WMD Ch. 01

Our Dad was the law and the school was outside the town limits. That meant the Sheriff and the Senior Deputy could answer calls to the school on criminal matters. Darius let us go. The day continued and I got plenty of black faces snickering at me over my perceived misfortune. The three of us waved to Mom as we drove home and she went in to see the Principal.

I noticed she had on her weighted, fingerless gloves. To the uninitiated, they looked like racing gloves. They weren't. Those gloves were the disguised equivalent of brass knuckles. We went home, did our homework and prepared dinner. Mom and Dad would be late getting home tonight.

There was the law enforcement inquiry, gathering evidence and the time it took for the ambulance to come and go. Crime scene stuff. We were used to it.

(That First Week)

I started out the next morning admiring the boarding on the window to the Principal's second story office. The ground and bushes beneath it were pretty trampled up too. That was a good way to start the day. In homeroom, I was talking to Kaelyne again when Princess Brandy announced her entrance and her 'power' over me.

"Hey Vlad," she greeted me with sugary sweetness. She was working out ways to get me for the whole 'dog not kissing her mouth' thing.

"Hey Skank," I grinned at her. Her face froze. Taliyah pulled up short.

"What did you say?" Brandy hissed.

"Skank. Are you hard of hearing?" I mused.

"I'm Darius' girl, asshole. You had better accept that right now."

"Girl? Sure. I imagine that Darius and seven other guys fucking you in all three holes until you are oozing sperm is your ideal dream date," I chortled.

Having the scope of her depravity openly discussed really pissed her off.

"You are jealous," she sneered. There was a hint of desperation in her voice. I chuckled.

"That's clearly delusional thinking," I laughed. "You look hot, just not enough for me to want to wash my dick in ten other guys' cum. You act like a skank so that is how I will address you, Skank."

She was infuriated. The start of homeroom ended the matter for the moment. The rest of the day was spent with a hundred slights and pin pricks. Darius' crowd would get in jabs from behind as we walked the halls, or projectiles tossed at us during class. We were fine with that. There was no fighting back. The 'niggers' didn't get it.

We were scoping out the faces of our enemies and finding blind spots in the school's security camera system. The truth about what happened to the Principal had also gotten out. Mom had already informed us of the series of events, including the spy camera video she took of the entire proceedings.

She'd kept up the 'dunce housewife' act even after he whipped out his cock and forced her to suck it - because he was a 'big Black stud' - his words recorded for posterity. Finally, he put his hand down her blouse to give her bountiful bosom a good squeeze while shoving his dick past her loudly protesting lips. That was all the excuse Mom needed. She portrayed the frantic housewife really well. We, her family, knew better.

She was hamming it up to allay any criminal charges. His pleas for mercy were ignored. It was hard to make out what he was saying after she bashed out half his teeth with his 'African-American Educator of the Year' award. She'd ruptured his scrotum, stabbed his exposed penis repeatedly with a letter opener and cracked half a dozen vertebrae and a dozen ribs.

We were pretty sure she'd broken his arms in multiple places, ground up both his hands and shattered his left wrist. She snapped his right leg in two, all the while screaming 'Don't touch me! Don't touch me!' Her last bit of sadism was to toss him out his second story window. The first try, he bounced back, but we were pretty sure he had a concussion.

The second try cracked the safety glass. The third time was the charm and down that rapist rat-bastard fell into a modest sized holly bush (ouch!). Mom completed the act by pretending to sob as she crawled into a corner of the office while she dialed 9-1-1. As she gleefully went over the play-by-play for us once home, we knew she was cool about the entire incident, even the groping and forced blowjob.

It was Davis County jurisdiction so they were in charge of the investigation. That didn't stop Kingston from sticking their noses in. The Mayor was all about the Principal being a pillar of the community, a Black leader and a church-going man. Then the School's video evidence came out. The Principle had been so full of himself and his immunity, he recorded his attempted violation of my Mom.

Did the Negro community accept the obvious? No. This was a racist White lady, from a racist family, framing a good Black man though how she accomplished that was unclear to most of us and undefined by the Black leadership. They claimed that the Principal had yet to give his side of the story. That would take a while. The man had lost most of his teeth and had his jaw wired shut.

Both eardrums were ruptured and he could barely see out of his right eye. His left was swollen shut. His nose was pancaked. There was even a rumor that his penis was so badly mauled they had to cut most of it off (which turned out to be true). Big Bob, some deputies (all White) and some Highway Patrol (both colors) raided the Principal's house and found a stockpile of tapes and DVDs depicting previous sexual encounters at school going back almost two decades.

Apparently that was nothing more than extra proof of the hateful, bigoted White man framing a decent, hard-working Black man. That any group could be so blinded by their own bigotry that they would embrace such a blatant fiction was appalling to me. At school, the Blacks were indignant and the Whites kept a low profile, as if they'd done something wrong.

The one grey cloud in this monsoon of misery was basketball tryouts were on Thursday after school. We picked up consent forms from a furious coach that slathered on the kind of negativity we had come to expect from him and his sick breed. White boys can't jump. White boys can't dunk. White boys can score inside the 'paint'...yep. No racism there (insert maniacal laughter).

The Assistant Athletic Director coached the basketball team. He was a short, thin, hyperactive White man and, as we were to learn, a race-hater. He hated White people, or at least White athlete wannabes. More on him later. There were two key developments on my front. First, Alexander informed us he had a side project he couldn't talk about yet.

The second thing was that Darius demanded, by way of Brandy, that I took Brandy to an 'after victory' celebration out by the lake Friday night. From 9 p.m. to whenever, I was to sit back and let Brandy be used like a drunk runaway at an outlaw biker rally. Personally, I didn't see how that could be an enjoyable sexual experience.

Brandy believed this made her Darius' lady. She certainly embraced the bukkake, sperm baths eagerly. I still chose to ridicule her constantly because I could tell she was having trouble rationalizing her sexual treatment with any style of romance, or affection. She hadn't been honest with me so I was now tormenting her and using her shame to stab at Darius.

We could see it in his eyes whenever we mocked his crowd. Darius was plotting out his revenge. His problem was we didn't care what he called us, we didn't care about the teachers he turned against us and we had no spies in our camp, or friends to turn against us. We accepted our social life, for the time being, would be limited to our home.

Mom hinted she had a 'plan' in the offing and proved the internet had rendered local belligerence impudent. All our supplies came by parcel delivery from out of town. We wired up a new home security system, engaging a Little Rock private security service instead of putting any faith in the local, Black-run firm. We signed a waiver for the self-install.

There were times when we could totally believe that Mom and Uncle Theo were twins. Technically, as the twin born last, Mom was the youngest of the five children. For unspoken reasons, Theo ended up at a military academy for delinquents at fifteen. She only publically saw him three times since then. Once when she broke into his school (and got caught), at his academy graduation and lastly when he finished basic training for the Army.

Yet they remained close in ways only multiple birth kids could understand despite the time and distance. It also meant Mom came equipped with (cough) healthy doses of paranoia and vindictiveness. Mom reminded us our battle wasn't limited to the school. We were fighting a secularist religion with a fanatic core.

Had Black Americans been fucked over by White America? Yep. That didn't end 150 years ago either. There was Jim Crow legislation after Reconstruction as well as uninvestigated rapes, beatings, whippings, lynching and even being burned alive. All horrors visited on the Black Race by the White Man.

Yet it was White men who passed the Voting Rights Act in 1965. Yes they did, but getting Black people to accept that there were White people who stood with them as equals was impossible. Since 1965, had there been Black councilmen/women, mayors, state legislators, governors, Congressmen/women, Supreme Court Justices and, dare we say - a PRESIDENT?

Why yes. Where there Blacks in every aspect of professional life? Damn right there were. Where there Black millionaires? Thousands of them, and even an African-American self-made Billionaire. So exactly what were White Americans supposed to feel guilty about? Crap our parents and grandparents did? Great-grandparents?

When was the cut-off date for being held accountable for actions you had no part in? There were poor Black people. There were poor White people and poor Latinos for that matter. As far as my Mom was concerned, racism was racism and it had no exceptions for color, creed, and orientation coming, or going.

She'd given the Blacks of Kingston their chance to make things right - to end the cycle of hate. They had declined to rein in their own, so she felt no obligation for her, or her sons, to give obedience to their injustice.

There was a pile of evidence that the Principal had done wrong, still Kingston treated him like a hero and martyr. Fuck that noise. Mom didn't want to start some wacked-out guerilla war. She only wanted to punish those responsible for this fucked up situation. Target #1 - Darius and by default, Darius' family. That, in turn, was Darius' biggest problem.

He didn't realize he was hunting people more than capable of hunting the hunters. We knew he and his supporters were coming for our family, they had tons of advantages and little fear of the four of us (we wouldn't involve Dad since he was in law enforcement and a straight arrow). We weren't aiming for a body count. Our goal was humiliation and breaking their wills to resist.

With that accomplished, we could install some truly impartial justice and social order. My family was aided in this quest by the clarity of our enemy's weaknesses. They were proud of their Big Black Cocks and their lack of restraint in using them on whomever they pleased. Basing their Black masculinity on a single bit of mythology rendered them painfully vulnerable to us.

They hadn't chosen to base their dominion on anything but their cock & balls. Solidarity, economic output and healthy competitiveness had been tossed aside. The Black community in Kingston accepted Black male predation as the natural course of things. It was revenge for the White Master/Black Slave Girl depredations that happened during Slavery. Did they humble White men by fucking their moms, sisters, wives and daughters? Yeah.

That disregard for social bonds and femininity meant Black women were under the same dominion, though they lied to themselves about it and the Black men comforted them in that lie. Black Mammas let their boys run around like dogs then were aghast when their husbands did the same thing. Big Black Cocks were eroding the basis for trust in this town.

If BBC wanted a woman, he stuck the dick in and that woman became his cock-slave. Had the woman started out resisting? That didn't matter because now they needed that dick to get her through the week. That was the score. The truth Mom laid out was confirmed by a week of school. How were we going to defeat the BBC menace?

Mom just smiled and said she had a 'Secret Weapon' to go along with her battle plan. We took that assurance into Thursday's basketball team tryouts. We rocked. We had the talent and the skills. That didn't matter to the Assistant Coach. He had six Black players returning from last year's team.

There was one White guy whose Mom was throwing gobs of new equipment the team's way, so he was on board. That left five spots to fill the twelve man roster. Up against us was one ambitious White junior, seven Black juniors and one Black female senior. Apparently she'd been denied a spot on last year's team based on gender alone and was still pissed about it.

The Ass Coach immediately set his sights on five of the Black juniors that fit the profile - Black top (that's outdoor courts that used asphalt) experience, tall, lanky and a willingness to dunk on a moment's notice. Our scrimmages were stupid and biased. The Black players could elbow, trip and punch us without repercussions. Mikhail almost got booted for threatening to toss the next blatant fouler into the bleachers.

We caught a break when Ass Coach got called away with a phone call which he couldn't understand because his 'chosen ones' wouldn't shut up and even attempt to be quietly considerate. I had an idea to create our own scrimmage team, but I had a problem. The two Black guys and one White guy not getting on the team sucked. I needed two of the other Black players.

I chose an alliance. I went to the angry, dispirited female player and made my offer. We would challenge the current team and, if we beat them, we made a pact that all of us made the team, or none of us did. I could see her weighing screwing me over. The whole school knew Darius was gunning for me and my brothers. She shook my hand. We needed a fifth.

The girl, Kaja Woodrow, went over to her cousin, one of the players from last year's team. He didn't want to join us. He had a guaranteed spot and he could blow it by joining his crazy female cousin and the three most hated White boys in school. Kaja threatened to bring their grandmother into this mess. I think that threat plus a strong sense of fair play changed his mind.

We were good. Shaquille, Kaja's cousin, knew it. Everyone knew it. He was shorter than us, around 5' 10". His ball-handling skills were phenomenal, he was a fairly accurate shooter and would happily pass the ball if someone was in a better court possession instead of taking a risky shot.

Passing the ball was key and not an art form shared by the rest of his current teammates. With Shaquille on our side, we put our proposal before the Ass Coach. He denied us, but we were ready for that. Our team took to physically and verbally mocking and denigrating the manhood of the current roster. They took our bait.

After a quick warm-up, we made our move. Everything worked in our favor. High School courts aren't black top. The courts are wider and there is no turning around at mid-court. You added to that our opponents were ball-hogs and suffered from terminal 'dunk-itis'. Mikhail made the 'paint' his bailiwick (bally-wick?).

Dunk attempt after dunk attempt were brutally rejected by him. By their logic, my brothers and I would also keep the ball for ourselves. We passed like crazy. This was doubly painful for them because the White boys and Kaja could nail a jump shot from 18 ~ 20 feet out - no problem. Shaquille would race behind their screen, catch a pass on the leap and dunk unopposed.

Our squad was making their squad and the Ass Coach look like idiots. The All-Black squad didn't regroup and create a new plan. No. We were belittling them. First came the fouls. When that wasn't enough to stop us from outscoring them, they brought out on the egregious fouls and still the Ass Coach did nothing.

Finally, after the fifteenth time Kaja humiliated the player supposed to be guarding her with a quick feint-step and a basket, he ran her over. He didn't shove her. He threw a powerful shoulder into her chest and followed up by stepping on her stomach. He smiled. His buddies laughed. Mikhail walked over and broke his jaw.

Remember, Mikhail was a big, strong, skilled fighter and had a temper. That message hadn't filtered through the mind of the All-Black squad. They rushed him. Their center took a piston kick to the gut (he had pathetic reflexes) and his closest buddy succumbed to a leg sweep. The Ass Coach went apoplectic. Shaquille rallied to Mikhail and Kaja while we went to our gym bags.

Out came the two recording devices (it is the freaking Information Age, you morons). Thanks to the internet, we uploaded the files and then we took the damning evidence to Ass Coach. He and most of his team were in deep shit. Their blatant fouls counted as assault in the real world. Mikhail wasn't in trouble. The dumbass who attacked Kaja was standing over the woman he assaulted when my brother intervened.

We also promised to show this video to every school on our schedule for the year as well as any and every athletic authority we could think of. Grudgingly he offered we three Samsonovs a place on the roster. We insisted on all five of our squad. He insisted he would never put a girl on the team.

I put my arm around his scrawny shoulders and forcefully walked him away for a private chat. I reminded him keeping Kaja off the team solely because she was female was discrimination. My brothers didn't like discrimination. My Mom REALLY didn't like discrimination.

Did he want my Mom to come to school and explain to him how much she disliked it? Kaja was on the team. Ass Coach announced the new roster and promptly uplifted our spirits by declaring this season would be a disaster because we had a girl and four White guys on the team. The next day, she and Shaquille received ten kinds of trouble from their racial compatriots.

Mikhail gave Kaja a 'First Alert' bracelet and cautioned her to wear it at all times. It was a testimonial to how screwed up this environment was she put it on without question. Shaquille ended up eating lunch with us as well. The razzing was bad enough. The cracks his former friends were making about Kaja made him want to commit violence on their persons.

Shaquille found out what comradery was all about as classes let out that first Friday afternoon. Eight big bucks ambushed him as he prepared to walk home - he lived about a mile way. Recall what I said about identifying our tormentors? We figured out who the 'shot-callers' were so when they started texting their plan around, the Samsonovs began taking counter-measures.

Darius was the Capo. Since we had a 'home' game tonight, he couldn't attend to this errand personally, nor could his football-playing associates. He had plenty of non-jock lieutenants to command. In turn, those bozos had the rank and file big and average-sized thugs to follow his orders. This wasn't an army. It was a loose vigilante herd.

They also were kind enough to joke about their target when they thought we weren't around. We had to keep out of sight until the eight made a move on Shaquille. We hadn't warned our 'buddy' out of concern he might not want to keep his role as bait. We waited for the shoving to end and the desperate grappling to begin before intervening.

We had to film them committing their crime to make our crime non-criminal, if you can understand that reasoning. We should have thanked Darius for giving us his eight best 'B-grade' boys to annihilate. Seven of them went down super-quick. The eighth bolted. We couldn't maintain our legal smoke screen if we ran him down.