Free Rise Once More by D. Henbane

tell the guy to get in the car, how hard can that be? “Thank you father, I won't let you down.” Just before exiting his house, I notice one more picture, in a small brass frame, the glass covering it is cracked. My mind starts to analyze the image, but before a solid picture is recreated in my mind; I am interrupted by the voice of the priest.
    “God speed my son.” Mcfeely says.
    ***
     
    I arrive at the park, shut off the ignition, and can't help be drawn back to that broken picture frame.  A slightly younger Mcfeely, dressed in a tuxedo, standing next to an older native woman. Her age masked by layers of makeup, hair styled, and his hand resting on a young native boys shoulder. I understand what this mission is all about.
    The priest wasn't joking about finding Tatanka. Could he be any more obvious for a drug dealer? Throw in an El Camino, swap out the pine trees for palms, you would be hard pressed to know the difference between here and Los Angeles.
    “ What do you want Havard?” Tatanka says in a spiteful voice. I didn't realize how intimidating he is, until he stood up from the corner of the picnic table. Standing tall, he was easily six foot three, and well over 190 lbs. Not a single pound of body fat to be seen. At a closer look he isn't at all what I had imagined. A single tattoo printed across his right upper arm, reading in simple English: There are much worse things than death, with a detailed dream catcher etched within the circle of words.
    That kind of detail is not found in prison tattoos. The work done was by a true artist, and likely one paid heavily for their labor. Again, I am confronted with my own bias towards the types of people I am expecting to meet. “You must be the White Buffalo.” I say.
    “Are you retarded? Do I got horns white boy? Do I look like a prairie grazin' cow to you?” Tatanka says.
    “ That's what they call you isn't it?” I say.
    “ THEY don't call me shit. What do you want Harvard?” Tatanka replies.
    “ I got something you want, and you got something I need. You want this to get complicated for no reason?” I say.
    “ Show me your tits...” Tatanka commands. I lift my shirt up, proving I am not wearing a wire, and then look at him with disgust.
    “ If I was working to bring you down, why would I approach you in public?” I say.
    “ Bring me down for what?” Tatanka says.
    “ I don't want your meth.” I say.
    “ Who the fuck said anything about that?” Tatanka asks.
    “ The same man who gave me this.” I slam the spoon in front of him on the park bench. His eyes grow large, and then he grabs me by the shirt, pulling me in close to his face.
    “ That bastard priest sent you! Alright, you wanna know what happens when you mess with a bull. You get the fucking horns!” Tatanka slams me to the ground, but I quickly get back onto my feet.
    “ I'm not the one you need to fight. From what I understand, I can actually help you, but then again, maybe peddling drugs is all you're good at.” I say.
    “ You got some balls whitey. I will give you that. Who am I supposed to be fightin'?” Tatanka asks.
    “ All of them. The whole United States government, the very people whose forefathers stole your land, raped your heritage, and stripped every part of your culture from your lives; the same ones who sent your children off to Catholic schools to remove the savage from your tribe. Banned speaking of your native tongue, and almost eradicated your entire verbal history.” I say
    “ You gotta be the dumbest white boy I have ever seen. Me and what army? My people are broken, the fighting spirit grows weaker with every generation. The fire of our determination dwindles to embers and with it the desire to keep going. The mighty Sioux, made slaves to your alcohol, and oppressed at every chance in life.” Tatanka says.
    “ Who says you need an army? There are far more powerful things than armies these days, like I said before, you got something I want, and I got