South of Haunted Dreams by Eddy L. Harris Page A

death penalty probably. The same is true for burglars. The system is stacked. If I were a criminal, I wouldn’t steal from some miserable wretch as poor as I am; what am I going to get, a TV, a stereo? I’d steal from somebody who’s got something I can really use. I’d steal from somebody who benefited most from the injustice. And you can bet we’d find a solution pretty quick if all the poor people stopped robbing and stealing from each other and started coming up here to your neighborhood. If they started marching into ritzy white neighborhoods and torching rich people’s houses, you can bet that would shake up some things.”
    It went on like this for forty minutes. And it got worse.
    â€œThe best thing we can do is to burn it all down and start all over,” I shouted. “Just line up all the people who aren’t trying to make it better, line up all the people teaching hate, and shoot them. In fact, we ought to just line up everybody over the age of thirty and start shooting. Or over the age of twenty. Or even fifteen. Just line them up against the wall and get rid of them all.”
    â€œWhat good would that do?”
    â€œIt would be a start. There wouldn’t be any people left to teach their kids to hate. I would say kill everybody over the age of five, but somebody has to be around to raise the kids.”
    â€œBut you’re over twenty,” he said. “You’re over thirty.”
    â€œStart with me,” I said. “I have gained from the way things are. I’m part of the problem. Shoot me first, set fire to my house. I’ll make that sacrifice. What sacrifice will you make?”
    The hostess was sobbing now.
    â€œThere’s no point going on,” she said weakly, as much to herself as to her husband. “Can’t you see you just can’t get through to some people?”
    A young woman had pulled my brother into the kitchen. I heard her say, “Why isn’t your brother more like you?”
    â€œMore like me?” Tommy said. “I’m the hot-headed one. He’s the one who’s always so polite and quiet.”
    â€œHe’s so hostile and malicious!”
    â€œI am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why should I pity man more than he pities me?… Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance.… If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth.”
    These words of Frankenstein’s creation leapt burning to my ears.
    â€œI guess he’s just seen too much,” my brother was saying.
    Once in the car my brother howled out in glee.
    â€œBig Ed!” he shouted. He seemed happy. “Should I call you Mr. X, or will Malcolm be all right? You were a raving madman!”
    He started to laugh.
    â€œDid you see their faces?” he said. “They thought you had brought the revolution. They thought it was right outside their front door. They thought you were serious.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I wasn’t?”
    â€œRight, Malcolm,” he said, and we laughed.
    â€œYou’re just a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he said. “I know it and you know it too.” He laughed until he nearly convulsed.
    â€œBut they sure didn’t know it,” he said. “Wait till I call your mother and father. Wait till I tell them how their baby boy was carrying on, shaking up the suburbs and scaring the white folks.”
    He was genuinely thrilled. And then he got quiet and a little bit