The towering doors of ebony loomed gigantically at his back.

He stood there amazed that he had so easily and so arrogantly pushed them apart.

Before him, across the court of this cavernous throne room—that might have deserved the moniker tomb, had not the occupant of the throne been so haughty—sat a magnificent ebony queen, with a face of proportions he knew well, that bespoke the half breed.

A doting pygmy stood upon her dusky shoulder and used a window squeegee to apply ash to her cheek.

On her other shoulder a fat housecat with fake blonde hair held a great, silent blow dryer which glossed the cheek of her goddess on that side.

He supposed it took the constant attention both of these hellish cosmetologists to maintain the purity of those glossy black cheeks, above which beamed eyes of hateful lust down at him, eyes of kismet, of the dragon lady of the desert who had descended to Hell, dragging her sweet lover with her.

As she towered naked on her throne, her lips beckoned with a blown kiss that rippled the deep white fog that blanketed the vast room. Then she breathed in, and as she inhaled the fog began to lift as it was drawn into her monstrous, sleek, heaving breast, through the parted lips, down the oak-thick neck that he ached to wrap his hands around.

He too was drawn on this phantom whirl, his feet barely scraping—he was dressed in sandals and a skirt, and felt on his head the twin crown of the Upper and Lower Nile—as he was born along above the clearing white mist that hung like the obscuring chalk of all lies in the dank air of The Pit.

He levitated over and above the Chicano he had stabbed for Usef in Detroit, behind the gas station, over Mems, who he had executed for treason with his great knife back in—Baltimore—for Usef, over the white man and then the white lady, who he had tortured to avenge the police beatings—and he saw now that the resulting sorrow of this experience had somehow killed them—in San Francisco, for…what did it matter, the traitor boy of Oakland kneeled and wet himself as he undid his bowtie and laid in his lap before kicking his teeth out, this too had apparently killed the victim of his wrath, for here he knelt dead of sorrow…and over the fool gangbangers his sandals floated, until he hovered above Arbeese and would go no further as the chalky white mist sucked between her lips.

The two hellish cosmetologists now wrestled with one of her great hooped earrings as she clicked a finger nail larger than his head upon her lithe knee, for he could see that she lived and was now idol.

At her pretty feet, each twice his size rose up a great black hound that barred his progress, slathering as it’s demo eyes blazed, for he would have pierced her heart with the great knife that now rode at rest in his hand, like a cobra fang dripping its venom.

He halted for a moment as the hound snapped and balked at its invisible chains and this brought the scathing mirth to her lips, the testicle-shrinking snarl that every black mother reserves for the emasculation of her offspring, the driving dagger of icy womanhood that empties the heart of a boy just as he reaches for the heights of manhood.

With a sudden flash f rage—and remembering that he could do anything in this place—he sprang at her, knife poised, leaping high above the snapping hound as he arced like a meteor of manliness at her pretty mahogany trunk of a neck.

The blaze in her eyes was one of ecstasy, as if accepting her fate at his hands, having always yearned to be taken by a man down off of her ebon throne—and then she laughed, a bolt of sardonic lightning that froze his coursing blood in his veins and sent it freezing back to his pounding heart…

Her laugh emitted a gust of chalky white mist, like all of the paint used by the Whiteman over the ages of his tyranny to obscure the truth, driving him backward across the court, the hound tearing at his victims in their eternal postures of agony, even as a soaring devil in the form of a snow white eagle of the bald kind came to rest upon her flaxen head, for now he saw that her hair had been crafted in imitation of devil-locks by the hellish cosmetologists and in this nest unseemly nest perched the winged devil as the chalky gust carried him beyond the doors of Kismet’s tomb and slammed them shot like two ghostly white arms pulling with otherworld might.