Devil Come Down to Halima

By Dr. Israel Washington

On June 23, 2010, in a small Georgia town named Halima, an intoxicated white male, who was either an incurable wise-ass or the most hate-fueled racist in America, was arrested for being a public menace. Th e resistant suspect was immediately transported to the Sheriffs station. He presented himself as Mr. Wayne Rosseland and immediately began raising hell. He reminded the facility of the Southern Confederate history of slavery, insurgency and white supremacy. He reduced the violently depressing slave experience to an anecdote and reiterated the hopelessness of the African- American plight in modern America, of which in his opinion one n***** who would inevitably die prior to fi nishing his first term would ultimately make worse.

His antics discombobulated the small staff as well as the residing inmates so thoroughly that he left them no choice but to place him in isolation alongside convicted murderer Gregory Brady. Rosseland predicted President Obamas inevitable assassination.

What one man accomplished with pure hatred, wit, humor and racial epithets would lead to a legacy so riveting that there is no doubt fifty years from now folks will still be talking in Halima about the events surrounding the arrest of Wayne Rosseland. He is so revered that even a conservatives best bet would ring in millions, based on the betting line being that he was mere mortal. In fact, many will bet their lifes work that Wayne Rosseland was the devil himself.

Consider yourself warned; allow this to serve as your first and final caution that the contents of this printed recording are offensive, racist and vitriolic. The mere mentioning of the contents of this novel in any public or private place will serve as your voluntary release of any and all rights in any future civil or criminal liability proceedings against author, contributors and publisher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456717704

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© 2011 Dr. Israel Washington. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/20/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1769-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-1770-4 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

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This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

THE NEW DAMN SOUTH

REPARATIONS

NIGGER WAYNE

RAISE THE FUCKING DEAD

BLACK MAGIC

SICK DAY

YOU KILL THEIR LEADER AND IT’S BACK TO BULLSHIT

THE GREAT NIGGER DEBATE

TWO-MINUTE WARNING

GIVE THE DEVIL HIS FUCKING DUE

MACHIAVELLI

THE EARLY YEARS OF YOUNG WILLIAM ALBRIGHT

BEING BLACK

On June 23, 2010, in a small Georgia town named Halima, an intoxicated white male, who was either an incurable wise-ass or the most hate-fueled racist in American history, was arrested for being a public menace. The resistant suspect was immediately transported to the Sheriff’s station. He presented himself as Mr. Wayne Rosseland and immediately began, for the lack of a better phrase, raising hell. He reminded the facility’s ninety-seven-percent African-American population of the rich Southern Confederate history of slavery, terror, insurgency and white supremacy. He reduced the violently depressing slave experience to an anecdote and then reiterated the hopelessness of the African-American plight in modern America, of which in his opinion one n***** —who would inevitably die prior to finishing his first term—would ultimately make worse.

His antics discombobulated the small staff as well as the residing inmates so thoroughly that he left them no choice but to place him in isolation alongside convicted murderer Gregory Brady. Rosseland predicted many things during his incarceration but, aside from President Obama’s inevitable assassination, the other prediction that stood head and shoulders above the rest was his personal walk to freedom in ten days, in spite of the severe charges that were being racked up against him by the hour due to his penchant for violence.

What one man accomplished with pure hatred, wit, humor and racial epithets would lead to a legacy so riveting that there is no doubt fifty years from now folks will still be talking in Halima about the events surrounding the arrest of Wayne Rosseland. He is so revered that even a conservative’s best bet would ring in millions, based on the betting line being that he was mere mortal. In fact, many will bet their life’s work that Wayne Rosseland was the devil himself.

Consider yourself warned; allow this to serve as your first and final caution that the contents of this printed recording are offensive, racist and vitriolic. The mere mentioning of the contents of this novel in any public or private place will serve as your voluntary release of any and all rights in any future civil or criminal liability proceedings against author, contributors and publisher.

DEDICATION

Sometimes in life God simply gives you something that you would have otherwise never had access to. I was blessed to be brought into this world by Minnie Lee, one of the most beautiful souls the good Lord ever created, and that blessing was enhanced by becoming a son to Annie Ruth Oglesby, one of the purest forces of nature the good Lord ever imagined.

I still have the 911call on my phone— it was 5:29 p.m., June 22, 2009, and the number belonged to my brother Pop. He was calling to tell me that Annie Ruth had passed away.

I remember when I was in rifle training during Marine Corps boot camp and the drill instructor asked the squad, Who here has ever shot a gun before?

I was shocked to be the first to raise my hand. He then asked, Where the hell did you shoot a gun, shit bird?

I quickly responded at the top of my voice.

At Annie Ruth’s house, sir.

He angrily replied, Who the fuck is Annie Ruth?

Sergeant Slusher, if you are still out there, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you who the fuck, as you so eloquently put it, Annie Ruth is. She is simply the best thing that ever happened to me and, were it not for her, you might have read about me in your local paper. Were it not for her, you would have never met me in your boot camp or for that matter any other constructive organization. She was the woman who spoke to my soul in a way that no one else ever had; she knew exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. With a simple hug she made me a part of a family that I have the ultimate respect for, and I in turn made her a promise that the family name would never be disrespected by anything that I had control of.

I must admit, I let her down on that promise several times but she always gave me the chance to redeem myself. My two mothers were always the people that I could depend on no matter how bad I fucked up— not to secretly laugh at me but to pick me up, dust me off and get me back on my personal road to redemption. I visited Annie Ruth over ten thousand times and not once did I ever leave her house not feeling much better than when I arrived.

My sincerest gratitude and appreciation to Lil James, Deon, Pop, Alteen and Duck for never making me feel like an outsider. For embracing me, for trusting me and respecting the fact that I was always coming from a pure place. It’s not easy to share your mother—I have always understood that and, believe me, not one single day did I take it for granted.

I dedicate this book to QUEEN RUTH. Man has not created a calibrated device that has the conciseness to measure the depth of my love for you. Wall Street has yet to create a hedge fund that has the potential to generate enough capital to meet the minimum requirement for the down payment that would satisfy a fraction of the reimbursement costs for what you willingly gave to me.

I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, MAY YOU REST IN PEACE!!!

Your loyal son.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank God for allowing me to pursue my dream. I would like to thank my mother for making it possible for me to even have a dream, and I would like to thank my family for being there for me when I needed them the most.

My editor, Emily Carmain, who can be contacted at: www.noteworthyediting.com. Thanks, Emily, for your professionalism and talent.

Contact information:

Dr. Israel Washington

9378 Arlington Expressway #364

Jacksonville, Florida 32225

THE NEW DAMN SOUTH

June 2009

Sheriff Arthur Prater sat with his oversized feet propped upon his desktop and hands tucked neatly behind his head. So, Detective Thursby, what brings you to Halima, Georgia? he asked.

It’s rare that we get someone with your field experience who’s willing to do busy work for a living. I mean, with the last round of budget cuts, we now have to ask foot patrol to do most of our investigative work. The bastards even cut out our video monitoring system in the fucking jail—believe that shit? Fact is, we don’t even have a budget for detectives, just some well-rounded fucking officers who wear a lot of damn hats. I got correctional officers strapped with service revolvers ’cause one missed shift and their asses are in the streets patrolling, if you know what I mean, the sheriff said.

Seems strange that a man of your caliber would be willing to come all the way from New York fucking City way down here to little old Halima. You sure you know what the hell you’re doing, man? I mean, math never was my strong suit but I figure—hell, I figure you are taking around a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year hit making a move from New York detective to Halima correctional officer.

Randy Thursby, who was as excited about joining the Halima family as any applicant Sheriff Prater had ever seen, crisply replied. Trust me, I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. I guess I finally listened to my parents’ advice to leave the New York rat race and come join them down here and enjoy some of my life before it all passes me right by. They moved to Miami ten years ago and are loving life right now. Ask you a question—what does a couple of thousand square feet of real estate run a man in Halima?

Depends … You talking sleep at night, listening to the birds chirping in the fucking morning square feet, or you talking gunshots, declining property value? Being a detective and all and assuming I don’t know your financial health right now, I’m sure you can see where I’m headed with this.

Yeah, I know right where you’re going, inner city versus suburbia, right? And, no, there are no ex-wives, alimony or child support payments so I can afford either. It’s just that I hear so much about the ‘new South’ that I didn’t want to buy a house when I could afford a mansion.

The new South, huh? Well, I try to remind myself about the new damn South when I scrape the brains of a thirteen-year-old black boy who heard too much of that fucking hippity-hop shit and thought the rhythm would protect him from the bullets. Mr. Thursby, let me fucking assure you that the new damn South is no fucking different than the old South, or for that matter no different from New York City or anywhere else on the planet, when it comes to poverty and property value. The sheriff’s face showed no emotion as he talked.

To answer your question, if you want to sleep at night, you’re looking at around one hundred fifty thousand dollars, and—well, let’s just call it the alternative—will hit you for around one hundred, but the rate those homes are being abandoned in this economy, you may be home alone in a matter of months.

I guess I’ll be buying me a slice of that suburbia. My daddy always said you get exactly what you pay for—still it’s a sweet deal, considering that same piece of property would run you seven hundred thousand dollars in New York City.

Damn.

Yeah, picture coming clearer now, Thursby said. I can see myself easing into my retirement years with fresh Georgia sunshine in my face, living on land that I own and the ability to back the car out of the driveway in the winter without shoveling twelve inches of snow every fucking morning. Thanks for this opportunity. I promise you there will be no regrets whatsoever, especially with the cost of living down here being almost criminal—guess that’s life in the small city.

The two men shared a laugh, but Sheriff Prater quickly turned serious again.

Well, before we finalize our deal I just wanted to make you aware of one little fact—you being the professional you are, I’m sure it won’t affect your decision to take the position but I feel an obligation, you know.

Uh–oh … that’s always how it starts. Let’s hear it.

Well, Mr. Thursby—

Please, if you don’t mind, call me Randy.

Okay, Randy, you represent a bit of a milestone for Halima. By that I mean the moment you step foot in the station next Monday, you will become the first Caucasian ever to do so as a member of our staff. Your thoughts?

My thoughts? Hell, I feel privileged. I consider it an honor to be the first white boy to work at your station. I’ve been shouldered up with every race in the rainbow since I got in this damn business, with one thing always for certain, I was always a member of the majority race. I think it will be a good feeling to be a minority for a change, and like I told you, I hear a lot about that good old-fashioned Southern hospitality.

Huh, you just ain’t gonna let that one get away, are you. The sheriff laughed and Thursby grinned at him. Good answer nonetheless, Randy, and I promise you that all of my deputies are God-fearing and not one of them has a racist bone in their body. With that out of the way, let’s get you processed.

ONE YEAR LATER

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DAY ONE

That was mighty nice of you to work an extra shift for Michael, Randy. While I must say that he’s probably the best records tech we have, the boy seems to always find a way to get out of working Saturday night. I guess you can get away with that kind of mess when your cousin is sheriff. Deputy Gloria Minton rolled her eyes with a sarcastic chuckle as she walked into the office to join Randy on Saturday evening.

Hell, Gloria, we all can’t be lucky. I sure as hell don’t mind because I didn’t have any plans, and in this economy—aside from Michael, obviously—who can’t use the extra money?

You got that right, Randy.

The two shared a laugh as they prepared for their long night shift. Although Saturday night had the reputation of being second only to Friday night as the most wild and unpredictable shift, lately things had been sort of slow. It’s amazing how being broke has a way of taking the hell right out of a man, Randy thought. Aside from a few burglaries and petty theft charges at the local stores, the certified hell-raisers had not answered the bell in about a month. Gloria and Randy sat, talked, and answered the few phone calls from the patrolling officers who managed to break the ice here and there.

Four hours into their shift Randy volunteered to make the greasy-spoon run to Shoobies. While most places delivered to the police station, the short-staffed small burger stand simply did not have the manpower to accommodate. Shoobies had the best bacon cheddar burgers and cheesy fries in all the Southeast, so if they would not come to you, you