Fallen Angels of God: Doriel

By TM Pascall

In the sun-soaked landscapes of San Diego, California, DeShawn Porter, known as Doriel in his celestial form, grapples with a dual existence as an archangel and a man hunted by demonic forces. Haunted by relentless nightmares and cryptic messages, he seeks solace and guidance from his deceased grandmother Mildred, whose wisdom serves as a beacon of spiritual strength.
The core of DeShawn’s inner conflict lies in his sexuality. As a gay man, he navigates a complex world where acceptance of his true self is entangled with his celestial duties. His cloak-and-dagger affair with Sydney Edwards, a married man from Atlanta, abruptly ends when Sydney mysteriously vanishes, leaving DeShawn to question not only his lover’s disappearance but also his own worthiness as an archangel.
As DeShawn probes deeper into the mystery surrounding Sydney’s absence, supernatural occurrences begin to unravel. Friends and foes alike are drawn into a web of eerie phenomena, each connected by a thread of fate that leads back to DeShawn must confront his own identity and embrace his celestial powers to protect himself and those he cares about from a looming malevolent threat.
With time ticking away and the forces of darkness closing in, DeShawn must reconcile his past, his desires, and destiny as an archangel. The journey to self-acceptance and empowerment becomes a battle for survival as DeShawn races against time to thwart the sinister forces targeting him and those he loves.
“Fallen Angels of God, Doriel” is a gripping supernatural thriller that examines into themes of identity, acceptance and the timeless struggle between light and darkness. Set against the backdrop of California’s vibrant landscapes, it’s a story of grief, redemption, sacrifice, and the enduring power of the human spirit in the face of demonic adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369416150

TM Pascall

T.M Pascall, is fascinated by the supernatural and an avid critic of Horror films since a young age. By releasing his debut novel, “Fallen Angels of God,” in hopes to master the thriller genre, weaving tales of mystery, sex, horror and pop culture, will leave readers spellbound. With a penchant for the supernatural and a fascination with angels and demons, Pascall’s novel take readers on spine-chilling adventures into mystical realms where darkness lurks just beyond the veil of reality. Drawing inspiration from a lifelong interest in mythology, religions, and the paranormal, T.M. Pascall’s first novel delve into ancient legends, ancestral spirits and otherworldly beings. His vivid imagination and meticulous research create immersive worlds where the supernatural feels unsettlingly normal. His dedication to authenticity and cultural richness shines through in every word he writes. “Fallen Angels of God, Doriel” introduces readers to his signature blend of suspense and supernatural terror, will earn him a devoted following of fans hungry for more. When he’s not conjuring up nightmares on the page, T.M Pascall enjoys studying ancient myths and scary movies. His passion for the supernatural infuses every aspect of his life, from writing to his everyday adventures. Prepare to embark on a journey where magic and heritage intertwine in ways that will leave you enchanted and enlightened.

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CHAPTER 1

T HE SOUND OF his heart continues to pound hard within his chest as he tries to calm the flow of blood pulsing through his veins. It’s three thirty-eight in the morning, and he is lying in a pool of sweat. This man hates when these occurrences happen during what is called the devil’s hour, the haunting hours between two and four, when they say the devil, along with his troop of demons, can have their mischievous way with your subconscious mind. Out of the gates of hell, they freely roam all four corners of the earth, taking souls with them … well, this was it.

Whether true or one of many old wives’ tales handed down over the years, the story remains the same. The vital facts of the fable never change. However, it was always enough to keep his ass in place, not moving a single muscle or wiping away the multitude of beaded sweat accumulating on his forehead. The slumbering sleeper is petrified. His body, embedded deep in the woven sheets, is light as a feather yet stiff as a board. This is one of many nightmarish dreams this young man has encountered in recent months.

In this exact moment, he shakes what feels like the devil’s grip on his back. With a sharp glance over at the nightstand, his eyes slowly adjust to the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock. It reads two minutes outside the so-called devil’s hour—4:02. Still shaking and dripping wet, he reaches out for the remote, located on the lower corner of the nightstand. He rises from his paralyzed state. He is desperate to find some needed light and sound to cut through the darkened bedroom and his dream-filled mind to chase this evil spirit away. By blind touch he knows where the on/off button to the television is. The glow from the television dragged whatever forces that came to prey on him in the night back into the shadows of the room.

Once again, Anderson Cooper 360 saves the night and starts the morning, as this, too, became a routine.

Damn, he is one sexy, white-haired, blue-eyed mutha fuckin news reporter, he says to himself.

Sitting up in the bed with sweat-drenched sheets around his waist, the young man leans back against the king-sized, wall-cushioned headboard, announcing aloud, Someday I will get over this. It was only a matter of how or when, which would be determined as the days rolled into weeks, perhaps months—or maybe even another year. He couldn’t place a time frame on this plaguing obstacle, but he knows living like this wasn’t an option.

Suddenly, he pulls back the covers from his stark-naked body to head to the bathroom—leaving Cooper glaring and blaring behind in a room full of shadows.

Quickly flipping a switch, he squints slightly from the beaming lights around the vanity mirror as they come on. He consciously avoids looking at himself in the mirror, fearing he might not recognize what is being reflected back. There is a spiritual warfare going on inside of this young man.

Instead of allowing his thoughts to run wild, he reaches out for the silver handle of the glass-encased shower and steps inside. With a bowed head, he places one of his hands above his six-foot-three body, resting on the cool tiles in front of him, while the other hand turns the knob slowly to the right. Within seconds, he feels the cold water cascading all over his well-toned, 195-pound frame. This is where all the thoughts of a grim nightmare come streaming through the thick curls on his head to the stubbles on his chest, continuing to make their way down past the manscape area, around his manhood, and passing through the open drain to its end by his feet.

Adjusting the temperature, the water is now warm. A homemade shock treatment has done its job. Steam rises all around, leaving him in his own private fog. Somehow, like the sounds of the ocean waves, it quiets the madness running through his head. Taking a step back, he draws in a deep breath through his wide nostrils and then slowly blows the air out of his full lips. He tilts his head back as his chin feels the water beat against his chest. He feels safe. He feels like himself again, DeShawn A. Porter, not some ethereal creature being tortured by a demon who is hell-bent on destroying his very existence. Last night’s nightmare is over—at least for now.

He takes a good twenty-minute shower, which most might consider excessive. Living in a state with water shortages, DeShawn doesn’t let himself feel too bad about it. He feels so fresh and so clean. The young man lives as a bachelor in a downtown condo in San Diego. It’s not like he has a lawn to water or a pool to fill, unlike the other wasteful bastards around the city. They’re the guilty ones, he reasons. Give me a freaking break! At least I’m a brutha who recycles, he continues rationalizing with his conscious. He adds, I also carry my own ‘Go Green’ bag to the local grocery stores and farmer’s markets. I don’t leave a single environmental footprint on Mother Earth.

He claims that most still don’t care about the environment we live in. Global warming has taken on a whole new meaning to him. Everything is taken for granted. The ongoing war isn’t about finding resources; it is becoming economically wasteful and more religiously driven than anything else. DeShawn has enough things on his moral conscious to worry about; ninety-nine problems and a bitch ain’t one. Isn’t that how the saying goes from Jay-Z? The rapper is a genius for using that iconic catchphrase. DeShawn often wonders if by chance Jay Z knew it would apply to so many things other than his song.

DeShawn doesn’t bother to grab the monogrammed, DAP, Tiffany-blue towel hanging by the shower, because occasionally he enjoys letting his body drip-dry au naturel. DeShawn is fond of putting on Dr. Palmer’s cocoa butter to keep the ash (dry skin) from appearing on his elbows and kneecaps. It works best when applied wet, he’d say.

Casually he marches barefoot over the warm brown tiles, standing in front of the vanity to stare into the large oval, metallic glass mirror. This time he is not disapproving of the image reflected back. However, he is not quite ready for his close up, Mr. DeMille. Leaning in closer and placing both hands along his jawline, DeShawn begins moving his face from side to side, deciding whether or not to go without a shave today. The final verdict arrives. It is a clear yes! Typically, a man should only put a razor on his mug once or twice a week. It’s not good for your skin, definitely not for a black man.

Oops, sorry, African-American, he thinks. These days everyone is trying to be politically correct about everything—PC is what they’re calling it. Bullshit. As long as you can refrain from using the N-word, we’re good!

He hates to look at some bruthas with what seems like a Little Debbie Star Crunch on their necks. Razor bumps can be such a turnoff—yet not a deal-breaker. The simple solution to the problem is to invest in a good aftershave, exfoliate daily, and moisturize. Most find stubble sexy on a man. Fortunately enough, DeShawn has been told he is among this majority.

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a beeping noise coming from the midsection of the tri-level condominium. The beeps are emerging from a timed coffee maker on the second level. Taking a step outside the bathroom, DeShawn is instantly hit with the sweet aroma of Columbian-roasted coffee being brewed in the kitchen.

Damn, he shouts. Time is approaching eight o’clock.

He always has coffee brewing in the mornings, whether he has a cup or not. The smell alone reminds him of his loving grandmother, who sat in her kitchen and drank Sanka every day. As a child she would allow him to drink her last couple of sips before she headed out for work. His grandmother Mildred passed away last winter at ninety four years of age during her sleep. She’d suffered from dementia for several years, a terrible mind-robbing illness. During that time, she used to ramble on about odd events, like the light and its unlimited power. No one knew exactly what she meant. However, something eerie within told him there was more to it than the gas and electric company.

He is glad she’s at peace yet saddened at the loss, which left him feeling alone and abandoned. She was his rock. I guess the good Lord needed his child to be home, DeShawn quietly whispers. This itself is enough to accept, but many around DeShawn felt he hadn’t truly dealt with her death entirely. This might be true to some degree.

I’ll bury that cross when I’m ready. Until then, this solider will keep marching on. He gives a dismissal to the opinionated statements of others.

DeShawn contemplates going down to turn the coffee maker off. He could actually enjoy a cup of joe for the first time in a long while, or maybe he’ll just let it stop on its own. Taking a look back at the mirror and catching a better glimpse of his wet hair, it is obvious what needs to be done. Stepping back into the spa-like bathroom, he decides to take care of this freakin’ mess of a hairdo.

The texture is a soft-blended mix of thick, tight spirals. With low tones of mocha highlights throughout the rich color of natural black, it complements the reddish-amber flares in his brown almond-shaped eyes.

Eyes that he is told he’d gotten from his grandfather, who also passed away long before DeShawn had gotten to know him. His death wasn’t as painful of a memory, because DeShawn was only three years old at the time. According to Grandmother Mildred, his mother’s father was a prideful and highly respected man of their community who kept many mysteries secret from the family. Perhaps his ole granddaddy was a rolling stone, at least that’s what he’s allowed himself to believe. It is better that way, instead of pressing his grandmother on the matter and seeing the pain it brings to her eyes when mentioning his grandfather’s name.

DeShawn’s hair has a style of its own, not quite as long as Maxwell (a 1990’s R&B soulful crooner) though not short like the sexy rocker Lenny Kravitz after he’d chopped off his dreads. DeShawn’s just pass under his ears, touching below the nape of his neck. He has what you would call a modern-day wild man’s Afro. Each curl is meticulously placed and moisturized regularly with a mango-scented hair cream used for locks and twists. Somehow, DeShawn manages to keep it under control.

Most days the steam from the shower will do the trick, after some pulls and fluffing his curls into place. With a few more adjustments, in seconds, it is done not a moment too soon nor a moment too late. In the middle of wiping his hands clean from the product on the white-quartz counter, DeShawn notices his body is completely dry with only a subtle shine left behind from the cocoa butter rubbed on the skin. Most again would say he has that sensual glow to his medium-brown skin, a complexion to be desired.

He soon realizes his body is holding up perfectly well for a thirty-two year old. It is no longer trying to get those deep V-pattern trenches along the abdomen like D’ Angelo back in his well-known video How Does It Feel. Nowadays, it’s been all about The Situation, a short Italian guy on a dumbass reality TV show. The times are certainly changing as everyone or anything on social media has the burning desire to gain their fifteen minutes of fame at whatever cost. Who knew the state of New Jersey would be the next big thing? DeShawn believes his motto is GTL (gym, tan, laundry). If only we had this to live by, life would be much simpler, right? Didn’t we just get over a blonde, ditsy Hilton chick, saying, That’s hot, for everything amusingly interesting and her hairdresser friend who leaked a sex tape?

As DeShawn recalls, he does have an excellent dry-cleaning service, a housekeeper named Eva-Marie, he doesn’t need a tan, which only brings the gym part of his impractical regimen …

Oh, yes, I have that covered too. He chuckles to himself in the bathroom.

Reminding him that he should stop by the gym later on to burn off the case of Heineken he shared with the fellas the other night.

Usually DeShawn is at the gym three to four times a week, if life permits. Recently he added a new workout routine called P90X, which he’d gotten off a late-night infomercial, to make sure he was still in the game and well maintained.

Thank God, for blessing me with good genetics.

His biceps are naturally big with a nice peak on top when flexed. He has broad, rounded shoulders, a defined chest—who could say this guy’s shit wasn’t on point.

Taking another prompt look down, DeShawn couldn’t help but spot his thighs along with an ideal ass sitting up appealingly high, which continues to be thick and cut from all the years of running. Being a hurdler on an elite track team back in his college days did him justice. Unfortunately he had tried everything that could be done to make his calves grow from little rocks to what they say in the bodybuilding world: diamonds. But nothing had ever worked.

What African-American do you know who has supermassive calves? The white guys do have us in that area, thanks Arnold Schwarzenegger, seven time Mr. Olympia!

Besides, he knows African-Americans are not known for their lower legs; however they are sometimes applauded for their other stereotypical, overly exaggerated endowments. The third-leg. It is solely named this because for some black men it was simply just that, a leg!

DeShawn’s is no exception. It is not considered a beast but yet it is a size queen’s lunch box surprise on any given Sunday. Being about average in the black (queer) community, anyone outside would still gasp saying, I wasn’t prepared for that, mista! He personally considers himself just fine; anything more would be a waste of pure raw meat. Half of those so-called monster dicked mutha fuckahs couldn’t keep it hard without the use of a heavy-duty cock ring or a tiny blue wonder pill we call Viagra.

Not bad, DeShawn says, giving his flaccid johnson a firm yank, as if he were offering a trustworthy client a successful handshake on a job well done.

He precedes on with his morning rituals of flossing and brushing. Once finished, DeShawn gives himself the award-winning grin he’s known for—Mr. Colgate Smile—and leaves the bathroom, focusing his attention back on the sounds coming from the master suite.

The television remains tuned into CNN, but the night-saving hero, Anderson, is gone. So Deshawn struts his naked body over to the universal remote, which is left on the bed, nestled by head-sunken pillows partially covered with wrinkled sheets. Pressing a button, the blinds to his floor-to-ceiling windows open mechanically to let in the radiant rays of the California sun pierce through the dimly lit room.

DeShawn A. Porter is awake now. There isn’t any use for the blackout shades, for this seemingly beautiful day is developing right outside of this enclosed empire he calls home. But why wouldn’t it be anything else?

Ninety-nine percent of the time, Southern California is sunny and the perfect temperature of seventy to eight-five degrees, with little to no humidity; you just can’t beat it, not even at the Jersey Shore.

However, in Anderson’s place, an eager reporter with breaking news issues an alarming statement about a female patient who had escaped from a mental hospital. The hospital itself is located somewhere in remote Arizona. Everyone is warned to be on high alert. A strange feeling comes over DeShawn. For a moment, his body shivers at the announcements being reported. Perhaps, he questions, he should pay attention to what is being addressed to the defenseless San Diegans; however gun control is steadily on the rise. In some parts of America, you reserve the right to bear arms by purchasing a lethal weapon conveniently in your local Walmart next to your Fruit of the Loom underwear. Now that’s scary. Click!

I don’t have time for this crap, mummers a nonchalant DeShawn. He presses the button in the middle of the broadcast just as the reporter is about to go further into his reading; the sixty-inch plasma screen located on the far side wall suddenly is off, and the chills from his body, as quickly as they appeared, idle away.

He presses one of his favorite buttons on the remote: surround sound, which he’d gotten installed a few months back to play music straight from the iPod docking station located on the second level adjacent to the kitchen below.

Janet Jackson’s latest single, Make Me, is programmed to play first to get his day off to a good start. Whatever else follows, it didn’t matter.

In seconds, musical beats from the wall speakers engulf the entire condo. Involuntarily, DeShawn’s fingers start snapping along with the melodies. Not skipping a note, a hum erupts in his throat followed by a couple of words passing through his lips when she hits the main chorus. There’s no one in the world that can coo like Janet, no one. Her voice is soothing and magical, with a hint of sex lingering off the edges of every word. It sets her apart from all the rest in the industry; she makes the industry’s standards.

Setting the remote down on the bedside table, DeShawn goes over to the frosted, sliding-glass double doors to the walk-in closet located in his bedroom. He taps on the panel situated inside the entrance; the lights are on a dimmer switch, and soon after three small cylinder-shaped pendant lights hanging above are illuminated.

To everyone’s surprise of how spacious and spectacular his closest is, DeShawn still finds it a bit small for a walk-in. Every square inch of the space is used. Among friends and guests, he always likes to downplay it because not everyone can imagine, let alone afford, having such a gem. The ceilings are nine feet high by twelve feet wide and about nineteen feet in depth, so it is pretty much a long rectangular box, housing most, if not all, his precious belongings.

Two lacquered six-drawer dressers facing opposite to one another are placed at the entrance; there he keeps socks and underwear. DeShawn slips on a pair of black cotton Calvin’s. Here in this room, your feet touch a diamond, French-vanilla-cream, bourbon-pattern carpet; however, toward the last four feet, your toes are again placed on the dark-chocolate, high-glossed bamboo flooring showcased throughout the house. Farther in, you’ll notice a spotted-brown goat’s-hair bench resting on chrome legs in the middle to break up the space. Flanking off of the walls is floor-to-ceiling shelves in various heights and depths for particular garments, such as jeans to light cashmere sweaters. Each of the items are sorted by color and size. From boots to casual loafers and the latest sports sneakers, his shoe game is nothing to ignore. Facing the end wall is an antique, seven-foot tall, gold-framed floor mirror; it was purchased at an estate sale to finish off the room so he can admire the final stylish looks of his attire.

What else did you expect from a self-made designer?

DeShawn Porter is the owner of DAPPER, the hottest urban-male boutique in San Diego.

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CHAPTER 2

M EANWHILE, BETWEEN UNIVERSITY Boulevard and Fifth Avenue, Daphany Reid spelled with a Y —she will point out whenever asked—is opening the doors to DAPPER for business.

She is punctual, as usual, and trustworthy, with a keen sense of attention to details, something DeShawn admires in a person. A blue-eyed, chocolate brunette, Daphany at the age of thirty is a perfect size six with a five-foot-seven, Jessica Beale body, which is considered bangin’ by all the patrons entering the store on a daily basis. This white girl has booty. Not a single day passes where she isn’t wearing her signature look: six-inch heels and a stylish handbag to match. This day is no different.

She sets up the front table displays with the usual low-end items closer to the door; midrange fashions rest in the center, making the high-end merchandise near the back close to registers and changing rooms. This kind of set-up makes it difficult for shoplifters. Eyes are always on the floor and high-tech cameras positioned in the ceilings above make it virtually impossible to miss an unwarranted thief. Daphany feels a dull pain in her lower stomach, causing her to take a seat.

Slow down, girl. Take it easy, she tells herself while taking a seat on the red-and-silver, six-seated, rounded, stripe-metallic ottoman. Daphany is pregnant, expecting her first child with her naval officer husband, Jason Reid, in the coming three months. She can no longer conceal it; her body has changed to a woman in waiting.

Where the hell is DeShawn? The thought rolls through her mind as the baby inside of her kicks again, but this time under her ribs.

Oh, boy, you’re really trying to be a fighter today. Well I’m not going to let you kick Mommy’s butt, not now, not ever. She giggles.

She begins gently patting her belly in circles and whispering to her unborn child in hopes to calm it down.

I hope you’re like Daddy, little one.

With a sigh, she takes a glance at her gold and diamond Movado timepiece given to her as an extra bonus, awarded on the first annual sales when the store opened in 2008. It was just a small token of how much DeShawn appreciated her and the hard work she had given toward the new business. The time reads fifteen minutes after ten. Daphany firmly places both hands to her sides and slowly rocks her way up to stand on her tall heels, walks over to the store’s windows, and searches to see if she can catch DeShawn at any given time walking up the sidewalks of downtown. He is nowhere to be seen.

Finally dressed in a blue-linen blazer, a white, fitted deep V-neck, accompanied by shredded dark D&G denim jeans and a white gold Cartier watch cuffed loosely to his left wrist, DeShawn is set to head out the door. Suddenly the phone rings. The house speakers announce a call is coming in from the store. Since the system is voice activated, he says, Answer call.

The system picks up. It is Daphany screaming. DeShawn A. Porter, are you on your way and not in someone’s ass? He knows he is in some kind of jam if Daphany states his full name.

I was walking out the door when you called, he replies while picking up his keys from the bowl at the end of the stairs.

You were supposed to be here this morning before I got in today, she yells again.

Look, Daphany, I know your hormones are all over the place—

He decides to cut himself in midsentence as it wouldn’t be a good idea to piss off a pregnant woman and goes for the easier, more ethical route, I’m on my way!

She takes a short pause to recollect her thoughts as DeShawn waits for her to shout once more or to accuse him for being a male version of Stella getting his groove back.

Stop by that taco shop on Wellington Street and pick me up a breakfast burrito. Oh and a pickle please. She laughs.

Ugh! Bye, Daphany.

He is feeling a bit annoyed at having to make a pit stop, causing him to be later than what he already was and to admit she was right—his time management sucks. Daphany Reid is one of DeShawn’s best friends and to top it off, she’s the store manager. It is hard to stay mad for too long as an empire is being built.

Ciao, sweetie. Thank you, she says softly.

The system hangs up. DeShawn turns toward the front door to set the alarm to his home, a perfect way to exit and get on with his day.

Four customers are casually browsing about, searching through the DAPPER labels and trying to find items best-suited to their own taste when DeShawn strolls through the front doors. He catches a glimpse of them as he makes his way to see Daphany at the back registers ringing up a freckle-faced young customer with several of the store’s merchandise placed on the counter. It’s the sound he loves to hear morning, noon, and night—the sound of money being made and exchanged. It is a buyer’s world this year, and the store is doing exceptionally well this quarter. Daphany notices DeShawn approaching fast. She looks up and then casually down by his side, where he is carrying a brown oiled-stained paper bag. DeShawn holds the bag up as he gets closer. She gives him a grimace followed by a rewarding wink. Her eyes are like a pair of stellar sapphires set ablaze, telling him in her unique way, Yes, I see you. It’s about time and that better be a breakfast burrito you’re carrying.

Good morning to you too, Mrs. Reid. See me when you’re done.

With an approving smile Daphany continues wrapping up with the young man at the register. She hands him back his credit card to close the sale.

Quickly DeShawn enters the back office and gently lets the door shut behind him. He sets the bag down on the corner as he paces around the industrial desk to put his blazer on the black leather chair. He places his keys in one of the desk drawers, not allowing himself to sit for a second because he knows Daphany won’t depart from the registers or abandon the customers. At the present moment, it is only the two of them in charge of the store. DeShawn searches over the schedule to see when their sales associate, Flex, will be coming in. Felix Rodriguez, otherwise known as Flex, isn’t schedule until two. It is presently a little after eleven. DeShawn needs to get back out there to help before Daphany becomes overwhelmed with the scent of her breakfast stewing in the back office. But first, taking an abrupt look over his shoulder toward the three monitors located at the far side wall, he notices there are now two customers left in the store. One is headed directly toward the registers to obtain his items. DAPPER is a small, well-established business, with plans to expand with its ever-so-growing popularity. His grandmother would be so proud of her once broken-in-spirit grandchild as he has truly accomplished what he’d set out do. The store has a steady flow of traffic with loyal repeat customers and new ones arriving by the hour. Stepping outside the office, he stands by Daphany and motions to the client he’ll take care of him.

Daphany turns and says, Did you get the pickle?

At this point, all DeShawn can do is to try hold in a tiny snicker as the customer watches with a peculiar look on his face.

You’ll have to go see, he replies.

Uh oh, so you’re saying I can go on a break now?

Well… you are pregnant. I wouldn’t want the labor commissioners to come shut me down, because I have a hungry woman wearing six-inch heels in her third trimester working countless demanding hours, now do I? DeShawn explains while giving the guy a subtle smile as he’d concluded what the pickle reference is all about.

Daphany begins ambling toward the office door when she stops midstride right after her hand rests on the doorknob.

DeShawn, is it really that obvious? she asks, pouting.

What? The six-inch heels or the pregnancy?

For your information they’re five inches. Not six… today, Mr. Over exaggerator. Get it right.

Feeling defeated by DeShawn’s remarks, Daphany toddles with her shoulders slouched into the back room to be met with the enticing smells of an oiled-stained bag facing her on the desk. She smiles. DeShawn soon focuses his attention to the amused customer before him once more.

Hi, sir, will this be it for you today? he asks yet again with a charming smile. The customer jokingly asks if there would be a pickle in the bag too.

Only if you’re telling me you’re pregnant. DeShawn laughs, brushing off the guy’s casual attempt of actually trying to pick him up.

All the customers are attended to and have left the store satisfied. Having a brief moment to regroup, DeShawn quickly replenishes the tables from earlier purchases. Gay or straight, even the butchest of lesbians have many reasons to do their shopping here. DAPPER is mainly a men’s boutique with an assortment of items, from fashion to home décor and caters to today’s quintessential urban male lifestyle; however there are a few gadgets the girls enjoy as well. He is expanding its products to someday include unisex fragrances under the DAPPER brand, which would bring in a much wider demographic. The history of the store’s name comes from his very own initials DAP as this was likely destined to be, a divine cosmic plan—so DeShawn himself thought.

As a young child, he was constantly reminded by his grandmother Mildred to dream big set goals with no boundaries and that’s exactly what this brilliant entrepreneur is doing. In his words, I was always dreaming, dreaming about something, until my dreams became the worst of nightmares. DeShawn isn’t referring to his ambitious drive to succeed but the taunted dwellings buried deep within, which changed his perception of I have a dream, by MLK.

Briefly interrupted from the middle of his daydream, in waltzes one of DeShawn’s favorite customers.

Hey, hey, gorgeous, he says as the over-the-top client comes bursting through the front doors.

Everybody likes Bernard Mitchell, aka Juicy Booty, although here at the store, they all call him Juicy for short. He is a walking, talking, breathing tabloid, a self-proclaimed page-six editor and head of a large gossip column—black gossiping queen in other words. Straight from Oakland, California, Bernard is just loud. He represents in every sense of the word Ghetto with a capital G. Juicy tells you everything you need to know and what you don’t care to know about the gaybor-hood and well beyond the gutter streets of the East Village in NYC and back to the dirt alleys of the San Francisco bay.

Turning to the front, DeShawn watches him sashay his way in like Moses parting the Red Sea as his eyes skim over the store’s lower items, like he is too good to take a closer look. However his taste settles toward the higher-end garments.

What can I do for you? DeShawn calls out, knowing it is a loaded-gun question.

"Oooh child honey boo-boo, you know not to be asking me that. Nah, sir, I am not that easy!" While he is popping his lips, covered heavily with clear gloss, he twists DeShawn’s professional offer into a future sexual favor.

Catch me when it’s past noon! Juicy adds, staring down at a pair of new brown Gucci underwear with the signature red-and-green waistband.

By this time, DeShawn is meeting him halfway in the middle of the floor.

Well my friend that will be in just a few minutes, he says, pointing over to the large silver-numbered clock on the store’s center wall.

You don’t say. Lawd, I thought I had a little more time to negotiate these prices. Uh, I mean, intimate factors involved, he says with a mischievous grin, continuously making it sound more sexual in nature. DeShawn makes it over to him as quickly as he can and places his arms over his shoulder to pull him in for a brief hug. They know each other all too well, and this is just them joking around. Indeed without a doubt they are close friends.

So sexy man, smelling all good and shit, how’s it going?

Not too bad. Thanks.

Have you been getting any rest? No crazy dreams lately, hun?

Just so you know. I’m doing fine, DeShawn replies knowing it is lie.

Bernard is keen on pointing out the devil in the details, your hidden flaws, and the business you’d wish to remain private. Right now, DeShawn had just got himself read, a slang term for a person or queen telling you your ugly truth. There wasn’t much that got past Juicy. A silence comes between them, which only fuels the match that is thrown to the kindling. Bernard wants to question DeShawn, but the back office door flings open. Out pops the doughty head of Daphany.

A sigh of relief comes to DeShawn as the heat was beginning to get to him.

She squeals, Juicy! in sheer delight. This makes Bernard remove his inquisitive gaze off of DeShawn. He answers back in the same manner. Daphany, gurl!

This gives DeShawn a second to reflect on his nightmares, turning slightly away from them to collect and create an invisible barrier toward his own troubles in his life from being exposed too soon.

How you doin’, boo?

Doing great. I finally got this little monster of mine to calm down. Daphany rubs both sides of her belly, indicating her pregnancy is draining her by the month. How about yourself? Did you find a man yet?

Find one, gurl, I know where I could find plenty. Once I get outta here, I’m heading over to Home Depot.

To do what?

Child, to get me a Mexican. They got plenty of them sitting right outside in a line, just waiting to be taken to a good home for a day—scratch that, an hour will do! he shouts while laughing so hard tears swell in his eyes.

Oh my God, Juicy, you’re going to make me lose my bladder!

Just as long as it’s not your water breakin’, gurl. Bernard pats his hand in the middle of his chest, thinking, Bless her little white bread heart. They soon let out an electrifying laugh so contagious DeShawn can’t help but join in too. Juicy is a class-act fool.

When are you going to be having that thang! Juicy stands back, pointing down to her protruding stomach.

"This thang will be entering the world pretty soon." A little irritated by his remark Daphany turns her body away from him in protest, showing signs of her erratic mood swings.

See I told ya it was the hormones, DeShawn reassures himself again.

I’m sorry, gurl. You know me with jokes, but ET phone home over here needs to be getting you some help!

Sneering his big bulging eyes in DeShawn’s direction as if to say, This heifer calls her unborn baby a monster but got the nerve to get huffy because I call it a thang!

Speaking of which … she starts changing the subject and deflating tension.

Daphany looks over to what is being referred to as an extraterrestrial. Now giving the stank eye to him like he too is in solid agreement with Bernard’s actuations of the use of the word given. These two are too much to take in at once.

I’m setting up interviews this week regarding my position as an acting store manager when I go out on maternity leave. Do you hear me, DeShawn? Daphany says.

Yes, he acknowledges.

"Uh huh, well, I don’t care who you hire as long as they know when I walk through those doors right there that I’m the H to the B-I-C up in here!" Juicy exclaims.

"Now, Juicy, what exactly is HBIC?" Daphany asks.

Head bitch in charge, OK! he says, snapping his fingers twice to make his point heard loud and clear.

What in the hell am I going to do with you, Juicy? DeShawn interjects.

Not a damn thang but give me a discount on these drawers cause you ain’t got nothing up in here on sale that a grown-ass diva like me can afford. If you don’t, then I guess you’ll have to settle for my own five-finger discount, he says while holding the pair of Gucci underwear in one hand, his other rests high on the meat of his hip. Walking over, DeShawn utters, Yeah, let me get that for you before you think you’re going to walk out with it for free.

You better, Bernard exclaims.

Jokingly, DeShawn tells Daphany to check the cameras to see if there is something they missed with their own eyes. Juicy gives him a cold smirk. Bernard isn’t the least bit shy about being a kleptomaniac, if he can get away with it, he will.

Well, it’s always a pleasure seeing you, Juicy. Take care of yourself, Daphany says, taking DeShawn’s remark as a cue to end their conversation.

Gurl, you know I will, he replies, flapping his hand like a broken wrist, in her direction. Tootles, he adds, rolling his big eyes back at DeShawn.

While giving Bernard the discount he’d demanded, he begins searching DeShawn’s weak poker face for signs it’ll be appropriate to bring up what is happening in his life again, especially since his breakup with a gentleman named Sydney. Daphany had went over to the shelves where the vast line of wine flutes rest to begin rearranging them by their unique shapes. Bernard figures the coast is clear and settles for the moment when DeShawn gazes up from the register and asks him for a form of payment.

Child, look—I know it’s been some time, but, sweetie, you got to let whatever it is go, or you’re gonna lose all that gorgeousness you have going on, boo, Juicy says while handing DeShawn a prepaid pink Baby-Phat credit card from his over-the-shoulder knock-off Fendi man purse.

Thanks, Bernard, however I said I’m fine, DeShawn says, giving him a look like, Brutha, please don’t go there, not now anyways.

Hmmm, OK. I’m gonna let you be, but I suggest you get it together or maybe get you some well-deserving rebound ass! He rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling, avoiding direct eye contact.

Who’s to say I’m not having sex. I