Heather Brown: The rape girls

Suddenly it was all over as Kimberly, Kitty and Jennifer left him to lie there alone on the bed, slipping into unconsciousness from pain as blood trickled and oozed from between his legs.

The last thing Gilda saw before she turned and left the room was a fly buzzing curiously over the glob of semen on Newman's leg, and then landing at the edge of the sticky pool and eating his lunch.

"I suppose you heard about Robert Newman," Gilda said to the others, coming in late. "I heard it on the radio in the car on my way over here."

"No, what?" Jennifer replied.

"His doctor has told him to take off from the movies indefinitely."

"How come?" Kimberly said, trying to keep a straight face.

"They say he's developed some sort of throat infection from working so hard," Gilda said.

"A throat infection?" Kitty said incredulously. "What's that got to do with what really happened to him?"

"It seems that his magnificent voice – you know the one that's knocked all those leading ladies off their feet and made him the idol of millions…"

"Yeah, Gilda, I know the voice," Jennifer interrupted.

"Well, that very same voice has mysteriously changed. I imagine he sounds like a kid whose voice is changing," Gilda said.

"Gosh, I wonder how that could have happened?" Kimberly laughed.

The others laughed in unison. However, the laughter soon ceased. It was time to begin planning a new strike.

Standing in the middle of the room, Kimberly faced Kitty and said, "Now it's your turn."

"You got any ideas who it's gonna be?" Kitty replied. "I'd dearly love to sock it to a white man, considering all the shit they done to me."

"I think I've got something even more satisfying for you," Kimberly said with a look of complete assurance on her face.

"Shit, what could be better than me gettin' the best of a white man?"

"Only one thing."

"What's that?"

"A white nigger," Kimberly said dourly.

"A what?" Gilda said, obviously puzzled. "You explain, Kitty," Kimberly said.

"She talkin' about a blood that don't wanna be no blood, so he spends all his time trying to be like he was white."

"Oh, you mean somebody who tries to pass off for white," Jennifer said.

"Not exactly," Kitty said. "Sure, there's plenty with light skin who try that, but the kinda man I'm talkin' about might be black as the ace of spades. Instead of tryin' to pass, he tries to pretend it don't make no difference he's a nigger and spends all his time doin' what the honkies want him to do."

"Well, give me an example," Gilda said.

"The Reverend Simon Peter Washington," Kitty said distastefully. "You know, the so-called civil rights leader who spends most of his time going where white folks want him to go trying to keep the niggers down and in their place. His message is always the same: Wait and take it easy. Which translated means: Keep takin' the white man's shit, while, meanwhile, Simon Peter Washington wears $300 suits and drives around in an air-conditioned Lincoln Continental." Claudell Ranforan was angry, the cords standing out on his thick bull neck. He was so pissed off that his face would have been bright red if his skin weren't the color of anthracite coal.

The white man in front of him was trying to jive him as far as Ranforan was concerned, and he didn't have the time or patience for it.

"Listen, you tight-ass Woody Woodpecker cocksucker," Ranforan said to the astonished white man. "I don't care what kinda plans you done made. You either meet our demands or you can fuck your Goddamn award along with your mama."

"But… but…" the white man stammered, a stooped, gay-haired gentleman named Winston Pendleton who had devoted his life to humanitarian causes because he was born rich and could afford to do that instead of working for a living in a car wash somewhere as Claudell Ranforan had done before Reverend Washington had picked him up.

Pendleton pulled his quavering voice together and said: "The United Humanitarian League has been pointing to this event all year. We assumed Reverend Washington would be honored to be the first recipient of our Brotherhood Award."

"He'll be glad to take the trophy off your hands," Ranforan said, "because, shrewd cat that he is, he understands it's good for the movement. And what's good for the movement is good for him. He's willing to do you the favor of showing up – but just remember, it's a favor, because he's a lot bigger than you dudes, and you need him more than he needs you. You dig, whitey?"

"Are you sure I can't talk to Dr. Washington himself?" Pendleton pleaded. "If only I could talk to him in person I'm sure he'd understand."

"You can talk to me," Ranforan said arrogantly. "I'm his right-hand man. I take care of all his business. You try and get past me and he'll be pissed and probably tell you what you can do with your Goddamn Brotherhood Award."

Pendleton fidgeted. "Well, after all the time and money and effort we've put into this award it would be a disaster if he decided not to show up."

"Now you bein' sensible," Ranforan said.

"Tell me again what exactly it is that Reverend Washington wants."

"Cunt, and plenty of it," Ranforan said with a gold-toothed leer. "I already done made that clear to you. Before Reverend Washington accepts this jerk-off award he wants to spend the night knee-deep in pussy. Young, tight pussy."

"All right," Pendleton mumbled meekly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Have your cunt there at eight tonight or you might as well give your award to the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan," Ranforan sneered, and then turned around and walked away from the troubled Pendleton.

Pendleton didn't want to give in to Ranforan's demands, but he realized that if he didn't all of his work on behalf of the United Humanitarian League would end in a disgraceful shambles. He needed to find some girls, or at least one girl, for Washington. He walked over and sat down in a chair, holding his head in his hands, wondering what he should do.

Moments later he sensed somebody was standing in front of him and looked up to see The League's new volunteer standing before him.

"Oh, I didn't see you there at first, Miss Jackson," Pendleton said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Call me Kitty," she said.

"Okay, Kitty. Can I help you?"

"No, I'm all right, Mr. Pendleton," Kitty said. "It's just that I saw you, well, if you'll pardon my frankness, arguing over there with Mr. Ranforan, and now you're sitting here looking depressed. I thought maybe I could help out."

He looked up at her, anxiety creasing his face, and finally said in a weary voice, "How old are you, Kitty?"

"Twenty-one," she lied.

"I guess you're old enough to hear this."

"What is it, sir?" she said.

"The Reverend Washington… Uh, well, his assistant, Mr. Ranforan… Well it seems there's more to Reverend Washington than meets the eye. Mr. Ranforan tells me that Reverend Washington won't appear to accept our Brotherhood Award unless we meet certain demands."

"Really?" Kitty said, opening her eyes wide. "That would be terrible. The League is counting on him. What does he want? Maybe you should try and get it for him."

Pendleton sighed. "The problem is in the nature of Reverend Washington's request – it's most irregular."

"What is it?" Kitty asked.

"I don't want to shock you," Pendleton said. "But he won't appear for the award unless we send him some… girls."

Kitty pretended to be shocked, then she smiled. "Maybe I can help you," she said.

"But…" Pendleton gasped, astonished.

She laughed. "No, no, I won't go up there myself," she lied, "but I can call around and dig something up."

"You really think you can do that?" Pendleton asked in wonder.