Ron had his knee on the cracked Skinny chest, punching that wedge head into mud, when the tap of an ashen hand on his shoulder brought him around, “Big Country, its dead, save dem chimp hammers fo da rest!”
Ron, in a hot cow punchin’ mood, stood, to have a mug of overflowing black beer, the tears of the African Irish sunk to the bottom of the Sharklantic to make room for them pale potato niggas with softer hair, and fair skin that peeled in the sun and to keep them from running away come summer when the blood of Africa welled up in the hearts of their black betters… or so Uncle Bronk had said back in the Old Ass Day up in Fallstown.
“Hells yeah,” he saluted, to that weak-ass piss bottle that Dallas Jack swallowed, before downing that dark nectar, cream foam splashing across his rind stone collar and down those Trump Memorial Platinum Cufflinks keeping his suede cuffs honest. Ned and Ted were mourning Fred, their older brother, as he had bled out from a Somali sword throw. Ron took hold of the sad situation, “Payback for your brother, My Friends,” and began scrambling to grab all of the Somali swords. Dallas Jack followed him, the beer bucket and beer mug left in the bloody tire treads of Monty’s Jeep CJ, the both gathering all of the little swords they could. Within a minute, they had a dozen swords stuck into a Skinny corpse for a pin cushion, dragged over behind the overturned pool table Phatz was standing sentinel behind with his pool cues, broke in half for throwing clubs. Ron felt stoked, “Y’all got right flank with Phatz, Ron en Jack got the left!”
With those words Ron, who spent five years as a moving man and had bulled over his fair share of steers, stepped off to overturn pool tables to make a right side inner wall. He left the brothers to skoal for their passed kin, downing whiskey shots and swearing revenge. Dallas Jack followed him over to where Willy Mac had come around from the shock and was turning over pool tables. Five more minutes in and they had a solid inner wall, in a wedge shape, double tables wide except for the center with but one table where they expected the enemy to funnel. Vans and busses were pulling in to the lot. Stray white folk were being stabbed and raped.
“A waste of good white pussy, if you ask me,” snarled Jack, “Like to save me a fine blond bitch and earn my black ass a tryst.”
“Sure ‘nough,” agreed Ron, “Bitches will be grateful what survive this Skinny-plagued day!”
Monty was up at the bar drinking his due, all decked out in his Somali-skin duster, bush hat and boots. Ass & Brass was donking over trays of pool balls to Willy Mac, which perked Ron, “Jack, ged us some ammo and take our firin’ irons—here, my empty—to Monty. Maybe he has some .38s for me, and can clean up this ghetto-ass piece of yours. We need some ammo, but Willy should be using the pool balls…”
With the muscle rolls on his forehead and the silver-back fat rolling on his neck under that rind stone collar, Ron scowled about and saw his kind of ammo… Scanning the room he heard the cute Chinese bitch next door being assaulted. “Shoot, that would a been a nice piece of pussy to save—already ruined by dem Skinny pencil dicks!”
Propelled now by high-minded motivation, the spirit of Africa welling up in his soul like Uncle Bronk had always said it would in times of need, Ron was struck with an epiphany, spoken out-loud as all good, honest ideas were, not mulled over in the secret, conspiratorial conclave of the Caucasian mind, “Shiied, any muvs so weak as ta need ta gang rape a perty liddle chink bitch, will be too weak ta return fire when chairs start flyin’ about their wedge heads! Dallas, all da chairs, bar stools, the small tables too, keep em commin’ we throwin’ heavy high trajectory, the mortar crew, to Willy’s machine gun—let’s have some FUN!”
Bitches were cheering, rednecks were pounding fists, Norman was barking, making Ron feel like that Black Irish Berserker that broke the Danish line at Clontarf in 1013, upside some blond head with a mohagony-hafted battle axe, “Come and ged some, Wedgey scum!” he bellowed stacking chairs as they come, like Paul Bunyan, who every cracker knew in his heart was black, what with a bull named blue! Hell, Hercules and Atlas too, what with their managerial squabble over the pillars between Africa and Spain, were at least half black: such were the high-minded repetitions of African lore that echoed in Ron’s mind from the time on Uncle Bronk’s knee. [1] Internal monologues, musing, soliloquy, these were the self deceptions of the conflicted whiteman. Ron was balls out to the world. “Y’all rednecks, and you fat wigger too, Dallas Jack and Big Ron bet ya’all we stack more Wedgey dead den y’all.”
“Bet what?” came that wigger call, as the two redneck brothers stopped gathering darts, pool balls and cues to visibly clear their sorrow-clouded minds for thought, the youngest saying, “Liquor is free, end-o’-the-world en all?”
Dallas Jack was on it, dragging a stool and carrying a chair, “Pussy what we rescue. The flank dat stacks the most Skinnies gets the fresh pussy we save, and the losers, get the ones already been raped by the Skinnies!”
“Like he said,” roared Ron.
“Deal!” yelled the three on the right flank, as Phatz looked hungrily back at the bar, which caused Norman to bark-snarl, and Ron to correct, “Except the bitches already under our protection—honor en all dat considered.”
“Deal,” barked the three men, as Ass & Brass finished loading a mop bucket with so many pool balls it looked like a pile of gay canon balls for some barbie doll battle. The woman then snarled at Ron, “My man is going to stack more than you two or those three.” With those words she flourished a butcher knife and pointed out on the lot, “Vans incoming!”
Like a strife-seeking spear of sound, the spirit of competition was cast aside, and she sheathed that knife on the mop strainer and moved to help Jack hall more chairs, stools and small tables over for Ron’s ammo dump. Ron was stoked, balled his fists and beat his chest, “Oooo, oooo!” and hefted a chair, deciding on two-handed over head casts with the chair back as the double handle…
Notes
1.) Ron’s Irish-African mythology, imparted by Uncle Bronk, is based on the true beliefs of the author’s Baltimore training partner and kung fu instructor, Ben Nadu, as expressed in 2005 at Ajay’s dining room table.
