WMD Ch. 01

That meant if Morris got in trouble, fifteen to twenty Samsonov's would show up to bail him out. That's what family meant. The other two were a retired Air Force couple, Parker and Mariana Carrington plus their infant William, that had moved in next door (that's 40 yards away in Alaska) when I was fourteen. They were in their early thirties and wanted to start a family. The woman had been pregnant with her second child when we left.

My Mom and another neighbor trundled her off to a clinic during her first birth. Dad had driven fifty miles in a blizzard to get her husband, so he could witness his firstborn come into the world. The man worked as a fishing boat mechanic and had gotten stuck at work when his wife went into early labor. It was the Alaskan way to look after one another.

I never much thought about minorities. There were nearly as many Native Alaskans attending my schools as White folk. The Natives knew my family going back eight generations. I had a few cousins who were 'First Peoples'. Minority? Majority? We were Alaskans and that was that.

Again, I didn't think much about there being a social and economic racial crevasse when I showed up in Kingston, Arkansas. I probably would have been totally blind-sided about it if Dad hadn't done his due diligence and went to the Kingston Police Station and Davis County Sheriff's Office to report his status as an Alaskan State Trooper and register his firearms.

Since we didn't know what to look for, we missed the obvious signs of trouble. The Black police officer that Dad talked to was ... impolite. He informed Dad there would be no 'courtesy' given despite Dad's professionalism - i.e. he wasn't permitted to carry any of his licensed firearms. The Sheriff's department was very different.

We met the Sheriff and the man got Dad to be about as verbose as I'd ever seen him. The Sheriff verified Dad's story, gave him a 90 Day permit for his sidearm and told him to make no never mind over the Town cops' hostility. He certainly seemed pleased Dad had three big, strong, strapping boys and gave Dad an application to join his department.

That night, Dad informed us all at the dining room table he was considering the Sheriff's job offer. Mom was secretly pleased (like her sister, she IS an evil mastermind and master manipulator). Anita, Bebe and Kamika were eating with us as well - Mom insisted all the help do so (the Hondurans weren't with us yet) - and I detected a hint of worry in their posture. I would have thought 'us' staying in the house, thus their continued employment, would be seen as a good thing.

That night, over some late night cocoa, Mom gave the family the regional 4-1-1. Kingston was 75% Black, 20% White and 5% other. The rest of Davis County was 95% White and 5% Black and other. In Kingston, the Blacks ruled the town. All elected officials and police officers were Black. The Sheriff's department had a few Black officers, but was mostly White.

It would have been all White except a combined lawsuit by Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) and NAACP forced the County to 'integrate'. I asked the logical question: why hadn't the town been forced to integrate too? Mom told me that wasn't how things worked in the Lower 48. Here, Blacks couldn't discriminate; they could only be discriminated against.

The Federal government said so. I was sensing shades of Uncle Theo in Mom's blanket assessment of things. My brothers and I were wrong. Mom was right. We were entering White Man's Hell aka Big Black Cock Country. Of course, Mom wasn't sadistic, or masochistic. She had a tidbit of knowledge no one this side of British Columbia was aware of - a Secret Weapon.

Dad applied for and got the job of Senior Deputy, which riled some of the other (read: Black) deputies, but Dad's extensive experience and easy-going manner eased his entry into the unit. Mom remained Mom - an unconventional, beautiful, free-spirited kook. She made no effort to make friends. I was the boldest of the triplets so I asked her why.

"Do you know how your Father's family would rather hack of a hand than go back on their word?" she gazed at me intently. I nodded. When she said 'Father' instead of 'Dad', this was our cue that this was a Major Life lesson we had best memorize. "These people aren't like that. They will take that which is not theirs, break trusts, sully families and lie to your face."

"These women are all bold-faced whores, cock-hungry tramps and sluts who get abortions because they don't know what color the daddy is. The males are either the kind of men who would sleep with those kinds of women, or gutless wonders who won't fight for their rights as boyfriends, brothers, fathers, fiancés and spouses."

"This is a colored thing, right?" I guessed. I wanted to be wrong.

"Got it in one," Mom patted me on the shoulder. "Most White men in town are spineless wimps, Black men jump on whatever pussy they can crack open and women of either color put up with it, even beg for it. I know because I was once like them."

"You and Dad?" I worried. Mom gave a deep, hearty laugh.

"That is not going to be a problem, I promise you. The only man for me is your Father," she smiled. "I had plenty of lovers before your Dad. Since one month after I met him, I've never been with another man, or woman, or even wanted one." More than I wanted to know, but good news none the less.

While we were moving in the small amount of belongs that had followed us from Arkansas, two Kingston cops stopped by to see what we were doing. I had spent my entire life around law enforcement who knew about me and my clan. They were always friends and people we could trust. Kingston PD was a rude awakening we weren't in Alaska anymore.

They were brusque and intimidating. Their real purpose was to remind my family the house was part of the town, even if the back acreage was not. Mom snorted at their pale deception. She asked to see their warrant. They asked if there was some reason they might need one. Mom politely asked them to leave as they were trespassing.

They basked in their defiance. What could Mom really do? If she went all redneck and produced a gun, they'd lock her up - pointing weapons at law enforcement was stupid. Sadly for the cops, familiarity breeds understanding too. Mom gave us the April Fools' signal. Alexander, our oldest triplet, moved the cargo truck so it blocked the officers' view of their patrol car.

While Mom looked peeved, feeding the Black cops sense of empowerment, my youngest triplet Mikhail and I (Vladimir) stripped their car of all easily removable parts; the dash-cam went first. They wanted to loiter around on our property? We let them behave stupidly. We dumped the parts and our work gloves in a packing box and carried it right past them.

We walked straight out the back too. There was a burning barrel which we made prompt use of - for the oily gloves and box. We had spares. Mikhail tended the fire as I picked up a broken cinder block, a heavy-duty trash bag and walked a few hundred yards to the bog near the creek that ran through our property - county land. The bag and contents went into the bog.

I used a branch to make sure it sunk deep before returning. Cleaning off my boots with the outdoor hose completed my destruction of evidence. Ten minutes later a member of the Arkansas Highway Patrol stopped by to see what the problem was. Mom had called them before the sabotage had even begun. She didn't know these two personally, but she knew from earlier visits to her aunt that these two were going to give us 'attitude'.

Calling the Sheriff's Department would only cause a standoff where the police had the upper hand - the whole town jurisdiction thing. By the time the HP arrived, Alexander had left with the truck so when the Highway Patrolman began expressing concern for my Mom's civil rights, the two buck butt-bandits made to leave. That didn't work out well for them.

First came the circus of the discovery they were missing key parts of their vehicle and the lack of an explanation of how that had happened. Mom wouldn't let the town cops search her place. She happily let the Highway Patrolman (who happened to be Black too) look around. We'd used the hose and the burning barrel because moving was nasty, sweaty work - especially in the Arkansas summer heat.

The two policemen blamed us - the triplets. Mom asked them when, in the cops thirty minute trespass, had her 'little angels' stolen the parts, why we would do such a criminal thing, and if they knew where the parts might be. The Highway patrolman was kind of curious about the length of their stay as well.

The cops lied, Mom went inside and brought back the camcorder that had taken in the entire event. They were caught in the lie and all they could claim was the cargo truck had been strategically placed to block a visual to their car ... as we unloaded our truck. Mom even got the Highway Patrolman to co-sign her complaint to the Arkansas State Police Criminal Investigations department.

Mom knew this one wouldn't go anywhere. She had lived with cops long enough to know the value of building up a case file. Alexander was off returning the truck in another county, so he was safe. Mom called him and Dad so they could hook up before Alexander came home. She counted on the cops to be petty and they were.

Alexander was on a motorcycle. When he got pulled, the city cops pulled in front of him. Dad stopped as well. Despite their continuing pressure to make Dad leave, they had no legal grounds to do so - he was Alexander's father, who would be responsible for Alex's ride if they took him into custody. Being an off-duty sheriff's deputy wasn't good enough, yet Dad's point was telling.

Cops always pull up behind a suspect, not ahead of them unless they want to ignore the dash-cam evidence. Dad had pulled up in his Sheriff's vehicle behind Alexander and his dash-cam was recording everything. They let Alexander off with a Warning Ticket and departed giving father and son dirty looks. School was five days off. We checked out the property for two days. The third morning my brothers and I, on motorcycles, decided to explore Kingston.

Having never before confronted such blatant racism, we weren't afraid - we were furious. We hadn't done anything to anybody. We were from Alaskan-Russian stock and had never owned a person ever, as far as we knew. We certainly weren't invested in this whole 'Black slavery - White guilt' issue. Those who gave us attitude about 'White privilege' didn't care for our counter, that saying all White people were alike was equally racist.

As Mom had warned us, Black people couldn't be racist ... just ask them. Mind you, many of the town's Black residents were friendly and helpful. They just weren't friendly enough to defend us from the 'haters'. At the end of the first day, Mikhail nearly got in a fight with five members of the Black post-high school crowd who were fucking with, and sitting on, our bikes.

Where we came from, that was rude in the extreme. When he appeared to be alone, they were boisterous enough. When Alexander and I stepped out of the pool hall (we'd been made unwelcome there), they backed off from their threatening rhetoric. They still wouldn't leave, or get off our bikes. The three versus five odds didn't deter us.

It was the lack of faith in the local justice system that encouraged Alexander and me to hold Mikhail back. We had an answer to their intransience - crowding. It takes a great deal of cool to have three guys, all over six feet tall and 220 lbs. lean in on you while you are sitting down. When the current bastard was dealt with, we moved to the next. Before the group could figure a way to thwart us, we had retrieved our bikes and were headed home.

The next day, we took Mom's 2012 Shelby V8 Mustang out for a drive. We found the three spots in town the 'White folk' hung out in. We had the Country Western Redneck posse' section of town, pseudo-riche Southerner clique downtown region, and the movie theater (theoretically neutral turf). The saner White middle class had departed for safer pastures - they had established their own municipality a few miles outside of town).

The rednecks welcomed our physicality. We were attempting to fit in until they began talking about all those damn 'niggahs'. Alexander broke down after a bit and asked what a 'niggah' was. It was a 'coon'. Since that was of no help, we asked what a 'coon' was.

The regulars found our naiveté amusing. It took us three minutes of running a verbal obstacle course to piece together that 'niggahs' was their inbred pronunciation of 'niggers' (a term we knew from TV and movies) which was idiot slang for a Black person. We were 'crackahs' - idiot slang for crackers aka White people. Hispanics were 'beeners' ... yeah, right.

We also learned that the favorite activities for teenage rednecks was knocking over mailboxes as they sped down the road, beating up White girls who sucked Black dick and beating up 'niggahs' who touched White girls. My analysis was that these yahoos were long on talk and short on action.

I wasn't a fashion icon yet I could tell these boys could use a bath and some fresh clothes. The girls who hung around this crowd looked about as loyal as salmon during spawning season. At 18, we were hardly experienced, but we weren't desperate virgins either. Girls we had just been introduced to, flirting with us and suggesting later sexual rendezvouses were a definite turn-off because God knows who else they'd been doing it with.

That led us to the riche clique. Among the guys ... half were snobbish closet gays who weren't our thing. The other half were rich straight guys pretending to be rednecks. Rich White girls pretended to be friends with the rich Black girls. They were used to being pampered by their rich White boyfriends while eyeing every Black stud that crossed their path.

Until they realized Samsonov = Fonteneau, they were snide. After that, they tried to convince us we were all (distantly) related. Bloodlines and riches were not the basis for what we called friends so we politely postponed any celebrations.

The Cineplex was a hunting ground for all ages. White women I was pretty sure were married to someone else engaged in sexual liaisons with Blacks; be they teens, business types, or lay-abouts. We had no idea if these were random hook-ups, or affairs and we didn't really care.

Having wasted nine hours of our lives we definitely wanted back, we ended up rendezvousing with Mom and Dad at his boss's - the Sheriff's - place. Whatever else he was, Robert "Big Bob" Carson wasn't an underpaid county employee. His home was nice, expansive, relatively new and sitting on four wonderful acres of land - half woodland/half professionally maintained lawn and gardens. He had an expansive deck with a built-in grill, hot tub and pool out back.

My brothers and I had been under the impression this would be an office outing. It ended up being our two families; the five of us, Big Bob and his daughter, Brandy Crystal Carson. There was no Mamma Carson in sight and a lack of family pictures was noticed by us and our Mom. Dad and Bob (it was tough to call him Big Bob when Dad was bigger than he was) were deep in conversation at the outdoor grill when I arrived.

"Vlad, come out here," my Dad called to me in his easy going manner.

"Brandy!" Bob shouted. I promptly showed up. Dad wasn't a passionate disciplinarian. I didn't hustle out of fear. I hurried out because I wanted my Dad to look good in front of the Sheriff. "Hello Vlad," Big Bob greeted me. "You are a strapping lad - big like your Daddy."

That was a bit odd. I had only heard one person call my Father 'Daddy'. That was my Mom when she was feeling frisky. Mom walked around the house naked when the mood struck her (even when we had guests over) and had few compunctions about hopping into Dad's lap when she wanted attention. That was a common enough occurrence that 'us' boys had learned to sneak out of the room quietly before we were ten.

Only in the last two years had we figured out part of Mom's bizarre sexual behavior was caused by Dad being utterly clueless where women were concerned. He could spot a shoplifter at a glance, or an expired car registration at fifty feet on a moonless night. I had seen a car saleswoman hit on Dad when he was getting his newest pick-up. She did everything but flash her tits and do a striptease...it all went right over Dad's head.

"Brandy! Get your ass down here!" Bob bellowed. She must have been most of the way to us because she materialized five seconds later.

"Yes Daddy," Brandy sounded bored. I was too busy gawking to see Big Bob's reaction to his daughter's insolence.

Brandy was beyond gorgeous (according to my personal standards). She had pale-blonde hair in a ponytail that clearly went past her shoulder blades. Her caramel skin was the beneficiary of countless sessions with a tanning booth. Her eyes were the darkest blue I'd ever seen. Breasts - Jesus, they were large and firm. I could tell that because she had on a pink crop-top and no bra. I could almost see the bottoms of each orb.

Her stomach was muscled with a thin layer of fatty tissue to give her real womanly curves and she had curves to spare. Her waist was narrow and her hips were wide, complimenting her breast size. She had on super-short, cut-off, 'faded-almost-to-White' denim jeans that accentuated her dark skin. Her ass was to die for. A bit big but well-muscled - each a perfect hemisphere.

Her thighs and calves were the product of consistent exercise. Hot, hot, hot. She had on white tennis socks (no shoes) that finished off her delectable image.

"Brandy, this is Vladimir, Senior Deputy Samsonov's son. He's going to be your boyfriend this year," Bob announced. I had a feeling this wasn't open for debate - in his mind.

"What!" Brandy squawked.

"What?" I looked to my Dad.

"What the fuck?" Brandy turned and glared at me. I would have enjoyed her breasts bouncing more if I hadn't been eyeballing my patriarch.

"Dad?" I kept my voice calm. Brandy was fantastic looking, but I didn't want anyone dictating my social life - period. I was eighteen. Besides, Brandy was turning out to have a far less appealing personality - Pretty Princess syndrome.

"Brandy, Vladimir's a nice boy. His father is 'good people'," Bob laid out his case.

How did he know I was a good boy? He was taking a lot on faith.

"I don't want to date this loser," Brandy shouted. 'Loser'? She didn't knew me either.

"If you don't keep Vlad as your boyfriend, then no cheerleading and no dance team," Bob glared at his daughter. This clash of wills made no sense to me.

"No way!" Brandy glanced back at her Dad, protested loudly and stomped her foot on the wooden deck.

"Well then, you need to be home at 3:20 pm every school day," Bob threatened. "And I'll make sure to check up on you." Before I could wonder about Big Bob's abuse of power, I noted the state of the art security system - cyber-nanny.

Brandy turned on me in a furor. Her face was screwed up with anger, her fists were clenched and I was working double-time to not ogle the cleave she enhanced by leaning forward. Man, she hated me for reasons I couldn't fathom. I disgusted her which I didn't get either. Plenty of non-relative women had called me good-looking and handsome.

I had a healthy, well-defined physique, nice thick, blonde hair and the common sense to keep my body and clothes clean and casual. My only downside I'd ever been told about was my size - I was tall for my age and 'cut'. Brandy was 5' 4". I was 6' 2". I had stormy grey eyes, light blonde hair the color of wheat and skin spared the ravages of acne.

"Brandy, I am as uncomfortable and surprised about this as you are," I tried to placate her. "Do you want to talk about it?" She forced herself to appear calm.