Black Buck(99)

How do they know our logo? Our name?

The sound of footsteps echoed throughout the speakers, and when another one of these Skull and Bones clones appeared on the screen, my heart dropped like someone in a dunk tank.

No way.

“Hey,” Brian whispered in my ear. “Isn’t that—”

“I’m Clyde Moore the Third,” the guy on the screen said, smiling like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. “President and founder of the White United Society of Salespeople. We started our organization in response to the racist and, frankly, terroristic likes of the Happy Campers, and I extend an invitation to every white salesman and saleswoman in America to join us in our fight for the right to be white, happy, and successful.

“We’re growing every day, we can use all the help we can get, and we have an extensive professional network connected with every Ivy League secret society, Fortune 500 company, and even the Illuminati.” He laughed, motioning to the group of now smiling people seated behind him. “Just kidding, the Illuminati is for amateurs. We’re connected with the Freemasons. Anyway, feel free to give us a call, visit our website, or follow us on social media. We have big plans and are just beginning. We’ll be waiting.”

Silence. In one swift motion, everyone turned to me. But I was frozen.

“WUSS?” Rose shouted, standing up, flipping two birds at the screens. “We should be afraid of an organization that’s too stupid to even check their acronym? Really? I say we forget them, but what do you wanna do, Buckaroo?”

I swallowed deeply, two hands gripping the shit out of the podium.

Fuck.





29





It turns out we didn’t have to wait long for WUSS’s first move. And if you’re wondering how a few Happy Campers, like Trey, knew about WUSS while I and the other top brass didn’t, it’s because we were too damn distracted with our own shit and they were too afraid to let us know.

The following Tuesday, every major newspaper, channel, and blog was talking about them, which is, I guessed, why Rhett called me into his office first thing that morning.

“Sit.” He gripped a pool stick, and I felt like he was going to either ram it through my eyeball or hit me upside the head with it.

“Did you see this?” He nodded toward a YouTube video on his screen. It had been posted the day before.

“See what?”

He pressed play. There’s a large group of people, mostly tourists, crowding around a platform. Behind it are people jogging and biking along the East River; you can see parked yachts, the Brooklyn Bridge, and a hot, clear-skied New York City day.

If this were any other day, it wouldn’t be alarming. But it wasn’t any other day, because on the platform stands a lanky man with sun-toasted dark skin, toothpick-thin arms, and a salt-and-pepper beard that he can’t stop scratching. A dozen people of various sizes and shades of brown stand to his left, waiting their turn. On stage with him is none other than Clyde, dressed in a three-piece suit, with a monocle, top hat, pocket watch, and shiny wooden walking stick.

“What you see here!” he shouts, sticking his cane out toward the smiling crowd, “is one of New York’s finest. This here man”—he exchanges whispers with him—“John Casor, hails from the rural jungles of Northampton County, Virginia. And instead of leeching off tourists, John is willing to work for his keep. He knows how to clean and will do whatever you need for three hots and a cot. Let’s start the bidding at twenty-five dollars. Do I have twenty-five?”

The tourists look at one another, puzzled, likely wondering if this is one of those crazy New York City shows they heard about. A few raise their hands.

“Thirty, do I see thirty?” Clyde calls. A shifty-looking Asian man closes the bidding out at seventy-five dollars for a month of John’s services. Clyde claps his hands. “Sold to Bruce Lee in the back!”

The show went on for another twenty minutes, with homeless men and women—all minorities—auctioned off for next to nothing. Then the video cuts to Clyde and none other than Bonnie Sauren, who sticks a microphone in his face. “So, Mr. Moore, can you tell us what this is about?”

“Surely,” he says, grabbing the microphone. “But, please, call me Clyde. So the White United Society of Salespeople and I went around Manhattan asking homeless people if, instead of being lazy, freeloading barnacles stuck to the great ship that is America, they would be willing to work if given the chance. Surprisingly enough, most of them said yes, so we decided to help them by auctioning off their services. In exchange, they’ll receive a place to stay, warm food, and, most importantly, they won’t be stinking up our subways and streets. It’s a win-win for all.”

“Genius,” Bonnie says, staring up at Clyde’s blue eyes as if she’d never met such an innovative man. “Utter genius. And does this have anything to do with that Happy Camper group you mentioned in your video last week?”

“It has everything to do with them,” he says, looking directly into the camera. “Honestly, they’re not all that different from the bums you just saw on stage. In fact, they’re worse, because you don’t know who they are and just how dangerous they can be. But, all the same, you can smell their fetid stench, and my organization and I plan to find out who’s behind them and expose them for the racist, white-hating terrorist organization they are.”