

AFRICAN AMERICAN PROSE AND DARK CALIBER PRESENT:

QUEEN CHOCOLATE: Black Girl Rising

Written by Damian Thorne

Copy write 11/20/2015 by Dennis Osondu

Smashwords edition 11/20/2015

Revised edition: February 4, 2016

For Denise Matthews...you're coming with me when the time comes gorgeous.

To my African American & Caucasian American Queens: Since I know the true history of America, I know how indebted to you I am. These novels in no way equal the sacrifices you've made to bring me to this point. But it's what I have to give. Without your combined strength, African Americans would have disappeared centuries ago. Thank you Goddesses.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment, and MAY be given away to other people. If someone should want your book, good for them; they're perceptive. But please have them go to Smashwords.com and get their own copy. It's easier that way. And it's for the best.

New theme songs: Trapstar (Young Jeezy), Heat, Poppin Them Thangs (50 Cent), The Main Ingredient (Pete Rock & CL Smooth)...New theme cartoon: (The Boondocks) New theme movie: (Sucker Punch.) Type in White girls using the N-word in porn on the Internet. See what you made them do? They're sweethearts and YOU'RE Despicable! Dark Realm Forever TMR!

"Unless you stand for something, you'll fall for

anything." Scott Glenn/ Sucker Punch

Okay, so here's what happened: A few years ago, one of my new Dark Caliber Disciples approached me with an interesting request. He wanted to write a beginning to The Last Black Martian.

"A beginning?" I asked him, squinting shrewdly.

"Yes," he said. "How does it really start? You open the story with them already sitting in the warehouse—eating, no less...but what happened before that scene? What were the characters doing or thinking, before they met the drug dealers?"  
Needless to say, I was completely stunned. What were they doing before they met the hustlers...I hadn't considered that before & found it intriguing.

But more than that, I was surprised that such a question had even occurred to one of my Disciples. You choose people mostly based on hope, and potential, but rarely do they live up to it.

In fact, more often than not, they disappoint you. Sadly, it was to be expected. And had to be dealt with accordingly. DUM, DUM, DUUUUMMM!!!

But, no. One of my Disciples had actually done a bit of critical thinking without my instruction, and I was begrudgingly impressed. Of course, as a leader and a Dark Realm, Sagittarian King, with quite the bag of tricks, I easily concealed my surprise.

"What makes you think it needs a beginning?" was what I did ask him.

Damian had shrugged. "I'm not saying it needs a beginning sir—a story starts where it starts. I'm only saying that it seems to me, that the characters who were sitting in that warehouse were probably some pretty interesting people long before they ever got there."

I can recall doing everything in my power to hide my Machiavellian grin. "And you can see it?" I asked him. "You can see in your mind—or envision what they were doing just before they met Roderick's ghetto friends?"

I was standing on the balcony of the Ramada Hotel in Saperstein Valley as I asked that question, and I was noticing how crowded the city below was becoming, how the triangular shaped buildings seemed to be sitting hunched closer together than I remembered them being.

"If I do let you write a beginning," I said. "You certainly can't use the names from the original story."

"Why not, sir?" he asked. "Those were good and noble names! In fact, my Lord, they were—"

I held up one hand, and Damian immediately shut up. It's a little power I have, ya know?

"You will change most of the names if I let you do this because everything you write must always stand alone. Rely on nothing to prop it up but excellent prose, and a compelling story. If you do write this, change the majority of the names Disciple. Keep a few for the sake of continuity, like Goddess Queen Iggy Azalea's—that's a beautiful, talented real White chick right there. She has my permission to use the N word if she ain't scared. All these weird motherfuckers from God knows where using it, certainly a Caucasian Queen with a fat round ass can. But ditch the rest, my nigga."

And that was it; I gave my decree, and the Disciple would follow it. I purposefully never really gave my blessing on his idea, but I knew how he would react. Oh yes, niggas, I knew.

But just in case, I also told him to make sure the main chick on the front cover was an African—a Nigerian if possible, but any African beautiful chick from motherland Africa, would suffice.

I also told him many females had complained that I don't show enough traditional Black girls on my covers. That most of the females on my covers "could be anything!"

Dumb ass bitches, I'd thought. I don't fuck with just anything! Isn't my taste in bitches impeccable?

Just recently, Damian came to me with the first draft of his fancy "Beginning" as he put it.

I read it, realized it was pretty damn good, and being the fair and benevolent King that I am, I thought it would be interesting if you all got to read it along with me.

It's pretty good; as I said, and I rarely give compliments to my Disciples...they tend to get a touch gassed-up rather quickly. Particularly, the SAGS. They start doing and saying the weirdest shit. So here it is, without further delay my Neegroes:

The "beginning" to The Last Black Martian as conceived by Mr. Damian Thorne—his true name, by the way. Hopefully, you'll like it. And if you don't? Well, in the words of the illustrious Scarface, who gives a fuck?

TRAP*STAR 69

1.

Approximately five hours before Queen Chocolate's nightmare began, before the guns, and pointless killing began, it was an absolutely boring Friday morning in December.

A freezing cold and dour morning which none who lived to eventually speak of it in frightened tones, would ever soon forget.

December fifth it was, the day before it would actually happen. The day before the pretty little chocolate princess on this very novel's cover would finally become Queen—the only question being: which little chocolate princess would it be?

Ah hah...for each of them is an African Queen borne of Chocolate...dark, white, swirled...

It was the type of morning no sane person ever wanted to spend in some boring-ass classroom or at some dreary fucking job if they're being completely honest about things.

Maybe, stomping their feet in the dirty cigarette-butt littered snow to ward off the never-ending cold—that might be a warehouse worker or a security guard. (Even a nigga hustling that shit.)

Or perhaps sipping bland coffee, or warm hot chocolate as they gazed out the foggy window to their left at a steadily gathering storm—some bored office worker (a government official, more than likely), idly wondering just how hard it would be trying to make it home that day with the lousy downtown traffic being what it was.

The myriad of block-shaped, white delivery trucks; the double block-long buses that resembled metal caterpillars with crinkled black middles...

What was worse than riding crowded public transportation in the winter? Getting a root canal, maybe? Getting a cat scan or an MRI?

Get serious.

Nothing was worse than that, so stop fronting.

Luckily for us, the two Honies sitting in Taylor's brightly lit office that morning certainly weren't fronting. In fact, Taylor LaKenya had actually been daydreaming about magically appearing in her bedroom, like in some Harry Potter flick (simply because she'd imagined it happening), with some weed, and a mug of hot cocoa/liquor already in hand, looking just like her favorite employee Sweet Dominique and shit!

Isn't that some kooky foolishness? she asked herself while rolling her second blunt, and chuckling softly. Me, looking like Sweet Dominique?

Dominique was one of the prettiest bitches she knew and Taylor didn't make a habit out of praising girls.

Dominique was also the older of the Honies. By now, you may have seen her on this Ebook's cover—she's the one with the playful pale eyes, and trouble-making little grin.

She was now sitting across the room on one of the office's fancy window ledges, reading a religious pamphlet. And if we move in close enough to peer over her shoulder at the cover of this pamphlet, we'll see that it only says: PROOF OF AN ANGRY GOD.

Unlike on this particular Ebook's cover, the one you're reading right now, where she's smiling into the camera's lens, maybe contemplating the rest of her day (the bulk of which she normally spent looking as beautiful, sweet and friendly, as she does in this photo...and every now and then, maybe she actually answered the ringing telephones, which was her main job), our fine heroine Dominique Hadessah was done sipping her spiked cocoa, and was now carefully, almost suspiciously, examining the blunt our other Nubian heroine, Taylor, watched her roll earlier that morning.

Whew! That was a mouthful, wasn't it?

Taylor LaKenya (owner of the office in which this weird story takes place—she's the gorgeous African chick on the cover with the huge sexy red lips, who just so happens to be Kenyan—the only one I'd ever vote for—though, to be fair, his campaign easily trumped some of the boring trash going on now), was watching Dominique from her desk which sat a few feet away.

She was frowning at her, and thinking: Maybe, I'm getting senile and shit, like weirdo Bill Cosby?Rape or not, he was a fucking weirdo. Fuck him and OJ.

Even though she'd never heard of a person going senile at the age of eighteen! But it certainly felt that way, because she'd started out thinking about Dominique, about how she always took forever and a day to start working—particularly, it seemed, on days when it snowed or rained, and wound up thinking about Dominique's favorite stripper turned actress, Miss Nubian—and that shit had never happened before.

Not like this, it hadn't! And if it did happen, Taylor certainly didn't recall it happening. Although she found Miss Nubian extremely talented and beautiful (she's the Black girl holding the Glock on the cover—is she beautiful? you tell me), Taylor personally couldn't stand the woman, and would never purposefully waste time thinking about her. She was rich, she was powerful, she was as conceited as a day was long. And was oh so naïve.

Taylor rubbed her face with one trembling hand, half smiling, still waiting for Dominique to answer her question. "Why the hell are you grinning like that, girl?" she'd just asked her.

Knowing it couldn't have been the weed, because Dominique getting high wasn't exactly a secret; not to anyone who knew her well.

Not when they both partook of the trees on a daily basis and Taylor was the one who usually brought it in. She had a friend named Rolexiia who kept pounds of weed she sold from her apartment in Queens.

According to work place rumor (which Taylor herself, had started), she had nicks, dimes, and some really nice twenties of purple haze. A Jimmy Hendrix reference if there ever was one.

Dominique was still grinning as she flicked on a lighter Taylor hadn't seen her holding. Then she put the tip of the flame to the blunt, running the flame up and down the wrap, apparently quick drying it. "With all due respect," she said, smirking. "When I first met you, I didn't think gangster or hustler, boss."

Dominique glanced over at her, still smirking a little. "I thought about my older sister, she's away at school. Studying anthropology, or is it cosmetology? She told me it once but—" She stopped speaking when Taylor frowned at her.

"You really can't remember the subjects she's taking Niqua? It's that demon smoke, isn't it?"

Dominique started smiling. "I can never remember which it is," she said. "Wait, maybe it's even both of them? That bitch was always down for getting extra credits!"

Dominique cleared her throat a few times and added: "She's in her third semester at UCLA and dresses a lot like you do...swear to God she does Taylor! You're like a caricature of her and shit! Only she's way lighter and taller than you."

She broke out in more giggles as she pulled on the blunt, again.

Taylor frowned. "Dresses like me?" she asked her. "What does that even mean? How do I dress? You mean preppy?"

"Yeah," she said. "Like an introvert and shit, like one of those fucking Internet geeks!"

"Fancy," Taylor said, "introvert...not Dominique using big ass dictionary words! What's the fucking world coming to?"

She glanced warily at the silhouette of glittering blue stones on the front of her dress again. The diamonds outlined the stripper's body but also took the place of Miss Nubian's pale irises in the artwork, making her look sinister.

For some reason, she'd been drawn as a vampire complete with snow white skin, a partial grin of pointy teeth, and glinting Paris Jackson wolf-like eyes. She was the best thing her daddy Michael Jackson ever created, in some people's opinion.

Miss Nubian was pale anyway—a gorgeous cream color, Taylor had to admit whether she liked her or not, but someone had made her even lighter. Almost a pasty chalk, vampire white, like they were trying to completely erase her blackness and shit.

Taylor guessed the dress was probably promotional for her new business venture. But there was no writing on it, front or back and she couldn't help shuddering whenever she glanced at it.

This was the weirdest clothing Dominique had ever worn to work and some of her outfits had been really weird. In fact, some of them had been downright scary.

"Who am I, Steve Urkel now?" she asked her. A caricature? she thought, that doesn't sound cool at all; isn't a caricature a mockery?

Dominique waved one hand at her. "The black schoolteacher glasses?" she said. "The baggy cords and suspenders?" Eyeing her feet and then smiling, she said: "And the shiny-brown penny-loafers. She even has the pennies in them just like you; hers also gleam in the sun when she walks. You can tell it's her from like nearly three blocks away!"

"There's nothing wrong with my clothing," she said, indignantly. "I'm a writer; we don't wear tight shirts and jeans, platinum teeth, and two hundred dollar work boots. And certainly no bling!"

She exhaled, folding her arms across her chest. "How many times must we discuss this? I'm not saying we should dress like they did as depicted in that new PIX11 show, Reign, but I do feel we should have certain standards as Black authors. We can't have every African American walking around dressing like a rapper or video vixen!"

Dominique frowned at her. "And why not?"

"Because it isn't proper," Taylor said. "Unfortunately, people judge you by your attire. Often, wrongly."

She peered down at Dominique's tight white dress (the one with the image of that annoyingly loud ghetto woman on the front of it) thinking her body was ridiculous, but that her greatest features, in her estimation, were her strange eyes and heart warming-smile—and particularly, as viewed from her front profile.

Though there were highly sharpened word-daggers hidden deep within that heart-warming smile, Taylor also knew. Daggers that rolled quite easily off her equally sharp tongue.

And as for her gear; her six hundred dollar Timberlands, for instance...yes, she had on Timberlands with a skin-tight party or clubbing dress...and I know what this knowledge may do to your own fashion sense, how it may discombobulate it, but at least they looked brand new, the boots did, and almost fresh out the box—as all of her clothing did. It was one of her strongest strong points, and the chick had many.

Look at the cover! Isn't she sexy and cute? Aren't all of them? Read on

The concept of wearing a dress with hiking boots didn't excite Taylor, but she couldn't deny Dominique was a sexy thing even if she seemed to think her beauty allowed her to wear whatever, and do whatever, she fucking wanted.

But no matter what, she always smelled and looked exceedingly good, and stayed dress to impress. Even if her choice of gear rarely impressed Taylor.

"No offense," she said. "That's cool for everyday living, for teeny bopping around the streets in. But in the literary world, looking sharp as a tack is a must girlfriend. Especially while in public, you never know who's watching you. These celebrity shows are getting out of hand. I feel like smacking the shit out of all those TMZ fuckers sometimes, don't you? Especially that lawyuh Harvey and his son Charles!"

"Even the females?" Dominique asked her, grinning slyly.

Taylor smiled back. "Keep the White girls," she said. "Forever my ladies, brave bitches, some of them look damn sexy! They should love those videos!"

Dominique didn't respond, but was still regarding her with an odd expression, almost a snide look.

Taylor said: "And when's the last time you saw Paula Patton showing off her body? Huh? She didn't become famous because of her ass or her bra size! It was her good acting that attracted people to her. Is she gorgeous? Yes. Is she fuckable? I'm sure most men would scream, hell yes! But her beauty didn't make her a star, her ability did that! Outkast dedicated a whole movie to her Sagittarius ass...Idle Wild? That shit was one of the most creative things I've ever seen in my life, and she looked super hot in it!"

Dominique smirked, her pale face almost darkening. Her pretty green-brown eyes widening perceptibly. "Let's not get crazy," she said, "you're nowhere near as talented as Paula Patton is ma. You'd be lucky if only two people like your shit!"

Taylor, feeling stunned and somewhat hurt, said: "I never said I was as talented as Paula Patton was; I was just trying to make the point that being the best at what you do isn't about a person's age, or looks, or money, or any of that. It's about what you are inside...it's about what God gave you to fight these haters with."

Dominique's face seemed to get even meaner for a moment, as if a vast shadow had drifted above her once pleasant features, and then she smiled.

And it was a beautiful smile, despite her suddenly mean expression which had somehow utterly vanished like watching an illusion.

"I'm kidding girl," she said, "you mad at me? Damn, come on, Taylor!"

"I don't really care what you have to say," Taylor said. "I'm used to you by now, and I've come to expect such derogatory comments."

Dominique sighed, waving her hand. "Come on, yo, I'm sorry. But you take stuff much too seriously Taylor, lighten up a little."

She sighed, again. "Grow up girl!" she went on. "How you gonna deal with the crazy media if you really hit it big? You see how many of those stars break down with millions in the bank? It's like motherfuckers defeat the damn purpose of even being rich and famous!"

Taylor only gazed at her for a moment. She wasn't sure what Dominique meant. As a writer, part-time model, and business owner, she was used to hearing and seeing things very carefully.

Then, she went about analyzing what she heard and saw just as carefully. Words weren't enough to even dent her psyche, let alone damage it.

The hurt she felt wasn't the same kind of hurt Dominique would feel if someone, say...her secretary Anastasia, for example (the phenomenal big chested African American chick on the cover with the gorgeous smile wearing black) made fun of her flat assed chest again. Would she like that type of shit?

No, of course she wouldn't. Such a comment would most likely devastate her fragile ass. The hurt Taylor was feeling had more to do with the fact that she really liked Dominique, and wanted to be her friend, but the girl made becoming close friends an impossibility.

As pretty as she was, Dominique was constantly saying weird off the wall shit like that. Did it routinely, as a matter of fact. And it sometimes seemed like she truly couldn't help it.

Poor girl, she thought. Such astounding beauty and she's a fucking weirdo. It explaned why she couldn't keep a baby daddy. Oh, well.

When Dominique finished drying the blunt she put her lighter away. She took a long drag and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sky, while blowing perfect smoke rings up to heaven.

Taylor watched the hazy circles rise to the ceiling and disappear. The fragrant aroma immediately filled the room, burning her nose, making her wrinkle her face and sneeze explosively.

"God bless you," Dominique mumbled to her, still smiling at the ceiling with her eyes still closed.

"Thank you babe," Taylor said, using a scrap of tissue she'd found in her pocket earlier to wipe her nose.

But now, Dominique lowered her head and stared at her. She was suddenly nodding and grinning. "What, now?" Taylor asked her. "You might as well spit it out. Go on, let me have it. What's up Doctor Phil?"

Dominique couldn't help grinning at that. "I've seen your work," she said. "You're one of the best I've ever read, seriously. I was only joking with the Paula Patton remark. But without a doubt you're as good as the best urban writers and many of the mainstream writers too. A lot of their rave reviews are clearly manufactured. Everybody's stuff is spellbinding! And terrific! And don't get me started on these fucking star novelists. Gorgeous Lauren Conrad's the only one I like and trust. That's a real white woman right there—no cheap knock-off! She can do no wrong in my book, Harv. I owe the bitch too much. Please...they should make a reality show where they have to write the darn book in front of everyone!"

Taylor laughed, imagining that. "That would be interesting," she admitted. "Talk about needing some creative editing!"

"I'm serious," Dominique said. "I've even got the title: The Right to Write. Do you have it?"

She was stunned again by Dominique's own creativity; especially considering her tender, wet-behind-the-ears-age of merely twenty-four.

"Actually, I think you're way better than most," she went on. "I think anybody reading your work would agree, unless they're bullshitting themselves."

She frowned. "You've created a new style Taylor, and a unique way of structuring your stories not many can fuck with if you ask me. But some of their work is uneven. You know who I mean, the phony balonies. Books from the early 2000's were written much better than their most recent ones. I couldn't help smelling a rat—quite a few of them, actually."

Taylor only gazed at her for a moment, remembering what her face had just done. How it had turned so damn mean. Had that only been the effects of her early morning blunts? Or had she truly seen it? Because despite Dominique's claim to have only been joking, the hatred in that look had seemed so fucking real! "

"I haven't noticed," she said, inhaling deeply. "I just write the books, I don't often critique them. But I know you, what's the problem with that? That somehow doesn't add up, right?"

Dominique shrugged. "Not to me, writers usually get better not worse. Who knows? But I've been examining the urban fiction websites, looking for the legitimate companies. I remembered what you said about Publish America. How they only exist to steal good ideas from aspiring writers? Or even worse, get writers to put out overly expensive books filled with typos nobody will ever buy?"

"That's what I read," Taylor agreed. "I almost sent my completed book to them, would have been a big mistake too."

"It's a good thing you didn't!" she said. "Not after that article I saw online!"

"I know," she said. "The thieving fuck-faces! I can't believe they're even allowed to operate!"

She grimaced at Dominique. "You think the government gets a piece of the action?" she whispered. "First Bush and now Obummer? And then Trump? I mean how else can a company blatantly rob people like that? I'm serious girl. You think I trust these clowns running our lives? Maybe the government's into killing our dreams too?"

Then Taylor grinned. "What am I saying; this is the golden land of opportunity, now ain't it? Just make sure the opportunity is legit you dumb fuckers! And oh yeah," she added, "made ya look, niggas!"

Dominique was smiling back. "That's why I checked to see what others had to say about Black Felony," she whispered. "And everything was positive. Miss Nubian really did her homework before she bought the company from Paula Patton. Then I went and checked the profiles of the authors at every major publishing house in urban fiction. Know what I learned?"

"First of all Dominique," she whispered back, "why the fuck are you whispering? If you've got shit to say, say it motherfucker! Coward ass bitch!"

Dominique looked dazed for a moment. "Huh, ma'am?" she said. "What do you mean?'

Taylor grinned softly. "Never mind honey," she said. "What did you learn, baby?"

She stared at Dominique, tracing the soft lines of her face. Letting her eyes soak up her gorgeous complexion. With the white dress, and her innocent smile, Dominique (a demon seed if there ever was one—truth is fucking truth) nearly seemed angelic—like the type of female she'd always wanted to spend a cold winter's night with.

Or cold winter's morning with, for that matter, and she wasn't even into girls like that. She'd lick that sexy sweetheart Selena Gomez if ever given the opportunity, God she found her cute, but Selena Gomez was apparently into little boys.

Dominique's eyes shimmered as she pulled on the blunt again, and blew out smoke. "Most of the writers have been locked up for years," she said. "Even the women...the shortest bid was for forty-eight months, and I think that was for prostitution."

"I've heard that too," Taylor said. "I can't believe they even talk about what they went through, let alone write about it."

"Well, it's selling books," Dominique said. "Writing about real life shit in the hood or prison, is the latest trend apparently."

"That takes crazy guts if you ask me," Taylor said and exhaled. "I could never do it, that's for sure. You know, I once even read that Paula Patton—"

Taylor stopped mid-sentence, suddenly unable to speak another fucking word. What the fuck! she thought, gasping and staring hard at Dominique. What the holy hell? she mouthed. What's this fucking shit I'm seeing? Is this really happening?

Dominique, apparently oblivious to it (to what Taylor was seeing, regardless of how crazy it seemed), sighed herself. "Do you want my honest opinion, boss?" she said. "I mean, about what I think you should do regarding the new novel?"

Taylor didn't respond; couldn't respond. She could only stare back at Dominique. But not at her face, not this time. It was her Miss Nubian dress that Taylor was staring at now; that she couldn't seem to stop staring at...

Because...

Taylor peered harder, actually moving forward a little, rolling her seat up to the desk just to make sure before she flipped. And yes, she saw that she was right...Miss Nubian's previously frozen face on Dominique's dress had moved just now! The eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and then rolled directly towards her!

The sinister grin seemed to split and then widen, Miss Nubian's pointy teeth yawning like the mandibles of a giant soldier ant; then the mandibles had violently snapped open and closed three times, the shirt actually rippling and rising!

Taylor, breathing hard, thought of the Black woman in The Devil's Advocate; the one who seemed to have been born for her role as Charlize Theron's she-demon friend. Her face had done that in one horrifying scene, hadn't it?

Her heart was pounding as she finally shut her eyes, and when she opened them a split-second later, Miss Nubian looked normal again—if looking like a character out of an Underworld film could ever be considered normal.

Rubbing her face with both trembling hands, Taylor thought: Am I tripping? Did Rolexiia put something in my weed! Maybe even despicable nigger dust? There was no real reason to suspect such a fucked-up thing, but...

Miss Nubian's jewel eyes were still staring at her. But somehow, the version of her on Dominique's dress just turned into a full fledged demon!

"I've been thinking," she said, as if nothing had just happened. "There are currently two hundred and ninety-six Black urban fiction writers in America. Meaning, the ones that we even know about. Give or take a few of course, that's just a round estimate."

She pulled on the blunt again, exhaled and waved one slender hand at the cloud of smoke.

"What's your point?" Taylor said, trying her hardest to keep her eyes on the girl's face.

"There could be another star on the way as we speak," she said, "who knows what's coming?"

Dominique beamed at her. "And why can't it be you Taylor? Huh? Tell me that, shorty. Are you afraid? You shouldn't be, because you're good enough. At least, I think you are. Who said you can't try another market?"

"Writing horror is much different," she mumbled, doing her best to avoid looking at Dominique's dress. Her entire body felt numb, as if she had just taken a bath in a fucking tub of warm Novocain...

Dominique shrugged. "I know, Taylor. But in my estimation, if you really want to write a hot street novel—one of the best ever, you're gonna have to enter that world, boss. Get down with the crack hustlers and the addicts, know what I mean?"

"Actually," Taylor said, "I don't...why are you even telling me these weird things?"

Dominique frowned, and gazed at her. For a moment that Taylor would forever deny (even to herself), Dominique finally stripped off her mask and revealed her true jealous, hating nature to her.

The face Dominique made at her was horrific; the searing disgust was crystal clear in it...blazing like an eternal torch upon the top of Mount Olympus.

"You're gorgeous," she said, exhaling. "OK? You're blessed with a family who has money, you've got long hair, the quirkiest smile, and your body is phenomenal. Oh, and you're actually dark skinned on top of everything! Only a retarded bitch would fail to see the luxury in that! But wait, you're one of the sexiest dark chicks ever...well, la-di-dah, and all hoity-toity! But you're also spoiled Taylor LaKenya, and what's more, you've had life a bit too easily, the warped way I see things."

She paused, and took a deep breath. Then, she let it out. "I know you've been through shit but you need to personally taste the fear boo. That's the only way to really feel what it's like in my humble opinion."

"What?" Taylor managed to whisper, feeling confused. "Taste the fear? And what addicts?"

And had she actually said addicts or attics? Flowers in attics? She had read a novel by V.C. Andrews once—

"The ones who'd gladly sell their kids for heroin!" Dominique said, laughingly. "I actually read about something like that happening right here in New York, yo."

Dominique was frowning at Taylor like she did when Taylor didn't recall something fast enough for her liking, which was often.

Miss Nubian's face! she thought. Did it really just do that shit? This isn't funny, what the fuck was I smoking?

A bewildered Taylor, for perhaps the millionth time since she took her very first breath, seriously decided to stop getting so goddamn high and drunk!

Dominique took another drag on the blunt, but didn't exhale. "I have five brothers," she said. "The youngest one is down with some silly gang. A bunch of clowns...the Mighty Rapping Mavericks or something corny like that..."

"What? I didn't even know you had brothers," Taylor said.

"Well I do!" she said. "The fucking rug-rats!"

Dominique finally expelled the weed smoke, coughing harshly into her free hand. "Anyway," she continued, coughing a few more times, clearing her throat, and stubbing out the blunt on the thick wooden leg of the chair, bending far over to do it.

Ashes fell to the carpet in a powdery drift that she kicked away with the toe of her boot. For a moment, her entire body was hidden behind a curtain of silky dark hair. She flipped her long hair back again, smiling at Taylor.

Taylor stared at the spot for a few seconds, at what appeared to be a star shaped smudge on the light blue carpet, her mind spinning, and then glanced up. Dominique was waiting for her to look. "So, he's in this gang right?" she went on, brushing hair from her face.

"I know they sell both weed and crack; I found some in his bottom drawer, beneath his smelly rolled up socks. They were in little squares of tin-foil."

She giggled. "He doesn't even know I saw it. At first, I thought it was some kind of chocolate, maybe some new kind of Kit Kat? Imagine my surprise when I opened it!"

Dominique stood up, still flashing a bright smile at her. Taylor's eyes rose with her, instinctively moving to the front of her dress again.

Taylor gasped, jerking back in her seat again, the spring holding her up squealing now. Her breath was hitching in her suddenly clenched throat because the image of Miss Nubian on Dominique's dress was pointing at her now!

Angrily too—like a person accusing her of something heinous. And this time, Taylor was positive she saw it. But when Taylor blinked, the dress was normal yet again!

Miss Nubian the red boned demon on Dominique's dress, was back to watching her with those creepy jewel eyes of hers; the jewels around her amazing body—almost as hot as Mama Galore's amazing African American body, were twinkling and flashing with Dominique's movements, but Ms. Nubian was no longer pointing at her.

Fighting back her fear, Taylor leaned forward on the desk, trying to grin up at Dominique and she just made it. She could feel her mouth slowly curving into a weak and trembly smirk.

Dominique went right on smiling at her. "I asked him about it and he lied," she was saying

She resumed sitting on the window ledge after stretching her legs. But she was still grinning at Taylor as if completely unaware of what was happening right beneath her own face.

Taylor wondered what that felt like...to not know what's happening right under your nose when you considered yourself so goddamn motherfucking smart, savvy, rich and powerful. So connected, in the know, and special? She couldn't help thinking of the famous saying regarding a forest and some trees.

"He said something crazy about finding it somewhere," she said, "but my point is he talks about them all the time. Somebody named Orion supposedly lost his work during rush hour; eighteen hundred dollars worth that he left in a paper bag on a crowded city bus! Talk about a moron, huh?"

"So...what?" Taylor said.

Her mind was still swirling, she could barely follow the sense of Dominique's words. What the fuck is this! she wondered. For real, what's happening to me! I'm so fucking confused!

Dominique said, "I'm thinking I can get him to take you over to them, and that he can tell them you're his home girl from out of town just dropping by for a visit."

"From Miami?" she said in a hesitant voice, and paused.

Taylor was only saying Miami because Dominique had recently come from there. Taylor was still seeing that other Miss Nubian in her mind, which was the real problem.

Seeing her face that had changed into something even worse than the original drawing. And then somehow started pointing at her; it was almost as if Miss Nubian could actually see her!

Taylor forced herself to focus. She took a breath and released it. She stole another glance at the dress; Miss Nubian was no longer raising her finger at her.

But she was staring into the camera as if she held a grudge against it. A grudge she planned on settling. Her pretty glossy black hair was cascading down around her shoulders and Taylor thought her glittering eyes actually looked alive now.

Beyond the reflection of the lights that made the jewels appear to shimmer, they now seemed like real human eyes!

"Bingo!" Dominique said, "Bitter spends all his time in Queens. Don't ask me what's so special about Queens and shit." She shrugged. "I just know he's always there... maybe it's because they got some of the finest chicks in New York over there? At least, that's what Bitter said." She smirked. "But I wouldn't know, since I rarely go past Manhattan."

"Hence the name: Queens," Taylor said, sounding vacant to herself. Almost sounding lost. "That's almost my neck of the woods..."

"Well, he claimed somebody named Addison is looking for workers," Dominique continued. "To hustle out of a private house and I think that's supposed to be a big deal, money-wise. But the money's not important; it's the experience that I'm talking about. You know what they say about it being the best teacher. Why not find out what it's like, personally? You're still planning on writing a street novel, right?"

"You're crazy," Taylor said. "You can't be serious?"

But Taylor thought she was. She couldn't believe it, but Dominique really did seem serious. At least, by her facial expression and grave tone of voice, she did. As if joining gangs was a sane and normal thing to do! Maybe her newest assistant was smoking something a little stronger than weed this morning?

Dominique shrugged, rubbing her palms together.

"Maybe you could go with him to meet them?" she said. "I bet they'd accept you if you came from him. I guess everybody's got somebody that likes them, even that little creep." She shook her head. "You'll see what I mean if you get to meet Bitter, believe me, he's a real piece of work. But do you think you could pull it off if you tried it out?"

Taylor only stared at her as Dominique pushed her black hair back behind her shoulders, revealing h er pale forehead. "What makes you think he'd even help me?" she asked. "You just said he wouldn't admit—"

"He'll help," she said, waving her hand dismissively and rolling her eyes. "Don't worry about that; let's just say I caught him doing something he'd rather die than have revealed. You should have seen his face!"

She giggled. "The only reason he didn't come clean about the drug-peddling was because I didn't press it in the first place. But I could have cracked him like a peanut if I wanted. Nigga talks big, but homeboy's softer than a used tampon! He once let a gay nigga wipe a booger on his ass in front of everybody and didn't do shit. The president of some bullshit company even called him a jackass to his face once and he didn't do shit...a true bully."

Dominique rubbed her right hip. "If you want to try this I can arrange it," she said. She glanced down at herself. "You like the way I dress, don't you? Yeah, I've seen you checking me out Taylor."

Dominique was grinning as she looked at her again. "Don't worry, I'm used to it," she said. "I'll simply take you shopping."

She gazed at Taylor's unruly hair, still grinning at her. Taylor once kept a short afro (Dominique said she reminded her of Florida Evans off of Good Times) that she had shampooed regularly, but rarely combed. Since she never dated or hung out, she didn't really see the point of it.

But Dominique had convinced her to take Nature's Valley hair-growth pills, use a certain fancy French hair-growth shampoo (Google it), and let it grow out, no perms for a year (only wigs and weaves), and it had eventually grown far past her shoulders.

Now, the shit wouldn't stop growing! But unfortunately, Taylor rarely brushed it properly (at least, not to Dominique's liking), and it was often filled with various forms of debris; even a few brown-turning leaf fragments, it seemed.

Dominique's smile grew as she noticed them. She rolled her eyes and rose up from the window ledge. Taylor watched her stroll over and stop right in front of her. "Stand up!" she ordered, smiling down at her. "Let's have a good look at you boss. Come on, shorty, upsy daisy!"

Dominique reached down and grabbed her hands. "Time is money," she said, "isn't that one of your favorite sayings? Well, I kind of like it. Plus, I believe it's true for the most part."

Taylor immediately rose from her seat, staring up into Dominique's face. She felt like a midget standing so close to her. It was weird knowing she was six years younger than Dominique was, not because the top of her head barely passed Dominique's elbow, but because she was actually her boss.

A cloud of some enticing fragrance engulfed her as Dominique moved even closer to her, her hot body pressing up against hers now, and began steadily picking at her hair. After a second, Taylor remembered the perfume was Blac Girl Rising.

A heavenly peachy scent which always made her think of November and of quiet meadows during rosy sunsets. Of Chantia from Queens and of Lauren London. They were like goddess twins, my niggas.

Dominique sighed. "You have lint everywhere!" she said. "My God, don't you comb it Taylor? Remember when we first met and you looked like Buckwheat's asshole! No, don't move!"

She was grabbing Taylor by the chin now. "Like you said, you never know who's watching you...stop moving girl and just wait!"

Dominique's slender fingers felt like sparrows pecking at her head, now. As if an entire flock of them were roosting in her hair, maybe trying to eat at her chaotic thoughts. And as usual, she was slowly starting to feel horny.

Being this close to Dominique was sexually arousing, and made her tingle in private places. She thought it was partially the girl's height (you can't tell from the cover because she's sitting down, plus it's only a head-shot, but Dominique's actually six-three barefoot), yet Taylor was also drawn to her sexy body, and almost absurdly adorable face.

She thought Dominique perfectly personified cute Black-girlishness. And to be honest, her tight white dress (despite the Miss Nubian rigmarole on the front of it, just beneath her tits) wasn't hurting matters. Taylor ultimately thought the girl was a lazy, spoiled brat, but was still astoundingly hot.

"We can get you a hair do," she was saying. "A fade or something like that, something modern, Taylor. It's 2016 and even the First Lady's got more style than this, and that's pretty sad girl."

Dominique plucked another piece of lint from her hair that she couldn't see, flicked it away and stood back. She refolded her arms and gazed down at her appraisingly. "Turn around," she said. "I've got an idea!"

Taylor did. Then Dominique using one finger touched her chin and gently tilted her head upwards.

Stepping forward and suddenly removing the glasses from her upturned face, Taylor blinking owlishly, Dominique said: "Not bad, I think between me and Anastasia, we'll have you looking like Remy Ma in no time!" She tapped Taylor gently on the nose. "But to be honest, I think you'd make a much cuter rapper."

Taylor couldn't help but laugh. The image of her dressed as the female emcee was hilarious. Remy Ma was gorgeous, but was on some new shit since she got out of prison and often wore form fitting outfits which accentuated her many curves—not exactly Taylor's idea of proper clothing, and Dominique knew it.

Real cute, she thought. Smart ass bitch.

Surprisingly, Dominique actually possessed a rather wicked sense of humor to go along with her physical allure. Nary a day went by that didn't have Taylor laughing hysterically at something witty she had said. Taylor was beginning to wonder if she possibly had a crush on her.

She was on the verge of responding to Dominique's latest jest when a sudden hard knock came at the door, making them both jump. Then, the door opened up. "Excuse me," a high pitched voice called out. "Ms. LaKenya? Yoo-hoo?"

It was Anastasia Vanity, her head secretary, and by the harried expression on her normally calm and pleasant face, whatever she wanted seemed not only important, but extremely important.

Maybe even urgent; the way she normally looked when a package arrived needing Taylor's signature or a credit card payment on some random office item.

Taylor watched the brown skinned woman poking her head through the door, wearing the expression she always wore when she entered her office unannounced; considering what she'd just seen Dominique's shirt do, and couldn't help shivering again, her heart speeding up in her fucking chest.

What the hell was that? And should she even tell Anastasia aout it? How would she even bring something like that up to her?

Um, excuse me Anastasia, but have you noticed how Dominique's Miss Nubian dress seems possessed at times? How the drawing of Miss Nubian seems to snarl and point, even when you couldn't see her fucking hands before?

No, she couldn't tell Anastasia that weird shit.

Taylor could personally accept that she'd seen something. That her eyes were functioning properly. But her rational mind fought hard to deny it, and moreover, it wondered how Anastasia would even take her claims. After all, even she was desperately trying to deny what she saw on one level, wasn't she?

Trying to deny Miss Nubian's already disturbing vampire's likeness turning into something that was so horrific it was indescribable—even with Taylor's knack for using descriptive words? She was a fucking writer and a poet, wasn't she?

Of course, she could simply ask Dominique why Miss Nubian had been drawn that way, too. As they said, often the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Was it for a movie? Or maybe even a new book? One of her graphic novels, perhaps?

Taylor didn't know, and regardless of what it was for, she wondered had any of that shit even been real? Did it really happen? And a better question: what the hell did it possibly mean in real life terms (like in terms of her own sanity, for instance) if any of it was real?

2.

Taylor peered warily at the woman who had just stepped into her office. "What is it, Anastasia? I hope it's important. We're kind of busy right now working on a new project. I was just about to tell you not to disturb us for a while."

The short, big-breasted female hurried inside and closed the door behind her, the latch softly clicking home. Taylor quickly glanced at Dominique's dress which she could see wasn't doing anything overly strange at the moment and thought: Thank you God for small favors; but somethings better than nothing!

But Miss Nubian was glaring at her again. The way old paintings did when she visited museums. Except the look in the eyes on the paintings hadn't scared her like this. Nothing had ever scared her like this! She could barely contain her panic.

Taylor suppressed another shiver as the new woman quickly strode further into the room, her double E tits bouncing around in her suit, her brown eyes mostly peering up at Dominique as she neared them. (Taylor felt Anastasia had the dark, somber eyes of a struggling poet. It was actually partly why she'd hired her in the first place.)

"Hello Dominique," Anastasia said warmly smiling up at her, and then inhaled deeply. "Whoa!" she said. "Somebody's been lighting up in here! Who threw a party and didn't invite little ole me? That's not nice; you two know I don't mind hitting the blunt every now and then."

Laughing musically, she waved one manicured hand through the air, her head turning this way and that, her huge breasts wobbling like Jell-O with her motions.

Dominique laughed too, and leaned over as the much shorter woman walked up to her, tiptoed, and kissed her fully on the mouth.

Taylor, who was watching them, knew Anastasia was only joking about smoking weed. She didn't drink either. But despite these obvious flaws in her character, Dominique clearly still adored her.

"Good morning, mom" she said, bending down to hug Anastasia tightly. "You're right on time sexy; we were just talking about you."

We were? Taylor thought. Don't you mean you were talking about her?

Dominique kissed Anastasia on the lips again and released her. She was grinning down at her almost expectantly.

Taylor noticed this strange interaction, but couldn't imagine what it meant. Of course, she would all-to-soon soon find out what it meant. Oh yes—like in about four hours.

Anastasia gave Dominique a puzzled look, then raised one small hand and turned to Taylor.

"Pardon me ma'am, I didn't mean to disturb you but there's a phone call for you on my private number."

Taylor frowned. "Who?"

"Black Felony Publishing. They called at exactly eight thirty-five this morning; they're on hold."

"What?" Taylor said, her heart started thumping again. "Who? Black Fel—"

"Black Felony Publishing?"Anastasia repeated. "Soon to be Miss Nubian's newest acquisition?"

"Why would they be calling me? And why on your phone?"

Anastasia shrugged. "Who knows Ms. LaKenya? I was surprised myself; that's why I rushed in here...they're still on hold, by the way."

Taylor felt dumbfounded, she could only stare down at the phone in Anastasia's hand. She had been thinking about contacting them. Especially after hearing the rumor about Miss Nubian being interested in buying them. But unfortunately, hadn't done it yet.

"Because I took the liberty of sending them one of your manuscripts," Dominique informed her. She was grinning ear to ear as Taylor suddenly turned to her, obviously shocked by her unexpected admission.

"What?" she whispered harshly.

"The one you started last week, you called it Concrete Jungles; Beyond the Melting Sun? I gave them Anastasia's phone number to keep it a secret."

Dominique smiled a perfectly white and even-toothed smile. A Hollywood smile, Taylor had thought the first time she saw it.

And she'd apparently been right about her Hollywood reference, because this had been some damn good acting job she'd just pulled off! Had even fooled that smart monkey in the zoot suit.

"I made a copy," Dominique said, clearly excited now. Her eyeballs were extremely red (from the weed, obviously), but her irises were clear and glimmered in the lights, seeming to twinkle like chrome.

"I read it," she admitted. "You asked me to, remember?" Her Hollywood smile grew even wider. "You said to give you my honest opinion, and not to spare your feelings; you don't even remember that shit, do you?"

"Not really," Taylor replied. "But, maybe I do remem..."

She stopped suddenly; she really was trying to remember. But the way she felt, she couldn't remember anything. No more smoking two blunts before work! she told herself. I'll be like Blac Chyna and Amber Rose, thinking I'm smarter than the average bear!

What the hell had she been thinking, anyway? Instead of a brain, it felt like she had a ball of hot cotton stuffed between her ears!

At the moment, she couldn't even remember her own fucking address. And purely on a whim, she had just tried to, but the numbers were all jumbled up in her fucking head.

Dominique sucked her teeth. "You came in ecstatic one morning raving about your new writing. You said it was going to change the very course of urban fiction and even put a dent in the fucking galaxy! Even the aliens out there would know!"

"Yeah," Anastasia added, "you said the all the genre needed was someone to come along and write a book anyone could enjoy. Old or young; regardless of their race, religion, or political affiliation. You said they could read Michael Savage's Government Zero, or one of Mark Levin's books on America's excepitonalism, agree with everything they ever said, or don't, and still love your novels."

"I remember you also saying it was time to try new topics and styles—you were afraid the category would grow stale if they kept churning out the same old black bullshit," Dominique added. "That poorly written, embarrassing shit, about life in the hood. 2016 and we're still glorifying the misery in the hood. Fiction means an escape from reality idiots!"

Dominique closed her eyes, raising her head to the ceiling as if reciting lines from a script. "You said Terry Woods' poem, Boxed In, really affected you. You said it's time to show just how imaginative we can be—that we could d never be boxed in."

She dropped her head, grinning at her. "It was incredible Taylor—the characters were so real it was scary! I think Terry Woods should feel proud to learn she inspired it. You could even dedicate it to her when it's finished!"

As Taylor glanced at Anastasia she felt completely shocked. When had they planned all of this shit? Maybe she was slacking as a boss because this certainly didn't speak well of her authority!

For a moment, she thought of the actress from Clueless; the one who was rumored to put down white on her legal documents when asked to provide a skin color, but who was actually darker than Anastasia.

Stacy Rash—that was her name Taylor suddenly recalled. She was a crazy Conservative from Fox News who had the audacity to say on TV that they should put a stop to Black Heritage month.

That Fox Five was pretending they didn't put her up to it, was what Taylor was thinking of. As if she had challenged their authority with those comments, when she had never challenged authority in her entire existence. Taylor wondered if Rash had an under-sized brain to match her under-sized talent.

Anastasia, as usual, was only looking at her as innocently as a kitten begging for food.

Her full name was Anastasia Princess Vanity She was five-foot six, had velvety light brown skin, and the warmest smile.

Her hair was styled in long beaded braids; the beads were red white and blue. They made a pattern which resembled the American flag in the back, and went all the way down past her shoulders.

Slim shoulders, considering the rest of her one hundred and sixty-five pound body. And every single pound had been placed perfectly.

Especially in her huge tits and nicely shaped ass which she rarely showed off because she always wore full length dresses or Hillary Clinton suits.

"You knew about this?" Taylor asked her. "About her making decisions like this? You know my policies around here Anastasia. Nothing gets sent out without my fucking approval. It's my name that gets hurt if things go wrong!"

Anastasia reached into the pocket of her black Hillary suit and pulled out a small cell phone. "She came to me asking if she should send it around to a few publishers."

When Anastasia shrugged, the front of her suit bounced at the chest area. "I read it and found it very exciting," she said. "Excellent work, but you only wrote about three chapters, is there any more to it? Was there more than what Dominique already showed me?"

Taylor took the phone from Anastasia's hand, doing her best not to snatch it. "That was it, but I've got a few ideas," she said. "Nothing concrete yet, and I'm pleased that you two liked it. Believe me, writers love praise. They can't possibly function without approval. But I'd rather you had asked me first and I mean that shit Anastasia. You mess up with a company and that's it, they'll never accept your manuscript again!"

Anastasia frowned. "Wait, isn't Black Felony the company that rejected Careen's book? The Last Black Martian? I heard they turned down an Anne Rice novel too! Something she called, The Ghetto's Rainbow. I heard it was really scary, but they claimed it was "too mild" for ghetto fiction."

Taylor could see her secretary clearly hadn't heard the latest developments: That Miss Nubian fully owned Black Felony Publishing now. Taylor didn't feel like telling her either.

What she felt like doing was considered a crime in America. The kind you normally got twenty years for committing, and would have certainly been looked upon by the cops and the legal system as over-reacting. She saw Anastasia's eyes suddenly widen as she looked up at Dominique.

"You never told me you were submitting it to them," she said. "That changes everything girl! I wouldn't have even—"

"Shut up Anastasia! Never mind that fucking shit now. We can discuss the merits of the idea later, just answer the phone Taylor. Hurry up girl, see what they want!"

"Right," Taylor said, glancing down at the Motorola in her suddenly trembling right hand. She took a huge breath and exhaled it.

This was an incredibly important phone call and she couldn't be less prepared for it! Taylor pressed the hold button, putting the tiny phone to her ear; shifting it around until it felt just right—or as close as she could get it, and glanced up at Dominique again. Using the gadgets still felt strange to her.

Anastasia's was the color of her Hillary C suit, but was smaller than a pack of Newport cigarettes, and it felt weird talking so far from the receiver.

As if it wasn't the new technology that was the problem, but the size of her head...Taylor, waiting to see if the person spoke first, but realizing they weren't going to, was simultaneously gazing at Dominique's Miss Nubian dress while opening her mouth to say hello when she actually saw the shit move again. She gasped, shutting her eyes tight!

In the darkness of her shut eyes, Taylor fought back terror and tried to deny what she'd just seen. After a few minutes seemed to pass, she took another deep, ragged breath, and released it slowly. Yeah, she was desperately trying to forget what she'd just seen. Just now, while trying to put off answering the phone by thinking about phones!

When Taylor opened her eyes this time, her entire body was trembling as if she were suddenly cold! But had she just seen that? Had she really seen any of it? Miss Nubian's face seeming to snarl like that? Miss Nubian raising her hand and pointing at her? And now this? Was she seeing this too? Because the implications of this...

Yes, Taylor thought, I really did! I really am seeing this crazy shit!

The fucking white dress had changed again. Only this time, Miss Nubian was definitely looking right at her. And she was clearly holding something now. She had her hands up to the sides of her face, and seemed to be peering up at the dark storm clouds now hovering menacingly above her just before swiveling her head around to stare at Taylor!

For a few seconds, Taylor could only gape at Dominique's dress in a mixture of revulsion and confusion, still holding the phone to her suddenly hot face. And barely realizing she was still holding it. Taylor thought the gray storm clouds on the dress, that hadn't been there before, were somehow moving, and Miss Nubian's hands...

Miss Nubian's the pretty light skin bitch holding the gun on the cover. That's a Black bitch, motherfuckers. African American motherfuckers.

You tell a King to go and find his own bitches big mouth nigger, he just might do it! You don't have enough talent to address me fag. There's quite a few of them in America, coward stranger, interloper, 'lil man, and her pale white as death hands that were somehow visible, were showing her something...

...something that seemed to shine and sparkle as if covered in a layer of glitter.

Why would she be holding that? she thought to herself just before the image vanished. Where did it come from and what the fuck does it mean?

Miss Nubian was pointing a black handgun at her just now! And there hadn't been a gun in the original drawing. Miss Nubian hadn't even had any fucking hands in the fucking scene before!

Before the shit disappeared, there was no mistaking that Miss Nubian could see her because one of her twinkling jewel eyes, the right one, winked at her! Then her eyebrows immediately tilted inward towards her sharp nose; her teeth growing, sprouting from the corners of her red lips like white claws!

And the evil grin on Miss Nubian's pale face, the look of gleeful malice, the twisting jagged teeth, reminded Taylor of something she couldn't quite recall.

But her eyes!

Taylor's mind would always turn right back to them. Such anger in those eyes—the mesmerizing African eyes of a Goddess; hypnotic fantasy eyes you'd think aloof from such dark boiling hatred. I wish you were fucking dead! they seemed to scream at her as if screaming at that fake-assed jealous Conservative. I hate your guts you tainted bitch!

Taylor opened her own eyes, shuddering and turning her back on Dominique and Anastasia before they could see her distress (not realizing that they couldn't have possibly missed her reaction just now; her gasping and nearly stumbling like that), before she could see the image on the dress again.

She didn't even want to try explaining to them what she'd just witnessed. Or what she believed she'd just witnessed.

No! Taylor thought. I did see it! How Miss Nubian changed into a creature out of Hell Boy or Pan's fucking Labyrinth! I really saw that creepy shit!

"Yes, I'm Ms. LaKenya," she managed to say, rubbing her right arm with her left hand, feeling the hard prickly skin there, goose bumps, and hoping the person hadn't hung up already. "Dark Realm Novels Ink?" she said. "How may I help you?"

3.

"Ms. LaKenya?" the voice said. "My name is Alicia Towers, and how are you this morning? Allow me to get to the point...we received your partial manuscript a few days ago and we loved it. But there wasn't any synopsis included. I take it the book is completed?"

"Uh yes," Taylor lied. "It's done; I'm just like...going through last revisions. You know, making sure it's perfect. I usually do my own editing. Or I ask my sister to do it. But she's expensive and I know the writing books say—"

"Excellent," Mrs. Towers said, "because I have permission to offer a contract for the completed manuscript. Now, under normal circumstances, we would have tossed the package. We can't afford to bank on a dream or a vision. Too many people never finish the damn book, if you'll pardon my French."

"Yes," Taylor said. "I already know since I've gone to your website. Unfortunately, one of my assistants mailed it without consulting me first."

She glanced over at Dominique whose dress, thankfully, was normal again. But the girl was staring down at her as if watching her open a fancily wrapped birthday present. Perhaps one she had surprised her with. "So you shouldn't have received it in the first place," she continued. "I don't submit unfinished work. But I could have the book in about two weeks if you like. If I rush, I could even—"

"We'll give you a month," Mrs. Towers said. "We're pretty reasonable over here. At least, I try to be. And over time, I think you'll find that our authors are very pleased with the setup. But about your story." She chuckled softly, nearly tittered. Her voice almost seeming younger somehow to Taylor.

Before Taylor could speak, she said: "Whoo! The action seems so real, can you keep it up? You wouldn't believe how many submissions falter halfway through the narrative; the writers simply lose focus. You actually seem to get better, which is extremely rare."

"Yes," she said. "I always respect my reader's intelligence and go on the assumption that most Americans over five years old can read; the Black ones too. Especially, the Black ones. It's...uh..." She stopped, completely confused and woefully unprepared for this. She felt like a pissy drunk person suddenly pulled over by state cops.

"How does it end?" she asked. "Can you possibly give me a brief overview of the plot right here over the phone?"

There was eagerness in her voice that made Taylor's heart beat faster. And even besides that, she was shocked speechless and feeling beyond befuddled. How had it slipped her mind? She had completely forgotten about that shit! The brief overview. It was the damn weed! she chided herself for the third time.

"Well," Taylor said.

And she was just about to open her mouth, completely unaware of what may have actually come out, when the woman on the other end of the line bailed her out nicely without realizing it.

Taylor couldn't help feeling a slight sense of embarrassment later; she usually prided herself on her quick thinking. But besides being thoroughly surprised by the phone call in the first place, thanks to Dominique and Anastasia, smoking that second blunt had done her in. So, she allowed herself this one slip-up...it was an unexpected call, after all...

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Towers said, laughing softly. "Don't mind me, what was I thinking? The sanctity of a writer's privacy right? Never tell until it's finished? You'd think I've been doing this long enough." She sighed. "Maybe I need a vacation?" she said.

Then she laughed as if that were only a farfetched dream; one that would never come true. "But we'll just give you a break and wait for the completed book," she told her. "You can add the full outline or synopsis then."

Taylor laughed along with her, more relieved than anything. "I'll have it done in a month," she said. "It's really too much time," she added for no good reason. She chuckled. "I'll probably have like half of another book done by then. I'm pretty fast once I get inspired... in fact, I could even add it to the—"

"Beyond the Melting Sun will do," she interrupted her. "We'll examine that first. If we really like it, we can discuss any future projects soon afterwards. But from what I've read, that seems like a forgone conclusion." There was a brief silence before she said: "And by the way, let me add that Miss Nubian is going to read it personally. She's searching for writers for her newest line of graphic novels: Ghetto Warfare. They're being adapted into a cable series to be wrtten and directed by Tyler Perry. It's about a coven of prehistoric vamps that feed off dinosaurs and cavemen, and then discover a magical door in a cave that leads to other dimensions. In the first season, they even meet humans. Amber Rose and Blac Chyna. There's a threesome involved with Rob Kardashian—he supposedly has a really big nigga-like cock. But fast writers are right up her alley and get to work with her at her mansion! So I'll be expecting to hear from you in thirty days? The sooner you get it to Miss Nubian, the better."

"Or less," Taylor said, thinking she'd solved the mystery of Dominique's shirt. At least, the part about Miss Nubian looking like Dracula's girlfriend.

"But yeah, thirty days should do," she said. "Don't worry, you can count on me. I take my craft very serious—"

But the line was already dead.

*********

After she turned off Anastasia's cell phone, Taylor handed it back to her. She didn't know how stunned her face looked, but she knew how stunned she felt. Her entire body was trembling like a tuning fork.

"They're really interested in it," she said, still unable to believe it. "I think Miss Nubian wants to read it."

She was stunned because she was beginning to get the impression she'd never get an offer on one of her street novels. Every one of her inquiry letters, most of them written by professional query writers, had been soundly rejected.

Much too violent, they told her. And one particularly annoying responder had written: The word "nigger" or "nigga" is not acceptable. And definitely not nigger! We know what that word means. First, that vile racist The Boondocks cartoon, then those Internet pornos with Caucasian hoes calling African American men niggers, and now you? The history behind that word is nothing to take lightly! A Black female treating those lily james lily white snowflakes like they're special! Caucasian equal special in YOUR book, because it doesn't in OURS!! Even got Iggy Azalea saying nigger, now? Canadian niggers, and crazy Australian White girls, too? Real good job! Is that everybody? Couldn't find any aliens using the N-word, lately? Guess the world hasn't gone completely crazy just yet, huh? Good, because a Caucasian girl using it is bad enough!!!

And isn't this world depraved enough WITHOUT YOU ADDING TO IT?! YOUR NOVELS ARE EXACTLY WHAT'S WRONG WITH BLACK FOLKS NOW!!! GO TO HELL, NIGGA BITCH!!!

Taylor (who laughed out loud each time she read that one) secretly had three of them stuffed in a small safe she kept in her bedroom, and personally considered them the best writing she'd ever done.

Even better than her fantasy and horror novels. No one knew about them, not even Anastasia. But writing them had actually been fun. Had shown Taylor she could do whatever she really set her will to.

She glanced up at Dominique and just stared at her for a moment. She felt on the verge of tears, and did her best to control it. The girl may have just changed her entire life.

She might have started a chain of events that could lead to her not only getting the chance to work with Miss Nubian, but also, to her being hailed as the best urban fiction writer ever! And after that, who knew?

"Thank you," she said. "On your first try too; I really appreciate this Dominique."

In fact, she had just come to a major conclusion. Yes, things were finally starting to fall in place. And she had Dominique Hadessah to thank for it.

"So they accepted it?" Dominique asked. "Are you serious? No fooling around Taylor? Tell me you're serious, boss."

"Am I?" she said, suddenly grinning at Anastasia. "Drop whatever you were doing," she told her. "You and my lovely new assistant right here, Ms. Smarty Pants, are going to do a little shopping. We all are."

Taylor was still grinning as she turned from Anastasia and fiercely embraced Dominique. The taller girl immediately hugged her back, burying Taylor's face against her shirt and grunting.

Taylor got a nose-full of her perfume, of Lauren London's glorious smelling perfume, and felt the hot tears fall. She was a huge step closer to finally getting to meet her! The prettiest actress since Michael Michelle, and Robin Givens, she felt.

Since Gabrielle Union and that African actress chick Towango, or Omango (who was okay, look wise, but either needed an entirely different country to convince her dark skin was a blessing, like a needy foreigner bitch, or was just another full of shit opportunist; and Taylor thought the second answer was probably best), and had she opened her teary eyes, she would have been staring right into that actress' faux diamond ones. Had she puckered up, she could have kissed Miss Nubian's nose and sexy shirt-material mouth.

And had she remembered how the eyes on the shirt turned to stare at her, or how Miss Nubian's bristling fang-like teeth grew into grasping shark's teeth right before her own shocked eyes, Taylor would have recoiled in disgust...

She released the girl and stepped back. "You're a genius," she said, gazing up at her. "For real, you and Anastasia both, you somehow got their fucking attention!" She grinned.

"I'm proud of those chicks, they redefine strength, and no people in the universe can take what African American girls can. I mean just stop and really think about their history—Google it. But I want to add my name to the illustrious list of urban fiction authors," she continued. "And who better than Miss Nubian to promote it? She's so fucking pretty and talented and proud to be African American! Oh my God, I might actually get to meet her!"

In a rare show of jubilance, Taylor clapped her hands and cheered.

Feeling extra giddy, she pointed to the actress on Dominique's shirt as if she'd never seen her before. Feeling brave all of a sudden, it seemed.

Miss Nubian seemed to be glaring right back at her again, as if on the verge of leaping from the shirt and biting her on the neck. (But Taylor had already forgotten what she saw the image do. And strangely enough, wouldn't recall it for quite some time.)

"You too Miss Nubian!" she yelled. "If I get this, I swear it's raises for all of you bitches!"

Dominique laughed, also clapping her hands. Anastasia, who was still staring at the two of them, looking from one to the other, said: "Why would we be going shopping on a work day Ms. LaKenya? What's up? And why are you two shouting like that? Did I miss Publisher's Clearing House dropping by? And if so, where's the giant check?"

Taylor chuckled. "There's no check," she said, "because that wasn't them silly. But if I'm going to turn into a big time hustler, I'm going to need some new clothes. And definitely some fucking bling!" She laughed again, not feeling hypocritical in the least.

"About time," Dominique said, turning to Anastasia. "In order to finish her novel she's going to do research, shorty. The kind of research that's never been done. Remember what I told you about my brother, Bitter? Well Taylor's going to join his gang." Dominique glanced at Taylor. "I'm glad you're down with it ma," she said. "Don't worry; I'll make sure you don't regret this. You're about to become motherfucking famous!"

Anastasia only stared at them. Taylor didn't think she could have looked any more flabbergasted had she said she and Dominique were getting married and wanted her to be the flower girl.

"Please close your mouth," she said, still grinning at her secretary. "Unless you plan on sucking on something Mandingo or Shorty Mack porn star big! And sorry, but unless you plan on filming it, that's not allowed on company time, bitch."

"Are you two crazy?"Anastasia said, finally. "Joining a gang? I know I'm older than the both of you, by quite a few years too. This one here (she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Dominique), the giraffe, could be my grandbaby. But, if this is your strange idea of fun..."

"No," Dominique said, smiling down at the woman. "Grandma. Not fun Anastasia, business. Taylor's going deep undercover. She's going to infiltrate my brother's gang and get first-hand knowledge of that lifestyle! Isn't that exciting? She can put the stuff into her new book to make it seem even more realistic; we'll show em some urban fiction!"

Anastasia cut her eyes to Taylor. "Is she serious Ms. LaKenya? A drug gang? You've got to be kidding...I mean, there's got to be an easier way! Couldn't you watch a documentary or something? On that Internet thing-a-ma-jig where they got just about everything Satan could think up? Don't gangs kidnap and kill people?"

Taylor laughed, walking over to Anastasia and placed one arm around her shoulders. She planted a kiss on her soft left cheek, the side of Anastasia's left breast poking her in the ribs. Her perfume wasn't as delicious smelling as Dominique's was, but it wasn't bad. Wasn't bad at all.

"You don't have to worry about a thing," she said. "Because guess what, Dee? The two of you are coming with me! I'll spare no expense; I swear anything you want's on me! Hell, I'll even rent a Hummer or an Escalade if it comes to that!"

She looked up at Dominique. "You've got a junior license, right?" she said. "You can use it as long as I'm riding with you."

Dominique yelped with excitement; actually leaping a few feet from the thick blue carpet covering the office floor. "Yes!" she shouted. "I took a few acting classes last year. Down at the Parks Department's Rec Center in my neighborhood. I'm no January Jones on Mad Men—God she's talented and cute! But I could give you lessons! Enough to get you by...but it won't really matter."

She waved one hand at the air as if swatting mosquitoes only she could see.

"Why won't it?"Anastasia said, her eyes still wide.

"Because, according to the conversations I overheard Eddie having with his little friends, his gang spends the majority of their time getting high. Weed, liquor..."

Dominique rubbed her slender arms, suddenly looking serious. "We can get in, get a feel for that side of the tracks and get out," she said. "You already have the foundation of the book, Taylor. You add in what we learn and I think your story'll grow beyond your wildest fucking dreams! This is real now...Black Felony is talking cold hard cash!"

"Are you in?" Taylor asked Anastasia. "We won't be doing it long. Just a few days; anything dangerous happens we leave. We head for the hills, case closed."

Anastasia, for her part, still seemed to be waiting for the punch line. For certainly they were joking! Her mouth was still open and she snapped it shut, her thick brown lips making a plopping sound.

And that she was actually talking to dead people, to people who would soon be quite deceased, never even occurred to Taylor LaKenya.

Which was good, because it definitely would have ruined her currently cheerful mood; would have definitely made her look at things a hell of a lot differently. Anyone could pretend for a few minutes, perhaps even an entire hour. But life was much longer than that, and when the cameras were turned off, the bright lights turned down, and you were alone with your thoughts and realized how you've been getting played all this time....you also wonder about others who also knew about it, and wondered what they thought. You wondered just how high up the conspiracy went.

But for now, Taylor was only feeling happier than she ever had in her life. It seemed as if her God given talent, and countless hours reading, writing and rewriting (with no money provided for all her effort) was about to finally pay off! Like going to college, in a way, she thought. Unless you were an American citizen, here legally, in which case, they denied you employment and student financial aide. Giving you time to write masterpieces. The geniuses.

"Count me in," Anastasia said. She shrugged, making her heavy tits bounce again in her black HC suit. "I don't know exactly what I'm agreeing to, but it sounds crazy! Me in a drug gang?"

She sighed, shaking her head. Making her braids and her chest swing and sway nearly in unison.

"But knowing Ms. LaKenya," she went on, "we'll probably end up in a crazy Donald Goines book! With guns, and drugs, and all kinds of killing. Craziness seems to follow her around like a lost kitten and I never know what to expect when I get to work!"

Being that the only person Taylor knew in the whole world with a more boring lifestyle than her own was the woman speaking, Anastasia's declaration had been just short of hilarious.

(If she seems younger in her photo on the cover than she sounds in this story, it's because you're perceptive. It's also because she was clearly lying about her age. They all were...but we'll get to that later.)

They all laughed, and the mingled laughter was loud in the huge office. The kind of laughter that only really close friends ever seem to share.

And had Taylor known how soon she would live to regret her secretary's carefree words, had she known how close to the truth she had really been, she would have called off the entire thing right then and there.

"Forget it!" she would have probably screamed. "Don't you know what's about to happen? Why are you just standing there like idiots, we have to warn the city before it's too fucking late!"

But she didn't know. Like she had no idea Anastasia would soon be lying in a dark and musty basement a hundred miles away from this pleasantly lit office, with a bloody ragged hole in her throat, and one of her huge double E breasts missing.

And so it came to pass that the first black domino had been gently pushed over.

4.

After they finished shopping (Dominique had nearly driven her crazy with her incessant fashion talk, a topic Taylor had absolutely no interest in), it was time to meet up with Dominique's younger brother: Bitter. He was a member of the softest drug gang in America, to hear Dominique tell it.

Only Eddie would later say they called themselves The Marauders not The Rapping Mavericks, while rolling his eyes up at his grinning little sister. The bitch is always playing around, he was fond of telling his homies.

But Taylor didn't take what Dominique told her lightly. As she'd already explained to the girl that morning before they began their adventure, she did know a little about the streets.

Certainly not enough to put her on the level of a Vickie Stringer or a Wahida Clark. But more than enough to know that underestimating people was always a bad idea. There was no telling what any individual was capable of when it actually came down to it.

After all, she often thought, weren't there "typical teenaged kids" who suddenly went berserk with hunting rifles and started shooting up schools?

Weren't there women who strapped bombs to their own bodies and detonated them? Didn't kindly old priests rape innocent little boys? Yes and yes and yes...God yes.

But in Taylor's opinion, sleeping on anyone was the worse thing she could ever do. And just because Dominique's brother was soft, it didn't necessarily mean the rest of his crew was. Taylor couldn't even be sure about her brother, not until she actually met him for herself and got a chance to size him up. Something, as a writer, she seemed pretty good at doing the majority of the time.

They were now standing outside of Dominique's apartment building in Ocean Park, Brooklyn (clearly an upscale area that Taylor had never even heard of before), watching a short thick-necked boy saunter down a long flight of red brick steps.

He wore a green bandanna and dark shades. His khaki pants were black, his long sleeved khaki shirt, blue. He eyed them, smirking as he came to a stop at the bottom of the stoop, his combat boots glinting in the midday sunshine. He looked like a kid on his way to boot camp who had suddenly had a change of heart.

Taylor was still standing at the curb leaning back against Dominique's Hummer. She was shading her eyes with one hand, while feeling the soothing heat of the vehicle caressing her back.

It was coming from the hot metal which had clearly been sitting in the sun for some time, and was easily penetrating the material of her light spring jacket.

It was a weird sensation, coupled with the cool wind brushing against her face. But if you've ever experienced it, you'd know it felt wonderful, and Taylor could imagine herself standing there forever.

It was a shiny, apple-red jeep she was leaning on, which looked brand new to her. It gleamed in the sun, and she was surprised when Dominique left the office after they finished shopping and later pulled up to the building in it, considering she had just mentioned one to her and Anastasia earlier, and she still hadn't gotten around to asking her where she got it from. And since she didn't offer up the information, Taylor figured it was something she wanted to keep between the two of them.

Now Taylor watched Bitter glance at Dominique's jeep. He was lighting up a cigarette while Anastasia was turning in the front seat eager to see the kid she'd heard so much drama about.

His name was Bitter, but his friends called him Eddie for some reason Dominique never explained. She only said he liked to be called that while out in the streets—but only if it was Crazy Eddie.

Taylor was much too young to remember the old chain of electronics stores by that name, though Anastasia (who was supposedly forty-five and as she already claimed, had grandchildren nearly Taylor's age) had immediately started laughing. But that shit didn't matter in the scheme of things.

What mattered was that according to Dominique, the boy had been more than willing to help. In fact, she said, he'd actually been eager to. She didn't even have to threaten him with showing their parents whatever dirt she happened to have on him, she said.

"At least, not yet," she'd amended. "We'll just have to see how the little nigga acts, but I don't trust him for shit."

"Why was that?"Anastasia had asked her. "Why is he helping if you said he was a whiny malcontent? Basically, a little pain in the butt. Didn't you even say he's constantly getting in trouble with the law? And that he even has a record?"

Dominique said: "Because apparently, this Addison guy really needs help. And he's still a pain in the butt! Never forget that, because he won't. It seems to be his life's mission."

She had glanced at Taylor warily after saying that. "Looks like you're going to be hustling for real ma. You still up to it? The hustling part? Or should Eddie tell them you want to dance instead? Shake a little ass and tit for the dough? That might be better, much less pressure. You can just go through the motions of a stripper until we leave and still pick up some good stuff."

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's do it, just make sure we can trust him. I mean your brother. I don't need those cats finding out the truth about me. Learning that I'm really trying to write a book might not sit well with them and things could get sticky."

Taylor wasn't about to take the situation for granted. If they were selling drugs, whether in a house or on the street, they were serious about it. The cops would arrest their asses whether they were true gangsters or not too if they slipped up. And the same thing went for each one of them—the last thing Taylor wanted was to end up in jail over some shit which in the end, wasn't even guaranteed.

Now, she watched as Bitter, apparently chewing gum removed his shades and rolled his eyes at the Hummer. Or perhaps he was rolling them at Anastasia?

In any case, he took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nostrils, spit, and glanced at Taylor. He smirked, stuffing the shades in his front pocket. Then he turned and looked back up the stairs, blowing a huge pink bubble that popped.

Dominique was standing at the top of the steps locking her front door. "You the wannabe gangster bitch?" Bitter mumbled, turning back to Taylor, and grinning.

It had only taken her three seconds to decide she would hire Dominique that first morning a month back. If she still wanted the job after meeting her and finding out what Taylor expected of her on a daily basis. (In truth, one look at her beautiful face atop that tall, sexy body had sealed it.) But it took Taylor exactly half that time to realize she despised her brother.

There was a look in his eyes that would've given her pause had she met him in a dark alley on a cold rainy night. But she strove to keep on acting pleasant. Which wasn't too easy since she rarely put up with problem kids, and had zero to none patience with them. Plus, Taylor knew his type well.

The gruff voice was only a put on; he probably practiced it in a fucking mirror, getting the gruffness just right like a thespian rehearsing a new role. Speaking to his parents in that same dead tone of voice.

"You Crazy Eddie?" she asked, trying to sound friendly. She smiled and raised her hand to shake with him. "You ready to do this, mi amigo?"

Bitter peered at her hand for a moment as if she'd just pooped in it, then stiffly walked forward and shook it. It was a rather moist, limp handshake, Taylor felt. Nearly a fucking girl's handshake.

"What's up?" he said. "I'm Bitter...the nigga blowing up Twitter! The bitches go crazy when the black dick hit her...oh god she worship nigga dick!"

He released Taylor's hand and stepped back. She tried to ignore him wiping the hand he used to shake with her on the leg of his khaki pants. After blatantly looking her up and down, and sneering, he said: "That's the stuff she got you?"

Mirth lurked at the edge of his gruffly voice. "That's not too bad, I guess you'll do," he said. "I suppose you look kind of tough, if I stretch my imagination and shit." He chuckled. "Better hope Addison buys it though. If not, you might not live to see the fucking sun, shorty-wop!"

Taylor forced herself to keep smiling, thinking: Shorty-wop? How fucking old is that term?

"I'm not trying to look tough," she said. "Selling crack doesn't make you tough nigga. Plenty of punks sell and end up in prison; they get raped in prison too. And I don't know who this Addison is, but until he meets a black bitch like me, with my mental skill, I'll refrain from making him out to be so fucking special."

Bitter's face wrinkled up. He had obviously caught the look in Taylor's eyes as she spoke. A look she had mastered long ago. A look that said: Fuck you you fucking loser nigga, I'm the best there ever was and ever will be...so get over it!

"Who the hell says I sell crack?" he asked.

The boy turned and looked at his sister. She had finished locking up the apartment building and was now coming down the stairs. "Yo Dominique," he said. "You told this big mouth bitch I hustle? When I told you that shit? Why you spreading that bullshit around? Got motherfuckers thinking I'm a criminal and shit!"

Dominique reached the pavement and walked over to them. She came to a stop right in front of Bitter. She towered over him by a good twenty-three inches and the boy was completely eclipsed in her elongated shadow.

Dominique gazed down at him as if studying a strange bug. A bug that she was contemplating squashing beneath one of her brand new boots.

"I never told her anything," she said, searching her pockets for the car keys. "I just said you could hook her up with work. Didn't you say your friend Addison was hiring? That he needed people for various positions?"

Rolling his eyes, Bitter turned from her and gazed at Taylor. "Yeah, my boy Starch said something like that. But don't get it twisted. I don't touch that shit. You think I'm fucking stupid? I'm just down with the crew, nah mean? Motherfuckers can't make big moves trapped in jail! Except, maybe some writing, but it takes a real special motherfucker to stick to that shit while locked up! Most niggas can forget it."

Anastasia chuckled from the front seat of the Hummer, the loud, unexpected sound startling Bitter. He looked over at her for a second, rolled his eyes and spit. "What's shorty's name?" he said. Jerking one thumb over his shoulder and turning back to Taylor. "She got some crazy big tits! Damn, I can see them from here!"

"Eddie!" Dominique said. "She's old enough to be your mother. Hands off! That's her name, you hear me? And watch your fresh mouth boy. We didn't bring you r stupid ass with us to—"

"Try sister!" Anastasia yelled from the jeep. "Please, I'm not that damn old Dominique! Don't put me in a rocker just yet, baby. My God, I'm still on the better side of fifty!"

Dominique smiled. "Sorry, girl. But don't mind him. Sometimes I think he's got hormones filling his entire damn body. It probably explains the acne, no room for his other bodily fluids. I like calling him Ever-Ready Eddie."

"Real funny," Bitter said, absently rubbing his bumpy right cheek. "Now why don't you suck my dick bitch? I said my fucking name's Crazy Eddie!"

Taylor was fed up. She suddenly didn't believe Bitter could help them at all. Despite the inside stuff he might know, she suddenly couldn't imagine dealing with him long enough to hear it. He was too damn silly.

"I'm only dealing with you because I trust your sister," she said, turning on him, "I don't have to do this shit!"

The boy puffed on his cigarette with his face tilted to one side in a street-tough pose. "Then why you doing it?" he said. "Huh? You don't need me and I most certainly don't need your wack ass!" Then in a very low voice he mumbled, "The hell with her too! Fake ass sister."

Bitter rolled his eyes at Dominique, then back to Taylor. "I'm getting tired of doing this bullshit anyway, bitch. I ain't come with you to be your fucking lackey this time!"

"What?" Dominique said. "What did you just say nigga?"

Her brother ignored her, and kept staring at Taylor. His eyes had a brooding quality she didn't like. He had the look of a grade A troublemaker, to her. The kind of kid she often saw hanging around on street corners, smoking weed, drinking, and making lewd comments to pretty girls walking by.

The girls never stopped for them. "Looking like a broke down Claudia Jordan," he grumbled. "Don't want my help? Try getting down with Addison yourselves niggas. See how long it takes him to shoot your ass!"

He jerked his body around to walk away. "Bye bitches," he said, barking harsh laughter. "I'll wait in the damn jeep. You finally decide to do shit my way, let me know. Until then, leave me out of it!"

But Dominique immediately grabbed his arm. "No you won't," she said. "You know the deal; you're helping!" She glanced down at his waist. "And pull up your pants nigga!"

"I'm not pulling up—" Bitter began. But Dominique cut him off with one upraised hand. He cringed away from it.

"You're totally sad," she said. "I really should be showing mom and dad that video I've got of you jerk..."

She stopped speaking. On purpose, Taylor noticed, knowing he'd eventually get the point. She was clearly about to say: jerking off. Taylor could actually picture Bitter doing that, too.

The boy's face filled with alarm, he immediately turned a violent shade of red. "Yo chill with that bullshit!" he hissed, his voice suddenly losing its deep base.

He tried pulling away from Dominique, which didn't work, then leaned back, staring up at his sister. "Stop bringing that up!" he yelled. "For real, stop with the fucking playing. That ain't anything to mess around with!"

"Who says I'm playing? You're only here to show us where your boys hang out at!"

Dominique was still holding his arm, jerking him viciously with each word. He was trying to pull away again and looked like a rag doll being throttled by an extremely pretty giant.

"You're going to introduce her to Starch," Dominique growled. "Or Addison. Or whoever. You're going to make sure they buy her story. Understand? The one I told you to say!"

She shoved him away and he stumbled towards Taylor, who reached out and stopped his forward motion by grabbing his broad shoulders.

"Get the fuck off me!" he said, suddenly blow a bubble that popped in Taylor's face making her jerk back a little. She caught a faint whiff of the original Bubble Yum he was chewing on as she released him.

Bitter wiped at his arms like they were covered in biting ants. His sister had pushed him extremely hard, making him drop the cigarette. He would have fallen if Taylor didn't catch him.

"Don't touch me!" he grunted, his face was contorted into a dark scowl. "Keep your filthy hands off me you ugly bitch! And you," he said, turning to Dominique, "I told you 'bout putting your stinking motherfucking—"

That was how he began his next sentence, but he never got to finish it. The smack Dominique gave him was as loud as a car backfiring. "Watch your mouth!" she said. "You're embarrassing me nigga!"

She stopped and gazed down at him. Her eyes shone. Her voice was cold, and the words seemed to drop like a sledgehammer. "I suggest you stop starting trouble," she said. "You won't like it when it returns to you and you can't fight back. Making you feel helpless. I know you don't act this way around Addison and the others, now do you?"

Bitter only sucked his teeth and scowled at her.

"You're scared to death of them," she said. "You think they don't know that? Want me to tell them what you say behind their backs? Or, how you refer to them?"

"What you know about my fucking busi—" he began.

"And believe me," she said, cutting him off, and chuckling sarcastically, "sometimes, it simply has to come back nigga. This is America, dummy!"

She folded her arms across her chest, regarding him with a curious stare. "What is it with you, anyway? This nasty attitude? I know you didn't get it from me, or from mom. Why are you filled with so much hatred for African Americans? Who are you, Stacy Rash now?"

"Fuck that ugly, house nigger bitch!" Bitter grunted, bending to one knee on the pavement.

Taylor could only gaze at him for a moment, frowning with her ams still crossed. She was thinking of the crazy woman she'd just mentioned. The one she'd been thinking of earlier. Stacy Rash.

*Stacy (who clearly wished she'd been born as talented and as beautiful as Selena Gomez who in Taylor's imagination, had an adorable twin sister who was six-three compared to Selena's tiny five-one frame and starred in Mad Max, Fury Road), was a failed actress who had latched on to Sean Hannity and Fox Five as a Conservative talking head after getting divorced from her husband and apparently needing something to do with her sudden abundance of time.

While Alicia Silverstone (her Clueless movie co-star) went on to act in major motion pictures like Batman and Robin with Val Kilmer, Stacy was relegated to reprising the same role she played in Clueless the movie, but this time in Clueless the TV show. Ouch! Taylor thought that shit had to hurt!

In short, she got to keep her job as Alicia's snooty sidekick, only minus the real Alicia Silverstone. And if not for the African Americans she despised so fervently (Stacy once even called Obama some really bad names—Google it, Obamalovers), Taylor figured she'd be a homeless, angry, bitch by now.

Double fucking Ouch!

Rumor also had it, that despite being the color of toaster leavings, she always wrote down white on her legal documents when asked her skin color.

She obviously felt Caucasian on the inside, looked African American on the outside, but was neither.

Clearly, Taylor thought, Stacy Rash didn't realize the facts of life: that simply having whitish skin, or writing down white skin on legal documents no matter how light (or dark) you were didn't make you Caucasian. It merely made some niggers delusional.

Just like Stacy Rash having dark skin didn't automatically make her ignorant ass Black, and certainly not an African American. No way, Pablo!

Sorry, Taylor often thought as she watched her disparage Blacks as if she just knew nobody would respond, but truth is truth bitch. Now, I understand what Martin Luther King meant when he said not to judge a person by the color of their skin—he was sending us a message about you!

Stacy was constantly saying crazy shit too like they should do away with Black History month, Martin Luther King Day, Beyonce, Oprah's own television network, The Boondocks cartoon on Show box, and BET, despite apparently having no problem taking BET's money—but why the station gave anything to the washed-up mimic in the first place, was the real mystery in Taylor's mind. In a way, she guessed they deserved the ungrateful bitch. Same thing went for Ebony, Jet, and Essence.

But strangely enough, Stacy's latest racist rant was actually aimed at her own people:

"They should do away with all four Hispanic heritage months too!" she'd said in her squeaky Clueless voice on some obscure political podcast one night, "and especially that silly PR parade! What did they do to deserve a fucking parade on two different channels when we don't even have one? It's not like they're even running for president and shit!"

Of course, she feigned ignorance when her favorite rapper said on that same show: "Real talk? My dick only gets hard for African American and Caucasian girls, my nigga—Stacy Rash ain't my fuckin' type!"

Taylor thought that had to hurt Rash, as well. But she'd asked for it repeatedly. And furthermore, she felt Stacy would have made much more sense had she questioned why other groups (like Asians, and East Indians, and her own group for instance) weren't even on the 2016 presidential ticket at all!

Those were groups who Taylor felt had actually contributed to America in one fashion or another, and to be here this long and still be left out, Taylor thought a person with Stacy's mentality most likely felt was beyond disrespectful, and had to suck no matter what she claimed in public with the fakest of smiles. Who the hell were these strange people running for office? she could imagine her asking.

And perhaps, this clear omission from the political process explained Stacy's disillusionment? Hell, she didn't even have a Democrat to choose from this election cycle, and unlike true African Americans, she always voted Democrat—until Obama, that is.

While authentic Conservatives were notorious for their hatred of Hispanics, Blacks, Asians, poor Whites and Spanish-speaking immigrants—and the current candidates (maybe, excluding goofy Ben Carson and the enigmatic Trump, who seemed a very fair man, had a really phenomenal daughter, and was certainly no pussy) were no different—Taylor guessed it made sense that a resentful hating fraud would panic and pretend to be a Conservative, now. Since the only groups she apparently hated more than African Americans and Caucasians were her own people, what other choice did Stacy Rash really have? Taylor found that answer quite obvious.

So Stacy was destined to feel jealousy and poisonous hate because African Americans apparently deserved the White House despite creating evil rock and roll, evil rap music—what some urban fiction writers had actually called the worse thing that ever happened to Black people, and no-good urban fiction, itself (as Stacy put it on this same podcast), and she knew her being left out is all history would ever remember. Apparently, Black lives really did matter to some White Americans.

When asked about inspiring Lord Gift's first non-fiction book to be published by Doubleday: Why African American Men Adore Caucasian Women, the usually opinionated Stacy Rash had no comment.

*******

Anastasia had made a startled sound when Dominique smacked her brother. Taylor glanced over and saw the woman covering her mouth with both hands; her eyes were very wide and white.

She reluctantly turned back to the embarrassing scene unfolding before her, wishing to God it would be over. The last thing she needed was this type of incident before becoming hustlers. It was a bad omen, she felt. Something like that New York Met player being the first athlete banned for life from baseball in 2016 for repeated steroid use.

Bitter was bent over holding the right side of his face. Two gold crucifix earrings dangled from his left ear. In his right earlobe, she saw a small diamond stud. It twinkled brilliantly in the sun.

When he finally stood back up, huffing and puffing, his mouth quivering, Taylor saw tears shimmering in his furious eyes. But she also saw the shape of Dominique's long fingers imprinted in scarlet on his right cheek. Right across a cluster of pus filled bumps.

"Something else to say?" she asked him. "What, cat got ya tongue now? I know you got a few smart aleck comments left nigga!"

"I could have you arrested for that shit," he said. His voice was low and meek. But there was still a rather blatant confidence in his tone that Taylor didn't like.

"You know I could," he said, "like that girl did back in Miami. Remember that shit bitch? Remember when that girl caught you in her—"

Dominique took a step towards him and Bitter immediately flinched, ducking his head with both arms covering his sullen face. "Stop it!" he yelled in a muffled voice. "I was only joking! Please, leave me the fuck alone! I wasn't really gonna say anything about that shit Dominique!"

"That's your problem now," she said. "You think everything's a joke, don't you? What's it gonna take to make you wake up and see you're getting left behind motherfucker? Name one thing you've ever actually accomplished, Bitter. I mean, besides getting high from sunup to sundown, and dreaming about making it big? You're a pro at that, aren't you dumb nigga?"

"I accomplished putting up with yo annoying ass for sixteen years!" he said. "I at least deserve combat pay bitch!"

Dominique went to strike him again, making him scream and duck again. It was becoming rather sad in an amusing way, Taylor had to admit.

But she felt somewhat awkward because that had been an awfully harsh comment. Especially, considering that they were family.

Bitter removed his arms from his head, and stood up straight. He brushed at them again, un-wrinkling the sleeves of his khaki shirt, but with much less force. He looked very hurt and tears swam in his shadowy eyes. She guessed this was more along the lines of the kind of hurt Dominique had been trying to make her feel earlier. But also knew payback was a cold bitch!

"Apologize to her," Dominique said. "Now nigga, for talking like an ignorant wannabe!"

The boy slowly turned to Taylor and mumbled something that may have been an apology. If so, it was the most half-hearted one Taylor had ever heard. But it would suffice; she was already tired of the kid's act and couldn't wait to get the shit over with.

"This won't take long," she promised.

She made her voice sound as neutral as she could manage. As if Bitter's sister didn't just slap the shit out of him. If this was going to work, she needed the boy to tell her everything he could think of.

At the moment, she could only imagine him telling them all to drop dead. "Like your sister said, I'm not the cops or anything like that. Your friends won't get in any trouble. I only want to get a taste of how they live. For maybe a week or two, then I'll disappear."

Taylor made a quick motion with her hands, as if dusting them off. "You'll hardly know we're there," she said. "And no matter what, we'll never implicate you in anything we do."

"You don't have to sugar coat it," Dominique said. "Nigga better cooperate. He knows what'll happen if he doesn't. The Net's gonna have a brand new sex video to critique, starring his corny ass!"

Bitter gazed at her, clearly still seething. Because of the slap or the girl's harsh, threatening remarks, Taylor couldn't truthfully say. But she imagined it was probably the most humiliating moment of his entire young life.

"I'll show you," he said begrudgingly. "Let's get this bull crap over with motherfuckers. I got shit to do later on and ya'll messing up my schedule and shit!"

Taylor grinned. "My sentiments exactly," she said. She looked at Dominique. "You driving us Dominique? He can give you the directions—you can tell her right?"

She turned back to Bitter, but the boy didn't respond, only hesitantly nodded his head.

"You know it," Dominique said. "And yeah, he's going to tell me." She glanced down at her somber faced brother. "You behave yourself and Taylor said she'll even hit you up with some cash nigga, girlfriend is crazy loaded!"

"Hit me off," Bitter mumbled. "And it's crazy... paid." He rolled his eyes at her again before turning away. "Yall gone fuck up my rep with this fucking bullshit!" he said, glancing at Taylor. "Damn, you gonna have this problem too? Knowing how to talk street? Just last week they caught a narc pretending to be a buyer, some dumb ass bitch from the Bronx!"

Taylor chuckled, turning to open the back door of the Hummer. "I know the lingo," she said. "Don't worry about that, kid. Just show me the lay of the land, and give me the run down on your boy's little operation. Fill me in on the people I should know."

Her smile widened. "If you give me some really good stuff, like what you just said about the woman from the Bronx, I might even mention you on the novel's dedication page. I'll even call you Crazy Eddie if you like."

But of course, she would be doing no such thing. She'd decided that Mr. Crazy Eddie was a pain in the fucking ass she would dismiss when the time came. Taylor opened the door and climbed inside the Hummer. The leather seat was hot, but the window was already down and was letting in a nice breeze.

The aroma of Dominique's grape Miss Nubian air-fresheners filled the jeep and she immediately thought of grape Bubble Yum. After slamming the door shut, Taylor stuck her elbow through it.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" she asked him. "You'll be a hit with the cute ladies. You'll probably have more than you can handle." She grinned her sunniest shit-eating grin at him after saying it.

"How?" he said, twisting up his face. "From words in a fucking book? That's some sappy-assed bullshit. Bitches don't be reading no fucking novels! You think I'm stupid? Only rappers and athletes get the real dime pieces these days!"

Taylor smiled. "You could add that to your hip hop resume," she said. "It can't hurt; like they say, fame is fame."

Bitter bent over and picked up his half-smoked cigarette. It had fallen on a patch of dry piss-colored weeds that were poking from a crack in the pavement. Taylor watched him carefully dust it off and check it for damage.

"You out your fucking mind?" he asked, looking up again. He placed the stub of Newport behind his right ear. "You think I want my name in a book about private gangster shit? No thanks ma! I like my head right where it is! I hope you know you're about to walk into a nightmare." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "A crazy world where everything goes. This is that Hurt Locker type shit!"

Dominique who had been standing there watching them, brushed past her brother. "Get in the car short stuff. You two can get to know each other in there. It's a long ride to Saint Albans...plenty of time to run your mouth."

Bitter looked up at her as she passed, flinching slightly. He wore a slightly dazed expression. But Taylor thought it also seemed hopeful. "She's really going to give me some money?" he asked. "How much? Wait! You think she'd even invest in me? I could go upstairs and get my demo real quick!"

Dominique walked around to the driver's side and unlocked the door. She rose back up and gazed across the Hummer at him. She was so tall her older brother could easily see her face over the top of the huge vehicle.

"Get your little butt inside nigga!" she said. "We don't have time for that. But personally, I wouldn't be surprised if nobody invested in you. Not with the stuff you rap about. All that drug and gun talk is stale. Especially, when you're lying about most of it."

She had turned away after saying it, but apparently thought better of it, and turned back to smirk at him. "Why don't you write something catchy?" she said. "Like some of that new fly down south stuff?"

"What down south stuff?" he said, clearly angry now.

"Something people can have fun listening to," she said. "Show a little imagination! I mean, can't you show just a little mental effort? You're pitiful; you New York rappers are wack! I wish Gift would drop his shit, he's the best by far."

"What?" he mumbled. "You talking about TI's "What You Know? or All About The Money? Or Young Jeezy's Trap Star? That nigga's prophetic!"

Dominique sucked her teeth. "No, I mean Pete Rock and CL Smoothe's The Main Ingredient! You know what I mean nigga! Go on, make your childish faces. Say what you want, but it's making all the money right now. America's tired of that violent trash...wake up loser, you're living in the past."

She smiled. "Wow," she said, "maybe I should even consider rapping myself?" and broke out in louder, girlish laughter.

Taylor couldn't see Dominique, but could hear the harsh tone of her voice. She watched Bitter as he stared at his sister for a moment, perhaps trying to recover some of the dignity she had slapped out of him, perhaps pissed that she was disparaging his talent, and then he dropped his eyes.

As if he knew there was no way to possibly refute anything she was telling him.

Because it was all true.

At least, according to Dominique, it was. They had discussed her dysfunctional brother for hours.

"You'll pay for that!" he whispered under his breath. But loud enough for Taylor to hear. And clearly, wanting her to hear. "I'll make you pay bitch," he said, "and when I do, we'll find out once and for all who's scared of who...we'll see who's really the stronger sibling, you filthy backstabbing slut. Sticking up for them dirty ass down south...!"

He didn't finish his statement. He appeared to suddenly become aware of Taylor sitting in the jeep, watching him. Taylor knew Dominique didn't hear him, or even see him talking, because she had already opened the Hummer's door and climbed inside.

She was clearly trying to start the engine; Taylor heard its mechanical wheeze as the girl repeatedly turned the ignition. Bitter flinched when it suddenly roared to life. "I hate you," he said. "You fucking bitch; see if you make it past Hell Night. Nobody told your stupid ass to choose today—bad fucking move asshole."

The boy grinned as if he were thinking very bad thoughts about his sister at the moment; very bad.

Then he slowly moved his menacing eyes to Taylor's face, and seemed to search her walnut colored irises with his mud brown ones. Like a praying mantis studying a fat beetle.

His grin widened suddenly, and Taylor jerked back in the window before she could stop herself! Because of his teeth! Bitter's teeth...they seemed to have grown ten inches longer...and then the horn suddenly honked twice, actually scaring the both of them.

"Get in!" Dominique screamed. "Hurry the fuck up before I leave your sorry ass!"

Bitter hissed like a feline (Taylor saw he actually hissed too; his face scrunching up like a Halloween cat's!), his broad chest heaving, his nostrils and his bottom lip quivering, knowing Dominique had definitely done that shit on purpose.

Honking the horn like that to startle him. Both of them knowing it.

Taylor's heart was racing now, dangerously, so. It was as if she were hyperventilating! She sat there gasping in the window, listening to Dominique gun the engine. Smelling the crazy grape air fresheners (why the hell did Miss Nubian get involved with making those? she thought hysterically). She was gawking at Bitter, not wanting to, but unable to stop herself. The nigga was clearly insane...

But Bitter ignored her and only balled up his large ashy fists. "I can't stand your ass!" he grunted. "I've done everything I can to be cordial to your stupid ass, and you keep disrespecting me. Now, it's on!"

Obviously, meaning his sister, Taylor hoped. Then his wide shoulders slumped as he trudged around to the street side of the Hummer, opened the back door, slowly crawled inside, and slammed it shut.

Before he did, Taylor heard him knock his fist against the jeep's long back window extremely hard. So hard, it vibrated in its frame, and she wondered if he had broken it. Or possibly even his hand.

Did I really see that? she wondered, feeling his weight shift around on the seat cushion a few feet from her. His face? His fucking shark teeth? And what the fuck did he mean by hell night?

Taylor didn't even consider turning from the open window to ask him that. Not after what his goddamn teeth had done!

She was busy staring down at the pavement, watching tiny fragments of glass sparkle and shine; watching what appeared to be ants marching along the edge of the piss colored grass poking from the concrete. (A distant part of her mind was wondering what they were doing, and where they were going).

But Bitter's hell night comment had made her think of Hell Boy, which made her suddenly recall the things she'd seen earlier, before Taylor came into her office and effectively made her forget them: Miss Nubian on Dominique's shirt turning into one of the orcs from The Lord Of The Rings.

Yes! That was the best description she could come up with. The others had been close, but the orcs, that was a much better one!

Taylor's mind, like a movie reel being played in reverse, thought about the crazy things she'd already seen, and she trembled violently as Dominique without warning, suddenly screeched off from the curb and sped down the sunny street! Our heroine Taylor, clumsily fell back against the seat, and felt like screaming: "Let me out! I don't want to do this shit! Please, stop the fucking car! I'm sorry!"

But she remained silent, glancing over at Bitter instead, trying to calm down but her heart still pumping furiously in her chest. She was hoping to God she hadn't just made a big mistake, because she suddenly had the strangest feeling they weren't going to make it back to Dark Realm Novels Ink, alive. If they made it back at all.

5.

They took the highway, for there was no other way.

Taylor thought Dominique was a hell of a good driver; she drove at a constant sixty-five and switched lanes like a professional speed racer. (She reminded her of the original G-Force cartoons from the seventies; and of Jason, who was always angry, drove a Formula One race car that could somehow fly, and was the best assassin Mark, Tiny, Keyop, and Princess, had ever met.) And she kept the Hummer's sound system blasting while she did it, too.

Taylor wondered if she was teasing her bother by playing the gangster rap, like that grimy Wu-Tang, Ghostface Killa shit, but he didn't seem to mind hearing it. He was nodding his head like a fool to the pounding beats.

When Dominique played Taylor's CD of her favorite song, "I Got Your Back" by The Slumber Party Girls off their Vertical album, Bitter surprisingly went wild.

Dominique, who had never heard it before, also loved it; she said it reminded her of something Dr. Dre had produced.

As time passed, an increasingly miserable Taylor (miserable, because it was slowly beginning to dawn on her what she'd gotten herself into) glanced over at Bitter every now and then, especially while he discussed his crew, and wondered how this gang of his actually tolerated him.

But she mostly gazed out the window, watching the neighborhoods speed by, feeling as if she were immersed in a never ending music video.

Now, she was watching Anastasia toy with the radio as Dominique followed the precise instructions Bitter had been giving her ever since they turned off the highway and entered a nice looking suburban area. Taylor could see he clearly knew his way around the bustling neighborhood and at the very least, they wouldn't get lost. She figured it was always best to try and find the silver lining in things.

She heard the multitude of voices and silly jingles that flicked by as Anastasia slowly turned the knob back and forth (mostly, silly cereal ads) and begrudgingly grinned. The commercials were a reminder of the normal things in her life. Things she could easily explain, but took completely for granted.

Taylor sighed, still looking at Anastasia. She tried to control herself. The woman was searching for God knew what, and it had become so annoying, she felt like screaming: "Leave it the fuck alone or put on sport's talk bitch! And it better be Anita Marks from ESPN!"

But after what had seemed an interminable journey down long winding roads which Dominique handled admirably for so young a driver, they finally arrived at the place. Taylor was glad that the area didn't look nearly as bad as she had expected it to.

The row of dark buildings directly across the street from them took up the entire block. It looked like a warehouse to her, the kind she often saw Black men working in, driving cargo loading machines. Forklifts, cherry pickers, hand-jacks and such.

At least, until they began leaving New York in droves for better climes, she thought. But she had always smelled sawdust and old motor oil when she passed by the loading docks. Always heard men yelling indecipherable things to one another over the growling machinery.

The area would be alive with frantic noise, and there was always at least one guy named Maliek or Jamal, working there, too.

Bitter had finally finished talking about his crew and excitedly pointed it out to them. "Oh shit, that's it right there!" he said. "You actually made it Dominique, not bad; I thought we'd be talking to the cops by now and shit!"

"That building up there?" she said, thrusting her finger at a six-story apartment complex and glancing over her shoulder at him. "The one with the big red doors? Right in front of that dumpster and yellow fire hydrant?"

"Yeah," Bitter said. "That's the meeting place. We call it The Bat Cave. They have Batman drawings on their weed bags when they have bags. When they don't, they use tin-foil. But they try to avoid that when they can. It's too noticeable in the daytime."

Dominique gave Taylor a look in her rearview mirror. Taylor read it easily. "Are they inside now?" she asked Eddie, glancing down at her watch. "It's twelve-thirty, too early for hustling?"

Bitter appeared to really consider her question as Dominique drove the Hummer up to the intersection and rolled to a stop. Traffic was light; the streets were bathed in bright, vibrant sunshine. The inky black asphalt glittered as if covered in glass sprinkles.

"They all should be," he said. "But who knows? Addison's inside by now. He's either eating or he's bagging shit up. If not him, then Leslie."

Anastasia, finding something she wanted to listen to, finally stopped fiddling with the dial and spun around with one of the popular new rap songs thumping at a low volume.

Taylor couldn't recall the name of the cute Black girl singing the hook, but knew her face well.

Anastasia gazed at Bitter. "Is this going to be dangerous?" she said. "Tell me the truth honey. Because I'm just about scared out of my mind and we haven't even done anything yet! Look at me; I'm as nervous as can be!"

The boy shrugged. He still wore a miffed expression but there was now a slight smile playing about his lips. "You ever saw New Jack City?" he asked her. "Well imagine if just about every character in the flick had played Chris Rock's part. That's what it feels like when it's really hot. They just keep coming ma. Sometimes, they even follow you for blocks if you run out of crack. Word up, no joke, they be straight fiending for the shit."

Bitter shook his head. "It's crazy, cats be like the Pied Piper out here and shit. I don't sell, but I'm sometimes the lookout."

His eyes shifted to the back of Dominique's head, as if expecting her to respond. But Dominique's attention was solely focused on the dirty brick building across the street. The light had changed three times since they first stopped. A handful of cars had sped past, all of them blasting rap music.

Satisfied that she wasn't going to speak, Bitter said: "I get to see everything yo...I seen some shit you wouldn't believe baby!"

"Like what?" Anastasia asked in a breathless whisper. "You mean prostitution, don't you? You're talking about what they used to do down on Forty-Second Street aren't you? Before Giuliani came and turned the cops into the Gestapo. Is that how it is?"

"Look," Bitter said, sighing, "all I can tell you to do is be yourself honey. You've got a crazy fucking body." He paused, clearly feeling awkward. "And a perfect personality for stripping too," he added. "Kind of like that cutie from Family Matters with the squeaky voice and huge tits had; the one who died? Remember her Dominique? I had a crazy fucking crush on her ass!"

Dominique sighed and waved one hand. "Never mind her," she said. "I told you Anastasia, that's how it starts with them. The new girls dance for about a month and then they start getting dates. Would you please calm her down, Taylor, tell her she won't have to worry about it."

Taylor knew that "dates" meant men to have sex with. She also noticed that Bitter's voice had changed a good deal—it was no longer so harsh or snide. It still held a slightly upset tone, but most of his anger had dissipated.

What replaced it was what Taylor could only think of as a weary kind of acceptance. She didn't know him well but still found it strange. As if there was something he was leaving out, or maybe even hiding.

"We've heard enough," she said.

She looked at Anastasia who was still turning around in the seat. "Don't even consider that," she said, "we won't be around long enough for any of that shit to happen. Once we get the dirt I need, we're gone. I'm not planning on really becoming a hustler; it's just for the fucking novel."

She swiveled her head, looking at Bitter again. "You did well, that was more than I'd even hoped for; very detailed and informative. And sounds like it should all come in very handy too, especially that last part."

Taylor really was surprised by him. Despite his grating personality, he did seem to know a lot about the drug game. More than she would have ever suspected.

Taylor looked at Dominique, only having to peer up at the mirror. "Get the money, it's in your glove compartment. Beneath the map you bought at that Texaco station on Foch Boulevard?" (They had only stopped so Bitter could finally use the bathroom after his incessant whining.)

Dominique immediately nodded, leaned over and pressed the silver button located on the small plastic door.

The door popped open and dropped down, bouncing a few times. Dominique reached in, rummaged around for a moment, and then removed a large wad of cash. She closed the small door and turned around. "Here," she said, holding the money out to Bitter. "Take it," she grunted, thrusting it towards him.

He looked at it for a moment. Then reached out and snatched it, trying not to smile. "Thanks," he mumbled back.

But Taylor still heard a hint of his earlier attitude resurface. So she was surprised that he simply dropped the dough on his lap and didn't count it.

But didn't comment on it; the small talk was now over. For better or worse, it was time to get their little show on the road. "We're going in," she said. "Make the call Crazy Eddie." She figured he would like that, being called Crazy Eddie, and he did.

Bitter half-grinned as he stuffed the cash in his front pocket, still not counting it, and pulled out a black cell phone. "Tell him everything?" he asked. "The whole shebang? Some of it sounds kind of fishy to me."

"Everything," Dominique said from the driver's seat. "Tell him that one of your home girls just flew in from Dade County looking to make some fast money. Say she doesn't mind working in a crack house and that she brought her friends with her, some exotic dancers...that should get us in the door nicely. Once they actually see me, the rest should be a piece of cake."

Bitter was looking down, pressing buttons on his cell phone. He stopped and glanced up and Taylor was so shocked for a moment, she felt frozen.

His facial expression reminded her of a kid she'd seen once at the scene of a horrible car accident. This was in Long Island, on Hempstead Turnpike, a few months back.

The kid was crying wildly because both of his parents had just been decapitated. Taylor actually saw the two lumps sitting in the road beneath a bloody white sheet. People on the bus she was riding in had jumped from their seats and started pointing out the windows.

It was heartbreaking; according to the news stations that night, the little boy had only been seven. But he'd had the same haunted look in his dark Boondocks eyes, she thought. It had seemed entirely too old for his juvenile face. That was how Dominique's brother looked right now.

"You serious about this shit?" he asked. "Why the hell are you risking your life for this chick anyway?"

He shook his head slowly. "Those cats don't play...especially Starch. He's suspicious of everybody; except for maybe Orion but that's his family. I don't even think he really trusts Addison's ass!"

Dominique turned to look at her brother. "Don't worry about that, we'll be fine. Just make it sound believable. Make the formal introductions, we'll take it from there."

The boy sighed. "Okay. But if it goes wrong don't flip on me. I'm against this; let it be known right now." He pressed one last button and looked up again.

"Starch and Orion are killers," he warned in a foreboding voice, his eyes bulging. "I've seen them do some crazy shit Niqua. Once, Starch even used a hammer to—"

He had placed the phone to his right ear. Now he stopped whatever it was he was about to say and said: "Hello? Who's this, Addison? What's up, son? You chilling?"

Taylor glanced at Dominique immediately after hearing Bitter say the word 'killers.' But the girl wasn't looking in her direction; she was busy staring down at her brother again.

"It's me, Crazy E!" he was saying. "What's popping my dude?" he paused. "Huh? Oh nah man, I'm just chilling son...yeah...huh?" He frowned. "That's what who said? Word? Nah, nigga, that dude's straight crazy!"

Taylor glanced at his sister again. Dominique was repeatedly licking her full bottom lip now, and nibbling on it. One of the clearest signs she was nervous about something.

This had happened rarely since she arrived at Dark Realm Novels Ink, but did happen. And right now, Taylor thought she definitely seemed nervous. She wondered why.

"That's what I mean!" Bitter was saying. "How many times did I tell him not to—?"

Dominique suddenly reached across the back of her seat and waved her hand in front of his face, as if she were an eye doctor trying to test his vision. He broke off talking and glanced up. "Hurry up!" she said. "Get to the point nigga!"

"Hold on," he said into the phone. Bitter was covering the cell with both hands now. His sister had badly startled him. "Okay!" he said. "Don't rush me! You want it to seem natural, don't you? Well this is natural. Are you crazy? You don't just call up Young Addison and say—"

"Just hurry up!" she repeated. Her suddenly dark eyes flashing in the dim Hummer; nearly seeming to shine. But not as Miss Nubian's had before on her other shirt back in the office. Taylor didn't know what she would have done had Dominique's eyes done that! Dominique suddenly jerked her finger at Bitter's closed hands. "Talk nigga, tell him we're here!" She was staring at him angrily, her face turning even redder.

What the hell's wrong with her? Taylor wondered. She's acting fucking weird!

Bitter sighed. He rolled his eyes, putting the cell phone back to his ear. "Hello, Addison?" he mumbled. "Yeah, that was just somebody asking for directions. Uh-huh, they're gone."

He glanced up at Dominique, rolling his sheepish eyes again. He listened a moment and laughed. "Yo Addison," he said, his good cheer obviously back. "Um, Starch said you were looking for some workers...last week, I think. That true?"

Anastasia had turned down the radio the second Bitter started dialing Addison's number. Now she was giving Taylor a puzzled look. Then she jerked her head in Dominique's direction and shrugged: What the heck's wrong with her? she seemed to say to Taylor. Why is she bugging out?

Taylor immediately turned away as if she hadn't seen her; she was scared enough as it was. And despite what Dominique's shirt had done (which had been bad enough, she'd never seen anything like it!), they were about to meet actual street thugs.

The reality of it finally hit her like a ton of bricks. This was motherfucking America...the media was always talking about crazy shit going on around the globe, when the shit that's gone on right here would frighten anyone who stopped to really consider it...

They could actually get themselves killed if anything, even the slightest thing, went wrong in America. Too many took this country for granted.

"You are?" Bitter was saying to the person on the phone. "Perfect! 'Cause one of my little mommies just got in from Miami. She's from my old hood, a real cool chick too."

He paused, looking up to the roof of the jeep. "Oh, hell yeah!" he said. "She stayed on her grind Addison; she was the first out on the block every night. She's a natural at hustling, made more than the dudes did!"

Bitter glanced at Taylor, sneering, and clearly enjoying lying. "Uh-huh," he said. "I guess she pulled in like six-fifty a night, sometimes more. Depending on the traffic and of course, the Dade po-po." He stopped talking; listening to what Addison was telling him. His eyes were closed.

Taylor watched Dominique's brother open his eyes, apparently done listening, and say: "I can be there in about fifteen, and I'll have some fine big butt bitches with me."

He glanced up at his sister. Dominique swung her hand at him, but the boy grinned and quickly backed away on the seat, scooting over to the far window behind her chair before she could grab him.

Taylor noticed that Dominique held up at the very last moment though. And instead of anger, his remark seemed to have made her almost happy.

She didn't have the slightest idea what to make of it. (As it is with everything else that's been happening lately! she told herself.) So she glanced over at Bitter again, who was still grinning and talking animatedly into his phone. If she didn't know better, she would have guessed he was high on cocaine.

"They're from Dade too," he said. "Yeah to dance...what?" He laughed raucously. "Oh, you can hear her talking? I don't know, but she's Black, tall, light-skin. Got pretty greenish brown eyes and a naturally fat ass that...huh? Is she willing to suckie-suckie?"

Bitter glanced at Dominique and cracked up again. He put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, she's with it," he said, "if she knows what's good for her ass! The other one too. A dark skinned, Black honey with some crazy big tits Addison! Wait 'til you see those shits my nigga!"

Taylor looked at Dominique, thinking she would certainly be upset by her brother's teasing this time. But she didn't appear to be; she looked happier than she had before...very strange!

"Okay," Bitter was saying. "We'll be there, uh-huh. Yeah, like fifteen, twe nty minutes dun. A' right then...yeah, I'll tell them. No, no problem...okay. Peace out Addison."

Bitter pressed the off button on his phone and returned it to his pocket. Taylor noticed it was the same front pocket he had stuffed the money in. Now there were two noticeably large lumps there. He looked at Taylor.

"Good enough?" he asked. "I think he bought it. But you never know with Addison, he's a real slick motherfucker."

"What was that suckie stuff?" Dominique said. "What the heck was he talking about? Suckie what?"

"He's going to want to try you out," Bitter said, and shrugged. His voice had become so serious, Taylor was momentarily frightened.

"That's how he is," he continued. "They freaky as hell over there! That's why I don't bring any of my girls around his weird ass. They always wind up in his waterbed. If you a African American guy, they have Caucasian chicks to call you nigger while you eat their pussies just like on those crazy pornos on the Internet. If you a white guy, you can wear Klan outfits and Nazi paraphernalia while you fuck gorgeous Black chicks with fat round asses."

Taylor watched his body seem to slump in the seat as Bitter sighed. "Girls love that dude...Addison, I mean...I heard he was kind of big down there, too. You know, in his dick and shit?"

He tugged at the crotch of his baggy jeans. "But who the hell knows? It ain't like size matters anyway; most chicks want a cute dude more than anything. I feel that big dick shit's overrated. How can it hurt and feel good? I think Cauc girls be lying about liking big dicks."

"Try us out?"Anastasia said.

For a moment, Taylor had forgotten she was even sitting up there. She could barely see her from her position in the jeep. But Anastasia was now peering around the back of her seat at Bitter, wearing an alarmed look.

"You mean sex, don't you?" she said. "He has sex with the new girls? He sticks his dick in their tiny little..."

"Yep," he said. "Addison's always first to hit the new chicks, he calls it his test run." He suddenly glanced up at his sister, again. "I'm having second thoughts about this shit Dominique. I've heard Addison gets real rough on females. Gets mean and damn near rapes 'em."

The boy lowered his eyes, blushing. "I've heard some of 'em screaming too, like the nigga was killing their pussy."

Even in the shadows Taylor could see the red beneath his multitude of acne bumps and scars. His face reminded her of a NYC transit train map.

When he looked up again, he was smiling. "I heard he even put some chick in the hospital. Leslie said she was actually there when he stuck his long, fat dick in her and—"

"Put her tight little coochie in traction," Dominique said. "Yeah, I know. You've told me a thousand times. Real funny and that's enough." She frowned.

"You have a very dirty mouth," she said, "you know that, don't you? That's why I never let you hang out with me and my old friends from school. I think you really need your fucking head examined!"

Bitter shrugged, reaching for the door handle. "It's who I am," he said. "You knew that shit from the gate, so take it or leave it." He pulled up the handle and shoved open the door. "But like I said, I'm still having second thoughts about doing this bullshit."

"Don't worry about your second thoughts," she said from the front seat. She watched the boy hop from the Hummer, slamming his door shut with both hands. Her angry pale eyes followed him.

"Just make sure you don't do any smart mouthing or giggling when we get to that building!" she barked. "This is important motherfucker. I know it's beyond your embarrassingly limited abilities, but please act like a normal kid for once in your life!"

"Yeah," Taylor heard Bitter say as she too, exited the vehicle. "That's me, a normal assed kid just pretending. Any other orders your fucking Highness?"

When they were all standing outside, and all of the doors were locked, Taylor turned to Bitter and said: "How does he look? This Addison guy? Is he handsome?"

"He's..." Dominique started but caught herself. "Probably ugly," she said casually. "Some girls have a thing for hung men. Those are the men that usually abuse what little power they have. Look at some of the millionaire actors, rappers and athletes," she said. "A bunch of scrubs. Addison sounds like that kind of grimy cat to me. But I'll deal with him if it means getting to meet Miss Nubian!"

Taylor had returned her car keys to her pocket and all four of them were now standing on the sidewalk, staring across the street at Bitter's gang headquarters.

The block was empty. Sparrows tweeting in the trees along the curb made her glance up, but try as she might, she couldn't find them. She could tell the temperature was at least at seventy-five already, and the sky was filled with blazing sunlight, making her squint. A gust of wind blew suddenly, and Taylor inhaled the fresh air, trying to prepare herself for what they were about to do.

She glanced at Dominique, considering the comment she hadn't made. The one where she was obviously about to say one thing, but had said something else instead. Her hairstyle wasn't affected by the wind. But her Miss Nubian shirt rose and fell and sparkled in the sunlight, blown by the same warm wind, as Taylor had locked the doors and strode onto the sidewalk.

Thankfully, it wasn't moving in any other way! Apparently, the effects of the weed had worn off and Taylor was no longer seeing weird shit (she wasn't sure exactly when she'd decided that was all it had been, but she went with it); which was relieving to some extent. But she couldn't worry about it at the moment. Taylor had other things on her mind at the moment.

She couldn't help grinning, because as soon as this was over, she could finally get down to the business of actually writing the book. Then Miss Nubian would read it! She had been dreaming of that ever since hearing the damn rumor; despite her repeated claims that she despised her.

She glanced down at her clothing, brushing imaginary lint from her outfit, ignoring their utterly shocked expressions. "How do I look?" she asked Anastasia. "Will I pass, shorty?"

Anastasia jerked as if slapped on the butt. Her face was still wearing a blank expression and Taylor couldn't blame her. She'd never heard her boss praise Miss Nubian so much.

Now Anastasia chuckled softly, but it was really more a nervous twitter. "Like a gangster rapper Ms. LaKenya," she said in her squeaky voice. "You look great, and very hip. Like you just stepped out of a double XL magazine, these rappers ain't got anything on you!"

"Thank you," she said. "That's what I'm talking about. It's the same with writing. You gotta get into your role and really become the characters. Fuck feelings, let yourself go or you'll never reach that level! You ignore the truth and they'll never truly respect you." She grinned at them. "Personally," she said, "I'd rather have the talent, and you can keep the phony-ass praise. Talent equals respect, whether they like it or not."

Taylor started patting the top of her curly new flat top (actually Dominique's idea) like Morris Day primping in front of a mirror while a grinning Jerome held it up for him. She popped the lapels of her spring jacket and started across the street.

Her gait was eerily reminiscent of George Jefferson's famous strut as he was moving on up to the east side.

After a moment exchanging some very perplexed looks, the others decided to follow her. Anastasia, noticing that Taylor was now actually walking like hustlers and gangster rappers walked, a kind of ghetto pimp strut, broke into a thin smile. It was a small and rather hard smile; nearly a mean smile, you might say. Maybe, Taylor would have even called it an angry bitch smile had she noticed it.

Only Taylor's back was fully turned as she walked away. As were the backs of the others who had finally followed behind her. But you would be safe in assuming Taylor had never seen that particular smile before. Not in the entire three years that Anastasia had been working for her. Answering phones, bringing steaming cups of cocoa in the winter (always spiked when Dominique was the one sending it, of course), or sending out novel inquiries to prospective clients.

Doing all the things associated with being head secretary at a ghostwriting company. In fact, Taylor probably wouldn't have recognized Anastasia at all had she seen it. And why would she? The dark complexioned woman no longer even looked remotely human.

TMR

THE END, OR THE BEGINNING, DEPENDING ON HOW YOU SEE THINGS. To continue this story read The Last Black Martian...I just made Damian Thorne change the character's names...hope you enjoyed it! Happy Birthday to my Sagittarius...fuck what they tell you, you're the BEST!!! EVERYBODY BUT YOU FUCKING WEIRDOES RANTING AND RAVING ON TV!!

If imitation is indeed, the highest form of flattery, or however the saying goes, then consider me a White girl since everyone says I sound like one. Perhaps, I was one in another life? or dimension?

Perhaps, my name was even Harriet?

I have read plenty of Caucasian female authors over the years, but to be perfectly honest, I mostly read Caucasian men. Stephen King and Robert Jordan, chief among them. You should start your foray into writing by reading my fourth novel: Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Don't listen to people who use racist bullshit to make you hold yourself back. Find out for yourself. Here's a parting story about finding out for yourself:

A guy I knew a few years back once heard me discussing Stephen King's Gunslinger series, and he blurted out: "Fuck him, he's a fucking racist!"

I was surprised, but not shocked as I asked him: "How do you know?"

"Because, I know!" he shot back.

"Did you read, The Talisman?" I asked him.

"No," he said.

I thought for a moment. "Did you read, The Stand?" I asked him next, "with Mother Abigail?"

"Who?" he asked me, frowning prissily.

"Mother Abigail," I said. "The old African American woman who sent them into the west to fight the dark man?"

"No," he said. "I didn't read that."

Now, I was getting confused. I thought harder. "Okay," I said. "Did you read The Green Mile? Or see the movie with Michael Duncan and Tom Hanks in it?"

"No!" was his immediate reply.

"The Shining?" I said. "Or Apt Pupil?"

"Nope," he said. "And nope."

"The girl who loved Tom Gordon?" Which was a novel about a young white girl whose favorite player was an actual baseball player named Tom Gordon—who I didn't know was African American until I'd read the damn story!

Okay, so now I was getting suspicious, and decided to go the other way. "Did you read IT?" I asked him, grinning a little. There was plenty of racist stuff in that book he could have pointed out.

"Nope!" he grunted.

"The Tommyknockers?" That was just for fun; there were no African Americans in that novel.

"No," he said. "Weird name for a damn book!"

"Did you read any of the Dark Tower series, with Suzannah?" I said. "The woman with no legs in the wheelchair—the African American gunslinger?"

By now, he was looking pretty flustered. Before he could even say No! I cut him off. "Carlton," I said, "exactly which Stephen King book did you read, my nigga?"

"None," he admitted, pursing his lips snootily.

"So where did you get the idea he's racist?" I asked him.

"Because I heard someone saying it on a bus one day," was his assholian reply. Need I say more?

I've read Stephen King's novels (over fifty-five of them by now—plus his short stories) three times each, at least. Some, like The Stand, The Talisman, IT and Wizard & Glass—one of my utter favorites, many more times than that. I read Under The Dome twice, Needful Things and Salem's Lot, three times each. Read Misery three times. Read the short story The Mist about twenty times. There's always something you miss no matter how many times you read it. That's the fun part that makes good books more exciting than most movies. I read Black House twice, and Pet Sematary—the only novel that literally had me trembling afterwards, three times.

I've read the entire Dark Tower series (that's nine novels) three times each novel. Read The Shining a bunch of times. I've read The Regulators, and another favorite—Desperation, four times each. Read Bag of Bones & Dream Catcher, only twice.

I've read Linda Warren and Anne Rice and some other female authors, and of course, Harriet Beecher Stowe. She's my mentor. But nowhere near as many as I've read written by men. So how did I wind up with a Caucasian female sounding writing voice?

Maybe, because they were the ones who first put me on to astrology and ouji boards? Who knows? Maybe, God made me Special?

Nobody knows how we find our voice, but we do find it if we stick to the writing. Every day—no matter how you feel, what's going on in your life, in the media, or outside in the street. If you write each and every day (find the damn time and cut the excuses), you'll find your own voice.

So, go find it niggas!

PS: Keep fucking with me and I'll write you off this fucking planet.

