Karma in the Clouds

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Marquis “Floo da Coop” Cooper was born the fourth of five to another single parent in the slums of Detroit.  In the city where the majority of citizens are black, unemployed, and poor, he was just another kid whose family seeped through the cracks of a broken state and federal social welfare system. 

To make survival more difficult, they struggled through life in Belmont, the most dangerous neighborhood in the city, known for having high rates of homicides and shootings; where residents have a 1 in 8 chance of becoming victims of any type of crime. Gang activity is exceptionally high in Belmont, as are associated crimes such as robberies, assaults, and drug activity.  

Marquis, a barely literate senor [sic] barely graduated high school–another unskilled, undereducated ebony 18-year old who seeped through the cracks of a broken educational system–and began a futile job search.

He thought he was one of the few lucky ones when he got hired as a temporary worker at a factory across town. He only got paid $7.25 an hour while the grunts working next to him doing the same job made double that, but he was promised by his supervisor that after 90 days he would receive his raise, insurance, union membership, and all the other benefits “if he worked hard enough.”

The thankfully employed took the bus to get there–the multiple transfers took four hours round-trip–meaning the hard-working lad spent 12 hours of his day  working for eight and a scant paycheck. On his 89th day of heavy labor he was replaced by another lied-to minority sucker with the false promise of “going full-time if he worked hard enough.”

Marquis Cooper gave up on the futile work search, joined the chronically unemployed, and began to use and sell a little dope.  

When he was 25, he was shot in the spine by cops for running away after being falsely accused of another neighborhood liquor-store robbery.  He was marked because he wore a hoodie, and was taken down, his liquid life force seeping through the cracks of the crumbling sidewalk.  

He survived the shooting, but was denied monetary compensation by a nearly bankrupt Detroit through a legal loophole.  Floo da Coop now ekes out his life in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down.

Southern Baptist Lawrence Elijah Whitworth had just died peacefully in his king-size featherbed, aged 78, in Sturgeon, Alabama, and thought sure that after his Earthly exit, he’d be whisked right on through St. Peter’s crowded waiting room and right on up to Heaven.  

Lawrence thought wrong: he was a devout Christian, but he was also a dedicated bigot.  He was a member of the Sturgeon Lion’s Club, but he was also the Grand Dragon of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.  

St. Peter knew all this beforehand—he grabbed Lawrence Elijah Whitworth by the scruff of his mangy wings, yanked him out of the line, and told the hater he was being cast back down to the little blue planet to do his time; to serve his penance.

“It’s not fair!” the Newly Dead screamed at the Golden Gatekeeper.  “What kind of Heaven is this?”

“One of love, acceptance, and peace.  A Heaven you cannot be admitted to just quite yet with your poisonous soul, Mr. Whitworth,” St. Peter replied, calmly.  “We Catholics–the Church I started from scratch by the way–call it Purgatory, the process for the final purification of the elect.   You must relive your life back on Earth for your soul to be cleansed—consider it a planet-sized rehab clinic, as it were.  Your next physical vessel will be called . . .  hang on, let me check my clipboard here . . . yep, here we go . . . you will be reborn  Marquis Cooper and you will live in Motor City–on the wrong side of 8-Mile Road.  Y’all might gain a new perspective on things.”

“But! But! But! But! But!” the hypocrite sputtered.  “I gave my entire life to Jesus and was assured a place here when I passed away! God knows I gave enough down payments at the collection plate for a nice little cloud of my own and not this rude treatment! Again I ask you, what kind of Heaven is this?”

“As a Southern Baptist and not of my brand, I’ll put it in fire and brimstone terms that you’ll understand—your second little venture down there will be pure hell, quite apart from your past privileged life.  Maybe, just maybe, after your second death, we’ll see you again with your corrected sensibilities, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, even if I had a breath to hold. Now please excuse me, Mr. Whitworth, I have work to do:  Is there a Miss Cecilia Marie Kelley in line?  Your number’s up.” He unhooked the velvet rope and waltzed the former 19-year old through with a flourish of trumpets. “Welcome to Paradise.”

“But, she’s taking the spot that was supposed to have been mine!  This is bullshit!  I demand to see the Lord about this outrage!  “Why in the hell would God send me back down to that miserable ball of mud, the omnipresent bastard?  This is not what I prayed for!”

St. Peter chuckled and replied, “because Earth is where we return the incorrigibles, the lowlifes, the black-hearts, the criminals, the narrow-minded, to serve their time, Mr. Whitworth.  It’s kinda like Australia . . . a beautiful place for a penal colony, wouldn’t you agree, Bubba.”  With that, he pulled the golden lever on the trap door and went about his business.

By CraigE

From: United States

Website: https://www.penana.com/home

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