“Of course though, way more whites were killed than blacks. I’m not accusing you of being politically correct, but racial parity among the victims would be nice?”

“I have a challenge for you; a writing exercise: the next time you write a story write it from the perspective of one of your readers, so that you can get in touch with what it is like to sit down to enjoy an esoteric sci-fi tale only to end up having some super-mutant-rapist character dragging your mind to hell.”

Begun: 6:43 a.m. 11/16/2014

Trent leaned against the brownstone wall at the corner of Mussulla and White Oak reading this ridiculous novel, shaking his head that a white author would waste his time writing about a black ghetto crack dealer getting involved with time travel, no less teaming up with some animalistic trailer trash dude and his psycho Аrуаn Brotherhood brother who walks around modern America in a duster with a six gun strapped to his hip. ‘Clap’ closed the book as he looked up to greet Baltimore Shane, his best bud.

Shane seemed bemused. “What’s with the book son?”

“It’s just so violent and unrealistic. For instance the portrayal of a racist white man and a black drug dealer getting along, let alone working together is ridiculous. And on top of that the violence is too off the rails—people just don’t act like that anymore.”

Baltimore Shane seemed in shock. “Jesus dude do you hear yourself?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Christ Trent, I’m hanging out with you aren’t I? And our work does involve some level of, should we say, judiciously applied force.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Work? We don’t work together, we just hang out. And I’m non violent, you know that!”

Baltimore Shane pulled his hair back into a pony tail, looked around, and came a step closer and whispered. “Dude, we tell the popo we’re just hanging out but we own this shit since I took care of that Uncle Otis situation for you. I understand being circumspect but we should—as ya’all say, at least ‘keep it real.’”

Trent felt a little uneasy with Shane and his proximity, and decided on impulse that he would get home before the sun went down, and handed him the stupid novel. As he stepped off Shane chuckled, “Thanks bro, I got this, and I’ll certainly need some reading material being here alone without you to make your spear chucker buddies comfortable with my white ass! Later bro, I still love you.”

Trent turned the corner onto Hepburn Terrace as the sun slid down beneath the grimy skyline, and a hand was over his mouth, a cowboy boot was pinning his smaller foot to the ground, he was enveloped in this oily smoke impregnated trench coat, and the click of a pistol hammer brought him to a cold realization as an equally cold gun barrel pressed against his temple, and a raspy smoker’s voice whispered like menacing gravel in his ear, “Got you mooke.”

Trent looked up into the eyes of a frightful skinhead with white power neck tattoos and a spaghetti western hat on his head, who was glaring at him with eyes insanely blue. The hand loosened enough so that he could mouth the question, “What do you want.”

The man snarled into his face, “The Third Event Capacitator, that’s what I want boy!”

Trent, obviously being mistaken for some other guy, began to protest, “I don’t”—and the barrel of the gun nicked his front teeth as it was pressed into his mouth and the man snarled, “Time’s up porch monkey!”

Trent woke up in a cold sweat, sitting straight up in bed as the creepy ‘science-fiction’ novel he had been reading hit the floor next to his bed and—What the hell is this in my mouth?

Trent found himself sucking on the end of a revolver and cast it aside onto a pile of hooded sweatshirts, sweat pants, and sneakers that he did not recall owning.

“Dude, it’s bad enough you just had a dream that you were a black dude caught up in this sick story, but you have to fall asleep in some college dorm room? Who the hell were you partying with?”

“Dude, I’m Trent Feral, indie wrestler, not some party animal. This must be Brooklyn Shane’s apartment. He’s probably out getting coffee. Remember, you had the show in Long Island last night.”

Trent swung up out of bed. “Wew man, you need to layoff of reading that nutty stuff—check this stuff out! Trent could not believe his eyes, for the walls of this room where not just papered with pro wrestling posters, but hung with the most awesome memorabilia imaginable:

“The American Ninja’s kendo stick?”

“Ken Shamrock’s MMA gloves—signed!”

“A British Bulldog jockstrap—gross.”

“Rick Flair’s hairspray—signed!”

“George the Animal Steele’s unwashed singlet!”

“Dude, this is incredible, how the hell could Shane afford this stuff—his parent’s must be rich! He’s some trust fund baby.”

Trent then spied an ornate closet, the only part of the wall that did not have stuff hung on it and even had a path through it cleared of dirty clothes and fast food wrappers, when even the bedroom door had soda bottles heaped before it, like all Shane did was feast and cast off non biodegradable packaging.

Trent felt himself drawn like a sliver of steel to a magnet—just had to check out that closet to see what memorabilia was stored therein.

Trent placed his still clammy nightmare hand on the pearly door knob and pulled. He was now looking at a closet packed from floor to ceiling with stacks of money and kilo bricks of cocaine, as if he had just opened Pablo Escobar’s walk-in closet!

“Oh hell no—I’m out of here son! We all know what happened to Pablo!”

Trent crashed through the trash and ripped open the door slamming it behind him. When he did, something kept rattling on the door. Despite finding himself in a clothes strewn hallway, just barely lit by the morning light—Shoot did I oversleep, he had to turn and look.

Before him was a full length mirror tacked to the door. From the top of the mirror hung a phony gold medal that was attached to a certificate with a blue ribbon, which read, ‘Trent Jackson, 1st place at the Lake Clifton inter-city Track Meet. And to his horror, the reflection in the mirror was of that of a black man, recognizable him—if he were black.

“What the hell?”

“No, I did not wake up from the dream. I’m still in this messed up book!”

Angry now Trent stalked down the hall, pounded down the stairs, and came out into a pristine family room. The walls were hung with family photos of a large smiling black woman, a large grinning black man with a ‘Hitler’ mustache of all things, and Trent, a black youth in a hooded sweatshirt here, a tuxedo there, a basketball uniform there…

“Oh the hell with this. You can go to hell LaFond! I am not living out one of your messed up characters’ doom-shrouded lives!”

As he headed to the kitchen and the back door he said to himself, “This is just a dream. This is just a dream.”

Then he saw it, a memorial shrine on the kitchen table, "to Uncle Otis from Trent and Moms.”

This made him even more angry. “Really,” he said as he looked up through the ceiling, “you write me as a black guy and I just have to end every word with an s, even in writing!”

In high anger Trent walked for the door, fortunate to have fallen asleep fully clothed and shoed so that he could escape from this mad dream house.

“I’m a writer too. The house is a construct, and as soon as I exit, I know the deal, I wake up and am free of you—you old kook!”

Trent pulled the door open and was not in Brooklyn, but in some suburban Baltimore ghetto. Before him was the windblown yard and street of a nice frame house, in the doorway of which he stood. Just having stepped up on the porch was a big nasty redneck with a downward curving beard and sleeveless shirt who mumbled through badly fitted false teeth, “Escoose me sir. You mamma said to cut down da tree in the yard, but did no’ say if she wanted the firewood.”

Trent was mad, his ears glowing hot. “What, that was my tree! I grew up climbing that tree. I had a swing in that tree!”

Trent pushed past the stupid white man and walked up behind the other fellow that was pulling the cord on a chainsaw at the base of the beautiful oak of his youth. “Excuse me!”

The chainsaw started and the tall bald, grinning white man with white power tattoos on his neck turned with a slimy cigar dripping from the hole between his green front teeth that seemed designed to hold a cigar, and grinned more intensely as he revved the tree killing machine and leered with preternatural eyes down into Trent’s own watery eyes.

With the chainsaw fiend standing and revving and the stupid redneck mumbling behind him, Trent was off at a fast run, hurdled the fence like a trained athlete and was halfway across the street before he thought to check for traffic. The sound was more hollow than he would have thought, and other then the sensation of the wind being driven from his body was not so bad. He did not expect the landing to hurt so much. At least he was not dragged.

He was looking up at a UPS driver who was holding a parcel for Trent Jackson, and the two white landscapers from hell, all three looking down into his eyes—which he could not close for trying—as his throat filled up with something warm.

The older man nudged the chainsaw man with the slimy cigar, “If Mrs.’ ‘Ackson’s boy die, I don’ get paid. Save him ‘Andy”

With that the big racist kneeled over him, tilted his head back, which did clear his airway, although nothing was happening in his chest. He then spit out the disintegrating cigar onto Trent’s chest and said, “I gotz da airway clear Mike. Now I gotz ta give him da mouth ta mouth.”

The hideous mouth then opened to expose the rotted teeth, bleeding gums, tar stained lips and greenish tongue of a vitamin deficient moron and Trent screamed into Eternity with his mind, “I’d rather die.”

It just came out sounding like a death gurgle.

He floated above his body looking down at the three men: the UPS driver trying to get one of the goons to sign for the parcel, and the goons arguing over what to do with the tree and whether to call Mrs. Jackson or ‘the nine-one-one’.

Trent felt a sickening tug on his belly, down in his guts that reminded him that he was not really dead. He looked up hopefully and noticed the sky above was clouding over as if angels were looking the other way. He then looked down and saw, from a hole in the asphalt, the hulking form of Uncle Otis Jackson, three bullet holes in his chest, pulling down on what appeared to be a string of darkness.

Then came his uncle’s grating voice, “So you young hopper thought you was gonna sick you nasty longhaired whiteboy on Ole Uncle Otis en take his stashhouse! Well I gotz some shit fo you boy!”

Trent felt himself being pulled down through his body as the men stepped back and he now appreciated the beauty of the sky above through the eyes of Trent Jackson. He was seeing and hearing in two dimensions.

As the men around his body stepped back and made exclamations of fright or disgust, and the last light of heaven was covered over with a dark cloud shaped like a big hotdog eating hand, he felt himself being drawn down below to the sound of Uncle Otis’ spiteful voice, “Boy don’t be hopin’ fo heaven. Didn’t yo ass get the message? God is white—en da Man Below gotz some work fo you!”

“No!”

And the dark earth seeped with the would be echo of another eternally muted soul.

Finish: 7:53 a.m. 11/16/2014

After shower and breakfast proofed, encoded, and published at 9:19 a.m.

Thank you Trent and Shane.

-James