Free The Last Days of Louisiana Red by Ishmael Reed

obscene. Even the men. There was a way he looked at you. And when he made love she had heard from one of the women who had named a rape clinic after him—after he had your clothes off he would say, “Now Give Me Some That Booty, Bitch!!”
    â€œI don’t think he can articulate the Moocher point of view,” Easterhood said.
    â€œWe don’t need no articulate,” Big Sally said. “Articulate we got too much of. We need someone to oppose that LaBas and them niggers over there in that Gumbo business.”
    â€œI wish I had your gift, Big Sally—right down to brass tacks.”
    â€œWhy, thank you, Max,” Big Sally said, smiling.
    â€œAnd as for you, Cinnamon, don’t ever call Street inarticulate. Why, if it wasn’t for me convincing the Moocher Board of Directors to back that rag of yours, your verbosely footnoted monstrosity would have folded long ago. Street knows the poolrooms, the crap games, the alleys and the bars. He knows the redemptive suffering and oppression. We will offer Street Yellings the position. Is there any dissent?”
    â€œYou, Rev. Rookie?”
    â€œWHATEVER YOU SAY IS FINE FOR ME, MAX,” Rev. Rookie said.
    â€œMrs. Easterhood?”
    â€œDo I look like a broomhandle to you, you four-eyed goofy motherfuka,” Rusty says nasty as Max turns red as a beet. Big Sally starts to cackle.
    â€œPlease, dear, you’ll upset Mr. Kasavubu,” Easterhood said.
    â€œI don’t care, I’ll spit on that fat worm.”
    â€œLet’s not get carried away, Rusty. We’ll remove the licorice sticks you enjoy so much,” Max said.
    â€œWhat did you mean by that, you poot butt?” Rusty said, leaping from the sofa.
    Easterhood looked real simple, like a Bunny Berrigan adaptation of a Jelly Roll Morton hit.
    â€œI get sick of your pompous insane cock-sucking remarks,” Rusty bellowed.
    â€œBROTHERS AND SISTERS. WE MOOCHERS DON’T GET INVOLVED IN PETTY INDIVIDUALISTIC CLASHES. WE ARE TOGETHER FOR ONE CAUSE. WE MUST LEARN TO SUBMERGE OUR DIFFERENCES.” (Guess who.)
    Rusty was sobbing, curled up in Big Sally’s lap. Big Sally was comforting her.
    â€œJust don’t ask me up here any more. I am not a Mrs. Rusty Easterhood, I’m a person. You men think it always has to be your way. Do your housework, raise your children. Well, I’m sick of it; I want to play tennis, express myself, visit motels. Big Sally,” she says, looking up to her, “you busy this evening?”
    â€œLook, it’s hot,” said Maxwell Kasavubu, so sensible, so cool at these times. “We’ve gone through a difficult transition from an obscure Telegraph Avenue notion to a movement to be reckoned with. I’ll fly to Africa, pick up Street tomorrow.”
    â€œBut what do you make of Street’s criminal record? You remember how he murdered that brother and escaped from jail,” Easterhood asked. “The editorial board of the Moocher Monthly has had a change of viewpoint concerning the effectiveness of the charismatic lumpen.”
    â€œThat doesn’t count. Just another nigger killing. What’s a nigger to the law?” Max said.
    Rev. Rookie, Sally, Rusty and even Cinnamon gave Max a momentary hostile look. But when he asked, “Did I say something wrong?” they outdid each other trying to put him at ease. All except Rusty. She didn’t owe him anything.

CHAPTER 17
    (The 70-foot-long main ballroom of the house given to Street Yellings by the ruler of a contemporary African country. Asian, European and Arab hippies are dancing smoking eating and talking. Street’s associates, the Argivians, a band of international hoodlums who serve as Street’s elite bodyguards, are wearing jackets with grim emblems sewn on them. When their flesh is bared, grotesque and ugly tattoos can be seen. Tambourines are shaking. Incense is burning. Cats are strolling about, and in recognition of