Harley Paints It Black

“Can you do it? Do what I do?” young girls, can't be older than 16, they could never do it. Harley had won, he knew it already , and he was elated. Was Harley the right name? Maybe , maybe not, either way there was one name that did unquestionably deserve credit. Paint It Black, prevailed today and he had the broken legs to prove it. His martyred limbs proved him a hero, their shrieks proved justice served. “Unless you can do what I do”

“How- how did you… “ the girl thought she was safe, her and her sister both had been safe, they HAD to be, he had thrown himself off the fricken Hancock Whitney building!

But here he was, right back on top the tower, right back in front of them as if nothing had happened. But something had happened..” You FELL, look at his legs! I-” her sister clung to her yellow plaid skirt, unable to look away from the visceral storm that raged in place of the leather clad devils legs. “A devil, that's what you are aren't you? Papa talked about things like you,” her hands burned down into a fist “ warned us ‘bout forces ‘cross the plain o’ da mind”. The anthem of her ancestors, the beat of the blood, she had never cared about the old hoodoo her papa would spew in place of fatherly advice. “He’s an old gamblin’ dreadhead, not cut out to be a father, though he tries I suppose.” She had told her younger sister once, after they had been sat down for a particularly out-there fable about ancestral guidance and protection and whatnot. “Just look out for yourself, ok girly?” The sisters shared giggles along with a head pat from the elder of the two with a little more force behind it than particularly comfortable. Now though, with her sister clinging on with all hope, cold midnight air from the height of the building and the unseen force of fear pressing down on every inch of her body, she would call to whatever ethereal presence that would lend their strength.

“ I don't care if you are the devil or whatever, you ain’t gettin a step closer to us!” The primal confidence the young girl had choked up to say anything at all bubbled, boiled, all to defend her sister, and if she could convince herself to stand, she knew this oppressive fear may just subside.

If she could stand, but she couldn't, no higher could she rise then to be equal with the assailant in front of her, on what was left of his knees from the self-inflicted fall. Holding her down, it wasn't just fear, couldn’t be, fear paralyzed, whatever this was glued her down, as if in a petty attempt not to allow a higher view than its black master. Its looming, knelt -over master that cackled out again and again, “ Can you do it? Do what I just did?”.

“Monuments, figures o’ the past, o’ the blood and the soul. Bringers about o’ demselves.’’ Audi called for anything, anything to protect her sister from the eyes looking down on her. “Goats go to hell” It said looking down , farther, farther as she fell, and as she fell she knew they were not eyes, but the darkest pair of glasses she had ever seen. “A Monument to the Bastards damn self”.