Ishmael Reed - The Free-Lance Pallbearers

“Dat’s more like it,” the judge said, combing his pink bangs with a yard-long comb. His hair had been teased and fashioned at Mile. Matzabald’s Mudpie Factory. “Some of these art dealers ain’t got no RUTH,” the judge editorialized. “Now I’m going to give you ’linguints thirty days in the tombs for rapping about SAM’s and my ol ladies and playing the dozens like that.” An attorney for civil liberties rose to object to the arbitrary something or other. Seems that he didn’t like the way Judge Whimplewopper was handling the insolent youngsters. Before he could continue the Screws had tackled him, and putting a full Nelson on the man hustled him from the courtroom.

“Object nothin’—this is my courtroom and I was duly appointed by the Dictator of HIMSELF and I don’t ’low a bunch of willy-nilly nervous Nellie chumps to kick up no fuss. Right, boys?”

“Right!” answered the Screws, snapping to a position of parade rest.

“So you creeps want to get tough, huh? Another remark about my ma and I’ll give you a contempt citation. We’ll see about burn the baby burn. Now what have you to say for yourself?” Whimplewopper said, turning to the boy anarchist.

“We were going to take Sam’s Island, kidnap the motherfuker and make him tell the truth about those fourteen people who were killed up there in the John last week. We were going to pour gallons of mouthwash in the sucker’s mouth until he gave it to us straight,” Joel O. explained.

“Well for your info, kiddo, I personally headed the commission what investigated that matter and there were pretty respectable fellas on it-including Mr. Nancy Spellman, Chief Nazarene Bishop and vicar of the Screws; Irving Gooseman, a well-known philanthropist and civic leader; Aboreal Hairyman, our roving ambassador; and a very nice colored gentleman who was a retired head of the colored Elks of the world. These are men with fine backgrounds and they don’t be telling no fibs so I’m going to give you thirty more days for holding these men in contempt and impugning their reputations. And that goes for all those commie joos out there who were writing up all them books and articles about me and the fellas who sat on that distinguished commission. If I ever get you guys in my courtroom, I’ll teach you commie scum a little trick. You know it was a rabbinical committee what wrote them articles what brought down the Roman Empire and I don’t want that happening here. We won’t stand for it”

“How did a handicapped mind like yours ever get into judicial robes anyway, you weird-looking little moxy? I bet your joint’s the size of a flea.”

“He may be tiny, Joel O., but he’s a swinger,” said M/Neighbor’s son. “I saw him in Time magazine once with some really boss-looking broads. He seemed a little high and was showing them how to do the black bottom singing corny stuff like boo-boop-a-doop and wearing a fun hat on his nose.” The two defendants cracked up and laughter resounded in the courtroom.

“But he must be a switch-hitter, baby, because he had to go downtown on SAM in order to get the job.”

“Wait a minute! Whatta you think this is, some lousy social work clinic? Thirty years for arson, possession of illegal drugs and going from city to city to start riots! I’m fed up with you kids doing nigger dances and wearing your hair long. You seem to be having a lot of fun. Maybe thirty years in a federal prison will straighten you guys out. Take um away, Screws.”

Joel O. spat on the nose.

“GETUM OUTTAHERE,” he screamed as a Screw dutifully polished his snout.

“Fuk you and your generation of ghosts! We’ll convert the prisoners! None of you ol crow eyes over sixty will stop our drive.”

“Get rid of um, willya?” Whimplewopper ordered his Screws, as he gulped down a fistful of Miltown. “I’ll surely wet the bed tonight. It was better in the fifties when I presided over the bird hearings. Everybody was polite and dignified. Used big words like quibbicale and didn’t take no offense because I youse to be a hog caller. Those boys made me muss my pink bangs, sniff, sniff. There will be a ten-minute recess while I get myself together,” the judge sobbed, as two Screws assisted him from the courtroom.

When the nose returned, my case was called by the clerk. “Fannie Mae Doopeyduk versus Bukka Doopeyduk. Will the parties please come fawwad,” the court clerk said.

Fannie Mae wore a black slouchy hat and stood in high black heels and a black dress which made her seem hipless. Her eyes avoided mine as we stood side by side before Judge Whimplewopper.

“What seems to be the problem?” The lengthy bulbous nose peered at Fannie Mae.

“I tried to be a good wife, yo honnah,” she began. “As my grandmother used to say, ‘A hard head makes a soft ass,’ so I told him to go to da Harry Sam Ear Muffle Factory where they was hirin’ and where they makes some good change. But no. He wouldn’t listen. Having a hard head he rather work in that hospital where they got all kinds of screwballs skipping around. We nevvah had ’nough money for the fun I likes to have and whenever my girl friends come over to the house to play whist, he was always rude. Then finally yo honnah, one day he tried to viscerate me!”

“Viscerate you?” the nose said.

“Yes, viscerate me.” A chorus of aws and a few psts swept the courtroom. The nose turned to me.

“What do you have to say about visceratin’-I mean eviscerating your wife?”

I lowered my head and folding my hands in front of me answered. “Well your honor … I did … it … because I had become a … a … a … hoodooed.” Tumult in the courtroom. Reporters holding the top of their hats rushed to telephone.

“Quiet, quiet!” the judge said. “Order in the court. Do you expect me to believe such a thing?”

“It’s true,” I said to the nose with freckles on the tip. “My professor, U 2Polyglot, was rolling a ball about Europe on his hands and knees and cured me after I galloped into him. This was about the time the Chinese drove into the suburbs on bicycles with skulls for handlebars and kidnaped those heel-kicking housewives hanging out the wash. Well, to make a long story short, the professor had gotten this bottle of de-hoodoo lotion from my wife’s grandmother who is an ol witch taking conjure lessons through the mail under the Mojo Power Retraining Act. You see, she looks after her son who sits about the house all day in antlers. Well, anyway, the professor transformed me into my normal self and I’ve been working very hard at the hospital where Nurse Rosemary D Camp put me in charge of an ol man who died kissing Versailles 1919, so now I have a lot of time to devote to the movement whose leader has been in the John for thirty years due to a weird malignant illness. You see, we want him to get up off his big fat-”

“Wait a minute, Hooooollllllllllllddddddddittttt hoooollllllllldddddddditttttttt,” the judge said, turning his head to the ceiling, making visible two dark nostrils and a quivering red tonsil. “What’s all this talk about an old woman who pushes a ball around the world and a nurse who sits in the John all day? Do you expect me to believe that?”

“With all due respect, your honor, you got it all wrong. It’s Dr. Christian who pushes the ball all day through areas where nuns are raping the huns and my father-in-law kisses Versailles 1919. … I mean,” fumbling and stammering. “No, it goes this way … a … a …”

But seeing my confusion a man in the audience sprang from his seat and stepping on the toes of his neighbors, rushed into the aisle. “You left out the ol woman who kidnaped Checkers.”

And almost as swiftly another woman stood up and shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands, “Not to mention the plumbers’ mutiny.”