Manifesto

This Chapter of A Maroon in Midnight Blue is dedicated to Mary Alicia Owen and Joel Chandler Harris

I passed a homeless man today. Red hair, patchy beard, distant look in his eyes and an even more distant voice. He held a sign prophesizing the end of days. I handed him a dollar, and in exchange he told me stories of Jewish cabals manipulating Islamist terror cells and Black supremacists to distract us all as they poisoned the water supply and turn everyone into homosexuals.

"Satan has gripped this world because weak men allow it. Only good, strong, men can combat his plot and bring about the righteous, moral society." He said.

I wanted nothing more than to unmask in front of him. Drop the invisibility cloak I so often found myself draped in and reveal that I was a harbinger of Satan himself. But that would have been too easy.

I thought, then, about hitting him with my banjo. Disfiguring his face and watching the bones spill out onto the pavement in a pool of blood. But this was...not too violent, just not funny enough. I wanted to make the whole world laugh, but something like that would only make me laugh. Every plan I could think of had an obvious counter argument at the back of my mind.

Waterboard him and call it a baptism? A bit too high-brow, too many people wouldn't get it.

Lean in close and whisper in his ears some words that make him cry? Only happens in movies, no one can just figure shit out like that after meeting a person for the first time. I knew secrets of this universe that would make him cry, but he would need to believe my claims for that to happen.

Kiss him? Spit in his mouth at the end and say, "I'm glad you could be a part of our project"? I would be called homophobic in the comments. Besides, I'm saving myself for Rami Malek.

I even thought that perhaps I could steal a page from Uncle's book and cut a smile into his face, but that was too derivative.

I'm not certain how long I sat there before I finally found the answer I sought. I wish I could say that the realization made me jump for victorious joy, but that would be a lie. In truth, the fact that this was the best I could come up with disappointed me. It still does. I fancy myself a mastermind madman, capable of plunging the world into chaos with a few small actions. Sure, to respond to such a small slight with chaos of such magnitude was marvelously mad in its own right, but it still felt like overkill. I wanted that chapter of my life to have a better beginning than what I had in mind, but I could think of nothing better at that moment. And at the bottom of my heart, I knew that no initializing event would ever be good enough to engage the plan I'd sat on for far too long.

I looked at the man and I sighed. He appeared confused as I lowered my head and shook it disapprovingly.

"It's going to have to be today, isn't it?" I asked.

*

The problem with white women is that they scream and cry. Horror is such a foreign concept to them even though they're the last ones standing in all the movies. There are too inclined to a world where kind people help and protect them, especially from people like me. There is no satisfying way to scare them without having a mob swarm you immediately. If one so much as looked at a white woman the wrong way, here comes the boys ready to rape a nigger then hang him from a tree. Shit, that could happen to you without looking at the woman at all.

The only option, of course, was to not fight it at all. I just had to let Mrs. Namzmirren call the mob of white boys.

"You want me to do what?" She asked. Her mascara flowed down her face in a sticky ink that trapped strands of hair to her cheek. Dimples began to form as her mouth made a nervous smile and she grew conflicted between hope and suspicion. Though near shattered from the force of despair, Mrs. Namzmirren laughed at the ridiculous notion. I watched the ripples of laughter flow through her body and thought to myself how unfortunate her paleness was; I may have wifed her then and there, otherwise.

"I want you to call your husband," I repeated in a slow, clear voice so that she wouldn't ask again.

"Why do you want my daddy?" Sophie Namzmirren asked.

"This is excellent tea, Sophie." I responded as I took another sip from my cup. It wasn't a lie; the girl made an excellent cup of tea. The bitter burn at the back of my throat put hair on my chest and cured me of all that I was ailed by. I didn't judge her for spiking it. Afterall, a certain Mr. Fuzzles seated to my left had become quite an intolerable bore since he'd resigned himself to a life of sobriety.

I turned my head again to Sophie's mother, "I want you to call your husband. Run along now, Sophie and I will be just fine here, she's an excellent host."

Mrs. Namzmirren shook her head, "I'm not leaving my daughter!"

Minstrel sighed. I sighed? Yeah, I sighed, "Very well."

I placed my finger onto the trigger of my gun.

Mrs. Namzmirren screamed, "Stop! Please!"

"I don't think you have the power to make me stop, Mrs. Namzmirren." I made my voice deeper now. The Caucasian woman was genetically predisposed to be easily manipulated by a thick, baritone of a Negro Africanus. They found such voices both terrifying and alluring, and in the situation I found myself with her and her daughter, I would certainly hope that she felt the former feeling.

"I can do whatever I want here. I can make as much noise as I want. I can make as big of a mess as I want. You are a woman at home, alone. You have no gun, I took it from you. You have no dog—"

"We do have a dog!" Sophie corrected.

I looked over at Sophie, "You had a dog, young lady. You must learn the difference between past and present tense."

I didn't focus on her long enough to observe the thought begin to register with her. I turned back to Sophie's mother, "Ma'am, I told you before, I am simply conducting an experiment. I need your help, so please cooperate."

Mrs. Namzmirren shook her head again, "I am not leaving a freak alone with my daughter."

"That's not a very nice word," I said. I felt a laugh at the back of my throat, but I struggled to force it down. Nothing more annoying than when the actor breaks during a skit.

"For my experiment, it is necessary that—"

"What fucking experiment! You know this isn't about an experiment, it's about those kids that died. I'm sorry they died, my husband is sorry they died, but this is not how you go about these things!"

A very effeminate giggle came out against my will. "I do have an experiment. I want to see which has a greater effect on a man's speed: the desire to protect or the desire to avenge."

A bit more blatant for my tastes, but the threat worked wonderfully. The muscles of her neck contracted with the tell-tale signs of a sharp exhale, and her already shaking hands became even more unstable as they fumbled with her phone. Everything was going according to plan.

"I need you to come home," she said into the phone. I could hear confusion on the other line, and the raised voice of someone in an argument. Her face twisted in frustration and Mrs. Namzmirren screamed into the phone, "Just listen, dammit! I need you to come home right now."

I cleared my throat, "Tell him that Minstrel has a gun at you and your daughter and will shoot unless he gets here in the next five minutes. Try to talk in a ghetto voice and use the term 'white bitch' so he thinks it's real."

She did as I instructed, sans the stage directions and adlibs that I recommended. Usually that type of thing would have annoyed me, but it was okay. If she didn't want to put on a good show, that was just fine...

"H-he wants to talk to you." She said as she handed the phone to me.

I took the phone from her grip with a polite grin. For a visual representation of my exact smile, simply google an image of Mr. Popo from Dragonball Z.

"Mr. Namzmirren, I presume?"

"Minstrel! I don't know what you think you're doing but you really fucked up by bringing my family into this."

"Well, I certainly don't appreciate that kind of language, young man!" I chastised. I pointed my gun at his wife, then remembered that we weren't using the video call feature.

"I thought it best to let you know that I have a gun to your wife, is that okay? I don't really understand social cues—is that a faux pas?"

"I'm not here for your games, Minstrel!"

"You're right," I said, "I'm sure you're a terribly busy man. I'll let you get back to your work, I'm sorry for bothering you."

I hung up the phone, then threw it to the ground.

"Mother, please join us," I directed to Mrs. Namzmirren.

The phone began to ring again, but I didn't bother checking it. These days, whenever someone calls without texting first, their name is probably Scam Likely.

Mrs. Namzmirren took up one of the small, plastic seats next to her daughter. Ever the dutiful parent, she immediately wrapped her arms around the child and began whispering chants of, "It's going to be okay."

"Here," I said as I bitched the pot, "this will calm your nerves."

She eyed the cup in front of her warily. I must confess that I lost my manners, composure, and shit as I laughed at the wonderful sight. There I was, little old Minstrel, aka SPOILER, son of SPOILER, sitting in front of a grown woman that didn't realize that her cup was empty. It was perfectly insane.

"I certainly hope you don't go around driving a BMW," I muttered as a took a sip of tea.

"What?" She asked.

I slapped my hand on the table, "Oh my god! I never told you about my friend, Kamilah, did I? Silly me."

The phone began to ring again. Mrs. Namzmirren looked at it, but I snapped in front of her face and directed her eyes back to the strange Black man holding a gun on her and her daughter.

"Very rude to take calls at the table, don't you know? Wouldn't want to impart poor manners on young Sophie here."

Mrs. Namzmirren nodded. Then, without my prompting, she grabbed the cup before her, and mimed taking a sip. I don't like to be sentimental but those really are the moments I live for.

I took a sip of my own tea but didn't feel nearly drunk enough to break into a good story-telling cadence. I poured a few more cups from the pot, then stole one of Mr. Fuzzles when the pot ran out and he wasn't looking. All properly liquored up, I leaned back in my chair, then scratched my temple with the barrel of my gun.

"The thing is, that's not really a story a kid would find interesting. Most of my stories are inappropriate for children or just boring to them. Except for...oh! Sophie my dear, would you like to hear the tale of the Flying Fool?"

Sophie looked up at her mother and waited for her nod of approval. The phone rang again, and I screamed bloody murder. My two hostesses looked at me like I was crazy, so I poured myself another cup of tea and pretended that nothing happened.

I thought back to the story. It had been so long since I'd heard it, and I didn't want to butcher the plot, meaning, or dialect.

"Once wuz a nigger wut died n' went to heben," I began.

Mrs. Namzmirren tightened her face.

"I dropped my southern, Negro dialect and asked her what was wrong," I said.

Her face was tightened, but she refused to look me in the eye and turn it into a proper scowling, "We don't use that word around Sophie."

"Implying that you use it when she's not around," I hastily commented before recreating my favorite Kermit the Frog meme.

"We don't use it ever! I'm sick of defending myself to you! We're not these backward hick racists you think we are! We're good people, and my husband was only doing his job—"

"Fuck your husband and his job!" I slammed my gun on the table, then used my other hand to pour another cup of tea. I felt as if my speech were going to begin slurring if I didn't focus, so I fought the urge to curl into a ball and sleep off the hooch.

"Are you even Black?" Mrs. Namzmirren challenged, "You're always dressing like that, talking like that. Not one of my Black friends thinks you're really Black. What you're doing is disgusting and it directly harms real Black people."

The phone began to ring again, but I didn't have the time to come up with a joke, I told the gun to check it, and was promptly reminded about what happens when you ask a gun to do anything.

Sophie screamed and her mother let out a small cry. I rolled my eyes. Typical white woman, more sympathy for a phone wounded by a bullet than for two Black kids suffering the same fate.

"Once wuz a nigger wut died n' went to heben. Stand'n there in all he glory wuz St. Peter. But St. Peter ent like ta see dis nigger up in heben wit dese white folk, 'n de second de nigger's turn came up 'n line, he put up a sign.

Nigger say, 'What dat read?'

St. Peter say it mean he on break.

Nigger say he wannabe in heben wit de Lord.

St. Peter shake he head, 'No niggers in heben.'

Nigger man git mighty upset. He start stampin he feet, cursin a storm and makin all kinda treble. He make demand of St. Peter, askin fer God t'come down n' talk wit him.

St. Peter shake he head again 'n he say, 'God not in today.'

Den St. Peter leave. Nigger man get mighty upset and start projectin how he gon' get inside. He notice dat St. Peter forgot to lock de gate. He run inside fore enybody spot him.

Nigger man in heben n' seein all dem dead white folk livin real good. He decide he want dat too. He find de spot where all de angels hand out wings, 'n he sneak up n' steal a pair fore hisself. He start flyin' round, crashin into things 'n he attract de 'tenshun of dem angels.

Angels start ta chasin de nigger man all cross heben, and he keep crashin into everythin 'n makin a whole mess a'de place. Dey send out de angel Michael, 'n he de only one fast 'n strong fore ta stop dis nigger.

Michael take 'im to God, 'n God git to fussin 'n hollerin at dis nigger man. Finally, fore de nigger can explain hisself, he take de nigger up by de throat, den he throw him right down back ta de earth.

Wen de nigger go round tellin he friends bout bein in heben, he always say, 'Dey may not like niggers in heben, but I wuz a flying fool wen I wuz dere."

As always, the story brought a chuckle to my throat and a tear to my eye.

I heard the front door open in that moment, and from the floor below, a cry rang out.

"Minstrel!"

Sophie and I both screamed, "Daddy!" Talk about awkward...

I straightened my shirt, quickly poured then downed another cup of liquid courage, then tipped my hat to my two hostages—I mean hostesses.

"I bid you ladies adieu. Time for guy's night, if you know what I mean."

I rose from my seat and left the women to their tea party. Officer Namzmirren was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. Seeing his hardened scowl and raised hands, I remembered once again that I had a gun. I raised it up so it was aimed dead for his chest, then tried to put on my most intimidating voice. But the typical white male refused to let me get in a word edgewise.

"Is my family alright?"

I shrugged, "Slowly dying as all things are, but I didn't shoot them if that's what you're worried about."

The pig let out an exhale of relief, "I want to thank you for leaving them unharmed."

I began to descend the staircase, my gun pointed right at him the entire time.

"If I killed them, the backlash on Twitter would be insane."

When I was a step above Namzmirren, I reached out a hand and shoved him to get him out of my way. He took the hint and followed my command, letting me lead him all the way to his nice, floral-pattern couch in front of the television.

"I shot your bitch, though," I confessed.

Namzmirren nodded, "I saw the body on the front porch. She attack you?"

"I don't remember. I just don't like dogs." It was a lie, but I didn't feel like diving into the topic and figured this as good a response as any.

Namzmirren sighed, "I know you feel I deserve that. What happened with the twins was a mistake, one that I regret and will live with for the rest of my life. But you cannot believe that I had any malicious intent against them. The courts have shown that I acted in accordance with my training—"

"That's the problem," I said, "I've had better trained Pokémon."

"He had a knife!"

Minstrel—that is me—shrugged, "And I have a gun."

"What do you want? A confession? I didn't do anything wrong."

I sighed, "See, this is why I didn't want to do this today! You're just making every routine, expected response. There's no variety, no shock factor, and no puns! I'm just going to shoot you dead and that's all? Lame."

I turned to the camera in my head, "Hey everybody, downvote this chapter, the writer's an idiot."

"I don't know what you want from me! I did what I was supposed to."

I rolled my eyes, "Oh come on! 'I did what I was supposed to.' Nice parallel to Nuremberg there. Come on man, I'm giving you the chance to say something really profound and groundbreaking as your last words. At the very least you could tease 52!"

"If you kill me," Namzmiren began.

"Unfortunately, you mean 'when.'"

"When you kill me," Namzmiren began again, "that's going to be it for you. Right now, all you're really looking at is three counts of kidnapping and assault."

I shook my head, "You forgot inciting a riot."

The look of realization is always so fun to look at. I remember taking Harley to the premier of Empire Strikes Back and watching her completely loose her mind when Vader was revealed to be Luke's father. It was a memory that I'll always treasure, no matter the fact that I wouldn't have been alive when Empire first premiered.

Namzmiren had the same face that my dear friend Harley Quinn did in the theater after hearing James Earl Jones confess to siring Mark Hamill's pasty ass. Eyes widened in shock, a mouth agape in confusion, a neck turning in denial, and a body quivering in dark acceptance.

"You made that shot? The protest was peaceful! Everything was going just fine! Why would you do that? Do you have any idea how much damage and injury you caused?"

"Oh, I already explained this with Du....D-Da Signal." I turned to the camera in my mind again and gave it a look that read, 'can you believe I almost revealed that Duke Thomas is the vigilante formerly known as Robin, briefly known as Lark and currently known as Signal?'

"You're incredible. How is it that you can think yourself some—some kind of hero to Black people when you run around like this literally causing damage to them. There were children at that protest and because of you they were teargassed!"

I stayed silent for a long time, a look of reflection across my face. It was entirely fabricated, of course, but such expressions were useful for providing a situation with gravitas.

"Oh gods. Oh Ancestors! I made a loud noise and brought upon the force of the Gotham Police over kind, defenseless Negroes. I-I-I...oh, Mama Christ am I the villain of this story?!"

Namzmiren shook his head, "There's no reasoning with you, is there? You can't reason with stupid."

"Nigga, ya mama stupid!" I spoke. I pulled the gun away from him for a second and shot at a picture of his mom on the far wall. At least, I think it was his mom. It may have been a picture of Trump. Or a clock. I'm not certain.

"Just kill me already! All you're going to do is turn me into a martyr. The cops or Batman will prove that you started that riot, and when it happens, they're all going to see you for exactly what you are. You kill me and I just become a hero."

I nodded, "I'm cool with that. Say goodnight, Gracie."

Ready to finally start his luau, Minstrel placed the barrel at the gun to the back of Namzmiren's head. He regretted using "Say goodnight, Gracie," as his one liner, but felt too awkward to go back and change it. I mean...could I change it, he thought. Nah, he realized, it was better to stick with what he started. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for the shot and—

At that moment, the glass of the front window shattered. Minstrel and Namzmiren shielded their eyes from the blast of shards and didn't uncover their eyes until they were both sure that no more glass was flying at them. And that's when I—I mean, Minstrel saw him. Okay ya know what, I'm done with this tongue-in-cheek third person narration bit. Let Deadpool keep that schtick all to himself.

Batman walked in the house. Which is to say he stomped one boot, then another through the window. His neck slightly inclined so that his eyes looked menacingly up towards me. Though slow in movement, he was an imposing figure even from the twenty or so feet away, and just watching him move made my blood run cold.

"Batman!" I shouted as I pulled the trigger. Namzmiren's brains splattered all around us, causing stains that only the power of Pine Sol and their sassy spokesperson could ever even hope to remove, sugar.

"What are you doing here?" I said as I shot Namzmiren's lifeless body again for good measure. Then again, and again and again. The gun soon emptied, and I indignantly threw it straight at the Dark Knight, who was charging right towards me.

Of course, tossing a gun at a charging Batman is about as useful as one would think. He grabbed me, slammed me onto the ground, then slipped a pair of his patented Batcuffs (which I have been assured were NEVER used during a friendly night with Catwoman) around my wrists.

"You get what you want, murderer?" Batman asked.

I looked at Namzmiren's dead body on the floor and shook my head.

"I managed to be the first villain that didn't freeze up when the hero arrived. I'd call that a win, yeah."