Ishmael Reed - Mumbo Jumbo

Why would you give me such responsibility? I’m just 1 man. Not Faust nor the Kaiser nor the Ku Klux Klan. I am an individual, not a whole tribe or nation.

That’s what I’m counting on. But if there is such a thing as a racial soul, a piece of Faust the mountebank residing in a corner of the White man’s mind, then we are doomed. It always seems that we talk to the many and then the few and then we are down to 1 man and just as the war between the races is about to begin that 1 man becomes a few and then the many until the next time around and we turn our back on 1 another before the whole procedure begins again. Perhaps 1 day it will be the many and stay there.

Berbelang rises from the counter under the scrutiny of the counterman’s wet crocodile eye. The eye which peered above hot primal mud.

Where are you off to, Berbelang?

I have to get back to the basement. I have some more thinking and planning to do. Maybe in a few days I can get back home. I haven’t seen Earline since the day before yesterday.

Berbelang leaves Thor sitting at the table; as he leaves, the counterman spits on the floor.

Thor hasn’t seen Earline since the night of the Rent Party. He can’t understand why Berbelang never permitted Earline in the Mu’tafikah plans. Why did he wish to protect her?

The counterman turns to Thor.

1 thing I can’t understand is guys like you mixing with the likes of these niggers.

My father owns the chain.

What?

My father owns the restaurant chain. He’s your employer.

The man’s lips begin to twitch as rapidly as butterfly wings flutter. The wet toothpick drops to the floor.

There is silence as Thor watches Berbelang walk down the street toward the basement hideout. Long gliding strides as if he were wafting toward the basement door.

…The counterman walks over to the table. Cleans it off.

There’s a little more coffee in the pot, sir, would you like some?

Thor deep in thought looks up.

O yes…Right, I’d like some more.

Nevertheless necromancy persisted, and on occasion…it no longer lurked in dark corners and obscene hiding-holes but flaunted its foul abomination unabashed in the courts of the Palace and at noon before the eyes of the superstitious capital.

Montague Summers

The History of Witchcraft and Demonology

AFTER MEETING WITH TOP aides, Attorney General Harry M. Daugherty faces the newsreel cameras and microphones. He reads recommendations in a bill to be sent to Kongress. A way of allaying the Jes Grew crisis which threatens our National Security, survival and just about everything else you can think of. He adopts a plan based upon the ideas of Irene Castle, the woman who in 1915 inspired a generation of young women to cast aside their corsets and petticoats. He delivers the Plague edict. Pelvis and Feets Kontrols.

Do not wriggle the shoulders.

Do not shake the hips.

Do not twist the body.

Do not flounce the elbows.

Do not pump the arms.

Do not hop — glide instead.

Drop the Turkey Trot, the Grizzly Bear, the Bunny Hug, etc. These dances are ugly, ungraceful, and out of fashion. *

From the bedroom of the White House, where he sits sipping whiskey, Warren Harding glares down at his Attorney General. A mere Mason, he is helpless to prevent what is about to take place. Raids on Washington Speaks go on until dawn. NO DANCING! signs of huge black letters and exclamation points are posted throughout the city. Anybody caught Doing it! Doing it! Doing it! is a federal crime.

It has been a busy day for reporters following Jes Grew. The morning began with Dr. Lee De Forest, inventor of the 3-element vacuum tube which helped make big-time radio possible, collapsing before a crowded press room after he pleaded concerning his invention, now in the grips of Jes Grew.

“What have you done to my child? You have sent him out on the street in rags of ragtime to collect money from all and sundry.

“You have made him a laughing stock of intelligence, surely a stench in the nostrils of the gods of the ionosphere.” *

* Modern Dancing— Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Castle.

* This Fabulous Century: 1920–1930, Vol. 3—Time-Life Books.

IT IS 2:00 A.M. Rain has fallen and created many water puddles in the streets of Harlem. Moving on an invisible cord, H.V.V. climbs the steps, a spider swollen on snake venom, of the building where Abdul’s office is located. All wormy and creepy-like, H. “Safecracker” Gould follows behind. The strange pair reach the top of the landing and are confronted with the glass door of Abdul’s office. It has the name of his magazine on it. They knock. Abdul comes to the door; he is putting his magazine together.

What do you want?

I would like to talk to you, Mr. Abdul. I am the publisher of the magazine the Benign Monster.

Hey man, what was the idea of you putting my picture there last week without my permission. Those weren’t my views and you know it. And I didn’t like the lewd photos that accompanied the article.

O we were merely trying to give you a friendly overture, perhaps boost the circulation of your magazine. According to our ratings we’ve climbed to 10,000 circulation. We plan to double that within a short time. We thought we could run some of the anthology you have…

What anthology are you referring to? Abdul says, eying the pair suspiciously.

Why the 1 you have. Woodrow Wilson Jefferson said so…

O him. Well I don’t have it…

What do you mean, you don’t have it?

I mean just that the words were unprintable.

But the tune was irresistible…

I don’t think so. I don’t like the lyricism. That kind at least. No, I don’t have it.

“Safecracker” whispers to Hinckle Von Vampton. Let me talk to him, I know the jargon.

Look man, let’s us cop the anthology; we may lay something on you.

Who is the corny guy you brought with you? Abdul asks, raising his head from the desk where he had been assembling the mag. Look, I don’t have it.

We can have you arrested. The building code. I saw 14 violations downstairs myself. We can close down the magazine and your office. We have friends downtown.

“Safecracker” Gould reveals a pistol.

Move over, let’s look into that safe. No use reasoning with this hothead, H.

Gould points to a safe located behind Abdul.

Gould struggles with Abdul in an effort to reach the safe.

Hey man, what are you doing? Abdul swings Gould around but cries out in pain as the dagger pierces his back. After he falls to the floor mortally wounded, Hinckle Von Vampton removes the dagger from his back.

What’s the procedure now, H.?

Open the safe.

“Safecracker” Gould puts his nimble fingers to work and soon the safe swings open.

Empty!!

Well it’s not here.

Let’s leave, Hubert S. Gould nervously remarks.

No wait, I have to cover my tracks. Take care of this, he says, pointing to Abdul’s corpse.

The phone rings in Biff Musclewhite’s office. Musclewhite talks after the person on the other end has identified himself and spoken.

O I thought you’d never call…I’ve been wanting to meet you but of course realizing you would be busy with phase 2…A corpse you say to remove? Of course I will remove it at once, Grand Master. It will be done at once.

TAPPING HIS OBEAH STICK, PaPa LaBas climbs out of his Locomobile. He walks into Abdul Hamid’s headquarters. His name appears on the glass door.

In the outer office is a desk, upon which lie magazines and newspapers including the newly published Fire. Its editor is Wallace Thurman; Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston are associates. Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Bennett have contributed poetry. Woodrow Wilson Jefferson has written a review in which he said that the magazine was pretty good but the contributors would have to go a long way to catch up because “their work didn’t make you feel like you wanted to go out and pineapple a necktie store.” The review has been clipped and filed.