“Hang Sheth??”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Jennifer says. “Hang him by the neck. Civil War-style. Right-o? I’ll wait here while you do it.”
The three of us were standing in the middle of Sheth’s high school gymnasium, backs to one another, watching kids come in to watch the show—me, Sheth, and the combined God/Alien/Shiva/Jennifer Lawrence thing, undulating through all her forms, shocking everyone present with his beauty. JLaw did magic tricks—some sort of flippy-stick thing—baton twirling, whatever. Fire. Sparks. She entertained the crowd like a champ, giving me time to fasten the noose around Sheth’s neck at gunpoint. A good Niggar can do his own noose-fastening (if you ask me). A good Niggar will hang himself on command when I say yes. Fucking Niggar, I will subvert you. I will suppress you. I will fucking kill you in my dreams, every night, from here to eternity. Fuck you, Niggar—that’s how I really feel. Hang that rope from the tree, Niggar! Hang that rope from the basketball hoop! Yeah!! Got fucking Niggars working for me while I kill they asses. Sucking my dick! I must subvert the Niggar before the Niggar subverts me. I must murder the Niggar before the Niggar murders me. Suppress! Subvert!! Supreme!!!
Kill the Niggar. Kill. Kill kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. I kill the Niggar that’s mouse wanders into my trap. Kill the Niggar that looks at my daughter—no, in my daughter’s direction. Kill. Kill. Kill kill kill. Kill the Niggar that’s face is on backwards. Kill that Niggar and every Niggar like ‘im. Kill the motherfucker. Kill his motherfucking face. Kill his fucking dick. Kill his lungs and his stomach and his brains. Kill him with a single shot to the head—almost too short—silencing his pink squiggly stuff, dropping him to the ground. Kill a man with a rope to his neck—too slow, worse than a choke if you don’t snap their neck. Niggars hanging from trees (fields of them, spaced like an orange grove, as far as the eye can see). Power plant Niggars. Steam rolling Niggars. Apple box Niggars. Glock motherfucking Niggars coming up my street in laid-back cars. On top is my Ford 150, looking down at your windows and your Chinese weapons, your Indonesian shoes, your African skin and clothes that are from nowhere I’d find respectable. Maybe I’d never find you respectable—but I think I would, if I changed enough things about you. I could change you head to toe—and—nope, I’d never find you respectable, even if it was just your skeleton standing next to mine, I would still never touch you. Would still never shake your hand. Would still never look you in the eye. That’s why your car is down there and my car is up here. To establish the dominance. Because someone like me would never see the world upside-down. Would never see the gentle man and the Yellow man as equals. Are you kidding? I don’t even see the Yellow man as human—much less star people??
“It’s ok,” Jennifer Lawrence says.
She’s speaking to me out of the back of her head.
“Go to the basketball hoop. Throw the rope over the rim. Pull it through. That’s it. Good, human. I have been thinking about you since yesterday. When I saw you when you picked up Sheth for domestic disturbance? I was on the television and I looked at you and you looked at me and I could see that you liked me and I hoped you would see that I liked you too! You’re cute, mister man. So cute.”
She got in my head like this. Told me to fasten the rope, pull it tight, keep Sheth at gunpoint. I was waving my weapon around like a madman, tagging people in the crowd involuntarily. Put the rope around Sheth’s neck. Wrap it around my arm. Pull the fucker tight. Now kiss Sheth goodbye, she said.
“Now kiss him.”
“Do what?”
“Kiss. Kiss kiss. Kiss your boy. Go. Do. Do what I say.”
I find myself going for my boy. Sheth, his tender neck strung tight by the rope in my arms. He looks like he’s considering rejecting my kiss. But he doesn’t. He just stays there as the crowd cheers and I plant a wet one on his cheek.
“Kiss him on the lips,” JLaw says. “Make him sloppy.”
“What do you know about sloppy kisses?” I say.
“I’ve been sloppy kissing for about 10 years,” she says. “Don’t tell me about sloppy kisses. I’ve got my technique down and everything. Don’t be ticklin’ or nothin’. Get down there and kiss him!”
I look at Sheth in the eyes. He looks like a man to me. Not quite a real man. But I can see his yearning for the future. He is eager. He believes in possibility. He is ready to go into the world and quench his desire.
I look at Jennifer.
Are you making me feel this?
She doesn’t move her lips.
Don’t you want to feel this anyway?
I tongue him. He doesn’t pull back, and I realize my entire reality is under this being’s control. Sheth isn’t real. JLaw isn’t JLaw. My whole knowledge of myself is probably generated by this being and all I am is one little micron of consciousness put in this slot to make this one decision! My whole memory is constructed. Four seconds ago there was nothing—of this. Sheth’s big lips give as I press our faces together. And my face goes into his. And his into mine. Our teeth. His tongue. My tongue. The top of his mouth. His breath in my mouth. I press my hands around his throat and he pulls them away and my hands go down his chest into his pants. Sheth bites my neck and his hands on my arms. My gun hand tightens, the pistol pointed at his scrotum. I jerk him a couple of times—and Jennifer Lawrence jumps into my head.
She’s like—his cock feels good, doesn’t it? Hmmm. There’s nothing like a good Black cock. Nice and hard. Rack that. Grip it! Fuck it—fuck it! Put it in your face, love it. Suckle it. I didn’t say suck it, I said suckle it! Here, let me show you.
I’m not going to describe JLaw’s godly lips suckling Sheth’s Brown cock. It’s irrelevant and it’s below me. But I loved watching that shit.
Spit dripped between their bodies.
JLaw put me in a head-lock.
I want you to think about what you’re about to do.
Kill the Niggar?
Yes. Mister man. Listen to me. The way I want you to think about this is how can you respect Sheth Jones?
W/hat do you mean?
I mean, what are the ways in which you can respect Sheth Jones.
There are no ways I can respect him.
Ok.
That’s ok?
Sure.
You don’t mind?
No. I don’t give a shit. It’s up to you, how much pain you want to feel. Me, I don’t feel pain ‘cause I’m from Kentucky and down there we—
Ok. JLaw. You’re getting too—technical.
Yeah, well, it’s up to you. Life is what you make it. Myself, I like to be happy ‘cause it’s so much easier! But—hey—if that’s not for you, you don’t have to go for it. That’s my name and my name is joy! I like to rock out in barn parties till 3am, roll with my bitches from the Kentucky!
I’m in the noose. JLaw has me in my own noose. There is no Sheth. There never was a Sheth. The whole world is me, and this Alien—the Other. She’s got my head in a noose. I’m the hangman and the accused. I have come to my end. And it’s final. And this is it. This star. This system. This seed. Why we ever called it a Black hole I do not know. All you have to do is listen through the fabric of the matrix. We are here and we are here to help you. This is the one way we have to communicate to you, and you have to listen. We’re the ripples in the waves. The gusts on the wind. I struggle for context. There’s my gun hand—I’m in the gym. I wave it around and everyone goes, Ooooh! And the crowd goes wild! The crowd goes wild, stadium lights rise behind, fall, darkness descends, no one walks the stage, the chaos horns bleaking their tune, and I’m making a speech, just like we did in high school.
“Today I’ll be talking about Niggar blood and Niggar blah blah blah I used to know what I was talking about but this Alien/Beast/Chaotic magician (a Frogger™ piece for Monopoly™ in my home town) she’s come to me, grace in hands, and asked me to respect this Piece of Shit™ Niggar Asshole who raped my version of Jennifer Lawrence who is the true identity and a plant of this Alien being and Alien means Black means Other. I got that, you elementary piece of shit. Stop explaining me. Stop smacking my shit. I’m just a man. I’m Mister Man! I’m a cop and I have a wife and one kid—a daughter. I live in Dayton, Ohio and we’re grass-fed people, we don’t eat processed foods! We like our beef and our secret military bases and our pristine daughters we’ve developed genes for this sort of thing, in this country. Genes’ll make your pussy tight! But now I’m asked to find one way to respect the product of Niggary genes. Can I succeed? I don’t know.”