Semiautomatic muzzle-flash all about her, a ricocheting glitter she batted away, the incoming slow as water balloons lobbed by a three-year-old. She hacked would-be heroes in half. Funny, how you think the first shift at the slaughterhouse will be so hard, really seeing how the sausage gets made, where pork chops come from. But it turns out, you’re about that life. You were made for this, babygirl! Don’t shit faze you. Flinging swatches of crimson over every surface surrounding her, she felt almost bad. It was too easy. (“At places, the blood in there so deep, your shoes stepped in, your socks got wet…”) Best of all she liked it when they tried to hide. Chopping in after them through the barricades, the doors, the little under-desk shelters. Then one pretty moment, when most cowered and begged, some rallied to squeeze off a last shot, and she finished that piggy and went for the next. You ever just start laughing, can’t stop? The party’s so good, you’re having such a nice time?
4.3 police massacre, October
4.4 state funeral, November
4.5 police massacre, October
Mrs. Liam Conor O’Donnell, dec., stood and approached the pulpit. You could see she ate salads, worked out, no bread. A face for TV, makeup on point, and that gown fitting very well—but everything tasteful.
Addressing St. Patrick’s navy-clad pews: “I know that all of you join with me and the rest of America in grieving the loss of so many of—and truly they were—New York’s Finest.”
“Bitch won’t cry.”
“That hoe will definitely cry. Now, shh.”
“But look at her makeup,” Anhell said. “How she tryna mess that up? Nope. Watch, not one tear.”
“Bet you some bomb ass head we getting tears from her.” And you know she had to be sure, because she hated giving head! “Now, shush, so I can hear.”
“…our respects to the slain and honoring their sacrifice. Ladies, when our men fall, we must take up arms and the battle cry. To contribute to the cause and the future I’ve borne two beautiful daughters. I’ve been a good wife.” She smiled sadly and the camera flashed on two blond cherubs in white blouses, black jumpers. “I still remember those last moments when Liam—Lieutenant O’Donnell—when he was going out to work… I wanted to tell him.” She lay a palm over the flatness of her immaculate belly. A murmur and stir convulsed the pews. “Yes. A new baby. This one, I know, will be the son Liam always wanted, a boy who will now never—”
“Lemme get a puff of that, yo.”
“Thought you wasn’t fucking with the weed like that? Damn, girl! Keep smoking like this, you bout to turn into a ’head like me.”
“Nigga, just pass the blunt.”
“All of us gathered here today know that a darkness is falling over this nation and over the earth itself. As demographics shift, the struggle for the continuance of Western Civilization has become existential. Diverse elements would see the blood and soil of this nation washed away in a dismal tide. But it is incumbent upon the Herrenvolk to secure the future for our children and for theirs. No, there can be no parley with evil; strength must be our answer. Before the Almighty, I swear to you that we will prevail over our enemies, and the perpetrators of this tragedy shall soon know our vengeance…”
4.4 state funeral, November
4.5 police massacre, October
4.6 state funeral, November
Knocking motherfuckers out really don’t work the way it do in movies. Sad to say, but not all the black cops she smashed upside the head with the flat or blunt of her demonic machète lived to tell the tale. And, to be honest, Satan was from jump like You can miss me with all this conscious killing, organic murder crap. Whenever she tried to spare the lives of too many women, black, Asian, Spanish in a row, buddy got fed up and made the machète spin in her grip from play side to business end. Oop! A couple of the wrong heads went flying too. Oh, shit, sorry! Bees that way sometime, though. The third or fourth time Satan decided enough with this woke ass bullshit, and caused the machète to spin from “knockout” position to “decap,” the unbreakable barrel of Anhell’s shotgun intervened, clangingly, before her always-fatal edge could claim this victim.
“I thought we was only killing the whitepeople, the men?” Anhell said, and jerked his chin at the policewoman kneeling between them. “She ain’t neither one.”
Brownskin. Not short, not tall. All right looking, although the uniform’s shapeless navy slacks and boxy polyester shirt were doing her thickness no favors. The policewoman was definitely a stranger, but seemed incredibly familiar at first glance… and then she realized why. “Get yo ass outta here,” she snarled, gesturing up with the machète. Go!
Commuted from slaughter, a fawn clambering to her feet between the lioness and leopard, the policewoman stood up warily.
“Go on,” Anhell said, smiling warmly. “We gotta finish up here.”
About to run, the policewoman did a double take. “Oh, you got some pretty eyes, though!”
“Well, thank you,” Anhell exclaimed, giving light skin, delighted surprise, a charming smile. “It’s so nice a you to say that!”
Oh see? We can’t have this. He got the broad ready to put the pussy on him right here!
“Bissh,” she slushed, hefting the machète in a manner that said I’m not the one. “You can run or you can die. How you playing it?”
Anhell peeped her face real quick for resolve, and said, “Yeah, sorry,” to the policewoman regretfully. “But you better run now, for real.”
Brownskin sister heard and took her leave in such haste, the peaked hat of her uniform was knocked off her head, the hair underneath all short, every which way, and toe up.
He liked exactly the kind of dudes you’d expect, elevens on the ten-point scale, this jet-black Senegalese model, that Colombian semipro futbolista, another “big dick country ass redbone nigga from down south,” quote unquote, overheard. Anhell only wanted the brown girls, though, and they had to look just like her.
4.5 police massacre, October
4.6 state funeral, November
4.7 police massacre, October
Eulogy done, the apostle widows came to surround, weeping, the beautiful one at the podium. They clutched one another’s fingers, their red-blotched wet faces becoming downright ugly with sobs. The cameras knew where and on whom to linger, blond Jesus widow who, blinking her tear-jeweled black lashes, smiled bravely and freed up two or three telegenic drops for St. Patrick’s Cathedral, for New York City, and for the United States of America. Did her mascara smudge or run? Fuck no! And, God, did the bitch look good!
“Aww…!” said Anhell, every gambler’s exclamation, when his bet goes bad.
Cracking up, she fell back on the couch. “Didn’t I say, nigga?” She rolled around on the pillows. “Told your ass!”
Anhell pointed at the recession of president, mayor, widows. “Shit came out just like you said, though. And we ain’t even done yet.” Tumbler in hand, he took the bottle in his other, liquoring up his meltwater and ice. “Copkillers? Godkillers! And we don’t stop.” As if, sitting down, he just couldn’t get the feeling out right, Anhell jumped to his feet shouting at the blue televised ranks filing from the church. “Fuck the poe lease! It’s on for life. We gunning for alla you motherfuckers!” His eyes came alight, red as the EXIT sign far down a dark hallway. In his wild hand, the bottle sloshing. “Fiddy shots shot, fiddy cops dropped!” His pretty lips sputtering, like a lighter that won’t catch, sparks, not spit. And though it was commercials by now, this nigga steady yelling. “…end up dying, staring at the roof the church, ya ladies crying…!”