Back by himself in his musty apartment, Darryl watched the video over and over again.
Hundreds, if not a thousand, Black brothers and a few sisters wearing balaclava masks, matching black paramilitary uniforms and assorted battle rattle gear, strapped up with loaded semi-automatic assault rifles, marched to Stone Mountain in Georgia, the most sacred Confederate symbol in America.
The group called itself the Not Fucking Around Coalition or NFAC for short. Official Grand Master Jay led the contingent to one day establish a black nation and kill anybody white who planned to kill Blacks. Threaten us, we threaten you, he said, talking white vs. Black. The militia nickname was Black Gunz as in guns, guns and more guns in the hands of the oppressed.
Black power is one thing. Black firepower is another mighty equalizer altogether. After losing his brother and baby nephew to bullets, guns still scared Darryl. But how else will Black people achieve equality? White people equated guns with freedom. Maybe Black people should do the same.
Black Panthers armed with shotguns in the 60s looked lame compared to this pack.
Darryl felt ashamed.
Not of the militant show of force, but of his own weakened level of Black societal self-defense, Just that morning he helped peaceful community activists paint the words Black Lives Matter on a downtown city street in huge yellow letters. By that afternoon, two white ultra-Trump diehards brought black paint and rollers and defaced the message.
Police hadn’t arrived in time to make arrests.
Maybe they never would.
As Darryl sat transfixed by the YouTube video, Big Bob busied himself pouring a fresh beer for one of his last remaining pals and member in good standing of Big Bob’s Boys.
Good job on the keep America great mission today, Vic, said Big Bob.
Those nigger-lovers couldn’t believe we’d cover up their reverse racist slogan, Vic said.
Big Bob chugged a red solo cup full of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and filled another from one of three taps behind the bar of his illegal booze and burger barn that was killing it night after night until closing at four in the morning despite harsh government-mandated pandemic restrictions..
Big Bob grinned.
Who you dressing up like for the Blackface Bash I’m holding here Saturday night?
Vic grinned back.
Sammy Davis Jew-noir, kill two birds with one stone, Vic said. Get it? JEW-noir?
I’m going as Michelle Obama, Big Bob said.
Vic laughed until he started coughing and couldn’t stop. Trying to clear his throat as his hacking increased, he took a swig of beer and coughed even harder, spitting beer down the front of Big Bob’s Hawaiian shirt. Vic plopped down on one of the cracked vinyl car seats Big Bob placed around the lounge section of the speakeasy’s bar.
I feel dizzy sick, Vic said.
Maybe you got the COVID, Big Bob said.
No way, Vic said.
Maybe you been a carrier all along, giving people the COVID Cooties without them knowing it, Big Bob said.
Clancy, Big Bob’s loyal Irish setter sat in the corner happily scratching fleas.
Look, there’s Sal at the bar drinking a piña colada, Vic said.
You’re hallucinating, Big Bob said.
There’s God, too, sipping red wine by the pool table, Vic said.
Sal’s dead, Big Bob said.
I whacked him for the Mafia, Vic said
Disgusted with his buddy’s egomaniacal delusion, Big Bob wiped beer spit off his favorite shirt, the one decorated with pink flamingos. If Vic was going to make an ass out of himself Big Bob might as well join in the fun.
You kill God, too?
Vic didn’t answer.
Getting angry, Big Bob chugged another beer and jumped in Vic’s face.
You ruin everything, Vic, you know that?
With that, Vic’s bladder emptied as did his bowels. The skin on his tongue turned blue and his eyes rolled back in his head. One last coughing spasm accompanied his convulsions on the floor as he spit up a quart of thick blood rather than beer, rolled over on his back and breathed his last before the coroner arrived to pronounce him dead of the disease that started as a virus and spread across America, forever to be known as Bugout!.