Who is BookerTeaBourbon10?

BookerTeaBourbon10 was calling me; for he is the extension of my humility. Not my alter-Ego; instead, my humble-alter. He is the dwellings of my soul, and the pillow that cushions my fall when the noble promises of TheViscount (the alter-ego) has left me. Although, I don’t want to make him out to be such a Superhero, for when I met him, in the left hand was tea cup filled with coffee, and in the right hand, clearly, a mason jar filled with bourbon. This is what he said.

“You so cold son,” he winked, as a smirk played across his face, “Choose which one to warm you up, lets put some fire to that chest.”

“Fire–is it fire that which you ask for?” I asked. He nodded licking the flames from his lips. For, BookerTeabourbon10 was the angel that chose to dwell with my inner demons. His appearance deviled, crafted along with the bad eggs from the fires of hell, his heart however, never kneading demon defibrillation. It remained heaven…always.

“I barely have the feels anymore Booker,” I told him, pressing my hands against chest, yet to no avail, body intangible. “I often lose myself Booker, I mean, I can’t feel my tears. Its been so many years.”

“Well shieeeeet, hahahahaHAAAA,” Booker fell over, stitched in laughter, “Yous a man now, nigga. No one wants to see no man cryin’.”

His words echoed, reverberating through my mind. My mental, my brows; both knit themselves, trying to make sense of his words, and when I finally couldn’t, around me, I noticed emptiness. Booker perforated darkness, the outline of his shadow shinning, and full of color. In his left hand a tea cup brimmed with coffee; in the right, the bourbon filled mason jar.

“Where are we?” I implored.

“Jus’ look around son, jus’ look around, don’t you see?”

“There’s nothing to see, except you.”

“Well we in limbo now son,” he began, as he pushed his right hand forward. “Now tell me, how low you wanna go?” He raised his chin, along with that he raised the jar, but most importantly–he raised–the question. For, it was all raised, out on the table, raw, cut up, rare, beside the pitch black fires, smoldering, awaiting sacrifice; a voodoo sacrifice. His lips flickered in flame, lifting a knife with his tale up to his tongues edge, and in bloodlust licked up, until the blades end. That of which, made his fiery tongue, serpentine. I watched, as he tried to disturb me.

“You know what I’m offerin’ you son, haha,” He laughed, for every time Booker seemed to mock me. Every syllable from his tongue now leaked blood, the droplets hitting the floor, then dissipating into black flames.

“You offering me liquor courage,” I finally replied.

“Well alll-righ’!” smirking, he continued, “Well there are two ways you can go about limbo son…”

“Oh yeah–and what’s that?”

“You can take this here liquor courage, let it absorb to the bloodstream, knock yo posture from poised to liquored in stupor, and try balance yo’ ass under the pole.”

“Uh, huh,” I nodded.

“And mast’r fact,” he said, mixing matter and master in the same sentence, “You might dog ‘on make it.”

I nodded again.

“Oh yeah, you feel good about that don’t you,” he continued, his words were like a figurative leafing through the pages of my soul,”Well it’s not about making it, nigga, it’s about the transformation you undertake.”

“Just tell me the other way?” I beg, “Another way.”

And with my question, followed a raised tea cup of coffee.

“We gon’ bring fire to that heart son, I tell you that righ’ now, even if it kill me. We gon’ bring fire to that heart–one way–or another,” his cheeks raised full of color, one color; a deep crimson.

“You gon’ take this here coffee, and just simply step over the limbo poll. You gon’ raise the bar again, and step over it again. Next time, more coffee, step over, again and again. Raise the bar, over the limbo poll, and a shot of expresso if need be. But you gon’ raise that bar”