From one of our new talents, Clint X The Sow-metary Part 1 Officer Dairong Bichson knew he was next. The superstition that he had been trying to block out of his mind, since last summers incident, was deniably making him a secret believer. Its only a silly coincidence, he reassured himself, although dishonestly. Thinking the power of optimism would help, even in his hopeless case. One of the most recent, in a long history of murders in the name of law enforcement, his file would remain unblemished; for whatever was good for the image of the badge, was good for him. That was what his superiors echoed every time there was a situation. And there were plenty of them. All he had to do was let the lawyers do the talking for him and read the prepared statements that they gave him to the media cameras. His, wasnt a drawn out process. In fact, nationwide, the whole ceremony of going through the motions, following deaths involving officers, had shrunken to a tiny blip on the medias radar. They kept as much bad publicity out of the news as possible. He, himself, had never been bothered by reporters until yesterday when the two elderly people, who he thought were church donation collectors, cornered him in the police station. On his return from a call about a stolen pig, out on a farm, officer Bichson eyed the slow walking couple making their way to the entrance. In a gentlemanly gesture, opening the door for the well dressed pair, he commented on the ladies beautiful hat while noticing the strange pin on the old mans coat lapel. Looked military, like one of his fathers war medals. Once inside, Bichson reached for his wallet and produced a single bill. Maybe a donation would help his own cause, but they chuckled and waved it off. Thats nice of you son, though were not here on that kind of business, she spoke to him with a steady and sincere grin. Were here from The Watch, were looking to interview someone named Bichson about The Cliff Curse. Do you know him? the old man following up, catching Dairong off guard. Turning quickly to get his name tag out of their view, he began walking to the desk area, looking back at them, Ill see if anyones seen her, he yelled over his shoulder, dipping through another door behind the lobby counter. We thought you were a man! they both shouted after him. But he was gone. So were they. Reaching the sanctuary of the back room operations desk, he could see from the monitors that they had managed to make it out a lot faster than they had come in. Damn reporters... Feargunson City Police Department was a small, two story square building located behind City Hall, in the towns central civic centre. Some several hours away from the states capital metropolitan city, St.Louis, the single and meager Feargunson station had earned itself an infamous reputation following the wrongful shooting death of an unarmed teenager by one of its dozen or so officers. A type of incident usually reserved for the larger urban settings, that had set the scene for scores of confrontations between the public and law enforcement, over the past few months. The media machines were doing their part to squeeze every bit of the actions and reactions from both sides, and some would say even stirring up strife with their provocative bellowing of tensions. They must have been from another city, like the rest of the drama hungry press. Hed never heard of The Watch. Mike Brown was a name his commander and the state lawyers made him believe he would forget after no charges were brought against him for ending the young persons life on that tragic day. They sprinkled the all too familiar seasonings on the events, cooking the high schooler up to be nothing short of a psychopathic terrorist. Disseminating the facts of the case in their own favour. It had worked in dozens of cities across the country. Creating the perfect impunity for officers everywhere, whenever and regardless of the socio-economics involved. Dairong Bichson had no problem with being let to walk free for his involvement, and at one point boasted a clear conscious regarding the matter. Not until the mysterious officer disappearances started to happen. The only clues were recovered from the bottoms of the cliffs. Articles from the missing police officers from different cities, departments and precincts. The best investigators from every state agency were stumbling over each other to make any connections between the lost members of the law enforcement community. None of them were acquaintances or had ever been in contact with each other. All were different ages, genders, backgrounds, sizes and shapes. The variables were totally random, except for the fact that all of these men and women had been given routine immunity in previous justifiable homicide cases. A definitive clue. Though to what? Retaliatory kidnappings was one of the best theories, no ransoms or demands from any kidnappers were sent forth though. Another was the federal government taking them into some sort of secret protection program to ensure their safety from scenarios like the first theory. So far more than two dozen were gone and only a handful of clues had surfaced or been so far found. There were tens of thousands of known others though: police officers that had the innocent and not so innocent blood of their fellow Americans on their hands. There were perhaps a hundred thousand. The justice system had grown so uncontrollable, it was impossible to get any transparent numbers of the non indicted cover up killings that happened in the name of the law. That and the disappearances were supposed to be an in-house secret. However, the press and the tabloids knew about the officers gone MIA, and were chasing the same story. He had got a call from St. Louis internal affairs two days ago, checking on his state of mind, asking how he felt since resuming duty following his time off. Everything was routine, then the lieutenant asked if hed seen or heard anything out of the ordinary and if he remembered having recent nightmares. A no to each question, but in his mind a resounding yes. Officer Bichson finished filing his report about the missing pig out on the McDonnel farm and kicked around the station til his shift ended. Pulling out of the station parking lot, he noticed no reporters and no one following him as he accelerated towards the highway junction. He supped with his family quietly, when the night before, he had had a lengthy discussion with his wife about why he didnt want to retire. The recurring nightmare started as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was somewhere like on a mountain. Seeing the landscape and sky moving back as he somehow moved forward. He was walking; however, not with his own legs. Others were around him. Other what? he did not know, only that they were there. They created horrible roaring shrieks and disgusting noises but he couldnt recognise exactly what they sounded like. He felt a sense of security, like he did when he was in uniform and he felt a sense of belonging with the companions around him. This was the nice part. The next part, he knew too well in anticipation. As the land dropped away, he was airborne for a split moment then the agonising sensation of falling shook him awake. It was another dawn. At the breakfast table, Dairong looked at the bacon on his plate with contemplation. Somehow hed lost any appetite for his favourite meat, hurriedly gobbling down the eggs, toast and hashbrowned potatoes in just a few bites. His small family looking on with shock, he next started picking foods from their plates too, not even bothering to ask if any of them were done with theirs. Leaving them only with the bacon strips on their plates, he was out the door; shoelaces untied, necktie undone, pants sagging down, uniform shirt not tucked in. Not really feeling his usual self, he examined himself in the car mirror once he pulled into work. His nose appeared to be pushed upwards and the nostrils seemed bigger. He asked the lobby clerk if she noticed something different about his nose, she quietly whispered back his fly was open. Not even noticing his own appearance, he thanked her and clocked in. Making it to the first cup of coffee at the station was a morning ritual for everyone, and it was the only thing on his mind now. That and the hopes that someone brought donuts. The Captain caught him in the break room bulldozing through the box of two dozen he had brought in earlier. A donut in each hand, speaking with his mouth over stuffed, he acknowledged the captain. However, when his superior reached to get himself one, he made a grunting noise, knocking the emptied container away from the captains hand. The captain looked soar with disappointment, but remained quiet while he inspected the state of Dairongs uniform. He said he didnt know, when asked about the last time it was cleaned. There were stains of every kind, front and back, some his own, some from food, and something from an animal mixed with mud was all over his trousers and shoes. Deciding not to say anything yet, not til after a few more cups of coffee, he filled his cup and retreated to his office. Dairong, happily chewing, didnt notice a thing. Part 2 Unbeknownst to those outside of the African American community, and then only the initiated, as well as the affected families, there has, since the turn of the 20th century, existed a place of forgiveness for the enemies of justice. The neverending turmoil between blacks and the law had throughout Americas history left the minority group with little hope for ever knowing genuine vindication for the centuries that are known as the African diaspora. Thus the need to express their outrage at the indignations of justice based on race (or the lack thereof), took many forms. Some chose to fight the system by challenging it in legal arenas, through financial pressures or by championing greater common causes. The Black Churches of the day played the most vital of roles in supporting the moral and right causes that kept the momentum of change steadily going. Spiritual strength was key to driving determination to overcome. No, the place that this story is about started because another black preacher heard a different calling from The Higher Source. In 1914, Reverand Miles David was accused of witchcraft by local police in New Orleans because of his version of Gospel music. Instead of a choir, Rev. David employed a jazz band to play in his Sunday tabernacle meetings. He composed the songs himself and titled them things like: Spell on the devil, Juju for a judge, and the one that got him the most popularity and trouble Find a cliff, pig! It was no secret how he felt about the people that represented the law. They were just the same people that represented slavery, only now given a salary to do what they loved to do most: oppress blacks. In the early 1900s, the all-white police of the day wore the same symbols of law enforcement, and flaunted their terrors upon the black community, killing indiscriminately and with impunity. The uniform itself is a profiled and lasting vestige of the curses of slavery and violence to a great many African Americans today because of this. Anyways, back to our other story. Reverand David was infact in touch with an ancestral supernatural anger that drove his hard jazz sounds. When police heard it, it made them feel uncomfortable and unwith the times. They had burnt down his church twice, in the same year and harassed his flock to the point they now held their Tabernacle service outside of the city in the countryside. No, he wasnt about hating white people. The good reverand was on a music crusade to stop them and any other groups of people from their sinning together against themselves and God. He would open and close his concert sermons with a reference to the New Testament by quizzically asking: If they jump off a cliff, are you gonna do it too? The followers usually responded: Good Lord, no. One fine, wet Spring morning, while the jazz ensemble and voodoo drums moved the congregation to dance in a lively spirit, they were alerted to an approaching patrol car coming up the muddy road. Members immediately started packing up their instruments, Reverand Miles David went walking to meet the lawmen at the roadside. Never smiling in their presence, today he wore a grin and waved for them to stop. Two of the three officers there were puzzled to see his friendly countenance and even joked amongst themselves that it was a miracle. Hearing the lighthearted blasphemy taking place right before him, he himself began to chuckle too. Then he asked the one in the passenger seat, the one hed never seen before, his favourite question. To which the younger one replied no, followed by a derogatory word. The preacher smiling said that that was good, then with lightning speed drew a revolver and gunned down the other two officers. And before the young racist cop knew it, the patrol car was rolling towards a high cliff with him and his two extinguished colleagues in it. He did manage to jump from the vehicle before it flew over the edge, barely saving himself. Running from the direction of the insane holyman, he heard David yelling some sort of Scripture to him, something he knew, and a message to the rest of the pigs: These cliffs shall always be here, even when no sinners remain. In the following weeks, manhunts for the maddened preacher took place throughout the state. Sadly for Louisianas slave catching police force, he was never found. He continued to be heard from however. Several times, that summer, jazz was reportedly heard coming from the woods near the city and each time officers went out there individually or in force, one or two of them were never to return. Only a couple badges, service pistols, nametags or pieces of uniform were ever found, and always at the bottom of a high cliff. Those officers were also notable foes, whod committed routine killings and were untouchable because it was their duty to enforce the racial policies of the Government. What of the reverand, you wonder? Well, this is where the story gets personal. Miles David had absolutely no intention on giving the evil forces any ground. Then again, he was doing just that, in his own special way though. Out near the Texas border, the reverand found places where he could play his music, dwell on the world back then, and work out how to fight back, make a living, have a good time and make that conflicting world a better place. He was perfecting the technique for casting evil spirits into pigs. The first and second officers he had abducted, when they took the jazz baits, found themselves hogtied in the trunk of a car with two dead pigs. Of course the police starved to death, he was experimenting to see if their souls would enter the swine corpses and bring the animals back to life. Unsuccessful, he tried a second and third time. Next, he tried with live pigs. To his surprise, it had worked. Not only were the spirits of the cops inside of the pigs, but they had devoured the bodies as well. A plus. He was sure that the spirits were in them, because if youve ever seen angry pigs jump out of a car and start chasing black men, then you would certainly know what he knew. The final step would be getting the possessed pigs to take the final step. He cut and sewed and retailored the police uniforms to fit on the animals. Name tags, gun belts, the works. The hell it was getting those pigs into uniforms again though. He brought them up to a high point, and tried to direct them to run over the edge of a cliff there. The pigs following their only natural instinct and just chased the first black man they saw. He would do it at night then, and this worked. Hearing his voice in the darkness the pigs hopped right out of the vehicle expecting to chase him down, and were soon falling to their end. Satisfied to this point, he collected the hog remains for the monumental idea he had of building the first Sow-metary. The no-mans lands of Texas were just right. No highway had been built or planned there yet. The dusty trail by car was difficult going; however, the rev was a man of determination. He dug through the nights and transported his cargoes in daylight, burying 54 pigs in a years time. When he was done with his modest landmark, it was just a small cemetery with large flat headstones. Each engraved with details like the officers names and the crimes they committed against African Americans and lastly, the cliff date. In those days, it was not uncommon for blacks to have to travel far out of the sights of white society in order to enjoy fellowship or a proper juke joint. When word got back to relevant parties in the slave quarters about a revival tabernacle meeting, it was met with sheer delight. Being so far, it must have been a mighty important meeting, they speculated and went. The wonderment that they felt to be having service on the devils helpers graves was an uplifting factor that brought many to dance who had never danced before. Infact, by the time service was finished, days had gone by. For in their elation, that day, nothing else mattered. The Sow-metary was a kept secret. And for years, the gravestones expanded due to the surplus of police that were willing to sin just because they saw other white cops abusing black people and thought it was OK to do it too. Reverand David built a dozen more in different states and never stopped. To this very day, it is a tradition among blacks who know. Although, other minority groups and some whites are beginning to visit the places nowadays too. A hundred years later, police terrors have become universal in modern multicultural settings. Part 3 Poor Dairong Bichson had no idea what had become of himself. That day, the captain sent him on home to relax and told him to step it up a little with the hygiene and appearance codes. A news circular with a rubber band around it was on the front porch screen door when he arrived home at midday. Thinking it was junkmail, he snatched it from the handle and something small and heavy fell from it onto the ground. He picked it up and did not know what the small funny shaped object was. It drove his senses crazy, as he started to sniff closer at it and immediately devoured the small morsel. Everything went out of his mind, all he knew was that he wanted more of the strange addictive food substance. He looked on the floor for any more that might have fallen, then he started sniffing the news circular. He looked at it, it was called The Hog Watch. It just looked like a short 10 page newspaper. Some articles about local cops to be on the lookout for and...... a picture of himself..... Wanted by the Missouri Sow-metary....and that was all. He smelled the paper once more to get a good whiff of the tantalising treat then by some instinct he started turning in circles, sniffing in every direction. The hunt was on. A strange scene took place in officer Bichsons yard. He had got down on his hands and knees and was crawling on all fours with his nose to the ground. He didnt know why at all, he just had the overwhelming feeling that this was something he had to do. He was down the street sniffing from yard to yard, hot on the trail of this most irresistible morsel. Beforelong, he came across another one. It was a few blocks away from his home but he wasnt worried about anything else but finding the next one. They seemed to be leading him to the open rural parts surrounding his town. The scent was stronger and he was locked on. If there is one thing in the world that pigs love to persue, and theyll never stop until they have them, no, its not black people, its truffles. Officer Bichson, who had never seen one before today, couldnt have known what the black community of Missouri had in store for him. He found his treat, a handful of truffles, in the back of a running pickup truck. When he hopped in, pouncing on the delicacy, the truck took off. Dairong noticing nothing, was in such a state of euphoria that he didnt know where he was when the truck pulled into an animal slaughter house. The two elderly reporters got out of the front and smiled contently to each other, helped the confused lawman down. Asking where he was, they told him nothing, just the old man produced a final truffle from his pocket and dropped it into a dark open hatch on the floor. Dairong dove in instantly, head first without any second thought. The hatch slid closed and it was pitch black inside. He could smell the truffle and as he scrambled to it, he bumped noses with something else down there. It too, smelled the truffle but worse, it smelled the truffles on Dairong too. In the dark, a fight ensued between Dairong Bichson and the large hungry animal he now knew to be a pig. Without his pistol or any other weapon, the officer was helpless. This would be the ironic ending of Dairong. For when he had killed that unarmed black teenager, Mike Brown, it was because Officer Bichson couldnt fight. Mike Brown had beaten Dairong down. And rather than take his loss, as a man, he shot the boy. He could have shot to injure and disable him, but that would still be an embarrassment. No, he shot the youth 16 times and made up a story about the boy being some unstoppable animal. Not today. The stolen pig from McDonnels farm finished Dairong off over the course of a week. With the animal eating its own feces a couple times, Dairong was cycled through the animal over and over again. Nothing remained. When the hatch finally opened a week later, the elderly couple looked down on the large disgusting beast and asked if he could hear them. Surely, the pig did its best to be rude and sound obnoxious. It had worked, the evil spirit was in the animal. The lady produced a gun and shot it with a tranquiliser. The Bichson pig, made its maiden and final flight later that evening. The Missouri Sow-metary is located halfway between Feargunson and St. Louis. And is operated by Dr Cornell Masakela, a renowned voodoo jazz practicioner and his wife Condee, who edits and publishes The Hog Watch. To be continued (if they continue) CX versenovelryunit.simdif
Posted on: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 02:10:41 +0000
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