by: Bobbie Raye Duke
Not too long ago, there was a very big crime situation
going on all throughout the state of Georgia. It didn’t happen
right away, but it was kind of like a flower. It started out as
a tiny little seed, and then just took its time growing. From
the top on down, things was gettin a little strange. Chillun as
young as 10, hardly more than li’l babies, was committing
abominations at their worst, ranging from prostitution to
homosexual gang rape, and was doing it behind their parents’
backs. ‘Twasn’t the poor folk always, ’twas the rich/middle
class folk, too. (Technically, though, it was the type whose
parents verbally/emotionally/physically or sexually abused ’em
one way or another…or it was the other way around, and the
parents just went and spoiled ’em rotten on command out of their
own wimpiness. Or the parents were alkys, you know how it is,
some of ’em, sadly, love Jack Daniels or Jim Beam more than
their own wife/husband/son/daughter. Parentin’ obviously ain’t
for the weak. Not like any of the above is any excuse for the
abominations these children committed.)
Whenever these particular children was caught by the law and
asked why they done what they done, sadly, the answer was always
the same– “I did it for Creamy Jade.” This was quite mysterious
to the law/public. But they didn’t care much. Just cuff em and
stuff em and that’s the end of it. So went it with all of them
criminals all the way up to age 30. Surprisingly, the age range
didn’t go no further, and the crimes were always the same.
Theft, auto theft, stereo theft, rape, prostitution,
hitman/woman jobs, anything. Anything for “Creamy Jade”. Later
on the law was finding out that they was doin’ it for money, not
just “Creamy Jade”, whatever that was. But money for what?
When Bo and Luke found out about this wierdness going on, Bo,
particularly, was a wee bit on edge. He was a wee bit worried
about the General Lee, the well-known and beloved ’69 Dodge
Charger of the county. (Especially its new CD THX sound system,
which he’d installed last week.) Goodness knows if this
wierdness ever hit Hazzard County, Sheriff Coltrane, Deputy
Strate and Boss Hogg would all too obviously be too busy sitting
around, chompin’ Chee-tos, picking their toes and watchin’ Dick
Clark’s Celebrity Bloopers. Later on, the Governor of Georgia
found out, finally what was the source of all this wierdness,
madness and mayhem.
Crack.
That chunky stuff they smoked in the city. The murder rate was
also very high in Georgia, with people droppin’ like flies and
not a single soul being able to figure out why. Later on, one of
the reasons (“reasons”, if you could call ’em that) was that
some younguns was findin places to smoke crack, and it was
anywheres in the state–backsides of supermarkets, ‘hind the
Mickey D’s, bathrooms of fancy hotels, kitchens in Mexican
Restaurants, mall bathrooms, mall elevators, elevators to the
dentist’s office, good lord, even churches in the midst of the
night. And they’d, without words, kill anyone who got in their
way. Without hesitatin’, without thinkin’ twice. Some cops was
killed, some preachers was killed, and boy did these crack heads
have the advantage. They was all hyped up on crack. (There was a
killin’ in the big city last week, cop vs. crack head, and the
cop did know kickboxin’ and so did the crack head. One can only
imagine w/bone marrow chillin’ what that looked like, a hyped-up
crack head spinnin’ like a cuisinart with that poor cop just
lookin’ at him all perplexed.) Things was gettin’ real barbaric
in Georgia. People was plumb afraid to go out of their homes
sometimes. The people callled this madness “The Georgia Crack
Wave.”
And then when what the people finally called “The Georgia Crack
Wave” hit Hazzard County…well…that’s when the beguine
*really* began to begin….!
It seemed normal when the beat started…but it’s funny how the
punches of the percussion always happens when everybody lets
*down* their guard. The Hazzard County General Store always had
a favorite person…or so it seemed. Why is it it that sometimes
you think you know a person, and you think they’s as normal as
they can be, and next thing you know, for some odd reason, you
find too late they’ve got a geranium in their cranium?
That’s the way it was with Mary Anne Mc Dermott. Everybody in
Hazzard County knew her as the sweetest, most innocent thing to
come along since Sailor Moon. She was about 17. Everybody in
Hazzard County coulda swore she had the life of a princess. It
wasn’t idyllic, I mean, of course it wasn’t. Not a single soul
in this world or any other has an idyllic life. She was as
lovely as Karen Pendleton was, y’ know, the girl from the 1950’s
Mickey Mouse Club? Her mom was a farmer who grew the groceries
and hauled ’em into the big city. Her daddy owned his own maple
syrup, which everyone loved.
Wouldn’t you know it, he abused her emotionally behind closed
doors and made her feel like she was worthless, been doing it
ever since the poor lass was 2.
She worked the ice cream/soda shoppe at the General Store. As it
turned out, she was also peddling/doing crack in secret. How do
we know? Everybody in Hazzard County knows because one night
there was a blood curdling screaming going on in the General
Store, and Rosco/Boss Hogg/Deputy Strate couldn’t make it in
time, they were lying unconscious throughout the whole thing
with cougar tranquilizer darts in their hineys. She was found
completely ripped to shreds–literally–like one of them gol-
durned horror movies. There was blood scrawled all over the wall
behind her, and it said “Creamy Jade is not satisfied.” *sigh*
Everyone in Hazzard County did know about the Georgia Crack
Wave. They also knew right there and then that it also hit
Hazzard County. So many questions. Why did Mary Anne have to
die? And die so young? And why was she, of all people, doing
crack? And who or what was this Creamy Jade? There was a recent
town uproar in the Hazzard County town hall, and in the end,
Uncle Jesse laid it on the line–one thing was certain, the wave
had hit Hazzard County, and they was going to have to accept it,
no matter how much it hurt, and adapt…but the keyword was
adapt…not…give…up. Now, a lot of people, including Bo and
Luke by their little Palm Computers Daisy gave ’em for Christmas
one year that there was a little ol’ Karate Dojo in the big
city. Appropriately enough, the Sensei, Yamashita Akimoto had
named it “The Little Dojo in the Big City!”
Being that Bo/Luke couldn’t carry guns while on probation, and
no one in Hazzard County could now anyway what with the
Columbine thing that went on, the whole entire town, that
generally didn’t believe in violence anyway, decided to learn
how to defend themselves by means of Martial Arts. And thus
beginneth the exodus into the Big City. Bo/Luke were the two
Moses, leading the way. Needless to say, it was really fun
gettin’ there.
*SFX General Lee roaring, Bo/Luke YEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAA! Dixie
Horn*
*siren*
And everyone else was always behind ’em. Thus beginneth a whole
new journey for everyone in Hazzard County. Spiritually, the
Duke family, in particular, was about to boldly go where no Duke
has gone before.
Meanwhile, somewere, deep in the heart of the big city, somewhere
in a hidden place no human being really went, kind of like when
locusts hide in the crevices of a wall on a cold day, one night,
some evil sinnin’ was going on. Several children as young as 10,
and several adults old as 30, and all in between were bowing a
sort of Indian/Arab/Hindu style in thi hidden place made to look
like a small Buddhist temple, filled with the smell of Dragon’s
Blood and lavender incense, and an eerie, solitary singing, which
was actually the beginning of La Bouche’s dance it “Be My Lover”:
La da da dee da da da da
La da da dee da da da da
La da da dee da da da da da da dee da da da dee da da da da da..
Only the someone had made it, through technology, sound like it
was A capella, and that was the only thing that was playing
perpetually. Originally intended to be a romantic song, someone
was making it sound ominous and eerie.
They all seemed to be worshipping something…but what was it? On
a throne before them was something that was pure evil incarnate.
She was oriental, and about 39 years old, but she looked as
athletic and supple as Cameron Diaz. She was made up in green
kohl and malachite-type makeup that she’d put on her eyes, and a
rich red ochre on her lips. The woma had the insolent brazen gall
t dress up in nothing but a tenny emerald-green bikini top and a
matching thong bottom, even before the likes of children.
Ironically enough, she also wore an intricate golden crown, as
intricate as that of the ancient Chinese Empress Cixi. The woman
was abomination. She looked upon her “Royal Court” as they
worshipped her.
“Enough. Get up.” she said. One would expect her to speak in
chinese or with an accent, but she spoke in the accent, simply of
the average drug queen. The music cut off. The Court got up to
look at her. They had’t a choice. If they did so much as fart,
their lives weren’t worth much more during this little ritual
than a truckload of dead rats in a tampon factory, no matter if
they were 10 or 30. “Today, we commend you, me and my spritual
silent master, on your deeds for this day. My seraphim have
distributed the crack cocaine like good litle boys and girls
throughout Georgia. Everyone’s scarfing it up like the hill filth
does their peach cobbler. The cherubim, those who are not one
with this secret society, have been consuming it like good little
boys and girls. I however do not approve of the way production
has been slowing down. Not enough pounds of crack cocaine are
being produced by the seraphim to meet the demand of the
cherubim. The seraphim have been punished according to their
sin.” A few of the woman’s servants, men in loincloths and
chains, brought out the actual crack manufacturers who had, in
her eyes, not been keeping up production speed. Seeingthe men in
loincloths and the use of modern music and the oriental
atmosphere all togethe, it was a most wondrous jambalaya of
absolute illogic. Anyone could see the headwoman was as dotty as
a doughnut. The manufacturers’ carnal bodies were bound, gagged
and impaled on rattan canes. Their bodies had been unclothed and
strategically gutted open, their internal organs pulled out for
all to see, their gaping chests, midriffs, stomachs and legs
hanging open for all to see that not a single internal orgam or
muscle was left in these places. “And so goes it with
incompetence,” the woman said as if she were some sort of high
powered television executive. “Incompetence pays the price for
its existence. I trust that production *of* the actual drug will
speed up this time, as will business in general. Understood?”
“Yes, Creamy Jade” the multitude answered in reply.
Meanwhile, three weeks later, the Dukes and most of the other
Hazzard County citizens (all those who could fit into the little
tiny Dojo) were sharpenin up them Karate skills o’ theirs. Bo was
busy throwin’ a sidekick, and gol-durned it all if n’ it wasn’t
the painfullest thing he’d ever done. “Good lord! I feel like I’m
tryin’ to just push mah leg till it just pops off my body like
I’m a Ken doll!” Akimoto laughed with joy. Bo always thought he
was a wee bit loopy, not mean or dotty or anything, but loopy
like his brain was just a big ol’ bowl of Froot Loops. “Soon you
be able to discipline yourself with push-ups on knuckles! He he
he!” *Torture resistance training at its finest*, Bo thought with
a frightened, wincing look on his face.
They repetitously kicked, yelling out loud, all the way. The
Dukes seemed to have the best holler, the country cousins. They
sounded like psychotic karate rednecks from hell. They all
trained with different things, push-ups, flying kicks, spinning
kicks, back kicks and any kicks you could think of. They trained
in a lot of different arts, including Kung Fu, Japanese
Kickboxing (which made Bo feel real healthy, he he he), Judo, and
lotsa stuff like that. It was mighty hard work (though Jesse
loved every second of it, for him it was pure ecstacy.) and for
the Duke cousins, it was torture. One day, Bo was called up to do
a pretend fight against Luke. Akimoto called them into fighting
stance in Japanese. Each of ther kiais, or karate yells, nearly
scared each other to death. Daisy almost done cracked up lookin’
at ’em. Bo’s trainin’ done him good, he was lithe and cunning and
quick as a fox. He used his survival techniques kinda the way
Jackie Chan’s characters do in all his movies. Luke, however, was
much more innoventive, and much quicker, and whenever he faked
out his younger cousin or conned him in one way or another, he
always subdued him everytime. When Luke went up against Daisy,
however, that was a different story. Daisy tried to fake him out,
he fell for it. Daisy tried to make him flinch, posing as the
villain, he fell for it. Daisy kiaied at him, he was a walking
target in a shooting gallery, with Daisy as the usual Annie
Oakley.
They trained for months and months. Meanwhile, the beguine was
beginning to begin to be in full swing. The big city’s Cheif was
killed in his sleep, “Creamy Jade will dominate” written on the
wall in his bedroom in his blood…the drug pushers hoped that
with him gone, life would be easier. Little did they know it
would only be harder on them. Little girls were afraid to go to
school anywhere in the state simply because they were afraid “A
Creamy Jade lover would come and kill them and smoke crack in the
bathroom they were in whenever they went.” Some little girls were
afraid to go because “Creamy Jade would kidnap them and make them
do evil bad things for her so she wouldn’t kill them.” Teens,
male or female, just plain cut class by the dozens statewide,
period. The minute their mother/father/bus or their own car
dropped them off, they’d hop away and find some place safer, only
to be caught and interrogated by the law only to find that they
didn’t work for Creamy Jade, but were hiding from her
kidnap/rape/killing/enslavement/wrath. Anyone went into any
elevator anywhere, they’d be stopped, Creamy Jade’s seraphim
crawled in from above and below and killed them, then discarded
the bodies down the shaft and smoked the crack cocaine without
thinking twice. Similar situations happened in any bathroom,
anywhere, any place, any time. Alleyways, hotel/restaurant
kitchens, backstage behind the singing critters at a Chuck E.
Cheese’s, for goodness’ sake. (Thank goodness the children didn’t
know about that.)
Bo, particularly, was a bit upset about the whole ordeal. He was
sittng in his room one night, he couldn’t sleep for the life of
him. He decided to listen to some music. He listened to his new
Daft Punk CD, and there was a song on it that went somethin’ like
this.
Work it
Make it
Do it
Makes us
Harder
Better
Faster
Stronger
More than
Hour
Hour
Never
Ever
After
Work is
Over
Work it
Make it
Do it
Makes us
Harder
Better
Faster
Stronger
More than
Hour
Hour
Never
Ever
After
Work is
Over
And then the words meshed together:
Work it harder,make it better do it faster makes us stronger
More than ever hour after hour work is never over….
And then it hithim while the a capella version of the song (’twas
a custom-made, enhanced CD) was playing. As raw as bait and tough
as leather as it was to hear, sometimes life was like that. It
just plain sucked and sometimes suck wasn’t a big enough word for
it. But to cry when things were sad, especially when they were
sad constantly against one’s will, or to stand around complaining
about it while in the midst of it all–a perfect example–his
religion told him that there was a God and a Jesus. If, by some
chance God/Jesus did exist, and they was watchin’ the great TV
show that is life…well, to do that would be borin’. Somethin’
they’d expect. So Bo decided to give ’em somethin’ that they
didn’t expect! When things were constantly sad against one’s
will, if they danced to that rhythm no matter how loud it played,
it would inevitably mean, eventually, their spiritual death, if
not their carnal death. Or maddening, one of the two. And there
was no limit to how maddened a person could get.
And tomorrow, he’d tell his folks/friends to do the same.
Spiritually as well as carnally, they’d all have to work harder,
make faster do better and be stronger in every aspect of their
lives as well as their training, because all too obviously, more
than ever, hour after hour, work was never over.
A few days later, in the Hazzard Coutny Police Station, Boss
Hogg, Rosco and Deputy Enos Strate were busy chompin’ on Taco
Bell and listenin’ to the 5:00 news. They’d heard about another
killin’ that happened in, of all places, a kindergarten
classroom. One had reportedly taken a bayonet (an old Confederacy
Bayonet) and sliced the teacher’s throat. Then they took
chopsticks and drove them in the ears of the children. Not a
single soul could figure out how it was done, they all figured,
as did the law, that it was a very crafty, “silent-killer” job.
The bodies were found later, piled high near the furnace in the
lunch room. (Thus the inevitable rumors that the teacher/children
were next day’s entree in the cafeteria–Creamy Jade meatloaf.)
The killers involved smoked crack afterward. (The only way the
law knew was there were little bits crumbled on the floor.)
“Goodness lordy sakes alive!” grumbled Hogg. “What in tarnation
has our society comes to, that we end up killing little children
just to satisfy our own silly urges? We’re all livin’ like
barbarians nowadays!” “We’re all being treated as if we were
animals *by* animals”, added Rosco. “You can’t even do so much as
pee in a McDonald’s lavatory without getting shot or stabbed or
some godawful whatever!” “Georgia’s become a jungle, that’s what
it become!” said Strate. “An’ we human beans, ever one of us good
side and bad side, were all a bunch o’ chimpanzees!” Hogg
grumbled again “What kind of abomination would actually kill
*little kid-nee-garten children*, for Peter Tork’s sake, I mean,
really, what kind of sick puppies would cut the tongue off of a
teacher and poke chopsticks in the little boys and girls’ ears
an’ make it all a bloodbath an’ somehow find some godawful way to
do it quietlike just sos they could somke crack an’ get all high–
”
Suddenly they all chorused together….
“‘DEM DUKE BOYS!!!!!”
Meanwhile, in the Duke house, Bo and Luke were watching the
whole thing, and Bo was in tears. “That’s barbaric! I thought
human beings were better n’ that!”
Luke laughed, only in sympathy with his younger cousin and
patted him on the back. He was blunt, yet smooth when he
said, “Well, cuz, you know how it is. As horrible as the truth
is to hear for the world, if we don’t fight it, if we accept it
with joy no matter how vile it is and bear it with love, we can
change things and show each other what humans need to be. You
know how the truth has ungagged/unbound itself finally…what
with child abuse, physical, emotional, sexual, verbal and all,
how they’re equal to each other in abomination, one not any
worse than the other, only thing different about ’em is tactic
used. There was that kid, remember? The one that that 19-year-
old mother of his when he was one months old, just went and put
that kid in the microwave. Then there’s that Godby kid, man, in
New York, his parents abused him…hired their friends with
money to have sex with him as a kid. These people put on a
normal facade in public…Godby was even a gifted kid in a
gifted kid school…but behind closed doors…now he’s 23, and
he’s got AIDS.”
“Yeah,” Bo sniffed. “Then there’s them guys in Miami in the
early 1990’s, you remember? They just went and found some
innocent Latin guy they didn’t even know, just beat him up when
he was carrying groceries, they just went and peed in his face,
and then just shot him. They wasn’t dressed like no gang or
nothin’, just a bunch of ordinary lookin’ guys. They went and
caught it all on tape. What kind of beans are we now’days, us
human beans, Luke? This is like we all just a bunch
of…lobotomized blue-nosed babboons!”
Luke laughed. “Well, apparently that’s the way we started out,
ain’t it?”
“Well, that ain’t the way we was s’posed to end up!” Bo said,
sounding almost like Jimmy Stewart and looking more perplexed.
Luke switched off the TV. “C’mon. Uncle Jesse just got us Taco
Bell from inside town.”
“Oo! Oo! Nachos! 7-Layer Nachos! Yeah, baby!”
“Hey, Daisy, supper just came.”
Daisy was in her bedroom blasting something on her stereo:
I’m a survivor
I’m not gonna give up
I’m not gonna stop
I’m gonna work harder
I’m a survivor
I’m gonna make it
I will survive and
Keep on survivin’
Wishing you the best, pray that you are blessed
With much success, no stress and lots of happiness
I’m not gonna blast you on the radio
I’m not gonna lie on you or your family, yo!
I’m not gonna hate on you in the magazines
I’m not gonna compromise my Christianity
You know I’m not gonna dis you on the internet
‘Cause my momma taught me better than that…
The next day Rosco was sittin’ in the police station tryin’ to
figure out why all this madness was happenin’. After all no one
knew about Creamy Jade yet or who or what this Creamy Jade was.
Rosco was tryin’ to figure it out and…well by all accounts,
none of it made sense. He was munchin on some gummi worms, and
the name Creamy Jade ran through his mind…
Creamy Jade…
Creamy Jade…
Creamy Jade…
Then his mind automatically flashed back to another time and
place, about two months ago. He was visitin’ his grandmother in
Covington, and, well, she was just gettin out of ovarian cancer
surgery where she got the tumor removed. She was in remission and
he was havin’ Ginger Peach tea and buttered scones with her.
All was peaceful…until…
A shower of uzi bullets. Custom made, from what he remembered
from a nanosecond clip of his photographic memory, as if someone
had somehow converted them into silencers. No one could hear the
sounds but the prey and the predators. His grandma didn’t have
time to scream…she was too weak. He tried to scream as the
bullets simply grazed his left lateral oblique, making it look
like a polska kielbasa on a barbecue. He didn’t have any time
himself.
His instinct kicked in when his conscious mind couldn’t and there
was only one word that was in his mind and soul and spirit:
LIVE.
He felt himself go through hell and fire, like David Pelzer did
with his alcoholic, emotionally unstable, abusive mother, he felt
himself being mercilessly pummeled at light speed, strategically,
over and over, and one quick nanosecond flash of his eye saw that
the weapon of choice was a tree trimmer. He was on his back and
felt himself suffocating, suffocating as something was covering
his face, nasal passages and mouth.
*Saran Wrap* was the only phrase his subcoscious gave his mind.
They thought he was dead as they sat there smoking crack as if
they were Denis Leary smoking at high speed in one of his classic
comic acts. They, however, had made one slight mistake. They had
the cellophane over Rosco’s face so tight…that a hole had been
made for him so he could just barely breathe. He faked like he
was dead. He remembered the head of the devil-hearted souls, and
she looked like Los Angeles newscaster Tritia Toyota, for
goodness’ sake. And some people think that fools like these look
like Freddy Krueger, for cryin’ out loud. He couldn’t hear them
speaking clearly, but he heard only one word as clear as a bell,
spoken over and over to the headwoman…
“Jade…jade…jade….”
Somewhere, deep in the hideout…Creamy Jade was in her custom-
made bedroom, awhirl in the madness of Chinese silk, french silk,
color tones of red, scarlet, earth, gold, purple…sandalwood,
spikenard and patchouli incense, pomegranates, satin, saffron,
henna tattoos, Egyptain Musk, California Gold, bronze, sapphires,
Ivory (illegal, of course, from the heart of South Africa),
marble, emeralds, rubies, lapis lazuli, Tahitian Black Pearls,
Raw Oysters, her own nude-colored demi bra and thong, sitar
music… she looked as if she was in exotic India. With a bunch
of drunken, oversexed tourists; the place looked like the town in
the Charleton Heston movie, just before Heston, as Moses, brought
them the Ten Commandments and said “Blasphemers! Those who do not
live by the laws die by the laws!”
Jade was dancing like an oversexed Chippendale dancer. The men
she was with were literally sitting on the floor with eyes wide
like a deer looking at headlights, all silent, all with heads
tilted to the side, and if they didn’t poof-poof-poof on crack
like it was the apocalypse, they were drooling with huge
Nicholson-type smiles on their faces.
“Armando? Armando, come here a minute.” Armando was one of the
woman’s most cherished seraphim. He was one of those she most
relied on. The music stopped by the hands of one of her other
servants she motioned to do it. Armando was brought to her
waterbed. She knew Armando was kind of clumsy when it came to
waterbeds.
He advanced towards her…
Fifteen minutes of silence…
The audience, male and female, including those who were having
sex with each other in other hidden places of the bedroom,
stopped to watch intently…
She pulled him by the neck, dragged him down on the waterbed,
where he had no reflexes to get up as easily, and whipped out a
Mc Culloch chainsaw–schwing!– from underneath the bed, and with
one yank and one clean swing, halved him before he could scream.
She knew–they all did–that on the internet, he had told other
seraphim in the internet room she specialized for them, complete
with computers and printers (with his own Palm Pilot she’d gotten
him for Christmas one year) that he spied on some in the Little
Dojo practicing martial arts and talking about The Georgia Crack
Wave. He had forgotten to tell her first. One of her other
trustees, disguised as just another lesser known seraphim,
Arturo, had told her.
“Well, he ain’t gettin any deader!” she said with perverse
pleasure.
“Arturo, clean and disinfect my bed.” He had it done.
She didn’t know the names of the other martial artists, but she
knew, from Armando’s transmissions, that there *was* one…
Daisy Duke.
Daisy was in the dojo stretched out on the floor, her legs spread
as wide as Bruce Lee’s once were in his own…her kicking skills
were truly much harder, higher, better, faster and stronger now,
more than ever. She ended up being the most agile in the whole
Duke clan…it was friggin hell gettin there, though. She felt
like her hamstrings were all stretched out until they became
deteriorated rubber bands. It was Thai boxing time, and they had
a new student in class by the name of Dave. Very quiet, sly, no
smile on his face and a personality locked tighter than a drum…
Funny…Daisy didn’t want to be racist…but the average native
Thailand male isn’t usually named Dave…is he?
It was simulation training time…Daisy and Dave were fighting.
The beguine began as usual, with the kicks, as a rule, being one
inch away from the student’s physical bodies…but somehow, Dave
wasn’t playing by the rules. As anyone could see, though he was a
new student that day, this guy was no rookie, and definitely a
professional. Daisy was very skilled and lithe and clever, and
dared not telegraph, but this guy had an advantage; through
internet he knew by Armando what she was like as a person, the
way she fought, her personality, her caliber and her level of
skill, and he could read her like a stop sign. The fighting grew
more and more intense, and though Bo and Luke always trusted
their sensei, they were beginning to get very suspicious…
“Hey… Daisy’s beginnin’ to get a little smacked up too much,
aint she?”
“Hey Dave, Daisy ain’t your bitch, buddy! Take a chill pill!” Bo
called out.
“Shoosh!” Sensei Akimoto called out. (Unfortunately, formality
kicked in at the time, and though Akimoto himself was beginning
to get suspicious, unfortunately, no one was allowed to talk
during fight simulation.)
Suddenly everyone was getting fixed on the fight completely, not
paying attention to much else. Which only gave someone the
advantage…out of nowhere, someone was coming up behind
Akimoto…with a bowie knife…just before he was about to get up
and stop the fight…”That’s enough! That’s enough!”
Daisy was beginning to be disoriented and terrified. Why didn’t
Akimoto stop the fight in the beginning? This guy was goingtoo
fast, too much, too far! A mist of blood swept over her
eyes…silver stars were beginning to waltz in the thick sea of
blood…as strong and resilient as she was, she began to yelp in
pain at the next front kick to her head…
Bo had had enough. “Sensei!” he turned and cried out.
Suddenly, the knifer closed in on Akimoto, a hand clamped over
Bo’s mouth, Luke felt a bowie knife blade at his throat, Jesse
jiggled the restroom door (which was now barred from the
outside)…and suddenly, a very tall, lovely young african-
american woman, as colossal as a lioness, stood up and drew a
gun. She fired on the man who was about to slit Luke’s throat,
nailing him right between the eyes, from there, using simple
mathematics, like a pool ball bouncing off the corners of a
billiard table, she immediately clicked to sensei before the
knifer slit his while gagging him with his hand. That knifer was
also shot right between the eyes. She turned from there across
the room and swiftly, like a gazelle, turned and shot at Bo’s
kidnapper before he could shoot him with a silencer, shooting
Bo’s abductor in the chest. When the others in disguise came out
of the woodwork, the atmosphere began to froth. They were all
women, and with the young black woman at the center of the ring,
pulling a nerve pinch on Daisy’s predator, knocking him out, they
were ready to give her their own treatment; apparently, in their
eyes, *she* had now become *their* bitch. The woman turned to Bo,
and wasting no emotions or words, quickly turned her eyes to
Daisy and said “get her to safety!” He did just that. Akimoto
immediately told the others “Move to women’s locker room! Move to
women’s locker room! Hurry Hurry Hurry!”
Suddenly, another black woman in the midst of all the screaming,
terrified students pulled a grin, and then pulled her own .45
Magnum out of her sportsbra. She managed to shoot one of the
other black woman’s attackers, who was attempting to wrap a
three-chain-staff around her neck to break it. One Latin woman,
a seraphim, broke from the center, to kick the gun out of her
hand.
Oops.
Looks like it would have to be the hard way…
The woman, slimmer and a bit shorter, went to work, as agile as
a fox. Both were busy with lovely, high-belt, almost
sensei/master-quality kicks and punches. Bo and Luke couldn’t
help but open the door to the Women’s Locker room, where
everyone was coralled and sensei Akimoto was attending to
Daisy’s needs, to see the melee. It looked like Enter The Dragon
and Charlie’s Angels combined. “Wow!” Bo giggled. “It’s a real
fight!” And an intense, heart-attack-inducing fight it was!
Finally, the petite woman pulled a gun on the only fighter who
was alive and conscious as the taller woman wrestled him to the
ground. “Fight’s over, baby”, the gunwoman said. “You lose.”
“Woooooo-weee!” said Bo. “Would you look at that?”
The ambulances came for the dead, the unconscious, and the
conscious criminal, Dave, who they were later going to lock up
with the unconscious. Thankfully, all students and the sensei
survived. As did Daisy, who was also taken away to have her
injuries attended to and her wounds dressed. Bo and Luke were
with her at that point, as was Uncle Jesse. Their minds were
totally blown away at all the mayhem that went on that day,
their minds full of questions. How was Uncle Jesse locked up in
the bathroom from the outside, of all places? Why was this Dave
trying to kill Daisy? Who were those strange folk trying to kill
the Sensei and the Dukes? And how did they get in to the dojo
unnoticed? And who were those strange new black women, the two
who were, the Dukes found out, undercover cops?
Daisy was taken in to the ER and cleaned up. She suffered a
crack across her nose. She suffered a concussion, two black
eyes, three broken ribs, and a partridge in a pear tree. Bo and
Luke were allowed, finally, to see her. “Oh, miss Daisy!” Bo
said, embracing her. “Goodness sake!” Daisy said,
perplexed. “What on earth was that that just happened?” They all
laughed.
Suddenly, the two black women came in the room. “We couldn’t
help but overhear,” the taller one said, her voice as smooth and
cool as iced cappuccino. “Mind if we explain?” Bo and Luke,
particularly, were awed at the majesty and grandeur of the two
women. “Lordy, Luke, that one looks as tall as a sycamore in
Virginia!” Bo whispered. The two black women showed their
badges, what Bo and Luke didn’t notice as they showed them to
the sensei in the midst of the ambulances coming to take
everyone away. “DEA Special Agents Cleopatra Jones and Foxy
Brown.” The amazon spoke, motioning to herself and then to the
petite one. “We’ve been following and studying this Georgia
Crack Wave for awhile, and we’ve been monitoring the moves of
some of the thugs like those you and your cousin dealt with
tonight.”
“Why in the world was them thugs beatin’ on Daisy, of all
folks?” asked a baffled Uncle Jesse.
“Well, in DEA Central Headquarters we have an expert that can
hack in to any internet system and monitor and supervise any
type of internet transmissions that goes on in any ISP.”, the
petite one explained. “AOL, ICQ, AIM, Yahoo, Wal-Mart Connect,
GNN, Cybergrrl, you name it, he can hack in. From the hideout of
where all these new and wonderful little criminals go, internet
transmissions were made over Netzero about how a few people were
studying Karate to defend–he he–Hazzard County from their
scum. A spy from the main hideout was apparently spying on y’all
as you were practicing. They didn’t know who you all were, but
they did know only the name of one person–Daisy Duke.”
“The others”, said Luke, “were they part of the hideout, too?”
“Yes”, Foxy said, “They were hitmen Creamy Jade specially
selected to kill all of the Hazzard County students they could,
so there wouldn’t be so much competiton when she and her so-
called ‘seraphim’ penetrated Hazzard County.”
“Who or what in tarnation is this no-good pole cat, ‘Creamy
Jade’?” asked a frustrated Bo.
“Creamy Jade is a very sly, cunning, crafty expert drug queen.
She’s a new one, and she’s quite a gifted cookie, but–heh heh–
obviously not that gifted. She’s the type who makes it fun for
us”, Cleopatra laughed.
“Her real name is Chung-Li Wen. She’s originally from San
Francisco. She was born, unfortunately, in a family of
incestuous and very abusive folks. Incest committed upon her was
done by father, mother, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers,
grandfathers, grandmothers…ever since the poor child learned
to walk. Her father was an opium addict, her mother became one
as well. Her brothers were always drunk on rice wine, her
sisters were proud to be whores. She was beaten regularly. She
was also, if you believe this, a gifted student, in a gifted
school. The family looked terrifyingly normal in public…both
parents in high-powered positions in high-powered
industries…other kids straight-A students…but behind closed
doors–it was always a different story.”
“Isn’t that the way it always happens with child abuse victims?”
asked a baffled yet enlightened Bo.
She got in with the wrong crowd, eventually, in high school, and
got into drugs,” Cleo continued. “Her mother went into an insane
raging fit on Jade’s 17th birthday and threw her out of the house
completely. No money, clothes, food, *nothing*. She delved in
prostitution. She got away from that when her pimp tried to kill
her one night when she refused to recieve breast implants at his
will…then turned the gun on himself. With the money she’d
stolen from his vault, it was enough to make herself a living as
a drug-pusher.
“But unfortunately, no amount of money is ever enough for her.
Her parents, when she was young, told her, over and over again,
sometimes without saying it directly or exactly, that no matter
what she did, no matter how she did it, it was never good enough,
never good enough, never enough, never enough. They varied the
pattern with her as a child/teen saying she, by nature, was never
attractive enough, never cool enough, never talented enough…
unfortunately, that pattern was pounded into her when she was a
year old, pounded into her incessantly since then, and she let it
stay with her ever since.”
The Dukes looked devastated. How could people be so cold-blooded,
so emotionally/verbally barbaric to their own offspring, *let
alone* physically/sexually? “Sadly, society has only begun to
begin to evolve. Until 1973, we had only begun to begin to
understand the concept of physical abuse *alone*,” Foxy
explained. “Long before then, we believed *all* parents’ acts
upon their kids was justified simply because they were,
supposedly, parents. Only in the late 1970’s/early 1980’s did we
begin to see what was *actually* the horrible truth. Even in this
*new millennia*, we’re only beginning to understand that
emotional and verbal abuse upon a child does, by nature, exist,
and that it is equally abominable to that of physical and sexual
abuse on a child, one form no less abominable than the other, the
only difference in them is the tactic used,” Foxy shook her head
in bewilderment.
“I….I almost… pity that poor woman!” Bo said in equal
bewilderment.
“Pity her if you wish, Mr. Duke”, Cleo said with a simple dead-
blunt factuality, “but do not trust her nor the seraphim you may
come across. She’s no more human anymore, though physically, she
may look like one. She’s mad as a march hare, dotty as a drunken
bum, vicious as a rabid rottweiler, and cold-blooded as a
starving cougar.”
Luke only grinned.
“Bring her on.”