The Spider Pt. 41

Consider this: a deer in the forest has no inherent value. None. It is simply a part of nature, a part of the world, a living thing, free as life can be.

It gains value the moment the hunter's arrow pierces its heart, it becomes money as it staggers to its knees, its breath ragged and hurt. As it collapses into the floor of the forest it was part of, its death transforms it.

The hunter removes his arrow, maybe he can use it again. He kneels by the deer, considers its bloody mouth, its glassy eyes. He knows it is dead.

He pulls his knife out, slicing into the abdomen of the deer, cutting through muscle from sternum down. He eviscerates the animal, pulling steaming organs onto the cool, mossy ground.

Perhaps some crows call to each other in the branches above. They have seen the hunter, they know what he is there to do. They know he doesn't consume everything. Lazy humans, greedy crows. They know there will be something for the crows, if the hunter is successful.

The hunters binds the deer's feet together, preparing to carry it off to his truck.

The deer is no more. Now there is only meat.

A deer has no value, but meat does. The hunter can consume the meat, he can sell it, he can sell the antlers. He can mount the head on his wall for his guests to adore. Value.

In the world of men, God is money. In such a world, the hunter is the priest who leads the deer towards a redemption that the deer could never have attained on its own, a redemption that can only come from a transformation from living creature into meat.

A baptism of blood.

***

Officer Candy looked down at the shroud, thin fabric over cooling body. He noticed some of the blood had run into his leather shoe. He shifted his foot away.

"What's the name?" he asked the other officer.

"The ID says John Deacon," the other cop replied.

This surprised Candy.

"Like the guy in Queen?"

"What?"

"In Queen- the band? There was a guy in that band that was named John Deacon. I think he played the bass. You know? They did 'Another One Bites the Dust', and that other song from that movie?"

"Oh! Yeah. Well, this ain't him. This guy's black."

"Shit. So what happened?"

"Sanchez pulled him over, this guy had expired tags. Turns out he had a warrant out for drug possession. Sanchez says the guy jumped out of the car, tried to run. Got about twenty feet before Sanchez dropped him."

"So Sanchez shot him in the back?"

"That's right. Sanchez said the perp was reaching for his waistband."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Candy said, more angrily than he had intended.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing... it's just... it's just, you know, save it for the fucking lawyers or something. You don't need to spin that bullshit my way. You know as well as me that all these black guys reach for their waistbands, man. They wear their pants sagging half the time, they can't run unless they pull their pants up."

"So what?"

"So what? So what is that we both know what's coming our way once the city finds out that the cops have killed yet another black guy, not to mention we shot him in the fucking back. This city's going to light up."

"He shouldn't have run, then," the other cop said.

"You know, fuck it. Just fuck it. When are they coming to get the body?"

***

The anchorwoman was one of those weird lab grown blonde women, her features accentuated incredibly by the bright lights of the television studio. This is probably so she looks very animated on TV, Heather was thinking. Bright. Almost shiny.

She was feeling that she probably looked very drab by comparison. This was also likely no accident.

The lights of the television studio burned heavily on Heather. The lab grown blonde woman shined brightly under them.

"Heather, we'd like to thank you so much for coming in this morning," the bright woman was saying.

"You're welcome. Thanks for having me."

"There's been another police involved shooting a couple days ago, as you know? A man named John Deacon? There's already been some clashes between the police and protestors, last night a drug store was burned to the ground, a few other buildings were on fire. Does this take you back?"

"Take me back?"

"Yes- your brother was shot by a police officer, and the city was wracked by protest and riots for weeks afterwards. Does this remind you of that?"

"Yes. My brother Shawn, you mean. He was killed by an officer- Rex Sanders- who later admitted that Shawn didn't have any weapon. Sanders killed my brother and lied about it."

"Yes, of course. Officer Sanders later took his own life."

Heather shrugged.

"Maybe some remorse, I imagine," the bright woman went on.

"Yeah, could be. That part of the story isn't very interesting to me. Me and his ex-wife have grown close recently."

"Oh! So there's no, like, hard feelings there?"

"No. She didn't kill Shawn. She didn't lie about it. The police did that."

"Right. In this case, the police are saying that Mr. Deacon looked like he was possibly reaching for a weapon in his waistband-"

"That's what they always say. I mean, where are your hands? At rest, where are your hands? Probably around your waist. Maybe we shouldn't let police kill every black man who ever has his hands around his waist, you know? Do we all have to walk around with our hands over our heads everywhere we go? Hand up, don't shoot, all the time?"

"Do you think there will be riots like there were when your brother was killed?"

"Shawn. His name was Shawn. Sometimes I would like it if someone asked about what he was like as a person, you know? What made him laugh. What he hoped to do with his life. I would love it if someone asked about that instead of riots."

The bright woman made her face be sympathetic right on cue. She was good at her job.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know this must be hard for you."

Heather shook her head.

"Not sure how you would know that. Has anyone in your family been killed by the police? Anyway, I have no idea if there will be more riots or what. Probably. There probably will be. It seems to me that if you want something to change, then you have to change something."

"Sure. A lot of people are asking about why these protesters aren't ever out demonstrating against black on black violence-"

"You mean niggers killing niggers."

"Oh! Oh!" the bright woman squealed. "Heather, we are on the air-"

"That's what white people mean when they say 'black on black' crime- they mean niggers killing niggers. It gives them a chance to feign some concern, let's them pretend to care even while reassuring each other that black people are animals- violent animals. So what can you do, right? Just a bunch of animals. That's what 'black on black crime' means. It's just white people making extra effort not to hear, is all."

The bright woman continued to squeal like an idiot.

This city is about to burn, Heather thought. But she's got to act like some fucking word is the problem.

"Anyway," Heather concluded. "If you want something to change? You have to change something."

The interview ended quickly after that.

***

Heather stepped out of the television studio. She fought back tears as she leaned on the cool marble slabs of the building.

Something has to change, she was thinking. Maybe I need to make it happen. I need to be the change.

She wrapped her sweater tighter around herself.

I can't fight the world. But maybe I can change it a little.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

"Hello?" she said.

"It's me. It's Anna. Can you come get me?"

She sounded scared and hurt.

"Anna," was all Heather could say. She could hear police sirens over the phone. The city was lighting up, right on cue. Somehow it felt different from the last time, though. There was a smell in the air that Heather didn't recognize, but she knew it was a bad smell, she knew that smell meant a lot of people were going to get hurt and killed.

"Heather can you come get me?"