Day 22—Baron Kriminel

He pulled up to the feasting part of the cemetery in his usual stretch limousine with three equally long stretch limousines before him. Everybody always held their breath. His valet emerged, and opened the proper doors, huffing and puffing to run nearly two miles. First, the leaders: Roma, Armenian, Italian, Irish, Mexican, Greek, Romanian, Russian, Chasidic. Secular Israeli. Pakistani. Indian street CEOs. Palestinian. Black American CEO, White American CEO. His limo really did stretch for miles.

Then, their kept women and their slaves. Every nation, every skin tone, every genitalia. Born rich, born poor, born prostitute, born clergy. Some university-educated.

Finally, Himself. Mama Marie squeezed young Bábáco’s hand. But before the Baron, his two slaves. Each in chains. On his right hand, a woman with skin of the blackest night. Glittering, luxurious hair in a moderately close-cut Afro style. On the left, a woman with skin so pale almost transparent. Hair of the whitest moon, almost silver. Both were in chains and stark naked. Occasionally they would process in front of him, still chained, holding machine guns.

Then, his bodyguards. Four more women, unchained, supposedly virgins, in military dress with berets. Armed to the teeth.

Finally, Himself. Baron Kriminel emerged from the glistening limousine in a spotless German SS uniform and cap. He followed the meager pool of blood where the Guédé seated had made their own impromptu sacrifice for protocol reasons because the humans here had been too stupid to know. Gently slacking the chain on his slave-girls, he allowed them to make his entrance at the table.

“I will stain my uniform if I sit on these benches. This is unacceptable. If you wish to keep my services in defense of the family I demand more comfort in my seating.”

Silence. Little Bábáco coughed and squirmed. Kriminel’s slaves knelt.

“Haaaaaaaaaa, what do I speak of, old bastards! My chair is right here. His slaves sat back in the crabwalk position. “Baron LaCroix, you fucker, you are always wearing the worst whiteman wigs!” The table was swept by uproarious laughter, relieved.

In a lull, Uncle Paul asked “Who did you kill to get this work of a uniform, Kriminel?”

“Who didn’t I kill? Better, who didn’t I pay off? Who didn't suck me off?”