Cynique

Yes, I am guilty of using multiple questions marks, as well as a lot of dots and dashes and italics. I use them for emphasis and to infuse life into the dialogue by making it more expressive because my aim in serializing this novella is to kind of make it like a verbal movie. It's just a little experiment I'm playing around with for lack of something better to do.

Anyway, thanks for the feedback and welcome to the board. To really get into this urban tale, I would think that you'd have to read more than one chapter of it. But that's a personal choice. I consider myself lucky to get anybody to read it and all those who do so, are doing me a favor.

The Only One

Chapter 18

Carole Everly was grateful for an opportunity to finally start turning her life around, and riding alongside Philip Atkins as he wheeled his BMW through the traffic on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, she felt more relaxed and upbeat than she had in a long time.

“I’m glad you could fit me into your busy schedule,” Philip was saying. “Really flattered that I beat out the book you were planning to spend the evening with.”

“I’m never too busy to meet with an old friend,” Carole replied. “Particularly one who wants to take me out to eat!”

“A dinner invitation always works with women,” Philip chuckled. “Y’all love to be fed.”

“This is true,” she confirmed, “but we hate to be strung along. Are you ever going to reveal why you called me last week???”

“I guess,” Philip said. “I put that on the backburner because of your reaction – or lack of it.”

“Reaction to what???”

“You’ll never guess what it was I wanted to find out.”

“I’m dying to hear!”

“An interesting choice of words, considering my question has to do with the serial killer case. I been stalling because it ain’t none of my business - but, by chance, did you ever have any dealings with this Purvis Skinner?”

“Are you serious??!”

“Yes.”

“Fortunately, no, - because I don’t know whether I would’ve passed up a chance to make 500 extra dollars a week just for – phone sex. Why do you ask??”

“Because a little slip of paper bearing your name and address was found among Purvis Skinner’s effects.”

Carole’s mouth dropped open. “Really???”

“Yep. You may have been in his sites, but guess he figured you wouldn’t be a good candidate since you weren’t seeking a loan , - or were you?”

“No, I wasn’t! Where on earth did he get that information about me?? The picture the newspapers printed of him didn’t look like anybody I’ve ever met.”

“Who knows, but you don’t really have anything to worry about because this SOB is going be shut away for the rest of his life.”

“Well, hopefully he doesn’t convince some gullible woman that she can make some extra money by bringing him a saw on visitor’s day.”

He laughed. “You’re such a delightful person, Carole Everly. How much a week would it take for you to give me - bed sex??”

Carole rolled her eyes. “The light is green,” she said, pointing to the traffic signal.

“Wish I could get the green light from you,” he persisted, observing her out of the corner of his eye. “Whoever it is you’re savin it for, sure must be somethin special.”

“You said there would be no strings attached to this free meal!” she reminded, in a hurry to change the subject.

“There won’t be. But - it sure would be nice if after we enjoy our dinner, we could partake of a final course - enjoy the kind of dessert that satisfies a different appetite. No after taste, - no strings.”

“My, my, such eloquence. I don’t know why you don’t stop being a commitment-phobe and just settle down. Then you’d have more time and energy to spend on your favorite sport.”

He grunted. “Or maybe I should do like my partner Brooks who’s happy as a lark, now that he’s finally found what he needed in life!”

“Which was?”

“ ‘Got him a fine ‘ol cougar who’s so thrilled to have a young stud bone her every night that she gladly puts up with all his quirks.”

Carole sighed. “Some folks finally get lucky in life.”

“ ‘Lucky’ ain’t nothing but a word,” Philip declared, “in fact I’ve got this theory on how to create what we call - good luck.”

“What is it?” she asked, her curiosity immediately piqued. “I’m very interested in meta-physical concepts.”

“I’ll – lay it out for you later,” he smiled, “if you let me give you a - presentation.”

Shifting her position, Carole was surprised at the way her vajayjay responded to the suggestiveness in Philip’s voice. And she had a feeling that her resistance was in big trouble. But, somehow, she wasn’t really bothered. What the hell. Good luck, good fuck – they could be one and the same…

Purvis Skinner lie face down on the cot in his jail cell, his head buried in the crook of his arm in an attempt to blot out the world. Something it would be easier to do if he could forget how those 2 ass-hole cops had roughed him up, taking all the credit for obtaining his confession. Little did they know that he’d spilled everything because he didn’t care if he was found out. He was proud to be guilty. Maybe now he’d get some credit for being a winner. Those who rejected him, had been rejected. They had lost, he had won. And forget about a public defender, forget about a trial. For him, prison would be an escape from the confines of a crappy world! Bring on the plea bargain. Let them sentence him to life. Bars couldn’t restrict him. His mind was too strong. Like now. He had no IPod, but he could hear the throbbing piano of Theolonius Monk pounding in his head. He had no female, but pleasure was just a hand-job away!

Burrowing his head deeper into his elbow, he thought about that lying bitch, Coreen, someone else he’d like to squelch! Telling everybody she had outsmarted him. But he had gotten the best of her, too! Not once, but twice, he had fucked her, and in the cover of darkness she had responded like the horny slut that she was, really gettin off on his big prick! All of which proved that women were demons. Demons he needed to be rid of! Even his mother had been a demon, always comparing him to his depraved uncle - who was also his father, always calling him ugly and crazy and nasty, all the things she herself was, bringing home the bums who never stayed around long after molesting him, and abusing her, - always casting her scorn on their kind-hearted neighbor, a cripple who had introduced Purvis to the music that made love to his ears, and who had always given him credit for having a good mind.

But in his whole clouded existence there had been only one other ray of sunshine. How pleasant she had been over the phone that time, her voice as smooth as honey. How patiently she had listened to his problem and gone out of her way to solve it, treating him like he was more than just an account number. And when he’d asked her name so he could write to her supervisor, how reluctant she had been to accept praise for just doing her job. No, he hadn’t gotten around to sending a letter, but he had snuck up to City Wide Utility and had her pointed out to him, and he liked how strangely appealing she looked; made him want to keep tabs on her as time passed on, occasionally following her home from work, sometimes keeping a vigil outside her apartment building. She was no demon. She was like a goddess to be worshipped from a distance, an angel whose “pathway to heaven” was sacred, not someplace he’d force his dick into…

Then, with the high-pitched scatting of Ella Fitzgerald spinning off the turn table of his demented imagination, Purvis Skinner pictured the face of Carole Everly and as his hand slid down to his groin, he uttered a silent prayer of gratitude…thankful that he no longer had to fight off that awful, ongoing urge to kill her with his love…

…Philip Atkins emitted a long satisfied growl, and rolled over on his back, trying to quell his urge for a cigarette.

“I’d call that a - pretty good stroke of luck,” he chuckled, after a moment, then peered through the dimness at Carole, and discerned the wistful look on her face. “Whatcha thinkin ‘bout, sugar-puddin?”

“Nobody,” she murmured, and closed her eyes.

“I said what,” he teased, reaching for his pack of Newports. “ Not who.”

- to be continued as more questions are cleared up in the final 4 chapters -

I am a very avid fan of the HBO cable-tv series "Game of Thrones", and it occurrs to me that this epic could be considered speculative fiction. A couple of interesting black characters are included in its large cast of characters.

In the southern black colleges, it would appear that hazing is an accepted tradition and is tolerated and condoned by the administration and the adult leadership in the music departments.

Of course fraternities and sororities continue to be among the biggest offenders across the board when it comes to hazing. Young people seem to have an innate streak of cruelty that being in a dominant position brings out in them. It doesn't go away once they mature into responsible adults but, in most cases, it is kept under control.

Very interesting and very sobering. Pat Buchanan has been around a long time and over the years, his rhetoric has gone from Republican cheerleader to American elder. He has retained his party loyalty but he now takes an overview and, as a visionary, he is very perceptive.

They say you can ride for miles and miles and never see anything but open land in states like North and South Dakota and Montana and Idaho and Wyoming, so maybe there exists a refuge for the white race in this country.

In the paradigm Buchanan describes, black folks as usual are in limbo, dangling between white and brown America, their identity blurred. Latching on to the winning team seems to be the only viable choice.

In Norse mythology the spectre of the Gotterdammerung casts a pall over the gods as their twilight seems imminent. A similar fate may await Caucasians as far as retaining power is concerned, and Montezuma might yet have his revenge.

Whatever the case, the handwriting is on the wall. America as we know it is undergoing a change and the union is being fragmented. Instead of the United States, we are gravitating toward a state of flux. Nothing stays the same and time marches on, bringing a new and different day.

If Obama loses, as he might very well do, Mitt Romney will just be a caretaker for the good ol boy network until a charismatic Hispanic leader emerges from the barrios. Hola!

I've always been vexed with how the justice system works when it comes to the punishment fitting the crime. Some people can commit multiple murders and not get the death sentence and others can just kill one person and get it. Drug dealers are routinely given longer sentences than drunken drivers guilty of wreckless homicide. White collar crimes especially seem to draw lighter sentences, its perpetrators often being put on probation and just required to make restitution something they are usually too broke to do. Embezzlers steal millions of dollars and the court seems to take mercy on them, not considering their greed and dishonesty crimes.

Rav'is crime certainly had something to do with contempt, if not hate. 30 days seems a very light sentence for someone who did, indeed, show no remorse.

Baffling, too, how so many of our youngsters place such a small value on life, and would just as soon kill a person as to look at him. These types are totally lacking in foresight.The dire consequences of their doing wrong never seems to occur to them.

Our jails are full of young black men, wasting away, because they didn't give engaging in risky behavior a second thought. The odds are already stacked against them and they contribute to their own down-fall by mindless action.

Hazing and bullying and gang-banging all stem from the same root, the same warped mentality. For the coming generation, "Think about what you're doing" should be the words to live by.

I agree that the way to attract black readers to this genre is to write about characters they can identify with and it is, of course, important to show these characters in roles that portray them as ingenious and bold and adventurous. This heroic approach can serve to balance out black street lit, which is now so popular and which is more gritty in its POV. It's good to have choices in black reading matter. Which raises the question as to which section in a big chain book store would you prefer to have your work? The Sci-Fi Fantasy one, or the African American one?

And would you believe that way back when I first decided to try self-publishing, the first book I wrote was one that was about the paranormal! Jeeze! I forgot all about "The Crystal and the Mist" which I wrote over 15 years ago!!

Its sub-title was: "an urban tale of the unknown" and its characters were black.

Has Amari written anything new? I reviewed "The Savion Sequence" on this site when it first came out.

I swear, Troy, I don't remember that my sentiments were that adamant one way or another about Obama 4 years ago, I was more focused on Hillary Clinton, and all the hate and criticism bein heaped on her which I thought was unwarranted. I voted for Obama wtih great pride and deliberation because McCain had a wife who was scarier lookin than Michelle and a running mate who was more of a ditz than Biden. Oh, yea, and because Obama was semi-black.

And, actually, Waterstar, the double entendre involved in the "bending over backward phrase" was inadvertant. It just came out that way, although I do love a good pun!

You're forgiven for not gettin it, Troy. And BTW, Merriam Webster is not a "she". Merriam is the surname of the brothers who owned the company that published Noah Webster's dictionary.

The Feds murderd my hometown boy, Depeuty Chairman of the Illinois Black Panther Party, Fred Hampton, who was betrayed by an undercover black Judas in the action.

Covert operations exist not to win friends and influence people but to destroy threats or perceived threats to the establishment. So I am never surprised at what the powers-that-be do in the name of protecting this nation from revolution be it a social one or a militant one. The same kind of operation that brought down Osama bin Ladin was and will be waged against any one or organization that smacks of terrrorism. or overthrow of the government. It's not about justice, it's about maintaining control.

Currently Chicago has been descended on by protesters from all over the world, all here to demonstrate against the gathering of NATO leaders. It's interesting to see all the groups that are represented. The police just arrested a small cabal of anarchists who were planning to blow up the Mayor's, office and Obama's campaign headquarters, among other strategic places. They looked like college boys about to execute a prank. I was kinda impressed with them because they are dedicated and fearless and totally outraged by what Capitalism has wrought.

I'm leaning toward boitumelo being a female. The tone of "her" posts strikes me more as over-the-fence-gossip, rather than barbershop bull shit - someone who is more of an agitator than an aggressor.

I have lived long enough to see things come full circle in the black community. During the late 60's and 70s and mid-80s in the area of race, an era of good will peaked and then slowly reversed in the ensuing decades when integration proved to not be all it was cracked up to be.

The emergence of a viable black middleclass was rivalled by an expansion of a black underclass phenomenon that spawned a "ghetto" culture that took root and began to thrive even as it regressed to a state of negativity. All of the progress made by the civil rights struggle of the 50s began to deriorate and racism replicated itself.

It's debatable what rationale applies to why gangs and drugs and amoral behavior became so dominant among under-classe Blacks but it's obvious that its members have become self-destructive and are playing into the hands of their oppressors with their violence and flawed value system, making things harder for others of their race who want to better themselves.

If black folks want to salvage their future, they need to develop a Plan B or fall back and re-group. I know this sounds elitist, but at some point, certain things have to be conceded because being in denial is counter-productive. As Chris Rock so succintly declared. "I love black folks, but I hate niggas." Having said all of this I am left to stew in the frustration of abhoring Black Conservative Republicans almost as much as I do white ones.

BTW, the latest figures show that the white race in America is also in trouble, it being on a collision course with becoming extinct, thanks to the rise of minorities of color. The great white hope might soon be a flag of surrender.

Looks like God has forgotten to bless America....

One good argument which a lot of disgruntled black leaders are making is that Obama has bent over backwards to not show any favoritism towards Blacks, the implication being that this was a smart political move. Yet, he risks being re-elected by catering to the homo-sexual voting bloc, something that is alienating his most loyal supporters.

Every week some celebrity or liberal millionaire is throwing a big fund raiser for Obama, wining and dining him, raising millions of dollars, showcasing a smiling joking Obama and Michelle in her latest designer gowns, while the economy continues to struggle. No wonder Obama is not doing that great in the latest polls.

As far as I'm concerned, Romney amd Obama both leave a lot to be desired when it comes to making a choice. I can understand why not voting for either one is emerging as the easiest option.

.

If books like "The Lost Symbol" by Dan Brown and the "Savion Sequence" by D. Amari Jackson qualify for this genre, then I do occasionally read books in this category. I'm more into the science than the fiction of these types of books. I'm very intrigued with the aspects of the paranomal and quantum and meta physics. I'm not big on fantasy, but I am riveted by theories in regard to the true nature of reality. I also like horror stories that are really scary.

Although I am presently posting a serialized version of a novella I wrote on the Cynique's Corner forum, I am actually more into biographies and historical documentaries nowadays. As I've grown older my attention span has grown shorter and non-fiction seems to command my interest more.

I do plan to read Toni Morrison's new book because her writing transcends all genres.

What are the titles of some of your works?

The Only One

Chapter 17

She had been wondering about him off and on for the past month, and he had been thinking about her, too, and just as she decided to reach for her phone, its ringtone sounded and she was quick to answer.

“Well, hello!” Carole greeted, hearing the familiar voice. “Would you believe I was just thinking about you when I heard your name mentioned on the news earlier in connection with the capture of the garbage dumpster killer? What a feather in your cap!”

“Yeah,” Philip Atkins said. “Finally caught up with that goddamned maniac! Would you believe it was my partner, Brooks – hold on a minute, let me see who this is on my call-waiting.”

Anxious for him to click back over, Carole was brimming with questions to ask Philip, especially about the last name of the woman involved in the capture of the serial killer.

“…Yeah, - so like I was saying,” Philip resumed, switching back to their conversation, “it was my partner Brooks who was instrumental in cracking this case. It all happened so fast, but once we got a lead, everything broke wide open!”

“Who was the guy?” Carole asked, “And why in the world was he killing all these poor women!”

“I can’t talk long,” Philip rushed, “but his name is Purvis Skinner, and what our investigation uncovered was that all of his victims were young females who were deep in debt. Each one had been rejected for a loan by this company where Skinner worked as a janitor who, before shredding the contents of waste baskets, would fish out rejected applications and get information about those who’d been turned down. Then, he’d pick out the ones who looked like good candidates for his purposes, and contact them under false pretenses.”

“Good grief!”

“Yep, and since he knew these unsuspecting women were desperate for money, he’d offered them a way to make a quick buck. He claimed to have a 900 sex-hotline number and that all they’d have to do was talk dirty on the phone for a few hours every night, and they could earn as much as $500 a week!”

“Really?”

“That was probably the reason the victims kept their acquaintance with him a secret. They didn’t want family and friends to know about the sleazy part-time activity they were considering getting involved in.”

“But why did he murder them?

“Well, he would invite a prospect over to his apartment under the pretense of demonstrating how the operation worked. Then he would try to take liberties . And since he wasn’t exactly the type of guy a young woman would be romantically attracted to, when she rejected him, he’d do her in.”

“How terrible! So what led to his downfall?”

“He finally met his match in a very slick chick,” Philip said. “She was turned down for a loan, and when he whipped his con-game on her, this Coreen Briggs took him up on his offer just like the others had.”

“That’s who I want to hear about!" Carole exclaimed. “Tell me more about her! I’m wondering if she’s related to someone I know!”

“What we have to go on is that, once dude and Coreen ended up in his lair, things followed the usual course and he came onto her. But, according to Coreen, from certain things he said, she began to half-way suspect who this joker might be, so she turned the tables on him. To save her life, she claimed she had no choice but to seduce him, and get him drunk, and after he fell asleep she cracked him over the head with a hand weight, and got the hell out of his place. As soon as she escaped, she called my partner Brooks who she knew, because he’d had a thing for her - before they had a falling out. Anyway, as soon as this Coreen-babe made sure she was eligible for the big reward, and that she would get a chance to appear on TV, she gave Brooks all the information, and told him where to go. Once Brooks and me arrived at the apartment with a search warrant crew, we knew we were on to something because we found a bag of women’s under garments and after we got Skinner down to the station and interrogated him for 4 hours, he confessed everything. Said he was glad it was over, because killing women wasn’t worth the trouble any more, - that jackin’ off by himself was more fun. The only thing that really seemed to bother this nut was my partner’s threat to confiscate his valuable jazz collection. The fool was really psycho.”

“Fascinating,” Carole said.

“Yeah, Philip,” agreed. “And I’m due at a press conference so I really gotta run! The reason I was calling you can wait!”

“OK,” Carole said, her curiosity aroused. “Get back to me as soon as you can!”

Propped up against the headboard, draped in nothing but a bedsheet, a totally amazed Troy Briggs couldn’t believe what he was watching on TV. But there was Coreen! Big as life, - his ex-wife appearing on the 6 o’clock news, fielding reporters’ questions, coyly playing to the cameras, unsuccessfully making an attempt at sounding intelligent. Unbelievable, was the only word that came to mind as he lie there, cracking up. A serial killer! Her dating life must’ve gone downhill after their divorce he decided, thinking that if anybody in the world could bring a cold-blooded murderer to his knees, it was Coreen!

“What’s so funny?” Debbie Marlowe asked her newly-acquired roommate as she emerged naked from the bathroom, bouncing across the room. “You can’t wait to get your jollies, huh? I’ll give you something to laugh about!” she teased, pulling back the covers and climbing on top of him.

“Bust my sides and tickle my fancy,” he chuckled, gripping her hips, glad the joke was on him as she settled into the saddle of his loins and was off to the races.

Later, waking up in the middle of the night, Troy Briggs lie there next to a sleeping Debbie, his mood reflective.

Well, he thought, this was what he wanted. But now that the newness had worn off, routine has set in. Sharing a bed with someone who snored, hogged the covers, and gave good head, wasn’t that different from sleeping with Coreen, who was undoubtedly making big plans for the cash windfall she’d lucked up on thanks to her encounter with a serial killer. Coreen, who always managed to land on her feet. Now that he could view her from afar, he had to admit that’s she’d always been a resourceful woman. A survivor. Something he’d never given her enough credit for. Too bad he hadn’t shown more appreciation for his wife of 5 years, and the mother of his child. He thought about one of the few times he had actually felt close to her, the night when they’d cried in each other arms after their daughter had drawn her last breath. Yeah, he had to admit that he hadn’t been a very considerate husband.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of things he needed to admit about himself. There was Ashley Drake. She, too, was a resourceful woman, which was why he had fallen for her, had sponged off of her and had hoped to use her to get ahead in the upscale world where she was a player.

And Carole Everly, he thought, before catching himself. Oops. Why had he brought her into this mix???

Suddenly alerted by a stirring at the foot of the bed, and a low snarl, Troy sensed that Marty had his eyes on him. Marty. The ever-present Marty, - like some kind of a motherfuckin sentry. Even lurking around when he and Debbie were screwing.

Waiting for Marty to settle down, Troy turned over on his side, ready to fall back asleep as his thoughts began to drift. Maybe the bad karma between him and his four-legged nemesis dated back to another life…when he had been a runaway slave…and Marty a blood hound hunting him down…so he could be strung up…for sleeping with a white woman…nah…delete that…being the paramour of…a temptress like,… say, Cleopatra…was more his preference…zzzzzzzzz…

• to be continued as the explanations for puzzling questions are revealed in the final chapters. -
  

Well, Waterstar, I think your argument is a stock one. My observation is that, currently, Eurpoean/western traits once considered the ideal have been diluted. Pale white skin is no longer considered preferable to golden tan. Full lips are now more desirable than thin ones.Slanted Asian eyes are considered exotic. Nose jobs and do-overs are most popular among Caucasians. Women of all ethnicities enhance their hair with dyes, tints, bleaches, weaves and - wigs. Both black and white women have their hair straightened or curled. All those luxurious tresses tumbling around the shoulders of white celebrities are synthetic hair extensions, and there are very few natural blondes. All women want J-Lo and Beyonce and Kim Kardisan booties. Glamour is an aura that is not skin deep. ."Vanity, thy name is woman". The paragon of feminine beauty now draws from all races, and is something that all females strive to achieve.

In the big picture, natural beauty still trumps falseness and it transcends color lines. Pop culture is a very frivilous domain not to be confused with the gravity of politics where race does rear its ugly head.

My take on your comparison between Halle and Grace in ""Boomerang" would be that Halle was "cute", and Grace "stunning".

The black community in general and the black church in particular tends to be homophobic. And it's ironic that their sentiment against same-sex marriage does not translate into an enthusiasm for hetero sexual marriage. Over half of black women aren't and never have been married. About 80 percent of black children are born out of wedlock, and as a consequence at least 90 percent of prison inmates were born to single mothers. Shacking up is a common practice. And 1 in 4 marriages end in divorce.

Obama's endorsement of same-sex marriage has really posed a dilemma for Blacks. They gotta figure out whether they want to blindly follow him or stick with blindly following sanctimonious preachers who alway manage to come up with some isolated bible verse to condone or condemn the acts that hypocrites want to justify or besmirch.

Me, I don't reallty care whether or not gay people get married. But once they do, I think they should refer to each other as one another's "spouse" or "mate" or "partner". It irks me to hear one man call another man his "wife", or one woman call another woman her "husband". To me, these words belong exclusively to heterosexuals. Let us have at least one word to call our own!

This upcoming presidential compaign is going to be such a contentious farce, reeking with personal attacks and prormises that will never be kept. Meanwhile, the banks and the financial community will continue to do as they please and the economy will keep on doing what it does, and race will still matter. Happy tomorrow, folks!

The Only One

Chapter 16

“It’s like waitin for the other shoe to drop.” Philip Atkins was saying to his partner Brooks Jones as they rode along, on their way to their favorite greasy spoon diner for lunch, discussing the fact that the garbage dumpster serial killer hadn’t struck lately.

“Maybe he’s on a hiatus,” Brooks suggested. “Might have an engagement lined up for tomorrow night, one that shows some promise. And even if the date doesn’t cooperate, he can still get his rocks by killing her."

“Man, that’s cold,” Philip scowled.. “You sound more like a misogynistic rap fan than the - cerebral jazz devotee you call yourself!”

“I’m just trying to get inside the killer’s head, and think like he thinks,” Brooks explained, pulling into a “no parking” space.

“I can go you one better,” Philip said as they exited the car and headed for the eatery. “I hope the scum bag scores with his next date so maybe she can escape alive.”

“Can you say 'Catch 22',” Brooks chuckled, as he pushed open the restaurant door, and they barged through it.

Carole Everly stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel. She was running late and hoped she could make it on time to the jazz club where she was supposed to meet Albert for their date to see Esparanza Spalding.

Quickly drying herself off, she decided she would wear pants instead of a dress. No need to get too dolled up. No thong either she thought reaching in a drawer for her spanx. She’d rely on a nice colorful blouse to dress things up; might even show some cleavage. She’d have to spend a little more time on her hair, she noted, since it was starting to grow out and would require more than a few quick brush strokes.

Retrieving a pair of black slacks from her closet, she wiggled into them and zipped up. No spiked heels either, wedgies were more comfortable. Scurrying around, doing all it took to get ready, she couldn’t believe she was actually a little excited at the prospect of seeing Albert again. She just hoped she’d recognize him inasmuch as his face wasn’t exactly imprinted on her brain because he was so nondescript. But, whatever…

Finally done with hair and make-up, staring at her dresser as she got her earrings in, she began to tuck in her green and beige printed top while deciding that just a spritz of one of her flowery colognes would be adequate. Nothing provocative like the spicy or citrus scents that were wasting away in their decorative bottles.

Continuing to primp, she fastened her necklace then blew herself a kiss.You don’t know what you’re missin, Troy Briggs, she mouthed before struggling into her faux fur jacket, vowing to limit her drinks so as to eliminate any risk of having another unnerving nightmare.

Releasing a deep sigh, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything, trying very hard to not think about who she really wished she was having a night out with. But, second-best was better than - spending a dead evening at home…

Philip Atkins didn’t have much of a taste for his usual morning coffee and donut, thanks to what he had just taken in. And, as he shivered there in the freezing cold, part of a crime team waiting for the arrival of the coroner’s people, his stomach felt queasy. This was not how he wanted to start his day.

“You can’t let this shit get to you, man,” Brooks Jones stressed, noticing how upset his partner appeared. “You gotta stay detached and professional!”

Phillip shook his head and stared at the sheet-covered corpse. “I realize that,” he rasped, “but like I told you, I knew this chick! I used to go with her. I’d just seen her a few weeks ago. She was a beautiful person!”

“Brooks rubbed his hands together to warm them up. “Well, she ain’t beautiful no more so, pull yourself together,Sergeant.”

Philip stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “Easy to say. Hard to do.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re in the wrong profession,” Brooks said. “Maybe you oughta become - a marriage counselor.”

“It’s just devastating to see someone you cared about, end up like this!” Philip retorted. “She didn’t deserve to die so young and violently.”

“Who does?” Brooks asked.

Philip fell silent, watching as a suspect was being led away in handcuffs. Then he thought about how close he’d formerly been to the murdered woman, remembered how he had once fantasized about a 3-way orgy with her and Carole Everly. Still shaken, he took a long pull on his cigarette and stared into space, recalling the good times, trying not to think about how ghastly his ex-girlfriend looked after the rejected suitor had shot half her face away in a jealous rage.

“If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all,” Carole lamented, echoing her brother Bobby’s favorite phrase, as she lie there in her old bedroom at her parents’house, talking on the phone, recuperating from the minor injuries sustained in an automobile accident.

“After keeping me overnight for observation, they released me this morning,” she explained to her listener. "Unless I just want to, I should've have to take any time off from work."

“How bad is your car?” Wanda asked.

“There’s some front end damage but it could’ve been worse considering that the guy plowed right into me, claiming he must’ve hit the gas instead of the brakes.”

“Did the old fart have insurance?”

“Yes, but he needs to give up driving at his age.”

“So much for Esparanza and - Albert, huh?’

“Afraid so.I guess poor Albert thought I stood him up, but even if I hadn’t been incapacitated, would you believe that I forgot to bring my cell phone with me, and when I finally tried to call, the one number I found for him was disconnected.”

“He probably gave up and decided to just move on. How much rejection can a poor guy take?”

“I agree, since he hasn’t made any effort to contact me to see what happened. And I’m truly sorry things ended this way. But considering that both of our attempts to hook up never materialized, and how everything seems to be working against us, I’m thinking that - it just wasn’t meant to be. My subconscious was probably responsible for me leaving my cell phone behind!”

“And for putting you in the path of an 80-year-old speed demon.”

“85.”

“Well, girlfriend, I’m just glad you’re OK and I’ll be by this evening with your order of rib tips.”

“Mild sauce.”

“I know.”

After hanging up the phone, Carole laid back on her pillow, waiting for the pain pill she’d just swallowed to work, wishing there was something she could take to cure her ailing social life and - get rid of the wounded pride that wouldn’t let her forget…

…Troy Briggs felt a little leery about picking Debbie up from work because there was always a chance he’d run into somebody he’d rather not see. But with Debbie’s car in for a brake job, and him off early, how could he refuse her request.

Then, almost as if he had thought her up, looking through the windshield of his car as he waited in City Wide’s parking lot, he spotted Carole Everly coming out of the building, walking toward him. He considered hiding behind the newspaper that was laying next to him on the seat, but then decided not to. Why should he have a problem with seeing Carole? And there was always a chance that she’d save him the trouble by using this opportunity to snub him, - something he had no time to further contemplate as he watched Carole slip on a patch of ice and take a nasty fall. Looking as though she might be hurt, he hesitated then got out of the car, and made his way over to her. Grabbing her by the elbow, he helped her up.

“Are you OK?” he said as their eyes met and they stood there a moment, silently facing each other.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I think so. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“How could I let you struggle there on the ground?” he asked. “This ice is really treacherous and these walkways should be salted.”

“I’ll split the money with you if I decide to sue City Wide for causing me serious injury,” she joked.

“I don’t know how they could be so negligent,” he replied.

“My, isn’t this a cozy little scene?” a voice behind him said before Debbie gave him a shove and he bumped into Carole, causing her to grab his arm, as she fell again and he tumbled on top of her.

“You silly bitch!” he swore at a laughing Debbie and - bolted upright in the bed, looking around the room…

Burying his face in his hands, he gradually calmed down, and cleared the crazy thoughts that filled his head.

“Shit,” he finally muttered. That’s what he got for sleeping late!

- to be continued, as the twisted plot line straightens itself out in the final chapters...

Well, Troy, you pretty much did answer your own questions. Sporting events are a form of entertainiment, and escapism, and a source of excitement so, yes, folks do get their vicarious thrills from watching superior athetes perform, whether as a team or an individual. The word "fan" is, after all, derived from "fanatic" so fans are slavishly devoted to their favorites.

Sports have always been around dating back to the ancient Greeks and Romans and even beyond. Cavemen probably challenged each other to rock throwing contests, so the drive to compete and vie is seemingly in the DNA of homo sapiens, and loyalty to a team is an extension of the "us" against "them" mentality that bonds human beings. Adhering to the noble acclamation about "it not being whether you win or lose, but how you play the game" has proably never been very popular. "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing" is a motto more compatible with the competitive.

Anyway, your indifference to sports is not that unusual. People are passionate about different things and athletics aren't the only activity that incite an intense following.There are movie buffs, and dog and cat and horse fanciers, and coin and stamp and art and antique collectors, and fashionistas, and oh yes, comic book enthusiasts, many of whom may not be sports fans.

Once it became apparent that there was money to be made in sports, then it became an industry, and the rest is history.

Now, having said all of that, I will proceed to fall on the floor and kick and scream and bawl like a baby, between claiming that somebody put a hex on the Chicago Bulls who are in all probabilily done for the season, being down 3 games to one, because the winningest team in the NBA is about to tank in the first round of playoffs. With 2 star players felled by injuries and the rest of the team unable to take up the slack, all the regular season hype will go for naught.

BTW, DRose of the Chicago Bulls is a homegrown boy from the Chicago, so it did make it easier to root for him. Ironcially, Evan Turner, one of the players on the 76ers team is also a homegrown Chicagoan who has always existed in the shadow of Rose, and is now enjoying his day in the sun participating in the defeats Phildelphia is handing to the Bullies.

Incidentally I rarely watch a Bulls game all the way through unless they are blowing out their opponents. I can't take the stress and tension of close, nail-biting games that are decided in the last few seconds. I close myself off and when I don't hear any clapping and cheers coming from elsewhere in the house, I know they lost. Then I suffer through the low lights on the 10 o'clock news. When they do lose an important game, I'm bummed out for a couple of days.

Once the Bulls are eliminated, I won't be paying much attention to the rest of playoffs. I couldn't care less who takes it all. And that includes keeping up with the Celtics who are coached by my homie, Doc Rivers, or whatever team Shannon Brown who is also from my hometown, is playng on if it's in the playoffs.

So, Troy, that's my feed back. One thing I forgot to mention is that sports fans are often masochists.

On their first 2 dates, Troy Briggs and Debbie Marlowe had adhered to protocol. They had met for drinks and conversation, becoming better acquainted while enjoying each other's company…

“I’m debating about whether I want to get the latest IPad,” Troy had said, taking a swallow of his Heineken, “because in a matter of months they’ll come out with a new and improved version.”

“That’s for sure,”Debbie had agreed, sipping her Cosmopolitan. “They always do that.”

“Apple honchos are marketing geniuses with their planned obsolescence strategy,” he’d asserted.

“Right,” she’d nodded. “Steve Jobs was really smart, and he didn’t even finish college!”

“Yeah,” he’d added. “Neither did Bill Gates, but he and Steve Jobs were both visionaries.”

“True,” she’d smiled. “Steve Jobs’ death was such soooo tragic. He and Bill Gates were, like, - pioneers.”

“Exactly,” he’d nodded. “They revolutionized the industry.”

“Exactly,” she’d echoed.

They’d taken in a movie on their second outing, continuing to hone their attraction for each other while discussing the relationship of the characters in the film.

“I thought the dude was bogus ,” Troy had scoffed, voicing his opinion of the male lead in the film.“He got what he deserved in the end.”

“He certainly did,” Debbie had affirmed. “He was, like, - a real jerk.”

The third time around ended with Troy being invited up to Debbie’s apartment for a night cap after they’d enjoyed a leisurely dinner at a trendy Thai restaurant, courtesy of Debbie’s platinum VISA. Now, here they were in the bedroom that would soon provide a backdrop for the grand finale as, aroused by deep-throated kisses and roving hands, unable to wait any longer, they began to undress each other.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since day one,” he panted, unhooking her bra and tugging at her thong.

“I’m soooo glad to hear that!” she squealed, tossing his shirt aside and unzipping his fly as he raked his fingers through her hair and gnawed on her earlobe.

“I know it’ll be good,” he breathed when they fell back naked on her bed and their fantasies kicked in; just like they’d imagined – her pink nipples erect, her ivory thighs spread, her blond snatch throbbing…waiting for… his spear to take aim at the wild thing waiting in the bush.

Then reality took over, and spurred on by her urgency, he quickly screwed his bulging hardness into her moist softness, each swift thrust evoking a deeper thrill as he went to work, stroking away, taking them to where they were frantic to go, getting the job done to the tune of moans and shrieks, bringing it like he knew he could, nailing it like she hoped he would and, finally - it was all good…

“Goddamn,” he shuddered as his heaving body collapsed on hers.

“Awesome!” was all she managed to gasp as she clutched his back and they lie there, drenched with each other…

“Can we - make this a habit?” he finally asked, having visions of blue skies and billowy clouds and a smiling Debbie in a field of daisies, running toward him in slow motion, her flowing white dress fluttering, her long, sun-kissed hair blowing in the wind.

“Oooh, yes,” she sighed, closing her eyes, imagining herself the willing captive of her mighty tribal prince, bare and brawny, hands on hips, his erection perfection, - the majestic ruler of his wild kingdom!

Staring out his window, watching the male figure stride away from his Camry and swagger toward the building across the street, Brooks Jones was amused, having figured out last week, who it was this brotha was so regularly going to visit. The dude could hardly wait to get to that blond piece of pussy, and had Brooks known his white female neighbor had a thing for black dicks, he would’ve done more than return her nods when their paths occasionally crossed while walking their dogs. Not that it would’ve done any good.

Brooks Jones was 35 years old, and for 12 of those years, he had been a cop. He hadn’t originally intended to make police work a career. It was just supposed to have been a way station on his path to obtaining a law degree, - just a means to make money for tuition. But, somehow, Brooks had never gotten around to accomplishing that goal.

If fact, there were a lot things Brooks had never gotten around to achieving. He thought by now that he’d be a homeowner, a husband, and a father. But police work was hard on relationships. Not that he needed anything to make his affairs with women any worse because, although there were always prospects, unlike the smooth babe-magnet who was his partner, Philip Atkins, Brooks was a loser in the dating game. Every time he met someone with possibilities, she turned into a disaster because women always ended up being repelled by his quick temper and - his other problems. They never seemed to realize that his flaws were trade-offs for the caring, generous guy he could also be. And, maybe he wasn’t that great in the looks department, but at least he possessed a broad scope of knowledge, and always had money to take his dates out to clubs and concerts.

As Brooks Jones continued to stand at the window of his bachelor apartment, pumping a hand weight, listening to jazz vocalist Dianne Reeves on his IPod, he couldn’t help but contemplate his life, or rather his double life. A hard-nose, dedicated police detective by day, and a hard-dick, determined lady-killer by night. Yeah, right…

Strolling along, on his way to a much anticipated tryst, Troy was deep in thought, reviewing the dramatic turn his life had taken. One day he had been a “closet womanizer”, leading vulnerable hopefuls on with his come-hither glances, and after a single passionate night, a complete reversal of fortune had transformed him. Now, he was the real deal,- a winner; right up there with the professional athletes and the media celebrities and the other high-profile black men, the business executives and intellectual college professors. Yep. He had him a white woman. A beautiful, remarkable lady who made him feel like a desirable, remarkable man, - an incredible companion who was interested in everything he had to say, who showered him with attention and positive reinforcement, and to whom money was not an issue, or sex a bargaining tool. Perfect.

And as he entered the foyer of Debbie Marlowe’s apartment building, ready to be buzzed in by his queen bee, he could hardly wait to see how happy his arrival would make his honey-dripping sweetie pie!

“Why do you always clam up when it comes to your daughter?” Debbie asked Troy later as they lie together in her bed, cuddling. “I want to hear more about her.”

Troy closed his eyes and sighed. “Treena was a brave beautiful child. Even though her condition was terminal and her brain damaged, she had a very bright spirit.”

“Maybe being retarded was a blessing,” Debbie sympathized. “She didn’t know what was going on so she didn’t know she was going to die.”

Troy’s jaw tightened. “My ex-wife would’ve certainly agreed with that point of view,” he grumbled.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for – being insensitive,” Debbie quickly apologized, pecking him on the forehead, stroking his face. “And I certainly don’t want to remind you of someone who caused you so much trouble.”

“Trouble is right.”

“You know, sweetie, it just amazing how well adjusted you are after all you’ve gone through.”

“Adversity sometimes makes a man strong."

“You’re proof of that,” she agreed, “and you’d think that with all they’ve been through, other black men would show more strength, - all this business about them feeling invisible.”

He stopped munching on her boobs long enough to look up. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just something - Carole Everly said about this book…”

He flinched. “What would Carole Everly ever have to say if she didn’t read so much,” he muttered.

“Carole liked you, you know.”

“Yeah, and Stan Kowalski told me he had the hots for you!”

Debbie briefly considered what she’d just been told about another of her co-workers, and rolled her eyes upward. “I didn’t think that dumb polack cared about anything but the Cubs and Budweiser.”

“He also seemed to be very fond of his porn collection," Troy remarked. " Maybe he and Carole Everly could hook up. The book worm and - the dirty bird.”

She dissolved into giggles. “I can just picture him - eating her! You’re so witty and clever. Even Marty thinks so,” she said referring to the dog laying on the foot of the bed who had just raised his head and bared his teeth. “My own personal – Chris Rock!”

“Wish I had Chris Rock’s money.”

“You’ve got something much better than money,” she cooed, feeding him her tongue, fondling his dick.

“Damned right,” he bragged, flipping her over on her belly, boosting her butt up, “and in honor of Chris and Marty, - I’m gonna blow my wad, doggie-style!”

“Ruff-ruff!” she laughed.

Resting his head between his paws, Marty growled.

To be continued – only a few more chapters to go before this little black book will come to an end…

A pall of gloom hangs over the the Chicagoland sports community. We were all set to don our Bulls jerseys and root our heroes on through the NBA play-offs. Optimism was high. The Bulls had racked up the winningest record in the NBA, a feat which earned them first place in their division and home court advantage throughout the entire series. Our superstar MVP point guard, Derek Rose, was healthy, as was his backcourt partner, Rick Hamilton. The starting line-up was rarin to go and the "bench mob" ready to step up. It's was going to be a long, hard-fought process, but the championship was in our reach.

And then in their first play-off game against the Phildephia 76ers, with only 2 minutes left to play, instead of being on the bench where all of the second guessers believed he should've been, Derek Rose tries one of his signature moves - and down he goes, injuring his knee.

Helped off the court, examined by doctor, diagnosed with a torn ligament. arthroscopic surgery scheduled, DRose out for the rest of the season. Coach Tom Thibideau also becomes a casualty, going from genius to goat, overnight.

I know. Life is full of disappointments. And professional sports is just a bunch of grown men playing childish games. But phooey. The only thing positive about this whole situation is that if the Bulls should go all the way, winning the trophy, their fans will have witnessed a miracle!.

Well, maybe Chicago ain't done yet with being the target of magic. Our White Sox basebal team just celebrated the grand accomplishment of, Phillip Humber, one of its lesser known pitchers who did what has only been done 21 times before in the entire 130-year history of major league baseball. He pitched a perfect game; faced 27 batters in 9 innings and got em all out. No hits, no runs, no errors.

We can dream can't we??

GO BULLS!

GRRRROOOOOOWWWL

BOITUMELO, ARE YOU IN THE MARKET TO BE A "BOY TOY"??

OR ARE YOU A FEMALE? I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT SEX YOU ARE.

Chapter 14

Wanda’s eyeballs bulged as she gripped her phone, dumbfounded by what Carole had just told her. “I can’t believe that you spent 6 frickin weeks creamin in your jeans over this nigga and then when he asks for your damned phone number, - you refuse him!” she sputtered. “Bitch, is you crazy??

“No, I’m not crazy,” Carole replied. “I don’t need Troy Briggs to throw me a few crumbs, leaving me to sit by the phone, hoping. Why enable disappointment? If he really wants to get in touch, let him find a way on his own. He has access to my personnel folder, let him get my number from there.”

“Boy, have you changed your tune!” Wanda marveled. “ But - I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I just hate that you let that lil white heffa beat you out. And you should’ve told that ‘sell-out’ Troy to go straight to hell!”

Carole sighed. “I finally realized what I’m surprised you never suggested to me. I just wasn’t what Troy Briggs wanted in a woman. No accounting for taste. Let him have his ‘snowflake’. I’ve asked myself what I would do if I met an attractive white guy who liked me and had a lot of things going for him, - would I pass him up?”

“And what was your answer? The same as mine would be. Hell no. Because if you had your choice between a black and a white guy with the same qualities. You’d go for the brotha! Troy Briggs is the loser here. You were too good for him, girlfriend, and don’t tell yourself nothin different! ”

Carole swallowed back tears. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, babe.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be by in a few. So slip into your glad rags and we can go hang with some of my “peeps”, away from all this bougie bullshit. You can get drunk. I’ll do the drivin!”

“Sounds like a plan,” Carole said. “Better than going out with Albert. He called earlier to see if I wanted to check out a blues club, but the last thing I feel like doing tonight is sittin around listening to gloomy music, trying to make conversation with an oddball, - so I very nicely told him I had previous plans.”

“Which you just made.”

“But we did set a definite date to go see Esparanza Spalding the first Saturday of next month!”

“Cool. Maybe you’ll find something to like about Albert.”

“You never know,” Carole said, thinking it wouldn’t be the first time she failed to recognize what was right in front of her.

The popular night club was in full swing, noisy and crowded, pulsating with thumping music, blinking with colored strobe lights, - an urban jungle crawling with party animals, drinks flowin, faces glowin, clothes tight, hair right, lustrous weaves, bald heads, permed tresses, dread locks, pierced bodies, tattooed skin, texting fingers, cell phone ringers, voices talkin, exes stalkin, everybody everywhere feelin warm, actin cool, askin names, runnin games, engaging in the mating rituals that would lead to the lies and excuses delivered by avatars speaking into voice mail ears.

Caught up in the frenzy, snapping her fingers and hunching her shoulders, Carole stopped momentarily to peer at the “Cedric-the-Entertainer” lookalike who suddenly popped up, extending his pudgy hand.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he grinned. “You look like you ready to get down!”

Ignoring Wanda’s snicker, too tipsy to care, Carole accepted the offer and waded into the pool of gyrating bodies, following her partner’s lead, pumpin her fists, shakin her booty, dancing away the…

…night was cold and dark, the room dim and stuffy. The uneasy young woman seated on the edge of a couch scowled at the man hunched next her.

“It’s time for me to go,” she announced, her disgust obvious. “You really misled me,” she accused, recoiling as he tried to put his arm around her.

And when she attempted to rise, quick like a cat, her host pushed her back down. Stifling her cries as she tried to struggle, he grabbed a nearby hand-weight and began to strike her on the head again and again, until the only sound bouncing off the walls was the howling of BB King’s guitar.

“You’ll leave when I’m ready to take you,” the man panted, yanking at the panties of his blood-covered victim.

Philip Atkins took another swallow of his morning coffee and shuddered, the image of a brutally-murdered female still vivid in his mind, the stench of a garbage dumpster still lingering in his nostrils.

“I’d like to get my hands on the depraved ass-hole who’s doing this to these young women,” he said to his partner, Brooks Jones, as they pulled away from the crime scene in their unmarked car.

Brooks gripped the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead. ‘You know,” he began slowly, “some serial killers like to play mind games. They get bold and begin to take risks, just to taunt the police.”

“Is that why this latest victim was left outside the dumpster instead of inside it,” Philip quizzed.

“Could be,” Brooks nodded, “the possibility of his being spotted by someone could provide him with a thrill as gratifying as the actual sex act.”

“So do you think this means we can expect the bastard to start baiting us with clues?”

Brooks face was a blank. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“”If only we could have some luck in finding out the last suspicious person to be seen with any of the victims!” Philip griped.

“Like all serial killers, this guy is clever,” Brooks said. “He covers his tracks. Probably used disposable cell phones when he communicated with these broads.”

Philip lit a cigarette and exhaled a gust of smoke. “We just gotta hope that somewhere out there, there’s one chick who will realize ahead of time that this sucker ain’t somebody she should be alone with and –

“- that she doesn’t make him mad,” Brooks interrupted as he sped through a yellow light.

She’d played her cards right after all, Carole silently rejoiced, as a contrite Troy Briggs tenderly took her hands in his. He did find a way to contact her - had called, - had invited himself over, - had confessed that as much as he tried to resist her, he knew when she withheld her phone number, having it was suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world! Her rebuff was all it took to make him realize that Debbie Marlowe was - just a passing fantasy!

“Now all I want to do is keep it real,” Troy was saying as standing there in the middle of her front room, he pulled her closer. “Bickering with you was child’s play, but it also turned me on,” he revealed, “made me want to get you between the sheets and - show you who was boss.”

“All I’ve ever wanted was for us to get along,” Carole sighed as they locked eyes and he took her in his arms, their mouths meeting, her parted lips welcoming his hungry tongue as just then Albert broke into the room, a knife in his hand, his face contorted with rage! Hardly able to believe what was happening Carole screamed in terror and...

…bolted upright in her bed, trying to catch her breath, which coincidentally reeked with the smell of stale alcohol. She knew she shouldn't have had that 3^rd Long Island Ice Tea at the club last night! Reality was hectic enough without having dreams turn into nightmares!

Clutching her throbbing head, saying good morning to a hangover, Carole pulled back the covers and headed for the bathroom. She needed a speedy alka-selzer.

- stay tuned, as this black yarn continues to unravel -

Beyonce's beauty doesn't have to do with her skin color. Whether light-skinned or dark, she would still be beautiful because her face has good symmetry, and her skin is smooth. She looks just as good without make-up as she does with it. She and Halle are both full-chested, broad-hipped, long-necked women, traits which are testaments to their African heritage.

Democrats are also plotting ways to get white votes. That's the name of the game, boitumelo. This election is really up for grabs. Obama is certainly not a shoo-in. Romney is so slippery and glib that he doesn't inspire passion. People don't like or dislike him so they look past him and focus on the economy and the fact that he represents change works in his favor. Obama, on the other hand, is either loved or hated and where the economy is concerned, he is either criticized or defended but, in either case, nobody wants more of the same.

Maybe female voters will be who comes to Obama's rescue, because they don't want nobody messin with their right to control their bodies. Promises to alleviate the burden of student loans might also attract a certain element of the young voters. to his side

If the vote ends up being close, I'm sure the loser will contest the count and America may very well be in a state of turmoil for months. The electoral college might even be declared unconstitutional.

All this is what happens when the great melting pot cools off and the different ethnic groups begin to congeal instead of blend. Even more threatening is the possibility of a class war.

JC, if ya comin back, hurry up, Bro. Babylon is in trouble...