Downey-Beard and his band of Merry-Menby Baubo Blixem / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 18.12.2013
Whilst Lordly was dreaming of roast buffalo, Downy-Beard was wiping rib juice from his mouth and ordering the waiter, in not such a nice tone, to get him another round. He needed to get hold of that ‘continental prick’ before Christmas because what was Christmas without a windfall? Thing is he was not sure if the ‘continental prick’ was still in maintenance of him and he had not seen much of him since he bought the island and gone into unholy matrimony with the blonde. What a waste of time – getting grasped into models and marriages, thought Downy-Beard as a platter of spare ribs was placed before him. All he needed was a satisfactory lay once in a while and there were plenty of nice girls willing to pleasure him in passing.
“This revolution is man’s business and man’s business alone, but we do need the comforts that only women can provide,” sighed Downy-Beard as he tucked into the juicy sweet flesh before him. He looked at the insurrectionists sitting around his table all sporting rubicund top ends. There was that charismatic undersized one with homicidal whims about killing all whites – a bit worrisome that intellectual. Fuck knows what ridiculous illusoriness was running riot through his phantasmal. He also knew without a doubt that this one liked to fornicate with white women – it was written all over his face, his gestures and even in his vocabulary. Something happened to black men once they had crossed over. They were never quite the same again. White pussy had a way of rescinding a measure of a black soul. It wheedled its way into your being and left you never quite the same again. White pussy begat more white pussy. It was just better never to go that route and he, Downy-Beard the Commandeer, had never felt that way inclined. No, he liked black pudenda and that is all there is to it.
He looked at his other men – all short and a bit too plump. Maybe he needed to get one of those Boere Commandants to come and train up this collection of merry men. Some were from the informal settlements and had lived a life of undernourishment. Their eyes gave that away. Others were university educated in places like Germany or the States, and they were real softies. Spoilt, full of hot air, theorems and revolutionary aspirations but hardly any different to white boys thought Downy-Beard. He chuckled to himself at the idea of this lot out there in the field with AK 47’s. It just seemed preposterous.
Eish but the little rotund intellectual was going to be his biggest problem – thinking that he calls the ideological shots around here. This could be the “et tu Brutus” scenario if he did not watch him carefully. Those with militant iconic aspirations were the most unsettling and could never be fully trusted. They carried the cloak and the dagger in that glint in their eyes.
But back to Christmas – what is it he would ask that ‘continental prick’ for? A house? A Hummer? A holiday on an Island? A tender moment with a useless development plan? Nxta! – none of that held any interest for him anymore. It was fun while it lasted and now it was gone. So be it. His little suburban house was just fine. Why he had thought he needed so much more was beyond him … in retrospect. In fact he decided that he would not ask the ‘continental prick’ for anything. Better that way. What he wanted for Christmas, he decided, was for The Supplanter to simply fornicate himself to death. Ja, that would be the thing that would make him most happy and he decided there and then to make that trip to Nigeria to go and see just the pastor who could make this happen.
Read the first of the Christmas tales, How to Catch a Buffalo, here.
* Illustration © Alastair Laird