deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Killer Was A Poet
I often wonder why on DU poetry site, the worst poets have the most trophies. And the best poets had the least, or none. If you have more than 11 trophies, you’re a joke. There were new members signing up every day. And new trophies given away. It was a machine. Hidden behind a photo could have been a maniac with method. Those are the worst kinds of maniacs.
Be careful who you meet online. They could be the Devil in disguise. But I never paid the Devil no never mind. He wouldn’t be a writer, or she wouldn’t be a poet. I mean the Devil don’t have literary talent. He don’t have an appetite for prose. But I soon found out I knew very little about the Devil.
I answer a classified ad: WANTED writers, preferably poets. PAID WORK. No experience needed. Must be willing to work over night. That was odd, ‘must be willing to work over night.’ The address was an empty used book store near a yoga studio and hip coffee shop. I don’t drink coffee so I wasn’t hip. I don’t do yoga so I wasn’t hop. I ain’t hip hop. I’m gangster rap. And I’ll beat your ass.
When I arrived it was early evening, the sun was setting and there was 6 other people all sitting at individual computers reading their screen. I was the last member. I introduced myself and sat down next to this Norwegian Scandinavian girl. I liked her hair. I counted 3 dudes and 3 gals, and I was the last dude. We had a Nigerian, a Brit, and an Australian on the men’s roster. The two other women was a Latina from the Bronx and another Brit. I was from South Central, a real boys in the hood. And this was Los Angeles, the City of Angels. Who knew the Devil would be living here too.
I read the computer prompt. Log in to DU poetry site and enter the How To Kill The Devil competition. What the hell did I get my self into? But I was getting paid so I complied. I don’t back down from a writing challenge anyway. I write with war in my blood.
“So who’s in charge? And why all the windows blacked out. And there’s only two doors,” I asked FoxyViking, the Scandinivian girl.
“Are you BoFantastic?” she said.
I nodded. The front door was electronic. It locked itself. The other door was regular and lead to a back office or bathroom, I assumed.
“I hate you.”
What? Why would a white girl hate me? I’m good to all people, white, black, brown, yellow, and purple.
She continued, “Your poetry is so gay. And you suck so hard. And you don’t have much trophy. I have over 30 trophy. Guys message me all the time. They love my poetry. Do anyone message you?”
I was hurt. “No, nobody messages me about poetry. I don’t write for trophies or for praise. I create on the whim. Out of nothing comes something. Out of the blue comes something new. Do you know who posted the classified ad?”
“No, I do not. We all came at the same time. We waited at the front door. The sensor went off and it opened. We all walked in. Nobody was here. The computers were on. There were instructions on the screen. We read them but we had to wait for you to proceed with the competition.”
“Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”
“No, not strange at all. Money was deposited into our PayPal accounts. Have you checked yours?”
“Oh, I see.” I checked my PayPal account. There was a deposit of $500 US dollars from a NightMystress. No address. No further info.
“Hey, BoFaggot,” WildStyle the Nigerian remarked, “just shut your mouth and get to work. You are the worst poet on DU. I wouldn’t wipe my black Nigerian ass with your poetry. I wouldn’t even use it to make a fire with even if I was freezing my black Nigerian ass off.”
Every body circle laughed me. I see that I was not popular or liked but that I had a reputation. I hope your Nigerian ass does freeze, you cocky bastard. And I hope your white Scandinavian ass gets carpal tunnel, then you can’t win no more trophies.
I got to work. How would I kill the Devil? This had to be a riddle. It can’t be that simple, that easy. Being from South Central, I knew the streets and the streets had wolves, and those wolves were the police. Crooked cops were running the dope game, the hoe game, and the gambling too. I had to see into the situation, I had to trust my instincts. I don’t know about the others, but there was no way to really kill the Devil. I knew by the two black domes on opposite walls that we were watched. Perhaps by this NighMystress. Man, some people take poetry too damn far.
Every body was furiously typing away. I thought it was all bullshit, for show. I was having a hard time. Writer’s block had me in its grip. I was choking for words. Nothing. But every body was killing it.
“How can you have so much to write about?” I asked.
FoxyViking laughed out loud, “I have thought about killing you for a long time.”
What! Is she serious?
“The prompt says describe how you would kill the person sitting next to you. Choose the one you loathe the most. Let your creative monster come alive. Spare no formalities.” She looked at me with wolfish intent. She indeed had thought about this before.
“I wish I was sitting next to you, BoFoolish,” WildStyle quipped.
Every body burst into laughter. Did everybody have the same prompt but me? There is something odd and disturbing about this.
There was another table with four unopened box of pizzas, a case of drinking water bottles, and a roll of paper hand towels next to a trash bin. Nobody was hungry.
I wrote an apology. I’m sorry but I cannot kill the Devil. There’s no way in hell to catch the Devil. The Devil is too elusive, too clever and too….too….(too what? spit it out Bo)…too necessary. To kill him or her would upset the balance. We just have to live with the Devil and find the goodness in our lives and in others. The Devil wins when we fight him. We must have faith in a higher power that is directing our footsteps. I’m sorry but the Devil just can’t be killed. I tapped enter.
My computer abruptly shut down and the power cut off. But only my computer. Every body was still tap dancing on the keyboard. I pushed the button, the keyboard. Nothing but black screen.
FoxyViking laughed at me, “Oh Bo you really suck. You have bad luck. Too bad Bo. Are you going to cry? Do you know how I plan on killing you?”
“Listen Snow White, I’m from South Central. I’ll beat your ass. I don’t want to know how you plan on killing me, because it ain’t gonna happen. You ain’t quick enough to tap dance with me. I tap dance alone.”
She laughed again, “Please Bo. Spare me your wretched poetry. You are about as gangster as top ramen noodles. I have Viking blood in me. Valhalla, Bo. Valhalla.”
“What the hell is Valhalla?”
She bitch slapped me in my gangster face. I was livid and fuming with rage. No white girl has ever slapped me. No white girl will ever slap me again. This white girl is about to enter Valhalla, whatever the hell that is.
Just as I was about to smack a hoe like a hoe never been smacked before in the history of hoe smacking, the computer turned back on:
Please leave now. The door is unlocked. You are free to go.
NightMystress.
I calmed down. Walked up and headed for the door. It unlocked.
“Hey, BoNotFantastic. Leaving so soon? What the matter, the little baby need his baby bottle? You sorry ass loser. You can’t cut it as a poet or writer of anything. Go do what you do best, sucking and swallowing creamy white fluids. You pathetic no trophy having Bitch Poet,” the Nigerian roasted me.
Everybody laughed and laughed. I never felt so hurt and humiliated. Bitch Poet? Me? I am true to my words, to my writing, to my art. I bleed for it, and now they made me cry for it.
I ran out with inconsolable tears and a hell of a lot of rage. I was a hurricane. I thought about coming back with a baseball bat and writing some real poetry with their broken bones and bloody noses. Leave them all toothless and cripple-fingered, they can’t even wipe their ass proper again. But something about that room gave me the creeps. I’m from South Central, I gotta go with my gut instincts. I stayed away.
I woke up. Checked my PayPal account and there was an extra $6,000 dollars in my account. I was ecstatic. I was dancing in my room.
There was a pounding at my front door. It was the police, a detective.
“Good morning, Sir. Do you go by the name of BoFantastic? I am detective John Hades with the LAPD.”
“Yeah.”
“We would like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Please get dressed.”
“What’s this about?”
“Six people have been murdered last night. They were poets, we assumed. Their bodies were found in an empty book store. Where were you last night?”
“I was at home asleep.”
“You never stepped foot in that bookstore?” he baited me.
I knew that have video evidence. I couldn’t lie.
“No, I was there. But I left.”
“Yes, we know. We have you on tape. Well, now we know that it was you. That’s a positive i.d.”
“You know I didn’t kill them.”
“Yes. The tape showed them killing each other.”
“What! How?”
“It showed them pulling out hammers, carving knives, and one sawed off shotgun out of the trash bin.”
“Holy hookers on roller skates. Who was the last to die?”
“The blonde Norwegian. We identified her as FoxyViking. She died with a carving knife stuck in her liver. She bled out.”
“Damn.”
“It was a blood bath. You’re lucky to be alive.”
His cell phone rings. The detective listens attentively to the news. He looks up at me with surprise.
“What is it?” I asked.
“One of the bodies is missing. It crawled out of the body bag while it was in the van on the way to autopsy this morning. It was a woman.”
“The blond Norwegian?”
“No, we don’t know as of yet. We presumed they were all dead.”
“How did you get in the back room and get the surveillance tape?”
“The door was never locked.”
“Whoever was in that room was watching us, I’m sure of it.”
“No one was in there. We dusted for prints.”
“The killer, or the master mind of this plot, was in the room with you. And she was a woman. All this time you were looking at the killer in the face and didn’t even know it. The killer was a poet.”
I wanted to vomit. I was weak in the knees. I need to lie down. I sat on the couch.
“Let me get dressed, Detective.”
I went in the bedroom and logged in to my DU poetry account. Still no trophies, but I didn’t feel bad. Wait, there’s a message. I clicked the digital envelope.
Hello Mr. BoFantastic. I just want to let you know you are a fine poet. Keep writing and keep true to your heart and true to your art. Trophies don’t mean triumph. Victory comes from within. You are no Bitch Poet.
Love, NightMystress.
I buttoned my shirt and put my boots on. I closed my computer and walked with the detective to his car. I don’t know if I want to be a member of DU poetry anymore. I’m not in it for the trophies, or the money. I just wanted to write my heart out. I’m glad somebody appreciates my art. I want some breakfast.
“Can we get some breakfast?” I asked
“Yeah, there’s donuts and muffins at the station,” John smiled.
“Gangsters don’t eat donuts,” I said softly to myself.
Be careful who you meet online. They could be the Devil in disguise. But I never paid the Devil no never mind. He wouldn’t be a writer, or she wouldn’t be a poet. I mean the Devil don’t have literary talent. He don’t have an appetite for prose. But I soon found out I knew very little about the Devil.
I answer a classified ad: WANTED writers, preferably poets. PAID WORK. No experience needed. Must be willing to work over night. That was odd, ‘must be willing to work over night.’ The address was an empty used book store near a yoga studio and hip coffee shop. I don’t drink coffee so I wasn’t hip. I don’t do yoga so I wasn’t hop. I ain’t hip hop. I’m gangster rap. And I’ll beat your ass.
When I arrived it was early evening, the sun was setting and there was 6 other people all sitting at individual computers reading their screen. I was the last member. I introduced myself and sat down next to this Norwegian Scandinavian girl. I liked her hair. I counted 3 dudes and 3 gals, and I was the last dude. We had a Nigerian, a Brit, and an Australian on the men’s roster. The two other women was a Latina from the Bronx and another Brit. I was from South Central, a real boys in the hood. And this was Los Angeles, the City of Angels. Who knew the Devil would be living here too.
I read the computer prompt. Log in to DU poetry site and enter the How To Kill The Devil competition. What the hell did I get my self into? But I was getting paid so I complied. I don’t back down from a writing challenge anyway. I write with war in my blood.
“So who’s in charge? And why all the windows blacked out. And there’s only two doors,” I asked FoxyViking, the Scandinivian girl.
“Are you BoFantastic?” she said.
I nodded. The front door was electronic. It locked itself. The other door was regular and lead to a back office or bathroom, I assumed.
“I hate you.”
What? Why would a white girl hate me? I’m good to all people, white, black, brown, yellow, and purple.
She continued, “Your poetry is so gay. And you suck so hard. And you don’t have much trophy. I have over 30 trophy. Guys message me all the time. They love my poetry. Do anyone message you?”
I was hurt. “No, nobody messages me about poetry. I don’t write for trophies or for praise. I create on the whim. Out of nothing comes something. Out of the blue comes something new. Do you know who posted the classified ad?”
“No, I do not. We all came at the same time. We waited at the front door. The sensor went off and it opened. We all walked in. Nobody was here. The computers were on. There were instructions on the screen. We read them but we had to wait for you to proceed with the competition.”
“Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”
“No, not strange at all. Money was deposited into our PayPal accounts. Have you checked yours?”
“Oh, I see.” I checked my PayPal account. There was a deposit of $500 US dollars from a NightMystress. No address. No further info.
“Hey, BoFaggot,” WildStyle the Nigerian remarked, “just shut your mouth and get to work. You are the worst poet on DU. I wouldn’t wipe my black Nigerian ass with your poetry. I wouldn’t even use it to make a fire with even if I was freezing my black Nigerian ass off.”
Every body circle laughed me. I see that I was not popular or liked but that I had a reputation. I hope your Nigerian ass does freeze, you cocky bastard. And I hope your white Scandinavian ass gets carpal tunnel, then you can’t win no more trophies.
I got to work. How would I kill the Devil? This had to be a riddle. It can’t be that simple, that easy. Being from South Central, I knew the streets and the streets had wolves, and those wolves were the police. Crooked cops were running the dope game, the hoe game, and the gambling too. I had to see into the situation, I had to trust my instincts. I don’t know about the others, but there was no way to really kill the Devil. I knew by the two black domes on opposite walls that we were watched. Perhaps by this NighMystress. Man, some people take poetry too damn far.
Every body was furiously typing away. I thought it was all bullshit, for show. I was having a hard time. Writer’s block had me in its grip. I was choking for words. Nothing. But every body was killing it.
“How can you have so much to write about?” I asked.
FoxyViking laughed out loud, “I have thought about killing you for a long time.”
What! Is she serious?
“The prompt says describe how you would kill the person sitting next to you. Choose the one you loathe the most. Let your creative monster come alive. Spare no formalities.” She looked at me with wolfish intent. She indeed had thought about this before.
“I wish I was sitting next to you, BoFoolish,” WildStyle quipped.
Every body burst into laughter. Did everybody have the same prompt but me? There is something odd and disturbing about this.
There was another table with four unopened box of pizzas, a case of drinking water bottles, and a roll of paper hand towels next to a trash bin. Nobody was hungry.
I wrote an apology. I’m sorry but I cannot kill the Devil. There’s no way in hell to catch the Devil. The Devil is too elusive, too clever and too….too….(too what? spit it out Bo)…too necessary. To kill him or her would upset the balance. We just have to live with the Devil and find the goodness in our lives and in others. The Devil wins when we fight him. We must have faith in a higher power that is directing our footsteps. I’m sorry but the Devil just can’t be killed. I tapped enter.
My computer abruptly shut down and the power cut off. But only my computer. Every body was still tap dancing on the keyboard. I pushed the button, the keyboard. Nothing but black screen.
FoxyViking laughed at me, “Oh Bo you really suck. You have bad luck. Too bad Bo. Are you going to cry? Do you know how I plan on killing you?”
“Listen Snow White, I’m from South Central. I’ll beat your ass. I don’t want to know how you plan on killing me, because it ain’t gonna happen. You ain’t quick enough to tap dance with me. I tap dance alone.”
She laughed again, “Please Bo. Spare me your wretched poetry. You are about as gangster as top ramen noodles. I have Viking blood in me. Valhalla, Bo. Valhalla.”
“What the hell is Valhalla?”
She bitch slapped me in my gangster face. I was livid and fuming with rage. No white girl has ever slapped me. No white girl will ever slap me again. This white girl is about to enter Valhalla, whatever the hell that is.
Just as I was about to smack a hoe like a hoe never been smacked before in the history of hoe smacking, the computer turned back on:
Please leave now. The door is unlocked. You are free to go.
NightMystress.
I calmed down. Walked up and headed for the door. It unlocked.
“Hey, BoNotFantastic. Leaving so soon? What the matter, the little baby need his baby bottle? You sorry ass loser. You can’t cut it as a poet or writer of anything. Go do what you do best, sucking and swallowing creamy white fluids. You pathetic no trophy having Bitch Poet,” the Nigerian roasted me.
Everybody laughed and laughed. I never felt so hurt and humiliated. Bitch Poet? Me? I am true to my words, to my writing, to my art. I bleed for it, and now they made me cry for it.
I ran out with inconsolable tears and a hell of a lot of rage. I was a hurricane. I thought about coming back with a baseball bat and writing some real poetry with their broken bones and bloody noses. Leave them all toothless and cripple-fingered, they can’t even wipe their ass proper again. But something about that room gave me the creeps. I’m from South Central, I gotta go with my gut instincts. I stayed away.
I woke up. Checked my PayPal account and there was an extra $6,000 dollars in my account. I was ecstatic. I was dancing in my room.
There was a pounding at my front door. It was the police, a detective.
“Good morning, Sir. Do you go by the name of BoFantastic? I am detective John Hades with the LAPD.”
“Yeah.”
“We would like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Please get dressed.”
“What’s this about?”
“Six people have been murdered last night. They were poets, we assumed. Their bodies were found in an empty book store. Where were you last night?”
“I was at home asleep.”
“You never stepped foot in that bookstore?” he baited me.
I knew that have video evidence. I couldn’t lie.
“No, I was there. But I left.”
“Yes, we know. We have you on tape. Well, now we know that it was you. That’s a positive i.d.”
“You know I didn’t kill them.”
“Yes. The tape showed them killing each other.”
“What! How?”
“It showed them pulling out hammers, carving knives, and one sawed off shotgun out of the trash bin.”
“Holy hookers on roller skates. Who was the last to die?”
“The blonde Norwegian. We identified her as FoxyViking. She died with a carving knife stuck in her liver. She bled out.”
“Damn.”
“It was a blood bath. You’re lucky to be alive.”
His cell phone rings. The detective listens attentively to the news. He looks up at me with surprise.
“What is it?” I asked.
“One of the bodies is missing. It crawled out of the body bag while it was in the van on the way to autopsy this morning. It was a woman.”
“The blond Norwegian?”
“No, we don’t know as of yet. We presumed they were all dead.”
“How did you get in the back room and get the surveillance tape?”
“The door was never locked.”
“Whoever was in that room was watching us, I’m sure of it.”
“No one was in there. We dusted for prints.”
“The killer, or the master mind of this plot, was in the room with you. And she was a woman. All this time you were looking at the killer in the face and didn’t even know it. The killer was a poet.”
I wanted to vomit. I was weak in the knees. I need to lie down. I sat on the couch.
“Let me get dressed, Detective.”
I went in the bedroom and logged in to my DU poetry account. Still no trophies, but I didn’t feel bad. Wait, there’s a message. I clicked the digital envelope.
Hello Mr. BoFantastic. I just want to let you know you are a fine poet. Keep writing and keep true to your heart and true to your art. Trophies don’t mean triumph. Victory comes from within. You are no Bitch Poet.
Love, NightMystress.
I buttoned my shirt and put my boots on. I closed my computer and walked with the detective to his car. I don’t know if I want to be a member of DU poetry anymore. I’m not in it for the trophies, or the money. I just wanted to write my heart out. I’m glad somebody appreciates my art. I want some breakfast.
“Can we get some breakfast?” I asked
“Yeah, there’s donuts and muffins at the station,” John smiled.
“Gangsters don’t eat donuts,” I said softly to myself.
Published 16th Aug 2015
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16th Aug 2015 8:34pm
16th Aug 2015 9:57pm
