A Dark Angel’s violent encounter with a young white man.

Mr. Lucky

The town was far removed from the problems of the big city. What minor crime occurred in the sleepy hamlet was of the misdemeanor variety. Boys dreamed of running away from the community, while the girls dreamed of marrying the local boys and running off with them. That night did not differ from the tens of thousands of proceeding days. The local movie theater ran features on both screens, with two showings of each movie on weekends. After all, it was Saturday.

The young projectionist locked the doors once everyone left and surveyed the parking lot as the owner drove off, tossing him a wave. The projectionist turned into a janitor, and he cleaned up the mess.

Shortly after he began, the old clock in the town square started chiming out the hour. Twelve mournful clangs intoned the midnight hour. Despite the loud bells, he barely picked up the ringing as he swept up the last of the popcorn. Carefully, he placed the garbage in the dumpsters in the back and stared at the overcast clouds.

If he squinted his eyes, he could make out the dim glow through the dense cloud cover of the full yellow moon. Staring around, thin curls of fog rose from the lake and moved toward him. After a few moments, he reconnoitered the vacant lot behind the theater while the fresh fog blew over the parking lot. With haste, he rushed inside to mop quickly and head home. The painful truth be told, he hated walking through thick fog, and he had an idea this was a peasouper.

Tanking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs to the booth and gathered his books, placing them in the leather satchel. The satchel was called a soft briefcase, but he thought the thing appeared to others like a purse—which he hated. However, being a gift from his mother, he always carried the thing. Moving from the booth, he caught his reflection in the office doors’ glass windows.

“Shee-it fire. I look like some little fag carrying a purse. Note to self, I must figure out a way to lose the damn thing.” The young man walked at a brisk pace down the stairs. Staring at the glass doors, he couldn’t see across the street.

A thick fog hung over the streets like a blanket of white. Inserting his key into the lock, he locked the door behind him and walked toward home. A pair of almond-shaped, dark eyes followed him—hungry, lustful, and angry eyes. Softly, she moved from the recessed door of the jewelry store. Sneakers softly followed the boy. The tennis shoes squeaked, but the fog all but swallowed the soft sound.

The hairs on the back of his necked prickled. Something in the fog tried to warn him of some danger. However, the soft yelps of the new rubber soles were inseparable from his pounding heart.

With a queasy unease, the young man walked at a brisk pace. Anxious and unsettled, he wanted to make his home fast. He hated fog, vaporous air had an eerie effect on him. He cut through City Park, a play zone for children. If all went well, he’d cross the stream at the old bridge and be home by 1:00 am.

This route was the fastest way to his house. A creaking of old wood greeted his ears, familiar and comforting, as he walked on the boards of the old wooden covered bridge. The stream below babbled as the water rushed over rocks. Those faint squeaks disappeared, and he didn’t notice ‘her’ footsteps as the water was too loud rushing over the rocks below, and she walked softly.

Blinding pain jumped from the back of his head as he walked from under the cover of the bridge. A sharp crack on the right side back of his head knocked him to the ground. Deep pain spread across his head, becoming foggy as the night air.

“Don’t move your cracker ass, Mr. Lucky.”

After a few agonizing slow moments, the young man realized the voice was that of a female. A furious female’s voice had a harsh tone, which told him Lucky didn’t mean good luck for him. Tensing up, he thought to roll over and spring on her. Then the sharp, triple clicks made him freeze.

“I’ll blow you a new asshole if you try anything. Up, Mr. Lucky, come on, white boy, on your feet.”

The pounding in his chest was almost to the point of pain. After a second, he pushed up and stood tense, not knowing what was coming. “Keep your eyeballs straight ahead. Don’t turn around, or I’ll blast your guts out with this,” she jabbed him in the ribs with the barrel of a gun. “Turn to your right and go downhill under the bridge.”

“Listen, I got some money; you can have it,” his voice cracked as he spoke.

“Shut the fuck up, Mr. Lucky. Move your skinny white ass now,” she poked him again. “Go on now, right up under the bridge.” His heart leaped into his throat. There was something in her voice, anger, or perhaps something else, something darker. He was afraid for his life. Notwithstanding, he’d have to admit that this was the most excitement he’d ever had.

“Now, you might think you can just run away, but think again, mofo. Cause, I’ll fucking blow your head off if you try.” Again, she hit him in the ribs with the barrel of the gun. “You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Lucky?”

Nodding his head, he moved in small, slow steps down the hill.

The couple walked carefully down the slick bank; he knew she would kill him if he tried to run. The water rushing over the rocks grew louder as they moved under the bridge, right down to the water’s edge.

“Far enough, Brady boy.” Reaching around him, she grabbed his crotch.

“Figures, fucking, Brady boy special—mother fucking 5-inch cocktail wiener,” she hissed at him. She pulled his briefcase from him and tossed the case higher on the bank.

“Fucking faggot, carrying a purse,” she reached around again and squashed his package. “Fucking gonna rock my world. Your cracker fag’s boner got hard from fear. So easy with losers like you. Pants off, boy.”

“No,” he barked out in defiance. The gun struck him across the back of his neck. With a spinning head, he dropped to his knees, sobbing as he held the back of his neck, rubbing both head and neck. Putting her mouth right up to his year, she shoved the gun into his back hard.

“Don’t give me shit, you fucking sissy fag. You gonna be lucky, now,” she whispered in his ear, but the words hissed in his ears similar to snake.

If Mr. Lucky would be honest, the danger of his predicament was not lost on him. His moment of bravado had brought an instant reaction from her. Her response caused one of his own. His cock stiffened. Emotions overwhelmed him; fear, excitement, and a sexual fire he’d only dreamed of consumed him. In a flash, he realized his life meant nothing to her, and the threat was to his life.

“I’m tempted to kill you right now. But I want something first. Now, whitey, get-da-fuck out of those pants and remove your shirt from your scrawny bod, boy.”

Quickly, he stripped to his underwear. With relative ease, the young black woman forced him to roll over, growling in his ear the instructions.

“Dat’s it, cracker boy, flat on your back. Now lose the tidy whities.”

With a quick tug, he pulled them down, and the black woman unceremoniously snatched them from his hand and threw them into the water. In an odd teasing moment, the young woman whacked his ridge cock with the gun’s barrel, playful and light. Trying to figure things out, he noted the weapon was an automatic. Besides this, he couldn’t think of anything more.

The pain in his ears throbbed as his blood rushed through his veins, and his heart pumped harder than he remembered at any fearful point in his life. While terror clutched him, so his lust held him tight as well. Dread and yearning mixed. She was a desirable woman; he wanted this and yet feared what might come.

“I’m gonna rape you, boy, gonna ride you for all your itty-bitty-dick is worth,” light from a poll on the shore behind them showed around her body like a halo. Angelic-like, her curly hair stood out from her head, and the lamplight shined through the outer parts of the curly hair like flames, forming a firing halo. The wet fog engulfed them, clutching their bodies.