TYAGTA "Slavery" Chapter 1

SLAVERY, CHAPTER ONE

A red-eyed, sweaty madman burst through the pub doors, wiping his brow as he shouted incoherent demands outside to two dark-skinned servants, who hustled in as far as their leashes allowed with their gazes locked on the floor. Their owner mopped his frazzled, oily mound of hair to the sides around his massive bald spot and adjusted his round bifocals – an invention he wouldn’t patent for another nine years.

“Ah, Mr. Franklin,” the head serving wench announced with a curtsy. “Back for your afternoon bender?”

He laughed, “The name’s Benjamin, you withering cunt.”

She countered with a wink, “Struck by lightning again, you drunk sack of syphilis?”

Franklin coughed. “Where’s old Thomas?”

A frilly, effeminate hand waved from the back of the large tavern, past powdered wigs and gentlemen playing refined games of chance.

“He’s over there, Mr. Franklin,” she smiled, too used to his gruff demeanor and aware that her tolerance of his caustic remarks always earned her a coin if she persisted. “If you haven’t smoked away your sense of direction, that is.”

Franklin tossed a copper piece the barmaid’s way. “I’ll see you outside in twenty minutes then. Pull your hair back on your own time.” He turned to the open room and stepped over to Jefferson’s table.

“Thomas, you old pole-smoking fruit,” Franklin barked for the entire pub to hear. “How goes the treason business?”

Jefferson shushed his friend as he sat, his wig and ruffles flittering with anxiety, “Ben, be cautious! There are loyalists everywhere!”

“Don’t be a shit, Thomas,” Franklin snorted, pulling out his pipe and lighting the bowl. He inhaled deeply, held the air in his chest, and then exhaled a plume of blue smoke across the table.  “So what’s wrong?” He coughed,” Do you need help writing or did your fat wife stroke out again?”

“Franklin, I need your advice.” Jefferson sneered, “I’d prefer you weren’t entirely baked for this.”

“You know that publishing’s dead, right? Only farmers read these days, and you want to know something? Not that literate. They only bought my Almanac when I started putting tits on the cover.”

“Farmers?”

“Seem’s that all the money’s in Jesus and bullets these days. Fuckin’ liberals.”

“This is not about business or profit, Franklin!” Jefferson leaned back, aghast. “This is about the future of our society, of mankind! The triumphant moment when we state that the people are to be governed by themselves, that the era of kings has ended, that no man is–”

Franklin laughed, pushing out billows of smoke from his nostrils. He winced and slammed his fist on the table, “Bullshit.” He dropped the pipe in his pocket.

“Excuse me?”

“I said bullshit, because that’s what it is. Have you been listening to that queer, Hamilton, again?”

“It’s 1775; don’t be a bigot, Franklin,” Jefferson grimaced, unfurling a scroll of parchment. “I spoke with him last night while I was drafting up this Declara–”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, this first part, where I say that ‘all men are created equal,’ it just doesn’t ring true. You know, here.” Jefferson pressed his hand over his heart.

“Because it’s not.” Franklin open-palm punched his slave across the face, “See?”

Thomas stifled his frustration that had been building since his friend arrived. Franklin’s glib attitude towards their country’s future was one of the aspects of their relationship Jefferson hated the most. “If we are going to found a nation on the principles of fraternity and unity–”

“Jefferson, let me tell you something.” Franklin retrieved his pipe and stirred the bowl around, flicking grey ashes on the floor. His servants dutifully swept the flakes away. “We are all equal in that we are all slaves.”

“Excuse me?” Jefferson looked at his friend’s slave with the empathy one has for a spurned child or a youthful love extinguished. “The central premise of our complaint against the British is that no man is subservient to another!” He pointed at Benjamin’s slaves but kept talking about them as though they weren’t there. “How can you talk about equality?”

Jefferson stood, vaingloriously booming to the uninterested pub at large. The few patrons who didn’t habitually tune him out after years of his blathering simply rolled their eyes. There goes that poof Thomas, ranting about brotherhood and liberty again. For the love of fuck.

“How may any of us speak of such things as liberty…or, or even brotherhood when we willingly own other men – and women! – as objects to be traded and tossed aside like scrap paper?!”

A stray bottle flew from the crowd and shattered across Jefferson’s head. A voice shouted, “If you don’t like it then go back to Britainstan, faggot!”

Franklin stared. “Jefferson, I was in the middle of a very important meeting with the Freemasons and the Lizardmen Ambassador. Stop prancing with your hands and get to your point.”

Jefferson rubbed his scalp. His hand brought back shards of glass dipped in fresh blood. He winced. “Oh, how is George? Did the wooden dentures hold?”

“He doesn't actually need wooden teeth. Lizardmen don’t have teeth.” Franklin tapped out more ashes. “Well, it depends on your definition. But trust me, anything you hear about George is probably just propaganda by the Satanists. They’re trying to push so we’ll elect Monroe when the revolution’s over. The Freemasons have everything planned around it, don’t worry.”

Jefferson sat down. “Ben, the Satanists aren’t real. Monroe just likes goats.”

“I assure you, they’re as real as these shackles,” Franklin joked, tugging at his slave’s neck chain. The slave grimaced but remained silent.

“That’s exactly my point, what good is our new world if we do not adhere to its guiding principles?”

Franklin shrugged, “What good is a newborn baby?”

“But if we continue to purchase slaves from–”

“Jefferson, stop mincing.” Franklin took another hit. This time, he sputtered out chunks of saliva and char when he finished. He wiped his chin with his sleeve and plodded on, eyes watering, “What’s wrong with profiting from a little civil war now and then?”

“The damage we’ve done to them may never be rever–”

Franklin pretended to sob and whined, “I’m shad, inequawity is so mean. Slavewy dwies my vaj, Fwankwin.”

“Slavery,” Jefferson glared, “is immoral.”

“Slavery,” Franklin somberly leaned in, “is probably the only way in which we are all equal.”

Thomas shook his head, “Franklin, you’re stoned. Why don’t you–”

“Sure, these guys get the brunt end of it,” Franklin jerked the neck chain down again, pulling his servant to the floor. “But why not consider the curious case of that serving trollop over there.” He waved to a plump young serving wench, tending to an order of ales and rolled tobacco.

“Is she really any different? Do you think she wants to be here, serving drinks at the pub and mouth jobs around the corner? She has to! She’s just a slave to her wage. Or him, over there.” Franklin leaned to the side towards a lawman in the corner, puffing away on a stick of tobacco.  “And then there’s you, Jefferson.”

Jefferson grew worried, “What about me?”

“Aren’t you just a slave to your wife? Doesn’t she own everything you have?”

Jefferson was silent.

“We’re all slaves to something in some way, Jefferson. And anyone can be a slave! We just do this to the dark ones because it makes us feel really fucking awesome about ourselves. Remember when we did this to the gingers? And the jews? And the–”

“Franklin, this is preposterous. Why, I’d wager that the hearty negroes of our fair nation,” Jefferson began again, ignoring Franklin’s servants as one ignores children or pets, “deserve a wage and their own free lives no more or less than we Caucasians!”

“Thomas.” Franklin pointed and leaned toward Jefferson, grinning. “What is it with you and cocks?”

Jefferson sighed, cradling the bridge of his nose, “Why must you insist on boorishly–”

“No, no, let’s all hear about the noble Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson, the kind slave owner. Jefferson, who pays his slaves a wage, as if that makes a difference. Jefferson, who hasn’t even forced himself on a single slave his entire life.”

A voice in the pub shouted out, “Pussy!”

“I have a wife, Franklin.”

“So did I! So does Burr! Never stopped us. It doesn’t count and you know it.”

“Pussy loves his wife!”

“I would never!” Jefferson stood, this time to leave. He began rolling up his parchment, “Clearly you’re in one of your moods again.”

Franklin choked, “It’s this ditch weed you sold me last week.” He wiped his chin, “Is this the grass you make rope with?”

Thomas’ eyes narrowed to frigid little slits, “You know I would never sell my rope stash.”

Franklin tapped the pipe and took another hit. He set the pipe down and exhaled a thin vapor. Disappointed, he smacked his lips, scowled, then yelled, “EMPTY!”

His slaves, eyes wide with panic, scrambled for the pipe. Before they could open the cloth bag containing the rest of Franklin’s pre-ground “Walking Around Stash,” their enraged owner pulled a jeweled dagger from his breast pocket. A valued treasure stolen from a prostitute’s corpse in the Parisian alley-markets, the silver blade plunged into the slave’s gut.

Franklin locked eyes with his victim and screamed, “EMPTY!”

The slave howled and crumpled to the floor. His chain clattered to the ground as he cupped both hands over the bleeding wound. The other snatched the pipe and tamped a green wad into the bowl.

Franklin stood over his slave, knife dripping on the dusty floorboards. Jefferson stepped between them as Franklin raised his dagger again.

“Jefferson, stand down,” he warned.

“No, Franklin, this is madness, this is–”

“This is my parlay!” Franklin leaned backed and roared, “EMPTY!”

“Franklin, I don’t…think you know what parlay means.”

Franklin readied his knife for two more victims, when the unwounded slave brought the pipe to Franklin’s lip and struck a match. He inhaled slowly then exhaled. His tense and aggressive stance slackened, and he gently sighed.

“Yuh welcome, Mistuh Franklin.”

Franklin smiled then stuck his dagger into her chest. He winked, “Uh-uh-uh! You speak when spoken to, Number Six-Twenty-One.”

She gulped and fell to the floor, almost spitting out a, “So sorry, Mistuh Franklin.”

Jefferson stood over the bleeding servants in horror. He shouted, “Franklin! What are you doing?!”

Franklin wiped the bloody dagger on a cloth napkin. He shook his head, “For fuck’s sake, Thomas. Don’t make a scene.”

Jefferson looked around the pub. It appeared none present were the slightest bit surprised or even took notice. There goes that Ben Franklin again, stabbing another slave, running naked through the streets, covered in hooker blood and feathers, just like last week. I wonder if he can spot me a dime bag?

Jefferson stared at the slaves, one twitchy from blood loss and the other irreversibly dead. He lowered to his seat, “Well now what? What do you do the next time you’re empty?”

Franklin chuckled, “Oh, you haven’t seen my latest invention!” He pulled out a long, smooth box covered in silk cloth. Franklin unfolded the little package, revealing a shiny, metal rectangle with squares holes on both sides.

“What’s that?”

“I call it,” Franklin puffed away dust, “the slave whistle.” He blew a dull, flat note from the harmonica and then trilled out a scale of brassy chords. Three slaves, shackled and haggard as the first two, shuffled in to replace their owner’s broken merchandise; their names “622,” “623,” and “624” smeared on their burlap tunics with white paint.

While Six-Twenty-Four dragged the wounded and near-dead away, Six-Twenty-Two and Six-Twenty-Three took their positions at Franklin’s left and right. Jefferson shook his head with feckless guilt.

Franklin grinned, “So which one do you want?” He pointed to the slaves at his side, “I could use some help breaking these girls in.”

Jefferson stood, this time certain that he would leave. “Never… in my wildest days did I ever imagine this. I may as well support the King before I–”

Franklin wagged his hands about, snidely jeering, “Oh, look at me, I’m Thomas Jefferson. I don’t rape slaves because I have a wife. I’m a good slave-owner.”

Jefferson grimaced, “That’s not why, Benjamin.”

“Oh what, moral dilemma? Do you seriously think being kind to your slaves makes you a better person for owning them?”

“Yes! …well, I…that is,” his words and parcels fumbled together. “Of course it does!”

“Bullshit. You still own them, they still work for free.”

“I pay my employees.”

Franklin chuckled, “Oh so that’s what he calls them?” He nudged Six-Twenty-Two with his elbow. “Employees, can you imagine?”

Number Six-Twenty-Two opened her mouth to answer, but a knowing look from Franklin as he slowly pulled out his dagger silenced her.

“Ben, someday all of this will come back to you and–”

Franklin snorted, “No it won’t. I’ll have guys like you making slavery look nice, humanitarian, fair. The only thing a nice owner like you does is make them less aware of how unjustifiable their situation truly is. I, on the other hand, am a model slave owner.”

Jefferson stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Do you know how many people I’ve killed, Jefferson?”

“Slaves or just in general?”

“Okay sure, let’s just look at the slaves for now.”

Jefferson thought for a moment. “Six hundred and twenty-one?”

“This year; try again.” Franklin opened a small leather booklet and thumbed through the pages.

“Oh.”

Franklin marked two tallies in his notebook, “Looking to beat my old record this year. Take it from me, buddy. You’re staying in town for the next couple of days – you must have brought a slave or two with you to Philadelphia. What’s your house girl’s name? Ubuntu?”

Jefferson glared, “Her name is Sally.”

“Why not toss her a fuck? I know she’s technically Martha’s but what’s she going to do, huh?” He chuckled, “Huh? Ah, you get it. Now follow me on this – no, sit down, don’t go. You go home, you force yourself on her.”

“How would I do that?!”

“I don’t know how you get started up Jefferson, just do it. Tie her up if you have to, hold a musket to her temple if she resists, but you won’t have to. You’ll see, in time you’ll have your precious little slave uprising and everyone will be equal.”

Jefferson unrolled his parchment and read the words again, ‘all men are created equal.’ He looked up, “Do you really think so?”

Franklin shrugged, “Unless they just turn the table on us, which I mean really, who could blame ‘em?” He reached across the table and rested his hand atop Jefferson’s, “But really, Thomas, it doesn’t matter. Just put whatever you want on that thing. Even if the revolution works, no one will ever read it. Hell,” he added, holding up his pipe, “the dumb bastards will probably outlaw this too, eventually.”

Jefferson sighed and left the pub. He stepped onto the dirt road of Philadelphia’s main street, his mind a torpid whirligig of confusion. Liberty, tyranny, oppression – could Franklin be right? Was his fair and kind treatment of his slaves hindering the march of freedom?

Of course, he could simply free his slaves, but then who would raise his children? His wife? Jefferson laughed at the thought. Besides, if he did free his slaves, they would simply be captured and shackled by owners far worse than he, Jefferson rationalized. Satisfied that he was best off doing nothing, he nodded and tipped his hat to Franklin’s line of slaves waiting at the pub window.

None acknowledged him.

Jefferson walked down the road, passing horse drawn carriages and merchants peddling furs and ammunition when he came upon Hamilton and Madison. As usual, their debates over the proper structure of government had resulted in a raucous argument followed immediately by an intimate fisticuff. The two men slapped their hands together, eyes closed and heads turned to the side, aimlessly sidewinding through Main Street while bystanders placed their bets.

“You hate America,” Madison squealed.

“No, you hate America,” Hamilton wisely countered.

“Alexander, James,” Jefferson said with a familiar curtsy.

“Oh Thomas,” Madison replied, straightening his collar. “How goes the drafting of the Declaration?”

Hamilton spied an opening and slapped Madison across the face.

Madison raised a fist in anger, “Son of a bitch, Hamilton, I’ll–”

Jefferson sighed, “It… goes. I just spoke with Franklin on the matter, but…”

“Oh ho?” Hamilton grinned, “Brilliant man, that Franklin. We actually asked him to write it first, but he said that he wasn’t some ‘fairy author.’ That is… I mean, I’m sure you’ll do… you’ll do good enough.”

“Yes, well,” Jefferson said, “I just spoke with him at the pub, but he seems to think that–”

“Franklin’s at the pub?” Madison asked. “I bet he could spot us a dime bag!”

“I’ll wager a moor on that,” Hamilton clucked, and the two walked to the pub. When Hamilton reached to open the door, Franklin stormed out followed by his slaves. With a snap of his fingers, they tromped single-file to Ben’s log-cabin mansion and underground barracks at the city’s edge.

Jefferson watched as Madison walked up, waving at Franklin. He tapped Ben on the shoulder.

“Hey, Franklin! How’s it going?” Madison asked. “I was wondering if you could spot me again for a–”

Franklin jabbed his blade into Madison’s thigh. He snarled, “You come with money or you don’t come at all, stump. Tonight you and Hamilton shall fap off wanting.”
Jefferson shook his head at the slow pace at which justice swings. He was a fool to trust Franklin; the man was a psychopath.