3.

We Hungry But Dem Belly Full

I. Observe Animal Behavior

The goose’s goose was cooked—Balut (fetus of a fowl): first sacrifice to The Black Soirée.
A favorite dish Rosemund had picked up in Thailand while traversing the East.
On a sunny day watching, from his tour boat, a Filipino migrant hunched like a startled cat burying eggs in sand along the riverbank. He thought little of it
at the time, figuring the Hunched-man an eccentric planting duck-trees.

3 weeks later, searching the city for a “Master
Chef”, he pulled that same man out of 8 lanes of traffic
after the wheel of the man’s food cart had caught in a pothole. The man smiled, offering him an egg, the contents of which Rosemund slurped then crunched, savoring
the vinegary taste. Suddenly, the man stood tall looking less pussy
cat and more like the “Siamese Tiger King Reborn” Rosemund had been told to seek.
From this man, he’d learned several bloody arts: muay thai and cuisine chief among them.
Nevertheless, a simple recipe like balut merely required biding one’s time and a taste for blood.

All of Rosemund’s signature dishes had deadly origins like this. The goose itself had been force fed in much the same way he poured castor oil down dissident throats until they burst from one end or the other—Foie Gras. 

The fish sliced against the grain with the surgical precision of Ichi the Slicer (a serial killer moonlighting as a doctor)—sashimi.

Rosemund won’t relive that terrible moment—veal.

No amount of scrubbing or spices would get the blood out
—his chef’s coat, making him more resemble a common butcher
—his nose, warming his face with animal sensitivity and alertness
—his fingernails, having handled beef steaks so fresh and rare that CPR could get them mooing
Such was the cost of doing business with The Commission and their Liberal hangers-on:

They’re all mediocrities, Rosemund thought, Dull porcelain-veneers dripping blood,
hating the fang for doing the biting. Perfuming their own
involvement with minted words. Always “ruminating”, but chomping at the bit—
never swallowing what they’d insisted be done despite their own open mouth protest.

Rosemund fumed, stomping his way toward the conference room: 

I’m their knife; a thesaurus their shield. They want their enemies fileted
“mignon”.
Cute
little pounds of flesh like the Agent in the Ball Gown hanging
delicate from the ceiling of my meat locker.

Walking through endless white hallways sounding a hollow-marble echo

Rosemund thought of Antiquity. In the here-and-now, shabby titans
of industry, diplomats, and entertainers with the weight of the world on
weary shoulders lounged next to pools of chemical blue
water stretching past Olympian limits. 

Not a one dripping wet. Not one drop. In this Crystal Palace,
God in his paradise felt shame at his own naked.
Ambition didn’t want to see itself shirtless. “The Help”, on the other
hand—youthful and fit with time to spare—could escape their tight white polos
with too sharp a breath.  Strong black hands
working their black magic on jowls and crow’s feet. As if
the meticulous counter-clockwise circles they rubbed out could stay Chronos’ hands
out collecting their debt for an steady diet of suntanning, plastic surgery, and processed food.   

Quite a ways down, farther
still, he began to see black faces in high places:
museum pieces worn as Ooga-Booga masks at last year’s Black Soirée above
two Kitchen Workers—on minute 12 of their 5 minute smoke break—whose white dinner jackets, blending into the wall, made them appear bodiless black
masks hanging around too.

Like a rubber band pulled too far from his kitchen, taut
Rosemund snapped pointing from one— the brother stammering (forever
getting his ass whupped by the letter M) “M-m-m-Mister Mon-Mont- Rosemmmmmund!”—to the other with his hair caked in Murray’s, a swirling mess of hair sheen and S-curls:

“If you want to breathe smoke-and-poison, get back to the kitchen and lay your nappy-ass heads on the stove! Turn it on Medium-High. Let that greasy bullshit in your hair cook!”

Stomping past Snigglin’-n-Gigglin’, Rosemund approached two massive white doors, framed by gold and containing golden inlays, shoving his way straight through.

“Good of you to finally join us,” the masked black woman—derisively known as The Rented Bamboula by her voters and detractors, having won her office beating the drum of “Revolution”—said from the chair across from the head of this bourgois table. 

Her tone pierced with ice shards. The sarcasm
melted on Rosemund’s hot-tempered volley, him serving
it back in kind.

“Madame Mayor. Flattered, as always, by your summons.  I serve at the leisure of this table; least member of The Commission that I am,” Rosemund bowed, looking up with resentful eyes at the 8 masked figures surrounding the long table carved from jet black Holy God Wood,  “Lesser even at a table seating a politician, an embezzler, a pimp, a shyster, an invalid, a drug-dealer and a narc next to our 7 colleagues.”

“Enough, Rosemund.” the Silver-haired Man at the head of the table yawned, “Have a seat.”

Brushing past her, Rosemund couldn’t resist a parting jab, “Nice costume, by the way,” he said regarding her white circular mask underneath the veil. Spook by the door is a bold choice.”

“Bastard,” Madame Mayor barked back.

Rosemund took his seat between the empty chair (RIP Father Ignacio
Bálonez) and the twitchy cretin in the dime-store Pinocchio mask.
Wry satire on the excess of this masquerade, surely,
but Rosemund couldn’t bring himself to much care for
shrill preaching or ironic self-reproach dressed up as cheap Entertainment.
He glanced briefly over at Religion’s seat vacant to his left.

“Cont—” he coughed, eyes locked on Madame Mayor, then addressed the room, “tinue, please.” 

II. Isolate

Mademoiselle woke to the sound of her teeth chattering.
Her nostrils puffed out
twin clouds above the red duct tape covering her mouth
in spurts like her engine was failing to turn over in the cold.

The only warmth dripped down her arms at the wrist;
bloody twine tying her hands to the meat hook above her head sawing and cutting into her wrists.
Fingers weak from circulation cut-off,
near-paralyzed by the specter of frostbite, still
managed to grab the hook and hold on, leveraging her
180 lbs (155 lbs of muscle and artfully-placed fat;
25 lbs of dress weighted past her waist towards her feet).

Kicking said feet to build pendular momentum
Mademoiselle would appear the ringing Belle of the Meat Locker
if any witness, including herself, could see her in that dank room.
Swinging back and forth, higher and higher, in her blue gown—
she tugged hard on her wrists with every backswing (well-being of her hands concluded
forgone) she let go of the hook on the final upswing before the dress started to ride up
too much and her hands forced their way through the hangman’s knot.
Her legs landed in a blanket of satin and denim while her head found comfort on abrupt, blood-stained concrete.

Pinky and ring fingers on left hand broken, thumb dislocated,
Right wrist fractured: Adrenaline
would be her date tonight.

No more time for pained metaphors or prettied-up thoughts.
Not with CHARLOTTE laying in wait. Any subsequent debrief would have to be
running commentary. Escape

was easy. Snaking her way around cow and pig carcasses while tearing the tape from her mouth but saving it for later. Next, breathe. Deep and

“HELP! HELP ME! I’M TRAPPED!”

The door open sesame’d with a blinding light,
confused dishwasher providing the only shade to adjust her eyes behind.
Letting the fleeing princess fly past him
—cradling the silhouette
of her gown with both hands like a runaway bride—he poked his head inside
hoping the freezer would grant his second wish (“mo’ bitches”). Alas…

III. Verify ID

Mademoiselle was quick
on her feet, out of heels
—sensation returning to her toes.
She grabbed a bottle of honey from a nearby shelf
to salve and soothe her flayed wrists
stuffing the remainder into the bodice of her gown. She detached a propane tank,
stove, still cooking, in less than 30
seconds, the kitchen staff beginning to crowd and gawk
didn’t find their voice in time to meaningfully object to the bizarre theft.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Rosemund’s Sous Chef mumbled when Mademoiselle briefly returned having forgotten the butane grill lighter.

She had learned in her line of work Security rarely pursued
a running woman asking for the nearest restroom—cradling
the 20 lb propane tank in her lifted gown-skirt out of sight. Loudly
proclaiming “Bathroom!?” to each Guard or security detail she passed
pinballing her way to her destination. CHARLOTTE
would be waiting in the ballroom for their “dance”. Even that Inexplicable-Abstract followed concrete rules.
CHARLOTTE would not (could not?) willingly inhabit “clay-pots”:
the black-and-brown-skinned. Mademoiselle knew she’d be safe as long as she acknowledged her dark complexion—proving even the faintest drop of Moorish blood could overshadow her
deep Spanish-European roots. Mister had been ensnared, presumably the same way she had been
all those years ago: gazing one eye into her compact mirror after skin bleach cleansed the flesh surrounding it a beautiful snow-white, invoking CHARLOTTE who in turn gifted her eyes seen as true blue. 

Whatever pressure CHARLOTTE would lay on her ahead, the propane tank came with an escape valve.

She’d kill Mister.
She’d kill them all to set him free.
She’d kill herself along with them, to rid this world of CHARLOTTE.

What she witnessed in that ballroom
chilled her to the bone.

This menagerie of middle-aged White elites, blood
on the dance floor drenched
in sweat. Bodies writhing and entwined,

dancing. On beat.
All in perfect unison.

This is no tone-deaf Comedy Jam.
Mademoiselle had been around the globe and seen
people of all complexions,
even the most fair, moving beautifully.
Tango. Ballet. Waltz. Swing. Riverdance. Even the sensuous
Belly and Burlesque.
But the bonafide white elite (not to be mistaken as interchangeable with Caucasian…)? Capital-W White,
that vacuous categorization full of pomp and circumstance
where cultures had once been? Their plodding death march had to count out
1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4 lest toes be crushed
underfoot. Systematic. Too high above the rhythms of life making
themselves ivory towers.

The background dancers crooned in unison, “TONIGHT I NEED YOUR BODYYYYY,” 

Mademoiselle approached the tall DJ booth where Mister spun
records seeming to rotate the dancers themselves.
She brandished the propane tank like a chair
keeping her “Dandy Lion” at bay. 

“Sorry I haven’t been able to give you my full attention. I’ve spread myself so thin lately,” Mister’s mouth cooed with genuine contrition, “But I’m free now.”

Mister’s head tilted down, showing its disapproval of the propane tank since Mister’s eyes rolling were blocked by the hideous square shades, “I see you have a plan cooked up,”

“I WAAAAANT YOU!”

“Let him go,” Mademoiselle said, one hand on the release valve of the tank and the other ready to light the grill lighter, “Else we all die. Here and now.”

“GOTTA HAAAAAVE YOU! 

“You think I don’t have plans against your plans, Mamzelle? Blowing up our relationship might kill everyone in this room. But I’ve spread them pretty thin as well. If even one clings to life,” Mister’s whole chest bellowed out this next part, “My control will persist. I never die. I start anew having only lost a favorite toy.”

Mademoiselle was surrounded by dozens of people spaced
equidistant from one another in a hexagon of concentric
lines twirling clockwise and counterclockwise. The farthest
dancers wouldn’t be fatally wounded by the relatively miniscule blast radius of a commercial propane tank. And even if they could be, the first couple of rows would block the shrapnel. CHARLOTTE had called her bluff.

The swirl of dancers taunted her, “I CAN FEEEEEL YOU! CAN YOU FEEEEEL ME OOOOOH!”

The hoarse laughter pumped by Mister’s spastic diaphragm rose above all noise; less sound than a croaking rumble of Mademoiselle’s ear drums.

IV. Slaughter Humanely

There were no depths the rich and powerful wouldn’t stoop
nor cost they wouldn’t exceed to show they can
throw the coolest themed parties. 

In years past, The Black Soirée was little more than an excuse to wear black
face; occult rituals on par with a Ouija board at a sleepover.
The mercantile-plantation class who established it merely scornful
over the topsy-turvy caused by “Free
us!” and the raising of arms in emancipation. All because slaves lost their cotton-picking
minds, unable to fathom how “freedom” would cost the country
they claimed a debt the equivalent of 3750000000 usd (in today’s money)
across 117 years. On principal. Interested
parties, including the slave-owners “made destitute” and foreign financiers, added an extra 0 to that tab. The ex-slaves, taking their freedom wrongly, just
couldn’t whip themselves into good fiscal shape.

In short: San Monique, home of Boca Chica, played
Civil War where the World played Global Economics.

The attendees to this year’s Black Soirée were all prepared for the usual—to slip
on their “Ooga Booga” masks to flaunt their African art caches purchased from museums—when Mister
“Francois Rigotte” (Auditor for one such establishment) offered the means to square
the above history and root cause of their misery for a bargain: 100 million dollars. Pool-money clearing his account, CHARLOTTE used his own body as mainline drip
to The Culture imbuing them with what they’d call that “je ne sais quoi” such a rhythmic people were naturally blessed with. All this
so some middle-aged white folk could “dance jive” or whatever. Stupid
reasons are reasons all the same.

“Did you blind him yourself?” Mademoiselle scolded Mister’s body.

“Blind? Every pair of eyes in this room is enthralled. They see. I needed to curb his capacity for skulking off in isolation. Now he thrives in social settings!”

“Dinclinsin!”

“You’ve said that already.”

“What do you hope to accomplish here, CHARLOTTE? I’ll never cede control to you again. I know your tricks.”

“With you, I could go far. With Mister, I’ll go many. You’ll see what I mean soon. Enough dirty talk. This stalemate is beginning to stale you. Now, behold.”

With a gesture as simple as Mister’s finger flicked
across the switchboard, CHARLOTTE held Mademoiselle’s arm out
in front of Mademoiselle’s eyes, turning it over unsure of her own magic. Mademoiselle’s radiant skin now glowing a white that wasn’t often seen without nuclear fire. The color
spectrum of the room had inverted like standing in a negative photograph.
Light becomes dark; and more damningly, dark-skinned became light-skinned.

An errant glance seeing her skin that ghastly white was all it took. 

CHARLOTTE stood where Mademoiselle stood once more.