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Elroy tossed the brick. He was gone in a flash, gifted runner, star football player, quite proficient vandal who loved to sneak about smashing rich white folks things, getting away with daring wreckage each night. In school he was popular without trying, muscular and good looking, smart and perceptive, the only black kid able to consistently nail white cheerleaders.

He was outwardly polite and tactful, beaming care and love to disguise self serving, two faced ways of achieving the goal; nailing popular white girls. He was rarely caught in outright hypocrisy, possessing a flair for open confrontations that stopped detractors in hesitation, drawing others into lies and deceptions.

With rich parents, able to invest heavily in rap groups, amassing a small fortune and recording company while still a junior in high school, Elroy bought a brewery, initiating glossy ad campaigns aimed at very young people. Obsessed with inebriation, he bought drugs, mostly cocaine, and used the power of addiction to further control women and subjugate men. He corrupted church people with lavish treatment, slowly ruining lives with tricks of status and appearance, recruiting star athletes to make public presentations at anti drug and alcohol centers while stoned and drunk, subtly ridiculing the process. His teenage modeling company international, provocative ads prominent around the world, pubescent lingerie contests entertained rap concert crowds.

At twenty, incredibly successful and cynical of all things good, he grew kind of bored, whiling the days away playing basketball, planning party and new conquests of virtue, content for now amassing capital, poised for a new thrust into the taxing task of conditioning the herd like mental reflexes that are the collective consciousness of bourgeois humanity. He smiled in thoughtful contempt.Irving Hokum was pissed. He hated life, hate women, hated
niggers and spics, just hated. Hate consumed him, he was jealous
and selfish and mean but his cute smile and sweet sounding guitar
made people love him. His parents had abused him, he lived back
in the wooded mountains, and on Sunday canoed to church, featured as special music. Eerie, hypnotic music cast a spell
over the congregation; ambiguous, mischievous lyrics plagued
with doubt:            

"Well, the creek was a'risin' real real fast

 and me and Mary Jane was about to git gassed

 just talkin bout our kinfolks and our pastsss

(an gigglin alot)

under the bridge is where I wuz

drinkin more wine with my sweet cuz

yeah I forgot we'ze kin whin  we both caught a buzz

(yeah, you know, I forgot)

Now Mary Jane is the type

that knows she's ripe

but likes to bitch! (I bet' You Know! What I mean)

Her friends come at church

up front they perch

they pretend they search

(they pretend they're clean)

I freaked the hell out of half them girls

Well they ain't so clean on Saturday night

they ain't prim or proper or dressed in white

but they are superstitious and you know they're tight! 

(Mary Jane was)

Well I'd see her friends when I was cat fishin'

hungover from a night of well wishin'

And I'd think that church is a

supersuperstition

(either that or they had a keg)

So there we wuz with the water gettin' higher

makin' us hurry forbidden desire

and run like rats for someplace drier

(We had to finish the wine, too)"

Irving was master of the crowd, bending guitar strings in charismatic, whimsy manners, smiling goofy, swaying in hypnotic dance:

"Now Mary Jane liked the way

I made our aunts laugh

by imitatin' a new born calf

and gulpin' down three plates and a half

(them calves is fun)

That’s when she started liking me

and hiding around to watch me pee

yeah, yielding to curiosity,

(and the wine)

Cos the truly mean girls

with the curves and curls

and diamonds and pearls

are the ones that tease

won't haul yore hay

less you walk this way

and watch what you say

and remember, always say please

(now here’s my advice) Don't say please on Saturday nite

when they ain' t prim or proper or dressed in white

but they are superstitious and you know thats right!

(yeah, rightous! Supersuperstition)"

Irving was evil in the worst way, selling his soul to the devil at age ten to get good at guitar, playing for drugs at the local veterinarians house, kicking with long haired organic thieves and crew cut militant racists, biding time in these backwoods, killing hours, forgetting all about love and kindness. These traits would not serve him well in the world he wished to destroy.

Cult followings grew quickly as inner cities embraced him. At age twelve known throughout the eastern mountains, promoters set him up with regional bands, billing him as the Electric Christ. At thirteen advertising genius Elroy Jetson sponsored an underground tour, short sets at random spots on the globe. By fourteen blooming on the national scene as Phalse Profit,  Irving preached for the devil with country speed metal anthems and masterful crowd manipulations. Often he was paid with models and drugs, scorning cash and respectability. He sang of rape and murder and discrimination and hatred, captivating listeners with hideous deathly vocals changing to mockingly sweet even as he fried and strangled guitar with lightning fast fingers that never seemed to miss; or at least, if they did, he covered mistakes up, swinging into new riffs dreamed even as he played, always original, never covering other artists songs.

At age sixteen he was banned in North America, handled by Elroys marketing company White Beer, touring incognito and underground in stolen fleets of jets, landing on freeways and impersonating different law enforcement agencies to confuse cops, using powerful lawyers and bodyguards to keep out of jail, doing satellite or internet shows from third world countries, committing heinous acts on stage, vowing to destroy civilation and encouraging violent overthrow of governments. Already building secret empires, networks of terrorists and desperados ready to annihilate. The second album, Warship the Devil, spelled out abstract and hidden meanings his plans for the planet. His prophecy would not be false.

chapter3                      Rebel Word