Salvation Road: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

by Peter Okeafor

  “Delicately. You can’t ask the host for the alliance. They will let you know. The best you can do is show up and try to fit in. Some of the bigger clans are the Kiss Army, The Idolize Yourself Clan—which is based on Billy Idol, The Maggot Nation—that is George Clinton and P-Funk inspired, and The Voodoo Children which consists of Jimi Hendrix Muse followers.”

  “OK, one last question. What is your power? I know you do more than sell weapons.”

  “Son, you don’t ever want to be looking down the barrel of a gun when I’m on the other side. I don’t miss. You can run but you can’t hide. It’s the same story whether I have throwing knives, a cross bow, a compound bow, throwing stars, or a blowgun with darts. I never miss. Never.”

  “I see. You’re that good, huh?”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  “When can I get my weapons?”

  “I can have everything but your precious BC-41 tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good. Thank you for the advice.”

  I give him a tip of 500 credits.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” he replies.

  We shake hands and go our separate ways.

  I am in Funkytown which borders Uptown on the north. This area of town is named after the song by Lipps, Inc. and disco is all the craze. People are dancing it up here in Disco Inferno to Diana Ross’s “Love Hangover.” Some are dressed in 70s style clothing, others wear the current dress fashions.

  “Nice shirt,” says an older heavy-set Asian woman. She has short hair and appears to be in her early 50s.

  “It’s cheap. Hawaiian shirts aren’t really my thing.”

  “Your hair. Who did it? It looks nice,” she says with her foreign accent.

  I sigh. I know what she wants. Why fight it. I tap my credit bracelet with my index finger. It reads my fingerprint and goes from red to green.

  She also activates her credit bracelet as the green light appears.

  “75 credits,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “We can go out back in the alley and fool around if you would like.”

  “No, thank you,” I respond.

  That is the third person today to comment on this stupid shirt. It’s colorful being red, black and white—but still. It would look even nicer if I had worn my blue jean shorts rather than these khaki shorts. And what’s up with the comment on the haircut. It’s nothing fancy. A close crop with an electric razor.

  “Credit whores are so annoying,” says a blond sitting next to me at the bar. She has short hair. Even in the low light I can see the dark roots of her hair—so no, that blond is not natural. She has on a pink tank top and a black mini-skirt with black fishnet stockings. She has on heavy eye shadow and make-up.

  “Yeah, annoying,” I agree.

  “You may want to reconsider meeting her out back. I hear she gives excellent blowjobs.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “And for the record, you are way too kind. 75 credits—come on.”

  “I wanted her to go away.”

  “This social based economy can really work your nerves at times,” she says.

  “I’m sure it can.”

  “My name is Roxxy. I went by Roxanne in the old world. Roxxy seems more fitting here.”

  “I can’t argue with you there. This is a Roxxy kind of town.”

  “I’m originally from Memphis, Tennessee. I’ve been here eight years. I’ve been trying to lose my southern accent. It’s not cool around here except in Opryville.”

  “You’ve done a pretty good job of losing your accent.”

  “Thanks, and you’re originally from where?”

  “The Twin Cities—Minneapolis.”

  “Cool.”

  “Where is Opryville?” I ask.

  “The south side of the city. It’s the boring looking part of town at night. Every other area in town has neon and bright lights. Opryville is pretty conservative. That is the country western area of town.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “It’s not a big part of the city, thank God. And despite its boring look, it can still be dangerous.”

  “Thanks, that’s good to know. I am new around here. Do you have any other advice?”

  “On the far eastside is Dragontown. Nobody goes there—nobody. It’s the stomping ground of the Alice Cooper based The Billion Dollar Babies. Every once in a while, they have what we outsiders call The Reaping. They call it the Zombie’s Dance. Essentially, somehow, some way they decide who has overstayed their welcome here and go find them. They kill resistors and take those who cooperate to the House of the Rising Sun for departure. The departed go to a similar place like this to learn different lessons—or maybe reinforce lessons that have not taken hold here—I don’t know. You also may be lucky enough to go to your final resting place. The Billion Dollar Babies are large, powerful and totally badass. You do not want to tangle with them.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

  “Do you dance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. When a good song comes on I want to sample your dancing skills.”

  “Hey, if either one of you are into some real freaky sex, I can get you a pass to the basement,” says a Hispanic bartender.

  “I’ll pass,” I say.

  “I’ll take a rain check as well,” says Roxxy.

  A burly black man with a scowl bursts into our personal space and stands between our stools at the bar.

  “I don’t like you,” he snarls at me.

  He has a huge bushy afro and a bushy unkempt beard. He is at least 6 foot 3 and weighs at least 330 pounds.

  “How can you not like me? You don’t know me.”

  “Oh, so you’re a smart ass.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

  Both of his hands shoot out and wrap around my neck. I quickly attack the pressure points in his wrist and he releases his grip. I pull his hands away and quickly rise up off of the stool delivering a vicious head butt under his chin.

  He staggers back and falls into a group of people and ends up landing on his big ass.

  I break a half empty vodka bottle and stand over him.

  He tries to get up on his shaky legs. I can’t tell if his legs are shaky because of my head butt or his alcohol consumption.

  “Do you want some more?” I yell over the loud music.

  “No,” I can see from reading his lips as he shakes his right hand waving me off.

  I still stay in my attack position as he staggers to his feet and walks unsteadily out of the club.

  “That was good, real good,” says Roxxy. “Let’s dance,” says Roxxy as she pulls me to the dance floor.

  “Bad Girls” by Donna Summer has just come on.

  We danced all night long. At the end of the evening, I gave her a 300 credit tip. She gave me a 100 credit tip saying she was low on credits. I gave her another 150 credits. The weird social graces of this place. It’s going to take a while to get used to this new economic system.

  Every commercial establishment in this city is either a strip club, whorehouse, restaurant, hotel, nightclub, spiritual emporium or a church. Or at least it seems that way.

  I’m in Trombipulation a huge club slash church in Chocolate City. The people who live in this part of town call themselves the Maggot Nation.

  I’m sitting in the bleachers of a huge auditorium when the band starts to play “Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow” by Funkadelic. The psychedelic funk of the song pulsates around the room. Everybody jumps up and starts to dance.

  You would think with the high domed ceiling the sound would be terrible but the acoustics are perfect.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” says one of the singers. “I give you The Maggot Overlord.”

  With that, a tall lean man with a short afro and beard hits the stage. A strip of hair about an inch above his ear and two inches high is gone. He has on sunglasses and a brown robe.

  The weird hairstyle is jarring b
ut it fits when considering the strange nature of the song. The band is chaotic. There seems to be no cohesive coordination to their movements. The entire band does their own thing and dance in tune to the music. Others writhe on the floor and run around the huge stage with reckless abandon. While all this is happening, The Maggot Overlord calmly observes the scene and the crowd through his sunglasses.

  “People. people, people,” he intones in a hoarse yet authoritative voice. “Maggot Nation, are you present and accounted for?”

  “Yes,” roars the crowd.

  There must be close to ten thousand people in the auditorium.

  “Are we maggots?” asks the Maggot Overlord

  “Yes,” responds the crowd.

  “Maggots are reviled. Maggots are feared. Maggots eat the carcasses of the dead. But maggots should not be feared,” says the Maggot Overlord as the band settles into a striped down soft funky groove.

  “For maggots are good. Maggots devour the old to make way for the new. We are the maggots in the mind of humanity. You have disavowed us. You have cast us aside. Yet we remain. We have no problem living on the edges of your existence. You may view us as your refuse—your trash. We understand. But change in humanity; it will come through us. We are the lost, the forgotten, the untouchables. You believe we are out of sight, out of mind. Yet, here we are. Free your mind!” he screams.

  “And your ass will follow!” the crowd roars.

  “Maggots!”

  “Yes!” responds the crowd.

  “Maggots. They fear us, but why. Love is the answer. We only want peace and love for them. Yet, they still fear us. All we represent is a release from the rat race. A connection with one’s self. Free your mind and your ass will follow!” he bellows.

  “Now, what they need—what we need to do is release the doo doo chasers on them. You know what the doo doo chasers are? They are the mental and psychological laxative that washes the negative shit out of the mind. We all have a lot of negative shit in our minds that serve us no good. Maggots, we must embrace the doo doo chasers of the funk and cleanse our minds of this negative mind-shit. Shitty minds leads to shitty actions. And shitty actions lead to shitty attitudes. Maggots, life is beautiful. We have spent too many days with shitty attitudes because of the worthless bullshit in our minds. What we need is a visit from the doo doo chasers to cleanse our minds of this worthless shit. Do you hear me Maggot Nation?”

  “Yeah,” the crowd roars.

  “The doo doo chasers will run down and eliminate this need to compete in the rat race. The doo doo chasers will clean the shit off of The Jones, Dick and Jane, Jack and Jill and all of the other symbols of the rat race. The doo doo chasers will teach you how to live again. How to live for yourself, your families and the people you care about. The doo doo chasers will lead you to peace.” He pauses.

  “Yeah,” someone says.

  “Tell it,” another adds.

  “Maggots, when humanity gets their mind right, they will look at us differently. It won’t matter if you are gay, straight, black, white or brown. It won’t matter if you are tall, short, skinny or fat. It will all be all right. They will realize that we are all good in the eyes of God. They will know that it is our actions that count—not how we look or who we love. Can I get an Amen?”

  “Amen,” responds the crowd.

  “Good. Now band.”

  “Yeah,” responds the band.

  “Can we get funky for the people?”

  “Yeah,” they respond.

  “Good. Because funk is liberating. Funk is letting your body become free. And if your body is free, your mind will soon follow. The drums represent the heart of the matter. The bass—that’s the primordial ooze of the universe. The guitar and keyboards are they rhythm of it all and the horns summon the power from the heavens above. Can I get a witness.”

  “Amen,” bellows the crowd.

  “Hit me, band,” says the Maggot Overlord.

  The band starts into “Do That Stuff,” by Parliament.

  Why am I still surprised about the goings on of the Maggot Nation? I own every George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, Parliament and Funkadelic album. The Maggot Overlord’s sermon was inspired by “Promentalshitbackwashpsychosis Enema Squad (The Doo Doo Chasers),” a song on the One Nation Under a Groove album by Funkadelic.

  I am in the basement of the huge complex called Trombipulation. I look through a wall of glass and watch Dr. Funkenstein and his Children of Production putting the finishing touches on a new clone.

  “So is Levar Burton’s Geordi La Forge from Star Trek’s the Next Generation the only clone Dr. Funkenstein likes to make?” I ask.

  “Yo, man, Star Trek is the shit,” replies Mr. Wiggles. He is a weird offbeat kind of guy. He is a skinny dark-skinned, black man with a huge afro. He has on an orange monks robe with huge oversized red sunglasses. I am not sure what role he has with the Maggot Nation but he seems important.

  “How did you get the DNA to do the Geordi clones?”

  “It costed us a lot of credits. I know that much, but it was worth it. From what I’m told, someone got a strand of his hair from a pillow in a hotel.”

  “You know, you should tell Dr. Funkenstein not to put him in that red Star Trek shirt. It’s bad luck. The redshirts have a bad habit of dying.”

  “For true?” responds Mr. Wiggles.

  “Yeah.”

  “That is good to know. I’ll make sure the good doctor knows that. Thank you for the information. The Maggot Nation would take the loss of our Geordi’s hard.”

  “I’m sure they would.” I try to remember the song “Mr. Wiggles,” by Parliament. I can hear the beat.

  We walk away from Dr. Funkenstein’s lab down a hallway. The hallway is concrete, stark, and dimly lit.

  I try to sort out all of what I’ve seen so far. The Maggot Nation has pretty good security. Red Hot Momma is a red-haired, shapely, attractive, white woman who can produce and control fire. The Atomic Dog is a longhaired black man in his late 50s who can produce potent exploding plasma. Ultra Wave is a 24-year old skinny bald-headed Asian man who can produce powerful energy waves that can destroy things. He can level small buildings or cause people to explode. All by manipulating supersonic and subsonic waves. Cosmic Slop is a black woman in her early 70s who can produce potent gases and acids. Chocolate Star, is an attractive young black woman who can fly and wield the Bop Gun. From what I’m told, the Bop Gun is a powerful laser gun that only works when she uses it. Finally, Bootzilla, can manipulate low-end waves to cause destruction similar to Ultra Wave. He can also move objects around. They all dress in normal attire except for Cosmic Slop and Bootzilla. Cosmic Slop dresses like an old crone in a gray monk’s robe. Bootzilla wears a sequined white jump suit with a mask with big stars over the eyes.

  “How you like it here, man?” asks Mr. Wiggles.

  “It’s cool. I like it here. I was a big fan back in the old world.”

  “You dig it then?” he asks.

  “I can dig it.”

  “Good, good. I don’t know if they’ll let you become a member of the P-Funk Thang but it’s good you’re feeling our action.”

  “How do you become a recognized member?”

  “The Maggot Overlord and uncle Jam make the final determination.”

  “I see. Hey, what’s the deal with Sir Nose Devoid of Funk.”

  Mr. Wiggles gives me a weird blank stare.

  “You are Sir Nose—all Non-Maggots are Sir Nose—but you can dance. I saw what happened to you last night when the funk hit ya up. You can dance. There is hope for you yet.”

  “Thank you. I am a very good dancer. I actually won some dance competitions in high school.”

  “That’s good to know. It will help your cause if you desire to become a full-fledged member.”

  “Ahhh, what about the Undisco Kidd?”

  “He used to be one of us. He was the old Ultra Wave. He decided he would leave the fold and try to win him some bounties. He is a much weaker form
of the new Ultra Wave because he is not in harmony with the true essence of the song.

  “I see, interesting.”

  “Well, here we are. Ripley Greer I give you Baby Maggot, the scribe and historian of the Maggot Nation, and The Maggot Bride, Chief of Security.”

  Baby Maggot is a slightly chunky brown skinned black man wearing a huge diaper. The Maggot Bride is a muscular, dark skinned black man with a full beard. He is probably six foot three. He is also wearing a white wedding dress. From what they say, he possesses super strength.

  “Nice dress,” I say to the Maggot Bride.

  “I’m glad you approve,” he replies with a mischievous smile.

  “So, you have been sent to us by Octavia Scott and Ms. ‘I’ll Take You There’—Marva Anderson?” says Baby Maggot.

  “Yes, sir,” I respond.

  “Have a seat,” he says pointing to the metal bench screwed into the wall. “Maggot Brain will see you shortly.”

  I hope Maggot Brain can do something. I’m sick of this crazy shit in my head. I need some answers. I don’t even know when this stuff was put inside of me.

  I want my old self-back. Maybe that’s impossible, but I would like something close to the old me back.

  What right do they have to take who I was from me? Who was I, who am I now, and who will I become? I don’t know any more but I must become a better person. I must right a terrible wrong and I can’t do that with this awful thing in my head.

  I can’t wait to find Chantay. How will I explain what happened? Her memories from the old world will not be erased. She will remember it all. But she could tell that the man who killed her was not me. I saw it in her eyes when I was in the holy water with Marva. She’ll understand. I know she will.

  I am strapped to a spinning stone disk. My arms, legs, torso and neck are tied down. I steel cage is over my face and head and I can’t turn my head.

  Maggot Brain stands before me. He is a tall skinny black man who looks to be in his late 30s or early 40s. He has on a black hooded robe that hangs open. The hood covers his head. He wears a black and yellow diving mask on his face, black boxing trunks with white trim, and black military combat boots.