Lord of the Perfect Black

By Randy Lavoie Burke

Lord of the Perfect Black is your basic boy-meets-girl comedy involving a serial killer and a CDC sniper. The book offers multifarious story lines that collide in the end for a surprise ending. It's a hilarious, terrifying, irreverent and jaw-dropping trip for the reader. This read will be much more than a bumpy ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483572550

Book preview

author

Prologue

Las Vegas, NV

The Luxor

So, what’s your favorite thing to do? she asked.

Favorite, huh? he asked back.

Other than the usual. Be honest.

I'm always honest, perfectly honest. That's my problem. I seem to be physically incapable of a lie. I throw up; I get diarrhea. When I say you're pretty, you're pretty; when I say I love you, I love you. I love you…. As to your question, it's sleeping, dreaming while I’m asleep, I guess.

You love me?

Yes, you’re growing on me.

Ever try Astral Projection?

That thing where your spirit supposedly goes out of your body and flies around annoying people?

Kinda, but I don’t know about the spirit part or if it goes anywhere. Some people just hallucinate. I think it’s the way the brain deals with the deprivation. Anyway, I just know a really cool technique for doing it. Wanna learn?

Sure. I'm done having sex with you, for now.

Okay, just turn over on your back and look straight up at the ceiling. Here, let me take your pillow, so you’re flat. Now give me your hand. Point it like a gun. Whatta you grinning about?

Not a thing.

Now, put your finger right between your eyes and your thumb ri-i-i-ght on that little flappy thing next to your ear hole.

Flappy thing?

"Well, I don’t know the technical term for it but, yeah, that cute little flappy thing. Now, without moving your hand, draw them together, like that, hold it, leave just the finger there and rub. You feel those little lines, that little corner?"

Yeah…feels like three little welds coming together.

"Now close your eyes and concentrate on that point. Imagine that you can pull your consciousness right into that little corner. It might take a while to get it to move, but it will move. It’s like learning how to wiggle your ear or raising one eyebrow at a time."

You mean like Spock?

Yes, just like Spock.

You know, there’s a Star Trek convention going on in town. We could go.

Anything’s possible, but that is highly improbable.

Okay, you’re being ironic; that’s right out of Star Trek…. Okay, that’s it?

No, but that‘s mostly it, the hard part. Once you’re good at loosening up your consciousness, the rest is easy.

It moves?

"I don’t know if your self-awareness, the you part of you, actually moves from one place to another in your head but I don’t see why not. It feels like it does. And that’s good enough for anything."

What’s next?

Well, you have to get the room darker than it is, dark enough that you can’t see any difference between when your eyes are open or closed, that kinda dark.

Okay.

Over there, she said, pointing to the nightstand. There’s a remote on the table next to you. The bellhop said it’ll turn off the windows.

I guess I missed him telling us that, 'turn off the windows.'

Gimme. It's special glass, photovoltaic; a current makes it opaque. Now cross your legs. No, at the ankles. Close your eyes. And hug yourself…just let your elbows go to the bed. Relax everything. Now imagine your feet are connected to the bed.

How—by what?

Anything that works for you: a chain, a rope…a—

You're not tying me up.

"Now become aware of your body, its weight; let it relax into one long, solid slab. The thing to keep in mind the whole time you’re doing this is to think of the bed as an immense flat surface that retreats into the distance and that you are attached with this chain to the center of this plain, an axis. Think that the chain attaching you to it is temporarily unbreakable and that at the other end of your body is you, your conscious mind, the driving force that is going to spin your body around and around and around just like a carnival ride. And, at some point, when you’re totally engaged in that, you suddenly hit the brakes, open your eyes and your consciousness will fly straight out of your body!"

What’s it like?

Same as lucid dreaming, although many describe the effect as ‘enlightening,’ a way to become more self-aware. The thing is that you don’t have to be asleep to do this, and you have a lot more control over the content of whatever it is we’re about to be experiencing.

Why can’t you have your eyes open?

"It’s psychological: the inner you and the outer you."

Let’s do it.

Okay, but don’t expect too much on your first attempt.

Sure.

Now, I’ll be your brake. It’s easier if someone else does it at the beginning.

Why?

Because of what’s called ‘tactile shock.’ It’s the same concept as trying to tickle yourself and someone else doing it.

Like sex?

Just so. See, we're going to be trying to get your visual, tactile and other inputs not to line up. That's the key. Now close your eyes and concentrate on that corner in your head we talked about. Start rotating your body. Circle around trying to break that unbreakable chain.

I’m a circling.

Okay, now start going faster and faster, faster and faster, around and around. If you’re doing it right, at some point in our trip it’s going to get a little edgy, but just ride it out and you’ll get used to the effect. Around and around, faster and faster. Are you going fast?

Yes.

Can you feel the blood rushing to your head?

You know, I can.

You’re a natural. Tell me when you’re spinning as fast as you can.

Now.

Wow, you’re good. Okay, start rotating along the length of your body as you’re spinning.

This is cool.

Are you sure you haven’t done this before?

Does drinking count?

"Now listen to my voice, do only what my voice tells you and don’t anticipate; just think of nothing but going as fast as you can, around and around and spinning and drawing your consciousness into that little corner of your head. When I do touch you, I will be become the ‘immovable wall,’ the only thing that can free you. Faster and faster, around and around you go, where you stop, nobody knows…. Now open your—"

BANG

Elmer Tiffany, a tall, big-bellied man in his late 50s, mounted the dais and strode purposefully to the podium. He set down his notes, pushed back his Massey Ferguson ball cap and blew his large purplish nose into his bandanna. He studied the discharge for a moment and then returned the bandana to the back pocket of his bibs.

Le’s see here, he said, rubbing his two-day-old white stubbly beard as he looked over his reading glasses at the farmers who’d gathered that morning in the Grange Hall, Local 462.

Elmer’s mouth hung agape, his lips turning white around the hard edges that formed as he silently counted, going from man to man and pointing his pencil at each as he went. The farmers were jawing amongst themselves, sipping coffee from their personalized mugs as they waited for Elmer to finish—all except for Manford Coyle that is.

How’s that Styrofoam cup there, Manford?

Maybe we can figger out a way ta put a handle on it for him?

Can’t weld Styrofoam, can you?

Manford sat patiently. He knew this round of wisecracks would pass. In one year, he would have his mug ceremony and then, when another man joined the grange it would be his turn, he’d have his revenge on the next new guy.

Elmer had finished his counting and was looking down at the roster (rooster, as Elmer called it) as he absently dug in one of his hairy ears with his pencil’s eraser. He pulled it out with a puff of flakey-cakey earwax and gave it a glance before slipping it into his chest pocket.

Okie-doky, boys, looks like we’re all here, ‘ceptin’ for Elroy Hashimoto. He’s over ta Hobart ta pick up a load a calf feed he’s been ‘spectin’ outta the Windy City. Manford, you think you kin take his route today?

Manford nodded yes.

Well, I jus’ wanna tell you guys that you’re doin’ a bang-up job. Dottie tells me complaints are way up!

The news brought smiles all around, big, yellow-stained toothy, doughnut-chewing smiles.

That’s dairy! said one farmer to another.

Very dairy! he agreed.

However, an’ I ain’t gonna mention any names…

The men looked around at each other with eyes slit down to suspicion.

Remember ta stay under 30, ‘specially in them 60-mile-per-hour zones. Use your own judgment in town. Alrighty then, rush hour’s nearly upon us, so let’s git hot!

The doors of the Grange burst open as the farmers poured forth and moved out to the staging area. As the crisp morning air filled with diesel smoke from the various rigs, combines, reapers, balers, tractors and the like, the sun broke over the horizon. Elmer gave the signal, a cranking motion of his arm like he’d seen George C. Scott do while directing convoy traffic in his favorite movie, Patton, and they headed out to their pre-assigned routes: men on a mission.

The black man opened his eyes and smiled. The piece-a-shit-car guy behind him had started honking his horn again. The harvester they’d been following and unable to pass for the last 20 miles, the one going 30 in the 60 zone, had come to a complete halt with the fresh hell of road construction. The sign on the shoulder read F AGGER ahead, the L having been tagged out.

Muthafucka, the black man said under his breath; not that he was angry, just an observation.

He knew the other driver was enjoying himself, knew piece-a-shit-car guy had been looking for any excuse to be pissed off ever since he’d pulled onto the highway and Piece-a-Shit-Car Guy had sped up behind him just to prove he’d been slowed down. The black man thought of all those people out there who didn’t even need this kind of bullshit excuse to hate you, the kind who hated you for just being ahead of them in line or because they had to breathe your second-hand breath; not to mention all those who hated you for having the wrong skin color.

Looks like da utility comp’ny’s cuttin’ up new roadway ta lay some pipe, said the black man.

Oh, purred the big-chested blonde Butt-Double, that sounds delicious. She sat next to him in his new money-green Mercedes.

HONK, HONK, HONK

The black man smiled and thought how easy it would be to go back and bust a cap in Piece-a-Shit-Car Guy’s ass. No one else in line…just walk up with a big smile, ’Scuse me, sir. A little roadside brain surgery with his 9mm and jus’ head out the other way, one way being as good as the next. He thought of how easy it would be, how simple and knowing this was satisfaction enough, for now.

The Butt-Double turned on the tape recorder she’d just found under her seat. There was the sound of peeing in the background as a drunken voice began:

"God doesn’t let anything happen to you that you can’t handle. Yeah, right, and Nancy Clutter just had a nosebleed. (Click) I tried to believe in God, tried to believe in family, in haircuts and mown lawns. I really did…. When I was growing up I never knew anybody I respected, anyone I could look up to and say, ‘that’s who I wanna be like.’ Every time I thought I’d found that person, not that I was on some kinda quest or anything, ya know, but it would be just a matter of time before I found out that it was just another front and underneath they were as big an asshole as everybody else.

"Right now, your relatives or your friends or your neighbors are putting you down behind your back. I’ve had it up to here with everything and everyone. I’ve had it up to here with life. I want my fucking money back. If I can’t be happy, no one can. Ain’t going out alone, though, not by a damn sight! I’m just hoping that revenge is as good as they say, ‘a dish best served cold.’ Supposedly, success is the best revenge; well, that leaves me out. So I guess I’ll have to settle for plain ole between the eyes, from ear to ear and clean through the heart kind.

"I can see why people want to believe in that whole God and country and family crap—lies are better than nothing, a whole lot better than reality. One time, T'Pring comes running in all upset, hands on hips, ‘Daddy, that fucking brother of mine just said that I believe in God!’ My mother-in-law’s jaw hit the floor. It was awesome! We were always doin’ stuff like that. They loved to tease me, ‘Dad, go to heaven!’ and I’d have to chase ‘em and tickle ‘em.

"Guess the neighbors got wind of stuff like that. One time, we were taking their kids out Trick or Treating, and I hear their oldest boy tellin’ my kids that I was going to hell. What kind of thing is that to tell a kid? The stupid punk is gulpin’ down his candy as fast as he gets it, ‘My tummy hurts!’ Now he has to sit with me in the car. To amuse myself, I start some crap like how his mommy and daddy let me in on a secret. ‘Don’t let them know I told you, but they told me that you were adopted; that your daddy lost his job and that they can’t afford to keep you anymore and that you’re going back to the orphanage.’ It wasn’t nothing I couldn’t say wasn’t just a joke. Pussy starts crying.

"He was one of those little punks that went around spouting the parental party line. Felt like being nice to 'em one time, ask 'em how much they're getting paid for working in the yard and they say, ‘Our mom and dad buy us clothes and feed us and give us a place to stay. That’s how much we’re getting paid!’ with these big, proud grins on their stupid faces. I point out that they have to do that by law, that they would be arrested and thrown in jail if they didn’t. Faggots just look at each other; it was like trying to explain water to Helen Keller for the first time. Just two more regurgitating fools with their ‘Just say no!’ And, ‘Jesus loves me this I know!’ And, ‘…to the Republic for which it stands.’ Grow up to be two more ethical, moral, church-goin’, money-grubbin,’ back-stabbin’ sons of bitches.

I taught my kids reality, that all people lie, that people only want to use you, only want your money, your body. I guess I’m different from most people; I’ve never needed the lies. That sounds kind of sophomoric, like some teenager who thinks every thought that rolls off his brain has never been thunk before. ‘I’m unique! I’m different! I’m special! My life has meaning and purpose!’ It’s like that joke I heard. In China, even if you’re a one-in-a-million kinda guy, there're over a 1,000 guys out there just like you.

After a few seconds of static from the recorder, she turned it off.

Who’s this cheery chipmunk, Ophidian? asked the Butt-Double, giggling.

It be some white dude whose tweak wast ta see blood; he be dead now.

1

Yo, pawtna, hows ‘bout dat bitch?

Where?

Right dere, man, pointed Ophidian with a mustard-streaked finger.

Rock turned to look and took a bite from one of the three-fer-a-dollar quik-mart dogs he was eating for breakfast. I’d let her suck my dick, he said thoughtfully after swallowing.

Ophidian took a bite from one of his own hot dogs, spilling onions and crumbs down his shirt as he talked through it. Fu-u-u-ck, thas alla y’all white bwoys be doin’—turnin’ alla y’all noses up at dese here big-bootied white bitches. ‘I’d let her sucks ma dick’ an’ shit likes dat. Poor thangs hasta head obba ta one a da brothas to git a little bit a lubbin’.

Which would be you?

Ophidian ran his finger between his teeth and gums to retrieve masticated hot dog paste, which he then sucked off with a wet click of his tongue. "Das da way I likes ‘em! ‘My anaconda doan want none ‘less you ain’ got buns, hun,’ he sang, rolling his shoulders to the rhythm. Man, dis here be da way it is—you gots ta learn ta fuck da fat an’ be liken it ‘causin’ dey ain’ nuffin else! Me, maseff, I jus’ lubs seein’ my big ole black main vein stabbin’ some white bitch in da ass."

In the ass, homeboy?

Memba dat bitch at da club da otha night?

That fucked-up redhead?

Das da one, Ophidian said as he did a little side shoop with his head.

In the ass?

Ophidian looked over at Rock and flashed his eyebrows over the top of his greasy shades as he grinned, a grin that showed his shiny black gums and teeth stained red from his strawberry soda. "In the fuckin' asssssssss!"

Just how do you go about that anyway? I’m kinda curious. Whatta you do, go into a bar, ‘S'cuse me, pardon me, if you wouldn’t mind, but do any a you corn-fed plumpers in here take it up the butt?’

Naw, man, Ophidian said patiently. "Ya see, dese here big-ass’t bitches ain’ a gwonna be ad-mittin’ dey likes dat kinna shit. Dey shore as hell be workin’ it d’ough: Ding Dongs, Ho-Hos, KFC. Dese here butta-fingahed bitches be pinchin’ a loaf twice a gotdamb day! Workin’ dat back door hole fo’ me. ‘Knock, knock, it be Ophidian.’

See’s, you gots ta be suh-tuul, he said with a smooth move of his hand. "Firse, you gets ‘em on all fours, tellin’ um we gwonna be workin’ it dawgie style. Den I spits on ma han’ an’ ru-u-u-bs it on da head a ma thang, my thang-ma-jang, Ophidian explained with a sensual gusto, going through the moves as he talked. He got his imaginary cock caught under the steering wheel, which he freed with a yank. An’ BAM!…In it go!"

Rock just shook his head and laughed.

Den I grab’t her hair wit’ one hand an’ slaps dat fat ass a hers wit’ da otha, ‘Cathy, I lubs you!’

Was that her name? smiled Rock.

"Din’ ‘memba da bitch’s name. It mighta been Cathy," Ophidian said with a shrug, then puckered his lips and pecked at the air with his head a couple of times.

She musta been in freak mode after that.

Naw, I seen dat bus a comin’, so’s I gets pissed at her firse. She all confuse, Ophidian said, groping the air with his hands, axin’ herseff what she did wrong, why he mad at me, ‘Ain’ I da one jus’ gots fucked in my ass?’ Den I chill, fo’give an’ fo’get; start layin’ on wit’ ‘You my boo, so fine an’ bootylicious. I neva wonna lets you go, girl!’

Did she buy it? asked Rock, smiling.

Ophidian cocked back his head to look snooty. Bitch sez ta me dat da next tine I be in town ta look her up! Gib me her numba. Thas what I bin tellin’ ya’ll—bitches be bitches.

Did she bleed?

Hell yea! Tha's hows you know'd it be workin’! If it bleeds, I can fuck it! said Ophidian with another click of his tongue, and then he leaned down and began digging through all the shit on the floorboard. And, after a while, he sat back with a bent Golden Brother Brand cigarette clenched in his teeth. Ophidian calmly swerved out of the path of the on-coming traffic as he lit up from the lighter he threw right back on the dash. Issss all goot, he said, exhaling.

Shit, maybe I’ll have to try that out, Rock said, leaning forward to scan the local stations with a nervous hand. He found one that he liked and turned up the volume.

Lease it ain’ no fuckin’ bleach bwoys o’ country music.

Used to work with this one guy, he was a big fucker too, almost bigger than our boy, Michael, and we were in this bar, only bar in town, and it’s a fucking country bar, and you know how these cowboy posers wear those long belts, dangle down to here? Well, my partner’s got a coupla beers in him, walks up to one a these guys; this guy’s actin’ like King Stud leanin’ up against the wall near the jukebox slurpin’ on a long neck, and my friend grabs him by the belt and gives it this real hard yank. Looks him in the eye and says, ‘What the fuck’s this, buddy, your pull start?’ and starts laughin’ at him. This fucker doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind.

You muthafuckkas most definitely needs some school on hows ta dress, what ta listen ta, hows ta fuck.

They both turned to watch another woman walking down the sidewalk. Ophidian slowed the van and pulled close to the curb.

Look at dat booty poppin’! Ophidian yelled. "Poppitty-pop-pop!"

The woman who was trying to push a baby along in a stroller with only three sets of wheels on it suddenly stopped, a cold, mean hateful look descending on her face.

My Baby Daddy gwon kick your ass, foo’! He a fo’ real nigga killa! she screamed back at them, her head sliding fluidly from shoulder to shoulder and back, one hand on her hip while the other violently shook the stroller, the baby inside swinging back and forth, while the woman’s sandaled foot, dazzling with neon purple nail polish, pawed the ground.

Ophidian’s cackling laughter trailed out of the van as they drove on.

Talk about tight pants, how can she walk in those things without her ass bursting into flames from the friction?

Go alla way up da crack a dat fat-ass’t, greasy pussy a hers.

Got an aunt, 50-fucking-years old if she’s a day, wears pants like that. Makin’ that last stab at being sexy, I guess.

Nigga, I be tellin’ ya, Ophidian said, shaking his head. "Why o’ why doan alla y’all white folks be learned on hows ta speak co-rrectly, knows what I be sayin’?"

What?

"Ant, man, ant. Y’all always be sayin’ ‘ant,’ dat be some kinna bug. Da word be au-u-u-nt, aunt, gets it?"

Ophidian, you mispronounce every other fucking word, and your wide-ass nostrils get bent outta shape about me saying ant? Besides, it’s right either way.

"Naw, you be buggin,’ it be right da way I be sayin’ it. An’, I knows I don’t speak like no white bwoy an’ doan wants ta."

Rock just grinned. "Anyway, my aunt…"

Ophidian, with a very serious look on his face, nodded his approval as he attempted to drive, chew gum, smoke, eat his hot dog, and look for white women who might take it up the ass all at the same time.

…wears these pants, super-fucking tight pants, that have this zipper that runs from the top in front to the top in back. Rock demonstrated by running a finger from front to back along his crotch. "Like she’s ready to lay down and spread ‘em in a hot second. If you only look at her from the waist down, she is fuckable. The rest is a goddamn lie."

"I know’d what you be tawkin’ ‘bout, I see’s ‘em alla tine. Some goot-lookin’ booty-packin’ bitch all bent obba, mmm, so fine; den she turn ‘roun’ and whomp! Dere go your man ‘caust da bitch be butt-ugly. It be likes when y’all gits a new bitch back ta yor crib; gots herseff a mighty fine pair a titties, den she takes off her bra and dere dey go, Ophidian sighed, ta her knees."

You’d still fuck her, right?

Hell yea!

Rock adjusted the radio again and slumped back in his seat. Fuck, I’ll be glad when this shit is over and we get our bonuses.

Straight up, man, agreed Ophidian.

What are you gonna do with yours? He knew Ophidian liked this question.

Whoa, bwoy! I be tellin’ ya! said Ophidian as he wriggled up in his seat. "Ima gwonna be G’d up an’ iced out, like a mo-fo! Plenty a Bugs Bunnies all aroun'. Blood ice dat bin dug up by dem nappy-headed niggas dey gots obba ta Africa, so’s dey kids doan get dey arms chopp’t off an’ shit. Den Ima gwonna git me some badass threads, da kine bin made by dem sorry-ass’t deaf Mexkin's dey gots locked up in dem sweatshops. Den Ima gwonna git me a big-ass’t fur coat, one a dem made from dem animals bin kilt in dem traps, gnawin’ off dey own legs an’ shit. Did I tells ya jus’ lass week, Mr. Slutz done front me da large so’s I coult