Nuestro Himno

I bounced the bike up to the sidewalk on the sun-drenched south side of West 230th Street and crouched to chain it to an old oak tree in front of The John F. Kennedy Educational Campus.

As I turned back around, a middle-aged, but painted to skew younger, really really straight bottle-blond haired Dominirican platana with the flags of the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico and four stars representing each of her four Carajitos inked on her augmented chest, passed by toting a black Stuffawler Pit Bull Terrier, which lifted his right leg and pissed long and hard over the hot front wheel of my bike, creating a sulfuric mist.


I growled “Coño,”She growled “El es un paraguayo que no entiende nada. El perro tiene que mear,” letting me know that her dog had the right to piss anywhere that took his fancy.


The dog growled as it was trained to do.

So, I looked away, as I was trained to do — shifting my gaze a few degrees to the east, where a posse of brown-eyed girls were wrapped around a ‘Colombian white,’ luxury motor yacht inspired, Bentley Continental GT Convertible Galene Edition, flirting with the rich, handsome, identical twin, lime-green capped, Trinitario gangsters inside.

I said ‘hi’ as I passed, but they didn’t return my greeting, the only thing that’s more attractive than youth is money and they were playing with both and I looked like neither.


A passing cloud eclipsed the sun and yet there was no wind at all --- an early indicator that the fifth longest day of the year would be among its most mendacious.


I was met at the entrance to the school, by Dr. Jessica Goring, its, diminutive, harassed principal who ushered me through one of two metal detectors and down the schools empty — white tiles to the left of me/sky-blue tiles to the right of me — long corridors to the school’s mock-courtroom where the graduation ceremonies were taking place:

“We are so excited you agreed to address the graduating class,” Goring panted from the bottom of her Florence Nightingale sized bleeding heart. “You bring realism and authenticity to everything these young men and women have learned in the classroom.” And then she gushed: “What a powerful opportunity: to meet an attorney, that comes from the same mean streets as they do, and that is without a doubt the most notoriously disinherited person on Earth.”[i]


I left Goring in awe of my pedigree for the short-while it took for her to open the side door to the stage. And then as I looked over my vaping, paper-plane-chucking, bubblegum-popping, restless audience, many of whom had spent more than their allotted four years incarcerated in class, I asked her indifferently, as if it really didn’t mean too much to me either way: “How much authenticity can you stand?”


She responded by unfurling a taut, apprehensive smile she’d been working up to her entire life that clenched her lips like a fist and left my question hanging as her nerdy deputy invited me onto the stage with an open hand; as he introduced me to their unruly, maddening flock with a few kind, bland words that were quickly drowned out by a chorus of “Tato compai Degas,” “que lo wa Degas,” “wassup Degas,” “ke lo ke Degas” and other affirmations disguised as questions.

So, I sipped on a glass of water in front of a giant display screen fiddling with a black Logitech Laser Presentation Remote and waited for the storm to break, which it did — slowly, dissolving into an almost embarrassed silence.

I cleared my throat and started out slowly — the trick to controlling anything and staying the course: “I was invited here to lecture you about inheritance, “herencia” which is loosely what we leave behind — a bequest, endowment, birthright, estate, heritage, bestowal, bequeathal, benefaction, provision, patrimony, A LEGACY. And that got me thinking about my own legacy, and what I was going to leave behind. Right now, it would be a few paintings by Blade, the King of Graffiti, who tagged over five thousand walls, buildings and subway trains here in the Bronx in a decade between 1972 and 1982 and who now produces fine art; a few thousand dollars at Santander, a BitAddress paper wallet with 171 Bitcoins in Cold Storage, and a lawsuit against the President of the United States of America for robbing me of my inheritance, which might have otherwise been and may one day be (if he doesn’t blow it like he has blown everything else he inherited) equal to his!”


Untold riches sounded damn good to the flock, which rose, and cheered me and heckled the President from afar. Their consensus was that Kunt was a “mama bin bin” or a man that sucks cocks. And they had a point.


So, I went left, right, straight for the heart.

Izquierda, derecha, directo al corazón

“Who can translate Proverbios 13:22: “El hombre bueno deja herencia a los hijos de sus hijos, pero la riqueza del pecador está reservada para el justo?”

A bespectacled Asian/Latino girl could, by rote: “A good person leaves an inheritance for their children’s children, but a sinner’s wealth is stored up for the righteous.”


“I guess Kunt is storing his wealth for the righteous,” I said sardonically, aggrieved. I guess the 26 richest billionaires who according to OXFAM own the same amount of assets as the 3.8 billion people who make up the poorest half of the planet’s population are storing their wealth for the righteous as well.” [ii]


“Ohhhh that’s messed up,” gasped the same bespectacled girl and there were cheers and a single tear tracked down the right side of my face, because it is so messed up.

“Did you know, that in the 10 years since the financial crisis, the number of billionaires on Earth has nearly doubled, but 11 animals and God only knows how many species became extinct?” I asked more incredulously than I had intended, like a preacher summoning the fire and brimstone needed to secure attention that might otherwise be lost. “Did you know that in that same decade the fortune of Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, a shopkeeper who is the richest man on earth, increased to $112 billion. And that 1% of his fortune is exactly equivalent to the whole health budget of Ethiopia, a country of 105 million people, which is of course ridiculous.”

“There ain’t no clean way to make 112 billion dollars,” jabbed a cut Dominirican with intermittent brows, cauliflower ears and a flat nose, punching above his weight. “Little guys like my pops, who had a shoe-store in the Heightz, can’t compete and good jobs become minimum wagers”

“I want some of that Bezos pesos,” yelled a pregnant teen from the back of the house to wild applause.


“You may be asking, as I am, why wealth is increasingly and unfairly concentrated among a privileged few and why governments like ours are making inequality worse by underinvesting in public services? [iii] It’s because governments have become corporations that can be bought or sold --- run by absolute monarchs, dictators that surround themselves with cronies who bully, cheat and change the rules to suit them, so that only their teams can win. FRIENDS OF KUNT LIKE? ”

And then after a short pause I introduced them to Kunt’s friends with the clicker.


“Russian President Vladimir Putin a.k.a ‘Pale Mouth’ a.k.a. ‘Botox’ a.k.a. ‘Pootie-Poot,’ who invaded a sovereign country (Ukraine) and annexed part of it (Crimea). Vladimir, who may have more pesos than Bezos is a particularly nasty piece of work, who helped Syrian President Bashar Assad gas his own people; meddled in elections around the world and got Kunt elected; persecutes gays, political opponents and journalists. And about whom Kunt said: ‘If he says great things about me, I’m going to say great things about him.’[iv]

And the flock stood to heckle and boo Putin.

“Philippines President, Rodrigo Duterte a.k.a ‘The Punisher’ a.k.a. ‘Duterte Harry,’ who has killed more than 7,000 people in an anti-drug crusade that targets his political enemies, the judiciary and journalists, for which his KPI is Hitler’s extermination of Jews. And whom Kunt congratulated for doing: ‘ — an unbelievably good job.’ [v] Do you all think Duterte Harry is doing a good job?

As the flock heckled Duterte, I clicked on.


“President of the People's Republic of China, Xi Jinping a.k.a ‘Xi Dada’ a.k.a. ‘Xi Big Big’ a.k.a ‘Big Daddy Xi,’ who has imprisoned more than 3 million Uyghurs and Muslims in re-education camps Hitler would have approved of, where the inmates are electrocuted, raped, force fed and murdered to knock the Muslim out of them as part of the grandest most grotesque ethnic scrub on earth. And about whom Kunt said: ‘He is a good man. He is a very good man.’”[vi]

As the flock amplified their disgust with cries of “monta” - “fueraaa!” - “shame,” I clicked on.


“This turd,” I spat, warming to my subject, “Is Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader of North Korea, a.k.a “The Young General” a.k.a. “Kim the Fat” a.k.a. “Kim Fatty III” a.k.a. “Rocket man.” In 2014, a UN Commission of Inquiry found Kim’s abuses, which include torture, rape, forced abortions, extermination, and enslavement in kwanliso forced-labor prison camps ‘to be without parallel in the contemporary world.’ Kunt thinks Kim’s: ‘a pretty smart cookie.’ How smart do you all think he is?” [vii]

From the howls, it seemed that the flock didn’t think that “Little Mongolico Kim” was very smart at all. So, I clicked on and on through the swamp increasing my pace like an ace.

Next up are Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan a.k.a ‘Sultan’ a.k.a. ‘Modern Yazid’ who improbably (given the size of his market and the competition from Xi) has jailed more journalists than any other leader on earth! Mohammad bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, Crowned Prince of Saudi Arabia a.k.a ‘MBS’ a.k.a ‘Murderous Bloody Shit,’ who conducts more executions per capita than any other leader on earth (in spite of competition from Xi)! Israeli President Benjamin Netanyahu, a.k.a ‘Bibi,’ who took nearly $300,000 in bribes from Arnon Milchan a secret agent turned Oscar winning Hollywood Tycoon seeking a tax break,[viii] as he further disenfranchised Arab-Israelis and created a new system of apartheid through a Nation-State bill which establishes Hebrew as Israel’s official language, legitimizes Jewish settlement of Arab land and claims the right for Jewish self-determination in Israel — the foundation of Apartheid.[ix] Jair Bolsonaro, President of Brazil, a.k.a ‘Bolsomito,’ who ran with, and whose eldest son Flávio Bolsonaro runs with, Escritório do Crime, Brazil’s most notorious paramilitary death squad. And last but not least, Viktor Orban, the Prime Minister of Hungary a.k.a ‘Viktator,’ a slick purveyor of soft fascism, who controls every major aspect of his country’s economic, political and social life. THESE ARE KUNT’S FRIENDS AND THEY HAVE INHERITED THE EARTH!!


I was interrupted by a yell I could feel run down my spine, and then another as the bespectacled girl warned me to check my phone, where a pair of tweets from @therealkunt was waiting for me and his sixty million Twits. They both featured a particularly romantic photograph of Joy kissing me, overlaid with and disfigured by the Operation Kunt red laser-slight target spot, which was aligned with Joy’s head. The tweet text was explicit. The first, ordered Joy out of the race: ‘2 hours until 9 pm, she's either out of the race or out of time, I'LL ONLY TELL YOU ONE TIME!’ and the second anticipated her refusal: ‘NEVER, EVER THREATEN THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AGAIN OR SHE WILL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. DON'T FUCK ME DEGAS, DON'T YOU EVER TRY TO FUCK ME!!’



Of course, it was pure comic book, but madmen read comic’s for inspiration, so its threat could not be ignored. So, I climbed all over it and the kids roared.



“So how are you going to protect your inheritance?” I asked having worked out the answer only seconds before. “Are you going to man the barricades? Ojo por ojo y diente por diente? Or are we going to recognize that the nature of power is transformed in that while its institutions have become more centralized and less democratic its dependencies are more dispersed. And evolve our resistance to protect your inheritance. Yes, they own planes, but a few hundred air-traffic controllers can bring the entire country to a halt by having an extended coffee break. A few sanctuary cities can break ICE. And a few enlightened states can protect the environment as who wants to manufacture a car that cannot be sold in California or New York? And what about us? We are the macro sum of hundreds of the thousands of micro acts of resistance; like the Warriors, brown skinned Red Sox, and Eagles refusing to meet and greet Kunt at one of his Big Mac orgies; the cast of Hamilton calling out the Vice President in person at the end of the show; Stephanie Wilkinson, the owner of The Red Hen restaurant in Lexington, Virginia, refusing to serve Sarah Huckabee Sanders, Kunt’s misinformation director and asking her to leave. These small acts of resistance combined by our connectivity make us ungovernable,” I crooned with a nod to P-Star, the young Bronx singer that was waiting in the wings to perform the Star-Spangled Banner to close out the night.

“My hope for you is that the you graduate from the Bronx School of Law and Finance to the resistance, as that is the only way to insure your inheritance. As for me,” I yelled over the cheering cap-tossing crowd.



“Born of extreme violence. Robbed of my birthright. I’m the bastard going to take the President down and save us from ourselves.


Which is when P-Star and her band came onto the stage and demonstrated their resistance by performing the Star Spangled Banner in Spanish, with a rap supporting Undocumented immigrants in English:

“It’s time to make a difference

The kids, the men and the women.

They stand for our beliefs, they stand for our vision.

What about the children, los Niños somos P-Star?

These kids have no parents, cause of all these mean laws!

See this can’t happen

Not only about the Latins, Asians, Blacks and Whites and all they do is adding

More and more let’s not start a war

With all these hard workers,

They can’t help where they were born.”

TO BE CONTINUED: CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

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