WSA: WHITE STATES OF AMERICA.

10:35AM
Boyd couldn't  believe he'd already been in the office 3 hours. But the clock on the wall never lied.

He only had about 40 minutes left to pull together his ideas before the big meeting. Although he had some stuff that were contenders, he still hasn't come up with the big D - the Devastator - the concept that would make his would-be competitors tremble, go blind and disintegrate into pile of sawdust...or melt like the Wicked Witch.

So when he heard the knock he just said "go way". But it wasn't just a knock. It was a more of a drum riff - like something Art Blakey did. So he knew it wouldn't stop.

"OK, you bleepin moron, come in. But don't say a word 'cause I've got a showdown at the corral in 20 minutes. I'm loading my guns."

A tall skinny guy with a big, fat grin walked in.

"Hear the latest?"

"Look man, did you hear me? I can't talk."

"You don't have to. Listen.

Texas just announced it was succeeding from the Union"

"Succeeding? Where did you go to school idiot? It's SECEDING"

"OK Mr. Hawkins, SECEDING...But the NewYorkTimes just reported the governor of Texas has announced they're leaving the union"

"What union, the United Auto Workers? The Teamsters? It couldn't be the teachers."

"The United States of America. Boy, where'd you go to school?"

"I didn't....but I can buy and sell your skinny, sorry ass a thousand times. Come on dude, you broke in here and stopped me on my quest for the neutron bomb of ad campaigns to announce that Texas is threatening to leave the union again? They've been doing that since they lost the Civil War."

"But this time, it looks like they're serious. They just held a press conference and they're all standing in front of this humongous flag with the giant letters WSA on it. They say it stands for the White States of America"

"Is it a white flag."

"Yeah. Why."

"Then...they're  serious."


Copyright, Lowell Thompson Creates, 2015

"HOLD THAT BLEEPIN TRAIN"

Just as he turned the corner, he thought he heard the train. Shit, he thought, then reached
In his right pocket for his phone. It wasn't there. Double shit. He started running, still searching for the phone. By the time he reached the station, he was sure he heard the train pulling in above. He reached for his fare card, happy at least it was there. He tapped the card. It made that noise he hated. He tapped again. No go. When he looked up at the new sign that showed the train schedule it said, "DownTown - ARRIVED. He glanced over at the attendant booth. She was asleep.

So he did something he hadn't done since high school - he took three steps back and ran and jumped  the turnstile.

But by the time he got half way up the stairs, he heard the dreaded two words in that friendly robot voice he hated, "doors closing". Without thinking he shouted, "HOLD IT. HOLD THAT BLEEPIN TRAIN" and doubled his speed. At the top of the stair he saw the back of the last person push into the car and the door begin to close. Then he saw an arm come out of nowhere and the door hit it and bounced back. He ran to the closest car and jumped on.

He made it. He made it! And even though it was 12 degrees, he was sweating like Stock Yards pig. He looked down toward the other end of the car and he saw an old black guy smiling.

As Boyd walked toward him, looking for a seat... the car was unusually full for so early in the morning. And everyone seemed to be reading the paper. The headline "WHITES A U.S. MINORITY SOONER THAN THOUGHT" was visible everywhere. When he got close to the old man, he finally saw a open seat...right across from him. He'd seen him many  times before, sometimes balled up sleeping or reading a book or a paper.

"Thank you sir", Boyd said, tipping his invisible hat. Then he opened his wallet, pulled out a $20 bill and offered it. But the old guy just smiled and shook his head from side to side.

"You're welcome...sir".

Boyd noticed that the old man had a copy of the paper. He had a whole stack. But when he went to look for his own, it was gone, lost in the rush to catch the train. The old man seemed to sense his thoughts and looked at his stack and looked at Boyd. "Want one? They're free."

He handed the paper to Boyd without waiting for his answer.

This was a rare thing for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually read a newspaper. Only old folks - old poor folk, no, old, stupid, poor folks read newspapers..and magazines. But he wanted to find out just how long whitefolks had. And judging by the pale stares on the faces of his fellow caucasian passengers, not long.

But he noticed something else (or was it just his imagination) all the "colored" faces on the train seemed to be smiling....especially the old man's.