tomorrow if possible.  Don’t bother texting back because I am shutting my phone off.  But I’ll text you tomorrow.  Again, I am sorry.  Zachary.

   

  For the next four hours Zachary thoroughly examined the diary’s contents and made a number of discoveries.  The first discovery was the peculiar nature of the diary’s construction: a typical diary consists of intense periods of consistent daily recordings and also lackadaisical sporadic recordings, but Virginia’s diary was atypical in both its formation and style.  She began writing it when she was ten and, her last entry composed one month before her death, it spanned a total of 35 years with, astoundingly, no gaps.  The diary was almost completely devoid of the soul searching and self reflection that is typical diary fodder.  For example, she did not record her first kiss, first love, or emotions after giving birth to any of her children.  She did, however, record the number and color of shoes acquired during a month long trip to Paris in 1927.  Entries were recorded once every three months, and other than a grouping of entries in 1929, they were concise and almost scientific in nature, and because
the author never allowed herself a diarists usual flights of fancy, the vast majority of entries were only one paragraph long.  Therefore, although the diary spanned 35 years its meager entries, 140 in total, had been fit into a book small enough to be carried in a pant pocket.  However, the guarded nature of 133 of the entries, combined with the naked honesty of the remaining 7, painted the picture of a conflicted soul who had much to hide from the world – and as would become apparent to Zachary by the time he had finished reading its contents: a soul afflicted with perhaps a CMR of the strongest magnitude.  This meant that, potentially, both of Windsor’s parents had been CMR positive.  However, obviously neither Norman nor Virginia, as deceased souls, could be conjured from the beyond and given objective CMRassessments.  Therefore, their identification as CMR positive had been made informally by analyzing the narrative details of their lives.  These informal narrative identifications lacked the rigorous backing of an objective CMR measure and were unfortunately more speculative than indicatory in nature.  However, the informal identifications were still somewhat scientifically significant.  For example, Virginia’sCMR identification was the first time that a non-bloodline Thurmond had been identified as (possibly) being CMR positive.  Furthermore, it also indicated that Windsor’s maternal line also had (if the CMRidentification was accurate) family members afflicted with CMR.  But besides the potentially far reaching and important scientific revelations the dairy indicated, it also spoke to the tragic nature of Windsor’s early development by detailing a series of ghastly events that he long since relegated to his mind’s sequestered borders -- events described with gratuitous, and even pleasurable, detail in Virginia’s 7 revelatory entries, which dated from March 1929 to December 1930:

   

  March – May, 1929: Two months ago as I watched Henry play outside I wondered the flavor of his flesh.  Later he cut his knee, and I cleaned the cut by sucking on his wound.  His blood tasted sweeter than I had imagined.  My hands shook and I went back inside, placed a wet towel on my forehead, and took a long nap. 

   

  June – August, 1929: Henry is dead.  At his funereal, his small body in his small suit, I no longer had any desire to eat his flesh.  These desires had begun to subside in May.  Lately I’ve had more interest in my housekeepers.  Their flesh is mature and they are not of my blood.  Furthermore, their futures are dim and the world would not weep at their disappearance.  Of my five housekeepers, I desire Joan most.  I know it outlandish, but I wish to eat her eyes and to suck the blue color from them.

   

  September – November, 1929: Norman has recently ended an affair with Joan.  This affair occurred completely unsuspected by me, though it was my harsh treatment of Joan’s duties which brought about her unexpected admission.  The strange creature believed that if she admitted her foul act then I would treat her more cordially when she conducted her household duties.  She told me she feared for her position and thought this affair was needed in order to keep it.  With a calm face I told her all was well.  Then I walked with her to the top of our grand staircase and there I shoved her down with the full force of my arms.  She tumbled and landed at the bottom with a thud.  When I reached stair’s bottom I heard her groan and thereupon I stomped her face with my foot.  She would have died within moments but another housekeeper happened upon the event and pulled me away.  My bloodlust having passed, we both carried her to bed and nursed her as well as we could. 

  Norman apologized for the affair.  I forgave him. Joan did not remember how she had fallen down the stairs or how her face had become so bruised.   

  During the weeks when Joan convalesced, I began taking evening strolls about town.  During these walks I was looking for something, though I knew not what.  On the eighth such walk, we entered the town’s Negro quarters for the first time.  What a dismal place!  My servants claimed their noses could not handle the stench.  I told them then to pinch their noses because I wished to explore.  I entered an apothecaries shop and I asked to speak to the owner.  Thereupon, I told the owner I wished to hire a black servant for my mansion and he directed me to the place where I could make such inquiries. 

  Next week a black servant, Edith, appeared at our door and as soon as she crossed into my household I wanted nothing more than to take her into the barn, place her beside the blacksmith’s anvil and smash her head upon it.  Yet, I steadied my impulse, welcomed her into my home and served her hot tea and biscuits.

  I considered her form and the manner of her dress, finding both sorely wanting, and yet something more than my wish to smash her head upon the anvil drew me to this hapless creature, something deeper, something ineffable.  The sight of her glimmering black skin was like tasting fine wine for the first time. 

  Although I know it right for a wife to be submissive and weak, I wished to flip the table, trap her beneath, and squash her face.  We parted for the remainder of the day and I thought of nothing save her. 

  She returned in the morning.  I dressed her in white linen and the contrast with her black skin was such a gratifying sight that I gave her three such outfits and demanded that she keep them in a condition of perpetual cleanliness.  At this moment, Norman entered, a look of shock falling over him. 

  Later he admonished my choice of servant, saying I was impetuous, and that Edith had no references of merit.  Although perturbed, he allowed me to keep Edith on two conditions.  The first was that Edith could never sleep at our mansion.  The second was that Edith must always be within my sight.  The reasons for these conditions were not abundantly clear.  Yet I wholeheartedly agreed to them, eager as I was to have Edith as my object of contemplation.                               

   

  December 1929-February 1930:  Edith almost never slips from my sight and when she does I reprimand her harshly.  On two different occasions I took her into the garage and sat her beside the anvil.  On the second such occasion Edith became nervous and asked to leave the garage.  I slapped her in the face and then told her that the slap had been for her misbehavior.  She looked to the ground and did not protest.  At that moment I could easily envision smashing her head and Edith asked why my body shook so violently.  I told her that it was because I cared for her so deeply and that my body was unhappy that I had needed to slap her so.  She apologized and my body shook with even more violence.  I found it necessary to leave the garage.

   

              June – August, 1930:  I have demanded divorced.  Norman thinks this is because of his affair with Joan and his affair with the now late Edith.  The real reason that I have demanded this divorce is because I now fully understand the desires of my soul, and those desires are not desires fitting for a wife to have.  I asked for Windsor in the divorce and Norman has agreed. 

  Edith and Norman had begun an affair.  How a respectable white man could choose to sleep with a Negro I will never understand.  Yet this is not the important issue.  The important issue is that I failed in my duty to keep Edith within my sights at all times, and one day when I was without her presence and I was searching for it I saw the sight that I will now describe. 

  In the billiards room Edith’s death body lay on the ground.  My boy Windsor, not yet five, knelt over her body.  In his hand he held a sharp knife, and having cut open her stomach, had been, before I arrived, eating her stomachs insides.  Upon seeing me he fled from the room the knife still in his hand.  I could have chased him and comforted him.  Yet I did not.  Instead, I approached Edith’s bloody body. 

  As I approached the body I saw that Edith has been carrying and that her body held the contents of a nearly fully developed baby.  By some trickery of her apron, I had never noticed her belly’s bulge.  It became clear that Windsor had been feasting upon the baby, as half its tiny hand was missing.  This scene should have horrified me but instead I felt a wave of elation and I crept into the position which Windsor had occupied moments b
efore and with a hunger that I did not know existed feasted upon the baby.

  This continued for nearly twenty minutes, at which point my jaw sore and my belly full, I ran into the bathroom and cleaned my bloodied face.  Finding Windsor, I took him to Norman.  I told him what I had seen, though told him nothing of my actions. 

  Norman guessed that Windsor and Edith had been playing and that Windsor had accidently stabbed her and then had become curious about the contents of her belly.  I think otherwise.  I think Windsor is like me, though I did not tell Norman my thoughts. 

  The deaths of poor Negros are not investigated, and so no trouble with the law occurred.  When I asked Norman about the baby, he admitted that the baby was his and asked for my forgiveness.  Later I pretended not to give it.  A woman with a proper soul would make him a better wife.             

             

              September – December, 1930: Two big events have occurred (1) I am now living on my own with Windsor and (2) the doctor has cured Windsor’s sickness.  Norman found a doctor who was able to cure Windsor’s peculiar affliction. 

  The affliction was this: after Windsor ate the Negro fetus whenever he came within ten paces of a Negro he began screaming and on more than one occasion vomited the complete contents of his stomach.  The doctor explained to me that Windsor suffered from a condition where he found the existence of Negros to be so loathsome that to merely be in their presence brought him into a frenzied state of madness. 

  The doctor explained that the cause was unknown, but that Windsor was not the first to be afflicted.  The doctor’s cure was a heavy regimen of brainwashing so as to convince Windsor’s malleable mind that the world consisted entirely of whites.  This meant that after the brainwashing had concluded that Windsor would believe Negros to be whites.  Norman assisted the doctor in the brainwashing sessions, sessions which I found too painful to observe, consisting of a combination of hypnosis, recitation, and electrocution.  It seems that Windsor’s affliction is stronger than my own.  I have decided that for the good of Windsor that I must cure myself.  When I spoke to the doctor in confidence he told me that my brain was already too strongly formed to be effectively brainwashed and that the presence of the Negro would exist in my world always.  He further suggested that if I found their presence to be uncomfortable that I should separate myself from them and stay away from the places where they frequent. 

   

  From this point Zachary found the remainder of the diary to be exceedingly bland, consisting almost exclusively of the descriptions of mundane purchases and containing no further insights into either Virginia’s or Zachary’s development, except the final entry:

   

  June – August, 1945: Someday Windsor you should read this diary.  Should you find this diary before manhood, remember always that truth never ceases to be a welcome visitor.  Windsor you brighten my days and I have always loved you the most.  Windsor I am much like you.  We both ate of the same dead Negro fetus and in that moment we were forever connected with a bond stronger than that of mother and son. 

  Windsor after I ate that baby fetus’s hand, I never again sunk my teeth into Negro flesh and I hope you can do the same.  Your urges are much stronger than mine.  You managed to kill an adult with a knife when you were not yet five and somehow you sensed, perhaps smelled, that the choicest part of her body was hidden within her belly and you split open her belly and began feasting on the fetus.  Because of the blinding strength of your longings, I think you will have it more difficult. 

  Windsor I daily teach you the difference between right and wrong.  I teach you the importance of charitable endeavors.  And based on all that I have taught, you probably think I expect you to live a perfect life and accomplish great things.  No, Windsor, no – I have tried to give you a foundation only, for I know the burden which you must carry; I know the voices of the demons who whisper in your ear; that you think yourself passing the time only until you should again feast as you once feasted on the Negro fetus. 

  Yet these thoughts must be resisted!  Do not fret when you find that you can never banish these thoughts from your mind; accept them as a permanent part of your soul.

  Soon I will die and someday you will find this diary.  When you do, do not think your memories of me wrong.  Think of me as a mother who after eating from the fetus corpse, never again ate of the Negro’s flesh. 

  I have separated us from the rest of the family because we are different.  They would not understand that which we wish to do.  These final words I impart on paper and will impart again from my bed before I die: do not look back.  The past only holds the taste of the dead Negro fetus’s hand. 

  Be good my child, do good deeds, and make your mother proud, just as I hope you are proud of me.  Windsor I love you and will always love you, no matter the man you become, no matter the deeds you do, but for your own sake and the sake of your soul, follow me upon the path which I have set before you.

  Good bye my son.  Good bye my love.          

   

                  These diary entries supported Zachary’s previous conclusions about Trait Theory and CMR.  First, it indicated that Virginia’s CMR had lain dormant until sufficiently stressful circumstances had brought it to the surface – in her case, the grotesque viewing of her son eating a fetus from the belly of a dead African American house servant.  Prior to this event, Virginia had sensed that she wished to use African Americans for some unidentifiable purpose, a purpose other than her identified purpose of smashing their heads upon an anvil, and after the stressful event she was able to specifically identify her CMR.

  Zachary found it interesting to note that her first diary entry considered the option of consuming white flesh, the flesh of her child Henry.  However, this urge was not strong enough for her to commit the act and was, Zachary decided, sublimation for her CMR and not a separate trait such as Cannibalistic Filicide.    

  Also, the diary put Zachary into a catch 22 situation: in order to view the contents of Virginia’s room he had sworn to Windsor never to reveal to him what he had discovered, but Virginia explicitly stated a wish for Windsor to read the diary and Windsor seemed to always want to follow his mother’s directions.  Hadn’t he modeled his life around her main directive, “Do not look back”?  And Virginia taught Windsor the importance of charitable acts and he had followed that directive as well. 

  After considering the situation, Zachary decided to follow Windsor’s wishes: that he would not reveal to him what he discovered concerning his mother.  This conclusion was reached for two reasons (1) Zachary had sworn an oath to Windsor and had not sworn an oath to Virginia and (2) the instructions which Virginia wished to impart, Windsor had already stumbled upon and had been successfully following for over half a century: he lived to accomplish goals for the betterment of humankind while simultaneously suppressing his CMR urges.

  Although it may have momentarily brightened Windsor’s day to learn that he had followed his mother’s wishes, had not Windsor been the one who had frequently expressed that he did not deserve praise?  No, Zachary would copy the pertinent quotes from the diary as narrative support for informal scientific conclusions, such as the potential and highly likely CMR positive status of Virginia (this section of the final report would be redacted in Windsor’s version) but he would not use the diary to deliver to Windsor a message from beyond the grave.  Therefore, Zachary decided that during his next visit to Windsor’s residence he would place the diary back under the hollow base of Virginia’s ghoulish statue and never speak a word of the matter to Windsor.

              That settled Zachary turned his attention to the analysis of Windsor’s CMR testing.  He was satisfied to discover that Windsor’s results offered further support for Windsor’s active CMR status and the dormant CMR status of Windsor’s family.  He found the I-told-you moment to be so sweet that he conside
red calling Samantha and sharing the results, an option which he rejected (as a tweeting bird notified him that the dawn had just arrived). 

  The data indicated that a gargantuan gap existed between the Thurmond CMR positive mean (every positive Thurmond not including Windsor) and Windsor’s CMR mean (Windsor had been tested 6 times). 

    

  As could be readily observed from the chart, Windsor’s CMR magnitude was much more intense than that of a typical positive CMR rating for a Thurmond family member: 26.8 to 3.5.  More intriguing had been the variability in Windsor’s CMR scores.  Zachary composed working notes on this issue, deriving the main point that Windsor’s CMR was so intense that it ebbed and flowed through wild extremes over even short periods (Windsor’s six tests had taken no longer than 2.5 hours). 

  Figure X: Variability of the Relative Magnitude of the Cannibalistic Murderous Racism (CMR) trait for Windsor on six testing occasions. 

   

  Working notes: I will not include a chart of the control group’s variability or the Thurmond Family’s variability because statistically these scores have remained modest, 5% and 7% respectively, and although I will report these differences in narrative form, they are so minimal that they cannot be detected by the naked eye in the charts that I have attempted to construct.  These modest variability 7% scores imply that the test has a high degree of test retest reliability.   Windsor on the other hand has a massive range from a low score of 17 to a high score of 47, which is a whopping 276% difference!  If the test is indeed as reliable as it appears, what could account for such a vast swing in an already incredibly high magnitude?   But more importantly I must pose the fundamental question: Although Windsor expresses to me that he has, over the years, learned to control his CMR trait, has it been in actuality been more of a phenomenal miracle and less an act of determined will power that he has not given into his desires -- given that at any particular moment his trait can be much stronger than the moment before?  And if this is true is it safe for Windsor to be out among people in general society, particularly among African Americans?  This data would seem to suggest that Windsor should be segregating himself from the African American population, not as an act of discrimination, but as a public safety measure.  Then again, does not his mental trick of turning all black people white accomplish this very end?  Therefore the final question would seem to be: When blips in his whitewashing system occur, how effective is his blip-fixing system? Apparently it has been quite successful, as he is almost 78 years old and has not yet given into his desires.  Still, from a purely objective point of view this data is quite concerning…Dig deeper…       

   

                  Zachary further analyzed the data by comparing Windsor’s highest single CMR score with the highest single CMR score that had been acquired for any Thurmond family member, discovering this range to be a massive gap. 

  In essence, Zachary’s hypothesis had been correct.  Windsor’s CMR was much stronger than average.  This stronger CMR magnitude, combined with stressful life events, such as the covering of his body with black flesh and the consumption of a black fetus, had managed to bring his CMR to the surface and activate the trait.  Finally, Zachary analyzed Windsor’s personal adjustment scores, the results of which at first perplexed him:   

   

  Zachary wondered why Windsor should have a personal adjustment score so much lower than was typical for CMR positive Thurmond males.  However, he soon realized the answer, it was the same answer that he had proposed when presenting preliminary results and Herod’s curse hypotheses to Omar and Samantha: that CMR positive Thurmond females had personal adjustment scores considerably lower than CMR positive Thurmond males because the CMR for Thurmond females was closer to the forefront of their minds, and thus, more aware of their discontent, the CMR Thurmond females were less satisfied with their place in society. 

  Windsor had an active CMR status and therefore his desires were always in his consciousness and because he was unable to act on desires unacceptable in civilized society, he was – as Freud had termed – a discontented man, and therefore his personal adjustment score was low.  This offered yet further support for Windsor’s active CMR status and the remainder of the Thurmond’s dormant CMRstatus.  As a Thurmond male, Windsor’s personal adjustment score should be similar to that of other Thurmond males unless there was a difference in the status of their traits, which was what the data indicated: Windsor was CMR active while the other Thurmond males were CMR dormant and therefore the personal adjustment scores of the two groups varied. 

  Satisfied of a job well done, Zachary neatly stacked his notes and thankfully climbed into his bed, deciding to sleep for as long as he could.  However, that goal lasted a mere 30 minutes because he had absent-mindedly turned his phone back on and its jarring ring sprung him awake.  His cell on his night stand, he could see from his phone’s display that the caller was Jasmine.  Zachary answered and explained that he had been up analyzing data since 4 am, but that they should meet later.

              Zachary slept for 12 hours and after he texted Jasmine, she told him that she would be over right away.  Two hours later they completed a sexual epic that Zachary would, later that night, describe to an old college buddy in an embarrassingly long-winded and sordid email about each and every detail, as “by far the best sex of my life…”

              They slept contentedly through the day and at 3PM Zachary started a pot of coffee in the kitchen.  His business with the Windsor family was winding down and he felt as if he was rounding the final corner in some soul draining marathon.  All that remained was the construction of the final report. 

  Who knows, maybe even Samantha can be goaded into its writing? 

  Satisfyingly, he had been well compensated for his efforts.  Mortgage payments could be now made with ease for at least 12 months, a state of affairs which left him in a comfortable financial position should his house happen to remain on the market for an extended period. 

  He checked his email – the PBS documentary producer said that the taping of the show about Dunbar and Associates would probably not occur for at least six months – and then opened the online version of the Boston Globe, boston.com, and scanned through a few articles, quickly becoming bored. 

  Journalists have it wrong.  They look at the world through the lens of now and not the lens of history.  But Jasmine, though merely a blogger, looks at the history of institutions and the history of problems.

   He decided to check out her blog, but just as he was about to open her site he heard her descending the stairs and, feeling squeamish, he resumed reading an article that did not interest him in the least, but which involved an important local issue. 

              “Why didn’t you wake me up?” Jasmine asked, wearing only a long shirt and slippers, her legs bare, and Zachary suddenly had the urge to playfully bite at her beautiful legs, but then shuddered at the thought.

  Trace CMR perhaps? 

  It occurred to him that as of yet he hadn’t tested himself and so had no idea if he, as did the majority of his race, possessed trace CMR, though wondered if perhaps it was better for him not to know. 

  But what was that Virginia told Windsor, that truth is always a welcome visitor?

              “You looked so peaceful,” said Zachary, reaching towards her and planting a kiss on her cheek.

              “Why do you have so many cameras inside your house?” Jasmine asked.

              “PBS wants to do a documentary on my company, so they have set up cameras here.  Actually, I just got an email that it is being delayed by at least six months.  It was supposed to start after the Thurmond testing concluded.”

              “So you’re going to be famous pretty soon?” said Jasmine.

              “Maybe you too, if you are
around,” said Zachary.

              “I’m camera shy, that’s why I work on the radio,” said Jasmine.

              “Hunny cakes, you were made for the camera,” said Zachary.

              “That sounded a little perverted,” said Jasmine.  “And hunny cakes?”

              “It just felt right at the time.”

              Jasmine laughed.

              “So where are we going?” Jasmine asked.

              Zachary’s face blanched as he searched for a reply. 

  Seriously, why haven’t I come up with any idea as to where I want to go?

              Jasmine replied, “I was just kidding.  We don’t really have to go anywhere you know.” 

              “No, I really do think that was good advice.  Unfortunately right now I have to see this work through to the end.  But, yes, once it has finished I would like to take a break,” said Zachary.

              “Really?” said Jasmine, looking doubtful.

              “Yes, I promise.  And I’ll take that advice that you gave me: we won’t plan anything, we’ll just go somewhere on a whim,” said Zachary.

              “That sounds like a slight adventure,” said Jasmine.

              “Exactly!” said Zachary.

              “Maybe we could do some orienteering,” said Jasmine.

              “I don’t know if that is my cup of tea.”

              Jasmine laughed, “Or we could go hiking and camping.  I like to do outdoors type of stuff when I take time off.”

              “I’m not much of the rugged type myself, but I suppose I could make an exception.  Although I’d just like to relax today,” said Zachary.

              “So would I,” said Jasmine.

  As if to prove that they were both ready to be lazy, they snuggled together on the couch and began watching a pointless TV program.  However, the peace did not last for five minutes before Zachary remembered that he had a mortgage payment to make and shot up like an exclamation point.  Jasmine followed him into the kitchen, curious about the hub-bub, as he shifted pots and pans, searching for his old mail.

              “What is it?” she asked.

              “Mortgage payment, and it slipped my mind until now,” said Zachary, still searching upon his counter for the envelope. 

              “Don’t you just pay online?” Jasmine asked.

              “I’m not that technologically advanced,” said Zachary, now growing panicked as he began searching in places where he had already searched.

              “Silly old man,” said Jasmine, hugging him as he rummaged.

              Suddenly Zachary remembered that he had ordered a post office box so that he would not have to worry about his mail as he traveled. 

             

  They drove to the post office while listening to Jasmine’s style of music, a style which Zachary tried his best to appreciate.  Once Zachary had located his post office box he shifted through his mail and located the document.  Then he began tossing his junk mail into the trash.  Feeling hurried about mailing his payment, he almost discarded a hand written envelope, but managed to sort it into his “keep” pile at the last moment.  Oddly, the return sender was Philip Thurmond and the return address was Philip’s Pennsylvania address:

  Phillip Thurmond

  1410 Monk Road

  Gladwyne, PE

  19035

   

                  “You look confused,” said Jasmine.

              “Yes, this letter is from a dead man,” said Zachary, lifting the envelope from the counter and examining it.  It was post marked one week before Zachary had arrived in Pennsylvania, at which point Phillip would have still been alive.  Zachary opened the envelope, finding inside a single sheet of paper, which read:

   

  This way is the way down

  Though down the rabbit hole

   

  Phi: 10923

  Lambda:55045

                                                                         

   

              “What does it say?” Jasmine asked.

              “Probably nothing, it makes no sense.  But it is also confidential so I really can’t tell you anymore,” said Zachary: like the fact that Philip lost his marbles.  Zachary decided that the letter, in all probability, showcased the final ramblings of an acutely developed dementia.  The rabbit hole was clearly a reference to Alice in Wonderland, but Zachary was unfamiliar with the terms Phi and Lambda when used together.  He did remember that Phi was a Greek letter, one which represented the golden ratio and had a number of practical mathematical uses, as did Greek lambda letter.  However, the pairing of these Greek letters with these particular numbers held no meaning for Zachary, though Zachary suspected the real meaning of Phillip’s letter to be nothing more than the poetic and mathematical gibberish of a man who had lost his reason.  Therefore, Zachary considered tossing the letter into the recycling bin but after a moment’s consideration decided to save it just in case it should prove useful for the final case history.

  Yet the last thing I want to do is to make more work for myself.  When the final report is finished I am going to buy an expensive bottle of champagne, celebrate, and think of these Thurmonds no more.     

               

   

  Gray Cliff Lodge, Area One:  Setting down his bow, Mick Thurmond surveyed the camp’s cliffs, a familiar vista that carried his thoughts to a youthful time of frosty morning still hunting.  Donald often spoke about proper still hunting technique and the crucial importance of moving slower than one thinks necessary, once holding Mick as an example and saying, “And the boy is only seven! Seven!  What a bright future ahead!” 

  At the time, from seven to ten when Mick first earned his stripes by falling crafty bucks, he thought those vacations a welcome diversion from schoolwork and saw no relation between the camp’s wilderness and the school-life he would soon re-enter, though later he learned that hunting wisdom informs every action taken once manhood arrives -- that life equals hunting. 

  A precocious hunter, Mick transitioned smoothly from bow hunting bucks at Gray Cliff Area One to bow hunting the markedly different prey at Gray Cliff Area Two.  And that was as it should have been.  Like cumulative lessons in math, mastery of buck hunting at Area One provided the groundwork for mastery of hunting at Area Two.  Groundwork for mastery of life in general, and steps which when successfully taken made well-rounded Thurmond society members.  And for many Thurmonds it had worked magnificently. 

  The problem was that for some Thurmonds it had failed miserably.  Mick’s boy Kolby had also been a precocious buck hunter.  But when transitioned to Area Two something failed and he unlearned the calm learned in Area One.  He panicked and did not adapt.  Finally he broke.  The same had happened to Edbert and Elvin, to Nat and Woolcott, to Manfred and Aldric, and to Henry before them -- and what exactly had happened to Windsor was still up for debate. 

  When Chase told Mick about the bribe he offered Zachary, Mick completely understood.  Clearly, the ability to master Area One did not transfer to the ability to master Area Two. Frustratingly, Area One had been specifically designed to filter out those unsuited for apprenticeship in Area Two.  To Mick’s thinking, the experiment had failed.  It seemed that while all Thurmonds were competent buck hunters in Area One, clearly not all Thurmonds were successful hunters in Area Two – an off-limit subject at lodge meetings because Donald and Charles, as co-presidents, had declared that tradition
would always remain intact, and tradition held that Area One was the filter for Area Two. 

  But the traveling psychologist Zachary Dunbar offered a possible solution. It seemed plausible that his test could prove a better filter than Area One. 

  Though that remains to be seen…

  After Kolby’s death Mick had sworn to never enroll another of his boys at Gray Cliff.  So while he vacationed there, his boy Ralph remained at home. 

  But circumstances had changed.  Ralph’s development had been largely ineffectual.  To Mick he seemed more woman than man, a tentative, spineless, fleshy boy.  In manhood his failure seemed certain.  Still, Mick figured that certain failure was better than early death and so for the last year, rather than rushing a decision, he had mulled over the idea of enrolling Ralph at Gray Cliff.  However, Zachary’s test was the final weight upon the scales.  Zachary had said it himself, “Ralph may need counseling for latent racist tendencies…”  Could it be true?  Could a psychology test have been all they needed all these years? 

  I want Ralph to have the chance to be a smashing success in life -- Gray Cliff will provide that opportunity.  I just hope that Zachary Dunbar was correct.

   

  Mick broke from his reverie and lifted his bow upon his shoulder, nodding to Ralph who stood silently at his right. 

  He looks the part of a hunter anyway. 

  For the past two weeks Mick had been teaching Ralph archery basics but the boy had advanced fast, proving to be a quick study. 

  Just as I had been. 

   

  When they traveled by minivan to the camp, Ralph looked curiously at the large black box in the back. 

  “That box is why we aren’t flying isn’t it?  You wanted to take the box with us and it would have been too large to check into the plane.”

  “No, we could have checked it.  I just wanted to take a road trip with my boy.  I wanted us to have a chance to talk,” said Mick.

  “What is in there anyway?” Ralph asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said Mick.

  “Is it a present?” Ralph.

  After Kolby’s death I spoiled the shit out of Ralph.  All this brat thinks about is presents.  That’s my fault.  But now it’s time for him to man up. 

  “Sort of,” said Mick.

  “Oh, I’m excited,” said Ralph.

  “That box is going to change you forever,” said Mick. 

  For better or for worse…

  “Really?  How will it change me?” Ralph asked.

  “It’s impossible to explain.  It is something that has to be experienced?” said Mick.

  “If it is a present then why isn’t it wrapped?” Ralph asked.

  “I didn’t say it was a present,” said Mick.

  “When do I get to open it?” Ralph asked.

  “After your first kill at Area Two,” said Mick.

  “How long will that take?” Ralph asked.

  “There is really no telling.  But from what I’ve seen with you in the backyard with that bow, I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty making the kill,” said Mick and with his free hand he rubbed Ralph’s mop of hair, tussling it up.  “Just don’t freeze.  We call that buck fever.  It happens to many first timers.  You don’t want to kill the buck because you are awed by its presence.  The only way to get over buck fever is to not hesitate and make the kill.”

  “Did you have buck fever the first time you tried to make a kill?” Ralph asked.

  “No,” said Mick.

  They drove in silence past barren corn fields, a range of mountains to their left.  There were no other vehicles on the road and stars looked much brighter than the stars seen from their backyard.

  “Father,” said Ralph.

  “Yes,” said Mick.

   “I don’t want to let you down,” said Ralph.

  “You won’t,” said Mick.

  “I fucked up big time with the car and the drugs.  I think things would be different if Kolby hadn’t died.  I feel like you’ve always been disappointed in me.  I feel like you always wished I was Kolby – because you took Kolby to the camp but you never took me.  Now we are going to the camp together and I don’t want to let you down,” said Ralph.

  For a moment Mick thought he felt a vibration and looked in the rear view mirror, staring at the box, but the box was still.

  “After Kolby’s death I didn’t want to push you too hard.  And while that seemed right in theory, the fact of the matter is that you are a Thurmond and with that name comes not only material wealth but a wealth of expectations.  Truth is son, Kolby couldn’t shoulder the expectations.  But you aren’t Kolby.  You are your own person,” said Mick, feeling the emergence of tears, a sensation absent since the day of Kolby’s death.

  When they finally arrived at Area One, Mick and Ralph loaded the box into the family helicopter so that the box could be transported to Area Two.

  Before they set down the box Ralph said, “I think I felt something move in there.”

  “No hints,” said Mick, winking.  “I told you.  It’s a surprise.”

  Donald welcomed Ralph to the camp, saying, “Enjoy your time at Area One – with your father and the children.  When you are ready to be a man I’ll see you at Area Two --.”

  “Dad that is enough,” said Mick, securing the box with a strap. 

  Donald held out a wrapped box.

  “Another present,” said Ralph, reaching for the box.

  Donald tossed the box onto the empty passenger’s seat, saying, “Sorry, you’ll get this in Area Two.”

  Tradition held that the Thurmond boys hunted at Area One from age 7 to 10 and that if they successfully learned the art of buck hunting they were then, at age 11, transitioned to Area Two.  If during those three years they did not learn the art of buck hunting they were forever removed from the ranks of Gray Cliff, never to return, and sworn to secrecy concerning any Gray Cliff details learned.  Yet, as Mick had pointed out, for the last three generations this had not occurred. 

   

                  

              Washington:  Before exiting his limo, Windsor pondered his list of CMR positive Thurmond males one last time.  From Zachary’s preliminary report, he had identified Charles as having the strongest strain.

  If things have gone wrong anywhere they will have at least gone wrong with Charles.  And so this brother of mine will be the canary in the coal mine. 

  He checked that his .45 was fully loaded and that his silencer was properly fitted.

  It’s ironic that I have dreamed my whole life of killing blacks and then eating their flesh but that I might end my life through the killings of whites, a people who I have never desired to murder and a people whose flesh I have never desired to eat. 

  When Windsor phoned Charles, Charles said that he had planned to take a family trip but that he would gladly postpone his departure to meet with his longer than long-lost brother, asking, “And should I invite other family members?” 

  “No, this is a private matter.  If we could speak alone that would be much appreciated.” 

  Charles told him that they could meet the next day, either there in Boston or at his home in D.C. 

              “D.C. works just fine.  I could use the change of scenery, and a tour around your home would perk my architectural interests…” said Windsor, who had already arrived in D.C., and from his hotel window looked upon a view of the Washington monument.

  That night sleep came and went in sweaty fits and his dreams of death were not those he typically dreamt, there was no black flesh raining from the skies or black appendages littering the roads, instead he dreamt of his brothers as children and that it was his duty to lead each of them to a guillotine on a hill.      

             

  Windsor left the limousine, tipping the driver handsomely.  Slowly walking to Charles’s front door and attempting an a
ir of ease, his hand brushed against the .45 fitted behind his belt and the dream of his brothers and the guillotine flashed back into his mind.  Before he had a chance to knock, a man, who he presumed to be Charles, opened the door, asking, “How was your trip?”  

              “You must be --.”

              “Charles yes, your brother of course.  How rude of me!” said Charles, and Windsor held his waist back so that the bulge of the .45 would not be felt.  The two embraced for nearly a minute with Charles heartily patting Windsor on the back and adding, “It has been very much too long!  I never thought I would place eyes on you again…”          

  Windsor replied, “And I have within my library the picture of the whole family in the alpines, and that picture is the last time that I have seen you.”

              “Yes, I think I know the picture,” said Charles, leading Windsor into a parlor room with two billiards tables, an oak whiskey bar, and an assortment of dear heads upon the wall. 

              “Do you play?” Charles asked, referring to the billiard’s tables.

              “Many years have passed, but at one time I was something of a shark,” said Windsor.

              “I know the feeling,” said Charles, taking a cue from the wall and chalking the tip.  “Let us play, as men, brother to brother, and as once did we play, brother to brother, as boys.”

              Windsor nodded, suddenly sensing the gravity of the situation. 

  Here I am, come to judge and perhaps execute a death sentence and yet standing before me is the little boy with whom I played my childhood games, even if those games I cannot remember.

              “Brother,” said Windsor, immediately noting how odd the word felt upon his lips, almost as if he were speaking to a ghost and not a man, “What do you remember of me as a child?”   “Not much – I was too young.  But there is one thing,” said Charles.

              Windsor fought against his curiosity and did not ask about the hinted event.

  But perhaps Charles saw the doubt in his eyes, because he said, “You mean you do not remember?”

              Windsor realized denial would be futile and so admitted that “My memory of childhood is not as it should be.  There is a black wall where there should be memories.  For example, I have no memories of you, save that picture in the Alpines, and though I am sure we shared many.”

              “It was an event that must have shaped you deeply --.”

              “Yes, but let us not speak of such serious things.  I came so that we could embrace and as you earlier said, not dwell,” said Windsor.   

              “Would you then like to see my old photo albums then?  We are all there,” Charles asked.

              “No!  No,” said Windsor, trying to control his nervous energy and feeling a bead of sweat drip down his ribs and land upon the gun.

              Charles snapped a ball into the corner pocket.  “Tell me about your charitable work.”

              Windsor outlined his charitable endeavors while wondering how best to broach the subject for which he had entered, but decided that more than enough time remained for Charles to let something slip.

  Perhaps once alcohol has entered the conversation will flow more freely.

              “Do you mind if I have a glass?” said Windsor, pointing to the whiskey.

              “You have traveled from Boston to D.C. and yet I do not offer you a drink,” said Charles, placing down his billiards stick.

              “It is fine.  You didn’t even know if I was a drinker,” said Windsor, laughing.

              “Stay where you are and we will salute that we have finally been reunited,” said Charles.

              Something in Charles’s tone reminded Windsor of a time long passed and again he glimpsed himself upon the table with the black flesh pressed upon his skin. 

  What is it about Charles that reminds me of father and that place?

              “Yes, we have got on well in the world, though I through inheritance, and you through inheritance and hard work,” said Windsor with a smile.

              “Don’t shoot yourself short.  I know you worked hard to become the philanthropist that you became,” said Charles.

              There it is again, that tone, it brings me to another time, almost transfixing my soul there – the table, I see the wooden table, the wooden wall and the men, and the black flesh too, and the flesh is nearly covering my eyes… 

  Windsor felt a strong urge to sit, and remembering the advice of his four therapists, sat with his head between his legs and drew deep breaths.

              “What is it?  Have I said something wrong?” Charles asked, sitting by Windsor’s side and placing his hand upon his head.  It felt strange for Windsor to be sitting so close to this person who in some respects was a stranger and yet in others was one of his greatest intimates, a brother with whom he had shared a short and forgotten childhood and yet had not laid eyes upon for over seventy years.

              “No, you have said nothing wrong Charles, but you must think me rude for never having responded to your invitations?” said Windsor, and as he straightened, felt the cold metal of the gun press again his skin.

  And you will think me worse than rude, forsaken brother, if it comes to the worst and I must empty my cartridges into your brain. 

              “Nonsense,” said Charles.

  Windsor looked deep into his brother’s eyes, sharp blue eyes made sharper still by the intensity of his stare, and Windsor again lay on the wooden table covered in Negro flesh, transfixed by his father’s eyes of total compassion, eyes forcefully declaring, “I love you all the more because you are covered in this peeled Negro’s flesh.” 

  Yet in so thinking, in so pondering, I find myself traveling back and that is a dangerous position.  You must get to the point of your mission and stop with this foolish wandering.   

  They drank another glass of whiskey while Charles described his working life, concluding his narrative by saying, “But I can see the fog descending over your eyes.  The business life is not the life for every Thurmond.  Come, I would like to show you my home.”   

              Windsor followed Charles from room to room.  “Tell me brother, do you do all your housekeeping yourself?”

              “No, I have given my servants a holiday so that we can reunite in privacy,” said Charles.

              He wants me isolated from his servants as I wanted him isolated from the family.  Do we each have some aim kept hidden from the other?

              Seated beside a fireplace in Charles’s smoking room, the fire unlit, they smoked Cubans and talked current events.  Charles stated that Obama would make a fine president, “It is high time that an African American led this nation.  For too long have we been a nation of two people: them and us.  It is time to unite.  It is time to heal the wounds of slavery and African American exploitation.”

  Windsor agreed, momentarily wondering if perhaps Charles had nothing to hide.

  Or perhaps like me he has become so effective with his hiding that he convincingly and effortlessly blabbers without a second thought.

   Windsor changed the subject by noting both the preponderance of cultural artifacts and deer heads which filled Charles’s home, saying, “From the furnishings of your home I must conclude that you are a collector of the finest cultural achievements from warfare to the arts and that also you must be an able hunter, as you display your hunting trophies with pride.”

              “Collecting is a hobby.  Hunting is a passion.  In fact, Windsor my brother, hunting is something tha
t flows within every Thurmond’s blood,” said Charles.

              “There you may be mistaken.  I have never hunted,” said Windsor.

              Charles, his cigar between his lips, puffed a well formed smoke ring which floated above his head and vanished like a halo.

              “The menu tonight is venison and this venison I have hunted and skinned myself” said Charles.

              “We haven’t seen each other for seven long decades, so I suppose I can stay for dinner,” said Windsor, laughing.

              “Have you ever had venison before?” Charles asked.

              “I think so,” said Windsor.

              “You are in for a treat,” said Charles.

  “Splendid, because though it is true that your whiskey has warmed my spirits and your Cuban has cleared my facilities, I find my belly to be simply famished and so a good meal would be a considerable gift for this hungry and somewhat wearied traveler,” said Windsor.

  Charles led Windsor back downstairs to a dining room.  The room had been unlit during the tour and so Windsor had not noticed the multitude of the mounted buck heads.  As Charles warmed the dinner, Windsor lit the room’s candles.  All the candles finally lit, Windsor seated himself in the middle of a long table and watched shadows dance upon the walls.  Windsor again felt the black flesh against his skin and drank his whiskey faster than he knew advisable, attempting to drown the past.     

  A trail of smoke following him, Charles bounded into the room with a massive platter of meat.  Placing the platter in front of Windsor, Charles sat directly across from him. 

  “Please help yourself,” said Charles, a devilish grin upon his face.  “And do not wait for me; I just remembered that I need to fetch that whiskey bottle.” 

  “I think I may have had enough,” said Windsor, whose glass was now empty.

  “Nonsense,” said Charles, with a slight bow before leaving the room.

  Windsor assumed that Charles must have forgotten to retrieve the other dishes; the only dish upon the table was the venison.  After having stocked his plate with a sizable portion, Windsor decided to follow his brother’s suggestion and started his meal immediately.  The moment the first bite touched the surface of his tongue, Windsor realized that Charles had not exaggerated.

  A moment later Charles returned.

  “I’ve never tasted anything like this.  I feel as if I am a child trying my favorite flavor of ice cream for the first time,” said Windsor, who had spoken with his mouth full of meat and having realized that fact added, “And forgive me please for speaking with my mouth full, this meal has made me completely lose my manners.”

  “Windsor, that you enjoy the taste of my venison brings me even more satisfaction than it brings to you,” said Charles, now filling his plate full with venison -- so full that Windsor noticed there was no room for other dishes.

  “Brother would you like me to retrieve the rest of the dinner from the kitchen? I think I remember the way,” Windsor asked.

  Charles replied that the venison was the complete meal and tore into his meat.  Suddenly Windsor felt ill at ease, though he knew not why.  The venison was simply too perfect, like a perfect Christmas never to be repeated.  Windsor realized that this all meat meal was reminiscent of the all meat meals he had instructed his wife to cook in the 70’s, his attempt to satisfy his longing for black flesh. 

  Does Charles do the same?    

  A phone rang and Charles excused himself from the room.  Windsor felt the eyes of the Bucks staring down and wondered which buck he presently consumed. 

  However, you must forgive me dead deer, for your meat is indescribable.

   The combination of whiskey and soul satisfying venison led Windsor into a contemplative state and he felt as if his soul was dancing with the dancing shadows on the walls.

   

  Arlington, MA:  Zachary wondered if it had been a mistake to invite Samantha to his home with Jasmine present.  Samantha half-invited herself by saying, “Well, if you want me to complete the final report, I think that is something that we should talk about in person.”

  Zachary’s CMR data had been organized into an accordion file. 

  Never before have I so desired to be completely finished with an assignment.  What is it about the Thurmonds that so makes me want to run?

   As Zachary flipped through the file, double checking that nothing had been misplaced, he sensed Jasmine’s stare.

   “I like watching you work.  It is sexy,” said Jasmine, who sat on the couch and held a book.

  “This is just preparation,” said Zachary.

  “So you have to give that to Samantha, your colleague?” Jasmine asked.

  “If all goes well I will,” said Zachary.

   “You two used to be an item, didn’t you?” Jasmine asked, though with no alarm in her voice. 

  “How did you know that?” Zachary asked, and having prepared the file he now turned and faced Jasmine.  In her unmade state, dressed informally and lounging, Zachary thought her breathtaking and wished that he held a camera so that he could photograph her.

  Which is an odd feeling, I never take pictures…

  “I know all,” said Jasmine, laughing.

  “Really how do you know, I’m curious?” Zachary asked.

  “Then you’ll just have to beat it out of me,” said Jasmine, with an irreverent stare.

  Zachary playfully shook his head.  “We can’t right now.  She will be here any minute.”

  Jasmine was just about to reply when there was a knock on the door.  The door opened.  “Zachary I’m here,” yelled Samantha.

  “I’m in the living room,” Zachary yelled.

  Samantha entered the living room and noticing Jasmine upon the couch, her expression cooled and she said, “Hi there.  I’m Samantha.  And you are?”

  “Jasmine Jackson,” said Jasmine with a wide smile. 

  Samantha approached and they shook hands.  Small talk ensued, though Zachary wondered what was going on beneath the words. 

  Probably scanning each other for imperfections… 

  As they continued to speak, Zachary’s cell phone rang and observing Windsor to be the caller he snuck into his den and answered.

  Windsor immediately told him the good news, saying, “Zachary old boy, I spoke to Bill today and Bruce had begun no reports.  Everything was still in the stages of preparation.  So you don’t have to worry about making any calls or about the high standing of your reputation.”

  Zachary replied, “I am so happy to hear that.  Thank you for getting back to me…”

   

              Washington: As Charles took his seat, Windsor folded shut his cell and wondered if a comment would be made concerning the copious amount of venison consumed during Charles’s brief absence: the platter was nearly empty. 

  But instead Charles toasted to the Thurmond family enduring ties.

  For the next hour, as they continued to consume plate after plate of venison, they spoke of their personal lives and discussed at length the difficult subject of their wives’ deaths. 

  Charles stated, “A long marriage that makes an old man a widower is often the cause of that widower’s demise.  The doomed widower will not face life without his life partner and so withers and dies.  After my wife’s death, I decided that I wanted to keep living: that I had too many important things left to accomplish.”

  Windsor replied, “Yes, brother, I thought that I still had important things to accomplish through my charitable endeavors, though I feel my days numbered and will soon pass the torch of charity onto another deserving Thurmond.”

  “Have you come to a decision?” Charles asked.

  “It has come down to five and I think them all equally well qualified.  The only thing that needs to be done is for the name to be penned into the blank line,” said Windsor.
/>
  Charles toasted. 

  Windsor reciprocated the toast and thinking the moment right said, “Yet it wasn’t only your wife you have had to mourn.  You buried two children as well.  What happened?”

   Charles spoke at length of the tragedy, twice excusing himself to wipe his eyes dry.

  As Charles concluded speaking the last of the venison was consumed, and he added, “Brother this brings us to a crossroads.  There is no more food on the table.  Judging by my belly you would think me full, and you look much the same.  What do you think?  Should we cease or continue feasting?”

  Windsor stated that the feasting should continue and with a slight chuckle displayed the mammoth girth of his belly. 

  “Unfortunately my venison supply has run dry so more must be skinned.  It will take but a moment.  Although you can accompany me as I skin the buck if you so wish.” 

  Windsor declined, blaming his belly for inducing him into “a state of contented immobility.” 

  As Charles rose to leave, he refilled Windsor’s whiskey glass.

  “Old boy, I think I have finally drunk my limit,” said Windsor, surprised to note that his glass was empty once again.

  “Nonsense,” said Charles, who then refilled his own glass.  Toasting to their reunion, Charles chugged his glass empty with a mischievous glance challenging Windsor to do the same.  Windsor did and realized he was drunk.

  When Charles returned, Windsor said, “I understand why you became a hunter.  If I knew that venison tasked this good I would have become a hunter too --.”

  “There is still time.”

  Charles heaped a pile of bloody venison onto his plate.

  Windsor wondered if his drunkenness caused the venison to appear redder, bloodier, even raw.  Unsure, he stabbed a large chunk with his fork and with his head lowered, raised the chunk to his eyes.  Blood dripped from its edges and gathered into a puddle on his plate. 

  “Is this meat raw?”

  “Yes,” said Charles, simply.

  “Why?” asked Windsor, now peering at the bloody meat curiously.

  “Why not?” said Charles, who had begun with effortful strokes to cut the tough meat into small pieces, the bottom half of his knife dripping with blood.

  “I don’t believe I have ever eaten raw meat,” said Windsor.

  “Just as Sashimi can be a deliciously prepared raw fish – this venison is a deliciously prepared raw meat – fresh from the bone and perfectly delectable,” said Charles, with a bloody mouthful. 

  Thus far the meal had been perfect.  So Windsor had no reason to think the present dish would disappoint.  And perhaps noting Windsor’s hesitation, Charles explained that the bloody meal was safe to consume because he had mastered the art of sanitary raw meat preparation, and noted to Windsor the main rule: the use of fresh meat. 

  Windsor nodded with drunken understanding and began to cut his meat into small pieces, similar in size to the pieces on Charles’s plate.  He wondered if raw meat was an acquired taste or something naturally exhibited. 

  As Windsor bit into the meat he was struck with a euphoric feeling.  He dared not take a second bite for fear that the continued ecstasy would knock him from his seat.  The euphoric taste of raw meat still upon his lips, he stopped chewing and held both fork and knife upon the table like soldiers at attention.     

   “What is it?” Charles asked, blood dripping from his lips and onto his chin.

  “This, what you have made.  I never thought anything could, could --.”

  “You don’t have to try to explain it to me.  I know exactly what you mean,” said Charles.

  This is why my brothers have functioned so successfully in the world.  They have mastered the art of raw meat!  It almost makes me wish to continue living.  The meal is perfect, but does the contentment last?  As I have been eating I have been having no thoughts of black flesh consumption.  Such a thing has never occurred! 

  “Brother I need to express something,” said Windsor, still not having taken a second bite.

  Charles nodded and stabbed a massive piece of meat straight through the middle, raising the bloody mass to his mouth.

  “I need to tell you something which may be difficult for you to hear --.”

  “Yes?” said Charles, blood now covering his entire chin.

  Windsor began quietly, “You think me to be a perfect sort of person.  Yet Brother nothing could be farther from the truth.  It has only been through incredible will power that I have been able to abstain --.”

  “Abstain from what?” Charles asked.

  “It is difficult for me to talk about.  Charles I came here because I feared that you might be like me.  But I can see from your statements and your hospitality – and most of all from your mastery of raw meat preparation– that you are not like me, not in the least.  Yet you have a hunger that you do not even realize you have.  Zachary’s test – that was not just testing for racism.  It was testing for a trait that is active in me, and a trait that is hereditary.  You have the trait Charles!  You tested positive for it!  The difference is that you do not even realize that you have it, which is wonderful for you.  I now believe that you and the others in the family with this trait do not feel its influence because of your mastery of raw meat preparation.  Because brother when I eat this raw meat all my desires disappear,” said Windsor, suddenly feeling tears gather in his eyes.

  This is ridiculous old boy – a well prepared meal is literally bringing you to tears.

  “I don’t understand.  What is the trait?” said Charles.

  “We have been absent from each other so long that the least I owe you is honesty.  The trait is called: Cannibalistic Murderous Racism.”

  Charles stared at Windsor with his sharp blue eyes.

  “Nothing in the world do I wish for more than to murder and eat African Americans.  And until I ate your meat today, I have never, like a wound clock ticking, existed absent the thought of black flesh consumption,” said Windsor, the tears now falling about his cheeks, and he quickly added, “But I can swear on our parent’s graves that I have never acted on this impulse.”

  After an awkward pause during which Charles finished most of his drink, he said, “I don’t fully understand what it is that you are saying.  But I can’t help feeling that we should have reunited earlier, and you should have eaten this raw meat earlier.” 

  “It was mother who instructed me to stay away.  I was merely following her instructions.  I thought she knew best.  But perhaps I was wrong,” said Windsor, taking another bite.  The juices which poured forth, as if, not juices from meat but mango, rivaled that of the first bite.  Suddenly Windsor believed that anything was possible.

  To hang myself with a rope seems an absurd proposition now that I understand that the world contains the wonders of such raw meat. 

  Charles replied, “Mother, instructed you to stay away from us?  I never would have guessed it.  But the important thing is that we are together now.”

  Windsor, still chewing the fragments of the second bite and feeling waves of ecstasy wash over his body, said, “Only minutes earlier I thought the suggestion preposterous I should become a hunter.  But if I can hunt meat such as this then I want nothing more!”

  Charles rose from his seat and delivered a long-winded toast which imagined the future feasts that they would together consume.  And as Charles spoke Windsor pounded his fist upon the table in agreement and held high in the air not his whiskey glass but a bloody meat slab.       

   

  Arlington, MA:  Because Samantha had agreed to write the final report, Zachary had an urge to wash his hands clean of the whole Thurmond matter.  He had told Windsor that they should keep in contact, but part of him hoped that Windsor would leave him in peace.  There was something about the intense contemplation of CMR that had brought his mind into a distressing state of existence.  For one thing, Zachary liked looking at the positive side of life, but CMR was a
lmost altogether bleak.  The only good that came from CMR was through its suppression and sublimation; but that did not alter the fact that good was being achieved precisely because the members of one group wished to murder and eat the flesh of the members of another group.  And this underlying reality, the base reason for the Thurmond family’s worldly motivation and success, whether charitable, financial, or otherwise, did not sit well with Zachary.  Yet he understood that he could not blame the Thurmonds for inheriting the CMR trait.

  But that also does not mean that I need to hobnob with them…

  Zachary had given Samantha his CMR accordion file, which contained every document compiled during his testing circuit -- except for the letter that he had received from Philip.  Discovering the letter on his counter, Zachary mused that its omission from the file was an understandable oversight.

  After all I only saved it from the trash bin at the post office at last moment. 

  Again he pondered what it meant:

   

  This way is the way down

  Though down the rabbit hole

   

  Phi: 10923

  Lambda:55045

   

   Jasmine peered over his shoulder and said, “Where is that?”

  “What?” Zachary asked, whisking the letter out of her sight.

  “Oh, is that the confidential letter from the post office?” Jasmine asked.

  “Yes.  I think I’m just going to shred it and throw it out,” said Zachary.

  “Well, where is it though?” Jasmine asked.

  “It is in my hand,” said Zachary, confused.

  “No I don’t mean the letter silly.  I mean those coordinates.  Where is that?” Jasmine asked.

  “What do you mean?” Zachary asked, again looking at the letter.  “Do Phi and Lambda indicate coordinates?”

  “Yes, they are the universal symbols for latitude and longitude – of course you would probably know that if you were into orienteering,” said Jasmine, laughing.

  “So these are the symbols used on orienteering maps?” Zachary asked.

  “No, we have our own special universal symbols not based on any particular language.  But I knew that those were the universal symbols for longitude and latitude because my love for orienteering has caused me to become something of a cartophile – a map lover -- and so I study maps of all kinds, not just the heavily topographically focused orienteering maps.  But nautical maps, lunar maps, whatever,” said Jasmine. 

  Zachary laughed. 

  “I am almost speechless that orienteering seems to have a practical use in my life right now.  Do you know how to find this place?” he asked.

  “Sure.  But am I really allowed to see this?  Isn’t this confidential?” said Jasmine.

  “I’ll just keep the name confidential,” said Zachary.

  “Well, let’s find out,” said Jasmine, booting up Zachary’s computer.  Zachary entered his password and Jasmine located an internet site that she commonly used (www.itouchmap.com), where latitude and longitude measurements could be entered into a search function and located on a Google map.  After Jasmine entered the coordinates, she gasped.

  “What?” said Zachary.  To Zachary it seemed that the Google map showed only a wide expanse of trees.

  “Do you know where this is?” Jasmine asked.

  “No, where is it?” Zachary asked.

  “Only a place that I’ve always wanted to go – only a place that is on my bucket list,” said Jasmine.

  “Your bucket list has about 500 locations,” said Zachary.

  “True, but this is one of them,” said Jasmine, adding, “Actually it isn’t!  But it is very close – in a map sense anyway.”

  “Okay, Miss Map Expert, will you please tell me what we are looking at?” Zachary asked.

  “So these coordinates that you gave me are probably like a two days hike outside the Glacier National Park,” said Jasmine.

  “The Glacier National Park?” Zachary asked.

  “You aren’t familiar?” Jasmine asked.

  Zachary shook his head.

  “You really do live in a psychology research bubble don’t you?  The Glacier National Park is only one of the most pristine national parks in America,” said Jasmine.

  “Is it on a glacier?” Zachary asked, laughing.

  “You can be a real knucklehead.  I think because of global warming the glaciers are melting but it still has like 20 – though I think there were like 150, when the park first opened,” said Jasmine.

  “So where is this map, Alaska?” Zachary asked.

  “No, you knucklehead.  This is still the continental US: Montana,” said Jasmine.

  “The Rocky Mountains,” said Zachary.

  “Oh, you do know some geography after all.  Do you know why you were sent a letter pinpointing this location?” Jasmine asked.

  Zachary shook his head, “I really have no idea.  I don’t know what he was getting at.  Perhaps he wanted to take a vacation at the Glacier National Park before he died.”

  “This location is outside the Glacier National Park, but you can see from the Google map that there are no roads.  This land is unsettled, pure wilderness.  The easiest way to get there would be from the Glacier National Park, to hike from the edge of its borders and then make our way to the coordinates,” said Jasmine.

  “It sounds like we are already going,” said Zachary.

  “We should!  Like I said, you don’t plan, you just go.  I’ve always wanted to go to the Glacier National Park.  Who knows maybe we’ll find some buried treasure,” said Jasmine.

  “A slight adventure,” said Zachary.

  “Yes, we’ll go on a slight adventure,” said Jasmine, kissing Zachary.

  “But I thought you said that when I finally take a vacation that it shouldn’t be a research vacation?” Zachary asked. 

  “This won’t be.  The final report is already being written by your colleague.  This just gives us a reason to go hike,” said Jasmine.

  “Couldn’t that be dangerous?  What if there are animals out there?” Zachary asked.

  “It will be a risk,” said Jasmine.

  “I’d rather not risk death,” said Zachary.

  “I’ll bring my bow.  If anything jumps out at us I will shoot it in the heart,” said Jasmine.

  “That’s right you said you almost made the archery Olympic Team.  Fighting for justice, expert archer – hmmm, maybe you are trying to suppress that Righteous Murder Trait after all,” said Zachary, laughing.

  “Hey, when are you going to test me for that anyway?” Jasmine asked.

  “Why don’t we do it when we get back?” said Zachary.

  “So, we are going then?” Jasmine asked.

  “Sure,” said Zachary.

  “You better be because I am going to buy us plane tickets right now,” said Jasmine, already searching for the cheapest tickets.

  Zachary told Jasmine that he needed to call Samantha first.  After receiving Samantha’s reluctant okay he gave Jasmine the go-ahead to make the ticket purchase.  Departure Time: 24 Hours.

  “What about gear?” Zachary asked.

  “I have everything I need, and I know everything that you need.  So on the way to the airport we will stop at Eastern Mountain Sports, and I’ll tell the sales people not to pester us, and I will scoop up everything in a swift buying blitz,” said Jasmine.

  “Just like that?” Zachary asked.

  “Just like that,” said Jasmine.

  The next day before leaving for his shopping spree, Zachary decided to call Philip’s daughter Laural and find out if she knew of any connection between Philip and the Glacier National Park.  However, she was as flummoxed as Zachary.  He thanked her and informed her that the final testing report was currently being written by a colleague.

  “Any word on when Windsor will make his announcement?” Laural asked.

  “When I presented him with some preliminary information he actually seeme
d almost ready to make a decision then and there.  He didn’t mention an exact date when an announcement would be made but I had the idea that it will be soon…”

   

   

              Glacier National Park:  Zachary had managed to buy and read three Glacier National Park guidebooks before their arrival, and like a first grader excited to tell his mother what he had learned in school, he kept bombarding Jasmine with facts, “Did you know that Glacier is over one million acres?...Did you know Glacier has more than 100 lakes?...Did you know that the mountain goat is the official park symbol?...Did you know…” 

  As they drove their rental car towards the park, Jasmine replied, “I’m glad that you are reading about where we are going.  But book learning and real life experience are two different things.  Remember that now is the time to shut down your research instincts and to just experience life.” 

   

  They planned to lodge for the first night in one of the park’s many grand hotels, Lake Mcdonald Lodge.  The next day they would continue down the legendary (a descriptor from Zachary’s guidebook) Sun Road until they reached their camping site.  Camping at Glacier is legal only at the park’s designated camping areas.  Therefore, if they made the decision to hike to Philip’s coordinates -- a decision which would entail more than one night of backpacking – they would have to camp illegally, subjecting themselves to the prospect of park fines, fines which the Glacier pamphlets described as, “$500 per offense and/or up to six months in jail.”  Yet Jasmine thought this unlikely to occur, “We will be in the middle of nowhere.  As long as we don’t make a fire, we should be fine.”

  “That comforts you that we will be in the middle of nowhere doesn’t it?” Zachary asked.

  “Yes, and believe me, it will comfort you once we get there too,” said Jasmine.

  “How do you know when you are in the middle and aren’t just, say on the sides or in a corner?” said Zachary.

  “You are such a dork,” said Jasmine.

  “But I’m not the orienteer,” said Zachary.

  “Is that your answer for everything that I say to you?” Jasmine said.

  “Pretty much,” said Zachary.

  “Weak.”

  During dinner at the lodge they struck up a conversation with a group of fly fishermen, then retiring early.  Again the sex seemed otherworldly and Zachary slept like a log.  Boston felt a whole universe away and in the morning, standing on the balcony with his arms wrapped around Jasmine and with blue skies wrapped around the world, he experienced an unaccustomed feeling: complete and utter contentment.     

  Later when they reached their camping outpost, Zachary marveled at Jasmine’s outdoor know-how.  Tents, fires, food, packing, unpacking – she could do it all. 

  “I have to admit that I have found myself having a hard time putting into words what I have experienced here so far, and we are only a couple of days in; but I think the simplest way to put it is that I feel free,” said Zachary, staring not at Jasmine but the snow capped peaks of the Rockies. 

  “Yes, which is strange isn’t it?  Because I bet back at home in Boston you didn’t feel like you were not free,” said Jasmine.

  “No of course not – we live in America, the land of the free – that has been drilled into my head my whole life – but maybe to be really free here in America you have to get away from, I don’t know --.”

  “The expectations of the world,” said Jasmine.

  “Is that it?” Zachary asked.

  “Yes, and with all this beauty in front of our face it is impossible to ignore how breathtaking life is even when nothing is happening.  I mean, what are we doing right now?” Jasmine asked.

  “Planning an illegal camping trip into the depths of an untrammeled wilderness,” said Zachary.

  “Well besides that, forget about that for a moment,” said Jasmine, laughing.  “We are just standing around and doing nothing.  Doesn’t it feel great to do nothing?”

  “Yes, I have to admit that it does.  For the last 24 hours I haven’t thought about psychology and its ramifications at all,” said Zachary, who breathing deeply added, “And the air here really is so much crisper.”

  “I’m glad we’re here together…” 

   

   

  Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two:  As Ralph and Mick walked towards the Area Two Lodge, Ralph realized that they, father and son, had finally traveled a common path.  In Area One Ralph had not experienced buck fever, just as his father had not experienced buck fever, and he had killed his first buck without hesitation.

  His arrow’s release had been sharp, his shot striking the buck’s neck.  Ralph bounded from his platform, and Mick, who had been watching from a platform behind, bounded down too.  Instinctively, Ralph grabbed his knife from his belt’s latch, preparing to stab the buck if the buck had not yet died.  However, as they approached the buck Mick explained, “An injured buck is a dangerous animal, so if it is injured you don’t want to get that close with a knife.  Instead poke it near the eyes with a long stick.”

  After poking the buck, it became clear that Ralph had killed the buck with a single arrow.  Ralph knew that his transition to Area Two would soon occur.

  And there I can prove to my father that I am worthy of the Thurmond name. 

  Ralph successfully field dressed, skinned, and butchered his buck.  By the end of these three processes Ralph understood that one of the most important factors to their efficient completion was the use of sharp knives.  As Mick explained, “A dull knife just does not get the job done.  That is why in Area Two you will learn the art of expert knife sharpening.” 

  Among other tasks, he’d had to hang the buck by the legs, slicing a sliver from the buck’s head (which he imagined was somewhat like scalping a man) so that the blood could successfully drain from the buck’s body; slice the buck from the genitals to the rib cage then turning the buck on his side and emptying his guts; cut through the diaphragm while avoiding the bladder (a task completed with much direction from his father) and cut through the esophagus so as to completely remove the intestines; cut in the shape of a circle around the neck and connect this with a cut through the stomach, then use a hacksaw to cut through the knees; remove the hide by pulling it down from the neck, over the leg nubs, and cutting it free by cutting off the tail; and lastly cut the meat from the buck, first from the hindquarters and the tenderloins and then from areas less choice. 

  Having finally finished all instructed tasks, he said whimsically, “That is the sort of thing that I could do all day long.  I have difficulty concentrating in math class father, but that was fun.”            

  Mick replied, “That is nothing to make light of Ralph.  The Thurmond family way is the way of the skilled hunter.  And a part of being a skilled hunter is preparing your meat for consumption.”

  “Father, I am ready for Area Two.  I know that I can meet all challenges there,” said Ralph, wiping the blood from his cutting knife clean.

  “Yes, I believe it too…”   

   

  The Area Two Lodge, a massive three storied shingled building, resembled a mansion more than a hunting lodge.  On three sides the lodge faced fields, each perhaps a minimum (Ralph estimated) of 500 yards that eventually led to thick wilderness; on the fourth side, the rear side, the lodge faced a flat expanse of trees. 

   “You may not approach within more than one hundred yards of the Area Two Lodge until you have completed you first Area Two kill,” said Mick.

  Ralph nodded.

  “Do you see this faint line of gold, drawn upon the ground?” Mick asked.

  “I see it father,” said Ralph, surprised to see a golden line which cut across the field.

  “This is called the Newcomers Mark,” said Mick.

  Ralph nodded.

  “Grey Cliff regulations stipulate that when a newcomer arrives the president gives the instructions.”

  “Father, I
will not disappoint you.”

  Mick hugged Ralph and then left for the lodge.  

  As Ralph waited for the president, Donald, he scoured the wilderness for signs of motion.

  I will kill a buck before this night is through. 

  A hooded figure approached, who Ralph soon realized to be Donald.  Dressed in all black and carrying what appeared to be a staff, he walked as if counting his steps. 

  As Donald neared, Ralph smiled but his smile was not returned.  Ralph shifted his feet nervously.

   Now within ten paces, Donald said, “Child, you have asked to be admitted to these hallowed halls.  You have passed the tests previously set before you.  Now it is time to show your mettle, here, in the place of reckoning.  Do you accept the challenge?”

  Ralph nodded.

  “The instructions are thus: One, until you make your first kill you will receive neither food nor water.  Two, until you make your first kill you will receive no shelter.  Three, your first kill will be a glorious kill and will be unlike any kill that you have ever made.  Four, your prey may not think of itself as your prey.  Five, you may find killing your prey difficult at first and then incredibly enjoyable.  Six, in deciding what creature your prey will be think not of what you think your mother or father would say.  Seven, you do the Thurmonds proud when you kill from the heart.  Eight, take no one from the outside to the Thurmond lodge for any reason.  Nine, if you think the kill is a strange kill then it might be the right kill.  Ten, if you think the kill is the wrong kill then it might be the right kill.  Those ten are the instructions.  Do you understand?” said Donald, handing him the paper that he had just read.

  “I think so,” said Ralph, though the nervous energy caused him to focus on the first two rules.

  No water, food, or shelter until you have made a kill…

  “I have these last words of instruction.  You must listen carefully for these last words will not be written down and so they must be remembered.  For this first kill you also must remember that your prey will cry out to you.  Listen for the crier, wait for the crier to approach, and then kill the crier and you will bring everlasting glory to yourself and the Grey Cliff Lodge,” said Donald, taking Ralph by the hand and leading him towards the wilderness. 

  “My father taught me about cries and about mating calls,” said Ralph, trying to remember what his father had taught him on this subject. 

  Donald, still holding Ralph by the hand tightened his grip as he replied, “I will lead you to the place from which you will still hunt.  Your father has told me that you have a good heart, can make a swift kill, and can prepare meat without growing queasy.  The Thurmond way is not an easy way, and though failure is always a possibility, for you my grandson I have high hopes.” 

  Twisting their way deep into the forest, Ralph realized that he felt like Hansel without bread crumbs.

  I’m not going to be able to find my way out of here.  

  “From this spot you shall begin your still hunting adventure,” said Donald, motioning to the thick woods which surrounded them.

  “Here?  But there is no clearing here and it is already beginning to grow dark,” Ralph protested.

  “That is why you shall have this torch,” said Donald, who then handed Ralph the long wooden object that he had been carrying.

  “Can’t I just have a flash light?” Ralph asked.

  “Tradition states that a torch must be used,” said Donald.

   “But this will scare everything in the forest away,” said Ralph, observing that the torch was nearly his height, and now wondering if this was all some elaborate practical joke.

  This doesn’t even make any sense.  No one can hunt with a torch! 

  “Not all animals will be frightened by the sight of the fire.  Some will be driven to it.  And if prey is driven to the fire you must ask yourself if that is the prey that needs to be killed,” said Donald.

  “So I’m not looking for a buck?  I’m looking for some nocturnal animal?” said Ralph, no longer sure how to proceed with his task.

  “Follow my instructions,” said Donald, who after lighting the torch descended back into the woods.   

  “You’re leaving now?” Ralph asked, the torch blazing about his head.

  Donald nodded, now practically out of sight.

  “But how am I supposed to use my arrow if I also have to hold this torch?” Ralph shouted.  But Donald could no longer been seen and he gave no reply.  

  Darkness arrived with the abruptness of bad news.  Ralph searched for a clearing so that he could gather brush and start a fire.  However, he was unable to locate a clearing because the wilderness remained inexplicably dense. 

  What does Donald mean that the prey will come to me?

   For what seemed like hours Ralph leaned against a tree, somberly watching as the blaze of his torch began to fade. 

  In the distance Ralph heard the sound of a helicopter. 

  Is that the family helicopter? 

  Ralph knew that he had to think fast and devise a plan.  From his position in the dense brush it seemed that simply continuing to hold the torch was the best option for making his position known.  Angling the torch into the air, the sky above remained an unlit sea of black.  But he heard the helicopter fly directly overhead, and he shouted, “I’m here!  I’m here!”  

  Ralph heard the helicopter flying even lower. 

  It must be landing!  So there must be a clearing close! 

  He rushed through briars and prickles.  At first the pain did not slow him and he barreled forward.  Yet after fifty yards or so of tearing through the wilderness, he slowed.  Suddenly Ralph again heard the sound of the helicopter’s blade.  The landed helicopter had begun lift-off.

  I can’t get a break in my luck here… 

  He thought of his home and of his mother who he loved dearly.  He thought of his ex-girlfriend and how he had ruined their relationship. 

  I never should have offered her the drugs.  I wish I could take it back. 

  From deep in the distance he heard a voice miraculously calling into the dead of the night, “Hello!  Hello!  Is anyone there?  Hello!  Is anyone there?”

  Ralph shouted, “I am here! Hello, I am here!”

  Ralph expected the man to reply at once.  But he was met with silence.  Wondering what this all meant – perhaps he could not hear me! – Ralph attempted to yell louder, and screamed, “Yes, I said I am here!  Hello!  Hello!  I am here!  Can, you hear me?  I am here.”  

  Again silence.  Had his mind been playing tricks?  He yelled out a third time: nothing still.  After a few minutes of wretched silence the voice sounded again from deep in the distance, “Who are you?”

  Ralph yelled at once, “Ralph Thurmond.  I am lost!  Who are you?”

  Silence again.  Was this a game?   Some part of his ordeal? 

  To pretend there is human contact and then to take it away? 

  Ralph shouted, “Please answer me.”

  This time the man answered quickly, yelling, “You sound like a boy.”

  “I am 16,” Ralph yelled.

  “What are you doing here?” yelled the man.

  “I’m lost.  Can you see my torch?” Ralph yelled.

  “Yes, I can see it,” yelled the man.

  “How far are we?” yelled Ralph.

  Silence again.

  “Answer me please!” Ralph yelled.

  Silence again.  A minute passed and Ralph yelled, trying to hide the desperation from his voice.

  “What are you doing here,” the man yelled back – though this time it seemed to Ralph that the voice had grown more distant. 

  Is he moving away from my direction?

  “I’m lost,” Ralph yelled, (for what seemed like the tenth time).

  “You sound white,” yelled the man.

  “What?” Ralph yelled back, unsure what the man meant.

  “A white person,” yelled the voice.

&
nbsp; “Yes, I am white,” yelled Ralph.

  There was no reply, and Ralph wondered if he had stumbled upon some strange mountain man. 

  Perhaps he is a recluse who saw my torch and became curious, but now hearing my story he does not wish to help. 

  Ralph’s continued to yell but received no reply.  On the verge of tears, he remembered the parting words of his father. 

  But what am I supposed to do here alone and in the dark?

  The snapping of a twig sounded from the darkness and Ralph wondered if a nocturnal animal approached.  A long silence followed. He heard the snap of another twig and the sound of movement through bushes.  Ralph guessed the animal to be large.  Thinking that he should prepare his bow – though what stalks me I have no idea -- he searched for a place to wedge his torch upright.  

  Please let there be no growling from the darkness…

  Instead, he heard the man’s voice, “I asked you before: what are you doing out here?”

  Ralph tightened his grip around his bow.  At least with an animal he knew what to expect.  But if Ralph had stumbled upon a crazed mountain man, one perhaps violently territorial, who could tell what the outcome might be?  Still, he saw no reason to panic, and answered, “I thought you were some wild animal thank God!  I’m lost.  My name is Ralph Thurmond.  Who are you?”

  “Lost, why?” the man asked from the darkness. 

  Ralph was not sure how to reply.

  What do I say?  That my grandfather brought me here and hinted that I needed to hunt a nocturnal beast? 

  “I was with a hunting party, and I became separated from them, and now I am lost,” Ralph lied, though not sure what else he could have said.

  “Why do you have that torch?” the man asked, still hidden.

  “Everyone in my hunting party had one, just in case we get lost,” said Ralph, again wishing that his grandfather had simply given him a flashlight.

  “I’ve never seen a torch that big.  It looks strange,” said the man.

  “Yes, it is a big torch,” said Ralph, while smiling at his torch.  “Who are you?  Why are you staying out there in the darkness?”

  “Man, you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said the man, and now Ralph heard the sound of twigs snapping and branches moving as the man approached.  Ralph saw that he was an African American, and Ralph instantly tried to hide his displeasure, a difficult act he knew, because his face glowed brightly beneath the torch’s blaze. 

  The presence of African Americans had always caused Ralph to become riddled with a mixture of unpleasant emotions.  And although in school Ralph had dutifully learned about racism and the continued oppression of African Americans, this learning had never changed his personal (though hidden) feeling of African Americans, a feeling of a soon to arrive sickness.

  With a group of white friends, he spoke freely and without forethought; he could also make all the African American jokes that he wished, and though the jokes were usually nothing too pejorative, just calling his white friends “my nigger” and things like that, still, these were moments of edited life whenever some African American was hanging around. 

  Furthermore, Ralph sensed that African Americans did not feel comfortable around him.  He had been accused more than once of staring at them with some freakishly blank stare, and though he had denied the staring each time, he couldn’t help but sense that there was something beyond their blackness that he wished to examine, poke, and probe.

   But now, to be stuck out here in the woods, with this strange African American, what a nightmare!  We are going to have nothing in common.  Frankly, I think that I would have rather stumbled upon a crazy mountain hermit.

  Ralph did not consider himself a racist because he knew that he was perfectly capable of suppressing, like a violent dog crated for the sake of guests, his roaring disgust, and that once suppressed –which is an instant occurrence really -- that he would say and do all the right things.  Therefore, after the man had stepped into the light and Ralph had forced a pleasant expression on his face, he said, “No, I would like to hear your story.  How is it that you came to be out here in the middle of the night?”

  The man searched for a place to sit, but finding nothing, he leaned against a tree.  “Man, this is the craziest shit that has ever happened to me – and I was in Vietnam.  Man, I’m spooked.  I don’t know if I even want to talk about it.  I just want to get out of these woods and get the fuck back home.”

  “What’s your name?” Ralph asked.

  Evidently the man did want to tell his story, because without further prodding he said, “All right, this is how it all went down.  My name is Jeremy.  I’m from D.C but I was staying in Bethesda Virginia.  If you aren’t familiar it is a rich town.  I’m a panhandler man.  I’m not ashamed to say it --.”

  Are you kidding me?

    “…So there I am panhandling and I’m I having an all right day – I’ve probably made like 50 bucks and this white van comes along and gives me a 20.  That’s a lot of cash to get from one car.  So I’m feeling really good.  But get this: the guy offers to give me a ride to D.C.  I’ve been dying to get back to D.C.  Bethesda has been driving me nuts.  The cops there are nut-jobs.  I mean, worse than me man, and I’ve spent a lot of time in a lot of institutions okay…”

  Great, so I’m stuck alone in the woods with some nutcase African American.         

  “…but this guy says he’ll take me to D.C.  So I get into his van right?”

  Ralph nodded. 

  How long is this pointless story going to be?

  Jeremy continued, “And there are these two guys in the back.  So they tell me: get in.  So I get in.  The next I know I wake up and I’m all tied up --.”

  “You’re tied up?” Ralph asked. 

  Great, so this guy probably just escaped from an institution.  He’s delusional.

  Jeremy replied, “Yeah, tied up around my arms and around my legs.  And then I start yelling but then they start hitting me --.”

  “So how did you end up out here?” Ralph asked. 

  As in, skip to the end of the story…

  “I’m tied up and traveling in that van for a good long while.  And then they took me out of the van and put me inside a box.  It was big enough to sit in and it was sound proof – they told me that I could scream in it as loud as I wanted but that it wouldn’t matter because no one would hear me.  I traveled inside that box for a long time --.”

  “So what happened next?” Ralph asked.

  “I don’t know.  But I was just taken by helicopter to these woods,” said Jeremy.

  “You were inside that helicopter that just flew by,” Ralph asked. 

  What is this guy doing: mixing fact and fiction?

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Jeremy.

  Suddenly Ralph remembered the box that had been in the back of their SUV. 

  He loaded it into the helicopter.  What the fuck…

  “So if you were inside some locked soundproof box then how did you get out?” Ralph asked.

  “They took me out of the helicopter and put me on the ground.  I’m going crazy inside there because I think that I am going to die at any moment.  I mean why do people go through all that trouble just to let me out?” Jeremy asked. 

  The concern on his face looks genuine.  But he’s a panhandler: he knows how to put on an act.

  “Who were they?  And you didn’t tell me how you got out,” Ralph said, the thought flashing through his mind that his relatives might somehow be involved, but also thinking this irrational.

  But being left alone in the middle of the wilderness without food or drink is also irrational…

  “They looked like average white people.  I guess like you but a little older, you know, fat and balding.  But I don’t know who was in the helicopter.  They put me on the ground and flew back into the air.  They must have had some remote controller or something, because suddenly the box just popped o
pen,” said Jeremy.

  “So you were like a human jack in the box?” Ralph asked, searching for holes in the man’s story.  Yet he had the feeling that their meeting had not been a chance occurrence, and that it was his duty to figure out the next course of action.

   Maybe I am supposed to save this guy?  I always hear about these Grey Cliff merit badges.  Is this whole thing some elaborate set up so that I earn a Grey Cliff merit badge for helping a homeless guy?    

  “Yeah, it just popped open,” said Jeremy.

  “Can you take me to the box?” said Ralph.

  “I’ve been walking away from that box just as fast as I could.  I don’t want to go back to the place where I was imprisoned,” said Jeremy.

  This guy is good.  He always has an answer ready. 

  “Yeah, but think about it.  If you were a kidnapper and you let someone go, would you go back to the place where you let them go?  That would be stupid.  The police could be there waiting,” said Ralph.

  “They know I don’t have a phone and that I am in the middle of nowhere.  For all I know they could still be watching.  That’s why I didn’t know if I should come to the fire.  I didn’t know if you were one of the kidnappers.  But I came because you aren’t that old.”

  “Seriously Jeremy let’s go check out the box.  For one thing if it is made of wood we could break it up and make a fire…”

  Jeremy remained reluctant, but eventually he caved. 

  He’ll probably just say that he can’t find it.  That way he can continue with his lie. 

  “Hey man, where is your search party?” Jeremy asked.

  “My search party?” said Ralph.

  “Yeah, you said you were lost.  There must be search party out there,” said Jeremy.

  “Maybe there is: I don’t know,” said Ralph.

  “Well, why wouldn’t there be?  Does your family not like you?” Jeremy asked.

  “You know Jeremy I really don’t know the answer to that right now,” said Ralph, thinking this perhaps the most honest statement he had made to Jeremy all night.

  They entered a small field.

  “I never thought I’d see open land again; I was getting claustrophobic in there,” said Ralph, pulling briars off his pants.

  “That’s where I was getting claustrophobic, right in there,” said Jeremy, pointing ahead.

  Ralph, pointing the torch forward, observed what appeared to be a box.

  It can’t be!

   It was an exact match for the box that had been in the back of his father’s SUV. 

  Was this man Jeremy my father’s prisoner?  And if so what was the purpose?  Has this man done my family some harm?

  “I told you.  I told you man.  I told you, there it is.  Look at that fucking thing.  I was in there,” said Jeremy, backing away from the box as if it were capable of attack.     

  Ralph sat on a log. 

  I have to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

  Ralph said, “Maybe we should rest and make a fire.  If my people are looking for me then it really does not make much sense for us to move around.”

  “Yeah, okay, but this place still gives me the creeps.  I don’t like looking at that box.  I thought I was going to die there man,” said Jeremy.

  “Yeah, well they aren’t coming back whoever they are,” said Ralph, wondering again if “they” might somehow be connected to his family -- and then suddenly sensing that there was an important action he needed to take.

  But I just can’t put my finger on what it is…

  “Man, after you been through what I’ve been through you don’t know what the fuck to think.  I’m just glad it is fucking over,” said Jeremy. 

  “Do you know how to build a fire?  Because I am clueless,” said Ralph.

  “Yeah, I can do that man.  I got to build fires all the time to keep warm, you know?  I usually just build them in trashcans but I know how to build a fire, yeah.  Here, you take the torch again and follow me around while I gather some dry wood, cause the wood has got to be dry my man, the wood has got to be dry,” said Jeremy. 

  This guy has so little to offer the world that whenever he has something to offer he says it loud and like it’s a big deal…When is this night finally going to be over?

  The more Ralph pondered the matter, the more it seemed a probability that Jeremy was a crucial, though as yet undetermined, component of his Grey Cliff Area Two initiation. 

  But what is Jeremy’s purpose? 

  Jeremy started a fire.  Ralph tossed the torch into the fire, the fire fanning like some conjured demon.  

  Ralph unfolded his instruction paper.  The first two directions merely stated his dire reality: that he could neither eat nor drink nor enter the cabin (and therefore sleep indoors) until he had completed his first kill in Area Two.  The third direction stated that his kill would be “glorious” and “unlike any kill that you have ever made.”  This direction solidified his earlier suspicion that he was not hunting for a buck because he’d already killed a buck and this kill would be “unlike any kill that you have ever made.” 

  The fourth direction stated that the prey “may not think of itself as your prey.”  However, it seemed to Ralph only tamed animals did not think of themselves as a human’s potential prey. 

  Am I hunting a tame animal?  But what would a tame animal be doing out here?   

  The fifth direction stated that making the kill would both “difficult” and “enjoyable.” This direction at least made some sense to Ralph.  His father had explained more than once the phenomenon of buck fever: that before the moment of killing a buck some hunters freeze and allow the buck to escape; yet if the killing is concluded the results are enjoyable.

  The sixth direction stated that before killing his prey that Ralph should “think not of what your mother or father would say.”  Ralph found this to be an odd direction, especially when compared with direction seven, which was “You do the Thurmonds proud when you kill from the heart.”  How could he do the Thurmonds proud and yet not take into consideration what his mother and father would say?  After all, his mother and father were Thurmonds. 

  The eighth direction was straight forward, “take no one from the outside to the Thurmond lodge for any reason.” 

  Fine, I can handle that.  Why can’t all the directions be that clear? 

  But unfortunately the ninth and tenth directions were more nebulous, stating, “If you think the kill is a strange kill then it might be the right kill” and, “If you think the kill is the wrong kill then it might be the right kill.”  The ninth direction did not surprise Ralph, that the kill might be strange, because whole night had been strange.  But the tenth direction was a paradox.  How could something be both wrong and right? 

    He recalled the verbal directions that his grandfather had given. 

  Something about an animal crying.  The only noises I have heard have come from this buffoon to my right.

   No!  That would be preposterous! 

  Suddenly Ralph considered the absurd possibility that Jeremy was his prey.  Ralph obviously knew that he had not been left in the middle of the wilderness to murder another human.  Yet, as he reviewed the ten directions and the final verbal directions, Jeremy was almost a perfect fit.  A human would certainly be “unlike any kill” that Ralph had ever made.  Jeremy did not “think of itself” as Ralph’s prey.  And killing a human would clearly be “difficult.” 

  Yet it would obviously not be “enjoyable,” so that part did not fit.

  However, in a joking way maybe it does because this guy has been driving me crazy.

   If he killed another human he would need to refrain from considering what “his mother or father would say.”  But would killing Jeremy “do the Thurmonds proud”? 

  Perhaps – because if Jeremy had been telling the truth and he had been transported to this location in a box, then it was also possible that members of Grey Cliff had done the tr
ansporting, and therefore there might be some reason why Jeremy needed to be punished. 

  Furthermore, killing a human would be “strange.”  And likewise killing a human would be “wrong” – because as Ralph had been taught in school, only the government can kill another human and then only after being convicted by a jury of peers.  So how could killing this man be “right?”  That part did not fit either. 

  But Jeremy had cried out to him into the night and also Jeremy had sought Ralph’s flame. 

  Ralph chuckled to himself as he imagined shooting an arrow into Jeremy’s heart.

  That will certainly stop his motor mouth once and for all!

   “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” said Ralph, trying to stop his chuckling.  However, for some reason he couldn’t drive from his mind the picture of shooting an arrow into Jeremy’s heart, and the more he tried to stop, the more he thought of it, and the more he thought of it, the funnier it became.  Eventually his chuckling increased into laughter.

  “Oh, man, you got to tell me now,” said Jeremy, who had begun warming his hands in the fire.

  Finally Ralph contained his laughter.  However, his laughter’s containment only seemed to build its pressure.

  “Come on man, I’m in need of hearing something funny.  My days have been miserable lately.  You got to tell me,” said Jeremy.

  Ralph composed himself.  “You wouldn’t think it was funny.”

  “Why not?” Jeremy asked.

   “I’m hungry and I’m thirsty and I think things have become funny that aren’t really funny,” said Ralph.

  “Oh, you are laughing at our situation,” Jeremy guessed.

  “Yeah, something like that,” said Ralph, and though the image again appeared, Ralph suppressed his laughter.

  “Yeah, when things get bad sometimes laughter is the best medicine.  But man we got each other and in the morning we’ll find our way.  It won’t be so bad.  You’ll see…” 

   

  Washington: Charles’ head entered a space with little candlelight, a dark hole, and he spoke softly, “Before you can hunt you must learn the fundamentals, such as skinning and butchering.”

  Windsor considered this statement, nodding in agreement.

  This time it was Charles who slammed his fist upon the table, the empty plates bouncing and their bloody oozes flying forth and settling brightly into the white table cloth.  “Now is the time!”

  Further glasses of whiskey were consumed, and though Windsor could hardly stand, he told Charles that he was ready to learn the Thurmond family’s first hunting step: the skinning and butchering of already slaughtered meat.  However, Windsor was so wobbly that he needed Charles’s assistance as he was led from the table and through the now dark house. 

  “Have you no lights brother?” Windsor asked.

  But Charles did not reply and led Windsor by the hand down darkened stairs.  Suddenly Windsor remembered that he still held a gun tucked into his pants. 

  If it should fall out then what would I say? 

  “We are descending into my basement.  This is the place where I store my fresh meat.  This is the place where my skinning and butchering occurs,” said Charles.

  Windsor felt his foot scuff upon the basement’s floor.  Suddenly, a light blinded him.

  “Here take it,” said Charles, handing the flashlight to Windsor,

  Windsor took the flashlight, shining it around.  But, he saw no clear direction, and said, “Where should I go?”

  “To the meat room, to the meat!” Charles exclaimed.

  Without a whiskey in his hand, Windsor found that Charles’s exclamation rang hollow.  “So there is a meat room I must locate?”

  “Indeed!” Charles exclaimed, as if Windsor had just made a great discovery.  Windsor chose a direction at random.  He noted many meat hooks and bloody butchering instruments upon tables, but he saw no meat room.  He walked parallel to each wall, until he had located a small opening, one barely slim enough for a normal sized man to fit through.  Windsor pointed the flashlight into the darkness, finding, predictably, more darkness.

  “Is this where we must go?” Windsor asked.

  “I call this the Hall of Changed States.  The people who enter, depart in a changed state,” said Charles, as delightedly as if he had confided a secret accomplishment.

  “We will be quite constrained,” said Windsor.

  “A curious design clearly, but the meat found at the end is well worth the awkward scurrying,” said Charles.

  A divine taste still remaining in Windsor’s mouth, he saw no other option than to navigate this peculiar hall.

  For if possible more meat should be obtained.

  Therefore, Windsor sucked in his gut and walked sideways into the dark hall, dirt falling about his head. 

  “How do you move so compactly?  You are bigger,” Windsor asked.

  “With the practice of many years,” said Charles.

  At the hall’s end, Windsor discovered a large empty room.  To his left were three metal doors and as he approached he observed upon each a combination lock. 

  Why does Charles lock his venison?

  However, as if reading his mind, Charles stated, “You would lock up your meat too if it tasted as good as mine.”

  Windsor laughed, admitting this to be true, adding, “And I think I would hire an armed guard to protect it as well.  So which of these doors contains the venison from which I will be taught?”

  Charles pointed to the middle door and told Windsor the combination.  Windsor entered the combination and pulled the door open.  Inside, a large buck hung from its feet with a bucket below the head to catch the drained blood.  To the left was a table with skinning and butchering instruments.  Zachary approached the instruments and ran his hands over them, accidently drawing blood.  He sucked his finger.

  “We always keep our knives quite sharp – you are luckily that the cut is not deeper,” said Charles, who had taken Windsor’s hand in his own and examined the wound.  “Fortunately, you are not the only clumsy Thurmond.  I have a first aid case here.”

  Having dressed Windsor’s cut, Charles asked him which knife he would like to use.

  “For what purpose?” Windsor asked, still somewhat shocked, even through his foggy drunkenness, that the knife had been so sharp.

  “The perfect question: for skinning.  That is the first step,” said Charles.

  Windsor examined the buck, saying, “But it appears all the skin has been removed.”

  “Precisely so – our animal is contained in the door to our left.  We came into this room to gather the instruments,” said Charles.  

  “Lead me to the beast and the beast shall be skinned!”

   

   

  Glacier National Park:  Like children discovering a common pursuit, Jasmine and Zachary sometimes spoke with rushing words for hours on end, and the hiking seemed as effortless as if they were lounging on a boat’s hull and watching the shore pass.

  It is like I have been a brick mason, who has steadily worked to seal himself inside a brick box and in doing so I have blotted out the sun, the blue skies, and all the natural wealth of the world.  Instead existing within a lightless pit of my own creating, pondering for hours upon end subjects sometimes as horrific as the CMR trait?  And why?  So I can pay for a home in Arlington?  So that I can display the outward signs of success?  No signs of success can compete with what I witness here, and what I witness here can never be owned…         

  “Everyone should have a chance to experience this,” said Zachary.  Light spliced in beams through the branches of towering pines and Zachary reached down and touched water rushing through a ravine of moss covered rock.  

  After walking for eight hours they set up camp.  Jasmine’s choice of gear had served them well.  Anything needed was easily at hand and yet their backpacks were light.  Blisters had formed on Zachary and Jasmine’s feet, and Jasmine bro
ke them with a needle and heeled them with an ointment.  They set up their tent and organized their packs, ensuring that everything was well covered should a sudden rain begin. 

  Later Jasmine showed Zachary her prowess with a bow, setting up targets and nailing them with ease.  “If you want to put an apple on your head, I’m game,” Jasmine joked.

  “Have you ever hunted?” Zachary asked.

  Jasmine shook her head.

  “Why not?” said Zachary.

  “I’ve never had the urge.  I know that whole argument that it makes more sense to kill what you are going to eat.  But that doesn’t make sense to me,” said Jasmine.

  “Why not?” Zachary asked.

  “I’d rather eat something that has been cooped up on a farm for its entire life than eat something that once was free,” said Jasmine.

  “You don’t want to take away the freedom of the animals in the forest?” said Zachary.

  “Exactly.  But I should really just become a vegetarian,” said Jasmine, laughing.

  “So why didn’t you make the Olympic team?” Zachary asked.

  “I came very close – so I was proud of where I finished,” said Jasmine.

  “You reached your potential,” said Zachary.

  “I guess,” said Jasmine, becoming contemplative.  “I don’t know I wouldn’t go that far.  Shooting at targets is fun but in the end I don’t see the point of it.  It’s like when I go bowling.  When I go bowling I have the feeling that I should be paid,” said Jasmine.

   “Why?”

  “When I am bowling I feel like I am working in a factory – maybe on some strange assembly line – You know you just do the same motion over and over.  And eventually I start to feel like I should be getting paid.  But I don’t get paid for bowling, which is one of the reasons I hate it,” said Jasmine.

  “You feel like there are a bunch of bowling alleys out there that owe you money,” said Zachary, and they both laughed. 

  Dusk approached.  A fallen log was used for a bench and they sat silently.  Nothing exceptional was happening, no clever twist in a movie to behold, no sensational gossip to hear, no triumphant achievement to witness, and yet Zachary was transfixed. 

  He would describe this later to a friend as one of his greatest spiritual moments and that as an atheist it was the closest he had ever come to the belief in a higher power, a ubiquitous energy of the universe.  Best of all it seemed that they were the only man and woman on the earth.  And in a way they were.  They’d heard no other voices for at least a day.  And so for all they knew the world had ended and they were its last inhabitants.  And although it had only been one day, this disconnect, what some refer to as an unplugging, had rendered a shocking effect on Zachary’s facilities. 

  “That was a good idea to leave our cell phones in the rental.  Like you said our batteries would eventually die anyway.  And if I had taken my cell phone I would have been surfing all over the internet.  My mind would have been divided.  But now I feel complete.  And though we are walking forward to a destination, to some mysterious coordinates, I feel like we are really searching for nothing because everything is already right here,” said Zachary.

  “It’s strange how the middle of nowhere can turn busy bodies into philosophers?” said Jasmine, smiling a smile so sweet that Zachary noted that it challenged the beauty of their surroundings. 

  “You said this trip would affect my thinking.  I think is already has,” said Zachary.

  “As a radio host, I must constantly judge and you as a research psychologist must constantly evaluate – but sometimes you need to do the exact opposite of what is most important to you.  It seems anti-intuitive, but a u-turn can be one of the most effective ways to grow.  We humans don’t know nearly as much as we think and so sometimes we must escape our arrogance and just submit before existence…”

  Jasmine philosophized for a few minutes more and then they made love.  For Zachary it felt like a ménage a trios because it almost seemed that the forest had been involved.  They ate a small portion of their packed food and then made love again.  After they spoke about meaningless things, Jasmine revealed a book of poetry that she had stowed away – her one unpractical item.

  “I didn’t know you were a fan,” said Zachary.

  “I’m not.  Poetry doesn’t really do anything for me,” said Jasmine.

  “Then why did you bring that book?” said Zachary, laughing.

  “Because here the rules of the real world don’t apply, because here poetry is perfect,” said Jasmine.

  They read from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. It seemed that all life was good and it became hard for Zachary to accept that a nature so beautiful had afflicted some with burdens as difficult to bear asCMR.  Suddenly Zachary caught himself thinking in his usual ambitious manner and he laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Jasmine asked.

  “I was thinking about my work and it occurred to me how absurd it was for me to think about my work out here,” said Zachary, laughing again.

  “And isn’t that pleasant?  We are in a place where no work can find us.  My work, my radio show, usually focuses on the criminal justice industrial complex --.”

  “I know I listen.  That’s why if I was going to be interviewed I wanted to be interviewed on your show.  I wasn’t kidding when I told you that.  I wasn’t trying to butter you up,” said Zachary.

    Jasmine laughed and said, “Often my work takes me to a dark place that I’d rather not go.  But I feel compelled to do it because I think I can help people...  The criminal justice system in America is a disgrace.  Our courts system is based on maintaining legal procedure and not maintaining common sense.  We have had a string of ridiculous decisions that all appear on the surface to be race-neutral but as a confluence have made things really bad for the African-American community.  It has literally gotten to the point where African American females do not have African American males to date because all the men are in jail--.”

  “Is that why you are dating me?” Zachary asked.

  Jasmine laughed and continued, “But the mainstream news just presents that statistic, the jail one, alone.  But what the mainstream news does not talk about is why all these African American males are in jail, which is the injustice in the criminal justice system --.”

  “Now you are thinking about work,” said Zachary.

  “My point in bringing up my work is that even in a state of affairs where the world is horribly upside down, I also understand that things change: old injustices die and new injustices grow.  But here I can just be.  And that is nice.  If we could take this frame of mind and give it to people as gifts, the world would be a much better place,” said Jasmine.

  “It’s like pure freedom,” Zachary agreed.    

  “You know it is funny, remember my ancestor’s slave narrative?” Jasmine asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, because that racist group named themselves after Thomas Jefferson and because he is implicated in the narrative as the father of many more bastard children with his slaves, I became, I think, somewhat understandably rather obsessed with learning about Thomas Jefferson,” said Jasmine.

  “Yes, that is completely understandable.  I have become obsessed with subjects for reasons much less involved than that,” said Zachary, again noting how soothing it felt to be beyond the reach of all such obsessions. 

  “So I’ve read about a million Thomas Jefferson biographies and it is funny because in a lot of his older biographies, ones before the DNA evidence of his coupling, or rape, or whatever, of Sally Hemings came out, a lot of the biographies made these elaborate cases for why Jefferson never could have slept with Sally Hemings --.”

  “Such as?”

  “All different reasons and as farfetched as you can imagine, but a lot of them implied that it never could have happened because Jefferson was too civilized --.”

  “Civilized?”

  “Yes, that he was the
perfect gentlemen.  But I think they should have realized from the get-go that they were making a really bogus argument because it does not take all that much life experience to learn that many people who appear civilized and good on the surface are often trying to hide something monstrous,” said Jasmine.

  Like Windsor…

  Jasmine continued, “So anyway this guy – the main author of the Declaration of Independence interested me big time, he still does by the way, and I have studied him a lot.  But it’s funny but because I have read so much about him I often take him with me.”

  “Is he here right now?” Zachary asked, playfully looking around.

  “Yes, he is – This place makes me think of his work as a proponent of natural rights.  At that time the idea of natural rights was cutting edge stuff.  People did not take it for granted,” said Jasmine.

  “And natural nights are related to the idea that we are all entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, right?”

   “Yes, that’s right,” said Jasmine.

  “So what exactly, besides that line in the Declaration that I just mentioned, is the idea of natural rights anyway?” Zachary asked.

  “So I get to teach the professor?” Jasmine joked.

  “Hey, you’ve been teaching me a lot – and I don’t just mean, you know,” said Zachary, laughing and nodding to the tent.

  “Kings and Queens held that they had divine rights, or that they were empowered by God to do whatever the hell they wanted to people.  Natural Rights is the idea that every human has certain rights that cannot be taken away.  For example a government may declare that slavery is legal.  However, if you believe that freedom is a natural right then it is impossible for one person to enslave another, even if you live in a country where slavery is declared legal,” said Jasmine.

  “How so?” 

  “Because while the master might enslave a person’s body they can never enslave that person’s mind, so the slave is free even while enslaved.  The slave relationship is a false state of affairs, because freedom in an inalienable right,” said Jasmine.

  “I bet it felt pretty real to American slaves,” said Zachary.

  “Of course – And this is one of the reasons they were often kept illiterate – so that they couldn’t discover ideas like natural rights,” said Jasmine.

  “Here is a question for you: how did Jefferson reconcile his advocacy of natural rights, one of them being the inalienable right to freedom with his position as a slave master?” Zachary asked.

  “He tried when he was younger.  For example, when he wrote the first draft of the Declaration he tried to blame Britain for America’s institution of slavery.  But the argument was not that logically strong and the most members of the delegation wanted the document more focused, and also they didn’t want to piss off the South, so they took it out.  Also, when he was younger he tried to present some measures which would have gradually ended slavery – but they failed to pass or even be presented in some cases.  As he got older he no longer tried to reconcile the contradiction.  He wanted to live lavishly – and so he needed his slaves,” said Jasmine.

  “How can people be like that?  How can they try to impose their will on other people?” Zachary asked.

  “People can make convincing arguments for anything.  But that’s why a place like this is so great.  Out here the truth is so clear.  Here it would be very difficult for anyone to make the argument that freedom is not an inalienable right…”    

   

  The next day they happened upon a footpath.  At noon Zachary’s romantic illusion of complete solitude came to halt when they met a man upon the trail; he was on horseback and seemed as surprised by the chance encounter as Jasmine and Zachary. 

  The man, Ronald, was a Native American of the Blackfeet Nation and he explained that they had wandered to the edge of the Blackfeet’s 1.5 million acre reservation.  He had never heard of tourists wandering into a corner so remote.

  Zachary and Jasmine explained that they were on a backpacking adventure, and Ronald laughed.  “You do know that there are wolverines here?” 

  Jasmine nodded and Zachary tried to hide his discomfort. 

  Ronald noticed Jasmine’s bow and told her that hunting was illegal on parks grounds and was forbidden on the Blackfeet reservation unless permission was granted.  She informed him that the bow was only for “protection of the last resort and mostly so that my friend here will feel safe.” 

  Ronald asked if they had reached their destination.

  “No, we will continue in that direction,” said Jasmine, pointing.

  Ronald’s smile vanished and he asked, “How far?”

  “Another one or two day hike I believe,” said Jasmine.

  “Why do you wish to go that way?” Ronald asked.

  Zachary said, “It’s difficult to explain, but someone I worked for, before he died, he seemed to hint that we should go to this place.  We don’t know what we will find, if anything at all.  He was so old you see that he was losing his mind and so his instructions may have been nothing more than gibberish.”

  “You should not go that way,” said Ronald.             

  “Is it difficult to pass through?” said Jasmine.

  “That is not a good way.  You should go that way,” said Ronald, and pointing in the opposite direction, he added, “Yes, that way, the way that you came.”

  “What’s wrong with the way we are going?” Jasmine asked.

  “For my ancestors, when the buffalo still roamed, they would not follow the buffalo there,” said Ronald, pointing in the direction that Jasmine had pointed.  “And so we do not wander there either.”

  “Why?” Jasmine asked. 

  “Places are like people.  Places have souls.  And as we all stand here we sense this place and sense that its soul is good do we not?”  Ronald asked.

  Zachary and Jasmine nodded.

  “The way you are going that is a place with a soul that is not good.  That is a place with a bad soul…”

  Jasmine and Zachary thanked Ronald for his advice.  Before they parted Ronald invited Jasmine and Samantha to his home for lunch “when your journey has concluded.”  Thanking him, they exchanged telephone numbers.

  After Ronald had left, Zachary said, “That was strange.”

  “Yes, but I liked it – it added to our --.”

  “Slight adventure?” Zachary guessed.

  “Yes, exactly.  I think it did.  We were warned by the wise old Native American --.”

              “He wasn’t really old,” Zachary interrupted.

  Jasmine laughed, saying, “Okay fine he wasn’t – I guess that would have been too perfect.  But anyway we were warned by the wise Native American not to continue forward.  And we being the cocky city slickers that we are, what do we do?”

  “We continue forward and then we face tragedy,” said Zachary.

  “Exactly, it is like we have entered into some movie’s predictable plot device.  It is almost too perfect,” said Jasmine.

  “I’m glad you see it like that.  I pretty much just saw it as a warning, and maybe a valid one at that.  Do you really think we should keep going?  His ancestors didn’t follow the buffalo there,” said Zachary.

  “I guarantee he was making that up,” said Jasmine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same thing if you were a Native America and some tourists wandered onto your reservation?” Jasmine asked.

  “I don’t follow you,” said Zachary.

  “He’s seen all the movies too.  He knows that the Native Americans always warn people, ‘Oh, don’t go that way, that is an Indian burial ground’ or ‘Oh, don’t go that way there are evil spirits there.’  He knows that and I guarantee that every time he happens upon tourists he asks them where they are going and then he says the same thing, no matter what the direction they are going.  He’s probably going to gallop off to a bar right now
and laugh about this with his buddies,” said Jasmine.

  Zachary shook his head, chuckling.

  “He brought up the wolverine too, he was obviously trying to scare us,” said Jasmine.

  “I did read about wolverine in the guidebooks.  I just didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to think about it,” said Zachary.

  “But guess who is with me again?” Jasmine asked.

  “Thomas Jefferson?” said Zachary.

  “Yes.  He’s standing right next to you,” said Jasmine.

  “So what does he have to say this time?” Zachary asked.

  “Well, Thomas Jefferson at first highly respected Native Americans.  When he was a young man he heard a famous farewell speech that a Native American chief, Ontasseste gave.  He did not have racist thoughts about Native Americans like he did about black people.  He respected their culture.  You see Jefferson’s vision for America is not what America became.”

  “So what was his vision – slaves everywhere so he could bang them all?” said Zachary.

  “That is very irreverent,” said Jasmine, laughing.  “And maybe accurate I don’t know.  No, his vision for America was that it would be a primarily agrarian society.  He thought that cities corrupted both governments and their people.  He thought that farmers were the most moral of all people --.”

  “And maybe he liked farmers because farmers needed lots of slaves and so in this way America’s master-slave sex romps could continue for generations,” said Zachary, laughing.

  “Again quite irreverent professor – but anyway, he thought that Native Americans could be taught to be farmers.  And therefore, he, someone who believed and was forever espousing why religion needed to be separate from the state – actually sent out, when he was President, state sponsored missionaries to try to convert Native Americans to Christianity,” said Jasmine, “And this was coming from a guy who really didn’t believe in Christianity himself.” 

  “How so?” Zachary asked.

  “Well in his later years he wrote a book that has become known as Jefferson’s Bible.  In it he rewrote the New Testament and removed all the miracles, and removed the part about Jesus thinking he was divine.  What you had left was a remarkably boring Jesus.  So anyway, the Native Americans didn’t want to convert and they didn’t want to become farmers.  And so Jefferson’s opinion of Native Americans began to sour.  And in Jefferson’s second term the seeds were planted for the federal government’s policy of eradicating Native Americans from their own soil, genocide,” said Jasmine.

  “How many Native Americans did the government kill anyway?”

  “Again, I’m getting to teach the professor something --.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” said Zachary.

  “I’ve looked it up and I actually don’t know because no one does: demographic data did not exist back then and the estimates vary widely.  But whatever the actual number, it is a number too large for the human brain to comprehend its horrific reality,” said Jasmine.

  “It seems the Native Americans didn’t have the inalienable right to be free either,” said Zachary.

  “No, don’t you see?  They realized that they did have the inalienable right to be free.  That’s why they fought to keep that right.  They could have just assimilated.  But they fought for a right that they knew in their heart of hearts that no government or person had the right to take away from them…”   

     

  Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two:  The more Ralph pondered the situation, the more plausible it seemed that Jeremy was his prey.  And furthermore, Ralph made the shocking realization that he actuallywanted Jeremy to be his prey. 

  Sure, African Americans had always rubbed him the wrong way.  But murder them?  Murder was for criminals.  Murder was for people who could not live within the rules of civilized society.  If his family was suggesting that he murder this man, did that mean that his family was not civilized?  Did that mean his family was a gang of criminals?  And if so, how could that be?  His relatives had all attended the most prestigious colleges, often Ivy League.  Their pursuits were refined: world travel, opera, golf, fine wine, etc.  Sure the hunting seemed to be an anomaly as something that most people equated with rednecks, but Ralph knew that America had many exclusive hunting lodges, some more exclusive than the most exclusive golf courses, and that it was at one such exclusive hunting club that the Vice President of the United States, Dick Cheney, had accidently shot another member in the face.  At that club did they hunt humans too?  Did Dick Cheney confuse another member for his human prey? 

  Ralph knew that his family had a strong connection to slavery; it had established their family fortune.  But within the family Ralph had never heard African Americans spoken of disrespectfully; he’d never heard any racist remarks.  And yet if his family was killing blacks it would make perfect sense to him, not because he would have understood his family’s motives, but because he understood how easy, even pleasurable, it would be to drive an arrow into Jeremy’s heart. 

  That image which had made him laugh nervously -- the image of shooting Jeremy in the heart – had made him laugh nervously precisely because he wanted to enact it, because he wished to do something outside the bounds of civilization that would bring him indescribable pleasure. 

  Wasn’t where he stood almost outside the bounds of civilization?  They were in the middle of nowhere, a place beyond the disapproving glare of civilization’s so-called rules.  This place was reached by helicopter.  There would be no police to tell him that what he had done was wrong.  There would be no phones for Jeremy to call the police.  No one would know and therefore no one could judge him.  It all seemed too perfect like a summer day that keeps getting better.

  But what if he was wrong?  What if he shot this man with an arrow and his family had intended him to do no such thing?  It was simply a risk that he could not take. 

  But still, how sweet would that be if they did intend it.        

  So what to do?  Perhaps he could just shoot Jeremy in the leg?  If he was mistaken, the wound would not be mortal and life would go on.  Yet if they had intended him to kill this man he would have taken the first step.  But how would they know? 

  Maybe they are watching?  Why wouldn’t they be?  They brought Jeremy out by helicopter – that black box was in the back of my car.  I really do think that I am meant to kill this man…   

   

  Washington:  While grinning widely, Charles pointed to the left door.  Windsor had chosen a skinning knife that felt light in his hand.  Windsor entered the code into the left door.  As the door swung open, Windsor was met with hysterical screaming. 

  Sweet Jesus!  Am I dreaming?

  It was not a buck hanging before him but the mangled body of a girl, an African American of perhaps 30 years.  The room was a bloody mess and the girl had no legs; they appeared to have been hacked off.  Her two stumps flailed wildly as she screamed, her arms chained to the wall.  And just as fast as Windsor had opened the door he slammed it shut.

  “Yes, brother,” said Charles, his face lit like a Jack O’ lantern in the beam of Windsor’s flashlight.  “She is the meat.  The meat you must skin!”    

  A legless-bloody-black mess was the kind of sight that Windsor had long dreamed of, and to see it so clearly and with such shocking swiftness had almost caused him, like a long playing lottery gambler finally having won, to faint in a fit of excitement – which was why he had immediately slammed the door shut.  But he knew his present euphoric sensation could not be furthered and that before him lay the path that he had long been avoiding.  Yet from this girl’s horror some good could arise.  He could now kill his brother and others so afflicted, and from these actions save innocent lives. 

  Yet how many could I kill before being killed myself?  And if I am then killed who will then continue with the killings? 

  Perhaps it would be better, Windsor mused, to inform the police that all Th
urmonds should be immediately questioned and if possible that search warrants should be obtained. 

  The police will have a faster and quicker reach than I ever could. 

  “I have shut that door Brother, dear Brother Charles, because there are some doors that should never be opened.  And for me that is just one such door.  However, for the poor wretch beyond, the door must be opened quickly, though opened by another, so that her safety and freedom may be procured,” said Windsor, who had dropped the knife onto the floor and now held the gun, its carriage pointed directly at Charles’s head.

   A bullet to the head will be a swift and merciful death – for I understand his affliction and do not blame him…

  “Windsor!  Don’t you see that in killing me you destroy the solution to your hunger pains!  That, poor wretch as you call her, the one behind the door– she is the remedy!  She is the cure!” shouted Charles, not mentioning the gun pointed at his head.

  “Brother I’m sorry.  But she must be saved.  It is the way I have lived my life.  And though you have chosen to live your life as you have, I do not blame you for it, so know that before you die” said Windsor.

  “Blame me for what?  For giving you what you have always wanted?  Yes, I am sure you have guessed that it was her very legs that comprised our feast, it was her very legs which sealed our reunion, it was her very legs which dripped from our mouth and which now sit so happily in our bellies --.”

  “So the raw meat was her meat,” said Windsor, and having been apprised that the supposed raw venison had only been an illusion he was now even more certain that the only way to quell his ubiquitous longing to consume black flesh was through the act itself.  

  So the meeting with my rope will come swift and much welcomed.   

  “Yes and wasn’t it wonderful?” said Charles, his lips red with her hardened blood.

  “That was wrong Charles.  I have abstained through much willpower and concentration of mind.  You played a gruesome trick.  But it is not in retaliation for that trick that I will put this bullet into your brain, but rather because you are sick as I and we both must be put down,” said Windsor, tightening his grip on the pistol and preparing to fire.

  “Wait!  Can you deny me that those legs were not sweeter than the sweetest candy?  I have long dreamed of this day when together we could feast!  Do not end the feast. The feast must continue!  We must continue to feast on the appendages that remain.  And when the Negro is lacking in all appendages and is but a square we will feast from her face.”

  Windsor realized that the brute ferocity of Charles’ tone suggested that even while talking he was feasting on the Negro girl still.  Windsor knew that he needed to shoot his brother yet he found himself unable to pull the trigger.  His mind spoke of the future prospects of black flesh beyond the steel door.  As Windsor stalled, Charles continued to demand in a ferocious tone that the feast continue and that they devour the meat together. 

  Perhaps I should just put a bullet in my own skull?  But what about the girl? 

  “Windsor, do you really not remember that event which occurred many years ago, which caused mother to flee and our family to part?” Charles asked.

  “No, and I wish not to hear it.  If you have any final words say them now, for I am soon pulling the trigger and ending your life, brother, dear brother,” said Windsor, praying for the strength to commit the fratricide.

  An event which will be one of my last charitable acts…

  “My final words are this: you ate a Negro fetus straight from a Negro belly when you were but 5!  That is why mother left!  She thought you were a monster – and so thinking took you away from the only family members who have ever understood you!” shouted Charles.

  Windsor told Charles that he spoke only lies, but he soon remembered the image and in remembering the image he tasted the image, both the housekeeper and the fetus, though mostly the sweet taste of fetus’s tiny hand, a tiny hand of tender soft flesh, a flesh so softly tender that the merest of nibbling produced juices of blissful ecstasy: a memory that had remained buried for over 60 years and yet a memory so delectable it produced a taste many times more euphoric than the bloody raw meat of the girl’s butchered legs.

  “Yes you taste it!  That indescribable taste of Negro fetus!  And trust me brother that no matter how many times you eat Negro fetus its glorious taste never ceases to amaze.  If that girl beyond the steel door were carrying our lives could be made perfect.  But trust me when I say that eating fresh Negro face is mighty fine too!” shouted Charles, seeming to snap at the air before him as if all the basement’s darkness was a pit of black flesh.

  For the first time Windsor felt his willpower waver and his hand lowered the gun as he became frozen with doubt.  Charles began to approach and Windsor lifted the gun again. 

  I must act now.  Even if mother knew you were a monster she must have taken you away to teach you to do right.  She taught you charity, morals, and the difference between right and wrong.  She would wish you to pull the trigger and to end her son’s and your brother’s life. 

  But again Windsor failed to squeeze, the gun shaking in his hand.

  “Before you shoot me Brother, prove to yourself that you will see this thing through.  In my hand I hold the key.  If you can unlock her then I will kneel down and you may take my life.  I will die happily contented because I will die with the knowledge that I never missed an opportunity to consume Negro flesh.  But if you cannot free her then let us join together as brothers,” said Charles, reaching his arm straight out, his palm open, and offering Windsor a silver key. 

  Again Windsor sensed that Charles’s words had struck at his resolve, and suddenly he became aware that he felt as wretched as if his mother Virginia had given Charles a shiny new bike and he had received nothing.

  Old boy you are jealous that Charles has been eating black flesh all these all these decades – that is only natural for you have wanted nothing more – But you must ignore this human foible of sibling jealousy and continue to be steadfast in your plan…

  Fearful that this might be some trick to attempt to wrestle away the gun, Windsor suspiciously viewed the key in his brother’s hand. 

  Charles continued, “Remember that if you fail to free her, the bargain is that you will spare my life and that we will unite with black blood on our lips and fresh flesh in our bellies.”    

    Windsor replied, “The moment I opened that steel door and saw that girl, reality descended like a curtain ending a play, and I knew without a doubt that the night had been a farce.  Yes dear brother, for all night I have been drunk but this scene has knocked me sober.  And in my sober planning I had planned to shoot you first and then call the police – and in this sequence of events the police would free the girl.  But you are right and I see that there is a chance, however small, that after shooting you I might regret my decision and consume the girl – and in the doing I would have murdered a brother for exactly that act which I then pursued.  That would not be justice and that would not be equitable!  You have welcomed me into your home and you have tried to show me how you live – brother to brother – and though I do not approve of your actions and though I do not wish to follow in your footsteps – the hospitality that you have shown me cannot be denied!  And therefore the least I owe you is an equitable chance!  I accept your challenge, and therefore I will attempt to unlock the girl without submitting to my longing to consume her black flesh.”

  Windsor took the key.

     

  Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two:  If Jeremy was wrong this mistake would dwarf his previous mistakes.  If he was right, he would both be making his family proud and fulfilling the greatest of imagined pleasures.  A few minutes prior, Jeremy had fallen asleep and was now snoring loudly.  He slept close enough to the fire that his upper torso and face could be seen.  His legs were upon the ground and his back leaned against a tree.

  As silently as possible, Ralph readied his bow and
removed an arrow, first pricking its tip to ensure its sharpness.  Slower than he felt necessary but with a slowness that had been drilled into him by his father, he crept forward, inserting himself between Jeremy and the fire.  Shadows descended around him like giant black wings and he attempted to steady his breathing and to prepare his mind for the shot.  Pulling the arrow securely into position, he aimed at his intended target, Jeremy’s left leg.  The bow’s pulleys kept the pressure light and yet the pressure felt heavy.

  I can’t go through with this, this is ridiculous. 

  Ralph lowered the bow. 

  You need some food and water.  You aren’t thinking straight.  Such an action could have changed the course of your life…

  Ralph turned, having settled his mind that he would not shoot Jeremy.  However, before he had taken a step, he heard snapping and felt a breeze.  As he turned to look, the screaming had already begun.  An arrow protruded from Jeremy’s shoulder. 

  “You shot me.  What the fuck!  Why did you shoot me?”

  What blissful occurrence is this?  

  Ralph looked around, but he saw nothing and heard no further sounds.

  “I didn’t shoot you,” said Ralph, straining to discover the source of the arrow.

  “Then why are you holding that bow?” screamed Jeremy.

  “Because I was thinking about shooting you,” said Ralph, surprised that he had been so honest.

  “What?  You’re one of them aren’t you?  Fuck!” said Jeremy, struggling to his feet.

  Suddenly from the woods came a booming voice, the voice of Ralph’s father and in a tone that Ralph had only heard during those rare times when his father had attended his sporting events, an approving tone which cheered him mightily on, “Shoot him now son!  Shoot him now before he flees into the darkness!”

  Ralph did not need to be told twice and already having bow and arrow in hand, he let fly an arrow at the now fleeing Jeremy.  The arrow struck him in the calf and he fell to the ground somewhere in the shadows and his screaming increased, either from the new shot or from falling awkwardly on the old.  Ralph pursued.

  “No, son No!” came his father’s voice from the shadows.  “Remember that an injured buck is a dangerous buck – and so is a Negro.” 

  Following his father’s instruction, Ralph paused and at that moment torch-lighted figures appeared at the edge of the field.  Swarming forth in a circle, Ralph saw that they were hooded in black just as Donald had been.  They stopped within ten paces of Jeremy.  Ralph recognized them as the Area Two members (save for Charles): his father, his grandfather Donald, his uncle Alburt, his uncle Chase, his cousin Prestin, and his cousin Dwade. 

  Jeremy had struggled to his feet and was screaming from the agony of the two arrows, one in his left calf and one in his right shoulder.  But seeing the haunting circle of hooded men, he paused his screaming and looked about.

  “Negro, do not run!” Donald commanded.   

  “Who the fuck are you people?” Jeremy screamed .

  “We are the Thurmond family of the Grey Cliff Lodge!” all the Thurmond voices shouted in unison -- all except Ralph.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Jeremy screamed.

  “Negro, the time for questions has ended.  The time for dying has begun.  Ralph he shall be your first kill in Area Two.  Take him now!  Take him in the heart!” shouted Donald.

  As Ralph lifted his bow, Jeremy began to run. 

  Donald shouted, “Shoot now!” 

  But Jeremy kept running and Ralph missed his chance.  The Thurmonds collapsed the circle and fell upon Jeremy.  With each Thurmond having gripped some part of Jeremy’s body, they lifted him into the air like a pig on a spit. 

  Donald shouted wildly, “To the box!  To the box!  We shall take the Negro to the box!” 

  Jeremy tried to twist his body from the grip of the Thurmond men, but their grips held strong.  As he was carried screaming past the fire, Ralph saw him glance with a pleading look, a look that seemed to say, “I thought we were in this together.” 

  Ralph watched Jeremy scream as he was tossed into the box and the door was slammed and the latch locked and it occurred to him that he did not care about the statements contained in that glance anymore than he had cared about any of Jeremy’s statements.

  For I have never been listening…     

  With Jeremy back in the sound proof box the night was quiet, only the snapping of the fire now heard.  The hooded heads turned, somber as nocturnal priests in the midst of a ceremony.  Ralph stood by the fire and held his bow limply.  He would have shot that final shot if Jeremy had not fled.

  But with my family so close I couldn’t risk the shot… 

  Hooded faces surrounded Ralph and lit by the fire’s glow, he could see from their expressions that the night’s business had not concluded.

  Have I failed as Kolby and the others failed?

  “Ralph Thurmond!”  boomed Donald.   

  Ralph felt his legs trembling. 

  You knew that you were supposed to shoot him!  You should have just fucking done it! 

  “You have been told Ralph Thurmond that you must finish a kill here in Area Two before you can enter the lodge, before you can eat, before you can drink!” Donald boomed.

  Ralph nodded; his head already slumped because eye contact had become too painful.  I’ve let them all down, but especially my father.

  “You shall remain here tonight.”

  The hooded Thurmonds turned and retrieved their torches and like fireflies spreading, disappeared back into the woods.  For a moment, Mick remained behind, saying, “Son if I could leave you this torch I would.  But keep that fire lit.”

  “Father have I failed?” Ralph asked, hardly able to hold back his tears.     

  “The way to Thurmond glory is not an easy way,” said Mick.

  “Is it all over then?  Do I go home tomorrow?” Ralph asked.

  “Never despair that is not our way!” said Mick.

  “Then I still have a chance?  I haven’t failed as Kolby failed?” Ralph asked.

  “Son, you didn’t get your first kill in Area Two tonight.  But you came very close.  We all watched you as you loomed above the sleeping Negro.  We all hoped that you would strike him with a killing shot.  But what happened to you is the same thing that has happened to many Thurmonds who have gone on to achieve great glory at Grey Cliff,” said Mick.

  “What?” Ralph asked.

  “Buck fever – you froze in the moment.  You did not let your arrow fly,” said Mick.

  “Father?” said Ralph.

  “Yes, son?” said Mick.

  “Did you have buck fever the first time you tried to kill a nigger here in Area Two?” Ralph asked.

  “Son, a true supremacist never calls a Negro a nigger.  The Negro has taken that word back.  It is a small battle they have won in the war.  A true supremacist always calls a Negro a Negro.  And to answer your question, yes son I did get buck fever the first time I tried to kill a Negro.  Almost everyone does…”

   “Father, I won’t let you down again,” said Ralph.

  “Son, you haven’t let me down yet…”

   

  Unexpectedly, Ralph slept peacefully.  When he awoke the sun was overhead.  Refreshed, and now understanding the task that needed to be completed he headed back into the woods with strengthened resolve. 

  At the edge of the Great Field and with Gray Cliff deep in the distance, he remembered that his opportunity would come soon after entering the field, and he readied his bow and prepared to hunt his pray. 

  Where are you Negro?

  As he approached the helicopter, he saw a black box directly behind it. 

  Jeremy? 

  Ralph hurried his pace and not a moment too soon, for as he began to approach, the box popped open and Jeremy sprang out, bloodied and screaming.  Ralph sprinted forward.  And Jeremy screaming in agony or fear or perhaps both, appeared to take s
tock of his surroundings, freezing when he saw that it was Ralph who pursued.  Ralph froze when he saw Jeremy freeze and they both stood in their spots, about 40 yards away – Jeremy with an arrow in his shoulder and his calf and Ralph holding a bow not yet lifted. 

  “You people are fucking psychopaths!”    

  “Don’t talk about the Thurmond family that way!” Ralph shouted.

  “What the fuck is going on?  We were out in those woods together.  We were trying to figure out what was going on.  I was worried about you man.  You know how much this fucking hurts, these two fucking arrows.  My left side is fucking numb!  Are you fucking listening to me Ralph!” Jeremy shouted.

  “Yes I have been listening and thanks for telling me that your left side is numb – that means that I am going to bury this arrow into your right,” said Ralph, who lifted and aimed.

  “No!  No!” shouted Jeremy, running and weaving from side to side. 

  Ralph followed the pattern of the weave and let fly his arrow.  It hit-- striking Jeremy at the jugular, red blood flying forth and almost instantly dropping Jeremy to his knees.  Sprinting to the spot where Jeremy had fallen, Ralph poked him with his bow to ensure that he was dead.  Death must have been instant.  A wave of euphoria rushed over Ralph and he jumped into the air, pumping his fist high. 

  Thurmond glory is mine! 

  Trumpets began blaring and Ralph stopped jumping and listened to the music.  As the song continued to play, the front doors of Grey Cliff burst open and his father bounded out, followed by the others, dressed not in black, but bright colors.  His father reached him first and tackled him to the ground.  Everyone except Donald piled on top.  The weight upon him was painful but Ralph knew that the piling was good-natured and laughed with the pain.  After a few seconds the pile dismantled, and once Ralph was on his feet he was embraced in a Thurmond family hug, and with his head pressed closely against his family, he heard his father’s voice cut through all the other celebratory remarks, saying, “Son that was a good kill and a fine kill!” 

  After the hugging stopped the congratulating continued, so much so that Ralph had started to become embarrassed.  But the glorious trumpet music still played and so Ralph tried his best to savor the moment. 

  Because he could now walk past the newcomer’s mark, everyone cheered as he stepped over the line.  And once past, his father hugged him and said, “Now truly you are a man.”

  “Grey Cliff awaits!” said Alburt, his fists pumping into the air as if he had been the one to make the kill.

  Suddenly something occurred to Ralph, “Father, all these years, the venison!  It was?  It was --.”

  “Yes, son it was Negro flesh,” said Mick, a large smile on his face.

  “So then we don’t just kill them?  We eat them too?” said Ralph, as another wave of euphoria washed over his body.  And as everyone laughed at the naivety of the statement, Prestin joked, “But what else should we expect from a newcomer?”

  Mick said, “Of course we eat them son – that is the best part.”

  Ralph said excitedly, “So after I skin and butcher a Negro right after I get to --.”

              Mick interrupted, “Yes son it will be a feast, a great and long Negro feast!”

   

   

  Washington:  Windsor opened the door and was immediately met with a barrage of screaming.  He ordered Charles inside the room.

  What are you doing old boy?  This is a risky venture indeed…

  “Help me!  Please!  I have no legs!”  The girl screamed.

  “Yes we know.  We just ate them,” said Charles.

  “You sick pig!” the legless girl screamed.

  “Charles, I’m not going to ask you again.  You must maintain your propriety while I finish my task.  If you do not I will just shoot you now and have it over with at once,” said Windsor, waving the gun about.

  “Yes!  Shoot him now!  Shoot him now!” the girl screamed.  And as she screamed her desperation washed over Windsor and drew him to her misery as a shark is drawn to blood.

  “Miss, your screaming, though understandable, is affecting my spirits in a manner which is ill advisable.  So please maintain a sense of calmness and a spirit of quietness while I unlock you from your chains,” said Windsor, holding up the silver key.

  But the girl screamed hysterically as the prospect of release was waved before her.

  “Please,” said Windsor, gripping his head, dizzy with the sense of her desperation, “Stop screaming, please, please…”

   Windsor could smell the girl’s fear and it put him into a daze and he could no longer hear her screams.  The same had happened, he realized, when he was a boy and the bloody black flesh had been placed upon his naked body.  He saw her as she was, black, violated: and sumptuous…I must resist.  This is the test you have been waiting for your whole life.  Will you remain a dignified member of society or will you descend into a hellish pit of depravity?  Remember, mother is watching…mother is always watching…

  For a moment the girl’s words were heard, “What are you doing?  Why are you touching my hair?  Please…”

  I didn’t realize I was – but your hair feels so soft and I wonder what the skin just beneath the hair tastes like? 

  Stop it!  You must not give in…

  But maybe just a taste?  She has already lost both legs so what difference does one small taste make?

  Stop it!

  “Sink your teeth into her!  Rip off a chunk of her face!  Crush your jaw into her nose!  Tear off her ears!  Eat her up bit by bit brother!  Have a feast! A bloody good feast!  A bloody good feast of black black flesh!” Charles shouted, foaming at the mouth.

  Momentarily thought was lost and Windsor violently bit into the girl’s face as if her face were a polished apple.  Endorphins rushed about his brain and all was bliss.  The first bite was followed by a second and then a third.  The tough flesh tasted better than his strongest expectations.  He caressed his body and caressed her body, searching with his fingers for the supplest area to savage, for the juiciest meat to fill his belly.  Her screams, heavily muted, added to the pleasure of the taste.

  Which is just as I had imagined it…And I feel no regret…I feel like, what? I feel like – yes – I feel like me…

  Blood poured from her face, from her arms, from her belly and Windsor lapped it up, simultaneously biting and lapping, his fists clenched in balls of rapture, his toes curled with delight. 

  This is leagues better than I thought.  This is everything my life was supposed to be.  I am united with my soul.  How did I spend so many years in a state of absolute suppression?  My brother has been eating black flesh every day.  My brother is the person I should have become…

  Windsor turned, blood dripping from his lips, his teeth red, and the spaces between his teeth redder, saying, “Brother, Charles: I am home.”

  “Welcome home brother.  We are fully reunited at last…”

   

   

  Grey Cliff Lodge:  After Mick gave Ralph a tour of the lodge, he told him that it was time for him to pick a Negro to skin.

  “You mean I won’t just skin Jeremy?” Ralph asked.

  “No, of course not: you will skin a live Negro.  But do not take this task lightly.  Even when gagged the Negro will try to convince you not to skin, and with its pleading eyes the Negro will try to make you believe that it is your equal,” said Ralph.

  “Take me to them father.  I am ready,” said Ralph.

  “Alburt is the Keeper of the Boxes.  He shall show you the way,” said Mick.

  Alburt led Ralph to the Grand Room, which resembled a ball room.  At the end of the Grand Room was a small pink door.  Alburt slid the pink door open and Ralph and Alburt climbed through.  Inside were 30 black boxes, just like the box that had held Jeremy prisoner.

  “Are all the boxes full?” Ralph asked.

  “Yes,” said Alburt with a wide grin.
/>   “But there are dozens of boxes here.  I thought you said that we hunt and skin approximately 5 Negros each year,” said Ralph.

  “We do – but this year is an exception.  What a beautiful year to be a newcomer!  This will be the best Thurmond hunting season ever!” said Alburt.

  “Where did all these Negros come from?” Ralph asked.

  “There are 32 boxes.  25 came from a failed slave plantation.  We were able to get them at half price,” said Alburt.

  “A failed slave plantation?”

   

  Three Weeks Earlier:

   

  Mississippi: “That is just it doctor, ever since the primitism – when I had the erection that lasted for longer than a week -- I haven’t been able to get erect.  The biggest tragedy of all is that I have a very large penis.” 

  “Sexual potency is an area of science that we still do not completely understand.  Your theory about the primitism causing permanent flaccidity is not backed by scientific research.  But these drugs are new so it is not out of the question,” said the doctor.  “Is it possible that maybe you picked up a sexual disease?” 

  “No, I was completely celibate during that week.” 

  “Why if you were hard for a week did you not attempt sexual intimacy?” 

  “Over that week I was transitioning from the person that I used to be to the person that I have become.” 

  “Did your sexual orientation change?” 

  “No, of course not, it was my sexual preferences that changed.” 

  “How so?” 

  “I’ve always wanted to be a sexual god.  I thought I deserved it – my penis is approximately 14.5 inches long I have always thought that entitled me to some sort of sexual contentedness.  But I have never been content because I have never had the sex that I have desired to have.” 

  “And what is that?” 

  “I have always had sex with white girls and I really wanted to have sex with black girls,” said Peter. 

  “That’s it?  That’s not a problem.  Have you tried to dating black girl?” 

  “No.” 

  “Well, why not.” 

  “I hate black people.” 

  “I think I see the problem.  You are a supremacist.  There are many in the South here who are still supremacists.  And for whatever reason you have developed a sexual preference for the black race.” 

  “Doctor a Klan brother recommended me to you so I know I can speak freely.” 

  “Which brother?” 

  Peter named the brother.

  “Yes, he is a good friend of mine.  So you haven’t been speaking freely?” 

  “No, I have.  But there is more.  It isn’t just that I want to have sex with black women.  I want them to be my slaves.  And not just slaves in some perverted S & M sexual sense.  But like in the old days.  When there was still slavery – and the master of the plantation could sleep with his slaves at will.” 

  “Peter now that is a problem: we don’t live in the 1800’s anymore – and as disagreeable as it is Negros do have some rights.  We obviously can’t enslave them.  But you could try role play.” 

  “What if I told you – and in complete confidence – doctor to patient and Klan member to Klan member --.” 

  “Of course--.” 

  “That I have tried this and I still haven’t gotten hard.” 

  “You have tried this?” 

  “Yes.” 

  “You’ve kidnapped or you have role-played?” asked Doctor Lawless. 

  “It was more of a role play – but it seemed real and it didn’t work.” 

  “It could be more of a physical problem, caused by your diet, or…”          

              A few minutes later Peter left the doctor’s office in a state of dejection because as honest as he knew he could be with Doctor Lawless he knew that he still could not tell him about his profession as a hit man for an elite racist group, The Jefferson Elites, or that The Jefferson Elites had awarded him (and his brother) experimental slave plantations – and that he had tried to sleep with slaves from each plantation – but that still his penis had remained flaccid. 

  Peter’s theory was that it was not a physical or a mental problem – it was that he needed the right stimulus – that he needed the right slave – and that she hadn’t yet presented herself. 

  But the time will come when I find the slave who makes me hard again and once I do I will forge iron chains for her and never release her from the slavery of my rock-hard and throbbing 14.5 inch magnificent cock…

              During the drive home he daydreamed about which slave he would strip naked and subject to the sting of his whip.

   And I know such thoughts should make me hard and yet they do not…

  The dirt road at the outskirts of his plantation wound around chalk maples, pipe vines, giant cane, yellow birch, red hickories, black gum, red spruce, and countless other vegetation that Peter catalogued during his hours away from the slave factory.

  Just as Jefferson kept detailed logs, so do I catalogue the world around me, as a wishful Jeffersonian Elite member…   

  Peter’s plantation was fifty miles from town on a one hundred acre parcel.  The entire parcel was enclosed with an electric fence.

   

  It had been a tough sell, convincing his contact from The Jeffersonian Elites to allow him to start a modern slave plantation.  Peter hadn’t admitted to the man he knew only as Mr. X his real reason for the endeavor: because I want to sow my seed with enslaved and tortured black females …Instead, he had been much more scientific in his approach.  Although Peter killed both blacks and whites for Mr. X, when blacks were killed he always wanted to the specific details of their last moments.  It was as if he was systematically recording Peter’s observations.  He never asked such questions about the killed whites. 

  Peter presented the proposal to Mr. X. as more of an experiment than anything else, saying, “It is obvious that the Civil War ruined everything.  There was never a more civilized society than the Old South.  In the Old South Negros knew their place.  Negros were slaves and if they were free they had no rights.  Negros have been freed and look at the results.  Babies out of wedlock – Murder in the cities – rampant drug use – preposterous high school drop out rates  -- Negros were never meant to be freed.  They were meant to be a permanent slave population.  The Old South knew that.  I want to try that again.  I want to build a plantation.  I want to see if I can make slaves happy and content because they must obey the snap of my whip.”

              “That is a very interesting idea.  But I don’t think the neighbors would be up for it,” said Mr. X.

              “There will be no neighbors.  For the decades of my services you have paid me well.  I have bought land deep in the South and I have no neighbors.  I can fence it all off.”

              “Satellites might pick up your slave population,” said Mr. X.

              “I’m one step ahead – a modern slave state no longer needs slaves for farming.  I would have them doing mechanical work under a roof where their chains cannot be observed by satellite.  Also, you have told me about your connection to prisons.  Send me some prison work.  We can split the profits and meanwhile I will report on the modern Negros ability to transition back into a slave state – to make the Old South into the Real New South…”

              A week later, after receiving a faxed version of the proposal, Mr. X called Peter, stating, “You’ve served me faithfully and I think your idea has much merit.  Operation Modern Slave State is a go, and I will supply you with freelance prison work...”

              “One more thing, my brother wants in.  He will build a plantation right next to mine.  We each want to be masters,” said Peter.       

              “Joe Bob is a buffoon,” said Mr. X. />
              “True, but Joe Bob is my brother and he will be quite close, so I can keep an eye on him.”

              “If anything goes wrong with Operation Modern Slave State by Joe Bob’s doing it is on you, not him.  I will not hold the fool to blame when it is another man who places their confidence in the fool,” said Mr. X.

              “I understand.”

              “Do you?”

              “Yes.”

              “Well, then – build your plantations…”

             

  Parking his SUV behind the main house, Peter changed into his master’s attire – a vintage suit from the 1800’s.  Currently there were 25 slaves on his plantation and 25 slaves on Joe Bob’s plantation.  The slaves remained chained to their stations during the day and to their beds at night.  On Peter’s plantation there were 15 male slaves and 10 female slaves, and on Joe Bob’s plantation there were 20 male slaves and 5 female slaves: and not one of the females sufficiently turns me on to make me hard… And this problem could not be explained to Mr. X.  For Peter knew what the agenda of the Jeffersonian Elites had been: to kill the potentially someday high-status mixed raced bastards of Jefferson…to purify the country…to keep the nobility of the bloodlines intact. 

  So what could he say now?  I really wanted to start Operation Modern Slave State in order to bang tortured hot black slaves and none of these slaves is hot enough… 

  Uttering those words would be more of a death sentence than anything else:

  For Mr. X kills at will…I know, I have been his instrument for decades… 

  It seemed to Peter that the only cure would be time. 

  Eventually she will come…

             

  The slave factories were disguised as red barns, a precaution for low flying planes with pilots who might wonder about a middle-of-nowhere factory (an isolated farm was much easier to rationalize).  Opening the barn door, Peter grabbed a cow-hide whip attached to the door’s left, unfurling it and holding it by his side.  The visit to the doctor had been disappointing and someone would now pay for Peter’s ill-humor.  The 25 slaves kept their eyes down, focusing intently on their work.  All whispering had ceased the moment Peter rattled the doorknob, the only sounds now, overlapping nervous breathing. 

  Peter could not risk loose lips and so there were no employees; the two brothers were judge, jury, and executioner.  Walking among his slaves he examined their day’s handiwork.  The factory objective: fit hairbrushes with tiny bristles.  It was work that Americans could no longer compete with on a global scale – that is unless the labor was unpaid slaves. 

  Clearing his throat, Peter spit upon the ground.  “I’ve had a bad day, and though it is only partially your fault -- partially because as you know your very existence is an affront to the natural order, someone needs to pay,” said Peter, stroking his hand across a wooden beam outfitted with two metal rings, a spot he referred to as the ‘board’ and where he administered the majority of his punishments.

  He continued, “Who would like to volunteer to answer my question?”

  Dumb Negros…

  “No one?  If no one volunteers then you will all be punished.  You have five seconds.  One --.”

  “I volunteer,” said Dana, the biggest and strongest of Peter’s slaves.

  Stupid Negro…     

  “Did you volunteer because you are stupid or because you are a hero?” Peter asked.

  “Because I am stupid Sir,” said Dana.

  You’re dumber than rocks…

  “Yes, good – my children Dana has accepted that he has a pee brain.  I will not ask Dana my question because he was so fucking stupid as to volunteer first that I applaud his stupidity.  Dana has embraced his stupidity.  Well done Dana!  Please every clap for Dana…Stop fucking clapping!  I told you that I had a shitty fucking day and you clap about it!  How fucking stupid are you!  You’re all fucking stupider than Dana – and because you are stupider than Dana you should be raising your hand first.  I need another volunteer.  Someone?”

  This is the sort of stuff Mr. X. loves hearing about in my reports, so I will have to remember this play by play…

  “Yes, you child, Tracy –Here is the question and though it is hopeless that you will answer it correctly, I ask it anyway.  Are you ready Tracy?”  Peter asked, moving in close and running his hand across her neck, down into her shirt, and about her breasts.

  Still nothing, not even a tingle down there – what the fuck?

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Why is it that your work consists of putting together these hairbrushes?”  Peter asked in a game show host voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Tracy, trembling.

  “When you answer incorrectly, and you will answer incorrectly, I will tie you to the board and I will whip you within a hairs-breath of your life.  But because I am a sporting man, and because I am not devoid of all compassion for such an inferior species as your own – I will give you a chance to answer, even if in all probability that answer will only be a ridiculous guess,” said Peter with a malicious smile.

  “Please don’t.  I beg you,” said Tracy.

  “You have three seconds to answer.”

  Tracy, as if visualizing her response, answered with closed eyes, “I don’t know maybe because you want to remind us of our inferiority by having us, all day long, put together brushes that we would never use for our hair as it naturally is.  So we put together these brushes for white folk so that we can be reminded how ugly and coarse our natural hair is – because just as our hair is ugly and coarse so are our souls and our minds.”

  I don’t believe it…

  “Wow!  I feel like I just discovered a talking horse and it then sang me the national anthem in perfect pitch.  Tracy you have potential to really lead your species.  I know you talk in here when I am not here.  Use that time to remind them of the lowly crap they are – will you do that?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And again good job – I was having a bad day.  But it is a little better now.  It is better because I feel that I have at least been teaching you something.  Although you have pee brains you can still use your pee brains to look at the world in the way that it really is – and so for the 24 rest of you I would like to remind you to look at the world in much the way that Tracy looks at it…”

  Maybe she is the one who can get me hard – but I felt nothing when I groped her – Still, she has potential – She sees the world the way that the world should be…    

              Peter decided to drive to Joe Bob’s plantation. 

  Perhaps he has a slave deserving of a punishment.

   The two brothers did not inform the slaves that there were proximate slave plantations: they might feel bolder if they understood their actual numbers were 50 and not 25… 

  So Peter played the part of overseer on Joe Bob’s plantation and Joe Bob played the part of overseer on Peter’s plantation. 

  The two plantations were mirror images, both having been designed by Mr. X, who had explained, “Jefferson designed Monticello to be the crowning jewel of all slave plantations.  Many plantations have a main house that is ostentatious and white, reminding visitors and slaves alike of the supremacy of the white race.  But Monticello took the idea of the manor house to the level of white holiness.  While most manor homes are on level ground, Jefferson ingeniously built Monticello on a hill so that from his dome he could use a scope to look down upon all his slave subjects.  Jefferson also attempted to make Monticello as breathtakingly beautiful as possible so that the slaves would constantly be reminded of the absolute divide between the refined world of the whites and the soiled world of the blacks.  As a Jeffersonian disciple, I try to emulate Jefferson whenever I can.  That being said I must admit that there is no way I can design something like Mon
ticello for you even if I wanted – for undoubtedly Monticello is the masterpiece of all slave-plantations.  But even if I could design a slave-plantation as splendid as Monticello it would be stupid to do so, for a plantation that grand would be discovered instantly.  Your plantations need to be hidden and disguised…” 

  The main house, the factory, and the slave’s sleeping quarters were all connected.  However, the three sections were markedly different: the main house maintained a Victorian architecture, the factory was metallic and dreary, and the slave’s quarters consisted of twin bunked beds and a single shower and toilet.  Recognizing that the original paid laborers may have become suspicious, torture chambers were not included in the design.  Instead simple torturing apparatuses had been imported into the compounds.

  For historical accuracy, Peter had consulted with Mr. X when the first death sentence was passed.

  Mr. X explained to Peter, “Because slaves had no rights and because blacks could not testify against whites in court, masters could kill a slave for any reason no matter how whimsical if they felt an example needed to be made.  Therefore, most any type of death you can imagine is historically accurate: bludgeoning, hanging, lynching.  But I do have my favorites, which are also historically accurate and which I would suggest that you use.”

  “What what are they?  I can hardly wait to hear,” said Peter

  “I have three, each beautifully horrific.  The first is to hang the slave upside down until they die in that inverted position.  It is a very slow and particularly grueling death, one which I often see at night before I close my eyes and which whisks me off to a pleasant sleep --.”

  “And the others?  What are the others?”  Peter asked, his excitement growing.

  “The second is to tie your slave tie down horizontally and then with a blunt instrument to break all of the bones in their body.  This too can last for many hours, even days, during which the slave will go in and out of consciousness, though it is considerably satisfying when you realize that they have awoken to the hell of their position – that yes they are still alive – and yes there are still bones in their body that have not been broken – and that yes it may be insufferably long before they die --.”

  “And the third?” Peter asked, though busy visualizing the first two, and wondering why as a hit man he had never tried some such sadist techniques when he’d had the time to spare: No I couldn’t have…I strive to make everything look like suicide or natural causes and thus my deaths must be simple…

  “Oh the third is my favorite.  One which was done often in the Old South, and one which I save for only the most precious occasions: the slow roast --.”

  “I think I remember hearing about that as a boy, but I did not think it real,” Peter interrupted.

  “Oh, it was real and still is in certain quarters my friend.  There is nothing that brings more solace to the souls of the Jeffersonian Elites than a good old fashioned American BBQ accompanied by the slow roasting of a dark-skinned Negro,” said Mr. X.

  “If I remember correctly this is death by fire, but the fire is kept quite low, almost in a state of embers, so that like a Crock-Pot at work, the flesh is slowly consumed,” said Peter, while wiggling his hands as if conjuring a fire.

  “That is correct and I will fax you papers describing all particulars, though after you read them they must be destroyed,” said Mr. X.

  “Thank you.  Are there any others?” Peter asked.

  “You ungrateful shit!  I have given you three beautiful methods.  There are others of course but they are the intellectual property of the Jeffersonian Elites – a group of which, I find myself reminding you, even after 30 years working relationship, that you are not a member.  Say it,” shouted Mr. X.

  “I am not a member,” said Peter.

  “And why aren’t you a member?” Mr. X. asked.

  “Because the Jeffersonian Elites do not exist,” said Peter.

  “Good, now choose with method you will implement, and then report the results…”    

   

  For the first four deaths Peter had decided upon inverted hangings and as of yet had killed no other slaves.

  But perhaps what would really do me good would be some excitement – like a slow roast…

  After walking into Joe Bob’s house, Peter heard rustling upstairs, and when Peter opened an upstairs bedroom door, he observed Joe Bob buckling his pants.  A naked female slave lay chained to the bed. 

  My labors have built this operation and yet he enjoys their fruits…If I cannot screw her I will roast her…

  “Joe Bob, I have made a decision.  The slaves have become cocky.  They have become resentful.  They do not understand their position.  One must be sacrificed and made an example of,” said Peter.

  “Do we have to?  I don’t like killing people,” said Joe Bob, buttoning his flannel shirt.

  “They aren’t fucking people!” Peter shouted while slamming his pointer finger into Joe Bob’s forehead.

  “You know what I mean,” said Joe Bob, falling into a chair and grasping the black leg that hung over the bed’s side.

  “And it will be her,” said Peter, pointing to the naked slave on the bed.  She immediately began screaming, her chained limbs flailing and Joe Bob’s hand thrown back. 

  “Please not her,” said Joe Bob.  Standing, he moved closer to his brother, whispering, “She really knows how to fuck.  You should give her a try with your legendary cock.”

  “Her?  She’s disgusting,” said Peter, who still hadn’t told his brother about his erection difficulties.

  Joe Bob looks up to me and I think in some strange way he would be crestfallen if he were to learn that my massive cock can no longer harden… 

  Peter continued, “And therefore she must die, and so we will slow roast her…”

   

  Mississippi:  Joe Bob often wondered how different his life would have been if he had been endowed with a package as big as his brother’s.

   Peter doesn’t realize how good he has it.  I’d take a picture of my cock and send it to everyone on my cell phone list at least once a day.

   But Joe Bob no longer had a cell phone list because he no longer had a cell phone.  His brother had seen to that, saying “If you want to be a plantation owner Joe Bob you have got to cut out all communications – that means no speaking to anybody except me or the slaves.  You’re dumber than shit Joe Bob and if you have a cell phone you will let something spill.” 

  Joe Bob thought it strange to suddenly be living life without a cell phone.  However, Joe Bob had long ago accepted that the world was a strange place, with strange happenings, and strange differences between people.

  Such as the fact that my brother’s cock is 14.5 inches long and mine is 2.5.

   And there were many other strange things about the world such as the fact that Joe Bob used to save up for a week to buy the pleasures of a prostitute, but now he could extract such services free of charge from the slaves on his plantation.  He found it strange also that his brother so enjoyed killing his female slaves. 

  Why is a guy with a cock that long killing his females?  It just don’t add up? 

  Yet Joe Bob knew that things in this world did not have to add up because most things did not add up.  The fact that he was a slave owner and making hair brushes and having sex at least six times a day, also did not add up. 

  But that is just the way things is and there aint no fighting the way things is. 

  Sometimes Joe Bob’s body tired, an overall weariness he believed caused by the demands his frequent fornication rate.  He once complained about this Catch 22 to his brother, that he liked sex but that he did not like moving, saying, “I’m serious.  I been doing the deed so often I worry that it might fall off, like the preacher told me it would if I put my hand on it.  It aint gonna fall off is it Peter?”

  “No, that can’t happen,” said Peter.

  “How often do you fuck your slaves?  Today
I fucked them ten times.  I aint got no more left in the tank.  I’m pooped.  What about you?” Joe Bob asked.

  “Shut the fuck up.  I don’t want to talk about this with you,” said Peter.

  “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it.  But it is pretty much the only thing I do, hump all day, so I thought it might make sense to talk about it.  People talk about what they do, I hump.  I hump all day long,” said Joe Bob.

  “With your tiny fucking dick!” said Peter.

  “Yeah and I wouldn’t be fucking and fucking and fucking all day long if it wasn’t for you --.”

  “Okay, I get the point, enough said,” said Peter.

  “I’m just trying to say thanks the way Mam and Pop always taught us to always say thanks when someone does us a good turn,” said Joe Bob.

  “Joe Bob you have and you don’t need to say no more about Tiny Tim down there.  You understand me Joe Bob?” Peter asked.

  “Not really, cause I am thankful.   I aint never seen such action as until we got these slave plantations: and that is all on account of you and your doings,” said Joe Bob.

  “Yeah, I know.  Joe Bob you are my brother and I love you.  I got you your own slave plantation because I didn’t want to be alone out here.  And I got you your own slave plantation cause you are dumber than rocks and you don’t realize how fucked up this all is.  But I did not get you your own slave plantation so that you could tell me all day about your fucking and your fucking and your fucking.”

    Since that truck ride Joe Bob had kept private his fornication details.  For example, he had not informed Joe Bob that for months he had been simultaneously fornicating with two slaves, and that just recently those two slaves had convinced him to include a third.  At first Joe Bob did not like the idea, because as he explained, “I don’t know if there will be enough in my tank for that.”

  But his slave Alice, replied, “Sir, you are a sexual all star.  And Sir if you think it possible then your pure sexual magic will make it happen.”

  Eventually, Joe Bob decided that he was enough man to share himself with three.

  If those prostitutes could only see me now they would see the sexual all star that I have become. 

  For the big night Joe Bob decided to get dressed up and so he put on clean clothes.  Then he led the three females into his bedroom.  He wished he had a camera so that he could take pictures, but as his brother had told him, “Joe Bob we can’t take pictures because this stuff we are doing is completely illegal.  People take pictures so that they can show them to other people.  What is the point of taking pictures if you can’t show them to anyone?” 

  Joe Bob replied, “I don’t want to show my pictures to anyone.  I just want to take pictures of me fucking my slaves so I can look at them later.” 

  As the three females entered Joe Bob’s bedroom, he decided to take a mental picture, saying, “Okay so the first thing that I want all of you slave bitches to do is to undress all pretty-like cause I’ll be taking a picture here inside my head, and if I do it just right I’ll be able to remember it a long time from now…”    

    

   

  Mississippi:   Paradoxically, Alice had observed that survival was easier when she managed to avoid thoughts of her real life, especially thoughts of her children.  And although every new day proved both a battle for survival against the overseer Peter and a battle against suicide, when Alice noticed someone having an especially, and not just an ordinarily, despondent day – an observation based on factors such as the frequency of their tears or their refusal to eat – she would try to whisper words of encouragement such as, “Try not to think about anything but this place.  Thinking about what you could be doing in the outside world does not help.  We will get our chance to escape.  But we must stay focused.” 

  Unlike the overseer Peter, Alice found that Joe Bob was not interested in torturing and murdering his kidnapped slaves.  All that seemed to concern him was sex (though rape really).  Also unlike Peter, hair brush assembly rate was something that Joe Bob hardly ever spoke about.  Sometimes Joe Bob even seemed to try to implement small kindnesses.  For example, Alice believed that because Joe Bob was a typical white guy and assumed that nothing was more important to African Americans than the NBA finals and so during that time he had dragged a television into the factory room and allowed them to watch.  (Predictably, when Peter arrived later that day and saw the television, he smashed it upon the floor.)   

  Joe Bob’s interactions with his slaves were straight to the point.  He hardly ever said more than one sentence to any of the slaves, and the slaves believed him to be some kind of evil genius.  Who else could put together a modern slave plantation?  Who else could have gathered them together from such different places as prisons to parking lots?  Yet once Alice began sleeping with Joe Bob and slowly started to engage him in pillow talk, she realized the undeniable level of his idiocy, whispering to the other slaves when neither Joe Bob nor the overseer Peter was present that “Joe Bob is a complete moron.  Peter has to be the brains behind this operation.” 

  They realized that Alice was correct when she informed them that she had convinced Joe Bob to include a second slave in their sexual activities; but the matter of Joe Bob’s low IQ became glaring obvious when Alice convinced Joe Bob to include a third sexual partner.  

  Alice estimated that she had been kidnapped for six months and the longest estimate she had received from another of the kidnapped had been eight months, which might mean that this so-called slave plantation had probably been in operation for less than a year.

  Which makes it vulnerable because they have not yet figured out the holes in their security...

   In the outside world Alice worked as a security consultant, mostly for banks.  Increasingly, her job had changed from consulting on brick and mortar threats such as robberies and employee theft to the virtual threats contained in cyber space, such as hacking and fraud.  But there was nothing virtual about her current situation.  Now she needed to use her old school skills, skills that had been honed over her two decades of employment. 

  The most obvious obstacle to escape: the chains.  Everyone was chained, not only in the factory, but also in their barracks.  They were chained at their ankles and wrists and the chains connected to a runner in the ceiling. 

  The only time the chains were removed was when Joe Bob took the females into his house for sex – and therefore this exception to the schedule presented the most obvious opportunity to overpower and overtake Joe Bob.  Furthermore, Alice had analyzed the chain’s locks and they all seemed to use a common key.  Finally after months of considering all opportunities it now seemed to Alice that the best plan for the group’s escape consisted of subduing Joe Bob during sex and forcing him to surrender the key.      

   

  As the three slaves, Alice, Wilma, and Jada, were led to Joe Bob’s bedroom, Alice poked them to remind them of the instructions that she had earlier whispered:

  Get him naked first and wait for my signal.  Then as you two wrestle with him I will locate something from the room with which to bash his head.  If he throws you down grab anything that can be used as a weapon.  At all costs do not stop attacking.  Remember that if all is going well that we don’t want to kill him.  But do we need to knock him unconscious and for long enough to find something with which to tie him up.  Then we will convince him to tell us the location of the key, and we must move quickly for there is no telling when Peter may arrive, and we know that Peter, unlike Joe Bob, often carries a gun. 

  As they entered Joe Bob’s room, Alice’s body shook with anticipation.  Worried that Joe Bob might, by some miraculous infusion of insight, realize that something was not quite right – other than the fact that he has agreed to put himself alone in a room with three people who obviously wish to do him harm – she grabbed him by the shoulders and began kissing him passionately. 

  Joe Bob pulled away and said, “I know you
want it.  And I know you all three want it, and there is enough of me to go around.  But you have to be patient.  Okay so the first thing that I want all of you slave bitches to do is to undress all pretty-like cause I’ll be taking a picture here inside my head, and if I do it just right I’ll be able to remember it a long time from now…”    

  Instantly, Alice began unbuttoning, knowing that it was imperative that they follow his instructions until the optimal opportunity presented itself.  However, to her horror, she realized that the new girl, Jada, had stepped away from the group and had grabbed a small dinnerware plate from Joe Bob’s desk.  Fortunately, Joe Bob, intently watching Alice unbutton, had not noticed the theft and therefore Alice continued unbuttoning and swaying her hips in what she hoped to be a seductive motion. 

  Seconds later, Jada smashed the plate upon Joe Bob’s head and though the plate shattered instantly, it seemed that even before the plate had shattered that Joe Bob had, in one motion, both turned and grabbed Jada by the neck, and then while swearing he furiously strangled her – Jada’s face becoming blue within seconds. 

  Realizing that she needed to act fast, Alice unhooked a framed picture from the wall and swung it sideways so as to use the frame bat-like and landed a hard blow upon the side of Joe Bob’s head.  The impact caused him to lunge sideways but he still had not released his hold of Jada’s neck.  By this point, Wilma had also located a weapon, a large book, and having lifted it above her head now brought it down flat upon the crown of Joe Bob’s skull.  A split second later Alice again struck at the side of his head with the side of the framed picture: multiple blows which dazed him just enough for Jada to wrestle free, a red ring around her neck already apparent. 

  Alice and Wilma continued to strike Joe Bob’s head and Joe Bob, who had finally, between bouts of swearing, lifted his hands above his head and managed to deflect some of the blows, eventually collapsed to the floor.  Jada had now risen to her feet, and bare-footed, began stomping his head with her heels until Alice screamed for her to stop, finally pulling her away and saying, “We can’t kill him we need that key.” 

  The three girls pulled off his shoelaces, tying his hands behind his back. 

  “We can use a sheet to tie his legs,” said Alice, and they pulled his sheet from his bed, twisted it until it became rope-like, and then tied his legs together.  By the time Joe Bob had been bound he had regained consciousness, and began groaning, a trail of blood dripping down his face. 

  “Where is the key?” said Alice, lifting his face with her hands so that he looked her directly in the eyes.

  “What key?” Joe Bob asked, and even before he had finished asking Jada had elbowed him from behind, right on his spine. 

  He winced, shouting, “You’ve broken my back.”

  Alice said, “Jada please, he might just be asking a question.  The key for our chains: where is that key?”

  “In my pocket,” said Joe Bob.  She dug the key out of his pocket and then asked for the location of his phone.

  “I don’t have a phone,” said Joe Bob.

  “Liar,” said Jada, elbowing him from behind again.

  “Really I don’t” said Joe Bob, now crying.  “Peter won’t let me have a phone.”

  “So Peter runs everything?” Alice asked.

  “Yes, Peter runs everything.  Please don’t hurt me no more.  I don’t want to be a slave owner anymore.  This isn’t fun anymore,” said Peter.

  “Was it ever fucking fun?” shouted Wilma, grabbing him by the hair.

  “I like the sex,” said Joe Bob, sobbing.

  “He’s a sick fuck,” said Alice.

  “I don’t tell no lies.  Honest I don’t.  I do good just as my mom and pop told me to do,” said Joe Bob, a mix of blood and mucus running from his nose.

  “Where is Peter now?” Alice asked.

  “I don’t know.  He don’t tell me.  Honest, he don’t,” said Joe Bob.

  “Where is your fucking phone?” Wilma shouted.

  “I told you I don’t have one,” said Joe Bob.

  “I believe him,” said Alice.

  “Where the fuck are we?” said Jada.

  “You’re on my slave plantation,” said Joe Bob, between sobs.  “But I don’t want a slave plantation no more.  Honest I don’t.  I don’t like all the killing.  I don’t like seeing people die.” 

  “I know I’m on your fucking slave plantation but what fucking state are we in?” said Jada.

  “This here be Mississippi,” said Joe Bob, looking up at Jada for the first time.   

  “Fuck, I’m from New York.  I’ve never been to the South before.  Do you think everyone down here is this fucked up?  Are we ever going to get the fuck out of here?” said Wilma.

  “Don’t panic – this place is obviously not representative of the South.  These are some fucked up apples Peter and Joe Bob.  I’m sure the next people we meet will be completely normal.  Let’s just stick to our plan.  I think we have gotten some pretty good information from Joe Bob, so now let’s unlock the others and let’s get the fuck out of here before that creep Peter shows up,” said Alice.

  Suddenly Wilma, who had been holding a shard of shattered plate in her hand, drove it into Joe Bob’s neck, blood spraying all over the room.

  “What the fuck!” said Alice.

  “What?  I’ve imagined that fucking moment too many times not to do it.  That fuck deserves to die,” said Wilma, stepping aside to avoid the wild spray of Joe Bob’s blood.

  “I know but maybe we could have gotten some more information out of him,” said Alice.  Joe Bob now lay in a pool of his own blood, gurgling like a fish on land.

  “I thought you said it was time to release the others and get the fuck out of here,” said Wilma.

  “I did, I guess my point is that we just need to stay on the same page here and work as a team.  If we are going to do something like that lets just talk about it first,” said Alice, who had now begun looking out the window, making sure that Peter had not arrived.  By the time she looked back from the window Joe Bob lay still.

  “I aint part of no team,” said Jada, still rubbing her hands over her throat at the place where she had nearly been strangled to death.  “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

  “Jada no, we have to stick together and what about the fucking others?” said Alice.

  “It don’t take three people to unlock them.  We only got one key.  I’m getting the fuck out of here?” said Jada.

  “Jada come on, we have to stick together,” said Wilma.

  “Fuck that I’m out of here.  Peace bitches,” said Jada, running from the room.  Alice and Wilma ran after her, yelling for her to stay.  Jada continued running.  Alice and Wilma decided not to pursue, thinking it imperative that they free the others while they had the opportunity.

   

  Mississippi:  No matter how many needles the acupuncturist pricked into Peter’s body she could not induce an erection.  Finally, twenty minutes into the second hour, she stated, “I’m sorry, but it seems that this isn’t going to work.  Have you tried pornography?” 

  At that moment Peter wished that the acupuncturist was one of his slaves so that he could tie her to his post and kill her.  But instead he swallowed his pride and just nodded dejectedly.  In fact, the whole ordeal had been so demeaning and unproductive that Peter decided to murder one of his brother’s slaves.

  I feel stressed and believe that the bloody death of a female slave, even if it does not cause an erection, will at least bring about a state of peace. 

  Therefore, after arriving at his plantation and retrieving some recently obtained torturing apparatuses, he climbed back into his SUV and began the short trip to his brother’s plantation.  However, he had not even driven half the distance when he saw a woman, one who appeared to be a runaway slave, sprinting barefooted straight in the direction of his SUV.  Because the factory and the barracks were windowless, she had no reason to recognize his vehi
cle and Peter continued to drive slowly towards her.  The SUV windows were darkly tinted. 

  While steering with his left hand, Peter fished his pistol from his center console with his right, unlocking the safety. 

  That is Jada!  Is she the only one who has escaped?  Or has there been a rebellion?

   As Jada came within ten paces, she stood in the center of the road and attempted to wave down the SUV.  Without leaving the driver’s seat, Peter leaned over and opened the passenger side door from the inside.  Now having set the trap he waited for his prey to approach.  Slowly, she walked towards the vehicle, peering around the side of the door.  At that moment, Peter jumped outside and ran around to her side of the vehicle.  Realizing her mistake she had begun to sprint, but Peter shouted that he would shoot if she did not stop running.  She stopped and began walking back in his direction, tears streaming down her face.  Peter, with his gun pointed at her head said, “Tell me what the fuck has happened?”

  “Three of us were having sex with Joe Bob.  We jumped him.  He’s dead,” said Jada.

  Joe Bob is dead!  What the fuck!  I should shoot this slave in the head right now!  But I can’t.  I need information.

  “Where are the other two?” Peter asked.

  “They are at the factory freeing the others,” said Jada.

  Peter ordered Jada into his vehicle and with the gun still pointed at her head he peeled off in the direction of his brother’s slave factory.  Once they arrived, he ordered Jada out and retrieved his AK-47 from the trunk.  Jada screamed at the sight of the gun and Peter shouted for her to keep quiet, and marching her towards the factory with his AK-47 pointed at her back he commanded that she open the factory door. 

  As soon as she had opened the door he shoved her inside.  Observing half of his brother’s slaves still in chains and half wandering about the factory, he immediately fired his pistol into the air and told everyone to keep still.  However, the released slaves started running at him.  First shooting Jada in the head with his pistol, Peter dropped his pistol to the ground and held his AK-47 with both hands, aiming it at the onslaught.  Unleashing its automatic firepower straight into their screams, he fired a hail of bullets back until everyone, even those still chained, lay dead on the ground. 

  Can Joe Bob really be dead? 

  After having firing an unnecessarily numerous amount of bullets into any body that showed even the smallest signs of life, Peter sprinted from the factory and into the main house where he discovered Joe Bob’s corpse.  Furious, Peter raced back downstairs and into the factory, continuing to riddle Joe Bob’s dead slaves with bullets.  His bloodlust not yet satisfied, he sped back to his plantation, having decided to mow down all his slaves as well. 

  However, by the time he arrived his pulse had slowed and he began thinking about the ramifications of killing the rest. 

  I gave the Jeffersonian Elites nearly the entire remainder of my life savings for these slaves.  I have too much money invested to wipe them out in a fit of fury. 

  Besides, his hair brush production had been increasing and over the last nine months their work had brought him a good income. 

  Yes, Joe Bob is dead, but do you really want to throw that all away? 

  Therefore, Peter decided to sleep on the matter. 

  The next morning Peter felt as if he were awaking to a nightmare.  The reality of his brother’s death and the death of all his brother’s slaves caused Peter to reevaluate his own situation and as he did so a horrific notion descended:  None of my slaves now or in the future is going to give me an erection and my gargantuan cock is going to remain flaccid for the rest of my days. 

  Depressed and resigned, he returned to his brother’s plantation to review the carnage.  Once there, he realized that he had no way to dispose of 25 bodies.  Seeing no other option, he called Mr. X and apprised him of the situation.  Mr. X. listened quietly as Peter narrated both what he had done and what he imagined had occurred before he had arrived, ending his narration with the words, “Those monsters they took Joe Bob from me.  They took away my innocent Joe Bob!” 

  Mr. X. gave Peter his condolences for the loss of his brother, saying, “You handled the situation quite well though Peter.  Tell me, as you massacred those 25 Negros, what was it like?  What was running through your head?  And what do you think was running through their heads?”

  As always after a killing, Peter gave Mr. X his play by play, again wondering what Mr. X did with this information or if perhaps it was just for his personal pleasure.  Finally, after stating every detail remembered, Peter asked Mr. X what his next action should be, saying, “There aint no way I can dispose of no 25 bodies.”

  Mr. X replied, “I can arrange that.  But Peter we have to talk about something else now.  The reality of the situation is that Operation Modern Slave Plantation has been a failure and we are going to have to shut it down.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.  But I was also thinking that I might give it a little time, see how things progress, and if maybe things can get back to normal.  I mean I still do have all my slaves,” said Peter.

  For a long time Mr. X did not say a word and Peter knew that this meant that Mr. X had not approved of his last statement. 

  That means he wants me to shut it down. 

  Mr. X unleashed a profanity laden rant, the gist of which meant that Operation Modern Slave Plantation had been immediately declared defunct.  Peter apologized for his insolence.  “And I don’t mean to piss you off more here Mr. X, but the remaining 25 still constitute a sizeable investment for me.  What do you want me to do, kill all them too?”

  “I’m prepared to pay you ¼ price for the remaining 25,” said Mr. X.

  Peter knew better than to haggle with Mr. X.

  Twenty five percent is better than nothing, and I can still sell this land and these buildings – no one will know what happened here…       

  “What are you going to do with them?  Are there other slave plantations out there?” Peter asked, suddenly wondering if he had not, as he had assumed, founded the first modern slave plantation.  However, the moment he finished asking the question he regretted having asked it, as Mr. X’s answer consisted of a barrage of profanities.  Finally, after more apologizing, Peter was allowed to end the call.  Looking over the 25 dead bodies one last time, he wondered if any of his slaves had ever suspected that their lives had become expendable commodities because of his penis’s continued flaccidity. 

  But surely Negros have died for lesser causes…

   

  Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two:  Ralph listened intently as Alburt told him the story of the failed slave plantation.  Although he knew it was good fortune for his family that the plantation had failed, he could not help empathizing with Peter.

  Alburt, perhaps noticing Ralph’s expression said, “What is it Ralph?”

  Ralph replied, “I know that it great for us Thurmonds.  But that man was trying to build something great.  As you spoke and I thought about the idea of reinstituting slavery it just felt so --.”

  “Perfect?” Alburt offered.

  “Yes, perfect, like all would be right in the world – like everything would be in its proper place again.  Perhaps if all Negros were again slaves I wouldn’t feel so horrible whenever I was standing next to one.  The world would be a more comfortable almost as if we had never been born and we were still floating in our mother’s wombs,” said Ralph.

  Alburt laughed.

  “What?” asked Ralph, realizing he had allowed himself to get carried away.

  “No, it’s just, believe me Ralph, many people have had Peter’s dream,” said Alburt.

  “What do you mean?” Ralph asked.

  “Do you think he is the first to wish that we could revert to slavery?  There are millions of Americans who would want nothing more.  That if they could simply push a button and reinstitute slavery, they would push the button without a second thought and be mu
ch happier for it,” said Alburt.

  “Really?” Ralph asked.

  “Of course – Look at how stressed out people are these days!  Working three jobs!  Schedules full of activities.  Never a time to just stop and relax – white America knows that reinstituting slavery would bring back their leisure time – that they could again spend time with their children – that they would have the time to attend more church services – that they would have more time for artistic pursuits,” said Alburt.

  “And many people think about this?” Ralph asked.

  Alburt nodded.

  “Then why don’t’ we do it?” Ralph asked.

  “The fault is not ours Ralph.  The fault is with the Negro.  There are inferior creatures and as such are unfit to even be our slaves.  But look at them now.  Are they better for their freedom?”

  “I don’t know any black people.  I avoid them,” said Ralph.

  “As well you should!  But just turn on the television and watch the news.  What do you see?” Alburt asked.

  “Black people doing bad things,” said Ralph.

  “Exactly, every night, it the same thing over and over,” said Alburt.

  “So that is why we hunt them, because they are not fit to be slaves?” Ralph asked.

  “After the Emancipation Proclamation, the Thurmond family thought about starting a slave plantation and it was heavily debated within the family.  We Thurmonds have always enjoyed eating Negro flesh.  Well ever since we were slave owners in the 1800’s and we ate many of our slaves --.”

  “We did?” Ralph interrupted, trying to imagine the scene: an orderly colonial plantation with bloody black flesh on porcelain plates.

  “Yes.  You see the reason our family was so successful was that our form of punishment was merely a threat: If you don’t work very hard we will eat you,” said Alburt.

  “How did we get this idea?” Ralph asked.

  “That’s the funniest part!  We didn’t!  It was the Negros who came on the slave ships.  They thought we were white devils and that we meant to put them it a pot and cook them.  Of course, we did not.  But they kept persisting with this idea.  Eventually a Thurmond tried it.  And do you know what he discovered?” Alburt asked.

  “Just how glorious the consumption of black flesh can be?” Ralph asked.

  “Yes, and from then on we have eaten the Negro.  And our slaves worked the hardest because they did not want to be eaten.  Thus, our fortune was derived,” said Alburt.

  “And we have given up on the idea of slavery?” said Ralph.

  “In a sense, it is no longer formal.  But we have other means of control.  The Thurmonds are just a small part of this control.  But we all profit heavily.  Once our profits have cleared for the year, we take this vacation and hunt the Negro,” said Alburt.

  “I feel very fortunate to be a Thurmond,” said Ralph.

  “Yes, these are plentiful times,” said Alburt.

  “So, when you were telling me about the failed slave plantation you mentioned the Jeffersonian Elites and that they sold us these Negros very cheap.  Are we part of this group, the Jeffersonian Elites too?” Ralph asked.

  “We are not.  The Thurmond family is its own entity.  And there are other families like us.  And then there are other individuals like Peter.  It a complicated network of highly privileged whites who all work together to profit from the misery of the Negro,” said Alburt.

  “So who are these other families?” Ralph asked.

  “Mostly, they are unknown to us just as we are unknown to them.  But what keeps us all connected is the Jeffersonian Elites.  They run the show, said Alburt.

  “How so?” Ralph asked.

  “Well from time to time the Negro tries to rise.  And each time behind the scenes, the Jeffersonian Elites strategize and determine new means for control.  Different racist families have different specialties.  Our specialty is finance.  And depending on how the Negro is trying to rise the Jeffersonian Elites will get in contact with the appropriate family to squash the threat,” said Alburt.

  “Can you give me an example?” Ralph asked.

  “Sure, during slavery the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted scientists to explain why Negros were inferior – and mainly by examining the size of their skull and determining that it was more ape-like than human, and thus because Negros were inferior the institution of slavery should continue for all time.  The Jeffersonian Elites also enlisted the help of the church to declare that God wanted us to protect and rear the slave because they were the doomed children of Ham.  But slaves, being the inferior creatures they are, kept complaining and doing things like running away.  So they convinced enough stupid whites to start a war against the South.  So then after slavery was ended the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted the help of politicians, this was a period called the Reconstruction, and we made it very difficult for Negros to vote.  And then made laws to arrest them and put them in work gangs – these work gangs were highly profitable because again the white man did not have to pay the Negro.  But the Negros continued to complain and the Civil Rights movement occurred.  So the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted hit men and killed MLK, JFK, Robert Kennedy among others --.”

  “Was Peter one of these hit men?”

  “Yes, he was one of the best.  That’s why he could afford to buy all that land in Mississippi.  Anyway, so the Negros believed that they had won some rights for themselves.  So the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted the help of many in the judiciary and slowly behind the scenes chipped away at those rights – but not in obvious ways of course.  And then eventually the Jeffersonian Elites hit upon a brilliant idea, something called the War on Crime.  It has really been a War on the Negro.  We knew that we could not start an overt War on the Negro because too many stupid whites would put up a stink.  So we started a covert War on the Negro.  And in keeping with its covert nature every once in while we arrest a white, what we refer to as a white martyr, so as to keep up the illusion that it is not really a War on the Negro.  But the ratio is 9 to 1, 9 Negros for every 1 white.  And the great thing about this is that with all this Negros in jail for small little offenses we profit on them while they are there --.”

  “We do?” Ralph asked.

  Alburt laughed, “Of course, once the War on Crime began the Jeffersonian Elites realized that we would need many more jails to house the Negro.  And now because there are so many Negros in jail America has the highest incarceration rate in the world by far.  It has been a smashing success.”

  “So how do we profit from them in jail?” Ralph asked.

  “Two ways: First we, or rather the Jeffersonian Elites, created the private prison industry.  We were the first to start this in the world, no other country had it.  Every time we throw another Negro in jail our shares prices go up.  So the name of the game now is to keep increasing the incentives for the War on Crime.  And we do!  With our vast network we create laws and use federal money and do this quite well!” said Alburt.

  “And what is the second way?” Ralph asked.

  “We make them work while they are in jail.  It like we have a slave class again!  Many people don’t realize, but customer service, when it is not say an Indian accent and sounds American, is often a jailed inmate.  And we pay them pennies on the dollar!  The system is beautiful.  And it isn’t just customer service, there is all sorts of work that we have them do,” said Alburt.

  “But what if the Negros stop getting in trouble and stop going to jail, won’t the profitability go away?” Ralph.

  “Of course it would yes – but that’s why Negros get singled out by the police at an early age.  We try to get them into the system as soon as possible.  And of course we get them into the system for the very things that teenage whites are doing – but in their case we throw the book at them.  Furthermore, we make it increasingly difficult for them to get out of the system.  We have created a vast network of laws that takes away a myriad of rights once a person becomes a felon – and for bl
acks that often means just merely possessing marijuana – and once these rights are taken away, they essentially can’t be productive in society – because for example they can’t get licensed in a profession or apply for a job without declaring their felony status – and so they become outcasts and thus they stay oppressed and always end back in jail somehow.  The whole system is set up so that the vast majority has no chance at success – though there will always be small exceptions of course – but the vast majority of Negros are put into the system as soon as possible, and then are kept in the system to keep our profitability moving.” 

  “How do we keep them in the system?”

  “Various methods, such as mandatory sentences – thus even if they have a sympathetic judge, the judge will have no choice but to give a harsh sentence because we have created law: mandatory sentences…  So you see even though reinstituting slavery sounds like a grand idea on the surface, it really doesn’t make sense anymore.  Because there will always be stupid whites who will think that the Negro should be free, we have found more clever ways to keep the institution going.  And admittedly there are some smart Negros, I won’t deny that fact.  But however they plan and adapt, white America will be smarter and white America will be more clever and white America will continue to profit from their misery, and best of all we will continue to --.”

  “Eat their flesh,” Ralph interrupted.

  “Yes, eat their flesh --.”

  “But isn’t the Negro rising again?  Obama is mixed race but most Americans consider him all black, so if he wins the election to their minds we will have a black president,” said Ralph.

  “First off, it is the official policy of the Thurmond Family and especially the Grey Cliff lodge to ascribe to the one-drop rule.  That means that if a person has even one drop of Negro in them to our minds they are all Negro.  So the Thurmond family, as do most Americans, view Obama as 100% black.  Because he is 50% black his 50% Irish make up is declared null and void.  Do you understand?” Alburt asked.

  “Yes, that certainly makes sense to me,” said Ralph.

  “Good, second this was yet another brilliant plan on the part of the Jeffersonian Elites,” said Alburt.

  “What?” Ralph asked, not yet following his train of reasoning.

  “Obama!  They have been behind his rise.  They fully support him.  They want him to win the general election,” said Alburt.

  “But why?” Ralph asked.

  “Since the early 1800’s when slavery was legal the world has changed.  Racists can no longer be overtly racist.  There are too many stupid whites, and annoying laws, for that to occur.  Therefore, white America has been inculcated through propaganda created primarily by the Jeffersonian Elites and provided to schools and popular culture that overt racism is bad – which means something like blatant discrimination, like saying to a black during a job interview, ‘I am not hiring you because you are black.’”

  “But why would the Jeffersonian Elites create propaganda declaring that overt racism is bad?” Ralph asked.

  “Because they saw that the world had changed and they knew that white America had to adapt.  Whites are as racist as they have ever been but they can no longer go around calling people ‘nigger’ and wearing white hoods and burning crosses on front lawns and doing fun things like that.  Now racism has to be below the surface.  The first step in this process was to give white Americans the knowledge about how not to be overtly racist.  And the gist of this instruction is that so long as you don’t call blacks ‘niggers’ and you are not overtly racist then you can then be as racist as you want.  And that was the system the Jeffersonian Elites have built for present day America. 

  “So how does this all relate to Obama?” Ralph asked.

  “Okay, so like I just said, nowadays all successful racism needs to occur under the surface – such as with the War on Crime which as I said is really a War on the Negro.  Obama would appear on the surface to be a step forward for the Negro.  And the inferior stupid creatures that they are they believe that he is!  But Obama is exactly the opposite, he is many steps back and we are praying that the Jeffersonian Elites can enlist enough of their scattered racist networks to get this Negro elected,” said Alburt.

  “But why?” said Ralph.

  “Okay, so white America puts a black man into office.  What does that mean?” Alburt asked.

  “I guess that white America is not racist,” said Ralph.

  “Exactly, it would appear that way wouldn’t it?  But you know from everything I have told you that the opposite is true.  We are waging a War on the Negro at this very moment!  And if any stupid whites try to point out that we are waging a hidden war all we have to do is say, ‘How can that be the case?  America would never do such a thing!  American has elected a Negro President!”

  “That’s clever,” said Ralph, shaking his head in amazement.

  “But there is more to it than that.  Another way we keep Negros in a continuous state of oppression is through discrimination at the work place.  We don’t hire them!  Pretty much ever!  And once whites vote for Obama they can wear this as a badge on their shirt or a bumper sticker on their car, to prove they are not overtly racist, and this then gives them the freedom to go on and make actual racist decision in life, such as not hiring the black man who just applied for a job at their business.  And then that business owner can say, ‘It was not because that man was black that I did not hire him.  It was because I did not think he was fit for the job.  And of course I am not racist I voted for Obama and he is 100% black,’” said Alburt.

  “Wow, I never would have thought there are so many reasons why it is so beneficial to have Obama as President,” said Ralph.

  “There are many more.  Here is just one.  With Obama as President we can now judge all other Negros against him.  He went to Harvard and he became President and we like him.  We would like you Negro as well if you also went to Harvard and became President too.  But how many Negros can really do this?” Alburt asked.

  “So by voting Obama as our president we are telling white Americans that this is essentially the only Negro they have to like in their lifetime?” Ralph asked.

  “Exactly!  It is a trade-off of sorts.  We bite the bullet and allow one Negro to achieve some glory, good for him clap-clap-clap.  But on the other side we never have to talk to another Negro again.  Obama becomes the one token Negro friend to prove that whites are not racist.  And the token Negro friend is something that has long occurred in white circles.  But now even the actual token Negro friend is out of a job!  Because now the token Negro friend is virtual and on TV!  And I must add that although this theory will be perfected if Obama is elected President, it didn’t start with him,” said Alburt.  

  “No?” Ralph asked.

  “No, before Obama there was Opera of course.  She has been the token black friend for millions and millions of white American housewives.  The Jeffersonian Elites put her into power and it has worked marvelously.  For those white American housewives it has already been 20 years since they have had to talk to another black person.  And Opera was actually not even the first instance of this clever vein of thinking,” said Alburt.

  “Who came before her?” Ralph asked.

  “Not a person but a thing: Affirmative Action.  The Jeffersonian Elites have been completely behind Affirmative Action, it is brilliant!” Alburt exclaimed.

  “But I don’t understand.  I’ve always heard that Affirmative Action is like racism against white people.  That is allows some blacks to get into good schools, say Harvard, even if their test scores are lower than some whites who apply and do not get it,” said Ralph.

  “Yes, that’s exactly it.  But the reason it is so brilliant is also hidden in your definition.  You said that Affirmative Action always some blacks to get into elite schools – you could change that statement to a few blacks.  So just like with Obama we bite the bullet and allow a few blacks to succeed.  But all the while we
continuously debate the merits of Affirmative Action and this ties up all the brightest black minds in its defense.  And while they are defending it and spending all their energy defending a program that will only ever allow a few blacks to succeed – and ironically just as we want them to succeed so that we can have those few black exceptions to prove that we are not really overtly racist: the token black successes – we are quietly waging a massive War on Negros and jailing them by the millions!  So while we give many lifetime sentences for a third offense and sometimes the third offense is something as meaningless as stealing a two videos --.”

  “Really?” Ralph asked.

  “Oh, yes – mandatory sentences – so anyway, while millions of blacks are suffering in jail just as we want them to, the brightest black minds aren’t trying to fight against the War on Crime, instead they spend all their energy fighting for a program that will only ever allow a few bright blacks to attend Harvard – and just as we want a few blacks to attend Harvard!  It has been a masterful strategy by the Jeffersonian Elites!” Alburt exclaimed.  

  “I feel like I have much to learn,” said Ralph.

  “You have time.  You are young.  So why don’t you pick a box so that you can begin the skinning and butchering,” said Alburt.

  “Is there any way for me to know who is inside the box before I pick it?” Ralph asked.

  “Silly me!  So over here on the left side, these 25 boxes come from the failed slave plantation.  We don’t know anything about these Negros, so I can’t tell you say their life story.  But on the right side are the Negros that the Thurmond family hand selected,” said Alburt.

  “Hand selected?” Ralph asked.

  “Yes, as the year goes on we keep our eyes out for the choicest Negros.  We Thurmonds in our day to day life keep a notebook of any Negros we come in contact who seem like they might make a good meal, and for whatever reason really.  Then we give this list to the Jeffersonian Elites and they do the kidnapping for us.  It’s a wonderful system,” said Alburt.

  “So who are these people then?” Ralph asked.

  “So here is the first box.  The first box is empty.  That was Jeremy’s box…”         

   

  Two Weeks Earlier:

   

  Bethesda, MD:  Panhandling just really was not possible in Bethesda, Jeremy had discovered.  The city was too small and the area too affluent, and even though his sign was honest -- disabled vet any help appreciated – he had frequent run-ins with the police no matter where he tried to set down panhandling roots.  Eventually it would be back to D.C. 

  When a white van approached holding a twenty dollar bill from the window he thought it too good to be true, but the bill passed cleanly into his hand.

  “Thank you very much sir,” said Jeremy, trying to remember the last time he had been given such a large sum.

  “It can’t be easy doing that here?” said the man.

  “No, sir – it is back to D.C. just as soon as I get me a bus ticket,” said Jeremy.

  “Washington?  That’s where I’m headed.  I could give you a lift if you don’t mind riding in the back,” said the man in the driver’s seat, while the man in the passenger’s seat nodded in agreement.

  “Oh, well I’m much obliged.  That would be very helpful,” said Jeremy, unable to believe his luck: a twenty dollar score and a free ride.

  “Hop in, the door should slide right open.  But if you want to go you have to get in now,” said the driver.

  “Thank you.  Thank you.  I will do just that,” said Jeremy.

  When Jeremy opened the side door it surprised him to see two men inside.

  “We are off to Washington too.  Come on in.  There is room for us all,” said the man, shuffling the big black box he sat on to the side.

  Jeremy climbed inside the van and sat on a crate.  After a few minutes of small talk he felt a sudden blow to his head and everything went black…

   

  Great Falls, Virginia:  Aysha had researched and knew that at the 2000 census Great Falls was 93% white and 1% African American.  But Aysha had not moved to Great Falls for its laughingly absent racial diversity; she had moved there for its tight knit community.  As the real estate agent had noted, there were over 20 public clubs that could be joined from the Great Falls Garden Club (Aysha lovedgardening), to the Great Falls Newcomers Clubs (Aysha and Darnell were now members), to the intriguingly named Great Falls Optimists Club (Aysha’s attempts to convince Darnell to join, pessimist he was, had been fruitless). 

  At first Aysha worried about the race issue and wondered how she and Darnell, as an African American couple, would be welcomed to the Historical Society and the Newcomers Club.  But aside from a couple of seemingly well intentioned, yet race ignorant remarks, she quite enjoyed the company of these well-bred and well-off white folk (Great Falls median income, approximately $200,000). 

  However, the same could not be said of Darnell’s impressions of Great Falls mingling.   Although he clearly enjoyed bidding at Great Falls Historical Society benefit auctions (most recently winning a decorative plate straight from the White House) he bristled when the old socialite men teased him with their reoccurring joke about his status as a stay-at-home spouse.  On one occasion he had replied, “I’m not a stay-at-home spouse.  I’m a writer.”  And then a bald lawyer with an alcoholic’s nose had asked him whether as an unpublished writer he considered himself a professional or a hobbyist.  Aysha noted that Darnell looked as if he had been kicked between the legs.

  Darnell was her world through and through but his writing drove her nuts.  Most of his writing concerned racial inequalities.  To Aysha his racial theories seemed well formed, yet as she pointed out, “I just wonder how marketable this all is.  I know there is an African-American market but it is small.  Maybe you should dream bigger.” 

  That comment had turned into a blowout in which he eventually admitted that he despised living in a nearly all white town, saying, “You at least work in the city.  For me it is a drain.  It is killing me creatively…” 

  Since that argument she had attempted to always compliment and never criticize his writing.

  When I criticize his writing he feels that I am criticizing him, and I don’t want to do that.  I feel that there is no more beautiful, soulful, man in this world…

   Therefore during their late night dinners Aysha mostly talked about her podiatry practice and her colorful patients.

  And now it was Darnell who had begun to tease her, saying things like, “Feet, Feet, Feet – all you want to talk about is feet.  I should have married a plastic surgeon so that we could talk about, breasts, butts, and lips…”       

              Rare was the day that could be spent entirely in Darnell’s company: patients, clubs, and chores took up the vast bulk of her time.  However, Aysha had taken a personal day and planned to spend the next 24 hours reconnecting with Darnell.  First she cooked him breakfast. And when Darnell opened the front door to fetch the Washington Post – his duty since they had relocated to Great Falls from D.C. 12 months prior – she told him that today she would make the trek to driveway’s end. 

  Darnell laughed, replying, “Now I know that you surely trying to butter me up for something.  Don’t tell me that there is another Great Falls Club to join?”

              “I promise no more clubs,” said Aysha.

              “Does that mean you aren’t going to pester me about joining the Great Falls Optimists Club anymore?” said Darnell.

              “That – like those pancakes that you have not finished -- is still on the table,” said Aysha, smiling.

              “You just don’t give up.  No baby, I’ll get the Post.  If I didn’t, I think maybe the world would stop turning,” said Darnell, already slipper-footed.

              “And ask that white van what is going on,” shouted Aysha, the last of her bac
on still in her mouth.  “They have been down there all morning.” 

  Darnell confirmed he’d heard her comment by waving to the window and Aysha got up from the table and poured two more glasses of orange juice.  By the time she placed the glasses on the table she could still see the van and the Washington Post at the end of driveway, but she could not see Darnell.  Curious, she slid on her slippers and literally scratched her head while calling her husband’s name.  Hearing no answer she walked to the end of the driveway, peered down at the Post as if it might have consumed Darnell, and then turned her head 180 degrees from left to right.

  Walking within a few feet of the white van, she could hear a muffled rumbling from within.  Somewhat nervous she looked around for help but there was no one else outside.  Her cell phone was on the kitchen island.  In the front of the van two men read newspapers.  She tapped the glass -- thinking it absurd that in this moment of semi-panic she still had the wherewithal not to tap so hard as to chip her newly manicured nails -- and the man in the passenger seat rolled down his window.

              “I’m looking for my husband.  Did you see a man out here?” Aysha asked, while analyzing the inside of the van.  But nothing seemed odd and the men were both well-dressed.

              “Sorry, I’ve sort of had my head buried in this sport’s story.  What does he look like?  I’ll keep an eye out,” said the man.

              “Never mind, but thank you,” said Aysha and the man nodded.  It was preposterous.  Where had he gone? 

  Probably just in the backyard doing something…

  As Aysha began walking back the van door slid open and two men dressed in all black jumped out and grabbed her by the shoulders and waist.  She tried to scream but something covered her mouth.  She tried to fight back but they were too strong.  Suddenly everything went black. 

              She woke up to a man whispering in her ear, “You should have stayed in D.C. Negro.  You should have stayed in the city where Negros belong…”

   

  Vienna, VA:  At this point Mariah was The Vienna Theatre Company’s only black actress and she thought it obvious that Jenny, a beautiful blonde, didn’t like playing a supporting role.  However, Mariah found Ted, the male lead, to be unabashedly sexy and during tonight’s performance she had felt something more than the standard play kiss.

  Does he have feelings for me?

   She had refused a ride home from him.

   I don’t want to come off as too easy…but if he asks again I will say yes. 

  The walk to her apartment was short, but still she carried mace.  When a white van pulled beside her, she didn’t think it suspicious, but when the side door swung open while the van was still moving she instinctively began running.  Horrified, she realized that a person dressed in black had jumped from the moving van and was sprinting in her direction. Although she was running as fast as she could -- he caught her by the neck, wrestling the mace from her hand.  Then a second person grabbed her, and though she was now screaming, they threw her into the van, slamming the side door shut.  Immediately her eyes were covered, her mouth was gagged and her legs and feet were tied together.  The van seemed to be driving very fast and once it slowed she felt a hand upon her head and heard someone say, “That was an awful performance – so awful that you must now die a torturous death…”

   

  Potomac, MD:  Joseph, an African-American in his mid forties, had mixed feelings about racial profiling.  On one hand he had been a victim of the practice multiple times, from overzealous department store security accusing him of stealing the pants he was wearing to having the police called on him for watching his children play at a public park.

  What the police told me is that the caller said that I looked suspicious.  What the caller had obviously meant it that I looked black. 

  However, as a member of the Homeland Security Terror Watch Task Force, racial profiling was a necessity.  That did not mean that Homeland discounted the fact that anyone could be a terrorist because they did not and all leads were followed – but the smart money focused on individuals with ties to groups connected, no matter how tenuously, to terror organizations.  99.99% of the time these people would be innocent but still when big collars were made they were made through these connections, and usually individuals with these connections, on American soil, fell into 1 of 2 racial groups, Middle Eastern or African American. 

  Potomac seemed as unlikely a place for a terror cell as Walt Disney world – which was exactly why Joseph watched Izabal and Muhammad which an especially keen eye.

  Terror groups have learned to adapt and what better place to locate a cell than right in the lion’s den, Potomac: the place where thousands of government employees commute to D.C. 

  Thus far their activities had not been suspicious and unless something quickly materialized a court-ordered wiretap would not be granted.  For the last couple of days Joseph had noticed a white van with a missing front left hub trailing his SUV, and as he passed time in a pricy Potomac Village coffee shop he spotted the van again.  Deciding to memorize the van’s license plate he walked out of the coffee shop and towards the van, though once he noticed two white men sitting in the front he thought the likelihood of them belonging to a terror group to be low – white domestic terrorists traditionally work alone -- and decided to just ask them their deal.

   Are these guys internal affairs?  I don’t care.  I don’t have anything to hide.                

  As he stood in front of the van, his arms crossed, the man in the passenger’s seat lowered his window.  “Can I help you?” he said, slightly sticking his head out the window.

  “You can tell me why you’ve been following me?” said Joseph.

  “We have a message from Scott Johnson?” said the man.  Scott Johnson was Joseph’s superior director at Homeland Security

  “Why doesn’t Scott just tell me himself?” said Joseph, now certain these guys were internal affairs.

  “Because he is busy – open the side door, we need you took look at something,” said the man.

  “I don’t understand I approached you.  If I hadn’t approached you would you have just waited here all day?” Joseph asked.

  “We couldn’t risk blowing your cover – but you are doing a pretty good job of that right now,” said the man.

  Something didn’t feel quite right and yet against his better judgment Joseph slid the side door open.  There were two men inside wearing suits.

  “Quick, shut the door,” said one of the men.

  “Who are you guys?” Joseph asked.

  “FBI – quick,” said the man nodding at the door while flashing a badge.

  Joseph shut the door and then felt a massive blow on his head.  When he woke up he was tied and blind-folded.

  “What gives you the right to carry a gun as a Negro?” asked a man with a deep voice.  He felt a hard pain in his gut, probably a fist. 

  “Answer the question?” said a different voice.  As of yet he hadn’t heard a Middle Eastern accent, which confused him because he didn’t think it possible for so many Americans to be colluding with a terror group at a street level. 

  “That’s part of my job,” Joseph replied and almost instantly he felt another hard pain in his gut. 

  “No it isn’t.  You’ve been fired.  Now it’s your job to die…”

   

  Mclean, Virginia:  Kenny thought Mclean a strange place for a hockey match because as the location of the CIA headquarters he wondered just who was watching from the stadium seats.

  Big brother? 

  Having given up all other sports, hockey was Kenny’s passion.  Gliding fleetly on skates and colliding while padded made him feel superhuman.  He thought whoever invented the game to be a genius.  Playing year round in a variety of leagues, a college scholarship seemed probable.  More than one college scout had joked with him about his race because in high s
chool hockey-playing-African-Americans are a rarity; hockey is the same season as basketball and most African American high school students follow the stereotype and play basketball.  But Kenny, a hockey standout, had always preferred the swift cleanness of the ice to the squeaky grind of the court. 

  Tonight he had scored 5 goals and had single-handedly won the game.  After celebrating in the locker room by engaging in some ill-advised (by the coach) full padded boxing with his teammates, he removed his gear and packed his massive hockey bag.  As his friends left, he told them to meet him later because he wanted to play some video games in the main lobby.  He spent $7 on a hockey arcade game, walked outside to the parking lot and dumped his gear into his trunk.  A man in a white van asked him if he had a cigarette.

  “Sorry I don’t smoke,” said Kenny, looking around for his smoker teammates, but the parking lot was empty so he added, “Sorry man.”

  “That’s okay.  I should quit anyway,” said the man, who then motioned to the side of his van.  “I don’t mean to impose, but I’ve got to drop off this trunk to the main office and it looks like no one else is around.  I’ll give you $10 bucks if you help me.”

  That money could be put to use improving his arcade skills, so Kenny agreed.  The man hopped out of the front seat, smiled at Kenny, and then opened the side door.  Before the door was completely open he turned to Kenny, grabbed him by the shirt and attempted to manhandle him into the van.  But Kenny, trying to squirm away, would not be moved from his position and he began to scream and punch.  He landed a couple of punches when two more men grabbed him, and then all three hurled him inside the van.  Once inside the three men dropped all their weight on him, restraining most of his movements and after a few minutes had him hogtied.

  “You should have played basketball,” said one of the men.

  Wondering if this was some elaborate high school prank, Kenny replied, “Fuck basketball.” 

  A voice, undoubtedly a malicious voice, replied, “Wrong answer.  The right answer is that soon you will beg for life and then you will beg to be killed and then just when you think death with never come you will experience a pain you did not think possible and then your corpse will be roasted and eaten…basketball would have been easier.” 

         

  Irvington, VA:  Sometimes Joan felt absurd delivering the mail in Irvington because (1) she could never afford to live there and (2) she believed herself to be the first African American that many of the residents had ever seen – at least it certainly appeared that way judging by many of the resident’s stunned expressions when she began delivering Irvington’s mail.  “What happened to Wally?” was a question she often fielded four years ago – but eventually she understood the residents to really be asking, “Why was Wally replaced by you,” emphasis on the African American part of ‘you’. 

  But now that she had become a part of the small town routine (population 700) the surprised looks had faded and the residents on her mail route had become cordial.  In ten more years she would have her pension and all the saving and scrapping that she had endured to send her two children to college would be worth it.  But for now it was one day at a time, one street at a time, one mailbox at a time – and not insignificantly the chief perk to working in an upscale town like Irvington is the organized mailbox ubiquity that makes annoying door delivery unnecessary, though Joan doubted that accommodating motive had been on the minds of the wealthy homeowners when they cemented their mailboxes into their front lawns.

  They just want to keep the plebians as far away from their front door as possible.

  Today Joan observed a white van parked, street-side, on three different occasions, an observation which she found noteworthy because if Irvington followed anything it followed routine and an unmarked white van was not part of that routine.  When Joan saw the van for a fourth time, she approached it, wondering if it were some government spy vehicle filled with million dollar technical equipment.  As she neared, the side door swung open and two men jumped out.  Perplexed, Joan continued to approach the van and was taken completely unaware when they violently grasped her clothing, muffled her screams, and wrestled her inside -- the neighborhood sprinklers continuing peacefully as if her screams had never occurred.    

   

  Georgetown:  Bruce had finally compiled his phony background checks.  He would have produced them earlier but he did not think that the Thurmond family would be such sticklers.  Thinking it made sense to make amends with Charles, he had decided to deliver the documents directly to him.

  “Should I wait?” asked the taxi-driver.

  Bruce considered the pros and cons of having the driver wait, deciding to call another cab when the photography session had ended.

  “Come in,” said Charles, wearing a hooded black robe.

  “That is quite a different outfit compared to what you were wearing last time.  Are you sure you want me to photograph you in that?” said Bruce, trying to make light of its oddity.

  “Yes, this is my favorite outfit.  I call it the Last Outfit, because for some people it is the last outfit that they ever see,” said Charles.

  This guy still gives me the creeps…

  “So here are my documents,” said Bruce, handing Charles a manila folder with his forged background checks.

  “But we both know these documents aren’t accurate,” said Charles, grinning eerily.

  “What do you mean?” said Bruce, trying to play shocked. 

  Does he know?  Does he have a PI trailing me?

  Suddenly two more people walked into the room, also both wearing black robes.  It was not often that he had to display his concealed weapon, but this seemed to be one such a time.  However, before he had a chance to do anything, he felt a crash upon his skull and everything went black.

  When he woke up everything was still black and he began screaming.  Running his fingers over his confines he reached the chilling conclusion that he had been placed inside a box…

   

  Location Unknown:  Her last memory was leaving her gym.  She had run two miles on a treadmill. 

  Where have I been taken?  Why is this man peeling the skin from my body?  And why can’t I get his stupid sick song out of my head?

  An old man with white hair and a disarmingly avuncular face had used an assortment of shiny medical instruments to literally peel swaths of skin from her body.  Her hands were tied.  She sat on a wooden chair.  The room had cement walls and was empty, except for a black wooden table with white candles, a chair, a plate, and a bottle of red wine.  When the peeling sessions began a mechanical rig lifted the rope tying her hands until she was forced to stand with her hands high above her head.  The man made no statements and answered none of her questions.  However, he sang a gruesome song with a tune similar to ring around the roses, a song that remained in Lily’s mind as stubbornly as a jingle, “A little piece of your flesh.  A little piece of your flesh.  I little piece of your flesh.  I little piece for meeeeeee.” 

  After he forced her to write a suicide note she feared that all was lost.  When she asked him the purpose of such a note, he had punched her directly in the nose.  The pain stung like hell but that hard punch was the hand of mercy compared to the flaying of her flesh.  In some places her skin had begun to rot, multi-colored puss scabs peppering her body like the skin of a mangy dog.  Recently her crying bouts had ceased. 

  Resigned to her fate, death, she consoled herself with the thought that while her life would be short others had lived lives even shorter and that while it appeared her end would be cruel her life had been good.  But this type of relative rationalization only kept her sane for so long – eventually she descended into a type of delusional madness that only those experienced with hopeless solitary confinement can identify.  When the old man appeared to feed her – she guessed it to be every couple of days because in her cell there was no way to calculate time – she would attempt conversation but he never talked u
nless it was to demand an action, like the writing of a suicide note. 

  One day he told her that soon she would be moved, that she would make a trip with him and that if she tried to do anything stupid during the course of this trip she would be the recipient of horrible things, things so horrible that she couldn’t even imagine them…   

   

  Grey Cliff, Area Two:  Ralph carefully considered who he most wanted to skin.  The mailwomen, the hockey player, and the Homeland Security agent all seemed appealing.  But the final box, the box of the girl who had already had begun to have some of her skin peeled had a story that was remarkably devoid of details.  So Ralph said, “I want to know more about the girl in the last box.  She sounds interesting, mysterious even.”

  Alburt smiled and then said, “You’re just like your pop.  I can’t get anything past you.  No, I tried to make her sound boring so that you wouldn’t pick her.  But you sensed I was hiding something.  Your father told me you could pick any box, except that box.  That is the box that your father took with you in the SUV.”

  “That box?” said Ralph, approaching the box and sliding his hand over the top.  He brought his fist down hard upon the top of the box and quickly put his ear to the box’s side.  At first he heard nothing but after a moment he sensed movement.

  I can feel her trembling. 

  Ralph said, “So my father has been skinning the girl inside.  Has he been skinning at my house?  Do we take the wonders of Grey Cliff with us outside the confines of the Camp?”

  “Well, we obviously do because we eat the venison year round.  But sometimes Ralph the venison does not last.  And even sometimes when we still have a perfectly good supply of venison we crave fresh meat.  So yes, most Grey Cliff members do hunt year round.  But those experiences are nothing compared to the glory and camaraderie that you will find here at Grey Cliff,” said Alburt.  

  “Who is she?” Ralph asked.

  “Sorry Ralph, strict orders from your Pop that it needs to stay a secret for the time being,” said Alburt.

  “I thought the secrets were over now?  You just told me a lot about the Jeffersonian Elites anyway,” said Ralph.

  “Ah, but you still aren’t a full member yet.  So we still get to haze you a little bit.  But don’t worry.  I think your dad has something special in mind for this box.  You’ll get to view the contents eventually.  So who is it going to be?”  Alburt asked.    

  After playing the stories back through his mind Ralph chose the Homeland Security agent.

  “A marvelous decision indeed!” Alburt declared.

  Alburt loaded the box into an elevator.  Ralph followed.

  As the elevator rose, Ralph noted that Alburt seemed to be in high spirits, which was odd, because whenever Ralph had observed Alburt at family events he had always seemed sullen and cold, and Ralph said, “You really like this place don’t you?”

  Alburt sighed.  Then he said, “There is a Negro inside that box, half skinned, and probably ready to die.  I don’t profess to understand blacks: all I understand about them is that they make marvelous profit machines and morsels of meat.  And I know that a black and a white have nothing in common, just as tissue paper and a hockey puck have nothing in common.  Yet when the hunting seasons ends, and I step away from Grey Cliff, and I step back into my ordinary life, a civilized member of so-called civilized society, for a moment, just a moment, I believe that I can relate to the Negro and that we do have something in common, because for that first moment away from Grey Cliff I think I feel exactly as does a half-skinned Negro in a box.”

  “It is that bad for you to be away?” Ralph asked. 

  “You will soon be a member of Grey Cliff and we share all -- well most -- secrets.  So I will tell you this about myself: I seek psychiatric help to deal with my Grey Cliff withdrawals,” said Alburt.

  “But you can’t --.”

  “No, I don’t tell my psychiatrist the details.  He would pretend not to understand, though I suspect that deep down he would…”  

  The elevator opened and they arrived in a room with a medical ambiance: white padded walls, wooden tables, and many stainless steel instruments.  All the members of Grey Cliff were waiting, dressed in white medical attire.

  “Charles!” said Ralph.

  “Yes, I have just arrived, business, and successful business at that kept me away.  But I am here now.  When I heard that you made a glorious first kill with a single shot to the neck, I couldn’t help but think, ‘That sounds exactly like the type of shot Mick has made many a time!’”

  Ralph blushed and hugged Charles.  Donald approached with a wrapped present.  Ralph recognized the present as the one he had earlier been shown in the helicopter.

  Ralph smiled and unwrapped the present.  It was a shiny black knife.

  “A skinning knife?” Ralph asked.   

  Donald nodded and Ralph expressed his thanks.  After Charles and Donald discussed the skinning procedure, Ralph was presented with white medical attire.  As he changed, the black box was opened and Joseph, the Homeland Security Agent peered carefully out.  But just as he did, Mick brought a hammer down hard upon his head, knocking him unconscious.

  “How did you know that wouldn’t kill him?” Ralph asked, now changed into his medical outfit.

  “I didn’t,” Mick replied.

  “For a couple of years we had to take the hammering duty away from him because his touch was little too hard,” Donald reminisced.

  Joseph was lifted naked onto the wooden table and fastened into restraints.  By the time he regained consciousness, a mouth gag had been applied.  His muffled attempts at shouting continued until Mick shouted “Zip It!” and bashed his knee cap with his hammer. 

  The Homeland Security agent now quiet, Donald put his left hand on the right side of Ralph’s head and Charles put his right hand on the left side of Ralph’s head and the two brothers said in unison, “We are the co-presidents of the honorable Grey Cliff Lodge!  We bear witness to what will be a glorious skinning procedure!  We are prepared to welcome a new Grey Cliff member into our ranks!  We salute you!  We salute Thurmond glory!  And we shall feast with the flesh of your glory…” 

  When their speech ended, Joseph again began screaming, and it seemed that Mick was prepared for this turn of events because he again brought the hammer down upon knee cap.

  “When should I begin?” Ralph asked.

  “At your leisure,” said Donald.

  “And where do I begin?” Ralph asked.

  “At your discretion,” said Donald.

  “This really is like some dream.  But it’s like a dream that I never even knew that I had.  So now as I approach it I feel that I am walking in a dream,” said Ralph, as he scanned Joseph’s body.  “There are so many possibilities that I just don’t know where to start: the bottom of his feet, or perhaps the back of his ear, the flesh of his inside thigh, or maybe the side of his neck…”

  The Grey Cliff members laughed heartily, and Mick said, “The last time I saw him like this was when he was six years old and I took him for the first time into the ice cream shop.”

  “And what flavor did he choose?” Charles asked.

  “I don’t remember.  There was a Negro behind the counter and my mind was fixated on her, actually we ate her in 88 --.”

  “Yes I remember the ice cream girl.  She had that scooping muscle in her right arm,” said Charles, wistfully.

  Ralph was about to begin, having chosen to make his first incision in the middle of Joseph’s nose, when Mick shouted, “Stop Ralph!”

  “What is the matter?” Charles asked.

  Mick said, “I held back a skinning option.  I feared that he might not be ready.  But I can see from the inherent pleasure in his eyes that he will do just fine.”

  “The final box?  The one that we took with us in the SUV,” Ralph said.

  “Yes, she should be your first.  And we should let the boy do her ungagged,” sa
id Ralph.

  “Ungagged?  That is a challenge for a first time,” said Alburt.

  “The boy could fail…” said Charles.

  A debate ensued, but eventually it was decided that Ralph should be given the chance and the final box was delivered into the medical room.

  “Who is she?” Ralph asked.

  “You will see soon enough?” Mick replied.

  “Then I know her?” Ralph asked.

  Mick smiled as the top of the box popped open.  The girl peered out and the Grey Cliff members grabbed her while she screamed.  Still screaming, she was thrust upon the wooden table and restraints were applied.  The girl had been thrashing around with such violence that Ralph had not had the opportunity to discern her face, but once she had been subdued on the wooden table Ralph said with noticeable surprise in his voice, “Lily?”

  “Ralph!  Help me!  Help me Ralph!” Lily cried.

  Charles said, “Oh, this is simply delicious, she has recognized him immediately.  What is the nature of their relationship?”

  Mick said, “They go to the same high school.”

  Lily continued to cry for Ralph’s help, and Ralph crept to the back of the room.  He had placed the knife down and was sitting in a chair.  Ralph had known Lily since first grade and they had often been placed in the same homerooms because they had similar last names.  Many of Lily’s friends were cute and popular, just as Lily was cute and popular. 

  Ralph had a difficult time talking to most girls, but Lily seemed different.  She joked easily and did not seem standoffish in the least.  Furthermore, she was intelligent and had many times allowed Ralph to copy her homework or cheat off her paper during tests.  They had even sat at the same lunch table during two years in middle school. 

  Yet Ralph never would have guessed the prisoner to be Lily because Ralph had never thought of Lily as black – he’d always thought of her as being just as white as her name. 

  But Ralph wondered if perhaps he had not been mistaken about Lily.  For one thing, had Lily really been as nice as he had remembered?  When she had allowed him to borrow her pencil had that been a smile or a smirk?  When she allowed him to cheat off her test did she roll her eyes because she thought him silly or stupid?  When she had freely joked with him was it because she found him friendly or so insignificant that it did not matter what she said? 

  But did these queries justify a skinning?

  For I am not a barbarian good Sir! 

  These matters would only justify perhaps a gossipy Facebook post.  No, at issue here was the very essence of Lily, or rather her race.

   Have my eyes deceived me.  I loathe black people.  So why did I not loathe Lily? 

  And again Ralph probed his memories for falsities.  Hadn’t he always thought Lily had a little too much booty for a white girl? 

  For all these years, stealing glances at her rotund behind, packed into her tight jeans and leggings, I’d believed that I was feeling an attraction – but was it more like a curiosity, a wondering, a disbelief that a white girl could have an ass that nice?

   Hadn’t Lily always moved between social clicks with too much ease?  She did not sit at just one lunch table.  She did not joke around with just one group of people. 

  Was that because she herself did not know where she belonged?  Perhaps she did not wish to admit it!  Perhaps she has been trying to pass herself off as a white! 

  And Ralph realized that she wore no signs to display her blackness – no hoop earrings, no cheap bling, no bandanas. 

  And yet hadn’t Ralph always sensed oddness about her?  Once during an English final, she had allowed him to copy her multiple choice questions and he’d come within the realm of her personal scent, a scent which he had assumed was poorly chosen perfume, but now he wondered if that smell had been a stink.

  Of her Negro soul? 

  And try as she might to wrap herself in ribbons and bows and fashion her hair in pigtails and curls, wouldn’t that stink rise to the surface as will the stink of even a well-cared-for septic tank?                

  Ralph said weakly, “You mean she isn’t white?”

  Mick replied, “I know she looks that way son, and in the right light she might even pass for a white person.  But I did the research.  Her grandmother on her mother’s side was a Negro.”

  Ralph did the math, “But then she is only ¼ black.”

  Mick replied, “Actually she is more like 1/8th.  Her grandmother was mixed herself.  But don’t let her straight hair, those green eyes, and that light skin fool you.  We don’t skin Negros because they are black.  We skin Negros because they are Negros.  Once you get closer to her, once you smell the essence of her flesh, you will sense it too.  Do not look at her with your eyes.  Look at her with your soul.”

  Slowly Ralph stood back up and walked over to his classmate, her cries for help becoming louder and more imploring.

  “So your grandmother was African American?” Ralph asked.  But it was a rhetorical question.  Ralph did not need an answer.  That wafting stink of her soul had already lilted under his nose, a smell which nearly brought him to his knees.  He had taken the knife back into his hand and it felt good and right, the way that one feels good and right after showering early, eating a hearty breakfast, and dressing smartly for the day.  

  Versed in the Greek classics (a graduation requirement at his private high school), Ralph sensed the tragedy of the moment.  Lily wished to be white and put so much effort into the performance that she almost seemed the part.  And yet because she was not, the tragedy of her deception would be a horrific death at the hands of an old friend. 

  If she had identified herself with her race, say worn hoop earrings, this never would have happened.

  For Alburt declared that we hand pick – surely she was handpicked by my father because she was attempting to pass herself.               

  “Why?  Is that why that sick fuck has been peeling my skin from my body?” Lily said.

  “That sick fuck is my father,” said Ralph.

  “That’s your father?” Lily said with incredulity.  

  “You lied to me Lily.  I thought we were friends.  I thought we were the same,” said Ralph, on the verge of tears.

  “We are and we have always been friends.  Tiffany wanted to break up with you but I told her not to.  I told her you were a good guy, a nice guy --.”

  “Tiffany and I are no longer an item,” said Ralph.

  “Isn’t it delicious how she tries to bargain for her life?” said Alburt to Donald.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry Ralph.  Let me talk to her.  Get me a phone and I’ll call her now,” said Lily. 

  “Yeah that’s going to happen,” said Ralph.

  “Ralph we’ve always been friends, please help me.  Tell them this is a mistake.  I have that picture you drew me earlier this year in art class on my fridge still,” said Lily, crying.

  Ralph remembered the picture.  It was a picture of a lily and so he had thought it made sense to give it to Lily.  Ralph replied, “I never should have given you that picture.”

  “Why?” said Lily, sobbing hysterically.

  “Because I thought you were like a lily.  But you aren’t.  And now because of that lie I am going to have to peel the flesh off your body and then I am going to have to eat your flesh with my family and that is just the way it is,” said Ralph.

  “What the fuck Ralph? Who the fuck are you!” Lily screamed.

  “No, Lily, who the fuck are you…”      

   

 

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