Friday, January 27, 2012
They say that history oftentimes repeats itself. Even in cases of war and famine. As much as I hate to say it, the adage is true. We are three days away from the end of the “Separation of the States Doctrine”, a treaty that the President of the American States signed to end the Second Civil War and, from all intents and purposes, there will be a Third War; this one will surely surpass the previous two in both financial and human casualties. The people in my encampment are going stark raving mad in anticipation of another mass exodus, and for good reason; the first exodus was brutal beyond comprehension. Five million people, all of mixed race heritage, herded like sheep to slaughter to a place they’d never seen. And forced to live there! This may sound simply unbelievable, but it isn’t! It is the truth, and I’m sticking to it.
When the President of the Whites States of America announced that, in the event of the Third War, all of the Districts bi-racial citizens would be relocated, I laughed. ‘This couldn’t be happening to us again’, I thought. But when he threw in the part about it being “a tremendous benefit for all involved” I knew he wasn’t joking. How could uprooting twenty-five million people and forcing them to live on barren land be for their own good? But he said it had to be done. From what I gather, the powers that be surmised that biracial people have traitorous tendencies and that we should be forced to live separately from the masses. That way when war did erupt we wouldn’t be forced to choose sides. In a crazy insane way that made sense. What didn’t make sense was separating the mulatto males from the mulatto females; I take it they prefer we not reproduce, further complicating an already complicated situation. This part of the plan couldn’t have been given much thought because not only has it wrecked havoc on the men, and women, here, it has also planted the seeds of a possible insurrection.
The day that they legally separated my father and mother-she is white, my father, black-didn’t bother me too much because I saw it coming. For strategic matters, it made sense. Another reason that it didn’t bother me is the fact that my father had already deserted us, anyway; their action was nothing more than a bureaucratic formality. What bothered me-no, what angered me-was that they took away my Lala. She was everything to me. The plans we had to marry will now have to be postponed till war’s end. With that in mind, I wish they would get on with it. Start the war, finish it, and let the chips fall where they may. So that I can get back to my beloved. She is out there, somewhere, and I must find her.
The President of the Black States has announced that if a new treaty can’t be ratified within three days, one that officially turns Mulattoland over to the Black nation, there will be repercussions. If the war begins in seventy-two hours, which I am sure it will, then we will be corralled and taken to another resting place. (Not that one can rest in a place like this!) Hopefully, on the way to wherever they decide to take us, I will get to catch a glimpse of my sweetheart. If so, it will do my heart good. If not, I don’t know what I will do. When we-Lala and I-found out that we would be taken to different encampments, we promised each other that we would keep a journal of our time spent apart and once we are reunited we would share our entries. So, now, I must start mine. And I hope that she starts hers. Before the journey begins…..
"Divided We Fall” is not the story of the life of Jon von Rogue from whose diary it was written. It is the story of how a country tore itself apart and how it tried, and failed, to put itself back together again. It is the story of a race that refused to be denied. It is a story of pride, and war, and what one must do to survive. It is the story of faith, and how faith conquers all, even in the cruelest of times. It is the story of a man and a woman and how their love withstood the test of the time. Above all, it is a homage to Jon. And Lala. And people like them. Keepers of the flame.
L. Johnson in association with, Jon von Rogue
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: My name is Jon von Rogue. I am off to war and in order not to forget, I have decided to record this episode of my life. If this book is found could you please forward it to my fiancée, Lala Ipsonovich, her last known address is:
1222 New Shackle Island Rd.
Des Moines, Iowa, M.S.A. 68631
December 24, of the year 2025. Hello, my name is Jon von Rogue. Welcome to Mulattoland. It is Christmas Eve in the Districkt, but there will be no celebrating here. Not tonight. It has been six days since “The Ultimatumn” was given and we, my people and I, have been in transit for four of those days. The troopers, volunteer soldiers from the White People’s Army, have been more than nice to us in dragging us from our homeland. They keep telling us that things will be much better a few kilometers due left, but I think they just want to steal our land. The area we have settled in is extremely fertile, having been sown meticulously with maize and jalapenos by the Navajos before the White man slaughtered the Navajo in his quest for land. Immediately afterward, to appease his guilty conscience, The White Man washed his hands of Navajo blood by giving us the reservation, smiling all the while as we Mulattoes built our new homes on the Red Man’s old one. In the beginning we worked hard, building homes that we would not be allowed to keep. But what were we to do? Years ago, they discontinued the beatings and began abusing us mentally. No longer do they bash us across our heads with sticks. Now they play games with our minds, make us fight amongst one another, pitting the strong against the weak like pit bull dogs. Then they nurse the loser’s wounds, turning him into a snitch in the process. This way is much more painful, and effective, than the lashings. My people are being annihilated while the enemy paces, his stomach growling as he waits to feed on the carcasses of the dead. War is hell, but it is one of life’s necessities. There will be a war here soon if “The Minister” has his way. The head of the White People’s Army said that if “The Ultimatumn” is carried out, we’d have to move further West, into Idaho, maybe. The head of The White States says it’s for our own safety, to leave our homes and all our belongings, but I think it’s for their safety, too. Since Colonel Quadafy met with the Minister, the shuffle has gone from a move to a better place, to a retreat to a safer one. The White People’s Army is running and they’re taking us along as pawns. Reports state that since the movement began over a million Hispanics have been eliminated by the armies; those who managed to survive have fled south to Old Mexico. If it does come down to a fight, which it probably will, it’s sure to be catastrophic. The Minister has stated repeatedly that there will be no truce this time; there will be a winning race and a losing one. I am sure that if President Hickman refuses to change the treaty, The Minister will carry out his threat. And the Mulattoes will be the sacrificial lambs, again. At twenty-and-a half, my life seems over already.
December 26, the year 2025. We have been marching for two days now, and the elderly are weakening. The first day, we passed through the former state of Kansas, there the tired were put to rest. Scores of my people have died in the last seventy-two hours-many of them women and children. A few paces ahead of me an old man stops to rest; he is shot dead on the spot. Not a soul flinches at the sound of the gun-blast, or the sight of the nearly decapitated monsignor; his murder is only one of many. The steady marching is too much for the feeble, but the heartless warriors will not relent. The caravan moves on. Yesterday, Christmas, I was allowed to see Lala, whose beauty, even after all that has happened, has remained intact. As I watch the people fall, pitifully at my feet, I feel the hand of death tapping gently on my shoulder. To constantly face the reaper weighs heavy on a man, creating a feeling of uneasiness; this feeling of uneasiness can drive one insane. The woman walking next to me tries unsuccessfully to stop the babe from sucking at her breast; knawing on a milk-less tit only causes pain. Women her age make me think of my mother, who I haven’t seen since the first war began. The last nine months have been the longest of my life. There’s a man on my heels, in a black polyester suit, he must me the undertaker; he’s been following me for days. I am so confused. My despondency has turned into thoughts of suicide. I’m pulling my hair out at the roots.
December 27, the year 2025. Today we reached the outskirts of what was once the city of Denver. All the fences have been torn down allowing free passage to anyone who chooses to enter the demolished metropolis. Colorado and Utah were two of the hardest hit regions during the last conflict and either has yet to recover. President Hickman has repeatedly promised to help the BSA re-develop certain areas in the Western zone, but he has yet to deliver. He has also promised to hand over control of Mulattoland to the BSA, but he has balked on this deal, also. That is why The Minister gave “The Ultimatum.” The Commandant of my unit has been given orders not to enter the city, so we pitch our tents on the cold, hilly base of the Rockies, and wait. Earlier today a meeting was held for all the area WPA generals. The cursing from their encampment was so loud that I could hear it in my tent almost a full kilometer away. Vainly, my tent-mate and I tried to make out the words. Most of what I heard was garbled, but what I could decipher filled me with dread. The end is nearing. There must be a hundred thousand of us in this camp, but I feel so alone, and helpless. All the people do now is blame God for giving up on them, when, in actuality, they have given up on themselves. I am so afraid that my stomach aches. My constant pleas for a quick and easy death continue to go unanswered.
December 28, of the year 2025. At 4a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I pulled the pillow over my head to try and muffle the screams, but that seemed to only increase the noise. It had gone on like that for hours, the men laughing, the women yelling at the top of their lungs. You’d think that I’d’ve gotten used to it by now, but listening to rape is a sound one’s ears can never grow accustomed to. Most of the older women have stopped resisting and lay there, taking it. The scene is so familiar to them by now that they don’t even grimace; it’s as if they’ve come to enjoy it. The men laughing loudly, reeking of Muscatel and hand-rolled cigarettes. But the younger women still resent being de-fouled and fight the troopers, sometimes to their death. It tears at my heart to be so close to my women, close enough to smell their breaths and not be able to help them. When the conflict is over the Mulatto females will be so used up that the Mulatto males will not want them. This is exactly what the WPA wants-psychological genocide-and out of ignorance we will give it to them. Tomorrow there will be a meeting at which time, I am sure, the Mulatto men will be called to arms. I have gotten on my knees and prayed every day since the marching began, but the Almighty seems not to be listening. (I think he’s sleeping on the job.) Last night, out of desperation, I made a pact with the devil. It goes like this: If I’m delivered safely from this hell, Satan can have me to do as he will. I must find water quickly, I think my soul’s on fire.
December 29, the year 2025. The sun had barely risen, but most of the people in the camp were already up, shifting about restlessly. They, like I, had been unable to sleep, the thought of war hanging over us like lampshades. Across the way, a gang of men dig a permanent home for the mountain of corpses that have begun to draw flies at the rear of the encampment. When the dig is complete a bulldozer will drag the pile to the pit’s edge, shove them in, then cover them with soil. What a horrible resting place, but the stench was affecting us all; the bodies had to be disposed of, or disease would’ve taken over. Regardless of how deep the bodies are buried, the scent of rotting flesh will still permeate the horizon, leaving a tinge in one’s nostril that will remain there permanently. Later today there will be a meeting in the center of the camp; all able-bodied Mulatto men have been ordered to attend. I am positive that we will be given weapons and directions on how to use them. The thought of being forced to kill takes my breath away.
Shortly after breakfast they gave us our weapons, and showed us how to use them. When the officer handed me the M-16, my hands shook so badly that I could barely hold it, much less shoot it. How do they expect us to fight, anyway? We have been without solid food for over three days; they feed us borscht but only after all the beets are gone. Cold purple soup in rusty cans with no utensils. In the afternoon the ladies of the camp scoured the mountainside, in search of wild mushrooms, berries, or anything else they could find to ward off the hunger. Last night they separated the men from the women. A few men grew angry and protested; they were taken away in shackles. What they are doing, depriving us of our sex, will only lead to madness, then they won’t have to kill us-we’ll kill ourselves. That’s what they tried to do to my father’s people before the First War. It didn’t work on them, but it will on us. We are all too scared to defend ourselves. At dusk I came upon a group of men who talked of escape; it was a hair-brain scheme, but one could help but listen. For over an hour they talked of battle and women and the consequences of capture. The thought of being caught, and hung, frightened me, but not as much as the thought of being free. All my life I have lived in captivity; I do not know freedom. The WPA seized Mulattoland when I was two, everything that happened to me before that time is beyond my realm of comprehension. I cannot recall the face of my mother, or my father. I do remember what my sister-who is being held somewhere in the occupied territories-looked like. If I muster the courage to leave, I will find her. I have to escape; it is my only choice. I know that if I run, and they catch me, I will certainly be put to death, but I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.......
December 30, of the year 2025. Just before dawn my comrades, with whom I had talked of escaping, arrived at my tent, but fear had a grip on me and would not let me go. So, I stayed. Only time will tell if I made the right decision. The reason I stayed was not only due to fear, but also because of my Lala. I am sure that if I leave her in this hell-pit I would not be able to live with myself. I love her so much that my life would not be worth living without her. I have not seen her since Christmas, but her face is still fresh in my mind. One day we will be together, of that I am sure. But for now I must concentrate on staying alive. The men in my tent have gone stark-raving mad and are doing things among themselves that they’d normally do with the womenfolk. But not to worry; the pleasure they seek will eventually be the cause of their demise. It’s getting to the point where I can’t stand the sight of them. Always touching, feeling on one another. It is disgusting-much more than can be imagined. All day long my head spun with thoughts of my sister, Helena. By now, she must be married and with children. If I knew her whereabouts I would attempt to locate her, but at this time the idea seems impossible. In a few hours there will be a headcount and I am sure that the escapees will be found out. Something tells me that praying for them is useless, but I do it, anyway. I just hope there is a great distance between them and us when the chase begins. Lord have mercy on their souls.
December 31, of the year 2025. At sunrise the troops came ambling through my unit, rousing everyone in sight. It didn’t take them long to discover the missing. In their anger, several officers committed acts of unspeakable violence. After the beatings, those among us who were able were drug to their feet and forced to join the hunt. All day long we combed the woods surrounding our encampment, going great distances into the firs, with nothing to go on but the scent of the running men. The hounds they used for tracking were old and starved, good for nothing but the boneyard. Howling like banshees, they ran aimlessly through the forest, stopping only for an occasional gulp of water or morsel of food. After searching for hours, we were allowed a short respite. The soldiers, ravenous from the hunt, had veal shank and beans, the dogs ate their scraps, and thirty-five starving Mulatto men shared a half tankard of water. Within seconds, the canteen was empty causing several fights to break out over the few droplets that could be drained from jug's tinny bottom. Instead of breaking up the ensuing brawl, the troopers allowed it to continue, laughing heartily as the thirsty Mulatto men bashed each other senseless. When the ridiculousness of it all finally dawned on the soldiers, they ceased the fighting and resumed the search for our fleeing comrades. If we’d have found the deserters, the soldiers would’ve forced us to pick the tree, hold the rope, and when the jerking stopped, cut them down. I’m sure we would’ve had to bury them as well. But the escapees were smart; they left nothing for us to follow. Prior to their departure, the men had horded great amounts of pepper from the pantry that they put in spots along their route. When the half-dead mongrels’ snouts hit the piles of pepper they went into sneezing convulsions, forcing us back to camp much earlier than the officers had planned. They wanted us to move until the men were found, but the dogs couldn’t go another inch; the stronger Mulattoes in the group were eventually forced to carry the mangy fleabags. Thinking back, I wished I’d run, too. With nightfall to cloak them the runners will cover miles. We didn’t find them today and tomorrow will be too late. It’s New Year’s Eve and the Ultimatum is only a few hours away. Before I fall asleep I better load my weapon-they’ll be coming for us soon to resume the hunt.
New Years Day, 2026. At exactly 3:35a.m., I was yanked from my bed, stark naked, and ordered to gather my things. Immediately! The BPA had launched a massive assault on New York City shortly after midnight and all the troops in my camp were needed on the battle lines. By noontime the camp was deserted except for the few-including myself-that were left behind to clean up the mess. It took us all day to do it, but by dark we’d removed fifty piles of dog manure which we carried down the mountainside and dumped into the creek that ran along its’ base. All that is left of the camp is our tents and the truck we will use to depart. At first light we will leave for the front. I never thought it would come to this. Well, honestly I did, but I hoped against hope that it wouldn’t. It was clear from the start though, that “The Minister” would not back down; he couldn’t even if he wanted to. For weeks he’d boasted about what he’d do if the land wasn’t ceded. His people-over a hundred million strong-believed in him wholeheartedly; many of them would die for "The Minister". If he'd folded, it would’ve been disastrous for the Black race. But he didn’t! So, at a minute after midnight, the first day of the year 2026, a massive artillery strike rained down on New York City. Sixteen million New Yorkers are left homeless, wandering the streets with no place to go. And for what-a strip of land half the size of the former state of Rhode Island?.......
January 2 of the year 2026. When I got up it was raining, and it’s still raining, sixteen hours later. But that didn’t stop us from leaving camp, traveling through the canyons of the Rockies in torrential rains. The band of hooligans that has been assigned to guard us is acting in quite a haphazard manner. It is obvious that they are afraid. Very afraid! They give orders, then seconds later, rescind them. The oldest soldier can’t be over twenty-one; their youth and inexperience is definitely working against them. Through downpours they drove us, over muddy, boulder-filled paths that were just wide enough for our ten-wheel dump truck to pass. The only thing you could hear in the International Harvester Diesel 5000’s covered bed was the barrels of our rifles tapping together; we were too petrified to speak. The farther we traveled, the crazier the driver got, taking risks that could’ve meant death for us all. With only inches separating the truck from the cliff’s edge, the fool floor-boarded the smoke-spewing contraption. Barreling down the cliff-side, I squinted and smiled; I knew it was my time to go. The guy behind the wheel never failed to amaze me; that cat may have been young, but he was a helluva driver. Somehow, he kept that rolling pile of shit upright, bringing us through to Old Saint Louis like a champ. Unfortunately, from the look of the place, I can’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad one. The city has decayed to nothing, leaving us no option but to sleep outside. Before bedding down we looked for someone to ask for directions-anyone!-but there was no one to be found. The town appears deserted; the streetlights are out, the buildings boarded up. At dusk we pitched our tents in what was once the city’s financial district, right on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. Glancing downriver, the moonlight blazing off the shifting current, the remnants of the Gateway Arch glisten, eerily. All that is left of the once-gleaming arc are a few hunks of metal sticking up on each side of the riverbank. War has left nothing in its wake.
January 3, of the year 2026. Today we broke from the madness and slept; it wasn’t out of gratitude that we were allowed to sleep but out of necessity. I found out later that The Commandant had ceased all forward movement. The enemy had us boxed in! It seemed odd to me that there was no quarrel from the soldiers. 'What the hell's going on", I thought. With lunchtime fast approaching, we still hadn't been called into formation! Starving, and anxious, one of our men decided to find out what the hold up was. When he came back and told us that the whole squadron was sprawled in the mud outside their tents, we laughed 'til our stomachs ached. Evidently, a few of the troopers had snuck out last evening and pillaged one of the abandoned breweries that dotted Old Saint Louis. I peeped outside and there were empty tin beer kegs all over the place. So, today we rested. It wasn’t one of those good sleeps, though-the kind where you snore loud and slobber runs from the corners of your mouth. No, it was one of those easy sleeps; my eyes were closed but my mind was racing. I wanted to blackout-I needed to blackout-but I was too afraid. When the soldiers finally did awaken, one of them came to our tent and told us that we’d been given orders to stay put. He wouldn’t tell us why, but I knew the reason. While the troopers were out stealing last eve, I was busy prowling through their things. My hands fumbling, I clamped the headphones of the Ipod that I’d found against my ears and tuned in to CNN. Within seconds, my hunch was confirmed: The BPA has been sighted only a few hundred kilometers east of the former state of Missouri; they're less than a hundred miles from our encampment and swiftly approaching.....
January 6, of the year 2026. Dear diary, I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to write, but the constant moving is getting to me. We’ve been on the run for the last forty-eight hours; the BPA is on us like flies on shit! We were given an hour and a half to evacuate Old Saint Louis yesterday, fleeing with only the clothes on our backs-someone is sure to enjoy all the meat rations left in our haste. A soldier doing headcount last night happened upon a pair of men committing an unnatural act; they were drug from their bunks and taken to the officer’s quarters. When we awoke, the soldiers came to our tents and chose a team of men and carried them away. After a breakfast of curds and oats, we were led to a circular clearing where a group of men awaited our arrival. The uniformed men stood in formation at the base of a huge tree, a toothy grin spread across their faces; it was obvious that they were up to something. On cue, the men parted, revealing the object of their delight. When I saw the two men tied to the oak’s trunk, I nearly fainted. The two lovers who were about to be put to death were stronger-and prouder-than most men, who die pleading for their lives. With smiles on their faces, they declined the blindfolds that the executioner offered them. We watched as the troopers paced backward a few feet, stopped, then emptied their rifles into the bodies of the Mulatto lovers. Valiantly, the men accepted their fate; they knew the consequence of their actions long before they committed the act. It was as if they wanted to be caught and killed. They died the martyr’s death, but regardless of how you die, you’re still dead.
January 7, of the year 2026. This has been one of the worst days yet. Before breakfast, we were yanked from our beds and forced to dig ditches. With the killing tree at our backs, we scooped the earth and pitched it, creating mountains of soil in the process. It was grueling work, our only break being a ten-minute period at midday. The soldiers brought us peanut butter, but most of us refused it. A handful of men have chosen to fast, preferring death by starvation to death by the gun; some of them will perish, but most will surrender to hunger’s awesome pangs. I tried to think happy thoughts to make the toil easier, but it was useless. Thinking back, I find it hard to discern what bothered me the most: my aching back, or the two dead gays that were staring at me from behind. The oak was only a stone’s throw from our work-site; the smell seemed even closer. When the sun rose to its peak, the heat, in combination with the rotting flesh, nearly made me puke. All day long their beady, bulging eyes were fixed on us; I wished they’d taken the masks. The dead men staring at us was enough to drive us bananas, but there were no complaints; we just kept shoveling, oblivious to the death stares only a few feet away. The soldiers pushed us to our limits as we rushed to dig holes that would never be used; we already had orders to head southward at dawn. When we finally were allowed to stop digging, several men, overcome with exhaustion, fell to the ground. Through my tent flap, I can see that they are still there, lying face down in the mud, just like we left them. If they are lucky, they will die there.
January 8, of the year 2026. The atrocities the WPA soldiers have begun committing against the Mulatto men are unspeakable. Early this morning one of my comrades, delirious from hunger, decided to break into the canteen truck. What a mistake! The troopers who caught him showed no mercy. Like a whirlwind, the ruffians converged on our tents, rousing us from our slumber to witness the spectacle. With the sun peeping over the horizon, the dew still thick on the grass, we stood there, in the cold, shivering. We wanted to go back to bed, but the hooligans wouldn’t have it-they were determined to teach us a lesson. “This will never happen again,” one soldier boasted as they tied the man to the bumper of the jeep. I am positive that whatever crime the culprit commited, it won’t be repeated; there is something about watching a man being tortured that deters others from doing whatever the tortured man did. At speeds that well exceeded 60mph, they drove through the camp, the squirming thief dangling from the jeep’s rear end. Staring on in horror, we watched as the man’s body was slowly ripped apart. When the vehicle finally skidded to a stop-over thirty minutes later-all that was left on the still-tied rope was a chunk of bloody meat fat. The remainder of the lad-chunks of guts, brain, and hair-was spread in circles in the dirt. My religious teachings had left me with a mentality of forgiveness, but the war, and the soldiers who participate in it, have changed all that. All things presented to me now are suspect, the information bearer an object of scrutiny. In the past, I questioned nothing; now I question everything. I even question God, and his warped sense of justice. Who, with any inkling of right and wrong, would subject a people to what he has subjected us to? We didn’t ask to be born this way! It is a mistake our parents made-a decision made without much thought. The world is falling apart underneath my feet. My hands are slipping, I’m losing my grip. All my beliefs have eroded. At twenty, I am not the man I used to be. In the past, I considered suicide to be the most sinful act of all.... But not anymore.
January 9 of the year 2026. This has been a most memorable day. We resumed our travels earlier than usual -leaving before first light-trekking erratically through terrain that had long been closed to humans. The leader of our squadron seemed not to know his way, taking us on a route that covered over three hundred circuitous miles. The other troopers tried to tell him that he was driving in circles, but he insisted they were wrong. But they weren't! We were definitely going in the circles. In an hour's time I saw the same farmhouse five times. When we started our journey it was sprinkling, but in the afternoon it stopped, and the sun glistened. Looking out the back of the truck, I counted the small cauldrons that the yellow rain and the sun’s rays had combined to create; the nuclear fallout that lingers in the atmosphere will remain there forever. It's good that we were not walking because the path that we were traveling along the mudflats was dotted with puddles of bubbling goo that could melt the best leather boot and the foot inside it. Several times we were forced to stop the caravan due to the noxious gasses that seeped from the pits alongside the roadway causing us to cover our faces with our shirttails lest we be rendered unconscious. A feeling of desperation was starting to creep over me, when, out of nowhere, a miracle happened. Halfway through the former city of Chicago, or what is left of it, I ran into an old family friend. After a bit of small talk, he gave me the news: my father has cancer of the prostate. His condition has been stable so far, but that could change at any time. He also informed me of my sister’s whereabouts. I will write Helena and tell her of my intention to visit her; hopefully, we’ll strike an accord. She is said to have married a very rich man, and sired three children, but I find that hard to fathom, her being that old. Or maybe I’m just trying to fool myself into believing that it hasn’t been that long since last I saw her. But it has.... Ain’t it funny how time slips away?....
January 10, of the year 2026. Over breakfast, I got to read a newspaper from my homeland. It was quite old-six days old I think-but it was better than nothing. I found it very refreshing, and disturbing, to read of my country and what has transpired there. What startled me was the number of casualties! The death count was much higher than I predicted; this war is proving to be far more deadly than the last. Oddly, there are not as many bombings. There can be only one explanation for this: they’re using nerve gas this time. If my hunch is correct, they may as well kill us all ‘cause there will be nothing left for the survivors. After supper, the soldiers took the precautionary step of passing out gas masks for us to use in case of an emergency, but most of us put them on as soon as they gave them to us. Until I am positive that the threat has subsided, the ventilator will stay clamped to my face. I’d rather be scared and alive than brave and dead. Someone was supposed to bring supplies today, but somehow they forgot us. Our food supply has dwindled to nothing, so a few of us snuck into the forest to try and trap some wild game. During our foray, a Mulatto man fell into one of the toxic mud puddles that blanketed the field where we were trapping. Immediately, the acid went to work on him. The sound he made as the chemicals ate the meat from his bones is one that I will never forget. Upon our return to camp, I wrote a letter to Helena and gave it to one of the soldiers. He promised that he would mail it for me then smiled and told me that it would cost me-what I do not know? He said he’d tell me later, but I think I know already. (From the looks of him I presume he’s homosexual). It’ll be great to hear from Helena, but I’ll understand if she doesn’t respond. Before the war began she went to great lengths to separate herself from us; if I see her now it may do more harm than good. When we were together we were never really a family, anyway, not a family like everyone else’s. Daddy was always drunk and Mama was always naked. And when they weren’t drunk and naked, they were screaming and shouting. Helena is too young to remember our parents’ ridiculous behavior, but I’m not. My mind is filled with memories that I wish I could forget......
January 11, of the year 2026. Night after night I go through this. I wake up from my nightmare and stumble out of my tent. Tonight it’s nearly 2am but one could hardly tell it-the sky is completely illuminated. The orange, yellow, and red streaks that blaze from the rockets firing overhead remind me of Independence Day, and how we used to celebrate back in the old days. The Fourth of July was one of America’s biggest holidays, but when the last conflict ended, the holiday and the celebrations that surrounded it were banned by law. When the armistice was signed each district chose a day to celebrate their independence and on that day a festival is held. When I was a kid we had pool parties, cookouts, and fireworks, but now you can’t pop firecrackers because of the overabundance of nuclear waste in the lower atmospheres. War has changed our lives in so many ways. Regardless of how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking of my father. His friend told me that his health was deteriorating, and that, he thought, it would be best that I try to visit him as soon as possible. Even though my dad spent most of his time inebriated, he was still a good father to Helena and I. Time after time he’d return from his sojourns, his arms laden with gifts for “his babies”; that’s what he used to call us. No matter how old we got we were still “his babies”. We loved him unconditionally, and I think he knew that. The relationship between him and my mother was a totally different one altogether. My parents fought constantly, my mother coming out the loser most of the time. That woman took some hellacious beatings from that man, but not as many as she deserved. Mama was always pulling stunts, doing things to my dad that she knew she’d live to regret; her visits to the emergency room of the local hospital were so frequent that the nurses there knew her by name. The local police threatened her several times that if she called them on my dad, again, and refused to press charges, they’d take her to jail instead. I look back on the times when our neighbors would peep in the window and snicker as they watched my parents go at it while Helena and I ran around the house bawling and it infuriates me. How anyone could stand back and watch two people fight the way they did without, at least, trying to break it up is a mystery to me. But I can’t blame them. The blame is on my parents for being the assholes that they were. Remarkably, after a few hours of knockdown, drag-out fisticuffs, they’d go into their bedroom and lock the door. When they came out the next morning they’d be all smiles, but it wouldn’t last. A day or two later, and they’d be at it again. She loved him, and he loved her, but there are times in a marriage when love is not enough. At the beginning of the First War-when the races were forced apart by government order-my father was given an out. And it was an out he gladly took! For a long time I despised him for that. (Why didn’t he fight to stay with us?) It angered me to no end that my schoolmates and their parents weren’t separated, and that because we were mixed, they yanked us apart. Like the wishbone of a chicken. More than anything, I wanted us to be together. But those are the dreams of a child. I’m a man now and I realize that we can’t always get what we want….
January 12, of the year 2026. Tonight we are camping in a hollow that must be a thousand feet below sea level. The ground down here is damp and musky, the trees barren and wasted. On our way here, we passed through a rail yard; in the distance I can hear the train whistles blow. The sound is an eerie one, a welcome divergence from the incessant bombings. I must hurry and finish before it lulls me to sleep; it is so peaceful here. For some reason, I feel safe deep beneath the earth. The sky above me is pitch black, the full moon surrounded by twinkly, gold stars. There are no hoot owls hooting or crickets cricking here. The only presence is unadulterated calm-like a funeral home before a wake. It is almost too quiet. If I had my way, we’d stay here forever, but I know we won’t. The officers who are instructing us are idiots. They have blinders on which prevents them from knowing a good thing when they see one. My assumption is thus: If we lay low, and let the BA tire itself out, then we might have a chance. But we can’t do that because the stupid commandants keep radioing our position, and the BA engineers keep intercepting the signal. I wonder how long it will take the WPA generals to realize that the BA is on to their secret code and stop sending us messages. We need to keep our whereabouts unknown-without the element of surprise we’re dead. The enemy is so close to us now that I can smell him. The only thing that’s saving us is the high underbrush that blankets the area. I must pray hard before I fall asleep; one never knows what may occur in the wee hours of the night. I am not ready to die, but if we are attacked and defeated, I’d prefer death to being a prisoner of men who show no mercy.
January 14 of the year 2026. I’m trying my best to write, but my hands won’t stop shaking. On top of that, my stomach is growling so loud that it’s breaking my concentration. I haven’t eaten solid food in four days, or more, and I’m getting weak. It’s not that I haven’t eaten because I not hungry-I’m starving, actually. A few of my comrades tried to get me to eat this morning and I turned them away. I know they were only trying to help, but I’ve been so damn nervous-with the bombings and all-that everything I eat comes back up. So, I quit trying. I take a little water when I can find some clean enough to drink, but that’s about it. Anything other than that and my belly cramps to holy hell. In the month that we’ve been on the run I’ve lost almost thirty-five pounds; I look like I’ve been shooting heroin. The bombs are not the only thing that’s stopping me from eating. We’ve been in the same spot for a week and it’s driving me up the wall. We have never stayed in one place this long and the soldiers are getting lazy. They just lay around all day doing nothing. They’ve stopped guarding us altogether; if we wanted to run we could. But we won’t because we’re too fuckin’ scared. The men in my unit just sit around waiting for someone to ride in on a white horse and save them, but that shit ain’t happening. The only person who can save us, is us.
January 15 of the year 2026. Thank God, we’ve moved! After six days, I had had enough. If we’d have stayed there another night, I would’ve had to make a break for it. What have I got to lose? I’m a prisoner in a war I shouldn’t be a part of in the first place. How can a Mulatto be forced to fight against either side when he is half of both. That’s so hypocritical. The sanctimonious white bastards stick us on the front line to be killed by the blacks who despise us even more than they do. We’re caught in the middle of a war that can’t be won. If the whites win, we’ll be imprisoned for the rest of our lives. If the blacks win, we’ll all be killed. So we’re forced to pick between the worst of two evils. We can either be taunted for the remainder of our days, or be burned alive at the stake. What a fuckin’ pair of choices, aye? I talked to some of the men last night about an overthrow, but they’re all too damn chicken. I tried to explain to them that there are three times as many Mulatto men as there are whites, and with the soldiers fighting amongst themselves, it would be a piece of cake to overtake them. I did all I could to try and convince them-I begged with tears in my eyes-but they weren’t budging. They are all afraid of being hung. But why should they care? We will all be killed anyway. So, why prolong the misery? Fuck ‘em! As soon as I see a break, I’m running…..
January 16 of the year 2026. Praise Allah, I’m still alive. Early this morning, a group of soldiers rushed into our tent and started pulling men out of their bunks. Before the men could mount a protest, they were taken outside, forced to kneel on the ground, and then shot in the back of the head. Time after time, they came back and got more. They were shooting men just for the hell of it and laughing about it. It was as if they were using Mulatto men as target practice. They must’ve shot ten men before they decided to take a break. It was horrible. Several men cried as they were being drug outside, but most of ‘em took it calmly. After watching the first ones fall, they had accepted their fate. But a few of ‘em just could not take it; one man was hollering for his mama when they put the pistol to his head. After the gun-blast, the “help me, mama” screams, abruptly stopped. That scared one man so bad that he pee-ed on himself. The funny thing about the men who did the shooting was they only shot the men who begged. Those of us who remained calm were spared. It was as if they went through killing all the weaklings; the strong had survived. When they stopped at the front of my bed and pointed the gun at my face, they expected me to plead for my life. But I didn’t. Why should I? They’re ready to kill and I’m ready to die. I ain’t begging for my life. There is no glory in dying pitifully.
January 17 of the year 2026. Dear diary, I am so depressed. I looked in the mirror today, for the first time in weeks, and God do I look bad! The last couple of months have aged me a hundred years and it shows. The few teeth that I have left are either dingy gray, or rotting, and my gums are red and swollen and they bleed constantly. And I’m going bald on top! All the running has sucked the life out of me. I feel like an old man waiting to die. And why not? I have nothing to live for. I don’t have a wife and kids to go back to after the war like the rest of the men in my unit. It breaks my heart when they pass around pictures of their families. I have no one to look forward to seeing-it is just me, and me alone. Nobody cares what happens to me. I could fall over dead right now and they would have to bury me in a pauper’s grave because no one will come forward to claim my measly carcass. I’ll be shoveled in the ground next to the other sorry sons-of-bitches on “Boot Hill”. I won’t even have a goddamn headstone! I think if I had a pistol, I’d put it to my head. Why not, who’s gonna miss me? Certainly, not my sister! I wrote her five weeks ago and she hasn’t written me back yet. At least she could drop me a line and tell me to go to hell. Or something! At first, I thought it might be a problem with the mail delivery, but everybody else gets their mail on time. Even with all the traveling, the mailman has always found us. It tears me apart watching my comrades open letters from their families while I have nothing. It’s murder to be so alone. I wish they’d just drop a shell on our camp and kills us all. Mass slaughter! Then it would be all over and I could get a decent night’s sleep. What I really need is to get some rest, but I can’t. The only thing my mind will let me do is worry. If I’m going to escape, I’d better do it soon; before I go bananas. I’d hate to be out in some unknown place stumbling around like an Alzheimer’s patient, but that’s what it’s coming down to. Each day I lose a little more control of my senses. I’m close to the edge and getting closer. If I do go over, and do something stupid, the troopers will shoot me dead. So, I better try and stay sane as long as I can. But I know it’s just a matter of time. Then it’ll be all over. War is nothing but a death sentence for the living.
January 18 of the year 2026. This has to stop! I am so fuckin’ sick of being awakened in the middle of the night. We just got back inside after being pulled out into the cold, again. For the seven hundredth time! That’s why I can’t sleep. Every time I try to doze off, they snatch us up for a strip search. Every four hours, or so, they do it. They think they’re going to catch someone doing something unnatural. That way they can feed their blood-lust. They may catch one of the others, but they’ll never catch me; I ain’t in to that shit. Anyway, I’m so freakin’ scared that I couldn’t get a hard-on even if I wanted it to. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to perform sexually again. Fear is gripping me so tight that it has made me impotent. Being away from females has warped my mind. That, and watching these god-awful perverts. That makes the situation three times worse. I gotta get a woman, soon. Just to let me know that I’m still a man. That is the baddest part; the humiliation of wondering who you are. And the soldiers know it. They get off on degrading us; they do it every chance they get. The guy who bunks next to me got hit in the head with a rifle butt during lunch. They split the man’s skull wide open for complaining about the food. Sadistic fucks. But there’s nothing I can do about the soldiers, or the way they treat us....... Moving right along. This morning, another Mulatto man died. He broke out with fever last night and never woke up. What a grand way to die! I think there’s something going around because we all look sick. One man has lost almost a hundred pounds! It would be nice if they found that we’d contracted some fatal disease. Then they would have to kill us. All of us! Most of us would welcome that with open arms. It would save us from having to do it ourselves. Our problem is: We want to go to heaven, but we don't want to die.
January 19 of the year 2026. Well, diary, this’ll be the last time you hear from me; tomorrow, I’ll be among the dearly departed. I gotta do it! There’s no way I’m going to continue living like this. Everybody around me is coughing, or throwing up blood. One guy got so choked up on his own blood that he fell flat on his face. The poor sap busted his lip; it took three stitches to close the gash. And it ain’t all the way closed; the guy’s walking around the place dripping blood everywhere. What if he has AIDS? What if we have it, too? That would be a bitch. They wouldn’t take us out of our misery which would be the humane thing to do. No, the fuckers would poke fun at us; jab us with sticks and shit like that. On top of seeing death at every turn, the sun never shines. Since the first blast New Year’s Eve, the sun hasn’t been out. They nearly killed the sun during the last war-the nuclear warheads destroyed the lower stratosphere-but somehow it withstood the assault. But not this time-this time I think they really did it. That’s the part that hurts me the most-no sunshine; not being able to feel its’ warmth against my jaundiced skin. The lingering grey skies have done horrible things to everyone. If I were blind I don’t think the darkness would bother me as much; blind people are used to being in the dark. President Hickman should’ve given in; the point he was trying to prove had already been proven. All he had to do was give “THE MINISTER” a small parcel of the land-appease him a bit. At least until he could figure out a better strategy. But his pride wouldn’t let him do it, and look what’s happened. One stupid mistake and we all suffer. All the people in the Eastern cities are either dead, or stumbling around in tattered wraps belching out the pox, my people are dead or interned in some dreaded prison camp, and the Blacks are stealing the riches-jewelry, money, whatever they can loot-from both sides! They run in packs like wolves, looking for bodies, taking whatever they can find- oftentimes they fight amongst themselves in the process. Goddamn scavengers! (I hate the black blood in me.) The soldiers picked off ten of ‘em last night. They didn’t even bury ‘em; they just left ‘em laying in a pile beside the truck. That’s why everyone’s sick; goddamn dead bodies decaying all over the place. Everywhere you walk, you step over a corpse. They could at least dig a pit and throw the damn things in it. It’s ridiculous. Who would want to carry on like this?
January 20 of the year 2026. Well diary, I’m still here. I couldn't bring myself to do it; I had it all planned out, too. I would sneak into the officer’s tent, steal a pistol, put it to my head, and pull the trigger. It would’ve been over in a matter of seconds. I was going to do it next to their uniforms and give ‘em a good mess to clean up. But I chickened out. The thought of something going wrong-me botching the job-and ending up a vegetable in some faraway labor hostel was like going from bad to worse. At least if I’m alive, I can do something to try and better my circumstances. The man who commits suicide ends his second chances. I give up on God a lot, especially when I’m angry, but I do believe in Him. I believe that the deity is just and true and that whatever comes of a man is primarily self-inflicted. I don’t have to stay a prisoner. I don’t have to be held by another for any reason. Unless, I allow it! We are all victims of circumstance, be they good or bad. But what we do to rectify the situation is the measure of our character. If I stay with the other Mulattoes, I will die for sure. But if I’m too scared to try and make it on my own, I deserve my fate. Three more men perished in their sleep-the death count is rising-and they haven’t told us why. Everyone here is paranoid and it’s starting to work on our nerves. One guy threatened another guy over breakfast and it drug on all day long. They went back and forth for hours ‘til one of the soldiers finally made them stop; it was wearing everybody down. Neither one of them was going to bust a grape, but they put on a good show. I wish they’d’ve gotten it on, though; that would’ve broken the monotony some. Tomorrow, we're heading for Old Orleans. It’ll be good to go into a city, even if all the people are gone. There may be a few souls scattered about, but hopefully we won’t run into them. Chances are, if we do see humans, we’ll have to execute them. They’re eaten up with cancerous, nuclear waste, anyway. They’ll probably welcome the Reaper.
January 21 of the year 2026. At ten past eight this morning, we arrived in Old Orleans. And I was so surprised! Instead of finding a city in ruins, we found a city struggling to get back on its feet. The downtown area of the once-grand metropolis actually had people milling about. Most of them were wearing respirators, but other than that, everything seemed fine. A few of the department stores had gone as far as removing the boards from their windows. Passing through the retail district, we made our way to the riverfront, where teams of Coast Guardsmen were busy cleaning fragments from Lake Pontchartrain. It was a meticulous job-the water was thick with silt and debris-but somebody had to do it. The leader of the Guardsmen was very cordial in trying to enlist our help, but we’d been hiking since three o’clock this morning, and our strengths just weren’t there. Although, we weren’t able to assist them, they still allowed us to partake of their rations. (This I found quite odd!) Once our bellies were full, we were off again. When we approached the old French Quarter, I thought my comrades were going to shit gold bricks. The Quarter, at one time, had the biggest concentration of Mulattoes in the States. Once there, it didn’t take us long to realize that there were women about. The sweet smell of perfume hung over the dilapidated row houses like a fishnet; through an open window we heard the dizzying buzz of an accordion being played. We had walked several blocks when we came upon a slew of unkempt women. They were dressed in odd colored dresses and most were clutching handbags or chewing gum. Before we could introduce ourselves, a big, busty broad in a black Harley jacket, reeking of men and sperm, stepped forward. It was obvious to us all, that she didn’t care much for dancing; she liked her fun lying down. She was loud and boisterous and she spat a great deal, but that did little to distract us; our eyes were glued to her see-through skirt. The woman was a peddler and flesh was her trade. She had what we wanted, and she knew it, too. Getting right to the point, she asked us what our preferences were. We told her we had neither preferences, nor money, but she took us, anyway. Leading us by the hand, the women-there must’ve been a hundred of ‘em-laughed and joked and cursed like sailors through the streets of the French Quarter. The girl I chose, Cindy, looked to be around seventeen, if that. The floral print dress she wore clung so tightly to her bony, paper-sack brown frame that one could count her ribs through it. Her face was pretty as a speckled pup’s and her hands were soft as pigeon feathers. As we strolled down the boulevard, I pulled her close and sniffed of her hair, which was clean and smelled of fresh apples. When we finally got to the abandoned warehouse, her nimble fingers proceeded to remove my garments. Within seconds, every soul in the room was stark naked. I hadn’t been with a woman in twenty-six months. The rest is history.....
January 22 of the year 2026. Oh God, diary, life is so damn good! We haven’t left this building in two days; in that time, I’ve had sex forty-eight times. Once every hour, on the hour. Cindy does things to me I that I’d rather keep secret; all I can tell you is that it feels SOOOO good! And I like it. She has to be the best I’ve ever had. But I’d probably say that about any woman after two years without. She’s so young and fresh. Not like these kill-dick bitches the other men have. If some of these whores were horses, they’d be glue already. But the men seem to be happy and that’s all that matters. One of the shadier looking women produced a huge sack of reefer the first night were here; since that time all we’ve done is smoke pot and screw. The commanding officer is bedded down with two of the prettiest hookers in Orleans and he ain’t thinking about leaving. If it was up to me, we’d stay here forever. The women are so willing that it makes you leery. I constantly ask myself: What the hell are they up to? We have no money, or expensive personal belongings; everything we own, we have on. Or in our pants. But I’m sure that our pockets have been picked of their contents by now. It don’t bother me; I’ve already gotten what I wanted. And some. I can’t believe that four days ago, I was ready to blow my fuckin’ brains out. Life sure has a strange way of changing on you-just when you need it the most. I gotta go, Cindy’s calling, and she’s giving me the look. Thank you, Jesus.
January 23 of the year 2026. Well diary, I have some bad news: tomorrow we’re headed to the front. This afternoon, the commander informed us that we’d been radioed instructions to move out. He said that we were to head for Washington, D.C. as soon as possible. A top secret meeting is being held at the White House and the President wants extra security in place to protect the foreign dignitaries who will be in attendance. A problem has arisen which could alter the fate of mankind if it is not handled within the next seventy-two hours. It seems that “THE MINISTER” has been conferring with several powers in the Middle East and that they have insured him of their full support. He, and his Arab henchmen, have suggested that if the war does not end soon, they will take steps to quicken its’ outcome. Two of the ministers who are supporting the BA, are known to have access to nuclear weapons; a few more are thought to have them, also. President Hickman needs this forum to try and seduce the other NATO countries to follow him off the bridge, but most of them are too smart to jump. At the conference in Paris last spring, a handful of European heads of state pleaded with the old couth to give up Mulattoland. They realize that “The Minister” has most of the world’s people of color-by far, a majority of the earth’s population-under his spell. He has more supporters in one African country than there are people in all the NATO countries combined. Not to mention the Chinese. The Emperor of China can’t wait to get his hands on white America’s precious color t.v.’s. A consortium of Japanese investors have initiated a deal to buy the city of Detroit, and its’ citizenry, as soon as the BA takes possession of it. They want to buy the rights to all convicted criminals in Eastern Michigan and put them to work in their “Automobile Auschwitz”. The Minister plans to make extensive changes nationwide if he wins the war. He has vowed to divide the White States into sections and sell the parcels to the highest bidders; sealed bids have already been received for the areas surrounding New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Over twenty millions Whites will soon find themselves under the thumb of "The Minister" and his henchmen! I can't wait to see how this will turn out.......
January 24 of the year 2026. Dear diary, we’ve had nothing but trouble since we left Old Orleans. Three of our trucks mysteriously broke down half way through the former state of Louisiana; we suspect the whores of sabotage. I knew they were getting something for their wares, I just didn’t know what. What we did find out was that there was a foreign substance in the gas lines of all three vehicles; they must have snuck out in the night and put something in the truck’s gas tanks. The commander thinks they were working with the BPÅ. If they were, it won’t be long before we’re captured-the commander told the hookers everything! Where we were going, what we were going there for, and what we are going to do when we get there. Now, it’s just a matter of waiting to see where they’re going to hit us. Every single one of us is either jumpy from paranoia, or exhausted from pleasure; when they do find us, it’ll be like shooting ducks in a bucket. Today we drove over a thousand miles with men stacked to the roof. (What is left of our caravan will barely hold us!) Tonight, we’re hid out in the Ozarks-we ditched the three disabled trucks in Little Rock-and it’s dark as Hell up here. They won’t let us burn candles for fear that it will reveal our whereabouts. It’s freezing cold here and we ate all our rations with the women. At first light, a crew of men will go into the woods and gather what they can so that we will have food to eat; it is not a sure bet that they will make it back alive. A few of the Mulatto men are homesick for Orleans, but I think it’s the whores they really miss. They talked of going back, but I don’t think they’ll do it; they’re just talking to hear themselves talk. Me, I’m going back the first chance I get. It may be tomorrow, or next week, but I’m definitely going back. I got unfinished business there......
January 25 of the year 2026. Dear diary, It is amazing what war can do to a land. Before dawn, a group of Mulattoes went out to hunt. But the excursion was ill-conceived. Less than an hour after they left, they ran into our tent, hollering at the top of their lungs. They were talking so fast, and incoherently, that we couldn’t understand what they were saying. Halfway through the babble, they stopped, turned around, and ran back into the woods. A group of Mulatto men decided to follow them and see what the big deal was. What they found is beyond comprehension! Situated between two stubby hills, was a family of rednecks that time must’ve forgotten; these had to have been the poorest bunch of White folk I’d ever seen. But they were so damned nice! They invited us into their dwelling and offered us everything they had; they didn’t have much but, it’s the thought that counts. You could look at them and tell they didn’t care much for coloreds, but they didn’t let it get in the way of their hospitality. An old coot wearing tobacco stained coveralls did all the talking while two scruffy lads stood at his side, nodding back and forth at every word. He made us promise that we’d bring the rest of the guys back for supper. This didn’t seem to make the lady of the house, a broken-down piece of White woman, too happy. She attempted a rebuttal, but the look that Old Pops gave her shoved the words back down her throat. When we returned with the rest of the squad, they had the buffet laid out. All the guys were happy to get a home-cooked meal; it’s been so long since we had real food. It was quite a dinner and afterwards we sat around and drank white whiskey from cracked Mason jars. I have to say: A grand time was had by all! There is a daughter amongst them who appears to have never been to school. She stands about six feet tall, a pretty, blonde Amazon girl with nice full breasts; I am sure one of us will go after her. I just hope the old man doesn’t catch ‘em. The officers are asleep in the farmhouse, the soldiers were given the guest shack, and we Mulattoes, as usual, were left with the barn. It ain’t that bad in here, though. If that goddamn cow would stop mooing! I won't sleep a wink tonight. Tomorrow is another day….
January 26 of the year 2026. Well, diary, I guess you know: one of the soldiers tried to get with the farmer’s daughter. Sometime during the night, after everybody had retired, one of those stupid pricks tried to sneak through the girl’s bedroom window. What a mistake! Before the fool could get his pants off, “Old Pops”, and his trusty .12 gauge, was on his ass! It was the God-awful-est noise I’d ever heard; the sound the man made when the buckshot hit his naked ass. By the sound of the screams, I thought he’d killed the guy! All of a sudden, the cows stopped mooing, the rooster stopped crowing, everything stopped; it was as if they’d seen it all before. The rest of the Mulatto men panicked, they thought we were getting raided by the B.P.A.! I didn’t budge. I had no reason to. After I heard the screams I knew what had happened. It didn’t take a genius to know that one of those horny bastards was going to try screwing the old man’s daughter. Shit, the girl is fine as French wine. But in a lyrical sense. It’s something about those country girls-big, busty corn-fed girls-that a man can hardly resist. I thought about trying it myself, but after what Cindy did to me, I won’t need a woman for quite some time. Plus, I could look at the old man and tell what he’d do if you put your hand on his children. It didn’t take those hillbillies ten minutes to clear us, and every piece of our shit, off their land. And to make sure we got the message, old pops sprayed the .12 gauge overhead a couple of times as we were pulling out. I don’t think we’ll be going back there……
January 27 of the year 2026. Well diary, we’re still in the freakin’ Ozarks. For the last two days, we’ve been lost in these damn hills; I don’t think we’ll ever find our way out. The officers keep changing directions and it’s wearing the drivers thin. The semi that the soldiers are riding in has stalled six times since yesterday, and today it got stuck in a mudhole. Unbelievable! Here we are, lost, and the truck is stuck up to its axles in mud. While we were trying to push the damn thing out, a senior commander pulled his Luger on one of his subordinates for refusing to help push. The bastard said it was “nigger work” and he wasn’t doing it. The only thing that kept that fool from having his brains splattered all over the place was the jammed firing pin in the officer’s pistol. Fuckin’ automatics ain’t good for shit! The commander pulled the trigger twice as he held the gun against the unflinching man’s temple, but both times the weapon refused to fire. A short time later, we ran across a small creek, where we obliged ourselves with a much-needed bath. The cold water helped to chill the attitudes that had been festering for days, and afterwards we sat down and had a nice, bicker-free lunch. I am not worried that we are hopelessly lost; I’ve been lost all my life. They haven’t told us, but I think communications with the headquarters has been severed. We’re too high up and the treetops are interfering with the radio signals; the Ipod that I stole from the officer’s tent won’t pick up a thing. That means we’re on our own. I wonder what they’ll do, now that they have no one to tell them what to do; even the commanders need commanders. Every other week, or so, we get lost. It’s a damn shame. The warriors here are hopeless and I must rid myself of them. My mind keeps wandering back to Old Orleans and my sweet baby, Cindy. I know she’s forgotten about me, but I haven’t forgotten about her. The sweet scent of her thighs lingers in my nostrils; at times it’s so strong that it makes my head swim. Lying on the damp ground, looking up at the stars, I can feel her scraggily blond hair brushing against my chest; it’s almost like she’s here with me. Being with Cindy has erased all thoughts of the woman I loved from my mind; Lala has become nothing more than a figment of my imagination. If I happened upon her, maybe my feelings would change, but I doubt it. I’ve been to Heaven and I wanna go back…
WEThe sniper is on the roof! He’s taking aim…. Run, Jon, Run! Will Jon get away?Well, fans, the novel, "Divided We Fall" will hit the shelves in February 2015! Are you READY!!
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