NA-NA JOHNSON

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Just as Joey is facing certain death at the hands of David White & the Orange Face brothers, he is suddenly rescued by a mysterious, menacing figure!

 

So, David White and the Orange Face brothers - they got me - David White has his switchblade on me, and they're hustling me towards the stairwell. Just at that second, the boys room door, which is about ten feet in front of us, swings open. There appears a hulking, menacing figure clad in a long black leather SuperFly coat, twirling a big black umbrella. Like an angry cat, twitching its tail before pouncing on its prey. As he bops towards us, the footsteps resounding from his maroon patent leather shoes echoes throughout the hallway.

Oh my God, who is this? I had never seen this guy in the school before, and as he slowly approaches us, I wish I wasn't seeing him now. Jesus, is he in on this, too? He looks like the kind of guy who would take considerable delight in the massacre and disembowelment of a variety of body parts. Ebony skin highlights a face positively demonic in its features. A sadistic half scowl-half sneer twists into a diabolical expression, magnified by sinister eyes, which seem to be in communion with another galaxy - or maybe Hell. I thought I'd already witnessed the crème de la crème of cruelty - but this? This is beyond what I could even conceptualize. I struggle to repress the quivering spasms moving up my body.

"Whassup, Na? We just about to fuck this mo'fucka up, an' shit."

They grab me roughly.

He struts up to us, and just stares right into my face, for what seems like five minutes. Like he's studying my whole essence.

I am practically limp now, almost paralyzed, but I fight to put on a game face. He slides his umbrella point, which is bayonet sharp, across my mustache. The sneer breaks into a frightening grin.

"Yo, this mo'fucka be strong."

He announces this in a low, heavy voice, slow and deliberate in its manner. David White and The Orange Face brothers all peek at each other somewhat quizzically, and then back at Na-Na. It's then that I realize that they don't really know him much, if at all, which is amazing, because all black kids know each other. Furthermore, I detect a look of trepidation, almost fear in their eyes. What the fuck is going on? He peers at me even more intently now, his brow wrinkling into a mask of curiosity.

"Yo, how did it feel?"

I stare at him emptily, having absolutely no idea what he is referring to. After a few seconds of total silence among us, I ascertain that I better say something – anything.

"Um-yeah-it felt good, man! Yeah, good as a motherfucker! Mmm-hmm - it was the shit!"

The devastating grin again returns.

"Heh-heh." a kind of chuckle, I think.

"Heh. Yes, my brother."

He turns his attention to David White and the brothers, who apparently feel compelled to ingratiate him, as they start laughing.

"My man be strong, an' shit."

He repeats slowly as he points to my mustache, with the razorblade-like umbrella point again.

"Y'all peasy head mo'fuckas ain't got shit on y'all faces. Y'all niggas ain't got shit. My man gots hair on his face... that mean he be goin' down on females, an' shit."

They laugh nervously, unsure of what to do. His menacing scowl comes back, creasing his face.

"Aiight, Na."

"I hear you, Na."

"Right, right."

"Now all y'all tackheads step off from my man, 'fore I cut y'all asses up."

They're confused partly, and angry too, at the intervention. They hesitate, smiling falsely.

"Y'all niggas hear what I jes' said?"

Without another word, they all disperse down the stairwell.

My mustache again! It's my mustache, giving me that Puerto Rican appearance, which I believe had attracted Esperanza, in the first place. Now this. If I had only known that a mustache would provide all these benefits, I would have tried to cultivate it sooner. Just like my sister, Karen. She had hers for about a year now, although she was constantly trying to bleach it.

I stare at Na-Na for a minute, not sure if he is going to hold me prisoner, or stab me with his umbrella, or what.

"Aiight, Strong, wannna hear 'bout that shit later."

Then he bops off down the hall, talking or singing to himself.

 

Puzzling.


Submitted: October 17, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Joe Montaperto. All rights reserved.

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