FALLEN ANGELS

Kemi C. Amusan

CHAPTER 6: Blood, Balls and Toy Cops

 

“It’s terrible. Just terrible,” Tiffany frets.

“What is, honey?” Big Momma asks as she takes her seat.

“Uncle Kev here was just telling us about the woman who died from an abortion in his office,” Tisha offers, clearly unconvinced.

“I know Hero Vince has no woman working in the homicide department,” Uncle Bo says in disbelief.

“It was the cleaner, okay?” Kevin says defensively.

“Mrs. Anita? Isn’t she, like, 100?” Tiffany asks, bemused.

“She’s in her 50s. I mean… was,” Kevin replies.

“Hmmm,” Tisha says, pausing. “I could’ve sworn I saw her at the mall yesterday with her pregnant daughter.”

“There goes our lying little toy cop cousin again,” Tarik mutters.

“Abortion is dangerous, is all I’m saying,” Kevin continues.

“So is police brutality,” Peaches retorts. “Now, will someone please say grace?”

And so begins the longest grace ever. Uncle Don goes on and on with his pleas for God’s mercy as everyone digs into the chicken breasts, thighs, and wings. His voice drones on: “Mercy, mercy, mercy, Lord, for we’re about to sin,” while stomachs growl increasingly loudly around the table. Kevin opens one eye and leans in to speak to Tisha.

“What’s the color of your diary?” Kevin asks quietly.

“That’s just nasty,” Peaches says across the table.

“Lord, have mercy,” Uncle Don continues, “but certainly not on the perv who sits among us.”

“Diary, fool!” Kevin yells, furious at the possible misinterpretation. “I’m not asking for the color of their… sigh… you know that, right?”

“You all are going to hell,” chides Big Momma. “And Don, bring this damn grace to a close.”

“Not without a minute’s silence for poor Kyrie,” Mike says.

“Kyrie ain’t dead yet,” Finesse snaps.

“That’s it. That’s it!” Big Momma shouts, slamming a picture of Kyrie on the table. “Did that devil Danielle woman come down on you all? ’Cause God knows how the world’s gone to hell since Danielle’s sacrilege at her so-called divine decadence.”

“Tell me about it. The serial killing of those Hollywood oldies is an example,” Uncle Bo adds.

Kevin drops his fork. “We don’t know for sure that those murders are related.”

“All the women killed so far used to be media loudmouths. There are newspaper clippings beside their butchered bodies,” Finesse claims.

“We don’t know that either,” Kevin counters. “Can we just eat?”

“And that is all you’ll do here, Kev,” Tarik says. “No talking. You may only breathe. Sparingly. And eat. Quietly. How are you even gonna know the killings are related? You only get the bottom-barrel cases anyway.”

And so, the long grace segues into the chaos that is Sunday dinner at the Evans household.

“I don’t know, but can we all agree that rich men acquiring media houses doesn’t make a zombie apocalypse?” Mike asks halfway through the meal. “What is Heaven smoking?”

“She’s just crazy,” Tarik says. “Thank God Terry divorced her ass.”

“She’s no different from the men behind the seventh veil with her fearmongering. Must be the star falling on her head,” Darrel chuckles. “Heaven’s ‘great awakening,’ they called it. You know, like light dawning on you. ‘Awakening?’ Come on.”

“Maybe you should quit trying to explain your joke, buddy,” Kevin says. “It ruins it.”

“Shut yo ass, little man,” Tarik retorts. “Your little ass can’t be selling us out on the street and then telling us what’s funny at dinner.”

“Preach,” Peaches giggles across the table.

The table grows even rowdier as bellies grow fuller and the older uncles and aunts join in.

“Terrence isn’t a saint either,” Uncle Don argues. “I changed my mind since I saw him gather the necks of the Center, Power Forward, and Point Guard of the Sacramento Kings in the ‘99 Finals.”

“I remember. I remember,” Uncle Bo thunders. “That game should’ve come with a rating. My man shook hands with all three of them Kings after they wrestled him to the ground. Then, in the 3rd quarter, he punched Juwan’s jaw off, poked Mike’s eyes out, and kicked Roland’s balls so hard he begged off the game. No foul was called. Smooth criminal, our Terrence.” He sips his juice and continues, warming up to the tale.

But he’s interrupted by Uncle Jeff. “And that wasn’t the dirtiest thing our boy did on the court that day. 50 points in a single quarter. Dude came back like the devil. Fifteen years later, those queens are still trying to catch up, launching their own film studios and stuff. They’re the ones behind this show, LHB or something. Love, Healing, and Basketball, it’s called.”

“Sounds gay,” Uncle Bo says.

“Very gay,” Uncle Jeff agrees. “They’ve even got people agitating for a tournament. Nike’s itching to sponsor it, I hear.”

“Who’s gonna be on Terry’s team?” Uncle Jeff asks.

“Who cares? They’re old,” Mike says.

“I know,” says Uncle Jeff. “But I’d still pay to watch Jordan play competitive basketball with Magic and Bird. Terry is still in good shape. He and Mike could still whoop asses.”

“Well, I’d have to ask, ‘What year, Mike?’” Uncle Don says. “But Terry can whoop ass any day.”

“Not with his damaged left hand, he won’t,” Peaches chimes in.

“I don’t care how good Terry King was,” Aunt Magnolia says. “Each time I watch him promote those pesticides in Africa, the devil card comes up. Now, tell me, what do you make of that?”

“I feel you, Aunt Mag,” Mike says, hiding a snigger. No one wants to get Aunt Magnolia started with revelations from other dimensions.

“I hear Constance is about to throw the ominous pesticide gate wide open,” Finesse says.

“Constance will bust her hide wide open if it’ll make men look bad, which it will. No sane man is taking that ass,” Uncle Jeff responds.

“She’s just mad Sex with God didn’t get nominated for an Oscar, and Transcendence has six,” Mike says.

“Why not?” Peaches asks sarcastically. “A movie that glorifies forced reproduction would get all the nominations. The height of toxic masculinity.”

“You and Constance both,” says Uncle Jeff. “Take your scary Adam’s apple off my boy. Not his fault your penis jobs aren’t taking. Calling dude out on every little thing. Toxic masculinity? My black behind. And Constance isn’t one to talk. The evil she and Danielle launched with that Lilith logo has girls cutting off men’s balls, reclaiming some dark feminine sexual energy and stuff.”

“I blame the men putting their juice in bottles to help women further their independent single-mother song for that one,” Uncle Bo chimes in.

“They get lots of pleasure too. Exotic magazines,” Darrel says with a grin.

“Anything other than flesh-on-flesh breeds serial killers,” Uncle Don adds.

“Amen,” Uncle Bo replies.

“Brutal police officers,” Uncle Don continues.

“Amen,” Uncle Bo replies.

“And Jezebel twins,” Uncle Don says, giving Tisha and Tiffany a snide look.

“Yeah, women ruling out sleeping with men to conceive is everything wrong with the world,” Finesse sneers.

“Now, now, now, fine ass, this don’t concern you,” Uncle Don says. “The booty calls that gave you them six kids with six fathers in five years have been the high point of your womanhood. We the disenfranchised men thank cooperative women like you for being a finer and softer breed than Peaches here. Even her demon baby’s got the scary-ass crystal scissors up her shirt. Look at her.” He points at Tiffany. “Rosa, tell that devil grand brat of yours to take that shirt off.”

“Tiffany, why you got that bitch shirt on?” Big Momma asks, adjusting her glasses.

“Girl power, Grandma,” Peaches says. “And Uncle Don, quit being a perv.”

“Peaches, I know you’re gonna be 40 soon, but I’m gonna hit you both in the mouth,” Big Momma warns. “I say the witch’s shirt is peering at me with them scissors, and it ain’t sitting right with me.”

“Uncle Jeff’s afraid they’re gonna cut his balls off,” Mike chuckles.

“I am sick of your sick superstition,” Tiffany fumes, standing up.

“Demon baby one rises,” Darrel says, not looking away from his plate.

“This whole Lilith logo is an artistic expression of women playing in the big league. Now that’s an idea too meta for low heads like you who demonize a woman shining in her rights, just because she goes after what she wants.”

“A gold digger is what she is, and all a man has is what she wants,” Uncle Jeff says. “How they didn’t investigate Danielle after her husband died anyway. She came in a broke immigrant, half a decade later she’s a billionaire hiring the worst people in the game to run her business. Predator.”

“So, she’s a predator because she’s powerful? Because she stopped being a handbag?” Tiffany scoffs. “Hello, losers, Danielle and the crystal logo are what winning looks like up close. Think outside the ball, for Christ’s sake. It’s all you know, anyway.”

“Say what?” Mike drops his fork dramatically.

“Balls,” Tiffany says. “Your balls. His balls. Getting more balls. It’s all you ever talk about. Every damn sport. Tossing them, kicking them, dunking them. 24 of you on one hole. You never think outside the ball.”

“Tell them, girl,” Peaches adds. “Even the globe’s a ball.”

“Yeah, maybe the gods are trying to score.” Uncle Jeff rises to his feet. “Look, stick with what you know. The thrill of getting a ball in a hole is too deep for your thick head.” He turns to Peaches. “Her foul-mouthed nonsense won’t be here anyway if you didn’t go feminist and collect sperm from anywhere other than where the good Lord intended.”

“A white man’s sperm at that…” Darrel quips.

A loud crash fills the room as Tiffany flings her plate. Three rooms away, Finesse’s babies startle awake and begin to cry, their wails echoing through the house. Finesse shoves back her chair and hurries off toward the sound.

“Stop it, all of you!” Kevin rages.

“Who are you to…” Tarik begins.

“Shut the fuck up,” Kevin barks, throwing a picture of Kyrie at him. “Peaches, you gotta tell them now.”

“Tell them what?” Peaches asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Tell the twins who their father is, bitch.” Kevin throws his napkin on the table.

“Kevin, what in the chicken head is the matter with you?” Uncle Jeff demands. “We know we don’t talk about their father because of the… situation.”

“One of the girls is pregnant,” Kevin fumes. “Now that confused girl asked who her father is, and Peaches tells her to bond with a test tube at a sperm clinic.”

“How did you know about that?” Tisha asks.

“It’s in this diary.” Kevin pulls a pink diary from under his shirt. “It’s alright, Tiffany,” he says, pacifying his niece. “Kevin knows you’re pregnant.” He hesitates. “The diary’s yours, isn’t it?”

“It’s Tisha’s,” Tiffany says.

“What kind of creep are you?” Finesse cries, re-entering with two babies in hand, rolling her eyes. “Enough of this.”

“Now stop looking at me like I got smoke coming out of my head,” Kevin protests.

“I just know there’s nothing you won’t say to get back on the family’s good side,” Peaches retorts. “And it doesn’t matter if someone’s pregnant anyway. They’ll just take it out.”

“Like you were going to take them out,” Kevin replies.

“Wait,” says Tisha. “How was she going to take us out when she purposely chose to be a single mother?”

“Duh. She got a mislabeled test tube, Dummy,” Darrel shoots back. “She’s so racist, she won’t even carry mixed babies.”

“I’m just calling y’all out on your hypocrisy. Everyone’s mad at me for supporting my partner over that accidental discharge against Kyrie, but Peaches here’s been lying to y’all about her kid’s paternity with that test tube nonsense. The only sperm clinic she went to was her boss’s boardroom table. Her white boss. Willingly, I might add. But you all gotta play the wounded victim family card. And Kyrie’s now everyone’s favorite cousin because he’s comatose in a hospital downtown like he didn’t steal your Jordans last Christmas.”

A loud groan fills the room. Peaches is on the floor, wailing. “Kevin, why’d you bring up an old trauma? The rape. Why, Kevin, why?”

A dozen faces glare at Kevin.

“You heard the new rap about the black boy who joined the cop to grow some balls, but they played him like a toy cop?” Darrel asks.

“You just ruin it every time, Kev. It’s all you do,” Uncle Don says. “Make a mess at home, then play hero on the street. Killing your kin, I might add. You’re the bad guy, Kev. The perv who peeks in his niece’s diary. The toy cop who applauds as his brothers get shot. The fool who stands between his sister and her right to choose. Go back to your hole, little toy cop, we ain’t got space for you at this table.”

A shrill ring of Kevin’s phone breaks the silence. It’s Chief Vince. There’s been a suspected homicide in Beverly Hills involving Danielle Rudolph.