Swing for the Fences

John Fowora

March 2006

My mother never let me watch much T.V when I was younger, she always made me read books instead. She said the idiot box polluted my mind. She never knew how right she was.

We’ve been forsaken by technology, by the new media.

We aren’t black, rather we’re a reflection of reflections.

We were probably better off picking cotton and talking real low when the white folks came around. Sometimes we still do, that’s why I watch the Cosby show. We don’t aim high because we don’t have anything to shoot for.

Hope was the new slavery, then Crack, now digital cable.

Because now I have thirteen channels of hip-hop and black grooves.

We think we are free, and yet we still watch TV.

There are acceptable levels of somnambulism. I’m living proof.

We don’t aim high because we’re too busy watching the rims spin.

Look this nigga is rolling on twenty fours.

They spinnin nigga, they spinnin.

This nigga spent twenty thousand dollars on a pair of rims he saw his favorite rapper with on MTV Cribs.

This nigga saw this other nigga with the rims and spent his tuition on some Giovanni rims.

This white kid observing with a childlike fascination saw this nigga with the rims and now he has the rims.

This same white kid can now be black without the perks.

I’m still waiting to find out what those perks are.

I’m watching a white rapper more aware of white privilege than his black counterparts.

So I too, just lose it.

Sumner Redstone is the Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer, Viacom and Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer, National Amusements, Inc.

Sumner Redstone will eventually die. I’m going to speed up the process.

I’m going on a road trip. I’m going to travel across the country and kill Sumner Redstone. Along the way I’m going to kill my online professor. I’m going to kill a lot of people actually; this might turn into mass murder, although that’s not my intent.

The sign says you are now leaving California.

I’m driving a Jet-black Cadillac Escalade, on 24-inch Dub rims with spinners.

Like I said, there are acceptable levels of somnambulism.

In Nevada I kill John Doe #30 and Jane Doe#15, but I leave them where they die. They are at the bunny ranch in Vegas. Their bodies decapitated and palm pilots stuffed in their necks where their heads should be.

In Utah I kill John Doe #35, it’s easier to kill men than it is to kill women because men always think it can’t happen to them. They’re always dead wrong.

In Indiana I kill John Doe #38 with a 4-iron and the element of surprise. I knocked his left eye out of the socket after a Pacer game, in the parking lot, and to think, he had home court advantage.

In West Virginia I kill a mountaineer.

In Pennsylvania I drive by my mother’s house and I want to go in and say hello and give her a big hug so she’ll be proud of me. She was always proud of me she used to say. I never believed her. When I’m done, when this is all over, I’m going to see her and make her proud of me for real. I’m going to be special, and she’ll recognize and they’ll remember.

I finally find my professor in New Jersey, his home office three mile away from Rutgers University. He is sitting inside drinking a cup of whatever, typing away irresponsible blather on a laptop. I’m staring at him from across the street, apparently he lives alone and seems to never have company. I’ve watched him do the same thing for a about a week now. This guy doesn’t get out much.

I sneak in through his back door and quietly make my way through his house until I’m directly behind him.

And when I’m about to overhead chop his skull with an axe, he says something,

"Not yet."

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me and he continues,

"Before you swing, tell me, why are you here? Are you a student?"

I put the axe down. For now.

"Yes, I was a student of yours, but you shouldn’t be allowed to teach anyone, anymore."

"Have you been killing?"

"Yes, quite a bit actually, why?"

"Well, if I’m such a ineffective teacher, how are you here right now? If I’m so ineffective how come you’ve been killing and apparently doing well at it? Tell me why you’re really here."

"To kill you, but more importantly to right a wrong and make a name for myself."

I tell him about the emails from him about my final paper and how I didn’t appreciate being told I wasn’t good enough to be a serial killer for something as inconsequential as the color of my skin. I tell him about my theories on media and Mr. Redstone and how he deserves to die and maybe just maybe, killing him might make it better. The professor listens to me and finally says,

"I want to go with you, I want to see where this goes. Plus, I haven’t killed anyone in a while. I’m sorry I offended you, it’s just that I didn’t want to see a student of mine go through the same things that I went through."

Oh, yeah, the professor…he’s black too. Apparently he started to kill a little bit in the seventies and early eighties, but stopped because he wasn’t getting the recognition he thought he deserved. He quit doing that and decided to get an B.A/M.A in English. He’s been teaching ever since.

He doesn’t pack anything when we leave, like expects us not to get caught. I tell him we’ll get the recognition we deserve in due time.

When we enter New York City, He asks me what I’ve been using to kill, "Eh, anything I can get my hands on really. Mostly golf clubs and blunt objects, but sometimes I get creative too…how about you?"

"I just like to choke people, I don’t know why, I just like to" he replies.

"Oh."

We park the Escalade a few blocks away from where we have to go, 1515 Broadway.

I’m wearing a blue, orange, white and green striped button up collared shirt with an oversized New York Mets baseball cap. I have on a pair of baggy, two-year wash jeans and tan Timberland work boots.

I’m dressed like your favorite rapper.

The professor is my manager today and we’re going on MTV. From there we’re going upstairs to see my boy Sumner.

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