burned. Then it mostly freckled and peeled. Constantly peeled. Even his scalp pealed beneath his brush-cut red hair.
Rein sported a brawler’s knuckles—dry and hard and heavily calloused. Black grease filled the many cracks that laced over his hands’ thick skin, and embedded deeply under and around the fingernails on both of his meaty, pink, and freckled paws.
“Who the fuck do those porch monkeys think they are, standing there all high and fucking mighty, beating their nigger fists and shoving their black power, Mau Mau bullshit down my throat?” Buster finally bellowed, making sure his voice carried to the group that offended him.
“Fuck you niggers, you motherfuckers,” Laddie Cross then called to them, not to have Buster outdo his racist zeal.
With his thumbs hooked in his waistband and his chin jutting upward, Buster Rein bellowed, “Jigass coons. Think they own the whole fucking world since Lyndon Johnson freed ’em all!”
Then Rein laughed hard and looked over his shoulder for agreement from his buddies. They nervously cackled and flashed toothy grins to show him that they supported his bravado. He took another step forward, scuffing through the dust, and growled, “Fucking black power! I ain’t scared of no black power bullshit.”
“Hey, man, don’t let those peckerhead chuck motherfuckers mess in your head,” Wendell Carter said to Celestine Anderson, seeing the anger immediately flush bright red across his normally deep honey-gold cheeks. “Don’t let those fucked-up slices of white bread get to you, man. I mean it!”
“Shut the fuck up, and leave me to it,” Anderson growled in a low voice, pulling his arm out of the sudden grasp of his hometown buddy who wanted to stop any trouble before it broke out.
“It’s no good, man. Not here. Not right now. We can get those motherfuckers later on,” Carter said, again grabbing for Celestine’s arm as Anderson now stepped toward the redneck quartet and glared. He dared any of them to lock onto his eyes.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Anderson said to Carter, yanking his arm again from his buddy’s grasp, and now exchanging napalm stares straight on with Buster Rein.
“Watch this,” Rein said to his now silent cohorts as he cockwalked arrogantly toward Anderson.
Wendell Carter stepped in front of Celestine Anderson, and looked at him nose to nose and whispered, “You got to walk away from this shit, man. Right now! These fuckups is all bad news. Bad all around, and not even any of the other white boys around this camp likes any of them either. Let it go, man. Let it go!”
“Hey!” Buster Rein called out, seeing Carter trying to block off his buddy from a certain fight. He clenched a cigarette in his teeth and bit down on its filter while smiling widely as he spoke. “Hey, hey, you coons! You boys hear me? Any you niggers got a light?”
“Sho!” Celestine called back, and shoved Carter out of his way. Then under his breath he said to himself, “You dead motherfucker.”
“What’s that, boy?” Buster called back.
“I said, sho, man,” Anderson bellowed. “I gots a light.”
While Buster Rein spread a wide smile, clenching the cigarette in his teeth, rolling in a spring step off the balls of his feet, his fists both clenched ready for battle, Celestine Anderson bounded straight at the cocky redneck.
Reaching in his left trouser pocket, the shaved bald Houston Marine pulled out his Zippo lighter and flicked open the lid. He thrust it toward Buster Rein’s nose and struck a spark that licked out an orange fireball that leaped into the white boy’s nostrils.
Rein automatically blinked his eyes shut and yanked his head backward, putting the tip of his cigarette into the four-inch flame, and then sucked hard on the filter.
In the same fluid motion that Celestine Anderson had brought out the flashing chrome lighter and ignited it with his left hand, he had reached behind his back with his right hand and found where his
Rein sported a brawler’s knuckles—dry and hard and heavily calloused. Black grease filled the many cracks that laced over his hands’ thick skin, and embedded deeply under and around the fingernails on both of his meaty, pink, and freckled paws.
“Who the fuck do those porch monkeys think they are, standing there all high and fucking mighty, beating their nigger fists and shoving their black power, Mau Mau bullshit down my throat?” Buster finally bellowed, making sure his voice carried to the group that offended him.
“Fuck you niggers, you motherfuckers,” Laddie Cross then called to them, not to have Buster outdo his racist zeal.
With his thumbs hooked in his waistband and his chin jutting upward, Buster Rein bellowed, “Jigass coons. Think they own the whole fucking world since Lyndon Johnson freed ’em all!”
Then Rein laughed hard and looked over his shoulder for agreement from his buddies. They nervously cackled and flashed toothy grins to show him that they supported his bravado. He took another step forward, scuffing through the dust, and growled, “Fucking black power! I ain’t scared of no black power bullshit.”
“Hey, man, don’t let those peckerhead chuck motherfuckers mess in your head,” Wendell Carter said to Celestine Anderson, seeing the anger immediately flush bright red across his normally deep honey-gold cheeks. “Don’t let those fucked-up slices of white bread get to you, man. I mean it!”
“Shut the fuck up, and leave me to it,” Anderson growled in a low voice, pulling his arm out of the sudden grasp of his hometown buddy who wanted to stop any trouble before it broke out.
“It’s no good, man. Not here. Not right now. We can get those motherfuckers later on,” Carter said, again grabbing for Celestine’s arm as Anderson now stepped toward the redneck quartet and glared. He dared any of them to lock onto his eyes.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Anderson said to Carter, yanking his arm again from his buddy’s grasp, and now exchanging napalm stares straight on with Buster Rein.
“Watch this,” Rein said to his now silent cohorts as he cockwalked arrogantly toward Anderson.
Wendell Carter stepped in front of Celestine Anderson, and looked at him nose to nose and whispered, “You got to walk away from this shit, man. Right now! These fuckups is all bad news. Bad all around, and not even any of the other white boys around this camp likes any of them either. Let it go, man. Let it go!”
“Hey!” Buster Rein called out, seeing Carter trying to block off his buddy from a certain fight. He clenched a cigarette in his teeth and bit down on its filter while smiling widely as he spoke. “Hey, hey, you coons! You boys hear me? Any you niggers got a light?”
“Sho!” Celestine called back, and shoved Carter out of his way. Then under his breath he said to himself, “You dead motherfucker.”
“What’s that, boy?” Buster called back.
“I said, sho, man,” Anderson bellowed. “I gots a light.”
While Buster Rein spread a wide smile, clenching the cigarette in his teeth, rolling in a spring step off the balls of his feet, his fists both clenched ready for battle, Celestine Anderson bounded straight at the cocky redneck.
Reaching in his left trouser pocket, the shaved bald Houston Marine pulled out his Zippo lighter and flicked open the lid. He thrust it toward Buster Rein’s nose and struck a spark that licked out an orange fireball that leaped into the white boy’s nostrils.
Rein automatically blinked his eyes shut and yanked his head backward, putting the tip of his cigarette into the four-inch flame, and then sucked hard on the filter.
In the same fluid motion that Celestine Anderson had brought out the flashing chrome lighter and ignited it with his left hand, he had reached behind his back with his right hand and found where his
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