America 1982-Chapter 258 - 3: Two Salaries Equals Ingratitude
Los Angeles, Long Beach.
Martin Hart swore to the heavens that in all his twenty-five years, every single day combined didn’t match the strangeness of today.
The African Americans on the West Coast weren’t exactly hospitable to their own people. It was his first day in Long Beach, and he was first surrounded by four damn gangsters demanding he take off his new sneakers. Before he could comply, a Cadillac luxury sedan drove up, and two white men stepped out: one was a muscular man looking like a white rhinoceros and the other had a wooden expression as if he suffered from facial paralysis.
After that, he saw the four black thugs who had just menacingly wanted to steal his shoes. Their first reaction was not to mug the two white men who entered their community uninvited, but upon seeing their faces, they simply knelt down, holding their hands high over their heads.
"Guys? You motherfuckers only dare to rob your pitiful brethren of their sneakers but you prostrate before two white men getting out of a nice car? Are they cops? The Los Angeles Police have a lot of money, luxury Cadillacs..." Martin asked the several black men with a puzzled face.
However, the four African Americans obediently bowed their heads, hands held high, completely ignoring Martin’s question, leading him to wonder if these guys were even real blacks, as the ones in Miami wouldn’t be so polite in front of policemen.
"This one hasn’t knelt; he must be tough," he heard the muscular white man say to the old man, "Or maybe your reputation isn’t what it used to be, Mr. Page. Anyway, you owe me ten bucks."
Page pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket and handed George ten dollars in cash. He then circled around Martin Hart. Martin sniffed, "Smells like the fuzz. I’m the victim, officer. They were about to steal my shoes. You must have punished them severely before for them to develop such a fine habit of kneeling and raising hands."
Page walked up to the dozen or so black men kneeling on the ground, and lightly kicked one of them with his foot: "Cuss a little."
"F*ckCock!" the black man looked up and cursed at Page.
Page took out a pair of gloves and put them on leisurely, "Your cursing lacks originality, and it’s obviously aimed at me, showing not only have you got no verbal flair, but also poor vision. But I’m accustomed to it. In Long Beach, the most polluted place in America, finding a black man whose mind hasn’t been corrupted might be harder than finding an alien."
Martin had been convinced these two were cops from this area, but upon seeing the gloves in Page’s hands, he began to have doubts.
If he wasn’t mistaken, that wasn’t police equipment but smuggled goods from Cuba called electric shock gloves—allegedly developed by the Soviet Union for interrogating prisoners, more powerful than the tasers used by American police. In Miami, he had the misfortune to see his black cousins testing the loyalty of their brothers with the device. It only took five seconds for the unfortunate victim to lose control of his bladder and bowels, twitching on the ground.
"Shit! Have the Los Angeles police started using Soviet merchandise?" Martin asked, his voice shaking, as he spotted the gloves.
Page paid him no mind, simply placed the metal-plated gloves on the face of the cursing black man, and flicked the switch with his thumbs. The man spasmed under Page’s touch of no more than three seconds, his facial muscles twitched, and then he collapsed on the ground, foaming at the mouth.
"Cuss a little," Page approached the second kneeling black man.
Before the man could speak, Martin Hart, knowing his place, raised his hands high, "I can cuss! Sir! I can! And I won’t cuss you! Just don’t shock me with that thing!"
Seeing Page glance at him and slowly nod, Martin breathed a sigh of relief and then turned to the three black men and shouted loudly:
"Niggers, like fresh food? Heard you disappointed your mommas? Don’t worry, I’ll say hi to them for you!"
Page was taken aback, speaking in a slow voice, "You definitely aren’t a local nigger from Long Beach."
"You two aren’t cops either," Martin said, hands still raised to Page, "Sir, as long as you don’t shock me with that thing, I can continually cuss these niggers for at least six hours nonstop, rhyme included, and if needed, I can even beat my belly as a drum to accompany it."
While Page was busy shocking the rest to the floor, he casually asked Martin as if they were chatting, "Where are you from?"
"Miami, sir. Little Haiti in Miami." Martin watched his compatriots being shocked like fish out of water, convulsing on the ground. "There’s a California senator on TV named Pete Wilson who said California was more tolerant towards black people than Miami... I swear, he’s never getting my vote."
"You here to transport goods?" Page turned off the gloves’ electrical switch and expertly frisked Martin’s body. "Miami has several street gangs, which one you with?"
Seeing Page turn off the glove switch, Martin relaxed but didn’t dare lower his hands, "I’m not a gang member, I’m a barber looking for opportunities in Los Angeles. I’ve got a cousin named Richard living nearby; I was thinking of staying at his place. He might be a gang member, for all I know..."
"Good, I’m a driver for the Black Television Network, and we need people like you," Page told Martin.
