Time dissolved oleaginously in cigarettes and $3 libations. Flatbush femmes sauntered in serious hips, contemplating apocalypse with four dollars and three burnouts. The problem with real-life was that it wasn’t fiction. You couldn’t cut out selected pieces, or mask the mundane behind a cohesive storyline. No one stayed in character, every living being suffered from plot holes. And the sad part was, nothing really meant anything.
It was another one of those nights. Another New York working-class joint straight out of a Johnathon Franzen novel. Another victim, another cathartic kill. Yasiin wore a charcoal Brioni three-button suit. It was one of his most expensive suits and felt like calfskin on his body. Underneath he wore an eggshell Egyptian cotton shirt, by Donna Karan, white gold cufflinks shaped like hammers from Tiffany’s. And the tie was Hermes, although he wanted to switch it the instant he was out of here because someone else had a tie that matched its tone, and it looked so much better it was mortifying. His compulsions grew fat as the week went by. The past few days were a blur of oxy pills, mergers, faux wedding plans, chronic masturbation and mutilated corpses of coal-burners with their skin cut off in micros, nonlethal strips and fed to them by hand — it was times like these he was grateful he had a basement, it created atmosphere. The walls were covered with heroin hieroglyphics, graffiti left behind by the anti-social, anti-government, anti-cool, and anti-self.
After Yasiin washed up in the shitty bathroom, he approached the Ezra Miler looking bartender, Taylor, scanning the room for the evenings Coalhauler. He picked up a quick drink, and stalked the room, scanning every corner for a Bambi-eyed Bat-gwai to exorcise his demons on. After about 45 minutes of farming, Yasiin found the perfect ditchpig. Tonight’s Shiksa was a woman by the name of Katy, Katy Swift. She was a chatty and congenial college student, frivolous, helpless creature, fragile and without imagination. Yasiin hunted his prey, patient and calculating. One of the first things she told him was how attracted she was to black men.
“It’s the culture, the men, the women, the attitude, I love it. You guys are way more attractive than white people, sometimes I can’t lie, I think about alternate realities and wonder if I may be a black woman, or a black man in any of them, I think wherever that me is, she or he is happier. I’m not sure why. I was born to be with a black man.” There wasn’t anything significantly significant about her. She wasn’t American Apparel material, unfit for glossy spreads. She smelled like whiskey, her makeup thick enough and lights dim enough to make her provocative. The seat squeaked under the weight of his body, bones grew old from hunting. Her eyes gleamed with a familiar glare, so he did the gentlemanly thing. Paid for her next drink, and debated over her neck.
“Hi, I saw you from the bar and I couldn’t help myself, I had to meet you. My name is Yasiin, what’s yours?”
“Aislinn,” she garbled his name around the grooves of her mouth like saltwater or mouthwash.
“Yasiin.” he corrected.
“Black people have such cool fucking names, my parents weren’t that creative,” she said, dabbing self-consciously at the sweat on her upper lip. She started on about all black guys she’s been within her 23 years. Including the one, she lost her virginity to. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through a succession of recent daguerreotypes. There was an extensive record, she documented every moment she shared with each of these men. She wanted him to see them, all of them. Yasiin wasn’t sure why. Every explicit photo she shared just reminded him of the sophisticated pre-Mendelian breeding operation to produce slaves with bigger dicks. White women in the South would keep detailed bloodline records and fuck 12-year olds.
“I’ve never dated a man of my own race in my life. I kid you not, no bullshit. I hate dating white guys, can’t hang with em,” “she said, forcing intonation because tone was everything.
“Is that a compliment?” Yasiin asked, shaking his head.
“Depends how you look at it.” She signaled the bartender down and ordered another shot. Six little glasses all lined up in a row.
“From having a black boyfriend in high school, I was called a whore. White men looked at me differently. It scared me away from white guys. I’m never approached by them. But, I get approached by black men on a daily basis. Personally, my love for black men feels natural and pure and the LAST thing it feels to me is dirty or perverted. When I express to friends in a conversation or casual way that I’m attracted to black men, I get trolled. The general assumption seems to be that it’s a sexual perversion, that it’s all about big black dicks, that it’s some sort of meme. It’s never just accepted as a simple attraction. I’m not one of those eager white girls though. There are white women who are so thirsty they would let a nigga drive their car, live in their house, swipe the credit card for anything. I’m not that eager,” she continued. “Black women always complain about how they are held up to this idea, to this standard of white beauty. When I was five I looked in the mirror and wondered why I didn’t look like Barbie. My mousy brown eyes didn’t sparkle blue, my lips laid flat instead of in a perfect red pout. I was never a size zero, and my legs quit at thirteen. I never got a double look or a long linger and this, right now, is the first time I’m getting male attention for nearly six months. I dyed my hair blonde, wore contacts, drank cayenne with a hint of lemon, and developed an eating disorder in middle school. I lost my senior year to rehab.”
“Are you searching for sympathy?” Yasiin asked, annoyed with the blonde bunny.
“Sympathy?” she spat the word back at him.
“So what do you want? You have the world at your feet, and still you complain. You want to know suffering?”
She smirked and he despised the shape of her smile.
“If I put my hand on your knee,” he said as he brought his hand over to her, “I get glances even in this dark club. If we leave together and you stumble from side to side everyone who sees us will think I drugged you. I leave alone, but I’m now a stain on your life. The cause for a fatal overdose, or, your body washing up in a pier. I marry you and our kids are mongrels, I divorce you and I’ve sullied you. You are a leper,” Yasiin shouted, his expression unchanging.
“And black women?” she asked with a sarcastic laugh.
“What about black women?” He didn’t care for her opinion, but Mae wasn’t picking up and Liah might be home.
“If I’m a leper, then what are they?”
“Artifacts of nature, like the labia, breasts or clitorises with their hoods of flesh. Their existence, is as much a proof of God, in my opinion, as any argument made by any fucking theologian or philosopher,” he scoffed sarcastically, laughing into his glass.
“Uh huh.” The woman paused for a moment, deciding she was too drunk for contemplation and continued.
“I’m pretty confident that black women don’t like me much. I mean I get along with some of my coworkers. But for the most part they make feel guilty for liking what I like. There isn’t really a relationship there. They’re loud. They can get so angry over the littlest thing. I’m not trying to be racist or anything, but sometimes things just aren’t as serious as they make it out to be. But I’m not racist or anything, I love Beyonce, Rihanna is like my twin. I love her. I just wish they were more accepting of women like me who like what we like and shouldn’t have to explain ourselves for it.”
“White people really do say the dumbest shit sometimes,” Yasiin said, disgusted tossing two twenties on the bar.
“We all say dumb shit. There’s no point to this life shit. It’s the American way nigga,” she laughed a loud, harsh cackle of laughter. The same laugh that led to mass lynchings via our African Holocaust. The same laugh that echoed from the lips of Carolyn Bryant Donham, or the 56% of white women that voted an actual white supremacist into the highest office of our government. It was a condescending laugh, filled with pity and vital inaction. A laugh that felt like she looked right through him, like a vacant stare after you’ve said something witty, pervasively malignant and malicious. Yasiin was physically revolted and simultaneously unnerved by those round moronic eyes, pancake face, and orangeworm hair as Toni would put it. He didn’t fear the white man, in fact he killed very few of them in his time. His focus has always been what he believed to be the root issue, the bean-dipping-Betty Crocker-Crick gypsy’s-innocent until proven innocent-a… pathetic-Golden toed Goober-Hill Williams who cling to an America that was white, right, left and indifferent. Indifferent to the Moynihan Report. For the privilege of her fragility, virtue, and chastity. To the standards of beauty, she’s indirectly set, but struggles to follow herself. Indifferent to the black man’s inquisitive eye. Indifferent to the constant terrorizing and harassment of the daily lives of African Americans. Indifferent to the problematic conflictual relationship between the black man and womb-man. Indifferent to the tiki torches and police shootings, indifferent to the cultural appropriation and systematic white-washing. The sort of indifference that was carefree, clairvoyant, and cordial. Indifferent to their maladjusted, bigoted, nymphomaniacal spinelessness. Indifferent to the micro-aggressions in the disagreeable mirror. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf. Indifferent to Donald Drumpf.
A few hours later, they were back at his place. Yasiin often wondered if he’d ever be a great magician like the messiahs before him who projected their illusions in the sky for all to follow. He had learned to make his mind large, so there was room for paradoxes. At what point does alcohol become an addiction? A painkiller, a necessary item… it’s only when we wake up and the emptiness is still there that we realize that it didn’t do the trick’, and you’re still you; you’ve just been sleeping. There were parts of her already gone. Her legs, below the knees, some of her right hand. Like a fish, she lay there, limping, twitching. Before Katy lost her legs, she struggled against his implausible strength for about twenty minutes before he cracked her jaw with a tire iron. When she awoke, they were in his basement. Yasiin subdued and gagged her, forcing the ball firmly in her mouth. He found some chains in the his back closet, and restrained her on the same cold table, he used for his other smoke jumpers, naked and exposed. Yasiin withdrew his scalpel, slicing her clothes off, seam by seam, thread by thread. She had the body of a gaunt cadaver. Her labia was folded over, expired, elastic and discolored. He swept the blade back and forth on the outer folds of her labia, slicing carefully, penetrated the doe-eyed Oyebo, fingers flushed with her fluids, lecherous and livid. She was beginning to give up. What other choice did she have? Perhaps some part of her was like Yasiin: a whore for pain, a mewling piece of flesh for whatever she truly desired. He only cut her so much before the end, before she took her final breath. He hadn’t the urge for necrophilia, the game was precision, so he carved her as the Venus de Milo, with impassioned features of Aphrodite. When he was done, Yasiin drove the blade in the stomach, lightly, above the dense matted patch of pubic hair and dragged the blade jaggedly across her sternal, watching the primadonna bleed out onto his floor, an atonement for her sins, cleansing for his.
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