John; the Bludgeon and Joker: a story. Click here. The mango was heavy with the heat of the day, a small, golden weight in John Por Favour’s pocket. He sat in the long grass of the Jamaican hills, the year 1695 pressing down on him like the humidity. He looked at the stump where his finger used to be—a jagged memory of the moment he had asked for his copper and received the blade of the Dutch American Mohican Creole instead. In the flickering light of a stolen candle the night before, John had read of the Shrewd Manager in the scriptures. He understood the lesson clearly: when the master is unjust, the servant must settle the accounts himself. The master owed him more than a finger; he owed him the land, the air, and the very life he presided over. ..The mango in John’s pocket was not the only thing he carried. Long before he considered the iron tool or the 3:00 AM strike, John Por Favour had begun to master the art of the hidden ledger. Every morning, when the mist was still thick over the Jamaican coops, John moved among the frantic chickens. He discovered a rhythm that the overseers never noticed: for every twelve eggs he gathered into the master’s basket, three went into the lining of his own tunic. It was a tax he levied against his own suffering—a 25% interest rate on the finger he had lost. By midday, while the rest of the estate labored under the sun, John was at the edge of the market. He sold his three eggs to the travelers and the townspeople, clutching the small coins as if they were pieces of the master’s own heart. He built a silent, invisible economy. If the master would not pay him his daily earnings, John would simply extract them from the land itself, egg by egg. On the night he planned his coup, just before the owner entered his room, John had approached the man he called a father figure. He stood before him, the shadow of the Dutch American Mohican Creole, and asked for a single egg to eat. It was a test. John already had three sold and the coins hidden in the dirt, but he wanted to see if the master would offer even one freely. The man refused. "You eat when the work is done," he had said. He decided that own day his ancestors would take the authority and money any where he could from the whole economy, maybe from the glory navy or from the glory people and put the money in his own pocket to do whatever they would want. They barely have a navy. They barely have any people. John had smiled then, a small, cold tuck of the lips. He didn't need the man's permission. He had already taken his share. He realized then that the "Wise Servant" in the book hadn't just settled debts at the end—he had been balancing the books in secret the entire time. The next day when he asked, the man said,"...I suppose because truly you know I owe you..don't know how to pay...Me Sorry since I did not know how to express my fear of you leaving, fear of abandonment...and now you owe me...I need you to just help round here so now.. and just take what you want...not too much but like family. We are still trying to have a farm and family here." When the owner finally sat on his bed at 3:00 AM and spoke of their shared scars, John looked at the man differently. He didn't just see a master or a father; he saw a man who was losing a fortune three eggs at a time and was too blind to notice.... "Go to America," the man urged, handing him the letter for John Adams. "Find a way to build something." John nodded, feeling the weight of the coins in his hem alongside the bruised mango. He realized that if he could build an economy in the shadows of a Jamaican plantation with nothing but twelve chickens and a missing finger, he could build an empire in the North. He wouldn't just find John Adams; he would show him how to truly settle an account..... John looked around the estate. It was a gallery of the broken. On the porch sat a man with a stump for a leg, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Down by the river, another man was wading through the reeds, his movements quick as he hunted baby alligators, despite having his own scars to show. It was a cycle of maiming, a brutal language they all spoke. *If I strike him at three in the morning,* John thought, his small hand gripping a heavy iron tool, *I become the master. I free them from him, and they will answer to me.* He fell into a shallow, fitful sleep, dreaming of the hour of three. At the stroke of the hour, the door to the shack creaked open. But it wasn't John who moved first. The owner stood over him, a silhouette against the pale moon. "Get up, John," the man said, his voice surprisingly soft. John reached for the iron, but the man sat down on the edge of the dirt floor, holding out his own hand. In the moonlight, John saw it—the man was missing the same finger. "I was young too," the owner whispered. "And when I took yours, you were too blinded by the blood to see I had already paid that price long ago. The man on the porch? The man at the river? They are mirrors of one another. One took the foot, the other lost it. We are a family of the scarred, and any one of us could be the ghost of your father." John felt the iron tool slip from his hand. The rage was still there, but it was suddenly crowded by a strange, cold clarity. "This island is a circle of debts that can never be paid," the man continued, looking toward the dark sea. "If you stay here and kill me, you simply become the next man sitting on this porch, waiting for a boy with a mango and a grudge." The owner reached into his coat and pulled out a small, wax-sealed letter. "Don't take this farm, John. It’s a grave. Go to the colonies in the north. Go to America. There is a man there, a man named John Adams. He is young, but he has a mind for the law and the way things ought to be. Find him. Tell him me "Custer" sent you. Take what you have learned of debt and mercy, and see if you can build something that doesn't require a blade to settle the score." John Por Favour stood up, the mango still in his pocket, now bruised and sweet. He looked at the master—the man who was his enemy, his mirror, and his captor—and saw the path leading down to the docks. He didn't look back at the farm. He walked toward the water, leaving 1695 behind, carrying only the weight of his missing finger and a name for the future. When he got to John Adams' farm, he stole eggs from his farm and started a discount egg stand at the Boston Market as "free range eggs." When John noticed and threatened to call the British Regulars, the boy decided to lay wait him in the country lane as Adams' walked his little British Bull Dog and shot him. The dog is the witness. He left him in the bush after taking his clothing and watch and told the local vicar that he needed help. Mr.Adams wife nibbled at the fact that her husband took unusually long for his walk. So, she set up a scare crow as a warning that she would be watching with her musket in hand. She saw a man walking up the lane with the Bull Dog and he was singing "Can't buy me love" and his shirt was a little buttoned down. She saw this younger ace and then decided to loosen her tassels and she started singing "Let it be..." Then she said, "..is Jamaica me born sah...how you do?" He said, "...things good you see as me just bought (took) a farm...I don't know how I own it but this is where I am now..where you see me now!!" He saw in her cupboard a book about croissants so he decided to read it in French to help camouflage his ways. He decided that in his delusions of grandeur for more social authority as he aspired to higher stations in life that he would claim to own all of America and ask the Europeans to give him a loan on it; that he would run it. He Sought a loan on this farm. But, he would never do anything the quiet Dutch or Molto Bene Italian way because we want to feel like someone still owes us and if they do, then we can have that childish resentment and anger in our hope to see them all dead; all dead since "they" should take care of us. They should probably find us and get us out of the policies as soon as possible. Turn the government into a machine there will do the essential; honor the King.
John; the Bludgeon and Joker: a story. Click here. The mango was heavy with the heat of the day, a small, golden weight in John Por Favour’s pocket. He sat in the long grass of the Jamaican hills, the year 1695 pressing down on him like the humidity. He looked at the stump where his finger used to be—a jagged memory of the moment he had asked for his copper and received the blade of the Dutch American Mohican Creole instead. In the flickering light of a stolen candle the night before, John had read of the Shrewd Manager in the scriptures. He understood the lesson clearly: when the master is unjust, the servant must settle the accounts himself. The master owed him more than a finger; he owed him the land, the air, and the very life he presided over. ..The mango in John’s pocket was not the only thing he carried. Long before he considered the iron tool or the 3:00 AM strike, John Por Favour had begun to master the art of the hidden ledger. Every morning, when the mist was still thick over the Jamaican coops, John moved among the frantic chickens. He discovered a rhythm that the overseers never noticed: for every twelve eggs he gathered into the master’s basket, three went into the lining of his own tunic. It was a tax he levied against his own suffering—a 25% interest rate on the finger he had lost. By midday, while the rest of the estate labored under the sun, John was at the edge of the market. He sold his three eggs to the travelers and the townspeople, clutching the small coins as if they were pieces of the master’s own heart. He built a silent, invisible economy. If the master would not pay him his daily earnings, John would simply extract them from the land itself, egg by egg. On the night he planned his coup, just before the owner entered his room, John had approached the man he called a father figure. He stood before him, the shadow of the Dutch American Mohican Creole, and asked for a single egg to eat. It was a test. John already had three sold and the coins hidden in the dirt, but he wanted to see if the master would offer even one freely. The man refused. "You eat when the work is done," he had said. He decided that own day his ancestors would take the authority and money any where he could from the whole economy, maybe from the glory navy or from the glory people and put the money in his own pocket to do whatever they would want. They barely have a navy. They barely have any people. John had smiled then, a small, cold tuck of the lips. He didn't need the man's permission. He had already taken his share. He realized then that the "Wise Servant" in the book hadn't just settled debts at the end—he had been balancing the books in secret the entire time. The next day when he asked, the man said,"...I suppose because truly you know I owe you..don't know how to pay...Me Sorry since I did not know how to express my fear of you leaving, fear of abandonment...and now you owe me...I need you to just help round here so now.. and just take what you want...not too much but like family. We are still trying to have a farm and family here." When the owner finally sat on his bed at 3:00 AM and spoke of their shared scars, John looked at the man differently. He didn't just see a master or a father; he saw a man who was losing a fortune three eggs at a time and was too blind to notice.... "Go to America," the man urged, handing him the letter for John Adams. "Find a way to build something." John nodded, feeling the weight of the coins in his hem alongside the bruised mango. He realized that if he could build an economy in the shadows of a Jamaican plantation with nothing but twelve chickens and a missing finger, he could build an empire in the North. He wouldn't just find John Adams; he would show him how to truly settle an account..... John looked around the estate. It was a gallery of the broken. On the porch sat a man with a stump for a leg, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Down by the river, another man was wading through the reeds, his movements quick as he hunted baby alligators, despite having his own scars to show. It was a cycle of maiming, a brutal language they all spoke. *If I strike him at three in the morning,* John thought, his small hand gripping a heavy iron tool, *I become the master. I free them from him, and they will answer to me.* He fell into a shallow, fitful sleep, dreaming of the hour of three. At the stroke of the hour, the door to the shack creaked open. But it wasn't John who moved first. The owner stood over him, a silhouette against the pale moon. "Get up, John," the man said, his voice surprisingly soft. John reached for the iron, but the man sat down on the edge of the dirt floor, holding out his own hand. In the moonlight, John saw it—the man was missing the same finger. "I was young too," the owner whispered. "And when I took yours, you were too blinded by the blood to see I had already paid that price long ago. The man on the porch? The man at the river? They are mirrors of one another. One took the foot, the other lost it. We are a family of the scarred, and any one of us could be the ghost of your father." John felt the iron tool slip from his hand. The rage was still there, but it was suddenly crowded by a strange, cold clarity. "This island is a circle of debts that can never be paid," the man continued, looking toward the dark sea. "If you stay here and kill me, you simply become the next man sitting on this porch, waiting for a boy with a mango and a grudge." The owner reached into his coat and pulled out a small, wax-sealed letter. "Don't take this farm, John. It’s a grave. Go to the colonies in the north. Go to America. There is a man there, a man named John Adams. He is young, but he has a mind for the law and the way things ought to be. Find him. Tell him me "Custer" sent you. Take what you have learned of debt and mercy, and see if you can build something that doesn't require a blade to settle the score." John Por Favour stood up, the mango still in his pocket, now bruised and sweet. He looked at the master—the man who was his enemy, his mirror, and his captor—and saw the path leading down to the docks. He didn't look back at the farm. He walked toward the water, leaving 1695 behind, carrying only the weight of his missing finger and a name for the future. When he got to John Adams' farm, he stole eggs from his farm and started a discount egg stand at the Boston Market as "free range eggs." When John noticed and threatened to call the British Regulars, the boy decided to lay wait him in the country lane as Adams' walked his little British Bull Dog and shot him. The dog is the witness. He left him in the bush after taking his clothing and watch and told the local vicar that he needed help. Mr.Adams wife nibbled at the fact that her husband took unusually long for his walk. So, she set up a scare crow as a warning that she would be watching with her musket in hand. She saw a man walking up the lane with the Bull Dog and he was singing "Can't buy me love" and his shirt was a little buttoned down. She saw this younger ace and then decided to loosen her tassels and she started singing "Let it be..." Then she said, "..is Jamaica me born sah...how you do?" He said, "...things good you see as me just bought (took) a farm...I don't know how I own it but this is where I am now..where you see me now!!" He saw in her cupboard a book about croissants so he decided to read it in French to help camouflage his ways. He decided that in his delusions of grandeur for more social authority as he aspired to higher stations in life that he would claim to own all of America and ask the Europeans to give him a loan on it; that he would run it. He Sought a loan on this farm. But, he would never do anything the quiet Dutch or Molto Bene Italian way because we want to feel like someone still owes us and if they do, then we can have that childish resentment and anger in our hope to see them all dead; all dead since "they" should take care of us. They should probably find us and get us out of the policies as soon as possible. Turn the government into a machine there will do the essential; honor the King.
John; the Bludgeon and Joker: a story. Click here. The mango was heavy with the heat of the day, a small, golden weight in John Por Favour’s pocket. He sat in the long grass of the Jamaican hills, the year 1695 pressing down on him like the humidity. He looked at the stump where his finger used to be—a jagged memory of the moment he had asked for his copper and received the blade of the Dutch American Mohican Creole instead. In the flickering light of a stolen candle the night before, John had read of the Shrewd Manager in the scriptures. He understood the lesson clearly: when the master is unjust, the servant must settle the accounts himself. The master owed him more than a finger; he owed him the land, the air, and the very life he presided over. ..The mango in John’s pocket was not the only thing he carried. Long before he considered the iron tool or the 3:00 AM strike, John Por Favour had begun to master the art of the hidden ledger. Every morning, when the m...
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