Fascist Kunt

The sound of breaking glass was followed by the pitter patter of fools rushing in, as a posse of six masked men burst through the double doors to the community room of St. Paul’s Evangelical Lutheran Church where Joy had just wound down her first campaign speech.

The masked invaders were yelling “Make America Great Again” like all fifty-states were on life support.

The leading masked man put his hands-on Joy to pull her off the oak lectern. He was a giant Beast with bench-pressed shoulders, Human Growth Hormone thickened thighs, biceps, and a tree-trunk neck, hairy oversized paws, and a snarl made hideous by nicotine-yellow teeth and periodontitis ravaged receding gums.

A second masked man lurked in the shadows behind them only this prophet was causally-attired in a long flowing off-white robe with blood-red trim and looked every bit the leader of men he purported to be.

So I intervened, which didn’t go as well as I’d hoped as the leading masked man threw a fist at me that was dusted in brass.

It made a hard landing on my left shoulder and spun me round. And around.

His second punch split my cheek against my teeth.

And I tasted blood.

And I heard a dull thud as grey matter slammed against my cranium.

And saw white noise as my vision pixelated as I wobbled sideways and my world spun.

I remember getting a fleeting glimpse of a fist flying towards the side of my head like a stone from a catapult, and tumbling to the ground, where the leading masked man trampled on my chest until I passed out cold.

I could hear the incessant bleating horn of a car-alarm, scattered screams, Joy calling out “no seas gilipollas,” to one wanker and then another, and above it all Shangó preaching Genesis 3:1-7; Romans 5:12-21; 2 Peter 3:1-9.

“And the LORD said unto Noah, come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation. Of every clean BEAST thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of BEASTS that are not clean by two, the male and his female. Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth. For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth. And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him.”

When my eyes fluttered back open, Act III of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung (The Twilight of the Gods) was playing on a PYLE PBMSPG260L BoomBox a few inches from my head, which painted the foreground flourescent red, blue, and green LED in time with the four part drama’s metre. And, through the opened jaws of a grimy skylight; I could see the Milky Way shimmering by the light of a waxing crescent moon and thought I saw Bruennhilde riding her horse, Grane, into a burning pyre so that she could die with her lover Siegfried.

I blinked, and Shangó was standing above me, victorious, needling me with with his relentless blue-eyed stare, which I didn’t appreate at all. Niether did Jay-B who was being restrained with a choke-hold for now.

So, I brushed him back with a couple of bit parts of the Torah I’d rehearsed with Abraham for the Bar Mitzvah I never had:

“And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark --- And every living substance was destroyed from the earth: Shangó only remained alive, and the BEASTS that were with him in the ark.”

“So you’ve worked it all out,” Shangó growled sardonically, subsonically, tapping his hands together, his thin white lips wrapped around a sour sort of a grin.

“My Papi’s Papi, Jacob Aviv, was shochet; a professional slaughterer.” I said, by way of further explanation. “His position in the rabbinical hierarchy was similar to that of a bookkeeper to a CPA or a paralegal to an attorney --- he was respected enough to work with God, but not enough to preach. LYING HERE ON THE MAT SEMI-CONSCIOUS, I WORKED OUT THAT YOU ARE ALSO A SHOCHET, except your God’s are Winner and Kunt, who hired you to inplement his Dictators Handbook --- the five steps to absolute power!”

“Te subi lo vidrio” He interjected, letting me know he had heard enough.

“No hay problema, there’s more where that comes from,” I lobbed back at him from my knees. And then I stood to face him:

Step one --- create a nemesis, like desperate immigrants from Mexico and Latin America, who cannot fight back. Step two --- instigate a crisis where none exists, like a border invasion. Step three --- spread fear. Step four --- spread largess to the near so they become dear to you. Step-five --- ride in on a M1A3 Abrams Main Battle Tank to save the day and suspend our freedoms for our own protection. Or save on the fucking gas money and just tweet it like Kunt”[i]

Shangó winced like I’d smacked him below the belt and small beads of sweat formed on his forehead, which ran off into his furrowed brow. When the furrows overflowed, sweat trickled onto his bleached blond threaded eyebrows, which he patted dry with the back of his right fist.

“Why is it that every time we meet you end up lying on the ground semi-concious, with your virtue in the air?” He asked, burrowing a Glock G48 Silver slide compact 9mm Luger pistol into my solar-plexis.[ii] Then, he asked me if I knew what America needed to be great again, wearing the sanctimonious expression of candidate that stuffed enough ballot boxes to be sure of victory.

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“A dictator. A man prepared to take responsibility for a new world order.”

“Did you ever think that might be you?”

“There are others better placed to lead,” he replied definitely, as if he had given the matter a lot of thought.

Having nothing to add, I stuck to my memories of Bar Mitzvah 101 with Abe, because the present looked so bleak.

“I never got to meet Jacob because Hitler met up with him first and gassed him to death in Treblinka. But, by all accounts, and there were many, he was a dreadful, judgmental man, with a ravine on his shoulder and a stone cold heart, who messed up the lives of the people he touched by bouncing his bitterness, his selfishnes, his vanity, and his misogyny off them. But now I’ve met you, La-La-Loverboy, I don’t feel like I missed out on anything significant.”

“Qué te den! La madre que te parió” he said softly, but with an ice-tempered stainless steel edge.

“Shangó, my Mami was Cuban. She taught me Spanish like your Papi taught you Spanish, to give us something beautiful to write poetry with, not to cover up our curses: “El español es el idioma del amor, nos alimenta, nos hace vivir.”

And then he pistol-whipped me with the grip of the Glock hard enough that my molars chomped on tongue, which drew blood that leaked through the gaps in-between my teeth, but not hard enough to knock me down.

A few paces to the north of us Jay-B jabed himself free of his captors and raised his arm. There was a pistol hanging off the end of it, which he used to fire three warning shots in the air, to slow things down.

His gun, a Colt M1911, supposedly obsolete and outdated, was still the close-combat weapon of choice for Marine Special Operations shooters and the Army’s Delta force. Jay-B’s had been custom reassembled at the MTU technical shop in Quantico, Virginia. Where, using a select-issue M1911A1 frame as a base, a new aftermarket slide had been fitted, a Bar-Stop drop-in match-grade stainless-steel barrel installed, and the springs replaced. A high-pro ramp front-sight had been soldered into place and a no-snag rear sight fitted. Its ejection port had been lowered and the magazine-well beveled. And the pull on the Videki trigger had been adjusted to 4.5 pounds. Add a Wilson beavertail grip, Pachmayr stocks, a Commander hammer, a Birdsong Black-T coat, and a 7 shot Wilson/Rogers magazine, and you have a dependable, killing machine which Jean-Baptist ‘Jay-B’ Lacroix had used to fell enough Taliban in deadly Nangarhar province, to leave Afghanistan with one lung lost to friendly-fire and a hard purple-heart.

Shangó, swung his Glock hand away from me to face Jay-B who had his back to us but was turned around by Joy’s finger-nails scratching down a chalkboard scream that made me think of The One That Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

“Put down the gun down cabrón,” Shangó suggested, to Jay-B who took offense.

“No motherfucker, I’ve got four bullets left in the magazine, that’s one for all the shit you did to me, one for all the shit you did to Monica, one for the betrayal of your people, and one bullet extra to make fucking sure I get the job done --- Y dos balas para estar seguro que te mueres, hijo de puta,” he said lowering his eyes to aim the sight of his pistol at Shangó’s chest, and bringing his left hand up to his elbow to steady his right arm in place.

“You’re not going to shoot me Jay-B, you left one of your balls in the killing fields of La Romana and the other with the Taliban. “

“Shangó, I’m not as much as I’d like to be, but I’m more than I was last year, and the year before that, and I’m a whole lot more than my papi ever was, and that’ll have to do for now. I’m in the fifth year of a five-year plan to get what I can and get out.”

Lit by the silvery light of the moon through the skylight, Shangó laughed a serrated laugh and raised his wrist a notch so that the pistol was aimed at Jay-B’s head, as if raising it was a great effort.

And fondled with the trigger and as he found the last words: “You’re not going anywhere this lifetime cabrón.”

I thought about wedging myself between them, but as I was thinking the sharp sound of a steel hammer punching on a bullet, sounded, then echoed about the room. It was closely followed by another and then by the dull thud as a dumdum bullet blasted the top off Jay-B’s head, sending him to the floor where he writhed and threshed about like a marlin on a ship’s deck, though he was already more than half dead.

Loverboy wouldn’t live to enjoy his victory as the second shot was Jay-B’s and it had made a soon-to-be fatal mess of his chest.

Joy didn’t like the result of the duel at all and she stepped over Shangó and waded through her tears and her congregation to stem the blood flowing from Jay-B’s head-wound, which seeped through her fingers like raw cookie-dough.

He was trying to tell her something with his dying breath — that he’d worked it out, courting death is like courting anything, you have to be sure that the prize is worth the likelihood that you might end up married to it.

And then, he passed.

I went over to Shangó, because he stuttered that I should, and I always respect a man’s last will and testimony. He said he had something for me, and he told me where to get it. So, I held him like a fucking portrait of Jesus by William Key and snatched a memory stick from his breast pocket.

And then he also passed, I laid him out to rest with the help of a man whose one good arm was inked with Vishnu a dexterous, four-armed, Hindu god that is the preserver of life, and sits on a coiled snake to symbolize his ability to remain at peace in the face of fear or worry.

I wandered back to Jay-B and Joy because misery should never be without company and I held onto Joy as we held onto Jay-B and mourned the passing of another imperfect life, to add to the more than one hundred billion others that have already been lived since our species first walked the Earth about 50,000 years ago. [iii]

A few minutes later, with sirens wailing we wandered out into an unseasonably warm, windy, night. I took off my coat, draped it over my left arm, and chilled, because I hate it when winter masquerades as nice, nice, nice.

“You wake up one day and your life is about done, and you start looking about for some extra years, months, days, minutes and even fucking seconds of life.” I said through tears to the wind to Joy, whose eyes were pools of darkness, much emptier than the moonlit night. “I’m dedicating the life I have left to Jay-B and to bringing the fascist Kunt down before he destroys many more lives.”

Yes, born of extreme violence. Robbed of my birthright. I’m the bastard that’s going to take the President down and save us from ourselves.


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