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Iron-Fence Camp 1
Eye Witness to the Apocalypse –Act 2: Thunderbird

Northeast Baltimore, United States Marine Corp Regimental Center, 4th Combat Engineer Battalion

DreJeay Williams was the third smartest nigga in all of Dutch Village, and he knew that bitch settin’ down in the parking lot of that cracker-ass Marine Armory joint was a Chinook by its sound and big-ass bulk—and his ass also knew that these were wheel mobile marines and they didn’t have shit for air transport and was reliant on the U.S. Air Force Reserve Aviation Wing over at Martin’s Airport for their shit gettin’ flew around.

That is how smart DreJeay was, had the entire Osprey library, bought him by that rich white man Mamma used to date before she got the nursing job.

DreJeay heard Mamma snoring her ass off next room down, and since he had always fantasized about breaking into that marine joint and getting some Rambo shit to bring down on those “no change for you” bitches at the sandnigger liquor stop—but had baulked at the prospect once Gyro Phat had climbed them black fence prongs and got his shit—his whole muvafucin ball sack!—speared up on that slick ass prong top, he had laid low, had sitted up nights with his telescope waiting for the next purge so he could maybe carjack one of them marine crackers goin’ in through they remote-controlled gate...

DreJeay got his Batman hoody, Spiderman serious pants and Black Panther ninja shoes on, slid his Glock into his hoody pocket and down the stairs and out the door he rolled like Nat Turner in the night—ready ta fight!

As Dre-Jeay got to the fence across the street and skulked around the perimeter, he could scarce believe his smart-ass eyes, for coming down out of the back ramp of that helicopter that was bigger than a city bus was wild Indians in warpaint, with old-ass guns, axes, wicked-ass clubs, some with wolf snout hats and others with bear paws hanging from the back of their Mohawk—looking badass as shit!

Some marines were coming out with hands on their pistols and prompt got tomahawks stuck in their trifling foreheads—serves the crackers right! Where's yo pipeline now, bitch!

The Chinook was making so much noise that neighbor lights were coming on and one could barely hear the sound of the door getting blasted in by some of them old-ass cannon guns.

Out came the smartphone, up rang his best peep Kashmir Tennessee—luckiest named nigga in the world—and out go the word:

“Yo, My Nigga, dem pipeline Indians done landed, bringin’ the wayback heat down on The Man—it anotha risin’, Yo—dis shit is kickin’ off! En dare four Puerto Rican niggas with dem—MS 13 en shit! Rise up My Nigga—rise up! Yo, dis muvafuckan UFO Chinook takin’ off—ova en out Ma Nigga!”

It was on! The pharmacies were going down, the liquor stores were going up in smoke, white bitches were getting what they have been richly deserving for all these 400 years, and it would be his job to be the liaison between the local uprisers and these wayback niggas in their warpaint.

DreJeay had spent his entire childhood fantasizing about riding one of the Cougars—the 4x4 or the 6x6, he did not care, because they were badass, had often thought, if he could get in there and hot wire one of those bitches, that he could run right over this nasty-ass fence. And to think he would soon be coordinating shit between the Dutch Rilla Crew and these wayback niggas from hell—who were just now scalping two marine crackers and ripping the uniform off of a crying marine bitch.

“Oh, my ass is goin’ ta be famous after dis shit,” he whispered to his self as he skulked along, all Last-of-the-Mohicans-like, trying for a better view of that white marine bitch’s fat ass as she was dragged inside the building where these marines hid out all night.

Oh snap!

But it sounded more like Mamma using the kitchen knife to slice the plastic wrap off the large screen TV that Uncle Brill brought her for Christmas and it felt like he was pissing and shitting on his self, like all his shit had released.

DreJeay looked down to see some weird-ass, sword-stick sticking out of his belly, his shit draining on the big red fist that grasped the wood handle. He was helpless to move—this cruel-ass popsicle stick for cannibalizing niggas was sticking clear out his ass!

Yo, dis is some racist shit!

A black face, with a little white visible just around the grey eyes, blinked out of the tormented darkness into his face, reminding him of the merciless eyes of a cat who had got a mouse.

Drejeay had never had the occurrence of mind to understand such cruelty from the mouse’s situation, but rather had always identified with the cat. As it turned out, being the mouse seemed a lot like what Great Grandmammy had always said it was like for niggas in the wayback day.

Another large hand grabbed his head, pulled his face into the cold steel fence, and ripped out the swordstick with all of his spilling shit sounding like dropping ramen noodles on the kitchen floor. He never felt his knees hit the ground, only the searing fire of something unthinkably hard pushing through his throat and up out the back of his smartass head.

Being DreJeay Williams had finally and instantaneously, ceased to be righteously cool.


Night City: The Short Fiction of James LaFond: 2015-16

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