Quickness



  Quickness

  Copyright 2015 MontUHURU Mimia

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to give a shout out to my hot flash of inspiration, and the reggae/hardcore band, Bad Brains, and their album, all of which are responsible for the naming of this tome. And I’d like to give a grand shout out to ‘words’ in general; what you’ve offered me and continue to offer me is immeasurable.

  One

  The elevator doors of the thirty third floor pinged open, before Brent Grimes stepped into the reception area of his fraternity’s office.

  Brent’s eyes fell on frames of corporate art, while his peripheral view took in the cobalt gray of the area’s carpet and the beige furnishings by the lone window. His focus aimed at the mahogany hued receptionist sitting behind a wide fortress of a desk, seconds later.

  “Mayor Grimes, you’re early,” the receptionist said matter-of-factly.

  Brent nodded in the affirmative.

  “Your party will be in conference room D,” said the receptionist, pointing towards the corridor behind her.

  “Thanks,” said Brent, as he strode down the long hall. Sunlight beamed out of opposite offices onto the hall’s carpet, as Brent paced towards the conference room. After the turn of a knob, the room’s large door swung open to reveal a lengthy oak colored table, surrounded by leather seats. Brent took off his long coat before he smoothed out his pin-striped blazer, and walked towards the window. He peered out at Chicago’s cityscape.

  Miles of large buildings competed in upward reaches for the sky. Brent caught the reflection of a distant airplane off the mirrored windows of an adjacent skyscraper, before catching his own cool colored eyes staring back at him. He then ogled sections of his barely tan, sun-lit skin, before gazing towards the familiar locale of Chicago’s East Side Men’s shelter.

  My first assignment for the fraternity, Brent thought shaking his head and smiling. He recalled bunking with the assortment of drunks and dope addicts, who’d be made sterile by the chemically treated cigarettes he passed out to them. He glanced back inside the room and remembered the space being the former office of his first supervisor. Nearly a decade ago, the walls had been covered by his boss’ Ivy League degrees and plaques for the exceptional administrative work he’d done for the fraternity. He never figured his elegantly appointed and emotionally constipated supervisor, who was a militant vegan, would kick the bucket in his late fifties. Brent’s being middle-aged himself, made him realize how every infant’s first cry is tethered to an expiration date.

  Sounds of people conversing came closer to the conference room’s door before Mr. Hubersham and his stout supervisor walked in.

  “Ah, Mayor Grimes . . .” said Mr. Hubersham with a smile, “I see you’re early as usual.”

  “Better never late, as opposed to better late than never.” Brent said, shaking Mr. Hubersham’s hand across the table.

  “Very nice to see you again sir,” Brent offered, before shaking the hand of Mr. Hubersham’s stout supervisor.

  “Likewise.” The stout man replied with a half-smile.

  Brent figured Mr. Hubersham would be in his favorite uniform and he didn’t disappoint. He could always be seen in a pair of khakis, a button down blue Oxford shirt and an elbow-patched sports jacket. His balding come over did little to hide the discolored pale blemishes atop his head, and his strides were still hiccupped by an old war wound. Brent’s assessment of the stout man never changed; his pale blue eyes reminded him of a shark’s, vacant and constantly moving. His skin matched his demeanor, coarse and rough-edged, and his clothes were always off the rack.

  “I take it our receptionist Belinda has been treating you well,” said Mr. Hubersham.

  “Yes, she’s very accommodating.” Brent replied.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t partaken in the room’s edibles.” Mr. Hubersham said, looking over the untouched deli serving trays.

  “I had a big breakfast and I’d prefer to get down to business.”

  Mr. Hubersham and the stout man nodded before more footfalls approached the room.

  One-by-one, three more men resembling Brent strode into the wide conference room. Brent caught sight of Mr. Hubersham’s smile as they filed in.

  “Looks like the gang’s all here,” Mr. Hubersham bellowed.

  Brent shook the hands of the three Mayors before they exchanged pleasantries amongst each other. The facial features of the three Mayors matched his own, as they all came from bi-ethnic backgrounds. The barely brown skinned, thin-lipped, processed haired, Brooks Brothers suit wearing, pseudo-Black men, sat down opposite Mr. Hubersham and the stout man.

  “Gentlemen . . .” Mr. Hubersham started, “just in case anyone’s forgotten, I’ll remind us all of your names and the districts you represent.” Brent watched Mr. Hubersham gesture towards the first exceptionally light skinned Black man to his right.

  “We have Mayor Jackson representing Chicago’s Ward D; to his right, we have Mayor Evans from Atlanta’s Ward Zero, then we have Mayor Jefferson from Arizona’s second Ward Zero, and finally, Mayor Grimes from Newark, New Jersey’s Ward M.”

  Brent caught sight of the stout man taking a pen and pad from his blazer before Mr. Hubersham sat down.

  “Now that we’re all reacquainted,” Mr. Hubersham continued, “we can be rest assured of how we’re on the precipice of making history. And you’ve all been fully briefed about the initiative soon to be effectuated in your districts. Our ancestors would’ve never dreamed we could commit an act of such ingenuity and efficiency.”

  Brent’s eyes couldn’t help but stay trained on the stout man who began writing furiously.

  “As you know, the whole of this country’s dark-skinned African-american populous has been sequestered to your four districts. Our gentrifying campaigns have finally yielded their desired result, and we now have these mongrels right where we want them. As all of you also know, the ‘Co-opt’ supermarkets, placed at several locales around your districts, have had their food items infused with our scientist’s intelligent nanotechnologies. Basically, our scientist’s molecular-sized automatons have been coursing through the veins of every African-american in your districts for a year. We know this because of census taking initiatives. The voter registration drives, Co-opt discount card and birth certificate registrations, and the finger prints left on them, have confirmed that all of these highly melanated creatures have tested positive for trace elements of our technology.”

  Brent glanced at Mayor Evans whose hand shot up.

  “Yes, Mayor Evans,” said Mr. Hubersham, looking in his direction.

  “I missed the earlier meeting,” said Mayor Evans, “and I wasn’t made aware of how these molecular robots wouldn’t stay in the bloodstream of a white person who buys groceries from our districts.”

  “These robots tether themselves not only to people with higher percentages of melanin, but to DNA strands only found in African-americans conceived by a Black mother and father,” said Mr. Hubersham matter-of-factly. “If any person not fitting that characteristic were to ingest these smart micro-particles, they would literally have nothing to grasp onto, and they’d find their way into the person’s digestive tract, where they could be gotten rid of by normal means of elimination.”

  “In layman’s terms,” the stout man said breaking his silence, “whites, latinos and asians, can piss these robots out.”

  “Right,” Mr. Hubersham concurred, “so what we’re initiating wouldn’t affect them; ‘cause even if they happen to be in your districts, these robots won’t activate in their systems; our scientists have made sure of that.”

  Brent eyed the head nods of Mayor Evans before the Atlantian politician sat back in his seat.

  “Now, in thirty days, thi
s country will celebrate Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King’s Jr.’s birthday,” Mr. Hubersham continued, “the night before, on a Sunday, at 2 A.M., is when our scientists will send out the invisible signal causing these robots to explode in the bodies of every African person in your districts. These robots will open their major arteries, killing them within seconds. They literally will bleed out where they stand, sit or lay. The majority of them will be asleep, so this should lessen the grizzly nature of their demise—somewhat.”

  Brent’s eyes shifted right, as Mayor Jefferson’s hand made its way skyward.

  “Mayor Jefferson . . .” acknowledged Mr. Hubersham.

  “What about people from our districts who are traveling outside the area at that hour; what’ll become of them?” asked the Arizonian Mayor.

  “Beyond the fact this will be a holiday where the majority of these people won’t be traveling at that hour,” said Mr. Hubersham, “the ingenuity of the technology allows us to trace the residents of your district anywhere in the country by satellite. Those persons will be tracked down and arrested by our deputized militias, taken to a secure location and killed. Now, as you all know, we’ve commissioned Tshombe Muhammad to be the Black messiah who’ll lead every person in your districts out of america, via his ‘Back to Africa’ campaign. And, as all of you also know, Tshombe met his maker a month ago. But before he did, we recorded all the videotaped footage we need of Black people boarding ships and planes to stage their exodus back to their native continent, under Tshombe’s tutelage. And they’ll be a media Blackout in your areas, so none of the other ethnic groups will be any the wiser. ”

  Brent raised his hand.

  “Mr. Grimes. . .” said Mr. Hubersham, pointing in his direction.

  “You said in the previous meeting, it would take about a year to maintenance these areas and transport the bodies for disposal, correct?” asked Brent.

  “Right,” said Mr. Hubersham, “each of you will have seven clean-up crews assigned to your districts, along with armed militias. They’ll be dispersed shortly after the signal goes out, so you needn’t worry about sympathizers from other ethnic groups or possible survivors revolting afterwards. The maintenance crews will collect these dark-skinned beasts and board them onto freight trains aimed directly at your district’s nearest harbor. From there, they’ll be put on ships and sailed to one of three nuclear powered incinerators, where they’ll be promptly gotten rid of.”

  Brent took in the sight of Mr. Hubersham scanning the faces of the other three mayors.

  “Are there any more questions?” he asked.

  Brent peered around the room while all the mayors fell silent.

  “Very good,” said Mr. Hubersham, “the week before this initiative, one of our people will be assigned to you, to let you know if there’s any change in plans . . . but I doubt there will be. Gentlemen, after this, we’ll no longer have any of these dark-skinned primates polluting the air of our great nation . . . not one.”

  Brent and the other three mayors filled the room with applause.

  “With that everyone, I’ll adjourn this meeting,” said Mr. Hubersham.

  Brent’s ears were accosted by the bustling sounds of the other mayors leaving seats and heading to the rear closet to collect their coats.

  “Anyone in need of a hot beverage to thwart the cold outside, should see Belinda on their way out—and again, we’ll be in contact with each of you shortly.” Mr. Hubersham bellowed. Brent grabbed his coat while making small talk with the other mayors. He slipped between them and headed to the corridor, before making his way past Belinda at the reception desk.

  “Have a good evening Belinda,” Brent offered, before boarding the elevator.

  “You do the same Mayor Grimes.” Belinda shot back.

  Two

  “All of the mayors are off the premises, Mr. Hubersham,” Belinda declared over the conference room’s intercom.

  Mr. Hubersham put down his glass of Merlot, and pushed a button on the intercom’s face before thanking her.

  Moments later, Mr. Hubersham clutched his glass and took a full swallow of his beverage. He savored the spirit’s subtle hint of Black currant and wild plum, before setting his glass back on the conference room table.

  “Are you sure we can trust them?” asked Mr. Hubersham, looking towards the stout man. “I mean, they’ve all followed our frat’s agendas to the letter, and they are half white; but that other side of them—might have some sympathy for their people.”

  Mr. Hubersham watched the stout man finish a swig of gin and tonic, before resting the glass on his knee.

  “Before we exterminate their people, all four of those mayors, will be killed with a quickness,” said the stout man matter-of-factly, “and four full-blooded members of our own kind, will take their place.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Hubersham, nodding and gazing out the conference room’s window.

  “I mean, all of them have been exceptionally loyal—but I, for one, will not miss those half-breeds.” Mr. Hubersham declared, before hitting a button on the intercom’s face.

  “Belinda,” summoned Mr. Hubersham, “could you check and make sure there are no other employees in the office—then could you block off our elevator’s access to this floor.”

  “Right away sir,” Belinda replied seconds later.

  Mr. Hubersham kept his finger pressed on the button, “After that, you can disrobe and meet us back here.”

  Three

  Belinda sat shaking her head in the confines of her spacious bedroom. As she sank into the corner of her queen-sized mattress, her toes curled in fur-lined slippers. She recalled the last office manager who occupied conference room D, and how he secretly asked her to record every meeting in that room after he took ill. He’d wanted to know what the frat’s plans for him were, so he paid her to not only keep a hidden Dictaphone running in his office, but to be his eyes and ears while he was gone. Belinda made a habit of keeping recordings of the conference room’s meetings long after the manager expired, just to be ‘in the know’ about office politics.

  She reached over to the Dictaphone on her bed’s nightstand, and hit the ‘play’ button.

  “Now, in thirty days, this country will celebrate Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King’s Jr.’s birthday. The night before, on a Sunday, at 2 A.M., is when our scientists will send out the invisible signal causing these robots to explode in the bodies of every African person in your districts. These robots will open their major arteries, killing them within seconds.”

  Belinda turned off the Dictaphone and put her face in her hands. The fact that she lived in Chicago’s Ward D, made the recording and the whole situation even more surreal.

  How many of those intelligent nano-robots are coursing through my veins? She wondered. She recalled not only having a Co-opt supermarket discount card, but shopping there four out of seven days a week. Sometimes every other day. She figured her bosses might spare her, before she realized, they were going to kill the very mayors slated to carry out this initiative. Her thoughts then went to her aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, all of which lived in Ward D as well. She then flashed back to the sexual favors she’d performed for not only Mr. Hubersham and the stout man, but various male executives in and out of the office.

  Belinda closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with both hands. She continued shaking her head until she fluttered her eyelids open. Her focus went to her wall’s flat screen TV, as she gazed at a PBS documentary of a german dictator. She looked back at her Dictaphone moments later.

  Maybe I can’t stop these bastard’s, she thought, but I sure as hell can try to stall them.

  Four

  Belinda wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a long Black coat as she boarded a downward escalator. She was led to the food court of a corporate office building’s sub-level. Immediately, she was surrounded by sounds of workers conversing and scents of assorted noon-time meals. The click-clack of her heels informed her how fast she was moving
towards a bank of payphones, at a rear corner of the court.

  She clutched one of the payphone’s receivers off its cradle, and put in several coins before dialing.

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