Run, Boy! The Last Black Man In America--Conclusion
F I V E
Cheryl entered the central living quarters of the safe house waving a piece of paper in her hand. She found Jennifer staring blankly at a 70’s sitcom she had long ago lost interest in. She felt sorry for her, having watched her mood swing from upbeat to depression and strike every emotion in between. Jennifer looked up at Cheryl and managed a slight smile.
“What’s got you feeling so giddy this morning?”
“I received a fax from the mobile unit,” Cheryl said. “They have Al Baker with them and better still, there was a kid with him.”
“Mr. Baker didn’t have any children—at least, none that I knew of.”
“He’s a twelve year old named Noah Watson. He’s from Buckeye, Arizona.”
“Wonder why Mr. Baker was headed that way?” Jennifer said absently.
“I don’t know,” Cheryl replied. “Maybe he was making a run toward Mexico.”
“So where are they now?”
“Howard said that they were getting ready to set up camp in the desert—about one hundred forty miles Northeast of here.”
“What if they get stopped?”
“They are traveling by night, to minimize the chances of that happening.” Cheryl paused before adding, “I assumed you’d be happy that Mr. Baker is okay.”
“Mr. Baker and I were always at odds,” Jennifer said wistfully.
“I gathered as much.”
“But when he arrives, I’ll be genuinely glad to see him.”
Cheryl smiled and said, “I have a variety of perfumes and scented soaps.”
“I want to congratulate him for managing to stay alive,” Jennifer said. “Not seduce him.”
Noah was in one corner of the tent wearing a flack jacket and lay quiet, as ordered. Meanwhile Louis and Mark watched on a 6-inch video monitor the advancing forces. The ragtag bunch of vigilantes numbered fifteen and that didn’t seem to worry either man as they checked their automatic weaponry and adjusted their BPVs.
Al and Howard had crept to one side of the butte, so that the four adults formed an “L” shape. Al was armed with his pistol and packed three grenades that had been given to him by the HOPE members. Howard was toting a grenade launcher and was adept at preparing it to fire.
Louis and Mark had lay trip wires immediately after arriving. The wires were attached to mines buried beneath the sand. They lie quietly on their stomachs and through night vision binoculars watched as the mob crept forward. Seconds later Louis tossed a flash grenade behind them and he and Mark engaged them in a firefight.
This initial part of the battle lasted less than five minutes. One-third of the attackers were knocked out of commission by a rocket propelled grenade fired by Howard. As a couple of men ran to aid them, they triggered one of the land mines. Howard and Al sprayed automatic gunfire eliminating any avenue for retreat. And as the remaining men scampered for cover, Mark took out a couple with deadly accuracy.
One of the men called out that they were willing to throw down their arms. When they did, Al lobbed a couple of grenades in the vicinity and felled two more foes. Mark and Louis had no qualms about cutting loose on unarmed men and within fifteen minutes the attack force was vanquished.
Al immediately checked on Noah, assured him everything was fine, then he and Howard ditched the three abandoned vehicles. Meanwhile Louis and Mark disposed of the bodies by dragging them behind the butte and covering them with large camouflaged tarps. When they returned to the tent, they relaxed as if it were just another day on the job.
Al swigged a bottle of water and asked, “What is operation HOPE?”
“It is an organization formed to create an antidote for that shit CHEMICO put in the water,” Mark replied. “Scientists, students and militia men taking on the U.S. government.”
“So the government is in on this?”
“From the President, to the Secretary of the Interior. Several Congressmen have also come on board as have the leaders of the European Union.”
“What made you guys join up?”
“I despise anyone who inflicts injustice,” Howard replied. “I guess in a nutshell, I believe Rodney King was right: We all really should try to get along.”
“May such idealism live forever,” Mark said, twirling his finger above his head. “Now let’s assign the day watch.”
A generator in the back of the van allowed cool air into the tent. Noah, Howard and Al slept until noon while. Mark and Louis stood guard. Then they reversed roles until seven that evening, when they loaded the gear in the van. There was another two hours before nightfall, so they scarfed through another batch of MREs then played a trivia-oriented card game that Louis had brought along.
When they finally hit the road no one was very talkative, in particular Noah, who sat in the front seat next to Louis. The child spent his time staring out at the redundant landscape: Large, faceless buttes looming on the horizon beneath starlit sky. He thought about his family and felt ashamed that he didn’t miss them more. Although he wished for HOPE being able to reverse the whitening serum, he expected and was thus, prepared for their failure.
To break the monotony, Louis turned on the radio. He found the program of popular, conservative radio show host, Rich Limburger. The man was the most loved and hated of any radio personality in the country. His divisive views on race, economics and politics appealed to those of the far right. His ego was as large as his size fifty-six pants and his mantra was, “Be like me, or be gone!” Which was the phrase he closed every show with.
His followers were derisively known as “Rich’s bitches,” but they wore the label proudly. On this night, Rich was in rare form, taking calls from all over the country concerning “the New and Improved America.”
He began by saying, “Oh my, the niggers are all turning white. I can say ‘nigger’ now, can’t? I mean, who’s around to stop me? They used to use the word like they er…owned it. Anyway, we in this country have been blessed. The curse of Ham has ended at long last they are truly free! Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty…well, you know the rest.”
The first caller was an insurance salesman from Denver who admitted, “I’m no longer afraid to do business in the ‘hood. I mean, I actually sold a policy to two gangbangers.”
“Why were you afraid in the first place?”
“Niggers, man! I mean, those people didn’t want to work. They only wanted to prey on hard-working Joe’s like me.”
“But look at them since they’ve been whitenized.”
“No kidding. And the best thing is, you don’t know which white people were former Negroes. I mean, just because they have a prison record…well, that kinda junk doesn’t matter anymore. Their credit’s good with me!”
The next caller was a woman from Bellingham, Washington.
“Now that they’re gone, I can truly say…” The woman became choked up. “…That God really has blessed America. Big time.”
A real estate agent from Tupelo, Mississippi was the third caller.
“No more red-lining and gerrymandering for me. That kinda stuff was costing me a bundle.”
A man from Detroit, whom Al was sure was a former brother, called in and said, “I never knew I could borrow money even with bad credit! And on my job last week, my boss told me he would start paying me what he had been paying everyone else.’ I’m so grateful for being an American!”
Then Limburger went on to praise the newly named Supreme Court Justice Phineas Washington Jones, an alleged African-American. His skin was black, but his mind was as white as Kansas in winter.
“Now this is a colored boy who has his heart in the right place,” Limburger said.
The next caller agreed.
“I was impressed by the Justice’s patriotism. Especially after I saw him on TV tap-dancing on the steps of the Courthouse singing ‘Camptown Races.’ Strangely his skin was still black and no one seemed to notice.
“Turn that shit off,” Al said. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Sad to say, but this country has a new mindset,” Louis said.
“It’s the same mindset that’s always been,” Al said. “It’s just that now there’s no one to contradict it.”
“I guess you’ve got a point,” Louis replied as he turned off the radio.
Noah then slept through the HOPE members’ off-key renditions of Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer, This Land Is Your Land and Cumbaya. Al wished he had been so lucky.
“So what’s the deal with this Negron-5 shit?”
It was Howard who answered Al’s question.
“It destroys all Negroid features.”
Al shook his head.
“So all the women left have flat asses?”
“Pretty much. By the way, we found another black man—well, he was still partially black, but now he’s changed over. We’re going to test the antidote on him.”
“What’s he like?”
“That poor bastard. I played a record by Snoop Dogg and the man began shaking uncontrollably.”
“Shaking or dancing?”
“Shaking, as if he was having a nervous breakdown. I was finally able to calm him down, but only after I played some Johnny Cash records.”
Al’s eyes were wide with disbelilef.
“His mind is THAT fucked up?”
“Hey man, the guy claims that both Ali-Quarry fights were fixed, that Kenny Rogers is a better singer than Brian McKnight, referred to the Ku Klux Klan as ‘freedom fighters’ and said Janet Reno was more beautiful than Vivica Fox.”
Mark added, “He even argued that Michael Jordan’s achievements were overrated and that the real key to the Bulls’ success was due to Luc Longley’s ‘presence in the middle’.”
The four men laughed long and loud. When it died down Al was wearing a sad expression.
“Good luck trying to get his mind right,” Al answered, dismayed.
After three hours, they were between Battle Mountain and Tonopah, Nevada, in the Big Smoke Valley. Noah had wakened from his sleep screaming, but then gained his bearings and realized that the white faces surrounding him were those of friends. He informed the men that he was hungry.
“You’ll be eating in a few minutes,” Howard said reassuringly.
Finally they turned off the main road and onto a gravel road with numerous potholes and sharp turns. After an initial rise, the road dipped deep into the woods and followed a quiet stream. Twenty minutes later they were at the safe house, which was located deep in the forest behind a clump of rocks and trees. The van pulled through an entrance carved in the side of a hill. The entrance was shielded by a barrier of tall grass. Noah looked around, awed.
“Where are we?” He asked.
“Home,” Howard answered, grinning at him.
Two Mexican men dressed in fatigues approached the van, looked inside and signaled for the men inside to exit. The five were sprayed with a high pressure air hose and then led inside the house—which was comprised of nearly 10,000 square feet.
Once inside all five persons inside the van breathed a sigh of relief. Cheryl came into the livingroom to greet them with hugs and a disarming smile. Then Al and Noah were shown to their quarters. During that time Cheryl explained the situation to Al, who was awed.
“That shit happened right under my nose and I didn’t see it.”
“You couldn’t have,” Cheryl answered.
Noah’s room had been filled with age appropriate books and a computer. It was furnished with a twin bed, dresser, a roll-top desk and a color TV with a Playstation attached. Across the hall was Al’s room, which was filled with sports magazine, a king-size bed, dresser, a computer module and a treadmill.
The two were given time to freshen up before being fed dinner (pork steaks, mashed potatoes, tossed salad and garlic bread) and then debriefed. At that time, Cheryl returned to the room carrying a manila envelope. Two other men entered, dragging along a resistant man wearing a straitjacket and whose mouth was duct taped. The man had a curly Harpo Marx like hairstyle, a pointed nose, gray eyes and razor thin lips. Cheryl did the introductions.
“This is Pookie J. Hawkins, an approximately thirty-eight year old male. To make a long story short, he used to be black. We found him staggering around in an alley in Reno. He had taken a few swigs of water, so at the time he had yet to succumb to the full effects of Negron-5.”
“So why is he here? If he ever escapes, he’s going to blab about this place,” Noah said.
“He’s our Guinea pig,” Cheryl said. “Tomorrow we are going to test our antidote on this gentlemen.”
The man’s eyes widened with fear.
“I heard about him,” Al said, disgusted.
“Yeah, he’s wild about Britney Spears, plans to vote Republican in the next election and he thinks ‘The Brady Bunch’ is the best show in the history of television.”
“What a scrub,” Noah said shaking his head.
“How can a brotha that mentally messed up be saved?” Al asked. “I mean in less than a week every speck of his black self is gone.”
“The antidote should bring it all back. And there’s a second phase of the reversal process that we haven’t yet discussed: Blackology.”
The news of O’Shea’s death reached the desk of Conrad Cain within fifteen minutes of it happening. CHEMICO had paid to have the professor shadowed, in case he too, made a run for it. The agents report was brief, including only the fact that the victim died by a single gunshot wound to the throat that severed his brain stem. The only other piece of information was the approximate time of death.
Cain drank several whisky sours and when he looked up at the clock on the wall it was a shade past ten p.m. He summoned Dr. Wood back to the CHEMICO building, even going so far as to send a limousine for him. When Wood arrived, he was dressed in an overcoat, khaki shorts and an undershirt that revealed his flabby breasts.
“You remind me of my ex wife,” Cain quipped. “Now I know what to get you for Christmas, a bra.”
“Is that why you poisoned her?” Wood made no effort to keep the anger out of his voice.
“That was one of the many reasons I poisoned her,” Cain said coolly. “Anyway, I requested your presence to give you some good news and some bad news. I will deliver the good news first.”
“You could have played this childish game over the phone!”
“You would have hung up in my face,” Cain said sarcastically. “Now, assuming that was the last interruption, here is the good news. At approximately nine-forty this evening, Professor Edward O’Shea shot and killed himself. One of our agents was able to grab his CPU before emergency personnel arrived. It shows that his wife knew a great deal about our operation.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“Temporary condition. Would you like a drink?”
“I’d like to get back in my own bed,” Wood groused.
“Oh, you will lie in your own bed all right.”
Cain opened his top drawer and drew a pistol. Wood’s breath caught in his throat and he reflexively threw both hands in the air.
“Wh-what the hell’s the matter with you?”
“It wasn’t good enough to deprive O’Shea of his self-respect, was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“That thing about screwing his wife was really fucked up.”
“He had it coming….no pun intended,” Wood added quickly.
“So do you, Woodsy.” He cleared his throat. “Earlier you asked me why I poisoned my wife. Yes, her tits were sagging and she was planning to divorce me and take me for everything. But she did something that was unforgivable. Do you know what that was?”
“Why would I?”
“Because you were a party to it.”
Wood began to tremble. Cain picked up a picture off his desk. It was of his wife, a brunette with freckles and a cheerleader’s body. He glanced at it, then tossed the photo into a nearby wastebasket.
“You knew?” Wood asked.
“Yes. In an intoxicated rage my charming wife Sylvia told me of your sordid trysts. Of how you showered her with flowers and expensive gifts. I kept it under my hat and waited until the appropriate time for my revenge.” He leveled the gun at Wood. “That time has come.”
“Wait, Conrad…I can explain!”
“Your actions need no explaining. You stripped an old man of his dignity and his life. On top of that, you also stripped my wife.”
Wood turned to run, but he didn’t make two steps before three bullets to the back brought him down. After Wood fell to the floor, Cain stood over him and drilled him with three more rounds. He went back to his desk, reloaded his gun and drilled him with six more slugs. He then kicked the corpse, not once—but twice and afterward, contemplated setting it on fire, but changed his mind. The room was already filled with the acrid smell of blood and gun smoke. Cain stood over his victim and sneered.
“Now you’re good and dead.”
Cain went back to his desk and poured a fourth whisky sour. He hummed softly to himself as he sipped. When he was finished he summoned a crew to dispose of the body and install new carpeting. Then he went home and slept as if he had just spent a typical day at the office.
The Channel Two morning news featured a report of a “massacre” in the Mt. Irish section of Southeastern Nevada. The report mentioned the death toll—fifteen, and the fact that the case was being investigated by the Nevada State Police and the FBI.
Next came the story of the suicide of Edward O’Shea, during which several neighbors were interviewed. All said that he “seemed a little down since his wife walked out on him.”
Throughout the report Cheryl remained expressionless.
After breakfast, one of the researchers armed with a camera and an Uzi, took Noah for a nature walk. This was done so that he would not be frightened by the screams of Pookie Dawkins. The scientists were preparing for testing their serum on him and Pookie was being combative—verbally and physically. During this time Al sat in his room drowning out the noise by thumbing through a dog-eared copy of The Red Badge of Courage.
Minutes later a beaming Cheryl entered, with Jennifer in tow. Al rose and his former neighbor gave him a brief, but exuberant embrace. He admitted being surprised that she too, had survived the Negron-5 experiment. Then she took a seat on t he bed next to him.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Baker.”
“Al.”
“Okay, Al.”
“So how’d you avoid this madness?”
“Cheryl told me about a year ago to leave the water alone.”
“You could have warned me.”
“You were too busy watering my car.”
Cheryl cleared her throat and broached the issue at hand.
“Mr. Baker, if for some reason our formula fails to work as we expect, or if NEGRON develops a counter antigen, the re-population of the black race will weigh heavily on you and Miss Singleton.”
Al stroked his chin and grimaced. It was not like he found Jennifer unattractive. Only that he was flooded with feelings of guilt for the insults he use to hurl at her. It such circumstances, it would be difficult for either of them to be intimate.
“I suppose test tubes are optional?” Al asked.
“Not yet, so the old-fashioned way would have to do for now.” Cheryl then added, “We would need to add a lot of new equipment to use the test tube method. Equipment that might draw suspicion if we tried to purchase it.”
“How do you feel about that, Jennifer?” Al asked.
“I’d rather have a root canal.”
“You seem like the type to have a pain-based orgasm.”
“You two are going to have to try and get along,” Cheryl said, sensing that their tete-a-tete might escalate into something counterproductive.
Jennifer shrugged. “A girl’s gotta do who a girl’s gotta do.”
“And you did take your blood test already, right?” Jennifer asked.
Al nodded.
“You both are free of communicable disease,” Cheryl announced.
“Well, I suppose I could go through with this,” Al said cautiously.
“Don’t act like this is a mercy screwing,” Jennifer said. “I’m the one making the major sacrifice.”
“Oh? And just what are you sacrificing?” Al asked belligerently.
“My dignity,” Jennifer said.
There was a dense cloud of silence before the three laughed.
“Okay, we know what we have to do,” Jennifer said. “So I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight.”
She stood up to leave. Cheryl rose also, still enjoying the humor of the moment.
“This has to be the most lackluster act of seduction in the history of mankind,” Cheryl muttered as she followed Jennifer out of the room.
Serena Parker served Pookie J. Hawkins his dinner: Meat loaf, broccoli, mashed potatoes and gravy and bottled water. Unbeknownst to Pookie, during his exercise period, a camera had been installed in his room, which enabled the doctors to monitor his reaction to the antidote. The water line to his room had been altered to pump in the antidote, which they named ‘Bactublac.’
Before dinner had been served he’d already drank sixteen ounces of water. Both Parker and Carver recorded various bits of data during the first few hours. Occasionally one of the other three scientists—Cynthia Pratt, Earl Quentin or Arnold Dillon—came over to observe.
Within five hours Hawkins hair had regained a noticeable amount of its natural color and texture. Around the edges of his ears and cuticles he had grown darker. Since there were no mirrors in his room, he could not readily detect the changes. By nine p.m. and ten hours into the test, his nostrils had widened and when he showered, a computer measured more than two inches of penile growth. (He now had 3-¼ inches.)
Miss Parker called it a night, patting Al on the shoulder and wishing him luck on his rendezvous with Jennifer. Al nodded and returned to his own observation: Miss Jennifer Singleton. He had always found her attractive, but assumed she was the prudish type. Knowing he was going to sleep with her made him see her in a “hole” different light. He wondered if she would be passive or passionate, then recalled the words of his grandfather:
“Getting some kootchie is like having a bank account: The more you put into it, the more you’ll get out of it.”
Less than an hour later Al and Jennifer would retire for the evening.
At two a.m. Dr. Carver had his colleague Serena Parker roused from her sleep. A groggy Serena entered and took a seat next to him. Being in a daze, she was unaware that she entered the livingroom without her robe. Her short, sheer gown revealed assets that would have made a monk drool and rethink at least one of his vows.
Carver was awe-struck and completely forgot what he had called her for. When she realized the reason for his stupor, she pulled the one of the pillows from the sofa, put it over her and sat in the now vacant space. The second doctor looking on was Cynthia Pratt, who found the whole thing humorous.
“Sorry about that,” Carver said, embarrassed.
“Not as sorry as I am,” Serena Parker replied coldly. “What’s so important that you have to rouse me from my sleep?”
“Observe.”
Serena looked at the monitor and her mouth flew open. Pookie Hawkins was now an olive color, his hair had morphed into an afro—black in some places, brown in others. His nose had widened, there was now evidence of acne scarring and his eye color had changed from gray to brown. Also, there was a notable increase in the thickness of his lips.
“He’s in the ‘blonky’ stage—the point where he’s about fifty percent black, fifty percent honky.”
“In just under eighteen hours.”
“Looks like the antidote is functioning as anticipated,” Carver beamed.
“Let’s not shoot off in our pants just yet,” Serena said, intentionally making a sexual remark, to see how Mark might react.
He took a deep breath, fumbled for the right words, then decided to keep his mouth shut. She was pleased with the result.
“I’m going back to bed. I’ll return at six a.m.”
As she turned to leave, Malcolm called to her.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps this is none of my business, Serena, but why haven’t you volunteered for re-population duties?”
She smiled. “I have.”
She left the room and Cynthia Pratt looked at the obviously flustered Malcolm.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Dr. Pratt said casually.
“Indeed. I think my sperm count just doubled.”
When Jennifer entered Al’s room she found him shirtless and donning a pair of gym shorts. She had on an extra-long T-shirt, intentionally attempting to throw Al’s imagination into overdrive. The front of his pants revealed that her stratagem had worked. She came over and sat next to him on the bed.
“Mr. Baker, at risk of killing the mood, I think we should talk.”
“Okay, but let’s cut through the formal jargon. Call me ‘Al,’ and if you don’t mind, I’d like to call you ‘Janet’.”
“I’m sure you would, but my name is ‘Jennifer’.”
They laughed and Al felt comfortable reducing the distance between them.
“I never knew you had a sense of humor.”
“That’s why I want to talk. I find it strange that I could be sharing the most intimate secret with someone who will know nothing else about me.”
“I see your point.”
“I see yours, too,” she quipped, again making him laugh. “But tell Tiger he’s going to have to wait before he goes prowling.”
“What would you like to know about me, Jennifer?”
“For starters, why you were such a knucklehead. Especially about the sprinklers?”
“Gee, this relationship’s off to a great start.”
“Answer the question.”
“I guess I didn’t see the harm in a little overwatering. Spotting up your car seemed like such a little thing.”
“It means I had to wash it more than once a week.”
“Well, I still don’t see why that’s such a big thing. But you had your own hang-ups.”
“Such as?”
“Every time I had company of the opposite sex, you felt free to make derisive comments. You made it sound like I was nothing but a cockhound.”
“You mean you’re not?”
“Come on, why did I get the cold shoulder, Jennifer?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have been a little jealous?”
Al paused before answering. He wondered if she was playing a game, or if she were serious. He didn’t believe it was the latter. Then again he recalled the many times he’d heard females declare their disdain for someone, only to be sleeping with the guy within the week. Jennifer saw the confusion I his eyes and elaborated.
“You’re a nice looking man and I think I’m an attractive woman. Maybe not the Halle Berry fantasy you and so many other brothers harbor, but at least fine enough to merit a smile, or at least a playful comment.”
“Maybe I knew a pass would have fallen incomplete.”
“So you just drop back and try again.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“What woman doesn’t want the attention of a handsome man? Look, you ever been to a club and seen a fine woman sitting by herself and just shooting down men?”
“Sure.”
“It’s not like she’s some cold bitch, or anything like that. She enjoys the flirting. It’s just that most men take flirting as a woman saying, ‘I want to be fucked’. The truth is, sometimes women just like flirting. It’s like foreplay without the touching.”
“And THAT’S like writing a love letter to an inflatable doll,” Al answered. “But I suppose being enigmatic is part of what makes women so alluring. Nowadays it’s okay for the woman to be the aggressor.”
“Do you like aggressive women?”
“Woman are aggressive for different reasons.”
“Give me a few.”
“Some women are gold diggers. They think that sex with them is such a privilege that the man should be willing to bankrupt himself—morally and financiallly—for a roll in the hay.”
Jennifer laughed and Al continued.
“On the other hand, some ladies are aggressive because they’re horny and like most men, just got to have it. I know several women like that. They make Ray Lewis look like Dakota Fanning.”
“I assure you, I’m not that type.”
“Not always,” Al countered. “There comes a time when everyone feels that way.”
“Okay, continue.”
“Then there are the ladies who exude confidence and like being in charge. Sadlyu, most of their boyfriends wind up in therapy, opr in battered men’s shelters.”
“Will you be serious?”
“Okay, next there are the type who are convinced they’re nothing without a man, and feel pressured to have someone—anyone. They literally have top puill a Sadie Hawkins and grab hold of the first thing they see. These are the types found in prison visitation rooms. And finally there are those who are merely inexperienced, inebriated or both.”
Jennifer kept a straight face as she answered.
“My brotha, you are righteously full of shit.”
“It’s all theoretical. I gleaned it from a little-known book written by Albert Einstein.”
“Ha-ha. But tell me, mister theorist, for each action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. A man responds differently to each one of those women, so what category do you fall under?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, sista. Men just want three thinigs.”
“Sex is one of them.”
“Yes—and food, and then some peace and quiet.”
“You’re a Neanderthal,” Jennifer said, disgusted. “If you’re going to be partly responsible for re-establishing our race, black women of the future are in big trouble.”
“I was just joking,” Al said. “You’re taking this way too serious.”
“Okay, let’s get back to the subject of us.” Jennifer frowned, as if the thought of their being a couple were toxic. “When I first saw you, I wanted you to pursue me. Then when I discovered that you were an asshole, well, things kind of changed.”
“I might have had many of the characteristics of an asshole, but trust me, I’m not an asshole.”
“So what are you?”
“Like most men, I’m confused. I had no idea what women want, and I’m not sure about how to find out.”
“But you attempt to find out about strange women in clubs. Some who—if you don’t mind my saying it—couldn’t have held a candle to me.”
“Just because I had a female visitor stay at my house overnight doesn’t mean we were intimate. And I don’t know anyone who’s ever found true love in a night club.”
“So they were all one night stands?”
“At risk of sounding flippant, they were just there. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I knew it wasn’t that—at least, not long-term.” He took her hand in his. “Now for the first time in my life I see not only what I want, but what I need. Besides the obvious—seeing the return of the black race—I need to touch, kiss and hold someone.”
“Oh-oh, this is getting deep.” She gave him a smile and added, “You’re going to get a chance to have your wishes fulfilled. I think before the night is through that you will realize that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“I hope that’s not a reference to cunnilingus.”
Jennifer ignored his last remark, and as if there was symbiosis between them, they stood in unison, kissed and quietly undressed. They eventually made love several times.
At six a.m. Serena Parker was roused from her sleep by someone shouting. She ran into the livingroom where a stupefied Malcolm Carver was pointing at the monitor. But no one was more surprised than Pookie Hawkins, who learned that he now sported an afro, goatee, and now had a nose like Michael Jackson’s first one. However, when told that his skin was black, he became angry and called out, “Okay, enough of this! What are you fuckers up to?”
Howard and Dr. Earl Quentin entered his room and sat him down. They told him the story of NEGRON and how and when he had been captured. They followed up by showing Pookie a photo montage of himself—after he was first brought into custody, along with subsequent shots of him as a full-fledged white male When they finished their spiel, he thought they were insane.
“This must be some psychological test to see how much I can take, right? Like Michael Douglas in that movie, ‘The Game’.”
“We know this is hard to believe.”
“Damn right! I want outta here!”
“Trust me, Mr. Hawkins,” Howard said quietly. “Right now you are one of only three known black males left in the United States. If we let you out of here, you would be killed within hours.”
“I’m not crazy! The last time I looked into a mirror, I was a white man!” He said defiantly. “I like Kenny Rogers, The Monkees, Britney Spears and I hate rap music!”
Howard handed him a mirror and Pookie stared into it, stunned.
“This is some kinda fun house mirror, right?”
He ran his hand over his face.
“You are what you were born as—a black man.”
“I thought…” Pookie shook his head and unzipped his pants. He took a peek inside his shorts. Then his upper lip trembled and slowly worked itself into a wide grin. The glee at seeing his blackness nearly triggered a coronary episode.
“Awright! I’m black, I’m black, I’m black!” He fell to his knees and thrust both fists into the air. “Thank you, Lord!”
He let out a joyous whoop (which was what wakened Serena Parker) and moonwalked across the room, spun on his toes and did the splits.
“I knew there was something going on inside me, but I didn’t know what!”
Then after he climbed into the shower, he was pleased to find himself endowed with eight-plus inches. When he came out for breakfast he was informed that the straitjacket and duct tape would no longer necessary. Soon there were tears streaming down his face. But there was yet one more step to undergo in order to prevent a relapse.
That afternoon Howard drove up in the van, followed by three camouflaged military vehicles. Noah immediately went into panic mode, ran to his room and hid. Cheryl went after him and when they returned minutes later, both were smiling. Three Latino and nine white men toting duffel bags stepped from the trucks. All had athletic builds and wore army fatigues.
Cheryl introduced them to the scientists as former Green Berets-turned soldiers of fortune. She explained that the men voluntarily joined HOPE. Then the adults gathered ini the conference room and the leader of the men—a man named Suarez—explained the reason for their presence.
Their mission was simple: To get the antidote into the various water systems. They would split into four teams, three of which would infiltrate the water systems of Phoenix, Las Vegas and the California Delta. Another three-man squadron would commandeer a cable news satellite feed and announce the implementation of ‘Operation Bactublac’.
Once the waterways contained Bactublac, they would wait twenty-four hours before going on the air. They would show the world the results of their counter-attack and appeal to average Americans to urge the Government to get out of the genocide business. They would also reveal the steps entailed in ‘Blackology.’
Blackology defined in basic terms, is the inundation of black images into the black psyche. This was necessary because during the early tests of Bactublac, the test subjects regained Negroid physical features, but still had elements of whiteness: Such as walking as if they were constipated and using words and phrases like “malarkey” and “gosh darn.” When shown photos of Lil’ Kim, Beyoncé Knowles, Halle Berry, Vivica A. Fox and Tyra Banks the subjects said “they don’t look all that good” and scored their beauty lower than that of their white counterparts—Jessica Simpson, Britney Spears and Jennife Love Hewitt.
Carver had administered a second test of the serum, only this time he had each subject read articles from The Final Call and listen to Celebratrion: The Best of Kool and the Gang, 1979-1987. Though the serum again had less-than-perfect results, Malcolm Carver noticed that the effects lasted four times longer than during the first test.
Before the final test on Pookie Hawkins, he worked up a computer model. His deduction was that the dosage needed to be doubled and the subject needed 72 hours of image bombardment. This would allow the images to take root in the subject’s mind, enabling him to accept and embrace the reality of his blackness.
He then tested Pookie and the original two subjects to see which images elicited the most intense responses. He showed them photos, read news accounts and played an assortment of recordings for them. He monitored the three, recording increases in their blood pressure, respiration, brain activity and the amount of toe-tapping or head nodding. In less than three days he was able to disseminate the data and put together the first Blackology lessons.
Now it was time to see if it would be enough to save his race.
S I X
The soldiers decided they would commence their mission at midnight, Sunday. Team A would be responsible for getting the Bactublac into the Las Vegas water system. Team B would do the same in Phoenix and Team C, in the California delta. Team D would wait twenty-four hours, then using the services of plants who had infiltrated NCNUSA (National Cable News, USA), they would commandeer the satellite feed.
Meanwhile, it had been nearly thirty-six hours since anyone, including Noah, had heard from Al or Jennifer. When the two finally emerged from the room, goofy grins were plastered on their faces. They were then filled in on the events of the past day and a half.
Al saw through the silver lining and examined the reality of the cloud.
“I believe in this plan, but the fact is, Dr. Ibsen and the crew at CHEMICO are probably going to flee to a country that has no extradition treaty with the United States. They will probably collaborate with some rogue nation and who knows what will happen.”
The group leader for the soldiers spoke up.
“We know of the whereabouts of Ibsen and his co-conspirators. We also know where they will go in the event of an emergency. And trust me, we have forces in place that are prepared to ruin their plans.”
At 12:01 a.m. Sunday morning teams A, B and C rolled out of the forest toward their destinations. Unfortunately, prior to their departure one of the men had drank tap water from Pookie Dawkins’ room and the following day awakened and found himself black. His name was Charles D. Miller and he would be the first man to die in what historians would later call, “The Battle of Bactublac.”
Meanwhile, Serena taught Pookie the simple techniques of Blackology. He spent the next three days poring over the speeches of Malcolm X, watching Spike Lee films and listening to James Brown recordings.
On Monday afternoon—in the words of one CBS anchor Dan Rather, “The rooster has shit right into the fan blades.” Black people were appearing on the streets en masse in major cities all across the West and according to that news anchor, there were more to come. Whites were in an all-out panic. Many were traumatized and admitted to hospitals and asylums. As blacks reverted to their old selves, Limburger was already on the air creating an offensive name for them—“retrospooks.”
The Federal government quickly went into denial mode. The President, Rory Hawke, delivered a primetime address in which he stammered and yammered and vowed to, “bring the perpetrators of this ‘atrostity’ [sic] to swift and ‘harshful’ [sic] justice.”
Supreme Court Justice Phineas Washington Jones called it, “A sad day in America, that we should have done all we could, to prevent.”
Sadly, he was referring to Operation Bactublac.
Young white Americans took to the streets rioting and looting—stealing and hoarding perms, skin lighteners and colored contact lenses “just in case.” They did not want to lose all their privileges—which was what would happen if they were once black and reverted.
On the other hand, the whites who had always wanted to be black, were sending sales of suntan lotions, Classy Curl™ perm kits and collagen through the roof. The National Association for the Advancement of Gray Girls (NAAGG) was encouraging its entire white female membership to drink up, in the hope that they themselves could actually become black. But lacking melanin and the appropriate mentality, their efforts were fruitless.(Though some did experience an increase in lip size).
For various reasons, people were drinking tap water by the gallons. Around the country, water rates tripled. Some areas were worried about shortages. In some states martial law was declared, as people were raiding water treatment facilities.
Churches were filled with white people praying they weren’t really black. Most of these people were frightened by their sudden skill on the dance floor, or the increase in their leaping ability. Some whites who experienced unexplained penile growth, or noticed an increase in expenditures at KFC, simply killed themselves.
Others who had Negroid features—i.e., thick lips, frizzy hair or “unusually dark skin”—were being discriminated against by the so-called “pure whites.” All Affirmative Action programs were suspended indefinitely “pending further review.” And even the Ku Klux Klan had problems, requiring all members nationwide to prove their white ancestry.
Not everyone knew they were undergoing racial conversion. Ned Andrews was on the ski slopes of Vail, Colorado, in the midst of a downhill run when his conversion occurred. Not knowing how to land, or properly navigate the slope, he was killed instantly when he smashed into and spotwelded himself to a tree.
Jeffrey James Rodgers of Miami, Florida was charged with three counts of manslaughter when he converted during a game of bridge. The other three players, all white and in their seventies, keeled over dead.
Oliver Craig started the one hundred-meter dash at the World games as a white man. He finished the race as a black man and was stripped of his gold medal for “winning under false circumstances.”
Charlene McElroy was working at the nation’s number one brokerage firm. One morning she was spinning around in her desk chair and enjoying a view of the New York City skyline, then morphed back to black. Board members admitted they had no intentions of putting a black in such a position of responsibility. They cited a quote from her company biography: “I always wanted to break through the glass ceiling,” and immediately demoted her to head window washer.
In a true rarity, Jake Jackson went camping in Eastern Oregon as a white outdoorsman. He awakened as a black man and became a happy meal for a grizzly bear, making him the first black man in more than 200 years to be eaten by a wild animal.
Worse was the case of Eugene Posey, of Ethel, Arkansas. He was of white skin the night he began his address as Grand Dragon of the local chapter of the Klan. But before his speech ended, his hair reverted to a medium-sized afro and his skin darkened, like that of a fig. Torches were lit and the pitchforks began flying in his direction. His last words were, “Can’t we all just get along?”
For some there was immediate benefit: Claire McCloskey of Appleton, Wisconsin discovered this while having sex with her boyfriend, Harold James. As he grunted, sweat and made the most hideous “fuck faces,” she lie on her back, bored. She had picked up the TV remote and was flipping through the channels when the change hit her husband “down south.”
She described it as “the best sex I’ve ever had,” and was so overjoyed from the scores of orgasms, she called her father and told him about it. Her father, Mike, was an avid hunter with a short-temper and a long-range rifle.
The “wedding” was held several hours later.
At NCNUSA, Pookie went on air. With photos and in his own words he gave a ten-minute retrospective of the past three weeks. He was thus, living proof that the black race could and would return. Pictures of Cain, Peabody, Ibsen, Wood and McConkey were flashed on screen.
By the time Federal agents raided CHEMICO, the building was bare.
During an emergency session of the UN Security Council, the U.S. was denounced as “agents of genocide.” The creators of Negron-5, the Secretary of the Interior and the President were branded, “war criminals.”
Several African nations immediately shut down all U.S. and European Embassies and expelled their diplomats. China denounced U.S. leaders as, “the biggest hypocrites in the history of the world.”
Congress convened in a hastily called emergency session. The House and Senate voted overwhelmingly to add Bactublac to all U.S. water systems. President Hawke again went on television in primetime. He denied any knowledge of the NEGRON organization. But a memo unearthed by NBC News proved otherwise. Due to public and international outcry the President was forced to resign.
The Vice-President, Sally DeGeorgis, claimed that the agents of NEGRON had been captured and would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of U.S. and International law. But in reality, NEGRON and its operatives were whisked away by Air Force C-130 cargo planes to another lab; this one in the nether regions of Eastern Africa.
Former South African leaders were arrested when they tried to purchase Negron-5 from a sham Internet site set up by Interpol. Riots broke out in the Caribbean and most whites on the islands were either imprisoned, or drowned as they were chased into the sea.
Many whites did what they could to keep Bactublac from being added to the water. Legal briefs were filed claiming that since the FDA hadn’t approved the drug, adding it to water unfairly put innocent Americans at risk. In an attempt to be p.c. more than anything else, the Supreme Court ruled against them and the more than 15,000 friends of the court briefs.
Protests were launched across the country, including one called “Hands around the water tanks’, where protestors linked arms in an attempt to keep Federal agents from adding Bactublac to the drinking water.
Many whites who suspected they were once black, joined such efforts. These were individuals who did not want to give up the supposed gains—in particular living in the suburbs and their improved credit ratings. These folks relied on bottled water, bleaching creams and heavy metal to maintain their whiteness. Both “pure” whites and the "re-blackened" turned on these folks, who were dubbed “cooncasians,” “hip-hop house niggas” and “double stuffed Oreos.” Many were savagely beaten and/or jailed. Some of the severely afflicted ones leapt from skyscrapers.
Some blacks were relapsing, until Blackology kicked in. The lessons were beamed into every school and shown ‘round the clock on BET (which was back on the air) and C-Span. The favorite method of Blackology was listening to James Brown, Kool Moe Dee, Last Poets, Chuck D or old Paliament-Funkadelic recordings. Another process was reading black literature—from newspapers to the following books: Anything by Maya Angelou or Gwendolyn Brooks; The Autobiography of Malcolm X; Claude Brown’s, Man-Child In the Promised Land; George Jackson’s, Soledad Brother; Richard Wright’s, Native Son, or Eldridge Cleaver’s, Soul On Ice.
Another tactic was watching old fight films. Recommended viewing included Ali-versus anybody white (Ivan Dunn, Chuck Wepner, Oscar Bonavena or Jerry Quarry); Ken Norton Vs. Duane Bobick; and Larry Holmes’, or Michael Spinks’ dismantling of Jerry Cooney.
Spike Lee films along with CDs from Paul Mooney, Dave Chappelle or Richard Pryor, and singing James Brown’s, Say It Loud )I’m Black and I’m Proud) also did the trick. Within the week, the black population had risen back to 93% of its previous level.
The Congressional Black caucus called for reparations in the form of (1) Blacks being exempt from income taxes for fifty years; (2) Guaranteed funding for any black person who qualified for and desired a college education. In particular, those pertaining to biological sciences; and (3) Congressionally funded Water Inspection teams made up primarily of black hydrologists, geneticists, biologists and laymen.
Black Democratic Presidential candidate Reverend Jonah Samson declared, “It is nothing less than tragic that the greatest threat to democracy came not from a mad man’s dirty bomb, or from a foreign missile, but inside the very borders of our country. The men responsible for this heinous and twisted act must be brought to justice, no matter how high up the political ladder the trail takes us.”
The following day he was on the steps of the U.S. capitol, strangling an elderly white Senator and was shot and killed.
The African National Congress’s Mwalimu Aali led a guerilla contingent that destroyed the new laboratories of NEGRON. Files, computers, research materials and all supplies of Negron-5 were destroyed. Cain, Peabody, Professors Ibsen and McConkey were hanged on-site and all their henchmen, hangers-on and helpers were shot and buried in a mass grave. The world body had further proof that American Government condoned the actions of NEGRON when they labeled the attack “an act of terrorism against the U.S.”
Alphonse and Noah became national heroes, as did Malcolm Carver and Serena Parker. Noah was reunited with his family, who left the Buckeye area to reside at the safe house. Jennifer Singleton kept secret the fact that she had never been exposed to Negron-5. What’s more, early tests run by Serena showed that she was pregnant. Only she, Cheryl, Serena and Al were privy to that information.
On his radio show, Rich Limburger denounced Cheryl as “The bitch who ruined the one chance we had at a real color blind society.”
She was ostracized by other whites for “Not knowing when to leave a good thing alone.”
Tragically, just three days later, members of a radical wing of the Republican Party killed Cheryl O’Shea. This splinter group called itself White Heroes Inspired To Eliminate Moolies and Especially Nigger-lovers (WHITEMEN). Even some so-called liberals spit on her memory, claiming that she “eliminated the best chance for blacks to make progress.”
After the funeral of Cheryl O’Shea, Al and Jennifer were married. Al’s best man was the new and improved Jimmy—that is, the old one. The wedding made news all over the world and the happy couple received congratulatory telegrams from various heads of state and notables including Nelson Mandela.
During their honeymoon the government of Nairobi feted the newly weds. Two weeks later they returned to the U.S. and for the next seven and a half months lived quietly in Los Angeles where Jennifer gave birth to eight-pound eleven-ounce Adam Alphonse Singleton-Baker.
And though it was a happy occasion, both Jennifer and Al cried. For neither knew what the long-term effects—if any—Negron-5 might have on future generations of blacks. Jennifer slipped her arms around her husband’s neck and summed up their feelings.
She whispered, “We’re part of something very special.”
“I feel special just having you in my life.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She smiled through her tears and said, “After we’re dead and gone, our son may very well be the last REAL black man on earth.”
T H E E N D
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