Don’t look, Omar tells himself. Fight the temptation of the devil.
While running his fingers through his greasy hair, Omar strides on the sidewalk of Geisha Boulevard, also known as the Sin Strip, filled with committers of Gluttony who instead of worshiping God, waste their short time on Earth with buying and consuming crap they do not even need.
The shops on the left are ruled by snake-oil salesmen who can sell everything from soup to nuts, which could even include human nuts. Their sin is Greed.
And the worst of them all are on the right, the center of the boulevard. This is where filthy, disgusting street women offer their bodies for sale—or for rent to be more accurate. Lust is their sin.
The only innocent person here is Omar. Perhaps one could argue that Wrath is his sin. But not the righteous wrath. And Omar is wary to use his wrath only for good, like God would; on bullies, racists, child molesters, kafirs, and assholes. God doesn’t love assholes.
One day the wrath of God will flame through the whole strip and turn it and its sinful residents into ashes. Damn dirty women! Omar wishes to distance himself from them and their whole species as far as possible. But what choices does he have when Geisha Boulevard is the shortcut to the grand mosque? It is either this route or Omar would miss the night prayer with Imam Zahid.
Omar will not look. And he never has. Those few momentary lapses were by mistake, for which he has prayed for forgiveness already; so everything is now sorted out. As long as he keeps his eyes on the ground and away from the left, the center of the boulevard, he should be safe from the sight of those agents of Satan.
Omar plays with his hair to keep himself distracted from the impure thoughts that always find their way to his mind through the smallest cracks in his faith. He is lucky for having such nice hair; everybody tells him that. If it were not for his shaved mustache and long beard, he would be quite a catch, or perhaps even a lady’s man. Are they looking at me now?
“Down with Satan and his deception,” Omar mutters and shakes off impure thoughts.
Don’t look at them. Keep your eyes on the ground.
“If I catch one Rakat of the prayer,” Omar says, a bit loudly to silence the voice of the devil, “I’ll earn one blessing. But if I catch all four, then my total for the day will be 72 blessings; the same as the number of virgins awaiting me in Heaven.”
Oh, my beautiful Houris, where are you?
He is immersed in his self-dialogue when a sharp, explosive sound from the right shoots through his ear and in an instant burns away what was left of his thoughts on prayers and blessings—except of course for the persistent image of 72 virgins. It is actually the same virgin multiplied by 72. She has been the permanent resident in Omar’s mind for a long time, before Omar even received an education on the matter of religion, Heaven, and Hell. The only difference is that religion gave her a name, Houri. Houri has on her face a charming—yet decent—smile and in her eyes an endlessly merciful look, similar to that of his late mother—may she rest in peace. Carved deep in Omar’s mind, Houri’s image is not to be distorted by sounds, even that of an explosion.
Omar stops walking and slowly turns to the right, where the sound came from. Standing on a one-yard-high balcony of the shop is a pair of golden Glass Slippers that captures his gaze. Cinderella herself can’t be too far away. He hears the same sound twice more as two more flood lamps that are powerful enough to illuminate an entire Hollywood studio pour their artificial radiance on the balcony. Reflecting off the golden shoes, the blinding light hurts Omar’s eyes, but he does not blink. The shoes would have looked good on Houri. His gaze crawls up the tan legs of the woman wearing them, a Latina girl barely clothed in a miniskirt and a blue tank top.
She smiles the moment Omar’s soaring gaze meets hers.
“Houri!” Omar mutters, his fingers gradually falling through his hair.
Am I dead or alive? he wonders, feeling the big lump that is forming in his throat. So, this is what Heaven looks like. It was worth it. It was all worth it. Houri is as beautiful as her image. All the hard life, boring rituals, and endless prayers finally paid off. No man has ever entered Houri’s virgin heart until now, when she smiles at Omar. His pulse racing, he feels weak in his knees. Finally in Heaven, and now gravity invites him to fall.
Omar snaps back to attention when the girl winks at him. That comes off as too unnatural, even in Heaven. Girls hardly ever look at Omar, let alone wink. Something fishy is going on around here. Looking further up, he finds a sign above the shop that says: ‘Latina Strip Club, $10 entry fee’. That explains the inviting smile. His face tightening, Omar lowers his gaze back to the girl—her name is no longer Houri. She maintains the same smile, which now comes off not only mirthless but also deceitful and…dishonest, and…evil.
“Why?” Omar asks, his voice tight. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and tries again. “Why do you do this?” he asks, his voice almost squeaky.
The smile disappears from the girl’s face right away. Omar’s question must have cut through her fast and deep. Either because the question has awakened some primal doubts she already has about her life choices or she was shaken by the sincerity in his love-starved gaze. Staring back at Omar’s interrogative gaze, she presses her lips together.
Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps Omar could save her from this bazaar of sham, lie, and sin, and bring her to the safety of religion’s embrace. Perhaps that is God’s mission for Omar, to be the hero who goes around the city and saves all Houris.
“Hey, keep walking,” yells a beefy Black guy with a thick voice, clothed in a tight, black t-shirt that says ‘Riot’ on it. With a thick gold necklace shining on his pumped chest, he emerges through the darkness of the strip club. He slides a little to fit through the door.
“It’s OK, Gabriel,” the girl says, her trembling voice conveying worry. With her eyebrows drawn together, she leans and tries to block Gabriel’s way with her slender hand.
“You shut the fuck up, honey,” Gabriel responds, not bothering to even look at her.
So, her given name is Honey, Omar figures out.
With his eyes locked on Omar, Gabriel stomps forward, slapping Honey’s feeble hand away.
Her face twisting in pain, Honey falls to her knees and applies pressure to the bruise on her hand. Her long, brown hair hangs down her back in a ponytail.
Omar’s heart aches watching Honey in pain. He would try to soothe her if he knew how to talk to pretty girls. A convoluted science he knows nothing of. He knows how to rage though, and God knows he is good at it. With his rage amplified, Omar breathes heavily through his nose.
Gabriel stops his march awfully close to Omar, breathing right onto his face. “Walk away,” he spits, showing the end of the street with his hand.
Keep your wrath on leash, Omar tells himself. Wrath is a sin.
Maneuvering the confrontation between the good and evil, pedestrians step into the boulevard to pass by.
Standing tall, Omar slowly turns his gaze from Honey onto Gabriel, who, judging by his bad breath, must have been drinking all day. Wrinkling his nose in disgust is the only reaction Omar offers to Gabriel’s threat. But it is not quite satisfactory. He gotta do something; something serious. So far, he has two sins on Gabriel, drinking alcohol and beating the weaker sex, which is more than enough. But three would make it a bullet-proof case, sealing his one-way ticket down to Hell and giving Omar a green pass for righteous wrath. “Did you make Honey expose herself like this?” Omar growls, his clenched fist craving to hear yes.
“Yeah. And after that, she sucks my cock too.” Gabriel gets closer to Omar, nearly pushing him back. “Now, walk away,” he roars, showing Omar the end of the street, again.
Omar closes his eyes when Gabriel’s spit hits his face. Thinking about what Gabriel just said, he pictures Honey kneeling before Gabriel’s crotch, pulling down his checkered boxer shorts. Breathing angrily as if he were the boiler of a steam train on the verge of explosion, he slowly opens his eyes again, his teeth grinding.
“You’re still here!” Gabriel yells, baring his teeth.
“So are your teeth!” Omar mutters.
“What—”
Before Gabriel can barely begins the sentence, Omar knocks him out with a sucker punch under his jaw. The sound of his teeth cracking fades into the girl’s scream and ends with Gabriel collapsing on the ground like 200 pounds of pork ready to be roasted.
Maintaining his distance from the crime scene, one pedestrian whispers to another, “Call the police.”
“Hey. Yeah, I want to report an assault between two Blacks,” a trembling voice of a nosy woman says from behind. Those ignorant cowards never get the race right. Omar has been called all the races in the book—except for white of course: Black, Puerto Rican, Arab, Mexican, and one time even Asian, which was refreshingly new.
“No,” she continues, “one of them is knocked out and the other is standing above him.”
Standing still with clenched fists and breathing heavily through his grinding teeth, Omar turns his tightened face back onto Honey.
With her eyes wide and her mouth agape, it takes a few moments for her to come back to attention and notice that she is now the subject of the rest of Omar’s menacing glare. As if she fears a bolt of lightning coming out of Omar’s eyes, Honey immediately lowers her gaze and breaks eye contact. While moaning, she resumes rubbing her bruised hand.
Watching her in pain, Omar’s fist unclenches a bit. He is still angry at Honey though. She could have been Omar’s Houri, and yet she picked Gabriel instead and became his bi—
While still breathing noisily, Omar looks her up and down. “Tomorrow, Honey, this place will be torn down,” he says as if he prophesies of an upcoming Biblical torment. “You’d better not be here, you stupid whore,” he spits.
Honey does not look up.
“Yes,” the nosy woman from behind continues on her phone, “it is after the intersection of Geisha boulevard and Freedom Avenue.”
The police are expected to arrive in four or five minutes. A minute longer here and Omar would have to call Frank again to bail him out. Omar takes his condescending gaze off the girl, spits on Gabriel’s body, and leaves.
“Hurry up. One of the Blacks is running away.”
Why did he call me honey? Valeria wonders and watches the Indian boy walking away as she hears a pedestrian describing his physical features to 911. Her first day on the job and she cannot stop the Indian boy’s one-word ‘why’ question from echoing through her head. Was it fate or merely coincidence? It must have been a coincidence. Those Jesusy-like ancient miracles happen no more. We live in modern times when science has explained everything already—or it will at some point. This is an era empty of mysteries and miracles. An era in which no one is awaiting Messiah anymore.
Valeria knows nothing about the rise of Black Messiah.