ALiENaTE

AFF.net Forward: I usually host these stories on my own website. However, I am hosting them here as well, in order to get criticism, which my usual audience does not provide me. So, please. Criticize. Constructively, of course.


“Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.”
-Malcolm X


“Fuck my balls, fuckin’ fucker! Fuckin’ shit ass mother fucker! Fuck!” yelled the thirty something man as he hurled the white portable phone to the gray tiled floor. The outer plastic shell snapped off, ricocheting away and landing several feet from where the integrated circuits that operate the device now laid. Unsatisfied ending his vent of rage there, the man of dark skin reached for his hip. His hands clenched the handle of a fairly regularly used full size Beretta handgun. He slid it away from his baggy second-hand Fubu blue jeans, turning it counter-clockwise as he moved it away from his body. The safety was turned off. The man took aim with his slanted pistol, his arm fully extended as he grasped the trigger with his right index finger.
Ishamael Soedit entered his office, sliding his thumbs underneath his red suspenders. Through his cinnamon eyes he took in the scene. Walls made of thick stone bricks, painted cerulean, a small portion of the south wall being an exception. It was there the blocks were turquoise. They had run out of cerulean paint. At least it’s still blue, Soedit reminded himself whenever he would enter. Before the latest coat of paint had been applied, the walls were of a bilious spinach color, and this continued to show through in spots his staff had failed to cover. Ironic, he mused, that men able to snipe a man in black sweats in an unlit alleyway on a moonless evening from a hundred yards away with Kel-Tec P3AT pocket pistols could miss the dark green amongst all the blue. Directly facing the amber double-doorway set in a chestnut frame with a copper knob was a desk constructed of ebony. On this desk was a newly purchased Hewlett-Packard PC running as a triple boot system; at his leisure Soedit could choose to operate Windows 2000, Windows XP, or a distribution of Linux. Despite the flexibility, Soedit found himself booting into XP every time. Perhaps it was that he did not want people thinking he was just some “broke ass nigga” who could not afford the latest update to Bill Gates’ monopoly. Of course, if he truly cared what others thought of him, he would have had the entire room painted a single color by professionals.
The truth of the matter was the Soedit was wealthy, though his fortunes were earned in blood. The pimp lifestyle made popular in his lifetime held no appeal to him. The riches were not what he set to gain when he founded his organization. His goals were inscribed on a poster framed with gold behind his chair, between the two windows shaded with navy curtains. “The Ten Point Program,” it announced. The first point was Soedit considered most important. “We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our black and oppressed communities.” Those ten points were exactly the same as those of the Black Panthers. This was intentional, as he originally modeled his organization after theirs. Next to his self-customized PC was a reminder of this, an old photograph of his father, Ezekiel Soedit, shaking hands with co-founder of the Black Panthers Huey P. Newton. This office was a shrine to Newton and other important black figures, names like Frederick Douglas, Muhammed Ali, David Hillard, Harriet Tubman, and of course, Malcolm X. This man, more than any other, was whom Soedit had inspired to become. It was now, however, he felt that he had surpassed his paradigm. The world just had yet to see it. They would soon.
Soedit’s eyes shifted from his brown hood and robes hanging from his father’s antique coat rack to his portable phone’s charger, then further to the right to meet a man in a metal folding chair, a glare in his eyes as he watched the smoke dissipate from the barrel of his gun. His gaze made a final trip to the floor to meet the shattered mess of plastic and silicon. He was afraid to ask, but he had to.
“Dagen… what the hell?” Soedit asked, his usual deep, tired voice a little higher due to the surprise. Dagen stood up, lifting his white ribbed shirt from the left to slip it back next to his hip. Dagen did not know where to begin; the tick-tock of the analogue clock hanging above the door broke the silence of the room six times as he rubbed his short, cornrowed hair in thought.
“I shot the phone,” Dagen managed, his eyes fixated on the destruction he instigated.
“Well no shit. Why did you shoot the phone, Dagen?” Soedit pressed. Beads of sweat formed on Degan’s forehead. His visible nervousness further agitated his boss.
“Wait, before I answer that question, I need you to promise me yo’ gun ain’t loaded,” he squeaked, retreating behind the desk.
“I promise nothin’,” Soedit replied. Dagen’s feet left the floor without the slightest warning, dashing frantically for the door knob. “Dagen…” He halted, turning his head just enough to see through the very corner of his eye an empty silver revolver being laid on the desk. The man exhaled deeply. He would have to tell him eventually.
“It’s about the Black Warriors Project,” finally he admitted.
“What about them?” Dagen opened his mouth to reply. “The uniforms I ordered for them ain’t fittin’?” Dagen shook his head slowly.
“They ain’t even trying them on… But that ain’t the thing, it’s…”
“It’s what?”
“I ordered cable,” Dagen said quickly. Soedit rolled his eyes.
“We can afford it,” said Soedit, adjusting the cuff of his gray dress shirt.
“I know that… but well—“
“Wait, what does this have to do with Black Warriors?” Soedit’s head was tilted to the side and his eyebrow raised. His arms ain’t crossed, thought Dagen. That’s a good sign.
“This past month instead of the training videos you made for ‘em they’ve been watching BET…”
“BET? BET? Nigga, you know how I feel about BET!” shouted Soedit.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know.” Ishamael Soedit despised Black Entertainment Television. BET was the antithesis of all he hoped to accomplish. For every victory Soedit achieved, BET created a thousand defeats.
“First of all, it ain’t entertaining. Second… it hasn’t done shit for the black man other than displaying ignorant gang-banging mother fuckers as what he should be. The ban videos they consider ‘too intelligent.’ It’s materialist and misogynistic. They glorify ignorance. If I ever meet that fuckin’ Robert L. Johnson… man, I shouldn’t even have to say.”
“I know, I know,” repeated Damen.
“Bring me one of my warriors… I wanna see what damage cable television has done to them,” commanded Soedit with authority. Cowering, Damen stepped to the door, and opened it far enough to gesture for someone outside to come in. Seconds later, there in the doorway stood a wiry young black male with a shaved head and dark crimson eyes. His red, baggy shirt contained a white logo over the chest; a white wheel with a large angelic set of wings spread to the right. The bottom of his shirt contained a white stripe, and there were white stripes on the arms, just before where the sleeves were tied at the wrist. On his left write, a fake golden Rolex was secured; on his right, a bogus gold band. Dangling on his neck was a counterfeit gold chain, attached to which was a phony gold cross frosted with counterfeit diamonds. Tied over his forehead was a red bandana. With a cocky smile he stuck his nose in the air at Soedit.
“Oh, hell no…” muttered Soedit, his arms crossed. Not a good sign, thought Dagen.

“Of course, right away,” spoke Mr. Abed Haleem, carrying his portable phone with him into the CONTROL hallway. Like all the other floors in their ten story office building, CONTROL received its name from some portion of the ten-point program (DESTINY, LIVELIHOOD, SECURITY, SHELTER, EDUCATION, HEALTH, PROTECTION, PEACE, JUSTICE, CONTROL). Just as DESTINY (ground floor) sorted people out and sent them to their appropriate location and EDUCATION (the fifth floor) was used in the training of members and Black Warriors, CONTROL was the command of all aspects of their goal; specifically managing and overseeing the creation of Black Warriors. Like the entire building, it was rectangular with the exception of the corners being inverted towards the center. To the east were the restrooms; both very nice, very well cleaned and maintained. Moving west one would encounter the central offices; their were six of them, for the six men Soedit considered most important to him. To the north and south of the central offices were the offices of high ranking executives, those who provide a legitimate face for the illegitimate operation. Finally, on the very west of the building was the chestnut frame of the doorway leading into the office of Ishamael Soedit. This came into view as Haleem rounded the corner. He stopped tilting his head as the two doors swung suddenly outward, smashing into the wall. In about the time it takes for a crackhead to cash a welfare check, Dagen crashed onto the green tiled floor. Soedit’s figure emerged, the Black Warrior pointing and giggling behind him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t know they would… I didn’t know man! Please!”
“Two and half decades of work… two and a half decades! And with one click of the remote you’ve ended it all! I should kill your ass right now!” he threatened. Within seconds he held a long knife in his hand, with a jagged blade, and a long brown hilt. Dagen flinched immediately.
“Sir, it’s the man. He’d like to speak with you,” Haleem interrupted, not entirely surprised by Soedit’s sudden outburst on Dagen.
“The man?” Soedit mimed. Haleem nodded. Dagen opened his eyes, and saw the Soedit’s blade pierced into his left shoulder, pinning him into the floor. A tear rolled down his cheek from the pain, but he ignored it. He lifted his right arm to pull the knife out. “Touch it and die,” threatened Soedit, his eyes fixed on Dagen but head turned toward Haleem as he accepted the phone. “Yo. Yeah. Really? Really. Wisconsin? Shit, you serious? Alright, alright. Are you sure this will work, then?” As Soedit continued to converse on the phone, Jaquez Diante, or as he was jokingly referred around the office, “Blackdolf the Black,” emerged. He was garbed in baggy black jeans, and a black hooded sweatshirt with the words “P Miller” embroidered on it. The youngest of Soedit’s favored six, his face shown youthful optimism, and not the stress the bags beneath the eyes of the others portrayed. His naive eyes were deep in a brown book with yellow pages. It was a dark red, with gray portions, and a frightening relief of an angry lion on the front.
“Yo, listen to this shit. I think I finally figured out how to do this shit,” Diante stated allowed, flipping the book open and squatting next to Dagen.
“Man, I got a fucking knife in my fuckin’ shoulder, and you come over here with that Harry ass Potter shit. Get the fuck out, man,” he sighed.
“No, check it. Anyone can do this shit. It’s all a matter off… concentration, man. And spiritual… wholeness and shit.” Dagen rolled his eyes. “No man! For real! This is the shit our ancestors believed in… they fuckin’ shrunk heads and shit. This is how they did it.”
“That’s not how they did it, they… shit, you waste all your time looking up that fuckin’ occult and magicy shit, and you can’t even figure out how to shrink a fuckin’ head? Get a life, man.”
“I DO have a life. It’s bringing back the power our ancestors had. You’ll see it, man. Once I figure out how to do this shit, we won’t even need Black Warriors.”
“—We won’t be using the Black Warriors,” Soedit stated. “Not only are they not ready, but there’s no need for this to come to violence. No, no… no. Listen, this is your bitch, it ain’t mine. Let me know how it went.” Soedit hung up the phone, looking to Haleem. “I don’t want to use them… we shouldn’t have to. Not yet.”
“But we do need to test them out eventually… they can’t honestly fight in the Revolution without any experience at all.”
“But look at him!” Soedit spoke, pointing to the Black Warrior. The Warrior was smirking grabbing his pants by the crotch and cocking his head forward. “But I suppose… a real war would be enough to get them back in line… yeah. Yeah, it suppose it could work, but…”