The Naked Soul of Iceberg Slim by Iceberg Slim Page A

We were never brought to America peacefully, and as long as America remains it must never be allowed to forget the blood and suffering of our mothers, the humiliation and degradation of our fathers and the ruination of our children.
    â€œIf all the black people in America is the cost that must be paid in order to ensure future generations to come of a better world, then fuck it. If we have to kill every man, woman and child who stand in our way, then fuck it. If we have to destroy the world in order that the universe will not be polluted, then fuck it. We will not allow ourselves the luxury of life at the expense of freedom. . . . It is by the gun that we have been enslaved, and it is only by the gun that we will be liberated.
    â€œAmerica is nothing more than a war criminal who has to answer for the most atrocious acts that the world has ever experienced. America will be executed, and instead of a funeral, there will be a victory dance; instead of a tear, there will be a smile; and instead of pain, there will be joy. Our Africa, our God, our children, our spirits will all be called upon to destroy you, America. We shall not fail.We have accepted violence as a way of life, and death as an inevitable end.”
    Melvin X said much more that made him an object of admiration and love for his followers and of fear and hatred for his powerful enemies. I don’t believe that Melvin X the realist expected to survive to old age, and I’d bet a C note against a nickel that he faced the assassin’s gun with icy “kiss my black ass” courage and bitter regret that, unarmed, he would be taking the trip into darkness alone.
    As his body was being lowered into his grave at Compton Cemetery, a barrage of gunfire could be heard crackling from a nearby pistol range. A sorrowful black brother with eyes brimming tears said softly, “Ain’t it a bitch? They practicing to kill black people. Them pigs ain’t hip they playing boss funeral music for Melvin.”
    One sweltering dawn shortly after Melvin’s funeral I took a walk. As I walked miles through the sleeping black ghetto, I saw an amazing sight, a phenomenon. Gigantic spray-painted and chalk-drawn legends had blossomed on countless concrete walls and building fronts. They were grim bouquets of rage and sorrow to the memory of slain Melvin: Avenge Melvin X! Kill the pigs! Remember Melvin X! Resist to exist! Off a pig! Seize the time! Revolution is for trying! Pigs are for dying! Remember Melvin X!
    I walked for hours and everywhere I saw the angry legends. Suddenly there was a freight train rumble of thunder. The morning belonged to Melvin X. I found it easy to imagine that standing a trillion feet tall, he was somewhere way up there in the bleak, gray heavens with his head cocked to one side, exhorting his street niggers in the voice of the thunder and with his brutally coded love and tenderness, to hurry the revolution and make the enemies of freedom shit blood.
    America is being led to her death by racist power junkies coasting on a stupid trip—the fatal fantasy that soldiers and police can crush and destroy with clubs and guns an indestructible force: the hunger of the human soul for dignity, justice and freedom. And theAmerican public is gobbling up the con that the emerging holocaust be stifled with gasoline.
    The spiritual and physical victims, the enraged black and white wretches of this racist society, are multiplying and thriving like deadly plants in the rains of repression. Must the livid guts of America and its cops be bombed out and splattered on the wind before the deaf and blind power hypes stop their suicidal tripping and recognize the doomsday rage of the Melvin X’s, hear and honor their just demands for dignity, justice, freedom?

RACISM AND THE BLACK REVOLUTION
    F rom what Mama told me about him, I know that Thomas Jefferson Jones was six and a half feet of black satin sex stimulant. His presence flicked on wicked