A short story by YUV Contributor Randy Russell
Every time I go to the store, there’s one on a magazine cover, or they work in the store. Hell, sometimes when I buy some foods, they’re on the damn cover of the box. But worse of all, one’s our president. Yet niggers still complain about everything. Makes me fucking sick.
I work with them. Only time I ever have to interact with one is in meetings or when we both so happen to be in the bathroom together. We should take all of them, and put them on one other planet so then maybe things could go a little more smoothly with a pure planet again. It makes me smile to think of that.
My boss happens to be one too, Julius Elliot. That’s a nigger name if I didn’t say so myself. He knew I didn’t like him or his kind. But he could never get rid of me. I’m Wendell Jackson, and even though I’m black, don’t mean I can’t hate my own race.
This is usually the night that my daughter calls me, so I make sure I get home early and pass the ‘homeys’ outside on the curb, doing nothing just standing there wasting time. Shooting each other. Keep going, you’re not doing it fast enough.
It makes me sick that even though they complain about silly ass white people are holding them down, or look at them wrong, or some shit like that, they’re putting themselves in a box because they’re too afraid to succeed, they don’t want to try. They want to sell dope, gangbang and pimp women because it’s the ‘nigga’ thing to do. Well go on ahead. I won’t be a part of it. I stay out of everyone’s way and live my life. As I sit at my desk writing my report for the magazine, Mr. Elliot walks by my desk.
“May I see you in my office, Mr. Jackson?” says Mr. Elliot. “Why not?” I tell him. I stand up, following him down to the office. We go into his wannabe hip office as he sits behind his kiss ass desk to scold me about God knows what. “Do you have a problem with me, with this job?” He asks me. “No not at all.
I love my job,” I tell him.
“Then what’s with the constant attitude and standoffish behavior towards so many of your employees at this ad agency?”
“I don’t like you people,” I tell him straight up. He looks at me with a confused look like I should be on his side.
“You people?” He asks. “Yes you people. The black race. It angers me that I’m stuck in a world where because of how you act, I am criticized and ridiculed for no reason. In media, in movies and in real life” I tell him.
“Do you hear yourself? You’re a black man, and you’re speaking to me like this?” says Mr. Elliot.
I don’t want to hear it. I’m over this conversation.
“Mr. Elliott, I bet you’ve been through more women than an NBA player. Kids by two different women, priors, and a large drinking problem. But because you twisted the system, and hustled some money, you opened up an Ad firm where even though you do the books, that nice car outside is probably the reason so many lay offs have been made. Once a nigga, always a nigga. Isn’t that what ya’ll say?” I tell him. He just looks at me.
“Grab your things, you’re fired,” He tells me.
At first I think he’s kidding until he turns away from me to go through paperwork.
“Wait, you’re kidding right. You can’t fire me, you need me,” I say.”
“I’ll find another,” He tells me.
He turns back to his paperwork. I sit there truly blown away. Yes what I said was harsh to a nigger like him, but it was the honest truth. I don’t bother anybody, I do my job thoroughly, yet because he has some power, he’s using it to get rid of a real African like me. Well what the fuck ever.
“Go fuck yourself Mr. Elliot,” I tell him. I get up, slamming his door as hard as I can. I walk through the office, all eyes are on me. I don’t care. Everyone can go fuck themselves right about now. As I collect my things, I yell every screwed up racial slur I know for niggers to let them have a piece of my mind. Security guards appear to escort me out. I guess now I can go home and collect unemployment and not get a job like other niggers. Good riddance to this place. Maybe I can work from home. Safer that way and less chance someone will ask me for fifty cents so they can get a Swisher to smoke up the ten dollars they have.
I walk into my small house. It is very clean, tidy, and not niggerish. I refuse. No pictures of strong black people, rappers or porn stars on my wall. I don’t have three video game systems connected to an overly loud and big TV. Stupid niggers. I also don’t have an assortment of ashtrays with Newport buds and blunt roaches filled to the brim of each of them.
Niggers are a breed of their own.
My answering machine is not blinking. That’s strange. Tasha always calls me. This is not like her. She must’ve gotten tied up with work and school. She’s not like other black girls that spend their days in the city human resources offices, talking at the top of their lungs while real people keep to themselves so that they can get actual business done and don’t bother anyone. Tasha is far from that, I raised her right.
Dinner consists of leftover spaghetti and garlic bread, with tossed salad that I whipped up from the other night. It was quiet, just like I like it.
After having a quick Vodka Tonic. I turn in. Today was a long day that I want to forget. I crawl into bed turning the light off. It takes me a second to go to sleep. I keep hearing a creaking sound, but it’s probably the niggers across the way doing their nigger things. So I doze off. Something is on my face, I assume it’s my blanket. I look to the clock in my room. It reads ‘1:05’. I flick whatever is on my face off. But as quick as a bolt of lightning, I feel it again. I turn the light on in my room, this is where I begin to freak out.
Dozens of tarantulas are all over my bed. I jump up like a scared girl screaming and throwing a fit. How’d they get into my house? I look to see that they are all over the ground, and even my walls. I take back that comment about the dozens, there are hundreds of these eight legged bastards.
As I walk over as many of the tarantulas as I can, I get to the door of my room. Before I can open the door, a figure with a mask pulls out a syringe and injects me in the neck. I black out before I hit the floor.
My vision is very blurry before I come to. I try getting up but realize that my ankles and wrists are taped up and I’m gagged. Home invasion is all I can think. Someone is trying to rob me for everything I have. I begin screaming under the gag until the dark figure walks out to me. He takes his mask off to reveal Mr. Elliot. Son of a bitch. I begin screaming even louder. He walks over, covering my mouth to lower the sounds of my screams.
“Now, now. We wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors would we?” He tells me. I scream even more now until he punches me in the gut, rendering me powerless to do anything.
“You said some mighty bold things today in the office. Things, I would think are bullshit to be honest. You think you know every black person huh? Every black is a nigger right?” He asks me. I try to come to, but I cannot breathe through the gag.
He takes a sharp bowie knife out, cutting my pajama top to reveal my gut. “I grew up in a rough household. My mother was an addict, and my father, was never there. It was just me and my sister. So you know what I did at age thirteen? I got a job to support my sister and I because my mother wasn’t going to do this. I did all of this while going to school, and taking college courses to get my business license. But I pimp women right?” He tells me.
He takes the bowie knife and cuts me deep. He covers my mouth as I scream some more. The pain is excruciating. I can feel it in my back. Blood begins covering my stomach.
Mr. Elliot goes to his bag to pull out a jar. He walks it over to show me that it is filled with thousands of red fire ants.
“After I got my business license, I opened a small Ad agency with just three people, and it became what it is today. And yes I like Hip Hop and R&B, and dress hip like the young people in this world. It’s because I like it. I’m not out killing people or dope dealing or whatever the hell you said I was doing. Also, I have a strong love for God’s creatures, and I love learning about all the things that they can do. Take these red ants for instance. They love blood, they gravitate towards it, it’s a huge meal for them. So an open wound is like all you can eat night at the China Buffet. I’ll show you,” Mr. Elliot says.
I start to scream as he covers my mouth. He opens the jar, pouring the ants onto my open wound. I feel their little bodies crawling into my stomach, and attacking my wound. The worse feeling in the world. Mr. Elliot sits there looking at me. No emotion in his face like this doesn’t faze him at all. Tears begin dripping down my face. I want to fight back, but that is virtually impossible.
“We’re almost done Wendell. We’re almost done. Hold on,” He says. He walks over to his bag pulling out a small box with holes in them. He cautiously pulls out a King Cobra snake. The king of all snakes. He walks over to me once more.
“I learned to be a snake tamer in India when I went on a vacation. Yes, niggers who work hard can go to India. This bad boy can kill you with one bite. I call him Percy. So long story short Wendell, before you go accusing ‘black’ people of being all in the same class and all that shit. Make sure you get your facts straight. Because this ‘nigger’, just took one of the most ignorant niggers, out of the picture,” Mr. Elliot tells me.
That’s it. There’s nothing I can do at this point. Mr. Elliot lets Percy go. He slithers towards me. Paying the ants no mind. He goes straight for my neck and lashes out. The pain of his fangs subdues me to the point, I can’t even scream out. The cold feeling of my body shutting down begins to take over. Percy slithers back to Mr. Elliot who carefully picks him up, putting him back into his box. Mr. Elliot packs up all of his things and walks towards me.
“I’ll send Tasha flowers,” He tells me. He walks out of my place. I lie on the ground paralyzed, dying from the venom put in me, plus the ants having a field day on my stomach, now only death is on my mind, what a way to end my day.