Epitaph for the Jungle Fevered
Epitaph for the Jungle Fevered
“As presiding judge in this case before the ‘Nigga Nuremberg’ Tribunal, we ask if the nig–, defendant wishes to speak prior to sentencing.”
The shackled coon, rattling like a thousand wind chimes, rose.
“Your honors, ya’ll have accused me of the ultimate tomfoolery: laying with Miss Ann in da swamp patch. I’se guilty as charged. But cha’ll is ta blame.”
The gallery snorted, curses rose up to lynch the arrogant darkie, as the Grand Wizard Judge Clarence “Bojangles” Washington hammered his gavel and thundered…
“Let this jungle bunny speak! There will be silence in this courtroom!”
Tom regained a modicum of composure and continued.
“I neva wanted to sleep white; I only dated colored girls when I was younger… Okay, I had a coupla meetings of the mind wit some white trash, but ya’ll neva worried about none o’ that.”
The gallery whispered, tittered, made plans for the colored barbecue to be held once they’d sprung this no account, blue-black, cantankerous jiggaboo from the holding cell at the county. These hibachi masters knew only a wink at the sheriff was required to deliver their nappy headed burger to his rightful place on their grill.
The defendant droned on….
“But I done thought about this a lot…whensa I couldn’t find a job to suit my talents, as door after door slammed in my face and then I looked around me ta see all the other ‘handjob niggas’ laying up in
jail, laying out in the cemetery or strolling the block wit a 40oz, I
saw no future fo’ me. When dat hit me, I decided then and there that pure pleasure fo’ I died was all I was down wit, you feel me?”
The confused judges look at Judge Washington, the only buck dancing boot black on the tribunal, for clarification on what the hell the nig—defendant meant by ‘feel me.’
Like a quarterback under center changing the play at the line of scrimmage, Judge Washington turned to each Caucasoid and declared…
“HELL if I KNOW! Would the defendant please clarify your last comment about “feeling you.”
Tom said: “Oh, my fault cuz. Naw, I just meant ‘do you understand,’ ‘you understand’, ‘you feel me?’
The judges smiled and nodded at Grand Wizard Washington and at each other as they got what the 5-point buck was talking about. He droned on.
“I came to realize that if I couldn’t get a slice of the white man’s
pie, at least I could squeeze a little juice outta his lemon.”
Snarls, and shouts of “RIP THAT NIGGA”,“OFF WITH HIS TROUSERS” and “GET ME MY HEDGE CLIPPERS” echoed throughout the ornate, antiquated courtroom.
“Quiet PLEASE, that will be ENOUGH!!! I will clear this courtroom!”
Wizard Washington asked if the defendant would sum up his last words before sentence. Tom cleared his throat clogged with fright and croaked out the last intelligible words of his short, dusky life.
“I figure if I could have a white woman, at least I’d know what it’d be like to have a gold card or big bank. With my lady on my
arm, I don’t know, I felt like Donald Trump. I neva wanted yo’ women fo’ real; but when I tasted it, it was like medicine for a nigga.
“Ya’ll didn’t mind when I was dating ‘Backyard Sal.’ It was when I
got that fine corporate lawyer (the gallery murmured), paying all my
bills, givin’ me sexual reparations, guzzling my seed that cha’ll couldn’t cope wit it.”
The gallery could take no more; 75 to 100 hundred furious white rageful devils lept over the flimsy wooden swing door separating them from White Heaven: an unarmed spear chucker. They alighted Tom, tipped over his chair and the defense table, pushed aside his mute attorneys, thrashed at his clothing and went at him like a lawnmower.
The judges hurriedly gathered their file folders filled with 8×10’s of the defiled white womanhood Tom had stained with his depraved seed; they eased out of the chambers, along with the bailiff and the guards charged with protecting the ‘accused.’
Grand Wizard Washington took one parting glance at Tom, his brother in another time and place, but now his mortal enemy. Race mixers had to go as far as he was concerned. His favorite quote was the one about, ‘we can be as separate as the five fingers of the hand but….’ yadda, yadda, yadda. The Atlanta Compromise. Anyway, it was no concern of his now. He’d done his job and been paid handsomely for it.
The courtroom floor was awash in trampled entrails, the hedge clippers had appeared and already, souvenirs of the quartered coon were being passed out of the courtroom in Mason Jars and were selling on EBAY instantaneously. Tom’s unseeing, soon to be plucked eyeballs flickered at the ceiling, his corpse marinating in reddish purple goo, rocking to the rhythm of the white daggers gnawing at his open cavity.
One of the red eyed butchers, spittle dripping from his lip-less, cutting board face, sunk his hands into the gaping cavern where Tom’s organ’s had lain, retrieved a handful of pus and membrane, drew the dank pile under his aquiline nose and sniffed the black velvet caviar. A faint smile creeped across his soul-less mask as strains of “Another One Bites The Dust” were heard over the cannibalistic din.