‘DEM GLITCHES BE RUNNING TRAINS IN NEGRIZONA!’

‘DEM GLITCHES BE RUNNING TRAINS IN NEGRIZONA!’

Speculative Fiction by Greg Tate

Most nights Negrizona is an all-beuys club, but tonight the beuys have graciously opened their house to any glitch in heat, any glitch off the street out here in Negrizona.

      Among the beuys there’s a meager few old doggs long toothed enough to remember what it is to be hunted and caged because of who you choose to love.  The difference between those beuys and us is that all my glitches  are being hunted and caged for not loving a species we got no love for at all.

Me and thesevglitches  could all die up in here tonight. All twenty four of these glitches and me  acting like we don’t know no better than to be caught dancing  close to one another glitch in a public space. 

     Nevermind we all grew up feeling that way anyhow.

Nevermind  that we’re all the kind of glitches who’ve always understood that dancing close and risking annihilation are activities already on  the most intimate of terms. Nevermind  how those polarities come with the price of the ticket, define  the  terms of  our fleeting existences, the existential threat foremost in our minds.

What’s changed today though isn’t the base  specter of our enemies torturing or murdering  us, but the means by which it might be carried out.  For glitches like us there now looms a horde of fates far worse than death. Been that way for quite a while now. Even way  before The Governess  and The Law of The Father  began offering  fools a mortgage on  our wombs and a lien on our souls.

Glitches like us have been at odds with the Law Of The Father since the Stone Age.  Only thing that makes this any different is the role The Governess plays now. She who would  sell her own kind out to The Father to save her own ass and in the process, cut our chances of survival and of resistance down from high percentages to meagre fractions.

   Some of us came here tonight with glitches we love.

Some of us will not be going home with the glitch  we came in with tonight.

A few of us aint gonna  make it all the way back to The Breach, our home among the stars

Only a scant few will return to The Brech just the way the   left it.  Two halves of a whole and  loving couple who dared stroll hand in hand in public —on Earth as they were  in glitch-nigga glitch-negress  heaven. Fully aware of the danger, exulting in the thrill.  

     Some glitches take the risk because they love how hot the embodied loving will be once they’re safely in Negrizona where The Governess can’t directly reach out and’touch’ them. 

     They’re the kind  who like to  the rest of us glitches entertained and stimulated, the kind who’ll tell all the juicy details. Tell whoever who’ll listen how no  loving could ever be hotter than the love we make freely and recklessly under the threat of combat, prison, multiple forced impregnations,  repeated braindeaths.  They’re the ones who live by our code to the fullest.  The ones who basically be on some shit like, ‘If  tonight is going to be last time we make love lets make the kinda  love that burns.ahole in infinity.

     I’m talking about glitches like that one over there,Little Miss Peaches& Clover. Look at her  and her partner of seven years  over in the corner wantonly canoodling like   teenagers on some illicit rendezvous. I don’t even have to read their lips to know the kind of party line they’re dropping on each other   “Baby if they bust in without knocking then let them find us just like this drenched spent tangled up thigh on thigh tongue on tongue,spit  on saturated lips fingers dug down in engorged liquified yoni madness.”

Or words and actions to that effect).

The girl -interloper I lust to go home with tonight is dancing alone. Remarkably she even dances to the only two Charlie Parker tunes  DJ Clotel ever likes to rock ‘Now’s The Time’ and ‘K.C. Blues” (And not even the stately Dial versions, but some ole extra-crazy frenetic live versions, as avant garde in their embrace of funk and chaos as anything Sun Ra ever did.

I’ve been on this girl ever since we got here. Taking serious note of her moves and well  synchronized they are to Parker’s schizoid and mercurial  moods. Been duly noting  how well  she knew her body and how readily she’s able to  get lost in her own joy. Shimmying, slipping and sliding her hands all over herself   in rapture to every one of Parker’s  serpentine bluesy free-as-a-Bird licks .  

     Girlfrenzy is rocking these white capri pants  and a black and red plaid shirt tied tight just above her navel. The tail of the knot curves and pincers above a drooping pearldrop navel-ring. Her kicks are some elaborately embroidered  blue and gold harem sandals.  Her feet  are small and daring. They delicately dart across the floor in a way that makes me mumble ‘twinkletoes’.

When she winds her waist to Bird, eyes closed , arms clasped above her head,  your eyes cant help but watch how that teardrop catches the light. You know that she doesn’t need the spotlight to feel good about her dancing, but   that she isn’t mad at all the attention she’s getting from me either. Like her pearl teardrop, she can’t help catching the light or brightly beaming back in ways that bedazzle and sparkle the eyes.

      Even for all her seductive nonchalance  you can tell she loves being seen, adored, lusted after. How much she loves to use her form and rhythm to hypnotize all who might find themselves captivated and mesmerized by her  enjoyment of the music, the way she moves herself.  Tonight she’s my private dancer even in a hall filled with 23 other pairs of eyes.

Girlfrenzy has to  know she’s not everybody’s type in here. She even likely knows most of us  can tell she’s not from around here too. That all of my glitches  can see in a glance that she’s a college girl  from across the tracks who likely cut out after curfew from her dorm, Vader her way to Negrizona  all alone and unafraid of what lie on the other side,  way over here in the way-out-back– out here, beyond the starshine, in Negrizona.

I give her props for even making the journey.  Because I know women who live two blocks from this club who won’t even come out of their house day or nights  or even  walk down the same side of the street it’s on.

I understand why, of course.

Even if most of us  are now way past the  optimum breeding age decreed by The Governess, the sheer threat of being caught by The Father’s forces  can be  soul-crippling for some glitches all the same.

Nothing satisfies The Governess’  power mania more than catching a glitch she’s already broken by remote control days and weeks before.

      They’re the ones who  turn off the technology that can keep The Governess’ Anti-Body bugs out of their  homes and present themselves for surrender and capture willingly. It doesn’t happen often but it does happen enough to spook the rest of us.

Because however tough we are we know how easily that could be us too.Ghosts before our time. Prone reproductive instruments of  The Governess’ will.Womb For Hire Homegirls without even the benefit of minimum wages. Half-life Black epitomes of that old canard, ‘How willing these slaves be.”

But one must ask if being that afraid of getting  locked up knocked up, lynched etc.  isnt the same  as not living at all.  The twenty-four of us who remain  on the frontlines say ‘fuck being a  robot-girl, fuck being a laydown-staydown cybernetic zombie bitch’.

They think: The Governess and The Law of The Father  get no vote in this. Because the day I can’t  dance with who I want to dance with and fuck who I want to fuck is the day I need to be shot in the head without hesitation or mercy.’ I’m not being trying to melodramatic or beyond self-righteous here.  I’d never  claim to speak for all.  Just those who still walk the path of freedom or death. Even given how hard it is now to insure a clear and conscious death-state when you need to.

To  ALL you glitches who choose to stay safe in bed behind The Breach  tonight and live in fear behind closed etheric-data portals : You’ve  made your choices in your cloistered four cornered rooms. And  I respect  your choice from a democratic perspective. I just know I’m not one of You. That I’m not the type who can stand becoming the kind of glitch who cowers in fear of  being soul-raped by The Governess and The Father the second my spirit  flashes out of The Breach. Fear  of being coerced  into doing what The Governess believes  our kinda girl frenzy was born to do: Namely screw, brew and hatch babies for her masters in The Quantum Black Movement.

The young girl with the teardrop navel  who  I am determined to drag home tonight  always smiles to herself when Bird plays some lick she finds particularly delicious.

It’s a beautiiful thing to see and to feel.

Just as beautiful  to watch is the way she I can see her entire programmed consciousness sliding deeper into the music’s  erotic grip. The work  The Governess  did on her is spectacular. It practically looks too good to eat or eviscerate.

I dont know what i find sexier:that she lives for this music or that she merely knows that such music exists at all. You don’t get too many younguns up in spots like this who so openly and fragrantly declare themselves to be  in love with the canonical legacy of  Charles Christopher Parker.

I  allow myself to inwardly swoon over her slow bop and slow grind  to ‘K.C.’ I’d like to look at her and think, ‘Hey, maybe theres  hope for a few of these chillun, hell  for our  entire lost-and-found race, even.   I’d also  like to live in a world where such thoughts were possible about an actual womb-born person and not just a  shimmy-sham flimflam assassin simulacrum extracted from my basest desires.

     Thanks to the Governess pogrom of destruction, what little there is left of my race are all up in Negrizona tonight. All those I truly consider My People in terms of  spirit and espirit de corps.

Of women with bodies and minds there’s  plenty, way more than my twenty-four bitchen glitches of course. By my unofficial count there’s fewer and fewer sisters around who are in genuine possession of  any real soul anymore. Those numbers seem to be dwindling with each passing nanosecond.

The kind of glitch in possession of  whatever right stuff got us across the bloody Black Atlantic eons ago. Only glitches I know like that are hanging tough in Negrizona tonight.They aint nowhere else to be found  on thisEarth tonight but Negrizona. They’re the only ones going to to witness my dancing bebop baby’s precipitous last moments  as a slave of The Governess and The Father  here in Negrizona.

(Where is Negrizona, really ?Wouldn’t The Governess and her minions like to know. Everywhere and nowhere and hidden in plain sight. More nowhere than somewhere is what they’ll figure out with each passing day. )

I like to tell my fellow soldiers, ‘They cant kill all of us without losing the fight’.

Its a tad dramatic but it’s true too. Because our only saving grace is that scores of secrets known only to Negrizona womanhood will die with us. And the only reason The Governess hasn’t  taken us all out is because of those secrets. This is why she’s more committed  to terrorizing our community into surrender than bludgeoning it into submission.

A slow psychological war of attrition is The Governess’  strategy for all my glitches–24  bold hold outs who won’t stay home terrified in The Breach. So The Governess wants to ee how many of us she can make snap under the pressure, drive mad with fear.

Is she’s winning By any means necessary. Because there’s just 24 left out of our  original 2000 glitches   to go.

More adorable young women dancing to bebop like they came out of the womb just knowing the steps. That’s the club I’d really like to join one day but that’s not the club I find myself in tonight. There is thankfully  someone here who feels me on this  and she’s the only one I need to feel understood by tonight.

There is a god and  a girl do gets lucky sometimes.

Not like I’d want to be taking just any bebop dancer-college-girl-type home with me on this or any other night. But I knew on first glance that this one was already my kinda chick. Free where it matters between the ears, below the waist. and on the balls of her feet.

Unfortunately for her just not free enough in the heart to go undetected  by glitches like ‘We’.

My male counterpart, my best friend among the beuys, has already locked down his fixation for the evening. He always did move faster than me. Except we’re in no rush, Miss Pearl Teardrop and I. Because  ain’t nobody else up in here checking for her and I aint trying to check out nobody else either.

We’re on a date with destiny Mz Pearldrop and I.  May the best glitch win, and may the best glitchg once again, be me.

We all knew from the giddy-up.  We knew from the moment Mz Pearldrop swung in the joint  that she was here in disguise for The Governess and The Law of The Father.

Sauntering in all saucy trying to be undercover for The Governess but not so undetectable as they likely told her she’d need be.

We all spotted her immediately.

Knew that was the One chosen for the job tonight just as soon as she came up in our beloved Negrizona Same as we all knew soon as the Charlie Parker came on that she was here to try and take me down by any means necessary.

Meaning that  once again,alas, it would be my job to take her down first. To drug her, interrogate her, drug her again, do what had to be done with what was left of cuties like her once they got caught out here doing  a bad impersonation of one of us.

I dont know why The Governess thinks we can’t see what we can see?Aint we women after all? Black women at that? Black dyke detective souljah women on top of all that?

Sheeeee-it.

Eyes and antenna trained from birth  to be like flies: omnidirectional, clicking and computing compressing thevvast amounts of information necessary for survival in nanoseconds.  Any one of us capable of uncovering more clues in a throwaway glance tossed off by any given biddy come into our view than a whole team of Quantum Black   Movement surveillance could detect in a month.

What was so amazing was that  The Governess  thought we were too stupid to not know a fake among of our own. Or believe that our astute and legendary powers of observation were just myth. Like we didnt know the face of Love when we saw it and when we did not.  Like an artificial girl- thing like Ms Teardrop  might as well have been from Mars trying to  pull that off.

That  we of all glitches couldnt tell a free and  loving glitch from a pretend-one in a heartbeat . It was truly insulting–.the  notion that just because you want us to be stupid breeder cows  means we’re already more brainless than Ken and Barbie.

Maybe The Governess thought  we were under  too much pressure to be thinking straight?  She should know us well enough to know better, but then again,maybe The Governess truly believed her own hype. Figured that since she had once been one of us she could teach  How To B A Total Glitch, like, ‘one of  Us’ , to any novice who naively fell into The Quantum black Movement hoping to be cured of her radical-oppositional tendencies.

Glitches ask me if Ithink The Governess  been away from us for so long she dont know who she’s dealing with. I always tell em ‘No. she’s  just lost the capacity to love herself and got caught up in  loving the arrogance of her trackers and their patriarchal- institutional power. ”

That’s where she picked up this idea that we can’t be as smart as her now that she’s running some shit on the inside for The Father.

Because obviously if we were as smart as her  we’d stop being victims of our bloody chromosomes and subhuman lifestyle and just get with the Quantum Black Movement’s program, same as she did.

I concede that The Governess  has got a point – a pathetic and pathological-ass point but point nonetheless. Rhetorically at least. For the sake of playing devil’s advocate, let’s say I hear her: Why suffer all this dread and uncertainty for the limited returns and anxious pleasures  of living and loving free? Why except for maybe the same reasons Miles Davis one gave as to why he made music: ‘You don’t do what the critics tell you to do. You do what your body tells you to do’.  “Go the way your blood beats” underscored his good friend, Mr James Baldwin.

So here we are glitches, twenty-four of us down here at the Alamo, wild free and over 21 and not even acting like all our love will soon be in vain.

None of this means I can’t enjoy how well Little Miss Navel Pearl is doing her dance for me, or how much effort she is putting into putting on her show. Knowing the truth about her doesn’t take away from the enjoyment I’m deriving from how much passion and choreographic skill she’s bringing to her masquerade.

I feel honored by her  virtuosic attempt at such deception, I really do.

The Father  had found themselves a good one with her. A real comer. An artist even. One who could work for them and enjoy pleasuring herself too. As much for her benefit as for my own and for all the worst possible reasons.

She was obviously such a true believer. Such an idealistic hard worker for the way way gone-wrong side of history.

Wrong side tonight anyways, since this was one night  the victors were not going to be writing the history about to be written. Because tonight the script is flipped and the victors were going to be these remaining 24 gltches of Negrizona, not The Governess.

I wasn’t mad at her, Mz Pearl. Truly and in all sincerity, I  wasn’t.

Because we were at  war and whether you lived today to fight another day or whether your died tomorrow you were already a casualty. Because I have always been of the belief that as soon as you kill for someone other than in spontaneous self-defense of your family then you become a casualty of war.

A criminal against humanity. A genocidal contract killer. A betrayer of the most fundamental pact of the human contract.

All over what at the end of the day were just minorvdifferences  of  philosophy. In our case, differences ultimately  about the value our kind of glitches placed on our bodies  versus those imposed upon them by The Governess, The Law of The Father  and  The Quantum Black Movement.

Once again I was going to have to ask myself whether our principles were worth the young life I was going to take in the name of protecting Negrizona and The Breach?

The Governess knew we had more of a conscience about these murders than she did.She for sure knew that everytime we buried one of her operatives we felt like we were  burying one of her own. The Governress also knew that the only thing squared it for us was we knew we were making our stand–at no matter the cost–for our own unborn and for those who would follow. All our sisters and brothers yet to be conceived.

I’m not so abstract or cavalier about outright murder anymore though.

All the young glitches  blood on my hands won’t allow me  to be ever again.

Kililing  Pearl was going to be like killing myself all over again, an experience I’d already had more times than I cared to remember. Such were the paradoxes and unpleasantries that come with  this kind of life and this kind of war.

This is a cold fact that my sexy little private bebop dancer will never have a chance to  figure out for herself after tonight. That realization alone hurts me to the quick. Makes me feel more kinds of sad and alone in the world than most of you will ever be able to fathom.

Because strangely enough I do tell  myself that I’m doing it all for you–though perhaps the truth is I’m doing it for the glitch inside you–the glitch you are all so afraid to be. A glitch more like Miz Teardrop than a glitch hiding on the other side of her  Breach apartment walls praying the Boogie Woman dont getcha.Whichever junior Wittgenstein among you works out that syllogism first gets the prize.

We love a snitch.Anybody’s snitch. No matter if theyre working for us or for The Governess. Because the mind of a snitch is like no other mind you will ever encounter. Its a mind that doesn’t even know what body its head sits on. Its all impulse and reflex and instant gratification but incapable of any sense of even short term consequences. The girl I’m going to snuff out tonight got into Negrizona  because a snitch up  told her what to say, what to wear, what to dance to, all the basics for getting close to me.

Practically everything Miss Teardrop  needed to do to act like more of my type than she already was. The only thing the snitch couldnt tell her was how to be a free woman in her heart.

The snitch knew she’d be lacking that– be lacking in that way of owning her lovejoy, come lacking in the vitals and the intangibles of that and the way it fueled the vainglory and the guts of being one of us.

I’m even willing to bet that this snitch  probably didnt feel so snitchy sending sent  the girl on her way, knowing she wouldn’t survive, but figuring that since the girl was ready to die for the cause anyway, what difference it make if she can’t fake it til she makes it?

By a snitche’s feeble minded reasoning she had done her job–got Teardrop up in Negrizona but hadn’t let The Governess know why she would be instantly detected because they hadnt asked her about that. Because everybody thinks snitches are as dumb as they are corruptible and thats always a bad mistake.

Under different circumstances, in another life, like the one I used to Iive back before The Governess went crazy, Pearl would have been my  type all the way. I hate wasting a good woman for the sake of politics. I hate wasting someone as lovely as her solely to make a political point.

What’s truly bizarre is that The Governess keeps sending these young lovelies up in here after me when Melinda and Belinda are the ones out there in The Governess’ realm inflicting all the real damage.  me and these other 24 glitches up in here, we’re just a decoy.

Somehow The Governess has yet to figure that the whole point of me being alive is to draw fire and attention away from M&B– to be  their loudmouthed unrepentant buffer.

The boisterous sort of glitch you put outfront to greet the public  while two battle axes not fit for public consumption slave in the back. Meanwhile Melinda and Belinda are in the background teaching women everywhere but Negrizona how hatch murder and mayhem against the Quantum Black Fathers by the bucketloads.

Teardrop is wearing a Fon mask, I’m wearing a Luba. Even in the bed we’ll never see each other whole faces, only bits of eyes, mouth, tongue. We”ll have sex, she’ll be put to sleep by my pheremones; she’ll be gone with the wind by  morning.

Damned to tarnation, blown to smithereens, scattered to the four winds, optioned to oblivion.

All I  promise myself to do, as always, is to make her last night on earth pleasurable beyond measure.  I’d like to believe that  I have always done this for all of the poor glitches The Governess has sent to me to kill. That because of me they at least leave the planet with a taste of all the love  they missed over here on the darkness beyond Negrizona.

The truth is that the dead leave me with as little knowledge of their true selves as I’ve given them of mine  even with  all the effort both parties always put into pretending sharing and satisfaction.  f youve never asasinated a woman whose just given her bodily all to proving her heaving passion for you, you’ll might never understand what I mean.

I think only The Governess could understand since every girl I’ve exterminated has only been driven to attack me out of their love for her. When I think of  all of those glitches bodies that have risen up against me on her behalf , and all the ones I’ve had to take out for that reason, I  strangely start to feel pity for The Governess–that her own love for power has supplanted her capacity to love those who love her so purely, so unconditionally, so remorselessly.

For this reason a quite perverse and twisted kind of intimacy has been formed between myself and The Governess. I won’t sully and denigrate the memories of my  beloved dead lovely ones anymore than the war has already forced me too. I can’t say there’s something sexual or erotic about my connection  to The Governess because that doesn’t do the feeling justice.

What she and I have between us is actually more akin to a shared awareness of a  godforce beyond gender. A power she and I have come to mutually hold  over the lives of all these  young women in her command who are willing to fuck other women just so they can then murder them on The Governess behalf.  The Governess, I think, has transformed me into her own Dark Angel of The Crossroads.

In most wars things never get so personal, so transparent between one Field General and another’s mutual power over the bodies of their soldiers. Our little conflict has become unique in that respect.Because without The Governess’  desire to a amputate and extinguish the love in our bodies the war would have no objective, no endgame,  no chance of ever being winnable and losable for either side. The Governess has rendered the capacity for love in our bodies into the enemy territory.

For her our ability to love ourselves and our own kind  has gotten in the way of an invaluable, renewable resource. To her our love is just running amok over here in Negrizona, growing out of control like some wild kudzu like thing, wantonly flaunting its independence from her supervision,exploitation or control.

Like any other war,  folk’s refusal to be domesticated or dominated  is always the real threat to the enemy–whatever  source of strength and righteousness in any people that won’t  be conquered simply because their enemies say so.  The mastery of the savage by the so-called civilized, the chosen, the better armed–mastery over-all that dares to cry freedom, always requires the complicity of those they desire to vanquish.(in our case our wombs and our raging hormones and pheremones) ultimately

Back when she was with us The Governess only ever had one joke she could tell well.It was a riddle she liked to tell all the newbies who came in, back when we were in basic together. It was one  that she claimed her jock brothers liked to repeat around her when she was just a wee girl.

Q:”Why did god create Woman?”

A: “To be a life support system for the pussy.”

If I ever get to see The Governess again I’ll let her know: Out there in Negrizona we we just trying to do the glitch-God’s will and keep it that way.

Author: Enter My Cipher

Author/musician/cultural provocateur who thrives in Harlem, Howard U Bison Nation rep-at-large, co-founder of the Black Rock Coalition, leader of the Conducted Improv big band Burnt Sugar The Arkestra Chamber since 1999, Rivers On Mars collaborator, That Dude whose books include Flyboy In The Buttermilk, Flyboy 2 The Greg Tate Reader, Midnight Lightning:Jimi Hendrix and The Black Experience, Everything But The Burden--What White People Are Taking From Black Culture and the forthcoming Beast Mode:Iconic Gods and Monsters of the Black Atlantic (FS&G,2020)

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