ROGER'S FABULOUS VOYAGES, PART 2, CHAPTER 8. (standard:humor, 2165 words) [8/12] show all parts
Author: Danny Zil	Added: Jun 14 2012	Views/Reads: 2053/1538	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Roger meets a street gang called The Black Pintos.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

that comes on at the slightest movement. 

“Hey man, me talkin to you, talkin to me to you to OOWWHH!!” the Singer
yelled and collapsed. “Shutin the fuck up, Harold!” growled a large 
mean-looking youth who was holding a baseball bat which had just 
connected with the back of Harold's skull. 

Roger nodded pleasantly at him. 

The guy just stared back. Christ he was mean-looking. Six feet of muscle
and twenty feet of bad attitude. Scars on his face. And they weren't 
from self-harm. He looked Roger up and down. Then strolled round him. 
Roger sensed he didn't like him but hoped he was wrong. 

“Whatin the fuck you doin hea, wite boy?” he growled. 

Roger swallowed. His post-cotal high vanished and Hysteria gleefully
replaced it. He looked round desperately for Hub Cap. 

“Let's waste the muthfucka, Duane!” yelled one of the youths from the
steps. 

Duane nodded. “Reckon Ah will,” he agreed and slapped the baseball bat
in and out of his hand. 

Roger decided that under the circumstances a spot of grovelling wouldn't
go amiss. He smiled, using his best ‘grovelling to a gang leader' look. 


Duane stared at him impassively. 

It seemed that the facial ingratiation wasn't going to suffice. Perhaps
some humble, arse-licking vocal ingratiation. Roger cleared his throat 
and addressed Duane. “I suppose you must be the leader...” he began, 
“of this, er, gang...” 

More impassive staring from Duane. 

“because you've proved yourself...” 

The staring intensified. 

“in lots of fights and things...” Roger trailed off. 

Duane continued to stare at him with those black, shark-dead eyes. 

Inside Roger's head Hysteria grinned and leaked ice-cold fear all over
his brain. Roger glanced round again. All noise and activity in the 
street was dying down and a small curious crowd had gathered to watch. 

Roger looked back at Duane. He was still staring at him. No-one moved.
There was only the terrible silence. The tension grew. More silence. 

In the crowd a child tugged at his mother's hand. “Mama, how long this
silence go on?” he asked. 

“Hush chile,” his mother replied soothingly, “ or the Bogey Man'll cut
yo balls off.” 

Roger however heard none of this light-hearted exchange as in front of
him, Duane held out the baseball bat then dropped it. It bounced loudly 
on the road in the silence. Then he reached into his jacket and drew 
out a long wicked looking knife. 

As one, the small crowd drew in its breath and moved back. So did Roger
but there was a wrecked car behind him and he couldn't move. Slowly, 
deliberately, Duane moved closer to him. 

Hysteria grinned and flushed Roger's entire nervous system with fear. 

Duane and the blade were now inches from Roger's face. “Wot you sayin,
honky? Bout me bein the leada?” he rasped. 

Roger swallowed. “I was only wondering if you were the leader because--”


“Because wot, honky?” 

“Because you'd proved yourself in fights and things.” 

Duane stared at Roger with his hard expressionless eyes. Then he turned
to the gang. “Wite trash wants t' know why Ah's the leada. Can you dig 
that?” 

The gang members fell about laughing at this example of their leader's
phenomenal wit. The small crowd disintegrated into laughter as well. 

“Aw that Duane, he shua breaks me up!” someone said. 

Soon the entire small crowd was shrieking with laughter. Even Duane was
giggling and strolled over to slap palms with some of them. Relieved 
that the tension had dissipated, Roger smiled and looked round. 

In his head, Hysteria cursed and prepared to depart. 

In the crowd, the shrieking and giggling continued. Encouraged, Roger
laughed too. A high-pitched unnatural laugh. 

There was an immediate silence. 

Roger's falsetto laugh echoed round the street like the cry of a small
dying animal then trailed off. Hysteria smiled and repossessed him. 

Duane slashed the air with his knife and strolled back over to him. “Wot
you laughin at, wite boy? Somethin funny?” he growled. 

Roger shook his eyes. 

The blade descended to his groin and remained there. Duane pressed
closer. 

“So you wants t' know why Ah's the leada?” he asked. 

Roger nodded his eyes. 

With practised ease, Hysteria supplied the answer inside his head in
lurid gory detail. Visions of stabbed slashed corpses, all the work of 
Duane, floated by. Gazing into those flat hard eyes, Roger found the 
answer all too credible. 

“Ah's gonna show you why Ah's the leada,” Duane rasped. 

Roger screwed his eyes shut and waited for physical confirmation of his
intra-cranial suspicions. 

Before anything could happen however, Roger heard something rather odd.
The distinct unmistakable howling of a wolf. From close by. He opened 
an eye and peered round. Duane stared back at him. Roger immediately 
clamped his eye shut again. 

Then he heard it a second time. It was definitely a wolf. And it sounded
even closer. 

This was serious. The fear of the wolf outweighed the fear of Duane and
his knife. Roger still had his eyes shut. He cleared his throat. “I 
say!” he announced fairly loudly, “I don't wish to alarm anyone but 
there's a wolf close by! Perhaps we should take cover!” 

Laughter erupted in the small crowd. Puzzled, Roger opened his eyes and
looked round. The crowd, the gang and even Duane were all laughing and 
pointing at him. 

Roger frowned and looked round about. Duane had stepped back a few paces
and his knife had disappeared. Ah well, that was a relief. Now where 
was that damn wolf? 

Then he heard it a third time. The wolf. But Duane had his hands cupped
to his mouth and had just done a rather convincing impression of a 
howling timber wolf. Really spot on it was. 

Roger's mouth dropped open. “So it was...it was--” 

“Me!!” Duane said proudly and howled again. 

The small crowd applauded and Roger joined in. 

Duane bowed a few times then held his hand up for silence. He cupped his
hands to his mouth again but this time out came another convincing 
impression. This time it was a monkey screeching. Close your eyes and 
you were in the jungle. 

Again the crowd applauded and Roger smiled nervously and joined in. 

“I say, that was rather good,” he told Duane. “Can you do any more?” 

Duane nodded and cupped his hands to his mouth. This time he managed a
decent impression of a braying donkey followed by a loud donkey fart. 

Everyone hee-hawed and slapped palms. 

A relaxed Roger grinned and felt confident enough to permit himself a
short laugh. Inside his head, Hysteria cursed and slouched off. 

“Those were excellent impressions,” Roger told Duane. 

“Ah knows, honky,” Duane said modestly. “That's why Ahs the leada of the
gang hea.” 

Roger frowned. “You mean you're the leader because you can do really
good animal impressions?” 

“That's right, wite boy. Ah does the best impressions in Harlem.” He
turned to the youths sprawled on the steps. “Ain't that right?” 

“Shua is, Duane!” one of them called. 

“Meanest muthafuckin sounds!” called another. 

Duane grinned proudly and turned to Roger. “You see, Ah does the best
impressions. That's why Ah's the leada of The Black Pintos.” 

Roger nodded. 

“Hey Duane,” said one of the youths sitting on the steps. “Did you say
The Black Pintos? Why Ah's in The Black Ponchos.” 

“The Black Ponchos?” repeated Duane and frowned. He scratched Roger's
head in puzzlement then realised his mistake and scratched his own. 
“You's in the wrong place, dude,” he told the youth. “Ah was wond'rin 
why you sittin wit us. The Black Ponchos hangin out two blocks away.” 

“Sheet!” said the youth. “Ah's sittin wit the wrong gang.” He got up and
strolled off. 

“The Black Pintos,” said Roger. “Yes, a very good name. Very strong.
Very masculine.” 

“Shua is,” agreed Duane. 

“Uh, Duane,” said one of the gang. “Ah thoughts we was called The Black
Pincers?” 

Duane shook his head. “No. We's The Black Pintos. Definitely we's The
Pintos.” 

“Hi there Black Pondos!” a female voice called from above them. 

“Pondos!?” the gang members mouthed to each other then looked up. 

A naked woman was leaning out the window. Her large brown breasts hung
like lush tropical fruits waiting to be picked. She waved to the gang. 
The fruits wobbled. 

“Hi Black Pondos!” she called again. 

Duane frowned. “Maybe we is The Black Pondos,” he admitted. 

“Hell no!” said one of the gang. “We's called The Black Pintos!” 

“Aw stop that, Suga Daddy!” Lush Fruits complained above them. 

The gang looked up. Lush Fruits was glancing back over her shoulder into
the room. Someone seemed to be annoying her. 

“Now cuts that out, Suga Daddy,” she repeated. “Ah ain'ts in the mood.” 

“But honey!” they heard Suga Daddy wailing. “You know Ah allus gets the
horn when yous hangin out the window talkin wit The Black Panties!” 

“Panties!?” the gang mouthed to each other. 

“Right! That's it! Ah's had enough!” growled Duane. “We's goin back to
ma place. Have us a meetin. Get this name shit sorted out. Les go.” 

Grumbling among themselves, the gang got to their feet and started to
stroll off. When they were a short distance away, Duane turned, cupped 
his hands to his mouth and howled like a wolf again. He waved to Roger. 


Roger grinned and waved back. “Thank God for animal noises!” he
muttered. “Certainly saved my skin...my wolf skin!” Sniggering to 
himself, he turned and headed back up the street towards The 
Soft-Hearted Whores Club. 


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