"The Burial"

Bobby gets wide-eyed and conspiratorial when he spins this final yarn, like closing the coffin lid on all that haunts his psyche with a crowning puff of dust. . . . .

Whether St. Louis will officially admit the uncomfortable nature of the beast, it has a major underground "rape" crisis that most folks turn their heads and "avert their eyes" from because it would stir up too much shit from the peaceful multicultural fantasy that barely lashes the region together and keeps it from blowing up in outright revolution. North Side, South Side. One side streaming into the other like the Indians and Pakastanis slaughtering each other in the streets! See it from the mayor's perspective. . . . . no one wants to tell "the children", skittish enough already, that the maintenance man pulled a giant black rat from the swimming pull earlier in the dewy twilight hours and just threw in some extra chlorine "so no one would be the wiser".

For how do you balance blood-dripping rumor with "racial reality", while factoring in "what would have happened anyway" crime-wise in a major city? How do you keep white flight from stampeding out of the city wholesale with the money and jobs?

You keep "a clamp on it", that's what. To protect your job.

In fact, a lot of people are trying to protect their jobs. . . . .

Such as it was at Forest Park Community College, where Hayes attended in the early '80s. The buildings were connected by a series of underground tunnels where all sorts of unsavory folks gathered like lice. . . . . . from ghetto characters looking for a cool, dark place to smoke dope and bray with laughter to witches and warlocks looking for grottos to light candles and practice occult rituals. But this was the flakiness of an ultra-liberal learning institution, and no one stopped it-- and anything else would have been "intolerant".

Ordinary God-fearing Christians were under the administration's watchful thumb, but the Wiccans and the "Voo-Doo Willie" types were given free rein, practicing black sugar sex magick like dead-eyed turds calling on the demon "Throth" for dark-tinged favors.

There were all sorts of off-kilter Negro characters with fish-eyes stalking college students around campus. Sometimes young women would flat-out disappear down in those tunnels and never be heard from again. It didn't take much to put two & two together and figure out what was going on, this evil presence aloud to fester in the dark like a trap-door spider waving its appendages like jungle craziness. A lot of people in the mortician department were sick of their lady-friends going the way of the Bermuda Triangle, and decided to turn the tables. . . . .

They got an attractive co-ed to venture down into the tunnels in short-shorts and wriggle her behind in front of a suspicious character, getting him to pursue her down the tunnel-way. Then about three of the mortician students knocked him over the head with baseball bats and dragged "the stud" into the laboratory, which they set up like a mock funeral parlor where an open coffin was waiting. With the victim's mouth gagged and staring wide-eyed at the avenging students like "Buckwheat", dressed up like official-looking doctors and morticians, they conducted a mock trial and explained why they were about to bury him alive in the cold, cold ground.

To heighten the suspense, they even had "an embalming machine" chattering there in the corner-- ready to suck out his blood and fill the victim full of formaldayde. They played with the needle, pricked it in the air, explained its operation, and once they jammed it in the black rapist's leg he fainted right there and was dead to the senses.

They loaded up the school hearse and drove down to the local graveyard where an open plot was laying fallow. They dug down an extra distance, lowered the casket in, and then covered it up-- figuring that they would come back in a day with the lesson imparted. But when they returned, a funeral was going on. . . . . someone else was lowering another coffin in the same hole! With that jarring moment, everyone swore each other to secrecy and fled in about six different directions.

How does Bobby know this?

He was dressed up as "The Usher" at the mock funeral!

I ask him how he knows he got "the right Negro rapist".

"Bury 'em all & let God sort 'em out. . . . .", as he rocks in his chair and taps the ashes from his cigar.

Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com