#Cause of death: a revolver in the hands of an officer on Forty-second between the library and the subway in the heat of the afternoon

[anoriginalbrilliantutterance]

I'll try to tell you. Then go home and forget it.  His name was Clifton and they shot him down. His name was Clifton and he was tall and some folks thought him handsome. And though he didn't believe it, I think he was. His name was Clifton and his face was black and his hair was thick with tight-rolled curls -- or call them naps or kinks. He's dead and, except to a few young girls, it doesn't matter. Have you got it?  Think of your brother or your cousin John. His lips were thick with an upward curve at the corners. He often smiled. He had good eyes and a pair of fast hands, and he had a heart. He thought about things and he felt deeply. I won't call him noble because what's such a word to do with one of us? 

His name was Clifton, Tod Clifton, and, like any man, he was born of woman to live awhile and fall and die. So that's his tale to the minute. His name was Clifton and for a while he lived among us and aroused a few hopes in the young manhood of man, and we who knew him loved him and he died. So why are you waiting? You've heard it all. Why wait for more, when all I can do is repeat it?" 

His name was Clifton and he was young and he was a leader and when he fell there was a hole in the heel of his sock and when he stretched forward he seemed not as tall as when he stood. So he died; and we who loved him are gathered here to mourn him. It's as simple as that and as short as that: His name was Clifton and he was black and they shot him. Isn't that enough to tell? Isn't it all you need to know? Isn't that enough to appease your thirst for drama and send you home to sleep it off? Go take a drink and forget it. Or read it in The Daily News. His name was Clifton and they shot him, and I was there to see him fall.  Here are the facts.

He was standing and he fell. He fell and he kneeled. He kneeled and he bled. He bled and he died. He fell in a heap like any man and his blood spilled out like any blood; red as any blood, wet as any blood reflecting the sky and the buildings and birds and trees, or your face if you'd looked into its dulling mirror and it dried in the sun as blood dries. That's all. They spilled his blood and he bled. They cut him down and he died; the blood flowed on the walk in a pool, gleamed a while, and, after awhile, became dull then dusty, then dried. That's the story and that's how it ended. It's an old story and there's been too much blood to excite you. Besides, it's only important when it fills the veins of a living man. Aren't you tired of such stories? Aren't you sick of the blood?  Then why listen? why don't you go? The beer is cold in the taverns, the saxophones will be mellow at the Savoy; plenty good-laughing-lies will be told in the barber shops and beauty parlors; and there'll be sermons in two hundred churches in the cool of the evening, and plenty of laughs at the movies. Go listen to 'Amos and Andy' and forget it. Here you have only the same old story. 

There's not even a young wife up here in red to mourn him. There's nothing here to pity, no one to break down and shout. Nothing to give you that good old frightened feeling. The story's too short and too simple. His name was Clifton, Tod Clifton, he was unarmed and his death was as senseless as his life was futile. He had struggled for Brotherhood on a hundred street corners and he thought it would make him more human,  but he died like any dog in a road.

"All, all right," I called out, feeling desperate. "Let me tell it as it truly was! His name was Tod Clifton and he was full of illusions. He thought he was a man when he was only Tod Clifton. He was shot for a simple mistake of judgement and he bled and his blood dried and shortly the crowd trampled out the stains. It was a normal mistake for which many are guilty. He thought he was a man and that men were not meant to be pushed around. But it was hot downtown and he forgot his history, he forgot the time and the place. He lost his hold on reality. There was a cop and a waiting audience but he was Tod Clifton and the cops are everywhere. The cop? What about him? He was a cop. A good citizen. But this cop had an itching finger and an eager ear for a word that rhymed with 'trigger', and when Clifton fell he had found it. The Police Special spoke its lines and the rhyme was completed. Just look around you. Look at what he made, look inside you and feel his awful power. It was perfectly natural. The blood ran like blood in a comic book killing, on a comic-book street in a comic-book town on a comic-book day in a comic-book world.

Tod Clifton's one with the ages. But what's that to do with you in this heat under this veiled sun? Now he's part of history, and he has received his true freedom ---didn't they scribble his name on a standardized pad?

His Race: colored! Religion: unknown, probably born Baptist. Place of birth: U.S. Some southern town. Next of kin: unknown. Address: unknown. Occupation: unemployed. Cause of death: resisting reality in the form of a .38 caliber revolver in the hands of the arresting officer, on Forty-second between the library and the subway in the heat of the afternoon, of gunshot wounds received from three bullets, fired at three paces, one bullet entering the right ventricle of the heart, and lodging there, the other severing the spinal ganglia raveling downward to lodge in the pelvis, the other breaking through the back and traveling God knows where.

Such was the short bitter life of Brother Tod Clifton. Now he's in this box with the bolts tightening down. He's in the box and we're in there with him, and when I've told you this you can go. It's dark in this box and it's crowded. It has a cracked ceiling and a clogged-up toilet in the hall. It has rats and roaches, and it's far, far too expensive a dwelling. The air is bad and it'll be cold this winter. Tod Clifton is crowded and he needs the room. 'Tell them to get out of the box,' that's what he would say if you could hear him. 'Tell them to get out of the box and go teach the cops to forget that rhyme. Tell them to teach them when they call you *n***er* to make a rhyme with *trigger* it makes the gun backfire.'

So there you have it. In a few hours Tod Clifton will be cold bones in the ground, and don't be fooled, for these bones shall not rise again.

You and I will still be in the box. I don't know if Tod Clifton had a soul. I only know the ache that I feel in my heart, my sense of love, I don't know if you have a soul. I only know that you are men of flesh and blood, and that blood will spill and flesh grow cold. I do not know if all cops are poets, but I know that all cops carry guns with triggers. And I know too how we are labeled. So in the name of Brother Clifton beware of the triggers; go home, keep cool, stay safe away from the sun. Forget him. When he was alive there's only one thing left to tell and I've already told it. His name was Tod Clifton, he believed in Brotherhood, he aroused our hopes  and he died."

[grailacademy]

Welcome To Grail Academy - Chapter Twenty-two: Trouble

Finally, the exams were over. No more stress, no more classes, no more teachers, no more lectures. A wave of relief swept over the entirety of Grail Academy, the hallways of the school had never been so calm before. Where there was once petty squabbles and panicked studying, now was students exchanging contact information and hugs before the winter break set in. Everyone, except for Esmerelda and her teammates. They all stood huddled around Nico’s locker while he maneuvered the lock on it. He had forgotten the combination years ago, but the paper clip he wiggled in the slot between the combination wheel and the locking mechanism was working just fine. A small click, and the lock popped off. “So, what’s the plan again?”

Esmerelda crossed her arms, a look of thinly veiled disgust crossing over her face as she watched her teammate hook the lock onto a belt loop on his pants. Tacky. She explained, “Wicker Street has Boost deals every day, that’s where we’ll start. The police tend to patrol that neighborhood anyway, so we’ll follow behind one of the cars and use them to lead us to potential suspects or witnesses, anyone that might know something.” Bernard held his arms out like a bellhop while Nico dove into his locker, chucking garbage over his shoulder and stacking items of importance in his partner’s hands. A rack of cassette tapes, a hoodie, a wrench most likely stolen from the Weapons Ec class, a pair of gaudy platform boots, a spare cartridge of dust, a second, bigger wrench, fistfuls of cheap plastic bead necklaces, a poorly handmade mug, a half-eaten banana, and a pink knitted scarf. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and tied it, seeing flakes of snow flutter down to the courtyard through a window by one of the classrooms. “That’s all fine and dandy, but….” Nico paused and gestured to Esmerelda’s high-end fashionable fur coat and matching earmuffs, snickering with an apologetic smirk. “You don’t exactly blend in with the street life down there.”

The other boy nodded while he dropped all of Nico’s stuff into an open backpack slung across his partner’s shoulder. Except for the banana, he first checked to see if it was moldy or brown, and then ate the rest of it. “They don’t take kindly to rich folk”, Bernard said monotonously. Esmerelda stared at the two boys in shock while they engaged in the most unsanitary activity she had ever seen: sharing the old banana they found in the locker. Okay, thin veil of disgust was now gone. Her disgust was now out in the open, for all the world to see. Bernard munched on his portion, and offered the end of it to Nico, who simply took a bite out of it while the other was still holding the fruit. How did she end up on a team with these animals? Nico continued talking while he was still chewing his food, adding to the nastiness that no one but their leader found appalling. “Half the community’s been gentrified to hell, and it’s only getting worse, so yuppies are a no-go.”

“I’m a yuppy now?” Esmerelda raised a brow, cocking her hip to the side. That look was never good, the end of her brow twitching and arched with her arms folded, her lips pursed. That was the look that mothers gave their children as a silent way to say, watch your mouth. The boys knew that look well. Bernard actually took a step backwards, ready to run, knowing that whatever Nico said next would determine their fate. Nico laughed nervously, putting his hands out in front to defend himself just in case. “No, no no no! I-I didn’t mean you SPECIFICALLY, I just meant….well. You’re fancier than most people. And that’s not a bad thing! No! But you….stand out. And we’re trying to be stealthy, you know?” The smile on his face did nothing to hide the fear in his eyes. To their amazement, the hook in Esmerelda’s brow slowly lowered, and her mouth slowly creased into a small frown, and she grumbled. “….I guess I could tone it down, a bit.” Those words ushered sighs of relief out of Bernard and Nico, who silently praised whatever deities resided in the heavens for sparing their lives from certain death.

Bernard added, “We’ll still need covers if we want to get into any of the joints.”

“Already on it”, Nico disappeared into the depths of his locker once more before returning with three plastic computer chips clutched in his fist and shutting the cabinet with a metallic slam. He handed each of them to his friends and they plugged the chips into their scrolls, bragging, “Made them myself. What can I say, Nico Rosé comes prepared!” Bernard and Esmerelda wondered how someone like Nico was capable of getting such high-end IDs, but their questions were answered when they read over the uploaded text on their scrolls. Bernard squinted and held the ID up close to his eyes. “….You made me forty two years old.”

“And what are these names?” Esmerelda questioned, “I mean, Viridescence Eau De Nil? That seems overdramatic, even for my tastes.”

Nico waved off their complaints, chirping “I know, aren’t they great? It’s our cover! We’re a rock band, and we’re looking at new venues for gigs. It’s perfect!”

“I don’t know about perfect….” Bernard grumbled, noting that the name on his card was Brick The Dick. Nonetheless, they all slipped their IDs into their pockets, bundling up before heading out into the snow.

Aurum sat reclined in a dusty loveseat, flipping through channels on the tiny tv box he had set up on top of a crate. Lolanthe was meticulously whittling a small bar of wax soap with a pocket knife on the other end of the loveseat, shaping it into the figure of a duck. They both waited on the couch, in the refurbished office space that hung above the factory floor with its glass walls covered in papers. The tv monitor paused on a baking show, where a contestant carried an elaborate cake with rose decorations up to the judges. It made Aurum burst out in a huff, “Bah! I could do better than that. These people never put their heart and soul into their work!” His thick accent broke through when he raised his voice. Lolanthe rolled her eyes.

“I was a baker once, you know”, he turned to the woman next to him.

“I know, Aurum. You tell me every day.”

“You know what this show’s problem is? The contestants are too-”

“-Too afraid to use heavy butter. I know. I don’t understand why you watch this channel when all you do is yell at the screen.” She had clearly heard him make the butter argument many times before.

“Because, butter is what holds the entire pastry together! They’re fools! This show should be called Teaching Clowns To Use Butter.”  Their one-sided bickering was interrupted when Sable’s imposing silhouette slithered across the back wall’s window, and Aurum snapped the tv off when her shadow reached the door. In she walked, with Queenie by her side. They both stood up quickly, the loveseat even scooting backwards on its stubby legs from the force of them pushing against it.

Queenie passed the envelope under her arm to the two of them, and Lolanthe inspected its contents. Blueprints of a clocktower, Grail Academy class schedules, the layout of the school’s basements, red marks over exits and entrances. “It’s time.” Sable folded her hands behind her back as she spoke, “Call in the Butcher.”

Outside the office, Yorick leaned against the wall and anxiously spun the canisters in his revolvers. They locked in place, then unlocked, then locked again. Scarlet eyed him, annoyed by the repetitive clicking. He tightened the white scarf on his neck before turning around and wandering down a hallway to get out of the inevitable awkward silence that came with being a third wheel. Leaving Rettah alone with him. Yorick didn’t notice until he looked up, the lack of a third presence automatically made him nervous. Rettah twirled the curls in her ponytails, whistling a tune. Why was it so quiet? Even with her whistling, and the clicking of his revolvers, it felt eerily silent. Was he sweating? He checked his palms. Was there something on his face? He smoothed back his bangs and picked at his teeth with his pinky nail. Where was everyone? Say something, anything. Tell her she looks nice today. Tell her you love her. No, no, too fast. Tell her that her eyes shine like sapphires. Ugh, cheesy. Say you like her dress. Talk to her, you idiot.

“Uhm….you’re pretty.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, uh. You look pretty today!” The fidgeting with his gun’s canisters sped up.

“Oh, thanks!” Rettah smiled brightly. It made his heart leap out of his chest. She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, reel it back, play it cool.

“Because, some days you don’t look nice….”

“Oh….?”

Crap, too cool, too cool. “N-not that you’re ugly! You’re definitely not ugly. I think you’re beautiful!”

Rettah made a strange face. It wasn’t anger, more like confusion. Yorick’s heart plummeted. Too much, you’re coming on too strong, you have to save it. Suddenly, he started laughing weirdly and looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, yesterday you were a total hot mess! But you really cleaned up today!” His thumb slipped on the edge of the barrel, and the nervous spinning on his weapons caused the bullets inside to abruptly spiral out of their case in a shower of shells, all of them clattering to the floor. Rettah flinched, dodging the loose bullets, whereas Yorick was hit in the face by a handful of them when they sprayed upwards, making him jump. The jangling of the metal snapped him out of his rambling, and brought him far enough into reality to see Rettah walking away. He was trapped in awe of his own words, his body knelt down and his hands started to pick up each of the bullets without him telling it to. He felt like throwing up. “….You were a hot mess? Who SAYS that!?” He scolded himself, sweeping up the remnants of his bullet casings into his pockets.

The snowflakes passing across the orange glow of the streetlamps reminded Nico of the fireflies he used to catch during summer as a child. The light beaming off the insect made the flesh of his hands cupped around it turn a soft shade of pink. He preferred the warm weather to seasons like this, but there was still something charming about turning around and seeing his footprints alongside his friends tracks in the snow as they walked. The group made their way down street after street, shawarma and halal stands, hair salons, foreclosed apartments, rented office spaces, junkyards, sports bars, diners, autoshops, trailing behind a patrol car. “We’ve been following this dude for hours”, Nico muttered. Esmerelda responded by putting her index finger to her lips, hushing him so she could focus on her surroundings.

She had never been to this part of the city. Of course, they all visited the abandoned sector when they fought at the hotel, but that was only for a few hours. Esmerelda looked at each building, each stranger passing them, each rusted bench, each flake of paint peeling off the storefront windows, taking mental notes. The further they progressed down Wicker Street, the faster the quality of their environment deteriorated. She turned to her teammates, posing a question. “What happened here?”

Bernard stayed silent, idly flipping the fake ID in his coat pocket.

“Gentrification. Segregation. Whatever you wanna call it,” Nico piped up, “The governor thinks he’s doing the city a favor. Enriching the culture or something. The major parts of Calicem grow from new businesses and fancy houses, and the people who can’t afford to live in those houses and buy from those businesses are forced farther and farther out of the city, until they end up in shitholes like this where the resources are garbage.” This was the first time Esmerelda and Bernard had heard Nico speak like he knew what he was talking about. The first time he actually sounded serious. He pointed to the patrol car they were following, that was slowing down near a stop sign “It’s literally herding them like cattle. He uses the fuzz as his sheepdogs. Forcing them all into a corner, like some kind of slaughterhouse. He’s killing the city.”

The noiseless air that swept between the three of them rested on their shoulders like heavy fog, which strangely helped their attempt at being inconspicuous. “You ever wonder why every person who walked past us for the last three blocks was Faunus?” He tilted his head up to Esmerelda, who remained silent as she took a moment to look, really look, and see what he meant. Nico hunched down and slouched as he walked. “Exactly.” Esmerelda knew that her people faced hardships and struggles, but it wasn’t until this moment that she realized just how sheltered a life she lived before Grail Academy. It only made her hate her father even more, and it left a feeling of guilt to fester in her stomach.

“Hey.” Bernard nodded his head towards the patrol car. It came to a full stop by the side of the road, and the driver stepped out. The officer was adorn in military-grade armor, from chestplate to kneepads. Her hair was pulled up into a tight high ponytail, and she approached a burly looking man in a leather vest, who sat on a stool next to the entrance of a pub. They talked for a minute or so, the man scratching his bushy ginger beard. The officer pulled out a notepad and tore off a page, handing it to the man and getting back in her car. As she sped off, the man crumbled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. This had to be a good spot to start.

Nico’s back straightened, and he slung his arms around his teammates. “I got this one. Watch and learn.” Bernard just grunted and rolled his eyes. Esmerelda huffed, crossing her arms. “Time to work my magic~” Nico vocalized, strutting ahead and flagging down the bouncer.

“Should we be worried about what kind of ‘magic’ he’s going to work?” Esmerelda asked Bernard. He shrugged. “Probably.”

“Yo, big hoss!” Nico flashed his ID to the intimidating presence of the doorman, smiling confidently. He quirked a brow at the little pink punk in front of him, reaching out and taking the card. From out of his pocket, he pulled a blacklight torch, and shined the bluish lavender light on the plastic square. Somehow, the frown that was already on his face sank down more, as if he was deflating. The scraggly voice vibrated in Nico’s chest as the man spoke, “….Your groups name is Jaundice?” He said it as a statement, but his tone suggested that the bouncer was questioning Nico’s logic. Nico’s smile never faded, he stood unfaltered. “Yup! Rest of the band is back there,” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder towards Esmerelda and Bernard, waiting awkwardly under a street lamp. “We got a meeting scheduled with the manager. Tickets, merch, stage set-up, that sort of thing. Very important, you understand.”

The man shifted on the stool, unimpressed. “I’m the manager.”

“Uh-oh….” Well, their cover was officially blown, and they hadn’t even gotten into the pub yet. Nico’s grin dissipated. “Listen, I’m gonna need a more legit form of identification, or else I can’t let you in”, The doorman explained. Nico took the ID back and begrudgingly stuffed his scroll into his pocket, looking over at his friends under the lamp post. They were a few yards away, just enough that they wouldn’t hear anything he said or see any fine details where he was.

“….Alright.” Discreetly, Nico pulled his scarf down and tugged at the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck. The bouncer shined the blacklight on that section of skin, revealing the intricate patterns and symbols of a bird skull on his throat, the ink glowing an artificial pink under the light. The man’s eyes widened, and he flicked the flashlight off, making the tattoo disappear. The man whistled, “Phew. Chicken flew the coop, huh?” He held the door open, and Nico waved his friends over to follow him as they entered the bar. Neither of them could see what he did, but they were both thoroughly confused. “What did you do?” Bernard whispered. Nico just smiled again and linked arms with him. “Don’t worry about it. We’re in, aren’t we?”

“What did we get ourselves into….” Esmerelda breathed. Looking over the sea of bar patrons, the three of them gazed at an all-out bar fight taking place in the middle of the dance floor. The shiny jukebox propped up on the wall threaded a disc into the slot, an uncharacteristically upbeat surf rock song vibrating across to all corners of the pub. A bottle flew past Bernard’s head and shattered against the wall behind them. The women who were trying to dance screamed and scattered as a group of leather-clad men drunkenly wrestled and threw their fists. Near the back, everyone else ignored the commotion and continued to nurse their drinks and play pool. “This’ll be fun!” Nico joked.