Deep-Seeded Hatred

Deep-Seeded Hatred

A Story by Starlin
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The black sheep of an indigenous tribe gets revenge.

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            “Hey, Bob, get that shovel for me,” said Peter.

            “Get it yourself! The chief told you to dig and for me to plant the seeds!” I said.

            “Bob, I hate you and no one likes you. Start digging if you don't want the whole tribe to know that you have a picture of Marsha taped to your mosquito net,” said Peter.

            Ugh, I hate this village. Everyone here makes me feel like s**t. So what if I'm mean to everyone else, it's only because I'm better than they are. They're always demanding things from me and making me work. I just want to sit in the shade and knit, but the other people in the village say it's worthless and a waste of time since it's always hot and humid in this poor village in Guyana. We have to rely solely on our crops; only once did we get boxes of macaroni when the missionaries came several years ago.

            “So, are you gonna start digging, or is everyone going to know what a pervert you are?” asked Peter.

            “Ok ok, I'll dig, gosh,” I said, wiping the sweat from my large forehead.

            When we were finished"or when I was finished, as I did all the work while Peter talked about how many of the women from the village he's slept with, which is three"we went to the center of the village where everyone was dancing in celebration in hopes of a plentiful harvest. I didn't dance, though.

            “Bob, you should dance!” my mom said to me. “You'll never get a wife by sitting here; impress one of these women with your dancing.”

            My mom means well, but she doesn't understand that, for one, I can't dance. And two, dancing is a really gay way of finding a potential mate.

            “Hey, wanna dance?” asked the ugly girl of the village, Cindy.

            “Eh...no thanks. You're kind of the ugly girl of the village,” I said in my most polite tone.

            A while after most of the men were drunk, the chief said, “Now, who will keep watch tonight? Hmm, Bob, you haven't kept watch in a few weeks. You do it. I'll give you this genuine leather pouch to show my gratitude.”

            “What, is it made out of your extremely saggy old balls there, Chief?” I quipped, but immediately regretted.

No one laughed. Yay me. After I hung my head in shame and received the gift, I got up and started walking to where I planted the seeds, when all of the sudden I got an idea. See, when the missionaries came they all tested us for diseases and gave us medicines. They took samples of all the diseases and put them in vials. I hurried to where the vials were, put them in my new pouch, and went back to the field. I then dug up all of the seeds as best as I could and dipped all the seeds in the vials. I thought that'd teach everyone.

            Several weeks later everyone noticed that the crops weren't growing like they were supposed to; the crops were discolored and looked dead.

            “Hey, look at Bob, he's the one that planted the seeds!” said Peter, wide eyed and pointing in my direction.

            “Yeah, um, about that. I kinda sabotaged our crops, I won't go into detail,” I said while staring at the ground and rubbing the back of my neck.

            “Those were the last seeds we had, and we have very little food now. We were depending on those crops for our very survival,” said the chief.

            “Well, what can ya do, eh?” I said.

            “The rest of the villagers and I will trek 15 miles to the nearest village, Jonestown. I hear there is a man there with a surplus of Kool-Aid, and I assume food as well. But you, you stay here and starve. I am ashamed to call you a member of the Bunchabrady tribe,” said the chief.

© 2012 Starlin


Author's Note

Starlin
Just a piece of flash fiction I had a lot of fun with.

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Added on June 17, 2012
Last Updated on June 17, 2012
Tags: seed, kool-aid, tribe, brady