Sometimes people need a little color in their lives - or six!
And then there are some people that don’t deserve anything. Not color, not forgiveness, and not even life. What you are about to read is a tragedy. It’s painful, it’s horrible, and worst of all, it’s true.
It was late spring when I arrived at this small backward town in Georgia. My car had broken down and without any signal on my cellphone, I was forced to walk for who knows how long before finding this place. My first impression was that it was a small quaint town, but on closer inspection I could already feel the hateful glares of the locals eyeing me. I was a stranger, a foreigner unwelcome in there. It would not have surprised me if I was told that I was the first black person they had ever seen in their entire inbred lives.
Luckily the garage was close by and I walked over to it. Two mechanics walked out, one was short and morbidly obese, while the other one was tall and extremely skinny, both wore jean suspenders covered in grease and what looked like blood, their mouths full of chewing tobacco, which they spat at my direction as I approached them. Not wanting to cause any trouble, considering that I had no means of defense, I forced a smile on my face.
“Excuse me, but I seem to be having some trouble with my car. Is there a phone I can use to call triple A?” I asked.
“Whatcha need ta call triple-A fer? Ya stoopid niggar can’t fix a car?” The two hooted a laugh.
Ignoring the racial remark, I continued, “I have insurance and a membership. Why would I fix my car when I can get a professional to do it. I would have called them already, but my cellphone does work in this area...”
“Where’d you steal that, you niggar! There’s no fakkin’ way you’d afford that!” The fat one shouted as he poked me with a lug wrench against my chest.
“Back off Billy-Bob,” a voice shouted to my left. A man in uniform came walking towards us, on his chest was a bronze star. The local town sheriff, I suspected. “Back off.”
“But Sh’riff,” Billy-Bob whined, “he stole a phone-thing frum sum decent white folk!”
“Billy-Bob, how many times do I have to tell you that these things are cheap. We don’t have ‘em cause they won’t work here. Now take yer tools and mosey on.”
The fat freak turned around and skulked away, all the while shooting me glances of vicious hatred with those eyes. I swallowed despite myself.
“What’cha doin’ here, boy?” The Sheriff stated keeping his distance from me, and his hand firmly placed on a gun. Calling me a ‘boy’, another racial slur really bothered me, more than the other word did. He might have just as well called me ‘slave’. I needed to get out of there, and fast.
My eyes remained glued to his weapon, “I wanted to use a phone. I just need to call triple-A and I’ll be gone.”
“Sure. Come with me,” He looked at Billy-Bob, “Now why don’t you two get back to work.”
As I walked into the Sheriff’s office, I saw a wall covered in dead animals. Pelts, furs, heads, full statues. Everything.
“Phone’s there, boy.”
Ignoring the feeling I had of wanting to punch that ignorant fucker in the face, I walked over to the phone and dialed. The conversation took around ten minutes, but the person on the other end told me that it would take several hours before they could reach my car, and then depending on the damage would take another few hours.
Hours in this place? I’d rather wait at the car.
“Okay, then I’ll either be here or...” I turned to the Sheriff, “What’s this town called?”
“Heaven.”
“The town’s name is ‘Heaven’.” The person on the other end laughed, “Yes, so I’ll be either in the town, or on my way to my car.”
We exchanged some other details before I hung up. My last connection to normal society severed, I turned to the Sheriff who was sitting on the edge of his desk staring at me. His hand still resting firmly on his revolver.
“I guess I’ll be going now,” I said.
“You do that, boy.”
As I was about to step out, I heard some hooting and hollering.
“What’s goin’ on?” The Sheriff demanded, shoving me aside.
“Sheriff, Joey found some blue demon in a box outside the back of his garage! You gotta come see!” a local shouted, pointing back towards the area where I had just come from.
A demon? And a blue demon at that. This I had to see.
As I approach the garage, I spotted Billy-Bob holding a small creature by the end of its tail. The creature didn’t like that one bit and tried to escape flapping its tiny wings. The thing was, it wasn’t a bird. It looked like a tiny horse. A pony that had a tail with all the colors of a rainbow. Even from where I stood I could tell it was a juvenile. A young filly of sorts.
The creature managed to swing itself upwards and bit Billy-Bob on the finger.
He dropped it. As it landed, it tried to get up and run, but it barely was able to stand before it was struck on the back of the head with a lug wrench. It collapsed to the ground and didn’t move.
“Hoo-ey! We got ourselves a genuine demon!” the mechanic hollered, placing the wrench across his massive shoulders.
“Is it dead?” Someone else asked.
The little creature answered their questions by slowly raising its head in a daze. A second blow to the back of the head with the same weapon resulted in knocking it out again, this time blood oozed out of an open wound.
“That things got wings!” Another shouted, “It’s one of them... horse-thingies from the rapture!”
“Where’s the preacher?”
“Preacher!” They all called.
[Nope. Can’t write any more.]
