A tale of slavery during WWII. The grandson of a slave owner, one with fantasies of those olden days, finds he actually has one in his possession and that it’s not exactly the way he envisioned it. Sort of a story of the tail wagging the dog.
A lot of cussing. What would you expect from a street w***e? Don't expect much sex after the first section. Mostly, it attempts to show the interaction between a professional black hooker and a kind’a stupid white landowner who has often dreamed of owning a slave. He was in for a shock.
----------------------
"Oh, baby ... baby. Come'on, hon. Off with the panties."
"Jus'a min. He-he. C’n I keep a blanket on? I feel funny, mister."
A door slammed open and an angry three-hundred-pound older woman stormed in.
"What the f**k you doing with my baby, you f*****g pervert? Shreeeeek! She's only fourteen."
"I ... I.... Goddamn." He stumbled in getting out of bed. Feet entangled in a bed sheet sent him sprawling onto the floor as the angry woman picked up a table lamp.
Fearful of the advancing giantess, he scurried across the room on his knees as she slammed it across his back, dropping him face-down onto a dirty cracked-linoleum floor. Blood flowed from many small cuts, even as glass crackled under hands, elbows, and knee-bones as he crawled away. Head running into a wall, he curled up, one hand protecting his manhood. “Don … don’t! I dinna knowed, I dinna.”
"I'm calling the cops, you f*****g pervert. Don't you dare try leaving." She dropped the remains of the lamp. Reaching into a dresser drawer, a pistol appeared in her hand. "I'll see you dead or in jail ... f*****g b*****d."
While he remained sprawled on the floor, trying to pull up his trousers in that position, both females fought an urge to laugh at his antics. Instead, the girl muffled a fake scream while the older woman occasionally kicked him in vital and painful places.
"You'll PAY for this," the larger one screamed. "I'll see that you PAY for violating my little girl’s precious virginity." She paused before roaring, “And she’s only fourteen.” Actually, she was a slow-developing eighteen at the time, though he didn't know that point.
The words must have gotten through to the victim. "Yes. I can pay. Look," he pleaded, "I have a good job and ... and savings."
"You think you can solve this with money? F**k you. You stay down there while I call the police. You white b******s think your money solves everything. Not this f*****g time."
"Mama. Mama. We need the money, Mama. Please?"
"Wait till they take him away, MaryJane. Then I'll deal with you. What did I tell you about these white men? They use you up and throw you away. Like f*****g trash."
"Mama. Stop and think a minute, Mama. The RENT Mama."
"Please, ma'am? I'm not that way. I have a wife and three kids. I didn’t know she was underage. Please don't do this. I'll give you ... maybe a hundred dollars? I have that much."
"Take it, Mama. We need it."
"Not for two-hundred. No. You stay on that f*****g floor or I'll kill you myself. You hear me?"
"Three.... No. Four hundred? Cash. I can borrow it."
She lowered the pistol, still aiming in his general direction. "Today? Right now?"
"Yes. As soon as the bank opens. And ... and I can get the rest out of the office safe and put it back before the end of the month. I have it ... right now. Please? Please? I'm sorry. She said she was seventeen."
“Did you tell him that, MaryJane? Did you?”
The girl, still clutching the sheet across tightly bound breasts, looked away. “I dunno, Mama ... maybe?”
"We'll both go with you. No tricks. We do need the f*****g cash. You try anything and I can still call the police. Remember that." She raised the gun again. "Give me your wallet."
Taking the man's driver's license out, she copied his name and address down, then gave it all back to the mark, allowing him to get up and finish dressing.
"Now for you, you little tramp. You get your a*s dressed and don't clean anything off. If he's got any of his slimy cum or sweat on you, I want it there if he doesn't pay up. The cops have ways."
On the way back from the bank, the two stopped at a grocery, then a liquor store. Their last stop was Mama’s heroin dealer before going home to celebrate. It was only one of the scams they used to survive during the Great Depression of the thirties.
***
That was MaryJane's childhood, running scams to pay the rent and furnish her mother with drugs. Her father had been killed running away from the police after an aborted liquor store robbery. A couple years later, when she was twenty, her mother was caught in a police sting and jailed.
Hardly a virgin by then, the girl turned to prostitution, avoiding pimps by choosing random corners -- always near a bus stop in housing areas and away from the usual strolls.
When WWII broke out, with men joining the army or being forced into uniform, her business dropped off. What that meant, with them fighting in Europe and the Pacific, was her leaving the suburbs and inching toward the inner city. She found that white areas were the most lucrative but she stood out more, meaning a black hooker walking around white neighborhoods attracted police sooner than in the black sections of the city. And she didn’t want to deal with pimps of either race.
To her credit, MaryJane tried for the burgeoning war-production jobs but had several strikes against her. They were her police record, lack of an education and, of course, race. She was screwed and forced into continuing being screwed for a living.
Then, her life took another crippling turn. It happened one night when she neglected to get her money up-front from a steady customer….
"MaryJane. Babe. I'm a little light tonight," Jethro Trump admitted while cuddling up afterwards in a cheap fourth-floor walkup.
Pushing him away, she crawled from a filthy straw-filled mattress to dress and then berate Jethro. "You f*****g b*****d."
"Honey. I'm good for it. You know me."
"That's the f*****g trouble. I do know you, you cocksucker. All your money goes in your f*****g arm or down your f*****g throat. When you ain’t injecting it, you're popping it."
"You said you gotta cold, MJ? Least I can do is give you something for that." He reached into a bedside drawer.
"F**k you and your f*****g pills." She glanced around his room for anything of value, so her time wouldn't be a complete waste. "That watch. It's mine now." Anger reducing to a simmer, the girl changed her tone. "What's that you got for a cold?"
Trying to get back in good graces with her, he poured out a handful of pills. "Keerful a these, MJ. They's powerful s**t."
Both satisfied and on good terms again, she crossed to a filthy sink in the corner of his crib for a glass of water, gulping down several of the strange pills. After a couple of drinks of vodka and soda, she got up to go home. Maryjane figured to sell the watch later, not knowing bronze from gold. At least it was something. The woman wasn't into the habit of passing out her favors for nothing.
On the way home -- feeling light-headed, woozy, and happy -- she was accosted by three teenage boys. They, too, were out for profit and not wanting to go home empty-handed. A lone woman walking the streets late at night figured to be a hooker or -- at the very least -- easy prey.
"Now, what we done got here, Rufus?" Jackboy asked, nudging his friend.
"A playmate, Jackie ... a playmate.”
From long practice, they spread across the sidewalk, leaving a small path between Rufus and their large companion, Twinky.
MaryJane, tipsy and feeling the effects of an overdose of who-knew-what on top of alcohol, drifted in a dreamland of her own as she shoved one dainty shoulder forward to squeeze through the open space. As she approached, that space closed. The small girl found herself stopped cold between three large male bodies -- Jackboy having hurried around the edge to fold himself in behind her.
Rufus laughed. "How's ya suction, honey?"
"Five bucks and I'll show you," she mumbled from professional reflex, their faces swimming back and forth in front of her as if in a shifting fog.
"We's gonna find out, sweetie, and you don't gotta pay us the sawbuck, neither," from Rufus.
His remark brought laughter from the three of them, along with giggles from MaryJane. She wasn't aware of why they were laughing but felt so good she joined in.
They had no problem steering her into an alley.
While Twinky held her hands behind her back, Rufus shoved himself at the girl, his hand forcing itself down her trousers. Meanwhile Jackboy, more pragmatic, searched her purse for valuables. Finding nothing worth keeping, he pulled out a switchblade, snapping it open to cut her clothing off.
"Hey, man. Don’t cut her clothes. They's my sister's size an she needs some," from Twinky.
"Get her s**t, Jackboy," Rufus ordered around his tongue, it being halfway down her throat at the time, hand still exploring.
“Ain’t no s**t ta get, man. Hey! We gotta share? Flip a coin or sometin’? Get her clothes off first.”
Unwillingly, Rufus let the girl go and stood back while Twinky undressed her, unusually careful with his huge hands. Jackboy found a large cardboard box, kicking it flat with his feet. It was better for their purposes than a garbage-covered alley floor.
Throwing her down, they had their way with poor MaryJane, her coming to her senses halfway through. Twinky was last, throwing his huge weight onto her, impaling her with his own two-inches. His weight threatened to collapse her lungs, dropping her back into a painful semi-consciousness.
MaryJane didn't try to fight back until they got to her undies, which Twinky really wanted for his own kinky reasons. All that did was add to their excitement, leading to the fun of beating and kicking the crap out of her. They were growing boys and felt they needed the exercise.
"We gonna leave her here, man?" Rufus asked, the toe of one shoe nudging her compliant head back and forth on the dirty alley floor. "F**k her."
"Just did," Twinky replied, laughing while picking up MaryJane’s clothing, by then filthy and spread around the alley.
Jackboy, standing at the entrance to the alley, saw a delivery truck stop at a market across the street. Two large and burly white men -- the bare minimum needed at that time of night and on that street , stepped down, grabbed crates from the back and went into the building.
"Let's throw the b***h in the back'a that truck," he said, "an shock a s**t out'a those guys?"
"Yeah. Sort'a a Christmas present in June." Rufus liked the idea, imagining the delivery guys' faces when they found her.
***
Andy Thompson finished milking Old Betsy, his milk-cow. She was one of the few animals left on what up till recently had been a producing farm. His father, Elmer, had died two years before. Fed up with farming, Andy sold most of the livestock, excluding the cow, two dogs, and six cats. He'd also sold most of the land. All he had left were five acres containing the family home, a barn, ancient slave quarters building, several unsaleable wooded sections and a few sheds.
He fed the cow and released her into the yard to help trim grass. Then Andy took the milk out behind the one remaining slave-quarters building and dumped it into a sparse patch of brownish sunburned grass as a bit of fertilizer.
Andy hated milk but loved the old cow, and it had to be milked. When he'd been a kid, his grandfather had forced the liquid on him -- three meals a day. The day the old guy died was the last time Andy drank milk. Instead, he took pleasure in throwing it away.
Unlike his father, the grandfather had been an entertaining old cuss, especially to young Andy Thompson. The man had fought in the Civil War as a lieutenant and had himself owned over a hundred slaves -- right there on Andy's land. Looking back at the decaying old building, a mist came to Andy's eyes. Those must have been the good old days as he reminisced....
*
“Boy,” Grandpa said, the two of them sitting on the back porch of the house, eyes on the large split-log ex-slave quarters. “Boy. You'd have loved those days. No electric stuff, but we had us running water an inside shitters. Me an my three brothers an two sisters had a hell'a a good time back then. No school, but a teacher would live with us four months out'a the year, then teach somewheres else for awhile.
He'd sigh loudly, puffing on a corncob pipe as he remembered. “Yes, Andy boy, we had it good. We owned maybe a hundred slaves back then, and us boys could have our way with them. Daddy wouldn't continence our screwing them, though. A shame, since little Jennie liked to tease me all'a time. She knew she was safe. Least until Daddy got the a*s an sold her to Miss Petty, a dyed in'a wool girly-girl. I stayed hard for a week, just'a thinkin’ bout her an little Jennie doing IT together.
“When I got twelf'er’ thirteen, Daddy hitched up a wagon an took me to the Johnson farm, down a road a bit, so's I could have me time with Mr. Johnson's girl slaves. Mr. Johnson's son, Johnny, he'd come to our place for a same thing.
“Never, Andy, never screw with your own slaves. Then they want privileges an favors. Always go next door was a good rule back then.
“It was fun for us youngsters, though. Daddy din't care what else we done with them. We growed up playing with the slave kids, but never, ever, let them think they was the same as us. We dined on steak while they ate salt pork. We rode in carriages and they walked beside us. We always won when we played games.
“I ‘member onc't in'a winter. Me an big brother Jim, we loaded up a bunch'a slave kids on our sleigh, pulled by two mules. For the fun of it, we raced down a narrow path out back, ever'one yellin' an'a laughin'.
“Jim, he nudges Peter, a scrawny little eight-year-old. He says, 'Peter. Jump. Now.'”
“Peter, he gets almost white, shakes his head. Jim reaches over to shove the kid off. I looks back to see Peter bouncing 'round for he slams in'ta a frozen tree, while Jim, he laughs.
“Anyway, Jim, he forces all the slave kids ta jump, one after the other. When they finally gets home, two got broke legs, one nine-year-old had her hip busted to hell, and all'a them was smashed around.
“Boy, did Daddy light in'ta Jim for that.” Grandpa laughed at the memory. “He had to stay in his room for two weeks. It cost Daddy hundreds of dollars. The veterinary patched them slaves up all he could, but two of them never did work for s**t after that.”
Anyway, Andy valued such advice from the old man.
***
Grandpa soon became senile. All he did was sit on a rocking chair out back and dream. At night, Andy and his daddy had to put grandpa to bed after Andy's mother forced a little soft food into the old man, prying toothless jaws open with a big wooden spoon.
Before that war, there had originally been four large barracks-style buildings to house their slaves, but three had been torn down before Andy’s time and the area plowed under for crops. The last slave-quarters building had been used for house slaves and been in better shape, so Grandpa had kept it for its memories. Now a storage space for farm implements, it still held much of the old chains, padlocks, and other slavery paraphernalia stored inside. As a child, Andy would often go in to sit in the dark, play with old chains, and dream of the old days.
In the house there were photo albums, drawn graphics, and papers from that period in history. Andy would pore over them for hours at a time as a kid. There were no Negroes in his school in rural Virginia and he made a point of never associating with what he considered the "Negras" while in town. In his thirties, he’d never spoken more than a sentence or two to a black person in his life.
Except for that, he did carry on the family tradition of religion, proud of never missing a Sunday sermon in thirty years. He attended a church in nearby Pickleville that still taught the philosophy that black people were fit only for slavery, using Biblical passages as proof.
Largely a recluse, living on family savings as well as proceeds of land sales, Andy puttered around the house and barn, his only companions Old Betsy and the smaller critters.
That was his state of mind when he went out to the mailbox one June morning to collect his mail and was surprised to find a real slave sorta standing in the driveway. To the lonesome white man, it was a lifelong dream come true.
***
Maryjane was still unconscious when the truck from "Acme Products", driven by Jeffery Adams, approached Pickleville on its way home. His co-worker heard loose crates bouncing around in the back.
"We better stop, Jeff. Some of those boxes have glass bottles in them. One of those damned straps must'a come loose."
"S**t. Don't take all frickin' day." Jeffery pulled over to the side of the narrow one-lane asphalt farm road and stopped while the other man got out. Slamming the door, the passenger unhooked a back ramp, looking in to see spilled fruit cans sliding around a bare human foot.
"Hey! Jeff. You better come back here a minute. We got us a frickin' problem, man."
"So? Clean it up. They's a five-gallon water-can back there some’ware’s. Scrape the mess into a ditch an slosh the back out."
"No. Not that. A frickin' human body."
"Damn. Tell him to get off. We ain’t got all day here."
"A dead one."
"A what?" in a rising inflection.
"A frickin' dead body. That's what we got. Get back here."
"My god. Hold on a minute." Jeffery got out and slammed his door, hurrying around to the back.
"Damned if it ain’t. Get in an make sure."
"I ain’t getting in there. You check. It's your truck."
Cursing, Jeffery hoisted himself inside. Tentatively, he reached down and felt MaryJane's face, not having the least idea on how to tell if she were alive. When her eyes opened, he jerked upward, slamming his head against the side of the truck and almost falling on his a*s. "She's alive and naked. A black girl. Beat all to hell."
"What we gonna do with her?"
"Damned if I know," Jeffery answered with a shrug.
"We should turn her over to the cops in Pickleville?"
"Ain’t no cops in Pickleville. Only a mom and pop grocery and'a post office," Jeffery replied, scratching his banged head.
"They can call the state cops or something."
"And we'll be there all day, explaining. Me and Janice gotta go to some damned church thing this afternoon. Damn. I ain’t got time for this s**t."
"Well ... why not lay her down in this here driveway? Nobody has to know it was us done it." Jeffery grinned. “Someone gonna find her.”
So that's what they did. MaryJane was awake by then and semi-conscious. They brought her down and led her to Andy's mailbox, where she stood by herself, leaning across box and post, bare a*s drooping.
"Now, girl," Jeffery told her, seriously, "listen up, now. You go ta' that there house, an the people there gonna get you some help."
Leaving her, they returned to their truck and, spraying gravel, sped away.
She was still standing, moaning and soothing her face against the cold metal of the mailbox, when Andy came out to check his mail.
Section One of Twelve. Next, Andy finds her and nurses her back to health. Always wanting a slave, he decides to keep her. After all, he figures, it might be a long time before God leaves him another one. Oh, and don’t expect much sex until section eleven or twelve. It’s mostly about the interaction between a jaded black prostitute and a sort’a stupid white farmer.
Charlie - hvysmker.
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