I am the author of this article. My thesis is that the modern American Presidency was heavily influenced by the institution of monarchy which was invented in ancient Nubia circa 3800 BC. If you're interested in history then check it out!
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GREETINGS!!
PLEASE CHECK OUT D.JAHMAN DEIDOTREE'S BLOG PAGE..'THE CROCODILE-FACTOR' SAGA!!
THIS IS THE STORY OF THE YOUNG SHAMAN KAKO & HIS JOURNEYS ALL ALONG HIS PROCESS OF
INITIATION!!
PLEASE JOIN THE BLOG & LEAVE A COMMENT FOR THE WRITER!!
MORE LOVE MORE INSPIRATION!! THANK YOU!!
Peace everybody, just sharing the latest illustration in a series of characters Im drawing. Was checking out Ghost Dad and had to do this one. What do you think?
BLOG link
SLIDE SHOW: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wCx8c4N2Vc
The Priestess has returned and her trio of adventurers have gone back into the 'Black' to find the time and place the Chief's missing men may be. Have they gone deeper into the past, far into the future or made their way to the present? Read the latest phase of The Priestess Saga, "All Things Subject to Grow" to find out! Also, there's a new alternate cover for the
Priestess Page showing her in her semi-godly glory!
All Hail the Priestess!
I saw Green Lantern today. I expected something terrible because reviewers totally panned it. And to add insult to injury, I listened to people on Twitter who also mentioned how bad the experience was going to be. And I almost listened. I am glad that I didn't.
As far as I was concerned the scene of the the Green Lantern Corp was beautiful to see in all of its alien diversity and was the high point of the movie for me. Such a litany of differences, it gave me hope that maybe humanity could one day come together and simply be. I keep hope alive for such as day.
Was it a brilliant movie? No. But it did entertain me and was worth the price of admission. It was not literature, but a visual feast. I knew what to expect. I knew the Hal Jordan origin of Green Lantern, so I was already aware of how Hal gets his powers and the basic premise of the character.
Did they change things for the movies? Oh yes.
Did they compress 40 years of character into a two hour window, merging dozens and dozens of stories into a single tale of increasing complexity? Yes they did.
Was it too hard to follow? No. Every critic acted as if there were entirely too many things going on, detracting from the story.
Was the story too complex? No. If you have walked and had a piece of chewing gum going at the same time, you could follow the story.
But I think I found the reasons many critics did not like it. I notice it as a trend in certain science fiction movies. In the recent movie Battlefield: Los Angeles and Skyline, both of which were marginal science fiction movies but their underlying premise cannot be dismissed. Humans got their collective asses kicked. Battlefield: LA tried very hard to make it look like there was a fair fight but for most of the movie humans were losing and even as it the movie concludes, the outcome is in doubt.
In Skyline, we are barely able to muster the ability to resist the alien menace at all. They used a technology to modify our minds and make us easy to harvest for their own purposes. Both movies made one thing clear. ET came from somewhere else and Kilowog mentions it completely as a passing thought, but it strikes a nerve every time I hear it.
"Humanity likes to imagine itself as the ultimate expression of intelligence in the Universe."
"Humanity likes to imagine itself as the ultimate expression of intelligence in the Universe."
As a result, when any science fiction movie presents humanity as the flawed, imperfect, socially maladjusted and sometimes sociopathic species it can appear to be, everyone gets pissed and offended because they say "I am not like that." But you are. If you doubt it, ask yourself if an alien appeared today and compared your intelligence to that of one of his retarded children, you would certainly be offended. But he may mean no disrespect. It may simply be a truth to him. He crossed the vast gulf of space to be able to sit and talk with us and he may find us only slightly more intelligent in comparison to the intellect we find in our cats and dogs. It is galling to think there may be someone or an entire species, let alone a community of different intelligences far greater than our own.
Humans are notoriously bigoted, short-sighted, and inclined to irrational thinking. If you doubt this, ask ten people or a thousand, how they feel about global warming, world peace, who the current president is and how they feel about him, which political party is the worst one, and whose religion is most likely to be right when the apocalypse arrives. You would find the range of answers staggering from highly informed to the completely insane and you barely have to move more that fifteen meters in any direction. This is a cultural blindness caused by our isolation in the universe. We have turned into narcissistic boobs, masturbating and self-congratulating each other using our social media technologies with alarming frequency as if to remind ourselves we still matter but such desperation for acknowledgement only accents our fear of our alone-ness or worse, our inadequacy.
Green Lantern's Hal Jordan, and his nemesis of Hector Hammond are both mirrors of each other and all of us. Hal, handsome, a talented pilot, but professionally unable to achieve anything like adulthood for more than an hour at a time, spends his life avoiding anything like responsibility. Hector Hammond is a balding middle-aged, out of shape scientist, of modest ambition with an overbearing senator for a father, who constantly pushes him to have some ambition. Hal, growing up without a father, overcompensates for his father's death in a plane accident by indulging in flying to the reckless and dangerous limits. Hammond avoids everything to do with his father and teaches biology in a local community college or university. Both are underachieving, for different reasons. They both have one other thing in common, an interest in Carol Ferris, the future owner of Ferris Aircraft where Hal works and Hector's father is working with the government for a contract for Ferris Aircraft.
The movie has lots of threads, but they despite some choppy editing are able to be resolved satisfactorily. The visuals seemed a little behind the times but nothing I could not deal with. I saw it in 2D, so I suspect it may look better in 3D, but I will never know since I refuse to pay $16 for a single movie ticket.
No, this movie is not Thor. Nor is it X-Men First Class. Thor speaks to the divine spark in all men, the desire to eclipse our fathers and become as great as we can be. X-men speaks to the outsider we all have known at one point in our lives or another. Iron Man caters to our obsessions with technology and its overall cool factor. Green Lantern speaks to a completely different state of mind. Hal is an every-man, a person who has never had to put someone else before himself and has almost never done that, except perhaps with his nephew, who shares his love of planes and flight. Hal is selfish, and self-absorbed and suddenly finds himself with one of the most powerful weapons in the universe. And he is not equal to the task, and he knows it.
All of us relate to that, and that is why this movie strikes home. We hate that feeling. We hate the feeling of fear, of weakness, of coming up short. Hal, even with the ring, felt this way, particularly when he arrives at Oa and finds an entire army of beings who resent his very presence. Discrimination sits poorly for those who are used to sitting at the top of the heap. Hal Jordan receives ultimate power and the ultimate smack-down, all in the same breath. So no, this movie will not appeal to the idea of the super hero as the ultimate expression of all that humanity can be, because this movie is about humanity, not super-humanity. When all is said and done, this movie addresses that which makes us human and how we deal with that can only be improved by technology, never replaced.
Hector Hammond is a tragic figure in this film because he succumbs to the fear which has ruled his life and in doing so, commits patricide. But his tragedy is far worse than that. He is a failed archetype because he has come to believe in his own inner worthlessness, imposed on him by his father. He could have opted to use his power differently but could not get past his own hopelessness at his state. Even with incredible power, his fear consumed him, literally.
Green Lantern has its faults, it wants to merge so many things from the character's rich history that it loses its way. It is not a bad film and if you can handle the truth of our species failings, you may see Hal's slow transformation into something else, a person with whom you share many attributes with and can achieve the same levels of growth, if you could get out of your own way and believe in what you are capable of. Hal Jordan is all of us. Hector Hammond is too. You get to pick.
Humans are notoriously bigoted, short-sighted, and inclined to irrational thinking. If you doubt this, ask ten people or a thousand, how they feel about global warming, world peace, who the current president is and how they feel about him, which political party is the worst one, and whose religion is most likely to be right when the apocalypse arrives. You would find the range of answers staggering from highly informed to the completely insane and you barely have to move more that fifteen meters in any direction. This is a cultural blindness caused by our isolation in the universe. We have turned into narcissistic boobs, masturbating and self-congratulating each other using our social media technologies with alarming frequency as if to remind ourselves we still matter but such desperation for acknowledgement only accents our fear of our alone-ness or worse, our inadequacy.
Green Lantern's Hal Jordan, and his nemesis of Hector Hammond are both mirrors of each other and all of us. Hal, handsome, a talented pilot, but professionally unable to achieve anything like adulthood for more than an hour at a time, spends his life avoiding anything like responsibility. Hector Hammond is a balding middle-aged, out of shape scientist, of modest ambition with an overbearing senator for a father, who constantly pushes him to have some ambition. Hal, growing up without a father, overcompensates for his father's death in a plane accident by indulging in flying to the reckless and dangerous limits. Hammond avoids everything to do with his father and teaches biology in a local community college or university. Both are underachieving, for different reasons. They both have one other thing in common, an interest in Carol Ferris, the future owner of Ferris Aircraft where Hal works and Hector's father is working with the government for a contract for Ferris Aircraft.
The movie has lots of threads, but they despite some choppy editing are able to be resolved satisfactorily. The visuals seemed a little behind the times but nothing I could not deal with. I saw it in 2D, so I suspect it may look better in 3D, but I will never know since I refuse to pay $16 for a single movie ticket.
No, this movie is not Thor. Nor is it X-Men First Class. Thor speaks to the divine spark in all men, the desire to eclipse our fathers and become as great as we can be. X-men speaks to the outsider we all have known at one point in our lives or another. Iron Man caters to our obsessions with technology and its overall cool factor. Green Lantern speaks to a completely different state of mind. Hal is an every-man, a person who has never had to put someone else before himself and has almost never done that, except perhaps with his nephew, who shares his love of planes and flight. Hal is selfish, and self-absorbed and suddenly finds himself with one of the most powerful weapons in the universe. And he is not equal to the task, and he knows it.
All of us relate to that, and that is why this movie strikes home. We hate that feeling. We hate the feeling of fear, of weakness, of coming up short. Hal, even with the ring, felt this way, particularly when he arrives at Oa and finds an entire army of beings who resent his very presence. Discrimination sits poorly for those who are used to sitting at the top of the heap. Hal Jordan receives ultimate power and the ultimate smack-down, all in the same breath. So no, this movie will not appeal to the idea of the super hero as the ultimate expression of all that humanity can be, because this movie is about humanity, not super-humanity. When all is said and done, this movie addresses that which makes us human and how we deal with that can only be improved by technology, never replaced.
Hector Hammond is a tragic figure in this film because he succumbs to the fear which has ruled his life and in doing so, commits patricide. But his tragedy is far worse than that. He is a failed archetype because he has come to believe in his own inner worthlessness, imposed on him by his father. He could have opted to use his power differently but could not get past his own hopelessness at his state. Even with incredible power, his fear consumed him, literally.
Green Lantern has its faults, it wants to merge so many things from the character's rich history that it loses its way. It is not a bad film and if you can handle the truth of our species failings, you may see Hal's slow transformation into something else, a person with whom you share many attributes with and can achieve the same levels of growth, if you could get out of your own way and believe in what you are capable of. Hal Jordan is all of us. Hector Hammond is too. You get to pick.
© Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved
Thaddeus
@ebonstorm
A Matter of Scale (WordPress Tech Blog)
IT Examiner (Examiner.com)
The heyday of the pulp magazines was before my time. I was born during the dying days of that era, and by the time I was old enough to read and appreciate the fiction those magazines published, they were long gone -- in spirit, at least. But I did delve heavily into paperback books, which are the modern-day descendants of the pulps.
Some of the old pulp stories and characters were revived in the 1960s, including Robert E. Howard's Conan character, which inspired my own warrior-hero, Imaro. But of course there were plenty of other adventurers that survived the pulps' demise, such as Doc Savage and The Shadow. Of course, none of these superstars of the printed page were black. This is the 1920s-40s we're talking about here, and in the vast majority of those stories, black characters were relegated to stereotyped background roles if they were present at all.
There were some exceptions. Jericho Druke, described as an "African giant of immense strength," was an agent of The Shadow. Joshua and Rosabel Newton were part of the team of The Avenger, who was similar to Doc Savage. In conformity with the times, Josh and Rosabel posed as servants, though they had both earned degrees from Tuskegee University. But The Avenger treated them as trusted equals.
Maybe there were other characters like Jericho and the Newtons. If so, they were few and far between.
Ron Fortier of Airship 27 Productions publishes what is known as "New Pulp" -- new stories in 1930s settings, minus the ethnic excesses of the past. When Ron suggested that I write a New Pulp story of my own, I came up with Damballa. Damballa is the type of black hero character who should have been -- but could not have been -- published in the '30s. He is inspired by The Shadow, but is no more an imitation of The Shadow than Imaro is of Conan.
The newly released novel, Damballa, tells the story of how the mysterious African-American protector of Harlem foils a plot to sabotage a heavyweight boxing championship bout between a black American champion and a German challenger who represents the Nazis. The time is 1938, a year before the beginning of World War II. Similarities between this fictional fight and the real-life 1938 title bout between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling are entirely intentional.
Damballa features action, suspense, a mad scientist, gangsters, beautiful women, and evocations of the highs and lows of life in 1930s Harlem. It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope readers will enjoy it. I am glad to have had the opportunity to make a needed addition to the New Pulp genre, as I did to sword-and-sorcery way back when.
Damballa can be ordered from lulu.com and gopulp.info. On Monday, it will be available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.
I have been given the go ahead to ask NYC based Black Comic Book Artists to join
me at a proposed book signing at Hue- Man book store , courtesy of Michael
Bannerman, the manager of the shop. Located at 2319 Frederick Douglas Blvd.
near ( W.125).
We need 3 or 4 Comic Artists who write and are self- publishers of their own
Comics or Graphic Novels. Please contact me at pozitronman@gmail.com or
call me at 718-665-8099 for more information.
Let's make this a great event for all.
Thanks!!
I'm not old school by nature, I came into this way because someone has to hold the line. There was a convergence between cell phone camera people and reality show folks. Scared the heck out of me. They copied the flash dancers and instead of converging in a mall, they have an internet channel. The technology is intrusive, they put their cams on ID cards to wear around the neck, on head bands, buttons, badges and trinkets. There is a rival group who wear flexible video monitors but I believe this is a tele-tubbie cult.
I watched with horror as the reality of the unscripted real opened before me, first a safari where the cam caught poachers. Then the poachers captured the cam and that scene played out.
The rock climbers, the roller-coaster riders, the base jumpers, adrenalin junkies all. Fine when all is well but when disaster is live and real, "that's entertainment".
I watched with morbid curiosity as it all went south. Today voyeurism hit the mainstream, people being real, I've had enough. It takes 20 minutes to get into any building, they search you for weapons, drugs and cameras.
There are rolling video blackouts to regulate the amount of time people can spend in front of their monitors. I was walking down the street, passed a TV store, as I approached each monitor it blanked out, returning to life after I passed. It must be my time, I thought.
I was mad and tired and fed up. My revenge on the state of video life had come. I reached into the back of the bottom desk drawer and pulled out "the Twinkie", perfectly preserved in the original unopened celluloid humidor, a vintage unknown. I could have swapped it for a fresh one but the irony of this was too cool, still springy. I went to the roof and placed it precariously on the edge, snap. Then on a bridge where the current and roar make it all sway, snap. To the zoo's lion's den and in a welder's hand, torch sparking, snap, snap. Under the bus wheel and in every place of risk. In my final yet still unfinished episode I tore off the wrapper, moved it toward my mouth and blanked out the video. The Net went wild, request for the ending, sequels and bids for a bite of the other vintage Twinkie. There was a run of Twinkie costumes and vintage Airstream trailers (painted yellow), police stopped eating donuts, the cupcake became obsolete.
I was arrested for messing with people's minds in a public space. Sentenced to 10 years probation, no cameras and a Twinkie restraining order.
What's become of the other Twinkie? Smithsonian, in a crate, next to the.............. mummified Egyptian yellow sponge cake thing of Tut's.
He hadn't eaten a thing all day. Hadn't spoken with anyone since early that morning. Shared his nightmare vision.
The research laboratory had been cleared before the crucial final test. Expunged of spectators and colleagues alike. "I'll call you when the procedure is complete." he promised to one and all; ushering all humanoids past radiation-proof molybdenum /boron /titanium composite doors. Shielding ports securely locked.
Mathematical models and scaled tests indicated significant leakage of exogenous radiation far up the Gamma and Theta bands. It had been decided to limit risk. His design, his baby - his was the honor and the liability. Captain of the ship.
The robotic sensors would be there - of course. Silent sentinels - like the statues of Easter Island, waiting to greet the dawn. Waiting to greet the unknown with wonder and awe. Waiting to herald the terror!
They were the first casualties of the truth. Disabled by a single act. A circuit board, light impulse input conduit, urgently ripped from its housing. Silenced before proclaiming the advent. Perhaps, the greatest event in human history. Scuttled by a desperate captain -desperate for time to think. Time to check his facts carefully, review calculations. Consider the implications, ramifications.
A hoax! That could be it, easily explainable. But the small figure stared back at him with unblinking eyes; perched on smooth pedestal of unknown material. One which defied all analysis, except that it reeked of Plutonium 235, 237. Tri-coboltritium and even more esoteric isotopes. Complex mixtures of sub-atomic material unfathomable to his equipment. All with half-lives spanning from nanoseconds to hundreds of thousands of years.
The monochrome figurine which mocked him, indeed all the achievements of mankind was simple, almost elegant in simplicity. Epochal changes almost always were. The captain of this particular ship searched his mind in frenzied pandemonium. 'Should he destroy the lab?' 'Himself? In the process the evidence of this monstrosity?' All that he held dear had, in an instant, been swept away. Head buried in hands he was unsure of his next move.
Ironically, he thought of Charlton Heston in the last iconic scene from the original "Planet of the Apes". He remembered seeing it in the holographic imager at the Museum of Ancient Culture. The dialogue scrawled across his brain: "You did it!" "You really blew it all up!" "You damn stupid apes!"
He refused all entreaties for the remainder of the afternoon.
On the pedestal of the quantum flux generator the little image transported through the portal from the future continued to unblinkingly greet the world. The two foot high image of a cockroach standing tall, tool belt hanging proudly around its waist. Etchings across the base proclaimed a secret message.
The Keeper from Star Trek's: The Cage addressed the dreamer, "That was from a story you once heard in childhood. From deeper in the recesses of your mind there are other even more fantastic tales!"
. “Ulafazfi Telidosse. We killin’ the menfolk or what?” asked the gravel voiced Veyahansa, pointing to a group of men separated from the crowd of women, children and elderly in the just plundered compound of a well off city dweller of the recently taken city of Tabysiifide. “You! Nedresse blood or Khiv?", she asked one burly hard staring man, his muscular arms hanging by his side, fists looking like they shaped and hammered metal into form without need of tools. They were both of the same height 5’9” but she knew she was outweighed twice over. “Nedresse mostly, some Khiv too. “ The low bass of his voice suited him. She could imagine him being heard over the din of a shop floor. There was a lessening in the intensity of his and some of the other men’s look of defiance, when it quickly dawned on them that this might be an excuse to slaughter them all on a count of racial purity or lack thereof. She let that thought worm through their heads for a moment, seeing the varied expressions race across their features like a herd of antelope before a grassfire. “You work in a smithy? You know how to work with finished metals from a smithy? Or you're just another over muscled lout wasting my ever so precious time?” He puffed out his chest and seemed to ready himself to start forward, but stayed still, if he had been by himself he would have tried to kill or maim her before he was slain himself. But he had these others with him and their families across from them. The loud intake of breath also told him he’d be alone in his defiance. “We all work, or worked, for the Gythuma Qwebokloshra. His is the biggest metalwork shop on this side of Tabsyfiide. This was his house you have taken over.” His Varii was recognizable so she didn’t have to ask him to repeat what he had said. Also, as much as he could, he kept the heat from his reply tamped down.
Ulafazi Telidosse appreciated that here at least wasn’t some sad soul looking to atone for not actively defending his city by wishing to die with it and seeing to everyone else in his charge dying as well. “Okay, go get your women and kids and such and go into the house Qwebokloshra, all of you. Get moving before I think better of it. Veyahansa! You and six of your buddies stand guard over these folk. And keep it in your shorts or I’ll tell that little evil midget Hedyonsle you married. And you know she and her hippo momma will run your ass up a tree!” That brought a round of shield beating and hoots. Little Hedyonsle wasn’t a midget but was not the demure soldier’s wife type: she had an outsized temper, utterly courageous, handy with a knife or hatchet, and had her equally turbulent mother living with her and the five kids still at home. Thus the hoots and shield slapping as Veyahansa slouched off. Keeping her face straight, Telidosse called him over to her. “ Listen. I know you wouldn’t even think of doing something disreputable as that, but some of the fellows you might pick out might be in heat so keep them, in line. And by all means, protect yourselves if any of the people here get infected with last minute boldness. But it don’t mean picking on ‘em either you get me ?” “Yeah, I, mean Yes Ulafazfi Telidosse. I just wish you hadn’t brought up my Hedy into the mix. A lot of my mates already thinks I be corralled and such.” “Well, you and I know you’re in a loving , bountiful in blessings house, right?” “ Except for that knuckleheaded older son of mine and that cranky ass mother-in law, always instigating something that don’t concern her nosy …” “Not now Veyahansa! We’ll take this up after we get this settled, okay?” “ I’d really appreciate that Ulafazfi, I really would.”
And so it went. Many of the residences were empty and dark, others packed with relatives and neighbors giving off the scents of despair and fear. Telidosse and her mates were more interested in loot than revenge killings though that didn’t stop some poor fool from getting his or herself killed resisting a soldier’s taking some heirloom or entering a room where the younger children had been hidden. Or a defender who had fled to his home to act out the final, for them, engagement in the battle: who rushed screaming at the invaders to soon be laid out beside his or her family in a variety of poses, pools of the blood that once bound them now released by the familial slayer’s own hands. “The bastard didn’t have to kill the little babes, Ulafazfi! We ain’t baby killing cocksuckers like some are! They could have lived! They should be alive now Ulafazfi!”
“ What you was going to do, Miasliedo? Start nursing the little…Oww! Hey! I…Oww!” Telidosse stood over the prone soldier and between he and the shivering with pain and rage Miasliedo. His youngest child had died while he had been marching towards the Mazimensah campaign, the news arriving just as they were enjoying the last day of rest before the final assault. “Lakalawoxla, I think you say shit just to hear how smart you think it sounds! Get your sorry ass out of here! Leave your bag! You just contributed the main part of our share to the relief fund, oh great wit. You upset?” “Godsdamn right I am!” “Want to do something about it?” “Yeah bitch, I am!” Two soldiers grabbed him before he could act out his wish. Much could be said against Lal, but cowardice and lack of battle skills were not part of them. She could have spilt his guts onto the already sodden floor with no questions asked or a need for a report.
Instead, she told the two to disarm him and lead him to where a small temple to some cult of these parts, sat like a pig in its most favorite pool of fetid muck, was about to be searched. If there was some type of feral guardian there, then they could use him as bait. Miasliedo was weeping now. Telidosse motioned for his friend to get him outside the city walls and back to their camp. A horror, a Twisted One, was found in the temple. It had been shackled to a most grisly human and animal bone altar beneath that on the first floor. A great, long armed, black furred, yellowed saber tooth thing that stood on three toed feet with the torso of a forest ape. Its head was the most horrifying though; except for the fangs, the head was that of a human being, filthy, bestial true, but human. Telidosse saw the head for herself. Lal carried it proudly on a priest of the temple's discarded staff, after having had slain it with another’s spear. On Lal’s exposed chest, his outer top garments having been slashed to trailing tatters, the tattoo of the Stalker and the Dancer. The next street away was dark. Only the reflected light of the buildings set afire elsewhere in the fallen city reflecting a weird glimmer on the white plastered walls. Except for the yellow light issuing from an open doorway. The fifteen veterans with Telidosse, dropped their loot and started looking at roofs, darkened alleyways, windows and doorways with even more caution.
“I bet you there’s a squad of them Yellow Feather boys wanting another go at us in a more personable way, huh, Ulafazfi?” They had not seen any of the Freelancers. There were some bodies laying in the street but they appeared to be the hapless militia of the city, not the heavy hitters with the three yellow feathers in their helmets. Telidosse called out for a two rank column which they hurriedly complied with. Those who had kept their shields about them crouched behind them lest a barrage of bolts sought prey from roofs or suddenly death dealing windows. As they neared the open doorway they noticed the large painted sign in both Varii, called Nedresse here, and Khiv above it. A waft of cooking odors came at them, even through the smells of battle, death, and smoke.Telidosse was first through the doorway, her sword at the ready. Inside there were empty tables and chairs neatly arranged and on one of the tables, to the left of the door, were two large bags. Beside them in two neat stacks were gold and silver coins.
As Telidosse still at the ready, approached the table, a fat dark brown woman, of mid height, who had a face that could be called goat like, stepped into the light from behind a table in the shadows of a staircase leading up to the second floor. “Most welcome of all the patrons who have graced this humble wajkhino, loyal warriors of the one and only true Ak Ghana, Tonoguru, may the sacred bolts of Shango continue to strike down his enemies, may the Stalker’s talons rip out their presumptuous hearts and hurl them, flaming, onto the pox riddled plains of Wzariz’s gloomy dominion, hail to all of you, most proud of the great ‘n true Ak Ghana’s warriors, to the wajkhino of Lologgue.” The unexpected recitation, the fat bags of hopefully gold and silver with their respective coins in neat sample stacks before them, and the scent of tongue enticing food from the open kitchen behind a polished plank bar, atop which were two kegs of mihi beer with the sigils of a famous brewer from the central region of Ne Varii, led a grinning Telidosse to believe she had found herself the most appropriate of headquarters for one of her service and rank. Sending a still on edge detail of eight to search the immediate area around the tavern which occupied a corner and sat apart from the other buildings of this particular neighborhood.
Her search of the inside of the tavern uncovered the staff and their family members, and an acolyte of the Dancer who extended blessings upon them. There were at least three neighboring households jammed upstairs quaking in fear. One man, a foully smelling and dressed bastard, said he was more than willing to offer up his two young daughters if that would please them. Ogejupamo, a father himself, thrust his sword up through the vulture’s throat and into the slime that filled it’s head, lifting the filth up off his feet, the hard driven blade could be seen from the villain’s gaping mouth.
They approached the passenger side of the car. Rapsilico stared straight ahead at the ball-playing kids who had resumed their rule of the street.
"You know I ain’t into white boys, but damn, that nigga is fine.” Claudine bent down to get a better look at the clone, and Shawnetta nudged her. “Can he hear me?”
“Yes. He has ears.” Shawnetta opened the door. “Rapsilico. This is my friend, Claudine.”
The clone hopped out of the car, and Claudine backed up, a mistrustful frown on her face.
“Whattup, Claudine.”
"Hey.”
"Can I call you Claude?”
“No.”
“Aight.”
Claudine studied the White Man. “What’s your name again?”
“Rapsilico.”
“It fits.” She turned to Shawnetta. “Let’s go, before my neighbors see me out here talking to Frankenwigger.”
She reached for her door, but the clone grabbed the handle first. “Let me get that,” he said. Claudine climbed into the car and sat back in her seat, impressed. Shawnetta knew it was because most men in L.A. were sorely lacking in manners. They brushed past Shawnetta to enter the elevator first, let doors slam in her face, and on the rare occasions when they asked her on a date, they were at the entrance of the restaurant long before she’d even descended from the car. Now here was this Companion treating them with more respect than most red-blooded men they knew. After he closed Claudine’s door, he raced around to the driver’s side.
“I got you, Shawnie.”
“Thank you.”
It would be nice to put everything in his hands, to turn the wheel over to her White Man and let him chauffeur them around town. She knew his wallet contained a license that specified he was a driving-enabled clone, but she didn’t want to take the risk. Not yet. Maybe after knowing him for a few weeks, she’d take him somewhere out of the way to test his skills.
As they drove off, Claudine said, “How old are you, Silico?”
“Rapsilico,” Shawnetta said.
“Right. Rapsilico. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Got you a young boy.” Claudine winked at Shawnetta in the rearview. “Now do they rent you out to white girls too, or are you only leased to sisters?”
“Claudine.”
“What? Everybody in here is grown. I’m just getting to know Rasp – your friend here.” She reached up to feel the clone’s hair. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this crack – this White Man was the truth!”
Shawnetta glanced over at her Companion. If Claudine’s insults bothered him, it didn’t register on his face. He still smiled that boyish grin as he stared at the street ahead.
“Back to my question, Rapilico.”
“His name is Rapsilico.”
“My mistake. Back to my question, Rapsilico. Do they rent you to white girls or only black women?”
“I’m strictly into sisters.”
“Good answer,” Claudine said.
“I love black skin,” he said.
Claudine chuckled a good minute before she said, “They trained you well, honey. But those pretty blue eyes must have cataracts, because that sister sitting next to you is far from black. Well, she black, but she as light as they come. What in the world is this country coming to when even light-skinned chicks are hard up for dates?”
Rapsilico put a hand on Shawnetta’s cheek. “She’s beautiful.”
Shawnetta felt her face reddening beneath his oily fingerprints. The clone had been programmed well … or had her features triggered something in him, some memory of loveliness?
Claudine sat back in her seat, watching the passing scenery. A dreadlocked man hoisted a toddler onto his shoulders as they crossed the street. The little girl grasped his ears, resting her cheek against his hair.
“Your windows are dirty,” she said.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot at the Baldwin Center Plaza on La Tijera and Heliotrope. Although it had been renamed by its new owners several years prior, everyone Shawnetta knew still called it Baldwin Center. She rarely shopped at this mall because it was one favored by black folks, and too many black people congregating in one place made her nervous. If she was ashy because she forgot to put on lotion after getting out of the shower, they noticed. If her hair wasn’t styled to a T, they noticed. Their unvoiced criticism was harsher than verbalized critiques from the white people she knew. She would definitely stand out with Rapsilico here, but that’s what she wanted.
“Now, this is family,” Claudine said, as they neared the entrance. She linked arms with Shawnetta. The clone was close on their heels like a puppy vying for attention. Claudine swatted at him with her free hand. “Back up, son.”
“He doesn’t take orders from you.” Shawnetta turned to her White Man. “She meant to say, can you give us a little room, please?”
“Aight.”
Claudine was messing up her plan. Shawnetta wanted to make her entrance hugged up with Rapsilico. Now he lagged behind like a reluctant coworker who had gotten roped into joining them.
“He’s nice and everything, but I can’t wait until his lease is up,” Claudine said. “A little plastic is cool every now and then, but I don’t see how you can wake up to that every day.”
“Why not? He sure is easy on the eyes.”
“True, but black love is a beautiful thing.” She nodded at a pregnant woman with braids who was stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for an SUV to pass.
Shawnetta said, “I don’t believe in black love anymore.”
“That’s because you need to come south of Wilshire Boulevard,” Claudine said. “You’re a beautiful woman, Shawnetta. Bourgie, but beautiful. You always get attention when you hit the hood. Plenty of guys was checking for you at that barbecue we went to on Slauson a few months ago.”
“Not the attention I’m looking for. They were, like, ten years older than me and divorced, or had baby mamas,” Shawnetta said. She finger combed her hair. She usually slicked it back into a ponytail on the weekends, but she had flat ironed it for the occasion. The burnt orange scoop neck dress she wore accentuated her hazel eyes. “Why should I settle? I have a degree. I have a good job in accounting at a top production company. I’m still young, and I don’t have any kids.”
“And you never will with Rap hanging around. Girl, it’s a conspiracy.”
"What is?”
“These clones. What if all the lonely, pitiful, black-man-hating, feeling-sorry-for-themselves sisters just up and got a cracker for hire?” Her chuckle had a bitter edge. “They’d be cuddling with clones every night, never taking time to get to know a real somebody – if that’s what they wanted.”
Shawnetta sighed. Claudine was so old school. And for all her “black love” talk, she hadn’t been on a date in years either.
“Claudine, black women are dying out. We have to keep our options open,” Shawnetta said. They walked through the automatic doors of a department store, and she glanced around for men’s clothing. “Besides, I’m only going to be with Rapsilico for six months. The Naturally Nordic sales rep said that being with a clone helps attract real white men. It makes them less intimidated because they see you’re open to interracial relationships.”
Claudine sucked her teeth. “Honey, a real white man wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. You too close to Becky,” she said. “You ain’t dark enough, your hair ain’t nappy enough, you ain’t got enough ass, and you ain’t got them strong Nubian features most crackers are looking for when they get their stroll on through the jungle.”
“Whatever.”
Shawnetta paused by a row of men’s suit jackets. She crooked a finger at Rapsilico. “Come try this on, sweetie. We need to find you something hot for the holiday party.”
Shawnetta held out a pinstriped black jacket and the clone slipped into it, but it hugged his biceps too tightly. She looked around. A tall dark-skinned salesman rang up a customer at a nearby register. As he handed the woman her bag, Shawnetta waved at him. He jogged over with a smile, which slipped when he saw the White Man standing by her side. She noticed the diminished cheer in his eyes, the same siphoning of joy that echoed in hers when she saw what appeared to be an available black man later joined by a white woman.
“Good morning. Need some help, ma’am?” His nametag read Xerxes.
“My boyfriend is buying a new suit,” Shawnetta said. Behind her, Claudine snorted. “Can you help us with some sizes?”
"My pleasure.” Xerxes gave Rapsilico the once-over. “You’re a 38, right?”
“That sounds about right,” Shawnetta said. The black man turned away from her, rifling through the clothes. He handed the White Man a jacket. “Here you go, sir. I’ll get you a size 32 pants.”
“Thanks, son,” Rapsilico said.
Xerxes paused, his hand gripping the rack ...
Damn. Why can’t he be real?
He followed her into the bedroom, and she turned on the light.
“Stay there.”
“Aight.”
She opened her walk-in closet and placed her shoes in a wooden rack. She walked past the clone and opened the top drawer of her oak dresser, removing a pair of panties and a pink cotton nightgown. Normally, she’d feel embarrassed about pulling out such intimate items in front of a stranger, but she didn’t feel nervous around Rapsilico. She went inside the bathroom and closed the door. She showered before getting dressed for dinner, so she stepped out of the black dress and changed into her nightclothes. She washed off her makeup at the vanity adjacent to the bathroom, staring at the clone in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway where she’d ordered him, facing the wall behind her poster bed. She knew Rapsilico was self-cleaning, and she wondered what would happen if he got wet.
I’ll finish reading the owner’s manual in the morning. Shawnetta knew to activate the White Man for the first time, she only had to speak his name. To shut him down, she used the phrase, “Time to close your eyes.” It was a silly command, since the clone couldn’t lower his eyelids all the way. The deactivation phrase reminded her of something she might say to a fussy child refusing to take a nap.
“I like that nightgown on you. That’s a real pretty color.”
“Thanks, Rapsilico.” She gestured to the armless accent chair next to her armoire. She had purchased the chair because the chocolate velvet coordinated well with her bedroom furniture, and she wanted another comfortable place besides her couch to read. But she ended up doing all of her reading in bed. She spent most of her time in bed. Alone. “You can sleep here.”
“Solid.”
Rapsilico reclined in the chair, his hands on his legs. He didn’t have a change of clothes, and there was nothing she could offer him to sleep in – no pajamas or even a tee shirt left behind by a former lover. They would have to go shopping in the morning. She turned off the light and climbed in bed.
“Goodnight, Rapsilico.”
“Night, Shawnie.”
“Time to close your eyes.”
The clone fell silent. Light from the street lamp streamed through her vertical blinds, bisecting his torso. Shadows hid one side of his face, but she still saw his unblinking blue eyes.
Shawnetta drove east on Wilshire on her way to Claudine’s house. It was Saturday morning, and she called her friend an hour ago to ask her to accompany her and Rapsilico on their shopping spree. Shawnetta was eager to show off her White Man, even though she knew Claudine only had eyes for men with dark skin. But her clone was so handsome and polite, he could win over the most militant of black women. She needs to keep her options open.
Earlier, when Shawnetta arose, she nearly tumbled out of bed at the sight of the upright figure in her accent
chair, hands on his legs, lids at half mast. It took her a moment to realize that he was not an intruder. She decided to shower and dress before activating him for the day. While he was still in resting mode, she raked a wide-toothed comb through his hair, patting the yellow tresses into place. She straightened the polo shirt and shook a few drops from a sample cologne vial in his general direction. Then she called his name.
Now they cruised down Crenshaw in her Jetta, the White Man’s arm resting on the window ledge.
“I love sunny days. It’s so beautiful outside, isn’t it, Rapsilico?”
“Word.” He turned toward her with a grin. He would look even sexier wearing a pair of designer shades. “Not as beautiful as you, though.”
Shawnetta fumbled for a CD in the case attached to her visor. “What kind of music do you like to listen to?”
“Oh, I listen to whatever – Jay-Z. Snoop. Ice Cube. Whatever you like, Shawnie.”
“So, you’re a hip-hop head?”
"I always have hip-hop in my head.”
I wonder how black they made him. Shawnie signaled to get into her left lane. Claudine’s street, Adams Boulevard, was a few blocks away. A Latino selling oranges near the freeway on ramp turned to watch as they passed. Does he only have a superficial hood knowledge, or is there some soul in his DNA?
She said, “I loved hip-hop growing up, but now most of it is so commercial. Some ugly, tatted up, gold-teeth fool is always bragging about his money and his bitches,” she said. “But we had real music back then – Public Enemy, Digable Planets, Salt-N-Pepa, De La Soul.”
“Black Sheep. Eric B and Rakim.”
Shawnetta curled her lips in disbelief. “What? You don’t know about Eric B and Rakim.”
“I know Eric B and Rakim.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
The blond Man smiled. Then nodding his head, he rapped:
“I came in the door, I said it before
I never let the mic magnetize me no more But it's bitin' me, fightin' me, invitin' me to rhyme
I can't hold it back, I'm lookin' for the line …”
“Wow.” Shawnetta shook her head as she inserted her CD. “Color me impressed.”
She was silent for a few minutes, digesting the experience. She felt more attracted to him now. They liked the same artists. Or was he only reciting from an extensive catalog of rap music that had been preselected for him? Her White Man continued to nod in rhythm to an imaginary beat, and she turned up the volume on her Elton John song.
A few minutes later, Shawnetta pulled up in front of the pink bungalow Claudine rented. Three or four kids played catch in the middle of the street. They separated to let her car pass, and then continued to toss the ball to each other.
“I’m going to get my friend. Stay here, Rapsilico.”
“Aight.”
As she opened the gate and headed up the walkway, Claudine poked her head out the front door. She must have been watching from the window. She locked the door, then turned toward Shawnetta with a wide grin.
“If it ain’t the Colored Girl and the Clone.”
“Good morning to you too, Claudine.”
“You know I’m just messing with you, girl.” Claudine chuckled, zipping up her sweater jacket. Although September was still considered a summer month in Los Angeles, the morning was chilly. “Can’t wait to check out your new man. How’s he treating you?”
"He just came in the mail yesterday, but so far so good,” Shawnetta said as they walked toward the car. “We went out to dinner last night.”
“That’s nice. Who paid?”
“He did.”
That wasn’t exactly true. The NNI Companion came equipped with a wallet in his back pocket, but the debit card he used to pay for their Mexican food was pre-loaded with Shawnetta’s money. He would continue to “treat” her with the card, but she had to check the balance and deposit more money when the funds ran out.
Claudine whistled, opening the gate. “That’s what I’m talking about. I need to get me a White Man. I always heard they don’t mind coming out the pocket.” She paused, staring at the pale arm hanging from the window of the Jetta.
“I mean, your new companion. Shawnetta Jones.”
“Whattup, Shawnetta.”
“Hi.”
"Can I call you Shawnie?” His voice was deep, his speech clipped. She detected a New York accent.
“Sure. That’s fine.”
“Solid.” He grinned, and she almost expected to see a glint of gold, but he displayed strong white teeth.
Now that he was awake, and she was staring at him face to face, Shawnetta decided that Rapsilico was the most handsome white man she had ever seen. Since she had never dated one before, she didn’t want to go with the Golfer, Computer Geek or Suave Businessman models featured on the NNI site. She’d specified on her order form that she wanted a clone that resembled the black men she was most attracted to – thugs. Her very own synthetic wigger. Fortunately, the White Man came with a Vernacular Adjustment Module on the back of his ear that she could press to calibrate his slang if it grew too jarring. She could just hear Claudine saying, “Why in the world did you pay over $3,000 for a fake nigga when you could get the real thing for free?” She realized that her choice was hypocritical, that she resented black men for dating white women with big butts and big lips, all wrapped up in the dainty gauze of street life, when they could have had a woman of color.
The clone, sitting amidst discarded wrappings, glanced at her, unblinking. Shawnetta remembered that her
White Man would not make a move until she ordered him to. She felt shy but powerful, a little girl who realizes her dolls are not harmless playthings oblivious to her words, but a brawny army that only she commands.
Pulling out a chair at her dinette table, she said, “Take a seat, Rapsilico, until we figure out what we’re going to do next.”
The White Man hopped to his feet, jeans sagging off his butt. His movements were not jerky and robotic as she had imagined, but feline. She scooped up the bubble wrap where he had lain, a plastic placenta, and was about to toss it into the box when she noticed another package at the bottom. Opening the item, she saw that it contained a pair of black tennis shoes, a white polo shirt and an owner’s manual. Wonder why they sent him half naked … unless they wanted to show off his body. But I don’t even need to worry about that. As nice-looking as her White Man was, she didn’t plan on having sex with a clone – if that was even possible. She might let him sleep in bed with her once she got used to him, if it wasn’t too creepy. But she didn’t need him to hold her or nuzzle her cheek as a real lover would.
You are strictly eye candy. She sat across from the Companion. He was her antidote to spinsterhood – someone who would make her feel beautiful and desirable, who had been programmed to treasure her blackness. He would set her apart from the platoon of lonely black chicks who roamed the streets of L.A. like foot soldiers of a forgotten war.
Shawnetta thought of the blondes and redheads at the production company where she worked, the ones with pictures of smiling brown babies hanging in their cubicles, the ones who let it be known that they had a thing for brothers, who frequented black nightclubs, spit slang and punctuated their sentences with a drawn-out “Gurrrl.”
Wait ‘til they see what this gurrl has up her sleeve. She smiled at Rapsilico, who reclined in his chair, awaiting his next directive. Wait until I show up at the holiday party with my White Man.
A few hours later, Shawnetta sat across from the clone in the food court of the Beverly Square Mall, biting into a vegetable burrito. For their first date, she had decided to take him out to dinner. Nothing fancy. They were still getting to know each other, or rather, she was trying him out. A plate of refried beans and rice sat in front of Rapsilico to make it appear he was eating. She skimmed the owner’s manual before leaving her apartment and discovered that her clone was self-sustaining, and it was not recommended for him to take in food.
A gaggle of overly dressed teens walked by wearing thick eyeliner and short skirts. They tipped across the tiles so as not to fall in their high platform shoes. Shawnetta dreaded coming to Beverly Square, but it was the closest mall to her West Hollywood apartment. As soon as she entered the plaza, she felt profiled at an invisible velvet rope. She always felt that she had to wear an expensive outfit and carry a designer bag just to go shopping, as if the mannequins would frown at her casually dressed self. But tonight, she wanted to be seen. Walking with Rapsilico made her feel high end, as if she belonged among the pricey jewelry and couture clothes. Before leaving the apartment, she changed into a slinky black dress with silver stilettos, swept her permed, shoulder-length hair to the side and pinned a rhinestone barrette to the bang. We look like we just came from the prom. She wanted to look dazzling as she paraded her Companion around. So the brothers can see what they’re missing.
“You got grease on your face. Let me get that, girl.” The White Man held out a napkin, patting her chin. The skin on the back of his hands was free of lines.
"Thanks, Rapsilico.”
She wanted to glance around to see if anyone had noticed his gentle gesture.
"Don’t want to mess up that pretty lipstick.”
Shawnetta blushed, keeping her eyes on her food. Two years had passed since she’d last been asked on a date, since a man had complimented her on her hair or her perfume. She wondered if the clone had the ability to tell her how nice she looked, if he really found her beautiful, or if even his praise was pre-programmed. But he was manufactured from the cells of a real, living man, wasn’t he? He had to have some memories or original thoughts.
“So, what do you like to do, Rapsilico?”
He said, “Oh, I’m down for whatever – shooting hoops, kicking it at the car show, paint ball. Whatever you like to do.”
“I like going to the museum. The California African American Museum has an upcoming exhibit on black surfers and skateboarders.” Feeling his eyes on her, Shawnetta tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Might be fun to go check it out.”
“Aight.”
She rose, and the clone leaned back to pull out her chair. She gathered their trays, but he shook a finger at her with a smile and took the uneaten food over to the trashcan. She watched him walk away, a slow-moving strut. Her White Man was sexy, and several women turned to stare at him as he shoved the trash – trays, silverware and all – into the metal bin. She knew their eyes would follow him back to their table, back to her. Had he been a living, breathing white man with those same chiseled looks and sex appeal, he never would have glanced her way. Now he stuck out an elbow, and she threaded her arm though his. She was glad to be able to lean on him, because the strappy shoes were squeezing her bunions. That same egg smell clung to his polo shirt. She wondered how often he self-cleaned. She would walk him through the men’s department at Bloomingdales and grab a few cologne samples.
An interracial couple was headed their way – a deep-brown woman wearing a yellow dress walked beside a handsome man with a goatee. When they neared, Shawnetta coughed to catch the woman’s eye, and the woman looked over. Her glance included Rapsilico, and she nodded at Shawnetta. Shawnetta nodded back. Some type of unvoiced kinship had passed between them, born of that simple nod. But was the stranger’s white man real? So busy was she calling attention to herself, she didn’t notice if he blinked or not. How many other black women were walking around with Naturally Nordic Companions?
“You know that chick, Shawnie?”
She stared at the stranger’s retreating back. “Maybe.”
It was a little after 10:00 when Shawnetta and the clone returned to her apartment. A pang of disappointment thumped in her chest. She had gotten a few curious glances from passing white women and black men as she and Rapsilico went window shopping after their meal, but not the envious daggers she’d been expecting. Some brothers had the nerve to glare at her as they strolled by with Becky on their arm, as if miffed that she had somehow rowed away from the isle of spinsterhood without needing their raft. Later for those hypocrites. She sighed as she bent to unfasten her shoe.
Rapsilico said, “Let me get that, girl.”
She started to decline, but then she said, “Sure,” and sat in a dinette chair so the White Man could remove her shoes. He kneeled and placed her foot in his lap. When she realized Rapsilico was about to yank off the stiletto, she said, “Not like that. See the strap? You have to unfasten it.”
“My bad.”
He fumbled with the buckle for a few minutes, finally easing off the shoe. He slid the other one free and placed the pair against the back of the couch – the temporary home for the shoes she discarded as soon as she came in the door.
He’s a quick learner.
“Can I rub your feet?”
Shawnetta faltered. “If you want to,” she said with a shrug.
“I like your toe polish.”
“Thanks.”
His skin was still oily, but the pressure he applied to her instep felt good. She wanted to cry. She was getting aroused by an artificial White Man, by the sight of his long, pale fingers kneading her aching arches. She wouldn’t turn him down if he offered to draw her bath.
But he didn’t. She realized that he’d be down there on his knees for hours, rubbing her feet until the skin flaked away, unless she gave him another order.
“That’s enough, Rapsilico.” She drew her legs in and stood.
“Aight.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Night, Shawnie.”
She picked up her shoes and headed toward the bedroom. She paused, her hand on the light switch. The White Man was still in the dining room on his knees in front of the chair, staring at the wall, unblinking. I can’t leave him there all night.
“You don’t have to stay like that, Rapsilico. Come here.”
As Shawnetta Jones rounded the hallway leading to her apartment, she saw, covering her welcome mat, the plain brown carton containing her White Man. She walked around the package, which was the size of a washing machine. I can’t believe it’s really here. Going to be a bitch getting him inside. Naturally Nordic Industries was stamped on one side of a box that was slightly darker than her skin. She waived her signature upon delivery because no one in her building would try to steal so heavy an item. Besides, there was little foot traffic outside her door.
Shawnetta slid her key in the lock and turned the knob. Pushing her purse up on her arm, she rocked the carton from side to side as she pulled it across the door sill. It’s actually not that heavy. Hollow squishy sounds met her ears. It was like dragging a sedated child over the threshold. She closed the door, pausing in the foyer to listen. Overhead, her neighbor’s bulldog scampered across the floor, nails clicking on the wood. In the kitchen, the refrigerator crackled as it made ice. The carton was still. She was anxious to open the package, but afraid of what she would unleash not only in her one bedroom apartment, but in her life. But the White Man wasn’t a threat. The sales rep at Naturally Nordic Industries had boasted that their clones were “100 percent docile and loving. They do whatever you want them to. Just give the order.”
Well, I have six months to find out. Shawnetta stepped out of her heels near the back of the leather couch and dropped her purse on a cushion. Once in the kitchen, she retrieved a pair of shears from the wooden storage block by the stove. She returned to the box and sliced the clear sealing tape with one quick motion. As she peeled back the flaps, an odor like rubbing alcohol and burnt eggs escaped from the opening, not the wet fur smell she had anticipated. Her order slip was placed face down on a mound of bubble wrap, and she was tempted to squeeze the air-filled ovals that resembled a mosaic of transparent eyes. Instead, she read her receipt:
Qty: 1 Naturally Nordic Adult Male Companion
Features: Blond hair, blue eyes. 75 inches. Chin cleft. Small scar on neck. Hair and skin are self-cleaning. DO NOT submerge in water!
Name: Answers to Rapsilico. If customer reprograms to different name, please restore to default upon return to NNI.
Rental charge: $3,350. Prepaid. Customer billed $100 late fee each day Companion is held past return date.
Although Shawnetta couldn’t see the clone’s face, she felt giddy. All that was visible through the plastic wrap was downy yellow hair. But he was hers. Her very own White Man. A companion to play with for the next six months. I can’t lift him out. Should have turned the box on the side before I opened it. She grabbed one of the flaps and tugged. The box fell to the floor with a dull thud. The bubble wrap popped as she hauled the sleeping form out of its resting place and across the hardwood flooring. She severed the plastic covering with the open blade, and the body sighed as she removed the wrapping. The Man lay on his side, knees pressed against his chest. He was barefoot, clad only in jeans. His hands were tied in front of his legs with a black ribbon.
Probably to prevent too much shifting during delivery. Shawnetta knelt before the clone and untied the ribbon. One hand fell free, the hairless knuckles brushing her leg. She was about to toss the band in the trash but thought she’d need it to tie his hands again when she shipped him back, so she tucked it in the pocket of her cardigan. She stretched the White Man out to his full length, wiping her hand on the leg of her pants when she was finished. It would take some time getting used to the feel of his skin. The flesh was life-like, but warm and greasy, as if they’d oiled him up with Vaseline and left him to bake in the sun for a few hours before packaging. Now he lay facing the ceiling. His milky blue eyes were open. That was one quirk in the duplication process, the NNI sales rep explained. The clone didn’t blink. “Makes him seem all the more human that way,” the man on the phone said. “Just think of it like this: you’ll always be the object of his gaze.”
Her White Man – Rapsilico – seemed as real as she did, and part of her expected the thin lips to part as he
poked out his tongue or spit in her face. But his mouth was still. He had arched light-brown eyebrows, separated by a few stray hairs. His nose was thin and slightly tilted to the right, as if a jealous sculptor had given it a final twist. His hair was of medium length, flattened by the bubble wrap. She reached out to fluff the golden locks, but paused midway to his head. She had never touched a white man’s hair before. Had never dated or been intimate with anyone but black men. Had never desired to. Now she stared down at the supine figure who would be her boyfriend for the next six months. She blushed, staring at his muscular chest and rippling abs.
“Why you want to rent a cracker?” Claudine asked a month ago when Shawnetta told her of the ad for NNI. They sat on the outdoor patio of a raw foods restaurant in Santa Monica. Shawnetta bit into a piece of flax seed bread laden with nut cheese and chewed slowly before answering. It was a hassle just getting Claudine to dine with her. Her friend was strictly steak and potatoes and turned up her nose at what she called “white people’s food.” But Shawnetta had to tell someone of her intentions. She hadn’t made many friends since moving to L.A. from Columbia, Maryland five years prior, and the woman sitting across from her with the fuchsia dreadlocks was the one she confided in most.
“Every time I go to dinner, or the movies or the museum, it’s with you, or I’m by myself,” Shawnetta said. “I’m tired of being alone. Let’s just say I’m investing in male companionship.”
“But why a cracker?” Claudine frowned at the vegetable wrap placed before her by a skinny redhead.
Shawnetta kept her eyes on her plate, hoping the server had not heard the slur. Claudine was the kind of black woman who said “nigga” in mixed company, who asked her white coworkers at the insurance company why their hair smelled like mayonnaise. She had about as much couth as the rolled-up veggie-filled collard green she was sniffing suspiciously, but Shawnetta loved her because she always spoke her mind.
"Me and black men are officially over. Done,” Shawnetta said. “They don’t look at me. They don’t like me. Fine. I’m thirty-one, and I’m not getting any younger. I don’t have time to sit around in my apartment waiting for Hakeem or Jamal to decide I’m worthy of their attention.”
As she spoke, a blonde woman in a convertible slowed for the stoplight, hip-hop blaring. She wore shades and a wide smile, and she said something to the black man sitting next to her. Shawnetta looked away. She always acted as if she never saw such couples, would stare at the sky or the ground if they walked toward her, as if the act of turning her head somehow caused them to disappear. She dreaded venturing to Santa Monica or Culver City because of the large number of black male/white female pairings. It was one of the reasons she fled Columbia, Maryland, which was an interracial Disneyland. It would be different if sisters dated outside our race as much as brothers do, to even things up. She sipped her carrot juice cocktail. But she passed so many single black women in L.A, their ring fingers as empty as their eyes.
"Oh, I see what’s up.” Claudine watched the couple in the convertible drive off. She was a cherry-brown woman with a smattering of black moles on her cheeks that she called freckles. “Trying to get even with Becky.”
“I’m not trying to get even with anyone. I’m just keeping my options open.”
“With a robot? And a white one at that.” The mother and daughter at the adjacent table glanced over at her loud chuckle.
"The NNI models are not robots, Claudine. They’re life-like Adult Companions. You’ve probably seen them around and didn’t know it,” Shawnetta said. “One hundred percent docile and loving – guaranteed.”
Claudine played with a lock of hot pink hair, amusement shining in her eyes. “If you wanna hook up with a
brain-dead somebody who gives you compliments, I can introduce you to a few Negros at the post office around the corner from my place,” she said. “They love redbones with hazel eyes like you.”
Now Shawnetta leaned over the White Man, recalling her friend’s words. She hadn’t been truthful with
Claudine. She selected the clone solely on the basis of his white skin. While skimming black women empowerment websites, she found the advertisement for Naturally Nordic Industries. The ad featured a dark-skinned woman with an afro smiling into the face of a pale suitor. It read: “Still Looking for Mr. Right? Let a Naturally Nordic Companion Sweep You off Your Feet until Your White Knight Comes Along!”
Mr. White Now.
Her face was a few inches from the clone’s, as if she would awaken him from his dreamless coma with a kiss. Instead, she whispered into his ear: “Rapsilico.”
The White Man sprang to life, yanked upright by an invisible cord. He stared straight ahead. Shawnetta fell
back with a cry, hitting her head against the couch. The clone turned at the sound, and she glimpsed the scar on his neck.
“I’m your new owner,” Shawnetta said when she finally found her voice. She stood and backed toward the door, just in case she needed to run...
"The night gives new meaning for only you remain bringing your starving love I keep feeding you. Like a wild she-wolf snarling from intense love making added with pleasure and delicious pain as your nails dig into my back..."
With his debut release, Quinton Veal has gives us a collection of erotic poetry and art created for grown and sexy audiences. Her Black Body I Treasure has love, tenderness... and of course raw, delicious sex. Her Black Body I Treasure is an erotic treat for the senses. Pick up your copy at Amazon Kindle.
By: William Landis
Purple, pink, and white, they were the perfect flowers. He would give them to her in a bouquet, or maybe a vase. He wasn’t sure right now, but he would worry about that after he got them, somehow. The flowers were in one of the lunar greenhouses of A.B.A.R.S (Asteroid Belt Agricultural Research Station). ABARS was one of the few places in space where flowers were grown.
A Beautiful waste
Why grow flowers
On an asteroid?
The facility was known to have high security, though that was not an issue for him, because he was an employee. No matter how hard it was to get those flowers, he was going to do it she was worth it. The next night he closed that airlock behind him, and began to pick the most beautiful of the flowers. She was worthy of the best. He knew he was destroying months of groundbreaking research, but the smile on her face would be worth it. After carefully clipping the flowers , and avoiding security he returned to his room in the main building.
Bundle of flowers
No one will see them
In his space helmet
He placed the carefully assembled floral arrangement in an old glass vase, with just the right amount of water. He would come back, and make small changes to it as his date with her approached just to make sure it was perfect. The time came and he put the flowers in his personal rocket, where she would see it as soon as she got in. He approached her dwelling with anticipation of how she would be delighted with the flowers, and the smile on her face that they would cultivate. He docked his ship at the space station. She boarded, and they exchanged pleasantries…. But she didn’t notice the flowers. They were right in the center console between them, and it was as if she didn’t see them.
Ignored
A purple petal
Floats in zero gravity
Anger filled him, all the work he had put into it, and she ignored the flowers. He maintained his composure, and they proceeded to the restaurant on the Mars orbiting station. He told her he was beginning to feel ill, and that the date would have to be cut short. He returned her to the space station, and put the plan that he was formulating in to action. He loaded the flowers, and vase into the airlock and pressed the button.
Foxglove flowers
Maybe she will notice them
Hurtling towards the sun
"On the other side of time a fair skinned daemon stood atop a rocky precipice. His long robes undulated in the winds, making him look like a great bird of prey . . . "
Valjeanne Jeffers' IMMORTAL III: STEALER OF SOULS has it all -- vampires and werewolves, mirrors that are portals into other realities, folks who "walk between the raindrops," centaurs, mermen, merwomen . . . it's kind of mind-blowing to wonder what she'll come up with next! What imagination! What originality! What a unique concept! (Listen to me -- I sound like I'm writing ad copy for an old movie studio!!!)
I enjoyed these novels and look forward to what Valjeanne's cooking in her literary cauldron of ideas and characters, plots and themes. Whew -- I'm jealous!
I highly reccommend the IMMORTAL series.
Have fun and enjoy it, everyone!
1993 Cover of Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler
[For audio, see original post]
...I woke up this morning And I put on my walkin' shoes"Stranger Blues," Sweet Honey in the Rock
I'm goin' down the road
Cause I got them walkin' blues
I'm just a stranger here
I'm just a stranger there
I'm just a stranger everywhere
Sometimes I know that I would go home (I would go home)
But I'm a stranger there...
I'm just a stranger here
I'm just a stranger there
Good God, you know
I'm just passing through
Passing through your town.
I would stay
But your people keep on doggin' me 'round....
Bernice Johnson Reagon and Aisha Kahlil of Sweet Honey in the Rock composed “Stranger Blues.” It was released in 1985 on the group’s album The Other Side (Flying Fish Records).
And when I heard it, I heard these lines:
I'm just a stranger here I'm just a stranger thereThat's right. Just so.
Good God, you know
I'm just passing through
Passing through your time.
Passing through your time.Afrofuturism has always had the stranger blues.
Part of it is, as Mark Sinker notes, we are convinced the apocalypse has already happened. Slavery. Colonialism. Segregation. Military and prison industrial complexes. Nuclear war. Climate upheaval. There is no waiting for a punishing Judgement. The future is now. We are meta.
But part of it is that these violences are central to the Afro-diasporic experience. Slavery as a moment of rupture, dispersal and forced immigration. Colonialism that literally transforms home into hostile territory. Structures of segregation and apartheid that reshape you as a foreign object when you move into the wrong spaces (e.g. school, lunch counter) or walk down the wrong street without your pass or papers.
When Will Smith played a lone ranger scientist in I am Legend, we didn’t blink an eye. When Denzel Washington played lone ranger spiritualist in Book of Eli, we were not surprised. Walking among the ruins wondering if you are the last man or woman on Earth? We know that feeling. And Janelle Monae can ask as easily today as fifty years ago (as five hundred years ago)
So you think I'm alone? But being alone's the only way to beStranger blues is beyond black. The genocide of tens of millions of First Peoples across an entire hemisphere is a meme in speculative fiction that has been turned inside out by writers like Eduardo Galeano. The liminal status of brown “aliens” in U.S. immigration policy supplies another storyline, another discordant note. Latin America’s "modernization" over the last century (with the help of a little bit of tyranny, white-washing and hyper-militarization sanctioned by the U.S. and at the expense of its black and brown peoples) is so much like a real-life Star Wars or Lord of the Rings saga, that Junot Diaz based the childhood fantasies of his most famous character on it.
When you step outside
You spend life fighting for your sanity
This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?
- Sunrise Ceremony on Alcatraz, November 25, 2010 by masa (Click)
(to be continued....)
via NPR Music: “After 34 years of making music, Sweet Honey in the Rock has kept its flavor and its fan base, even as its lineup has changed. The group recently visited NPR for a performance and interview, sharing old favorites and songs from its latest CD, "Experience...101."”
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The Sable Fan Gyrl joins Kismet Nuñez is one of the Skillsharers of the of the 3rd Annual INCITE! Shawty Got Skillz workshop at the 2011 Allied Media Conference! Help us get to Detroit! Click here!
