Chapter 8

Records, always go with the documents first. Even the high ups, all the way back to the '70s, like the reports of Kennedy using narcotics for back pain. Another candidate was getting electroshock treatments for depression, once the cat was out the preverbal bag, so was he, out the election.

'A snail's pace,' it was a magazine, published by Gorgon's Palace, minimal rotation, low subscribers, specifically targeted to African-Americans between 18-45, sparking small seeds in their brains about the agenda. Both the mag and the publisher, stuffed in one office building.

The title is genius because change does happen so slow for us, it really does feel like it's at a snail's pace. The magazine started in 1995, the same year as the birth of the internet when it was fully commercialized.

Records also led me to figure out that Pepe the Frog was a symbol for the Alt-Right. Another vast web-based, darknet movement, revolving around white supremacy, Islamophobia, antifeminism, I mean the list goes on and on, as I mentioned before. If 'The Black Horse' was Superman, Alt-right was Lex Luthor. The rabbit hole goes deeper when conspiracy theorists concluded that Pepe the Frog was also a resurrected Elder God. Which…ah is a bit heavy for the morning right A little too Lovecraftian for the chestnut-licked dawn.

Monday. I decided not to regale the kids today with my conspiracy nonsense and newfound information on the 'Alt-Right.' I buried my face in the 'Odyssey.' However, Mick, the eager twelve-year-old, kept hovering around me. He's the only one who listens. He reminds me of myself, so I dropped a gem in his ear when Marie wasn't looking. Today she was dressed like a yellow jacket, buzzing around the kids frantically, her stinger looking rounder than usual.

"You know how they say carrots help your eyesight, it doesn't. It's propaganda from World War II."

I was wrong, and already, I ruined him, the same way I was ruined. Adults press their 'logic' on kids without thinking of the consequences. I'm one of those adults. If I ever have a child, I need to be aware of this. I stared at Marie for a while after taking a break from reading. Lord bless whoever puts a kid in her.

The Ford Mustang, the panther on wheels, loudly crawled to a halt in front of the library. It didn't feel like a panther today, more of a mule maybe. Whatever misadventure my brother went on the night before proved to diminish his usually horrible mood into a silent ghost of himself. The same ride to work, but we didn't talk, maybe because we didn't smoke, the connect was empty, similar to his gas tank. And what working adult wants to speak in the morning, sober that isI never mentioned that I saw him at my apartment.Luckily, presidential candidate Melvin Burns, previously known as the prince of darkness, screeched over the radio.

"TO CALL ME A FASCIST IS NOT ONLY AN INSULT, BUT A DUBIOUS STATEMENT BY THIS NATION'S CORRUPT POLITICIANS! WE ALL KNOW WHO THE AUTHORITARIANS ARE!"

I wondered what Aries was doing. Throughout her drunken rambling, she forgot how sweet unemployment could be, with unemployment that is. Plus, she discovered a weird deposit into her account for five thousand dollars.A gift from a distant relative, perhaps

Whoever sent it, I didn't care, that gift landed right on time. I needed her on the outside. That's how I found out about 'A snail's pace.' I wouldn't dare research it in the office. Who knows where the spies are I looked at Helen's brown door when the paranoid thoughts struck me. Her, invited to the meeting, her being my first link to The Black Horse, still typing with one finger. It doesn't make any sense. Every time I walked by her in the hallway, she'd grant me a full view of all thirty-two teeth she had in her mouth. I didn't know humans could smile that wide.Anacondas can unhinge their jaw.

Then it happened, a presence of divinity washed over me as the fluorescent light flickered. Some indomitable aura neared me, scoped me. I froze from the energy alone, and then I saw him. That last smile Helen did wasn't for me, it was for the person behind me. He wore a sharp double-breasted sandy-brown suit, medium size, medium height, round-framed glasses, and unusually focused eyes. His shoulders were tense, and in my first glance, he seemed made of stone, as if he didn't breathe. There was something inhuman about him, and it didn't reflect in physicality, something spiritually was substantial in him. Helen nearly broke into pieces when they embraced in a hug.

The strangest part was that he stared at me during the hug the entire time. Sending me non-verbal signals, messages I couldn't decipher, truly stuck from the odd occurrence catching me off guard. I didn't know it at the time, he would introduce himself to me as 'Ankh,' but later I would discover that he was Zeus. Also, I'm lying, the strangest part was that he was nearly half of Helen's age, and she was quickly knocking on the door of the mid-50s.

My facial expression never changed, but the scene ultimately left me behind, I was nailed to the floor it seemed. I heard faint laughter in the corridor. By gentle laughter, I mean Helen's laughter, Zeus never spoke. I wondered if he was even real.

"Rambo think you should move now. Rambo has to clean up," said Rambo, the janitor. Not the sharpest…well, you can tell from the introduction. But the old man shook me out my mental coma.

"You thinking too much, mmhhhmm, bout that man. The brown man. I used to think about brown men, mmhhmm. You shouldn't, though, ain't good for ya," Rambo continued.

"Uhh, what you talking about, Sly" I nicknamed him that after the actor from the movie. He never got the joke. He sincerely thought I viewed him as bright.

"Talking bout you and Rambo thinking about brown men. No good for ya. Unless you thinking bout Rambo, then we talking."

I let the rest of the day wash over me, hell I even enjoyed it. I forgot how quickly time flies when you're sober. It's true what they say, sometimes weed can sap out the life of whatever activity you're engaged in. The only puzzle piece missing was Aries, but I knew where she was, where she dwelled, waiting for me. No one in the office even mentioned her departure. Like I said, we were ghosts, and like that, the day was over.

I wasn't mad at her. I was mad at my libido, my shortcomings. In the two minutes she took to reject my 'finally-off-work-sex' in exchange for cuddling, I felt more shame than five years of my twenties when I resorted to escorts in big casinos. The eerie emptiness mixed with entering another person. I'll never understand it, but there is a time where even though you're having sex, your soul isn't. So, like any man, I let my mind wander, back to the case, back to 'A snail's pace.' However, on the surface, I would be distant to her. I can't allow myself another rejection, at least not for a few hours.

I snatched up the pamphlet and slithered my way out of her bed and into the living room. The image was a snail with the sun on it's back, an Ankh symbol in the center of it. The trail of the snail was broken chains, exciting imagery. I get it. I stumbled on a section called 'The Agenda' near the back. Aries attempted to interfere with an Eskimo kiss, I denied her. Keep the distance, I thought.Don't succumb just yet.

'The Agenda' was about three paragraphs, riddled with radical statements, bold, unflinching opinions on the state of black people in America. Reminds me of The Black Horse op-ed page. Here's an excerpt:

Do not go to the white bank, the white supermarket, the white anything. You won't even be a number to them, below even that. Below human. They will NEVER see you as human. Let them attempt to please your ears with the chatter of forgiveness, and place the image of your brother hanging from that noose. Settle the anger deep within your heart; they will only smile in your face to gain from you. They feel no sorrow for what we have suffered. They will try religion and catechism. Sins leaked to another sinner, concealed in a box they call 'Confessional.' That cross looks to me like a skinny man with short arms, trying to hug the world. Violence, trial by fire, will be near. True independence will scare them, and they will attack. Remember Black Wall Street. Remember that their spirituality is based on imagination.

Powerful stuff, too bad, I don't hate white people. I don't hate any race. This is arguable though. In my mind, I genuinely believe all countries that rise to power do it on the backs of slaves. Slaves of all races, however, the African-American is the most recent slave. Therefore the whip marks are still bleeding. So, to a degree, maybe I do hold a particular animosity buried inside. This is common; I'll need more pamphlets to see where this 'Agenda' goes. I'm not convinced yet. I was ready to give myself back to Aries, let's see if she'll accept me now.

"Ankh is the scarecrow."