Pillage

by Brantly Martin

  ‘Word son, that bitch looked like she just got slayed.’ A true wordsmith. ‘I got some ass last night too son.’

  Whenever Aeronymous is about to lie, his voice slips, his dome contorts, and his belly retracts.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Best of all his words go from an acceptable Native Downtown flow to Down Syndrome.

  ‘Yeah, you know that girl Laandis? I fucked her.’

  Pandora has nothing on Aeronymous. Bordering the Chelsea green BAPE sweater to the south is a factory’s worth of dark blue denim that hangs below his ass. North of BAPE is his breakfast — caked over both cheeks, bottom lip, and the gaps in his grill.

  ‘Yeah son, I guess the bitches were hungry last night…hungry for pound cake son.’

  The joke is outdated, not funny, and one of his staples. Nevertheless, it sends Aeronymous into a belly laugh for the ages, causing a seismic reaction in his mid-region.

  Thrusting his head back—giggling and snorting—a tidal wave gives birth in his lower gut, sending a tsunami towards his breasts. 7A bacon and cheddar launch from his mouth, iced coffee and stoge goners. When the tsunami reaches his throat gravity takes over, sending it back to the earth, doubling him over—size 56 skid-marked white hanes revealed.

  Time for a croissant.

  Eastbound on Spring we trek. Approaching Broadway we are in front of Sari, a favorite hangout of contorters rapping to sames. Sitting outside is none other than the two Israeli brothers I’ve been looking for.

  ‘Hey Aeronymous, where’s the party tonight?’

  ‘At Lame Lame son, you know I’m always holdin it down there.’

  ‘Cool. See you tonight.’

  ‘Do you know Cracula?’

  Sure they do.

  ‘Hi.’ Hey.

  ‘Don’t shake my hand motherfucker.’ Guess I’m still geeked. ‘You know me, I live right down the street with my same, Slutskia.’ Their who me game face on. ‘Tall blonde Russian, big tits.’ Skeed. ‘Don’t act stupid motherfuckers, I swear to god if either one of you says another word to her….’ Geeked. Yipped. Whacked. Aeronymous and I cross Broadway.

  ‘Yo son, what’s up with that?’

  ‘Nothing bro. Those idiots always have something smart to say to Slutskia, fuck that.’

  ‘Word. You doing alright son? You slept?’

  ‘Nah man.’

  ‘I know now’s not the time, but there is a better way Cracula. You need to join The Cult, stop doin all that shit.’

  ‘Aeronymous I love you, but not now.’

  ‘I feel you. When does Slutskia get back?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘You peacing Dulce out?’

  ‘Don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Word.’

  Palabra.

  ‘Yo son, you heard about Lousifer?’

  Aeronymous, my own satellite radio. A 24-hour downtown Island newscast. Free of charge, but with health warnings.

  Exposure in high doses to Aeronymous may cause the following symptoms. If they persist, run.

  The relinquishing and subsequent broadcasting of your most personal moments/experiences.

  An unwilling hypnotic state, leading one to wander aimlessly through Soho and/or the East Village in search of iced coffee, stoges, sames.

  A steady rise in the use of one or all of the following words: son, mad, nigga, word, yo, peace.

  A rising intake of coconut flan.

  Random, high-pitched, and uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘No Aeronymous, what’s up with Lousifer?’

  ‘Yo son, I was at Lame Lame last night with mad sames, and that nigga rolled in all cracked out…covered in fuckin blood son. I was like, yo you alright dude? He’s like: yeah, I just ran into some nigga that robbed me, fucked him up, what’s good. haa haaa… I was like, yo son, you’re covered in fuckin blood…and he’s like: oh shit son, be back in thirty... Then he just peaced…haaa haaaa.’

  ‘Word?’

  ‘Word, smashed some nigga’s face in.’

  I see.

  ‘And yo, Fireman called me lookin for you.’

  Yeah?

  ‘He was getting a pedicure with some Brazilo same…says she’s in love with him, but so are all her friends…haa haa. Doesn’t know who to bring to dinner tonight. Says he has too many sames…haa haa. You comin tonight son? Ten o’clock at Lame Lame. I got mad sames comin son. Doing a birthday party for the same from the Hucci campaign.’

  Yeah?

  ‘Fuck yeah son. I got fitty sames comin after dinner son, gonna kill it son. Mad sames.’ Sure.

  ‘You speak to Noddy?’

  ‘Son, that nigga was with me at Lame Lame last night too…all doped up. And I swear to God, he nods off right in the middle of talkin to some same, lights Leachal’s hair on fire, falls face first in the ice…and pops up…like yo it’s all good son…haaa haaa.’

  Satellite radio, channel blast.

  (crackberry text)

  cracula I was talking about u 2day during my weekly 3

  way thpiritual intervention and channeling session

  both dim and my thpiritual adviser think it’s time 4 u to accept a thpiritual path. i’m always hear 4 u! let me no if u need me to show u the lite

  thpiritually yours, tambourine

  ‘Son, who the fuck was that?’

  ‘My X.’

  ‘Word?’

  ‘Inviting me to some sort of spiritual ménage à trois with her boyfriend.’

  ‘haa haa.’

  Ahh…Tambourine. My own Eta Carinae. Not so many moons ago she was spontaneous, sensual. Endless. She had capacity.

  Now? Thpiritual. A goddamn wine sipper. Only dates satellites. Has it ALL figured out. Lo que sea.

  Aeronymous and I reach our outpost.

  ‘Yo son, coffee?’

  ‘Black.’

  We man our post, the bench splitting Balthazar pastry shop and restaurant.

  ‘Yo, what’s the deal kids?’ It’s Turbo.

  ‘What up T?’

  ‘Yo Turbo, how you been? Haven’t seen you for a minute son.’ Aeronymous and his customs greeting. He and Turbo are quickly lost in some asinine conversation that no doubt had a previous running.

  ‘…word son, that’s what I’m sayin. I’m from here son, I was born in The Island son…’

  ‘Me too son, fuck that shit.’

  In the United States of Amoeba, Amoebans have always been ready to judge who is an Amoeban and who isn’t. First generation have always been looked at as outsiders, immigrants, scum. Islanders, being the brains of Amoeba, take this even further. To them I will always be an immigrant. Not just an immigrant, a Mexican. Spic. Wetback. If the Natives had their way, the GW, Williamsburg, and Brooklyn would be drawbridges. The Lincoln and Midtown blown up. They are forced to accept the notion of coexistence, but are always quick on the trigger of subtle reminding. I grew up here son or back in the day. Yeah, and forever shall you stay here. Son. Your island, your prison. Without your tired-ass references what the hell have you got? Alcatraz east. And when a Native dare leave The Island don’t think they go five goddamn minutes without letting all comers know their derivation. If it isn’t back in the day it’s some uptown Native dropping private school names. To them I am forever a Mexican. fucking bring it Give me your menial jobs, your condescension, your nose up as I learn the native tongue. For I will turn it around and fuck the Native out of your daughters. Spread my Mexican seed and colonize you bastards. I will keep my back wet, the proudest Mexican alive. Viva Mexico! Fuck your border patrol, I’ll swim up the Rio Grande to the Hudson. Comprende? And for my efforts you shall have Cracula offspring.

  ‘Aeronymous, Turbo, I’m out. Gotta crash.’

  ‘Word son.’ Peace.

  pounds

  ‘Yo Crac, call The Fireman. He just sent me another text lookin for you.’

  I’m sure The Fireman’s day is going as did his life—planned, thought out, via systems. The man is a conductor. A manager of same sames, businesses, momen
ts. No doubt he’s juggling conference calls with banks, various partners around the globe, same same appointments. He is, after all, a same addict. What Noddy does for dope, Aeronymous does for slices, Lousifer does for flipping, I do for yip—he does for sames.

  The man will start high, though never afraid of the bottom rung. Super sames to busted hyenas. Strangers to best friend’s sames, no matter. Despite his mosh-pit of connections, his good friends, I’m his go-to guy for confiding, co-signing, boasting, and projecting. My indifference of late seems to have escaped him, taking my passive I knows and sures as an endorsement. These days I answer my phone less and less, though more a function of my lack of coherent daylight hours than a statement on The Fireman.

  I’m light years away from able to get a credit card, a phone in my name, or request a credit report without breaking the system. Yet I remain the guarantor for all my friends’ actions. Sure Fireman, 15 is old enough…no doubt Aeronymous, another Demarco’s pizza won’t hurt…don’t worry Noddy you’re only 24, there’s plenty of time to be an ex-addict…Of course my co-signing ability is never stronger than with myself. Slutskia won’t find out…there’s no way she has the hep…what’s sharing a needle a couple times…I’ve nothing to do tomorrow, let’s get 10 grams, five hookers and fucking do this…The nation of rationalization.

  I walk up my stairs, praying for no neighbor.

  (crackberry ring)

  ‘Yo man.’

  ‘Wow Cracula, you actually answered.’

  ‘Still up.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. You OK?’

  The Fireman, for all his tragic faults, would die for me. Take a bullet. If only it didn’t interfere with being able to extract pleasure, self-actualization, or Island fame through a same. And the man is brilliant, the top math professor in all of Amoeba. El Jefe. Can size up the common denominator stored deep inside any human being. House music? Me too. Hip-Hop? Rock? Patrón? Beer? Sober? Gack head? Amoeban? Orthodox? Wiccan? Native? Eastern bloc? Me too. The man could find the square root of pi if a same was at the end.

  ‘I’m always good.’

  ‘What’s up for tonight, you gonna make it?’

  Sure, why not.

  ‘Your boy Aeronymous says he has twenty sames coming to dinner.’

  ‘So…eight.’

  ‘Five.’ palabra ‘Did I tell you about the new Brazilian that wants me?’

  I’m sure you will.

  ‘So I’m out with my good friends last night and this Brazilian same won’t take her eyes off me. Then again, who can? I couldn’t really talk to her though, I was with too many other sames. They all wanted me, I just look too damn good these days. It’s hard sometimes.’

  Yep.

  ‘So, see you there? Ten o’clock at Lame Lame? Oh by the way, when does Slutskia get back?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘What’re you gonna do about Dulce?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell ya.’

  ‘OK, so I’ll see you tonight. Ten o’clock.’

  Always going out in control, The Fireman. I grab a bottle of whiskey, crawl into bed.

  As much as coming down off coke sucks, it’s the only time I feel alive.

  estaba soñando

  I strolled up Fifth Avenue into the opaque Island winter, unaware. Comfort abounded.

  I was alone, marching.

  There was no time, no light, an eclipse.

  Washington to Union Square an eternity,

  I was the only living boy in The Island.

  I skated, protested, freestyled.

  sat on the steps and smoked

  there was no life.

  No black Israelites calling me devil, no sames, no goth kids from the burbs.

  No music.

  i stood up, fell down, began to rise

  Wings erupted from my shoulders, my fangs retracted.

  I flapped and floated, alone in The Island.

  subdued

  For the first time neither vampire nor blood bank.

  I faced north and spread my wings.

  With one thrust I was floating above St. Patricks.

  I smelled creatures below,

  the only life in The Island.

  I swooped down, wings spread,

  walked to the gates.

  i pulled and pulled—angels not welcome

  Enraged, my wings fell to the steps.

  Fangs returned, the gates flew open.

  I walked step-less down the aisle, past the pews. black suit adorned

  There was a proceeding taking place, I was expected.

  Approaching the altar it came to be that St. Patrick’s had become a courthouse of sorts, a cathedral nonetheless.

  Above the altar were three crucifixions. To the left, Dulce was willingly nailed to the cross—naked and motionless. A king cobra was her tongue, unable to escape. flailing. spitting venom. Her green eyes a black and red checkerboard.

  To the right, Slutskia was freshly crucified. Still breathing, bleeding. her eyes gone blank. She stared at me without pleading, expecting me to provide salvation. Her tongue a python, slowly wrapping itself around her neck. ready to kill the pain

  Directly above was Tambourine. Her blood scarcely alive. She cried in waves of agony—Biblical screams. Pleading for me to save her, to be human. Her eyes escaped life, my fangs grew.

  Drowning out the death, Feather blindly floated above the crucified. carelessly meandering the rafters, unaware of the impending proceedings.

  Below the soon-to-be deceased sat the panel of judges. To the left sat my mother, certain to go against me. To the right sat my brother, certain to go for me. In the middle was my father—but Abraham Lincoln—yet my father. The swing vote, the only judge I need convince.

  The trial was to be humanity versus god. I took my seat on the right.

  To my left sat god. Through an unfortunate series of events, god had become a deaf mute many years ago and was unable to represent himself. Speaking on his behalf would be George W. Lush. He sported baggy jeans, Dunks, a Rocawear hoodie, and platinum chain.

  My father, Honest Abe, spoke. ‘Mr. President, you are here to speak in defense of god, the almighty. Do you accept this responsibility?’

  ‘No doubt son, let’s do this nigga.’

  ‘Cracula, you have been summoned here today to represent Amoeba and all of humanity. Do you accept this responsibility?’

  I suppose.

  ‘Mr. President, you may proceed with the opening arguments in defense of god.’

  ‘Word. Well ya honor, let me start by sayin god is great. It’s right to give him thanks and praise, ya feel me? If it weren’t for god wouldn’t none of us even be up in this motherfucker. I mean check it out, dude gave up his only son for us, for our sins and shit, and we all be sinners homey. Every damn thing I do be in the name of god. god loves Amoeba, we be the hand of god, and I be runnin this motherfucker accordingly. If it weren’t for god…shit son, I might still be drinking the devil’s juice, but he done saved my ass. This dude god, he wants freedom, he wants democracy, he wants the Amoeban way.’

  Father Lincoln interjected. ‘This freedom of which you speak, is it to be shared by all?’

  ‘Yeah, more or less. I mean I ain’t down with no fags, Muslims, artists, or no shit like that…but yeah homey, freedom.’

  ‘Well sir…’

  ‘Excuse me son, I mean ya honor. Just let me wrap this shit up real quick. I wanna close by sayin that I’m even down for most black dudes to have freedom, other than that New Orleans thing. Cause god loves those cats too, ya feel me? As far as humanity be, fuck that homey. You gotta love god, worship that nigga while you on earth. Only then you gonna be saved. I know so, he done told me. And I’m a man of conviction, that’s my word son.’

  ‘But hasn’t god become a deaf mute, Mr. President?’

  ‘You know what the fuck I mean.’

  At this point I escaped my body and elevated above the proceedings, above the three dead bodies on crosses. Resting next to
the oblivious Feather. Or was she impervious? The proceedings continued. My dream relegating me to the third.

  ‘Cracula, you may now present the opening argument in defense of humanity.’

  I grabbed a rafter, hoping I didn’t fuck it up below.

  ‘Thank you, your honor. First, I want to thank God for joining us today. It’s a shame he’s become a deaf-mute and unable to speak for himself.’

  ‘Objection your honor! I was made the spokesperson for god fair and square.’

  ‘Cracula, lest I remind you, we are not here to question the authority of the president to speak for god.’

  g thanks dad

  ‘In that case, allow me to speak on two points of the president’s statement. First, the bastardizing of conviction. This ought be an outlawed word, your honor. There is no necessity for truth in conviction. The president continuously resorts to his convictions, and the convictions of the Amoeban people. A conviction is nothing more than a tightly gripped lie, an error so blatant it must evolve into a conviction. A conviction is unwavering and resistant to truth. A conviction is not retractable. A conviction is inhuman, your honor.’

  ‘Objection homey! How dare he question my convictions in god. Yo son, by doin that he be questionin the convictions of god.’

  ‘Overruled.’

  Thanks Abe.

  ‘Next is worship your honor. Does not worship of man, symbol, or deity drain one’s soul? I’m sure if god weren’t a deaf-mute…’

  ‘Goddamn it ya honor, can you tell this nigga that we already done established that I’ll be doin the speakin for God.’

  ‘Sustained.’

  What the hell am I doing down there?

  ‘Your honor, would it not be downright sadistic for a father to want his son to worship him?’

  “Are you questionin my love for my daddy Cracula? You motherfucker! Listen here you punk, I love my daddy. My daddy’s the baddest motherfucker that ever done lived. Shit son, I started a war for my daddy. Don’t make me send you to Iraq motherfucker!’

  ‘Mr. President, are you still hitting the pipe?’

  ‘That’s it, you gonna die son…’

  ‘Order, order.’

  Three

  (crackberry ring)

  ‘Yeah…yes Aeronymous I’m coming. Ten o’clock, Lame

  Lame. Yeah. Bye.’