Jubilee Day, January 1, Illinois, African America, 2615

Care Jordan, King of Chicongo sat his ebony throne on the top tier above half court. His black crown, forged in iron by the last cracker craftsman of Chicago some 300 years ago, rested upon a troubled brow. It had no rust, oiled daily as it was by His Busy Nigga. The crown was the color of dignity and the weight befitting a king and matched his black bearskin robes as well as the onyx pummel and satin-wrapped grip of his great two handed machete made from an ancient truck spring.

‘How long am I gonna last? How many of these niggas can I really trust?’

‘Shit, not that fat muvafucka there!’ he thought, looking down at His Slick Nigga, the diplomatic envoy to the Muzzy Sheikhs.

A basket was scored and he yelled, self-styled as a Viking he was, “Skoal, nigga, Skoal!”

To his left, sat his thirty finest bitches—fine enough, though he would like a Muslim bitch. But Muzzys was tight like dat.

To his right sat his 30 witches, what ran those fine bitches to the left, because you just could not trust a black man with a fine bitch. And Care Jordan, King of Men, would not take the Muslim suggestion that he castrate men to watch over his women. Now, if there had still been white folks left, maybe then. But ain’t know way was he goin’ to start whacking niggas’ junk off! White folks had done that shit way back in the old ass day and they was all but extinct. A fine white bitch, if she did exist, would take the richest Booker of Jew York broke. That shit just was not right, as His Prayin’ Nigga would say.

The roar of the crowd below playing basket ball was deafening, their women and brothers in the facing stands. His machete men ringed the court in case the men playing for civic engineering scholarships—the niggas that ripped shit out of other building to keep this building tight—got any more violent then necessary.

“Whoa!” bellowed Care Jordan as a man playing for selection had his neck broken on the floor. “That’s it, just one dead nigga! I needz da rest—feel me!”

Three men were now stomping the man that had broke that man’s neck and no one could hear the King’s plea. So he looked below, picked up an apple out of the communication basket, and threw it into the back of the head of the big nig who had the greatest voice in the land. The man turned with a scowl and then wiped that shit off his own face as King Care pointed his black manicured fingernail at him, “My Loud Nigga, take care of dis shit!”

The court official who was of the most functional importance then stood and bellowed, “Orda in da Court!”

The general combat ceased below, and two of the man stompers stopped and saluted, standing at attention. But one kept kicking that neck-breaking nig. The sound of the stomping was all that could be heard, until King Jordan snarled, “Yo, My Evil Nigga, fix dis unseemly shit.”

The most feared man in the court, once the best basketball combatant, with the highest body count on the court, then stood, picked up his ball of office, a basketball fitted with 30 steel spikes, one for every fine bitch of The Court, and threw it with great power and accuracy. Three of the 3-inch spikes sank ball deep into the back of that unruly fool, who pitched forward over his brain-damaged victim.

There was silence in the court and he nodded to My Loud Nigga, who declared, “Orda in da Court!”

The King then rose, “Aright y’all Hard Niggas, da game is at an end, cause if I lose any mo of y’all I’ll need to buy me a bunch a Mexicans. En dat shit would cut into the liquor budget en da weed ration. Y’all wouldn’ want dat shit, would ya?”

“Naw, Mah Kang,” came the chant of the newly mustered Civil Engineer Corp, all standing at attention. He then pointed to the big fat man with a spiked dog collar sitting between the ranks of the machete chiefs below him to left and right. That man held a great web of leashes, attached to the necks of 30 big ass pitbulls, one for every Bitch of The Court, “My Pit Nigga!”

“Yez, Mah Kang,” said the mountain of a man, so big and fat that those dogs could not drag him unless they all disobeyed in unison.

“Dat broke-neck nigga, dat neck-breakin’ nigga en dat head stompin’ nigga—Care Jordan and the People of Chicongo no longer require their service.”

The King then looked long and hard at the shivering men surrounding the three mortally wounded players and declared, holding his palm out to the second most feared man of his court, “My Hard Nigga, eyes on these men, and if any piss their pants, shit themselves, pass out, squeal like a bitch, or otherwise fail to comport they selves as warriors, mark them for latrine duty.”

The old, tall, bald, ashy man, the Hardest Nigga in Chicongo, then stood and commanded, “At attention!”

All 97 of the surviving Civil Engineers stood at strict attention, saluting their hand just below their mushroom capped and black cotton banded afros, marking them as simple warriors, for the 30 chiefs of the court, as was their King, were shaven headed.

King Care Jordan the 391st King of the mighty, snowbound, 420 year old Nation of Chicongo, then nodded to the massive Pit Nigga, who set all 30 dogs off with a click of his slick-release multi-leash which was a sight to behold!

As the slathering pit bulls ran past the men standing at attention in the attitude of salute and converged on the three dying men to eat them alive, King Care Jordan sat down pleased and looked immediately to the big-headed skinny fellow to his right, sitting between him and the witches, “My Smart Nigga! That shit is tight. My daddy would have give his left nut fo such a fancy leash!”

“Thank you, My King, all in your majestic service.”

Care Jordan grinned, “Majestic, I love that; love me some big fuggin’ words. You was da best buy I ever made from dem Muzzys—dey musta pumped some Jew inta yo mamma to grow dat big brain!”

“My King,” assured His Smart Nigga, “your wish is my command, oh Potentate of Princes!”

Care Jordan smiled more widely, “Potent! Daz right! Aks dese fine-ass bitches ‘bout dat! In fact, My Smart Nigga, pick you out a fine bitch from one o’ dem en I’ll get me anotha!”

“My King,” blushed His Smart Nigga, “I would prefer a witch. I am a virgin and would be tutored in the arts of love by a most learned mistress.”

Care Jordan scowled in utter amazement, “Have at em. But sleep with one eye open less dey cut yo throat—dem some nasty wornout hos.”

His newest and most valued advisor then looked across the court over the majestic heads of his warriors, standing steadfast as the three wounded were torn to shreds by the thirty pits and said, with a faraway look in his eyes, “I see a Whiteman, and another, as if they stepped forth from a book…”

And, with a crack of thunder, the biggest brain in Chicongo, owned by that pale-ass Negro, splattered all over Care Jordan’s bearskin robes.

“What da fuck!” the King exclaimed as he rose to his feet and hefted his great machete and roared, “Whiteman at Court—My Gun Nigga!”

The dark, bald, thin Nigerian, that he had bought as a gunsmith from that Kentucky Jew, then rose, hefted the Kingly rifle, an ancient Russian model for which he had hand made most of the parts, and handed the gun back up to his Master, who was pissed that these crackers showed up while the pits were engaged in fool disposal and useless for the next half hour, racked the bolt, squeezed the trigger, “Oh shit, sorry y’all!” as the backs of three machete chiefs were ripped open and the men of his royal court ducked.

Guns were firing from across the way. Not wanting to take his finger off the trigger, ‘I mean dis shit feels good,’ Care Jordan tracked the muzzle towards the five crackers he saw dressed up like legendary cowboys, who were shooting down his officers with long guns and blasting the nearby machete men with hand guns. His own fire stitched a bloody path across the court as his own men and dogs fell to his need to squeeze that kingly trigger.

Bitches screamed.

Warriors roared.

Dogs chunked down negro meat.

Something sizzled through King Care Jordan’s chest and the bitches really screamed, the Great Gun of Kingly Office falling dead in his hands, as he fell near dead back upon his ebony throne. There he bled, his lungs flooding with red, treated to a view of damn near ten crackers, more white men then there should be in the wide world, pumping lead into his men, who, as brave as they were, died all the same trying to close with the fire belching foe.

“Oh, dis shit ain’ even half right,” he heard His Confessor, His Prayin’ Nigga say over his widening sight as he slipped the red leash that had tethered him for 32 years to this short, brutal life.