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NIGHT OF THE SLURRING MAMPIES by Peter Dean Rickards

 

I don't know what it was that made me look up from my dozing sleep that windy morning. I remember being half in and out of consciousness. Somewhat aware of my surroundings and still lost in a a dream I was having about trying to sell the State Department a miniature person I had found in my bathtub and captured in a jar.

-"I won't take less than 1 million", I told them , " ..and I ain't talking about no rasscloth midgets either star! This is a real three inch human I got here!"

Suddenly, as I was about to close the deal for a very reasonable $750,000U.S (plus stock options), my nose detected a high rancid stench that was far too powerful to be my imagination.

My eyes fluttered and I opened them slowly, trying to adjust to the light. And then I saw them.

The Mampies.

As they limbered closer, the smell intensified.

Was that "Babe"? No! It was "Charlie."

I raised my hand to my face and rose from my plastic chair, hoping to ease past them casually without being detected.

No such luck. In a second, they were upon us, blocking off the only exit and eyeing us all in a way that made me want to clutch my head and scream!

And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the one in the purple blouse spoke up:

"We want some Red Stripes eh? You guys got any Red Stripes and some pot?"

We all shuddered but did what she asked.

Jamaica is a tough place, but Mampies, well, you just don't want to mess around with Mampies. Especially at two in the morning and especially when they're armed with U.S dollars!

We fetched them drinks and gave them a big pile of ganja. Then they plunked themselves down at a table and proceeded to mash up some cigarettes into the pile of weed and began rolling it altogether into about a dozen pin sized spliffs that they slobbered on and stuck behind their ears.

The natives were perplexed but nobody challenged them. We had all seen the powers of the Mampy before and nobody wanted to get them upset and provoke them to start hugging us.

So, we dug quickly through the emergency Mampy crate and retrieved that damn ONE LOVE Marley single and some other crappy stuff that previous Mampies had left behind: Rod Stewart...Alanis Morrisette, and...(God have mercy on our souls) that Mambo Number 5 thing.

For a while, it seemed to work. The Mampies sat quietly in one corner, talking about cowboy boots and summers "up north at the cottage", when we made the mistake of playing INXS. That's when things turned really ugly.

"Whooo--hooo!!!! I've got to let you know...I've got to let you knoooow...You're one a my kind!!!"

It was dreadful and we all scattered to one side as the smaller children started to cry and ask if they were going to go to heaven.

There was no doubt about it now, the Mampies had let loose.

"Haha! I am so fuckin' wasted Connie! Get some more Red Stripes eh?"

They started to whip out US dollars and before we knew it, one of the natives had fallen under their spell. We tried to pull him back but his eyes had glazed over at the sight of the greenbacks and he was now moving hypnotically into their clutches.

"Bloodcloth. Whatcha star? Dem gyal probably never get a slam in all ten years."

As the Mampies clutched the pole and shook the roof, I managed to hide some of the little ones in a cupboard.

-"Don't make a sound", I told them as I hurriedly locked them inside, " this is just a game and the winner will get his very own deportee Corolla to run taxi wit."

Meanwhile, back on the dancefloor, things had taken a turn for the worse:

 
"This is SO IRIE EH? You got any more Pot?!"
 
"Wheee...Jamaica rocks!You got another 8-ball?!!"

Poor Winston.

They had him exactly where they wanted him and it was scary. Especially when one of the Mampies kept lifting up her giant blouse and flashing her her big rolls of pale fat. It was full of varicose veins and flopped over her zipper.

 

YUCK

In the panic, I glanced over at Winston, still caught in their lair without any chance of escape!

 

"Oh Bloodcloth Star! Mi frighten now star! Run weh star! Run weh!"

But it was too late.

"Hey Connie. I fuckin' love black guys!. They're so fuckin' cool. Fuck Racism man! Fuck Racism! Woooooo! One fuckin love!!!"

Everyone just tried to keep as still as possible. This was too much.

Too much for the senses.

The little children in the cupboard could no longer stand it and suddenly they broke free and tore out of the bar as if their clothes were on fire!

-"God help us!", they cried as they fled into the Jamaican night!

And then, just when it seemed as if things could get no darker, it did. The one in the purple started to tell jokes.

 

Fuckin A'! So then you know what the doctor says?! He says " Only in fuckin' Canada eh?" Hhahahaha. Fuckin A' eh?

And worse...

"Pfffft. Pffffft. Pfffffffffft...."


Look! I'm a dickhead! I'm a dickhead! Haw haw haw!"

As she sat there with the condom on her head, we took the opportunity to try to drag away Winston who was still relatively unscathed. But just as we got close enough, the Mampy tricked Winston into thinking she was falling backwards and as he came closer, she forced herself on him!

" Wooooo! So is it true what they say about "once you go black you never go back!?? HAHAHA!"

Not to be outdone, the biggest fattest Mampy lumbered forward and after blowing some beer out of the blowhole in the back of her neck, seized Winston who was completely paralyzed with fear and totally helpless!

"Mmmm..you're so warm. You wanna come up to my place and drill me till I'm raw?"

Suddenly I felt my legs start to move underneath me. All on their own; as if the impulse to run was no longer the sole reserve of my brain which was baked in a petrified funk!

And then...she looked at me.

Right at me.

And, for the first time in my life, I found myself looking directly into a burning ring of FIRE!

 

"Hey. I like you. You wanna come with us? I'll give yah $73U.S! "

That was all it took.

I scrambled onto the top of the bar and dove, using the top of her head as a stepping stone before grabbing the rafters and vaulting myself out the exit.

I ran as fast as I could with the sound of Rod Stewart following behind me in the chilled air and visions of my life flashing fast before my eyes.

That night I hid in a Burger King dumpster as the sounds of other Mampies scuffling around outside made my blood run cold.

They were everywhere: stalking, eating, dancing , cursing , spitting and sitting on everyone's face in every hotel across the island.

As the sun rose over the horizon, I opened the lid of the dumpster and looked around me. The Mampies were gone. Asleep in their various corners...on top of their victims or in pools of their own alcohol-induced vomit.

I dusted a half eaten Whopper off my shirt and made my way back.

Wondering...

What the hell did they do with poor Winston?