The Tale of Juda Kufu

I remember like it was a couple of minutes ago, he jumped through the window with a loud bang! And started attacking everyone standing and his moves man, those were moves. It reminded me of a Ubisoft game I once played. Talking about it, his outfit was similar to it, very futuristic though something archaic about the swagger. He had a sort of sceptre, it was short though, about half a meter made from some strange material but from where I was tied to it looked like obsidian, static electricity emitted from the sceptre. 

Judging from what I managed to notice, the sceptre was solely for theatrics. This dude required no weapon, he was the weapon. It was as if he calculated every formula of his body movements, sequence, and patterns. He anticipated every attack like child's play. His face was covered under a cowl which made it difficult to see his face. For all I knew, he could have been a Master Assassin Santa Clause who had gone through a Neo-Life weight management program.

I was exhausted, my spirit was in two places simultaneously. In the one place, my spirit was trying to keep my body alive. I was tied to a dusty wooden chair in some sort of abandoned warehouse, I think. A band of some sort pressed against my forehead like a bloodsucker, draining every ounce of energy. It was like a prison that kept my inner being outside my body. Two foreigners stood before me, bliss in the smug of my capture. One of the two was a middle Eastern man while the other was an American woman.

In the other place, I stood in a throne room which stretched as tall as the Ulm Minster cathedral. The lower part of the walls was adorned by sculptures of historical events the royal dynasty must have influenced whilst the upper part was occupied by long arch windows that ushered God's light in and majestic pillars that seemed to fade in the gloom. 

I saw three people yonder to the throne, a man in a Kongo king attire, a woman in Kongo queen attire, and a younger woman, probably in her late teens in royal adornment leaving the throne room. 

Suddenly, David Kufu. Yes, the David Kufu, stood before me with his glowing golden eyes assuring me that they were on their way to find me. "Stay alive", was the last thing he said before hugging me back into my body.

The Pharisees that stood before me felt invincible, how foolish of them. Getting out of these ropes would have been a piece of cake if I had not have been a Spirit Nomad. I was steps away from death, my vision was partially blurred and I struggled to speak. 

I have been reckless my whole life, well, most of it BUT man! I don't know how I got to this point when you are inches away from death.  I have faced death many times before yet dying at the hands of feeble hypocrites is like Dumbledore dying at the hands of the Malfoy boy, ludicrous. I use to be a rebel without a cause, hack! I was down for any cause until the Beginning of what is to Come had begun.

My apologies, I had not introduced myself. My name is Juda Kufu, you can call me JK, and no not like the Zambian singer. Let's see, how would I describe myself. Hmmm?... Well, I am neither short nor tall, and olive moderate brown complexion, untidy hair with a get out of my facial expression.

In short, I'm that guy in high school that acts tough, you know the guy who is always in trouble with a teacher, the guy who enjoys being separate from the idiotic school world, and yes, the guy who will not waste his time going to the Matric Ball. Yeah, that's me. Oblivious to my beginnings just going wherever the hustle takes me. A wise girl told me once that sometimes the way forward is backward to the cradle of the occurrence. Ehn? whatever that meant. 

Where should I start? Hmm... Right from the beginning, I suppose. It was back in 1944, you know when we had black and white television sets and most African boys were abducted by soldiers or rebels. Nah... I'm just pulling your legs and besides the television was invented in the 1950s so that the world could witness African Revolution or maybe, brainwash people in the new millennium. 

Let's see, perhaps in the year 2008, If I can recall it… It was in the Life Orientation classroom and I was not paying any attention, as usual. My spirit had left my body and travelled through the classroom. Abigail, a classmate who set three desks behind me was worried about her mother losing her job which was a problem since she was the breadwinner and a single parent. Daniel, the idiot in front of me was imagining positions he was to conduct with a grade 10 girl during the interval. 

Yasseen the dude sitting next to me on my left had impregnated his girlfriend, he was utterly clueless about what to do, either reject the girl and unborn child or man up and take responsibility. Mishka Jacobs set on my right, she noticed I was staring at her and she responded my gaze by pursing, then, she smiled to assure she was not serious. I returned the smile.

I always admired her, no one at school knew her problems or how she lived. Her life was private from the high school world. Her mother had passed away shortly after giving birth to her younger brother and her father was gunned down during a gang war over turf. She had been raising her younger brother alone for eight years and being one of the popular girls in school, beautiful and diligent, she kept her life a secret. I am sure if anyone at school knew, it must have been Mrs Sahir.  

I was clueless as to how I came to be in the know of all this. My classmates would tease that I was absent-minded but how so if it was my spirit or soul that was absent from my body at such a time. 

Mr Langpiet was the replacement teacher for Life Orientation and I had no plans to befriend him whatsoever. Mr Langpiet's predecessor was a living legend and pioneer at the institution I attended and was a friend of mine and this dude comes from nowhere and boom! Replaced. Well, it wasn't actually like that, anyway, so I and him had not seen eye to eye. Therefore, I

constantly felt the need to instigate mischief and mayhem from an intellectual perspective during his lessons. Pulling the race card.

Teacher: Mr Kufu, why do you always have to turn my lessons into a political debate! Not everything is about race! [gritting his teeth]

Jk: Mr Langpiet, why does politics awake the weakling in you? And yes, everything is about race! [the smug on my face, dude… classic]

Mr Langpiet: seun jy het dit weer gedoen en hierdie keer het ek hoop jy hoef terug te kom weer hier. [he bellowed in Afrikaans]

Jk: Sir it's offensive to speak in a language the other does not understand.

Mr Langpiet: are you taking me for a bloody joke! [he said repetitiously] 

Jk: that depends on sir, given the fact that you are white, you might have always been a joke, it's just me being here to make it transparent.

Mr Langpiet: oh ... jy in die moeilikheid nou is jy stupid buitelander.

Jk: una-fada! seu pateta, matumbo, burro de Mer- [I started to cuss in Portuguese but then stopped myself] 

I stopped myself. I was looking for a free period and not a way into suspension. 

Being a refugee is far from easy, one cannot trust the native blacks because they are too radical, nor the Whites because they are too racist. Then there were the other Blacks called Coloureds, by far, my favourite among the South Africans. A trustworthy fact about Coloureds, they let you know how they feel about you from the get-go, no hypocrisy.

I attended Spes Bona FET, on a social scale the learners were automatically divided by race and culture (post-Apartheid effect) and luckily for me there were four other Angolans, Malachi Mazayi, my best friend, and some other kid that thinks he's cool because he has over 12 badges, show off but I guess it was easier for him since he was the one who began breaking racial barriers by mingling with all racial groups. Anyway, Malachi Mazayi (we call him Kai, for short) was a year behind me and I was finishing school that year and heading back home. 

I always wanted to go home where I think I still had a family, which was weird because it was not as if I would have arrived at the international airport in Luanda and someone would be there with a card sign "Juda, we have been waiting for you".

The bell rang for the first interval and by then the whole school had known that JK got into another beef with a teacher. I was rushing to the tuck-shop but that was difficult since other learners were rushing to the same destination, the school only had one tuck-shop so making one's way there felt like a pilgrimage. Someone from behind cried out "Jk, hold up!", I knew the voice, it was Kai coming to lecture me about my attitude.

Kai: ma nigga, you gotta stop doing that.

Jk: what?

Kai: nigga, please!

Jk: what!

Kai: don't act stupid it doesn't suit you.

Jk: whatever nigga.

Kai: you making us look bad and how do you even get away with it?

Jk: I'm so bad, I inspired Michael Jackson... I don't know nigga, it's like I start talking and they listen and believe me. You should have seen Langpiet's face, it went from pale to pink, red, blue, and maroon. Classic! [truly, man]

Kai: c'mon, give Langpiet a break for once! [he pleaded]

Jk: ehn? and you. Why are you bothering me huh? Ain't you suppose be comforting Miss Popularity.

Kai: her name is Rachel; how many times do I have to tell you that. Anyway, she's in the girls' lavatory.

Jk: what do you see in her... Hold up, what does every typical guy see in her?

Kai: I don't know about every guy. Rachel is special she's the type of per ̶ 

Jk: It was a rhetorical question! Nigga don't be a sucker for love. [Interrupting Kai] Kai: and what's that supposed to mean, nigga!?

Jk: you've been in love with that chick since grade 2. And she has had 4 boyfriends, Hold up...

5?

Kai: 2!

Jk: and you will be boyfriend number?

Kai: nigga don't let me face you!

Jk: ahh forget! Sucker for love. Hey! Look, Mrs Mazayi is coming. [and by that I meant Miss.

Popularity]

Kai: you are way into that Pac mentality.

JK: Yeah, "live duh life of a Boss Player until da day I die. ALL EYES ON ME".

Kai: nigga… forget!

Rachel: hey guys. [she tried to put on a smile]

Jk: try harder. [I suggested]

Rachel: try what?

Jk: your smile is too fake and depressing.

Kai: yo-fada! Rachel let's go. [and they walked away]

Jk: love you too brother. No homo.

Kai: I'll love you when you come back to your senses, Tupac! [pointing a middle finger from behind as he walked away with Rachel. Any sign of impertinence from Kai meant that he was displeased because being impudent was not something normal when one described Kai]

Jk: only God Can Judge me! [I shouted back even though I knew he was not amused].

That's me in the day, picking fights and arguments, trying to prove I was smarter and slicker. Well nobody in my condition of how poor I was or the fact that I was, still am an orphan, I am saying "was" as if something changed. Nothing changed. 

Well, the part of me being an orphan. My parents died during the Angolan Civil War. Don't ask me how I got to South Africa because I don't know I just woke up and I was, "here". Ever since then, I've been from one foster home to another. 

I ran away from my sixth foster home. To the streets upon a cardboard box! Which once housed a refrigerator is where I laid my back and to the sound of urban life, the pungent presence of evening ladies advertising their rogue bustiness to motorists driving by, the silent siren of the final evening train as it stationed, the traffic of distressed commuters driving home in desperate need of asylum. In the cold silent wind transporting a fusion of Tik and the Chronic, I would fall asleep to the harmonious catastrophic muse of the urban life.

You have to be slick and street-wise if you want to survive the streets of Cape Town. From experience, don't be walking into Gympie Street that part of Woodstock is restricted to the faint-hearted and those who wish to live with dignity. when spoken to by a thug or a wanna be tsotsi (gangster) you either back off or stand your ground and get backed up, don't hustle yay to little kids, don't be spending time with evening ladies (that's one of the easiest ways to get infected), don't act smart if you ain't, don't punk out when you down for the cause and no matter what, never get arrested because you don't want to be a 28's princess in the joint, especially at shower hours. 

The system is corrupt by the paradigm of white capitalist racism therefore Black men do a longer sentence, so, if you have a proclivity of violently provoking law and order, do not get arrested and I am talking to the misfits, solely. 

I steal though not from those who have little. I hate rapists with a passion, therefore, do not get me started, those things are like the waste that comes from the maggot that comes from the waste released by intoxicated drug dimwits. Out of resentment and disdain towards white people, I sold drugs in private schools. My way of destroying the Establishment. (note to readers: it took me years to accept the simple truth that whilst most racists are white people, all white people are not racists and because of this, one can not attribute guilt to an entire group. It would be like assuming all Black men are criminals or that all Muslims are terrorists, ridiculous).

Fortunately, even though I was gang-affiliated I was never down for their cause… I did my own thing, I stole but from the people who deserved it, from the unjust and greedy powerful people. The Mazayi, Kai's family, helped me tremendously when I ran away from my sixth foster home but that was until Mr Mazayi passed away, Mrs. Mazayi became afflicted due to her husband's death. 

It would have been a Herculean task remaining in a house rained with sorrow, nevertheless, I decided to leave the Mazayi house. I returned to visit months later when they finally felt comfortable with my absence. Being a simpleton, running away from the only house I considered home.

I took the streets of Cape Town to my stride.  I became one with the streets. The busy morning, as commuters made their way to work or school. Black men converged on stop stations waiting for an Afrikaner who would show up with a pickup truck, looking for masons of cheap labour.

In the cluster pungent perfume of the early morning, you could smell racism as all the Afrikaners who collected such labourers would typically place a dog in shotgun while the lot sat aback. In short, I was one with the streets, surviving each day at a time. 

After leaving the Mazayi house I thought about begging though the thought of it even as a child, gave me pause. Untaken to the lifestyle of a pauper, I started Car Watch a while after leaving the Mazayi's house, it's a nasty job... All day under the Sun just trying to make ends meet and that's if you are really lucky because if you ain't it's either you get robbed by older boys, tsotsis or the owner of the car gives you 50 cents and tells you to buy a lollipop.  

How I got here, I was leaning on my Aventador as Lindiwe joined in to inform me about the Pharisees and their involvement with the Maggilot ̶ well, not so fast. Where was I? oh yes; Car Watch; a nasty job but it gets you by enough to survive under the scale of the dammed and miserable, that's like being profoundly under the food chain like so low you are theoretically submerged in poverty AND it annoys me every time rich politicians gather in five-star hotels to converse in their so-called conferences on how they are going to fight poverty, no one can fight the inevitable but endure it.

I remember this one-time a white man, an Afrikaner with a big moustache, plump body, and a pinkish pig complexion, that thing that occurs to white people when they spend too much time in the Sun, get nervous or when they walk alone down a quiet street and the only person coming in their direction is a Black male. So, when we see white people turn in such a colour it's an indicator that they think we are going to rob them. Hilarious.

Anyway, the dude looked like the Afrikaner version of uncle Vernon from the film adaptation of Harry Potter who had promised me 30 rands if I'd looked after his flamboyant factory-painted 2005 Toyota Prius, yak!

While he entertained his abnormally large body at the doughnut store behind Winners, I was nearly attacked thrice all in the sake of watching his embarrassment to Toyota's lukewarm vehicle and about 4 hours of spending money on food that would later kill him, he came and paid a mere ̶ NO, a common 5 rand.

I started auguring with him, he started the racial BS and I kept hitting with punch lines. Suddenly, I became calm, the sinister type of calm, and told him "Hos jy, pay me what you owe me, in fact, give me all you have". He looked at me and said "you little Kaffir I will ̶", but I interrupted him with the famous Coloured slang phrase "Dala what you must!", I threatened him and just like that, I got his wallet and his car keys.

Nah not really, the dude started to glitch, this was known to us as the post-Apartheid effect for white people when they cannot speak freely without sounding offensive and racist in the presence of a Black person. It's pure entertainment when it happens. He wanted to argue with me but just couldn't find the edge. It was as if he was fighting with himself though his submissiveness to my voice gave in.

By far the most hideous car I have ever stolen it was so hideous it took me a week, three days, twenty-one hours, and thirteen seconds to sell it off the black market(yes I was counting). So, you are probably wondering how could a ten-year boy divert a car, drive away with it and sell it off the black market?  As I mentioned, you have to be streetwise and everybody can say it but I ain't got a problem taking care of business.

Ever since then I began my hustle, getting or should I say, diverting things from rich white people, and all I needed to do was compel them with my mind. I was clueless as to how I had done it or why I could do it. As long as I got what I wanted. The rest was not my problem. It took me time to compel at will but I learnt how to control my emotions and that made it easier to compel others. I was not greedy with the lot I got, I stole from the rich and shared with the destitute. Hmm... I was some sort of Robin Hood from the hood. Nope, not true at all. Why would I share? I struggled every day from dawn to dusk. 

To everyone else, complaining about what was in their food, or how horrible their bosses are, some school kids would either complain about a teacher, a peer, or parents. To the lot, it was just another day in paradise. So, when I got mines, my piece of paradise I was not planning to go saint about it. 

I moved from my one-room refrigerator box under the Foreshore Freeway Bridge to a three-room apartment in Bantry Bay but in no way had it meant I was rich. I was still poor in many ways, I had dishonestly made my money and even though my targets were wealthy capitalist racist pigs, that did not justify my actions. I would regularly help Kai with financial problems, he would constantly question the source of the wealth I obtained every time I offered him some cash but I never told him and it was out of trust that he accepted, unknowingly, dishonest money. 

I have been exposed to a certain brand of crime which felt comforting though pandemonium to the well and faint-hearted, it felt justified to a homeless boy whose only purpose was to feed himself. I ran away from my fifth foster home the day I witness how they worked to put food on the table. I was a pawn in their scheme of bereaving people. 

Two refugee boys, probably Congolese, who by all honesty had worked their hearts for the little they had earned. I ran across and fell to the muddy ground by act not far from them, by this, they came to my rescue. As exhausted as they were, in all manner of educated grooming they helped me to my feet while removing off the mud from my drags, they advised me to be careful. I recognized the younger of the two, he attended Cornflower, a public primary school in Lenteguer. "Run…", I whispered but it was too late. My foster brother had released his nine-millimetre pressing his piece on the Cornflower boy's head. 

No verbal language was required for such a situation. Two Congolese boys at gun

point, were dispossessed by two Xhosa tsotis. What took me to shame was the fact that I being an equal refugee was exploited. We left them in a shock at what had occurred, dubious and yet accustomed to the street reality of the Kosovo township of Mitchells Plain. I wept as I followed after my lot, distracted by my thoughts. Those boys worked hard for the little we had deprived them of. How were they to retell the event? Was their family depending on that which we stole? Suddenly, I was sucker-punched. 

For a moment I had forgotten my name as I struggled on the muddy earth. "You f$&king makwere-kwere. I told you! This piece sh$t is useless", my foster brother bellowed as he pointed the tool at me. "Zakes, let's go. Ekse! Let's go!", urged his accomplice. There was I once again before a gun, before death. I had given minimal care to my life, like a slave subjected to a slaver, I was subjected to the presence of scorning Death, always showing its presence though never consuming me to its abode of an obscured abyss. 

Even as a child being exposed to such a remorseless reality, I felt like an adult concealed in a child's body. What was my life worth? Absolutely nothing.

I was filled with a presence, not bewitched though as if a spirit had irrupted from the confinements of mellowness and took over. 

I stood between me and my foster brother watching as if I was watching myself in a movie. Was I possessed by evil? I do not know though I wanted retribution, my lust was for instant justice. Sibosiso, Zakes accomplice saw something in me that made him flee from there. Like an apple from a tree that suddenly falls to the ground, this was his predicament. 

Zakes fell asleep on the muddy earth, never to wake up. That was the last time my feet graced the muddy alleys of Kosovo.

The bell rang for the second interval I was packing my notebooks and designs and leaving the Graphics and Design classroom. On my way out a wanna-be gangster eyed me like "you better watch your step", I eyed in response, "thug till I die, you want sum of dis! I didn't think so". Punks who made it here thought they could bring that Coloured or Xhosa version of a ghetto lifestyle to school… Yeah, they could only try but not to a gangster who was born in a country that was war-minded.

"sup", said Mishka, materializing from my flank. "Yo", I replied, "look, I'll get to the point before eyes begin to focus here", she stopped me. We stood alone closer to the gate that led out of the Engineering section of the school. "who will see us here, Mishka?", "don't forget we are pretending to be on opposing teams here", she answered.  "your primeras at Mountain View are falling out of line and I can't keep covering up for you. That's your turf, remember?", she murmured.  I scratched my head, just as I was about to reply, "our distro from Diocesan are starting to suspect that the Connect is from here and that's a problem for us because we have kept this school clean. Just yesterday a kid from there was here snooping around. The block is hot and we need to lay low".

The concern on her face was solemn. She needed the money to continue to raise her kid brother and live a normal life as possible.  We started the drug cartel together for different reasons. Mishka needed financial independence from her low-life uncle and I just loathed white people. So that solved the problem. We were a two-man operation with distros in almost every white-populated private school in Cape Town. We even had direct primeras spying on our distros to make sure everything fell in place.

Now that things were going sideways, Mishka would suffer the most. "remember plan C", I asked her, she scoffed at the thought, "unforgettable…", displeased by the reminder. "well, take this card. Everything you need is there. It can cover you until you graduate from varsity, perhaps even after", I handed her the access card but she refused to take it. "I told you I don't need this, Jk", she complained.  "Look, when we opened Shop we knew this wasn't going to last forever. So this is your insurance", I placed it on her hand. For a moment I became distracted by the warmth of her hand. Focus, JK.

"Okay…", she sighed. "What about you?", she asked. "Mishka, this is our last year and I'll be departing soon", "Angola?", she asked, her tone was saddened by this revelation. "yeah. I need to know where I come from-", but you one of us", she reasoned but to no avail. "will you be gone for long?", she asked after a while as we just gazed at each other. Mishka was making me feel what I managed to avoid since the start of our partnership.  "I don't know. I have to search for whatever family I have. I don't know how but-", "don't forget, you already have family here and don't be too long", she punched me on the chest. "I'll miss you, JK", she confessed. "I haven't left yet. We still have like, three weeks left", I explain. "someone's coming. I'll text you later", she gave me a wink and walked off.          

"Juda?", said a kind and ceremonious voice. There was only one person at school that called me by my first name. Mrs Sahir though learners had a habit of referring to her as Miss, it must have been due to her aura and youthful elegance she radiated.

Everyone, that, including me had a soft spot for her and all the learners, especially her Learners were overprotective of her. She is kind-hearted as she is brilliant. Mrs Sahir was the English teacher, if you thought English was boring then you have not been in her classes. 

"Might I have a word with you", I had no mother though the way she had addressed me was like when your mother finds out the wrong you have committed. Busted!

I followed her to her classroom, 10E. "I am worried about you, Juda", she said with great concern. "there is no doubt that you are an exceptional learner, a brilliant young mind though your attitude towards your schoolmates and teachers does not reflect your academic performance", she always found the best way to be straight forward without being horrible.

 "My apologies", I shrugged, "Juda, there's one thing that can build you or destroy you, it can make you the greatest among men or feeble. What might that be Juda?", she asked. "Attitude, Miss. Sahir. Attitude", I replied. "I hope this is the last time we discuss your attitude, Juda", "yes, Miss.". "Now, is there anything else you would like to add to the table?", For every unusual reason I always suspected her to be supernatural? She had a cunning way of reading my mind.

Apart from Malachi, Mrs Sahir was the only person who knew that I was not normal. She was excellent in listening and remarkably patient and always had the perfect advice.

 I suspected her of being a Celtic Druid. She gestured me to have a sit. "Yes?", was her way of saying I'm listening. "I don't know if it's a dream... everything feels real. I read somewhere, that in dreams you have more than five fingers... though in the dreams I have five on each hand...", I paused, "in the dream, I'm stuck between depriving someone of something I never had and doing what is necessary", I waited for her to interrupt but that was close to impossible.

"I don't know if I really… have a choice... for some reason, I have to assassinate a man before his son... and, and... I, keep on thinking, I never had a father. Why would I wish the same on another... I... it troubles me because as much as I know the boy is going to be fatherless, I feel no remorse. It's just a... a dream", I frowned. I waited for her response but she knew there was more, "my constant contemplating... in the dream... wakes me up.

Though what bothers me the most is, what service am I indoctrinated into… to become so ruthless... I felt merciless. My only concern was for the boy... and, and... not if he will be okay. Though if I let him live, will he in his adulthood seek retribution... it feels real. The touch, the smell, and the pain... anxiety.", I concluded.

In all honesty, she should have been horrified, instead, "how many of such a dream have you had, Juda?", "since the beginning of the trimester. The same dream... always.", I frowned. She stood up from her chair, "Juda, your actions will be defined by what you choose to consume. Your people, the Kongo believe that one does not commit but bear a crime. Most of your dreams have come to pass. Therefore, I want you to be cautious and prudent but remember, many who have seen the future and have tried to temper with it have failed greatly. I ask of you not to do the same". I nodded in adherence. "Is there anything else?", she asked, "no...", I lied. She smiled mirthfully at me, "later then. Off you go", she gestured to the door. 

With my hand in my pockets, I strode to the tuck shop still empty from customers which, was odd, I bought a packet of onion and chutney flavoured Lay's and leaned against one of the pillars on the stoop minding my business.

Oblivious to what was happening around me such as the  Black boy on my right who just got punched by some Coloured Stupa because he was making moves on his girlfriend or the grade eight learners who were playing football with a tennis ball or that Angolan self-centred narcissistic wannabe Barrack Obama on my left who was beatboxing and free-styling with his click or Janeen, one of Miss Popularity's popular friend who was breaking up with her boyfriend because her parents had divorced and she was moving with her mum to Durban, therefore, the long-distance relationship was not an option. It never is. The point is, I was the only self-maintained learner during the second interval until my homeboy and his girl-friend Miss. Popularity came to disturb my tranquillity. 

Kai: what it does, son.

Rachel: hey Jk.

Jk: well there goes my peace. Like for once can I enjoy watching the misery and stupidity of these idiots in peace.

Rachel: you forever so rude. No wonder, you still don't have a girlfriend. 

Jk: yes... well, now we all know why I have never been dumped. 

Rachel: I broke up with him! 

Kai: you two knock it off! 

Jk: really? what did your Ex-Bf do? Wasn't he the one or two or perhaps three?

Rachel: forget it! 

Jk: oh, I was just getting started. 

Kai:  don't do it, Juda! 

Jk: what did he do to you? 

Rachel: he tried to force himself on me!  

Rachel began to weep. Typical. If there's one thing I hate about men is the fact that some of them are worse than pigs, no, in fact, a pig should be offended when compared to a rapist condescending trumplike bastard.