Rudzinski, Walter W.

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44 MAKUSCRIPTSBlack SunWalter W. RudzinskiGregory cradled his seeped rifle and watched the fly trace theoutline of the dimly- lit, sweltering room. The buzzing insect skirtedthe dust-laden silhouettes of a dentist's chair with overhanging lamp,shelves of cracked bottles and empty canisters. A half-open windowbelched with an oven's breath (the only wind on a most hot and dryday) and the yellow, torn shade flopped restlessly against the sill,splashing lazy waves of sunlight against Gregory's sweating brow.The fly now detected the portal to freedom and zipped away into theglare."Good luck, chap. Don't let no one catch you. Froggies have longtongues, you know," whispered the fly's audience in a British accent.Gregory was a tall, thin man with fashionably-long, thick redhair, the gift of a Scottish father of noble lineage. Or so did SisterMary Ann tell him, although she really did not know since theorphanage received him from a trash can in the Soho. The orphanagebecame home until Hitler stormed into Czechoslovakia, and the tall,noble Scotsman marched off for the King. In the royal infantryGregory learned to kill. He killed with skill and without pity, and hebeamed with boyish joy at Sister Mary Ann's letters praising him forhis many decorations. He became so terribly proud! After the warGregory returned-llot to the orphanage but to the Soho, and thenoble Scot no longer received shiny medals but shiny pounds.He glanced out the window into the hot glare-so far now fromEngland.A procession of glinlmering-golden coins rolled ceaselessly in hisbrian, and Gregory could almost see himself frozen and shining on theface of each. He smiled with boyish joy.The door behind him creaked open and shut. Gregory's headdarted to his right and broke into a smile of greeting."Hallo, Jim. Bloody warm today, don't you think?""Sure is, Greg. In more ways than one," whispered a nervous,squat, white-faced American businessman.Jim sat clown next to Gregory, and both lapsed into a longsilence.MANUSCRIPTS 4S"You know, Greg," explained Jim after several minutes, "I usedto come to this dentist all the time.""Before the revolution?""Yeah . . . before," answered Jim tapering off into reflection."\Ve never had that much trouble with the Blacks. They seemed toknow their place. Then all of sudden boom-riots, assassinations, war.Somehow these Goddamn Africans got guns and a few breaks. Com-mies probably. Anyway they ended up on top. But with their leadergone, maybe the old order can be restored. There're still a lot of whitepeople in this country ... Anyway my corporation can't afford to shutdown our plants here or, worse yet, hand them over to those blackbastards! "Jim finished his little oration and Gregory merely nodded ap-proal, for it was the fiftieth time he had heard it."Well good luck, Greg," said Jim extending his hand."The plan is a good one. I will not fail. Goodbye, Jim." Gregorytook the offered hand.At the thump of the closing door, Gregory inched back the shadeand watched the proceedings on the street below. Crowds of peoplehad begun to line the pavement. Clusters of mothers and fathersreprimanded little, squirming children who wanted to play "tag" andnot particularly see their president. Students debated governmentpolicy and the changes since the revolution, while old men shadedtheir eyes and waited patiently.Gregory noted the absence of almost all white faces. Those thathe could see were like Jim-disturbed, nervous, bitter.Shouts vibrated the clinging heat. The crowd roared; childrenwaved tiny flags.As the motorcade rolled at parade speed into view, Gregorybrought his rifle to the window sill. Through his scope he flirtedfrom car to car in search of his man. He found him!"Yes .. so that's their president. Even uglier than his pictures,by Jove!"The cross-hairs played with the shining black head."No, no, mustn't there. Too nuch gore. Got to make it accordingto plan. In the heart," whispered Gregory to his gun without emotion."Clever chaps, these Americans. Silencer, full metal-cased cartridges.No noise, tiny holes, little blood. And even that blood not likely tocome through my boy's vested-suit. Just like a heart attack, by Jove!"thought the noble Scotsman amusedly.46 MANUSCRIPTSThe rifle was aimed, the triggered pulled, and Gregory success-fully caught the next flight to Switzerland and several thousandpounds.For the crowd below, the sight of their slumping presidentcatalyzed an ordered succession of emotion-silence, gasp, scream,wail.The limousine accelerated swerving desperately through thecrowds of shocked people mobbing the path. Squealing around acorner, the car lurched to avoid striking a little black girl, only tosmash to the earth a white man. (The chauffeur felt no guilt, onlyrelief at missing the girl.) Ironically the second victim of that after-noon was whitefacecl, nervous Jim. His last reflex was to put up hishand to fend off the car, and in so doing he had ripped the smallbanner from the right bumper. And now he lay on the hot asphalt, hisinsides shattered and bleeding, staring at the little flag in his hand. Inhis brain burned the words "Seal of the President of the United Statesof America." His eyes twitched bitterly to meet the antagonistic stareof the black crowd which gathered around him. He looked down againat the seal; a tear rolled down his quivering cheek."Black Bastard!"That night white hands dug the sandy soil of Fenwick CemeterymVirginia. James Appleton was buried the next morning, August10,1974.

Black Sun

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Black Sun

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