Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"Yo kid, this box, it must have got crushed open in the ride. It's all panties in there! Victoria's Secret and everything. And guess what? They're dirty" Horus added with clear glee, throwing the pair he had down and reaching for another.

"Put that back!" Bobby insisted, stepping forward to yank them away from Horus's face. Horus snarled and butted his head forward and Bobby remembered himself, pulled his hand back, unsure if Horus had just tried to bite him.

"Don't do this, Horus. What do think the congressman would say if he found out?" Bobby asked him. Horus responded to the threat by further snarling, but a few seconds later the pose disappeared completely, was replaced by a disappointed sigh and the comment, '"You're no fun, man," as he shoved the panties back in the box before him. Emboldened by the passive stance, Bobby continued.

"Look, as long as we're on the subject of our hostess, Piper Goines, I want to ask you a little favor. I know we all just met her, OK, but I'm really interested. Long term, you know what I mean. I think. . I think I could have something special with her and I would really appreciate it if you gave me a clear path on this chance."

Horus really thought about it. Cocking his head to the side and squinting his eyes a bit in consideration before nodding his head. "That's a good trade. The bitch for the drawers. Then I'm trying to find me a thong," his hands shooting back in the box, pulling out another pair and inspecting them.

Bobby Finley was not a strong man, but he was a quick one, flying across the room to grab Piper's undergarments out of Horus's clutch before he could shove them in his pants pocket. Bobby was good at leverage too — it's what helped him carry all that heavy furniture — and by placing his foot on Horus's thigh and pushing off with his full weight, he was able to effectively counter the larger man's advantage. It was the equal grips, Horus with one hand and Bobby with two, fabric wrapped around his back fist, that made the tug-of-war a draw, stretched the garment out like a flag for those seconds before Piper Goines herself walked into the room and broke the standstill.

"You shiftless bastards," Piper spit at them. When Piper stormed over, Horus let loose his grip first, leaving a mortified Bobby holding the panties when Piper snatched them from him. Stomping away, each footfall an assault, Piper almost made it out of the room before she turned around again. "You know what the worst part of this shit is? My sister told me not to hire a black company for this move, and I made a big fuss too about using Horizon. Then you no-account Negroes had to go fuck things up, didn't you? Why can't we ever do a goddamn thing proper? Be ashamed, you hear me?"

They did. Piper charged forward, her finger pointing, sending Horus scuttling away from her wrath and Bobby spewing frantic explanations.

Piper ignored Bobby's excuses, screamed louder to drown them out. "Be ashamed for yourselves. Be ashamed for your people."

Snowden, who'd trailed into the room on Piper's heels, was too stunned to follow them back out or make any comment at all. Even Horus didn't say anything until Piper had slammed the door behind her, then turned to Bobby to yell, "Look what you did! You had to go mess things all up. After work, punk, you're getting a beat down."

"Stop threatening him." Snowden stepped forward. "He doesn't have to take that shit from you."

Horus seemed surprised, even amused at Snowden's defense, walked close enough in front of him to whisper, "That's cool, dog. Then you can just take my shit instead. After work, when the truck's unloaded, don't go nowhere. Because I just scheduled you in for an ass whupping."

Snowden took his time working for rest of the day. Walked slow, took breaks, asked far more questions than he needed to. Piper Goines herself was no longer available for answers, so irate her sister was keeping her down in the back of the lower house so she didn't do something stupid and make them all vulnerable to a civil suit, putting her husband on guard in the apartment instead. Regardless of all the stall tactics, a point came when the back of Horizon's truck was empty, the receipts had all been signed, and the sole tip for the evening had been placed discreetly in Snowden's hand.

Fighting was stupid, there was nothing to be gained from it, it put both their bids for the lead candidate in jeopardy. This much Snowden told Horus when he approached him on the sidewalk halfway down the block, but Horus's response was just, "Yeah, you might got some points there, but what can you do? I got disrespected, so somebody's got to pay for it."

Horus popped every knuckle in his right hand individually, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, before going over to his left hand, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, and then cracking his neck sharply left and right, Eleven, Twelve. Snowden stood waiting patiently to be beat up, but Horus seemed in no particular rush, like he wanted to do things right. Finished his stretching, Horus began unbuttoning the length of his Horizon uniform, from his neck down to his groin, revealing a pair of blue and green striped boxer shorts. It was Horus's very flesh, however, that made the biggest impression on Snowden. Not his prison muscles, taut tributes to boredom and vanity, nor the tattoos Snowden recognized as having been etched into his skin with sewing needles and the ink of cheap pens, but Horus's unintentional ornamentation. It was the scars. The flock of thick, keloid slashes from all the knives that had tasted his blood. The dark, dimpled caverns from all the bullets that had failed to kill him.

"What are you doing?" Snowden asked nervously.

"I don't want to get any blood on my work clothes," Horus told him, balancing on one leg to pull his booted foot through the outfit's cuff.

Snowden sought his own anger, that electric green rage that was always begging him for freedom. It was still there, but its hate was focused on Snowden himself for getting into this situation. When Horus was pulling himself out the sleeves, both arms tangled behind him, Snowden sprung forward and punched his opponent in the stomach with all his might. It was a cheap shot, free even, one Snowden would have never considered if he wasn't fairly sure it would be his last chance at a shot at all. Horus collapsed to the sidewalk, gasping, spending a few seconds learning to breathe again.

A sucker punch was a shameful thing, completely without honor, so little face could be lost succumbing to one. It was Snowden's hope that Horus would realize this, give them both an out from this situation, and keep his ass down. It was a faint hope, quickly dashed when Horus's hand shot out and grabbed a broken half of brick discarded by the curb, one of those blunt instruments he was so fond of.

In one move, Horus was on his feet, the look on his face saying whatever rage had dissipated over the last hours had now been completely replenished. His arm pulled back, brick in hand, and it was very clear what Horus's intentions were. Horus was going to bash Snowden's skull in.

"Cease!"

The command came from behind Snowden. Snowden didn't move to see the source because Horus froze when it was yelled so Snowden assumed the person had a gun and worse, a badge that would actually let him shoot it. Tai chi slow, Horus dropped the rubble and let his arms glide up into a Y

"Mr. Snowden, at ease," Lester ordered. I've never been fired from a job by gunpoint, Snowden was thinking, but when he turned around it wasn't the snub-nose he'd seen in the truck's glove compartment. Lester held a hundred-dollar bill over his head with both hands.

"Mr. Manley, I do believe we can resolve this in an immediate and nonviolent manner, don't you?" Lester shook the note before him, the bill was crisp and new, and it crinkled as it flapped. Lester in lavender, immaculate with jacket and purple shoes on. A grin exploded across Horus's mug, erasing all trace of the homicidal mask of moments earlier. Coming closer, Horus snatched the money out of Lester's fingers like it might be a trick, gave a victorious yelp before offering his thanks, examining the C note up to the sunlight as he walked off.