| So it turns out that spontaneous wrestling isn't always a good idea. The Surgeon General warns that it can lead to soreness, brushburns, broken necklaces, bloody jeans, and an inability to hold one's neck up while writing a paper. ------------------------------ Black Samurai Meets the Lincoln Killer It was 1978. The metropolis of St. Michael’s, Maryland was prospering in the lively month of June. What few organic trees are left in this concrete jungle displayed a sturdiness in their limbs and a youthfulness in their colors of orange, yellow, red, and green. Children played in the streets and on patches of grass and adults went to work at the office. All appeared to be as it should be. But beneath the smiling alabaster mask of supposed multiculturalism lay the coiled snake of oppression, about to bite. Deep beneath the sedimentary rock and its record of evolutionary progress, a nefarious scientist plotted regression and reversion. He was the man. Dr. Thomas Auld, wearing a white lab coat to match his white body, reclined in his chair and gazed into one of the many ivory monitors that cluttered his laboratory. A man is playing tennis with a beautiful woman. He is bare to the waist, exposing ebony muscles seemingly poised to explode from his body. Unlike his muscles, his hair seems to have already exploded into a perfectly rounded afro. With single-minded concentration, concentration that only years of intense martial arts training affords, he prepares to strike the pale tennis ball with the force of an Igbo warrior spearing his prey. His muscles tense, his arms move forward, but he hears the ring of his phone-tv-watch and stops short. It’s the chief. "Frederick Douglass, whatta’ you doing? Put down that racket, ‘cuz the real racket’s about to start! The evil scientist Dr. Auld is about to get down with something funky." Two vertical lines form from the top of the chief’s eyes to the top of his bald head. "Get down to that underground base!" "Sorry, foxy mama," Freddy says as he drops his racket, "but I’ve gotta’ go." He knew just where to find the entrance to Dr. Auld’s secret underground complex: the barn at the old cotton farm. The farm was still around because it had been preserved as a national landmark. The paragon of racial justice ran all the way to the barn. He ran barefoot, and his hard, leathery skin took no damage, it was used to such harsh treatment from his years in India, where he learned to walk on hot coals. He threw open the old, crusty door. Light from the outside flooded into the barn, revealing a man in a light blue jump suit. He held a club in his hand, and gripped it as if he were trying to choke out its life. Unconsciously staring at the floor, Freddy asked, "Who a’you?" The corners of the man’s mouth crept up the side of his face. "They call me Covey. I’m here to break you, nigger." With that he fell upon Frederick and delivered a series of fine, stinging blows. Freddy fixed his gaze on the dusty, musty floor of the barn, unable to move. Something from within him, a thing grotesque like fetid meat and more stinging than any of Covey’s blows, fixed him to his spot, brought him to one knee. "We’re going to put you back where you belong, black guy," said Covey between clenched teeth. But just then, another thing, quite entirely different from the first thing, rose up in Freddy. "The man can’t ever keep me down, fool!" His right hand moved with an artistic deftness acquired in Eastern Asia, placed itself upon Covey’s throat, and created a fine, nearly invisible gash. The pale man grew paler, and he coughed as blood burst forth from the newly fashioned hole in his neck. Freddy entered the elevator shaft. As he descended, he noticed the air was thick, and drifted off to sleep. He opened his eyes again to the sight of a thin, balding, middle-aged white man in a lab coat. The man was smiling. Freddy was bound to a chair. "As long as you made it this far, I’ll do you the honor of telling my whole, splendid plan." The man cleared his throat. "I’m Dr. Auld, and these are my facilities." "Just cut the chase, Dr. Old," interrupted Frederick. "The boobs from the agency didn’t even tell you what I’m doing down here, did they? Very well then: this is my time machine," he gestured towards a metallic, phone-booth shaped contraption with the number "1865" on it. "You see, ever since that blasted ‘Emancipation Proclamation,’ you apes have been getting mighty uppity. Black freedom fighters, like yourself, have caused no end of trouble to the remnant who, like myself, still understand the purpose for which they exist. I once thought the solution was to directly engage, but I have recently realized a more efficient solution to the pesky problem of ‘black pride.’" He leaned up against his device and, with his index finger, felt its cold, white exterior. "Listen, fool, I don’t care what your plan is. I’ma bust yo’ head in!" With a growl, Freddy sprang from the chair to which he was bound, leaving it in pieces. This was it. He was going to snap this scientist stiff’s neck. As he got into his "Preying Mantis" stance, the seemingly zombified form of Covey jumped him, knocking him to the sterile floor and blocking his vision. He kicked the putrid sack of animated flesh off of himself, and looked around for Auld. He was gone. The man stood and dusted himself off, returning his coat to its formerly pristine, pure form. He walked to the theater, demanded the attention of the fellow across the counter, and said, "Hello. My name is John Wilkes Booth, and I’d like a ticket." ---------------------------- I'm weird. |
