After surveying several
“gentlemens’ clubs”
and not seeing anyone
who got my endorphins
jumping like happy
dolphins, a baby-faced
black girl with Betty Boop
lashes, long blonde locks,
and a curvy body wrapped
in sheer white embossed
with little hearts, sat beside
me and asked my name.
I told her the truth, that it
didn’t matter, since I was
neither rich nor famous.
And I added that she looked
good in white and would
look good on white too. A
line I’ve used before but
made up myself. She was
just my type, which is to
say I wasn’t her’s. Another
black beauty pulled up,
who I knew to be hip,
so I shared with her
an article about one
of Phizer”s ex chief
scientists and VPs
proclaiming that
our governments
and big boy “vaxxers”
are lying to us in order
quite possibly cull
Us. Now I”m
no doctor, but when they
supress the voices
of people like this,
that tells me something.
Anyway, the hip one
started to read the
article aloud and
knodded along,
then the other one,
Ms. SUPERSWEET,
asked me if I believe
all “that stuff.” And I could
tell by the way she said
it that she didn’t. It hit me
then that I was jeopardizing
my dances with her. Well,
I told her that I have no way
Of knowing for sure
but that the big boys
pushing the injections
are on record as promoting
population control, and that
it’s wise to consider dissenting
voices. I may have also
mentioned the Georgia
Guidestones…and that
was pretty much that,
since she was a nurse
as it turned out. Well, I
knew that with each word I
was pushing her farther away
but said those words anyway.
I’d rather drive home
unsatisfied than have
the consequences of
not speaking
on my conscience.
So maybe that supervising
nurse who called me St.
Francis all those years ago
when I was an STNA wasn’t
so wrong. after all.
—fb, author of Mail Order Annie, a Story of Passion and Compassion
Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 