Let Me Be Your Undead Hero

The statue stood still, as statues have done since man first learned to carve his likeness into rock, eons ago. It watched the beautiful City of Ruston, Louisiana, from the rocky hill which was its domain. Had been its domain for centuries, really. From there it could see the City lights shining through the vanishing afternoon. The men and women walking, driving, and sometimes flying about in metallic cylinders as they traveled wherever it is they went. It had seen much in its time. For the statue was old. It had been erected in this small Louisiana town around 1804. A seven-foot-tall statue of a Negro was considered an anomaly in those days. This statue, emblematic of an American Negro slave in chains, was the slave-owning Louisiana Colonists way of reminding their slaves that they were property and nothing more. The colonists who lived in that area had been deeply frightened of a massive slave revolt in America after the French colony of Saint Domingue fell to the Negroes who lived there. Somehow, they managed to beat the French army. A feat which astonished Europeans far and wide. Even more strange was the fact that the now free Negroes of Saint Domingue were supposedly forming their own country, having renamed it the Republic of Haiti. Where would the madness end? That's what inquiring minds wanted to know throughout Europe and the Americas at the time.

The statue stood there, a horrific relic of a bygone age. The State of Louisiana had come a long way since the statue was first erected. Nowadays, negroes weren't slaves anymore, they were free men and women. Citizens of the United States of America, just like the White men and White women were since the nation's foundation. And they weren't called negroes anymore except on certain outdated census forms. No, these days they called themselves Black or African-American. And God help anyone who called them otherwise. They had grown powerful since the old days. In fact, the man who led the country was one of them. In ages past he would have been called a mulatto. Today, he was technically biracial though he considered himself Black. The statue had seen much in its time. And nothing it saw had ever shocked it, or moved it. For it was stone. Ageless. Eternal. Cold. Unfeeling. Until today.

The statue watched as the two lovers fought. The tall, blond man and the short and slim, dark-skinned woman. Time after time they came here to kiss and make up, and ironically this was the spot where they fought the most. It watched them. What else could it do? absolutely nothing. So, time after time, it watched the couple make love, and also fight. It remembered the fights the most. One day, it got really mad. The day came when push turned into violent shove, and the woman fell to the ground and lay still. The man stood over her, suddenly shocked at what he'd done. He looked at his hands, and then at her. For a few agonizing moments he paced back and forth, and then finally, he took off after scanning the environs. The woman lay there bleeding, and some of her blood seeped into the rocky crevice at the statue's stony feet. The blood trickled into the crevice, and something amazing happened. The earth actually...shuddered. A cracking not like what must have been heard when continents moved echoed across the park, but none were around to hear it. The statue...moved. Cold, hard stone became flesh and bone. The magnificent relic of a bygone age became a flesh and blood human being. The seven-foot-tall Black man bent down and gently cradled the wounded young Black woman's body in his gigantic arms. Arms that looked like they could crush steel like claw held her gently. He bent over to gaze upon her beautiful face. For a moment her eyes fluttered open, then she passed out again.

Deirdre Blackstone woke up slowly and painfully. For a panicked moment, she didn't know where she was. She gasped and looked around frantically. She was in a big White room, and a tall, red-haired White lady in a white coat stood over her. The woman smiled kindly at her and asked her how she was feeling. Deirdre stared at her blankly, and said she felt awful. Her head was hurting, big-time, and she was having trouble thinking. The lady in the white coat introduced herself as Doctor Samantha Winston, and said Deirdre was lucky to be alive. Deirdre nodded, then gasped again. Her first thoughts were for Keith Rogers. Where was he? One minute they were just hanging out in the park and next...she couldn't remember anything. The doctor asked her if she remembered anything from the night's events. Deirdre shook her head. The only thing she remembered was hanging out at her favorite park with her boyfriend Keith. Hmmm....Keith. Her angel. The tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed White guy she'd loved since they met at Louisiana Tech University. One of the few decent White male athletes on the mostly African-American men's basketball team, Keith astonished his teammates by winning the heart of Deirdre Blackstone, the school's cutest cheerleader. They were a match made in heaven, though.

Black cheerleaders weren't exactly rare at colleges and universities in the South. Many historically Black colleges and universities across America had mostly Black cheerleading squads. Schools like Howard University, Tuskegee University and Lincoln University were famous for their lively and sexy Black cheerleaders. However, even in a school teeming with beautiful young Black women, Deirdre stood apart. She was truly something else. The adopted daughter of a wealthy White couple, she came from a privileged background. Old money in New England, to be exact. Even though her adoptive parents, Michael and Julia Blackstone would have preferred her to go to Harvard University or Princeton University, she chose to attend Louisiana Tech University. A small school which most people in her moneyed New England hometown of Plymouth, Massachusetts, had never heard of. Louisiana Tech University had many African-American students and Deirdre Blackstone wanted to connect with her roots. And then the shy chemical engineering student surprised everyone, including herself, by falling for a baller. A White male basketball player. Texas-born and bred NCAA basketball phenomenon Keith Rogers, her knight in shining armor. Once again she asked the doctor where Keith was, and the lady ignored her question. Dr. Samantha Winston claimed that Deirdre Blackstone might have been attacked. Apparently, a really tall Black guy came to the Northern Louisiana Medical Center emergency room, cradling her bleeding form in his arms. He handed her to a team of nurses and seemed really concerned for her well-being but didn't stick around to answer any questions. Oh, and he showed up in truly strange attire...

Dr. Samantha Winston rubbed her eyes, and looked at the young Black woman lying on the hospital bed. Deirdre Blackstone was lucky to be alive, seriously. She'd obviously been the victim of a brutal attack. Either she didn't remember, or she wasn't being honest with herself. Still, the doctor did her due diligence in recording the name of Keith Rogers. The hospital police asked her to do a rape kit on Deirdre. Upon hearing that, Deirdre flinched. The doctor explained to her that it was just procedure. Deirdre protest vehemently, claiming that she was fine. The doctor shook her head. She'd seen this more times than she cared to admit. Young women with abusive boyfriends who refused to acknowledge they'd been the victim of any foul play. Sometimes, young men who'd been abused by the females in their lives came to the hospital too. And they denied being abused by their girlfriends even more than the women with abusive boyfriends did. Domestic violence definitely swung both ways, affecting both sexes and all races, and was prevalent in all societies. Since the young lady refused to cooperate, the doctor decided to let the police do their thing. She didn't want to expose the young woman to that. She had a daughter Deirdre's age at home. However, desperate times called for desperate measures. It was for her own good, the doctor told herself.

Dr. Samantha Winston gestured to Ruston City Sheriff's Department patrol officer Luther Kingston and his deputy, Carol Anne Webber. The Sheriff was a stocky Black man in his late fifties. He carried himself like a pasha, but he was really good at his job. His deputy Carol Anne Webber was a six-foot-tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed, no-nonsense woman in her early thirties. She'd been a lawyer in the City of Baton Rouge after graduating from Louisiana State University Law School before abruptly deciding on a career in law enforcement. Carol Anne Webber was the brains of the Sheriff's Department while Luther Kingston was its stodgy heart and strong soul. The two of them looked somberly at Deirdre Blackstone. The young Black woman rolled her eyes at the two cops, and once more demanded to see her boyfriend Keith Rogers. The cops sighed. This was going to be a long night.

Deirdre sat back on her bed, quietly fuming. The cops kept the questions coming. She didn't remember what happened to her. No, she wasn't hiding anything. Yes, she was sure that Keith Rogers had nothing to do with whatever happened to her. No, she didn't know or remember any seven-foot-tall Black guys who walked around in loincloths and chains. The Sheriff and his deputy grumbled, then at the doctor's insistence they decided to let her rest. Carol Anne Webber handed Deirdre Blackstone her card, and gently but firmly told the young Black woman to stop covering for the 'son of a bitch'. With that, the cops left. They were going to have a talk with this Keith Rogers fellow. Luther Kingston, a lifelong fan of the Louisiana Tech University Bulldogs men's basketball team, definitely thought the name sounded familiar, but he couldn't put a face to it. Oh, well. They'd find the scumbag soon enough.

The camera footage from the Northern Louisiana Medical Center emergency room showed a seven-foot-tall Black man wearing a loincloth and the proverbial ball and chain ( literally) carrying an unconscious Deirdre Blackstone in his arms. Maybe he was the culprit. Deirdre Blackstone did say her boyfriend was a basketball player, right? The tall Black guy in the emergency room video definitely fit the part. He certainly looked more than tall enough to be a dominant force in any athletic arena, especially men's NCAA basketball. Luther Kingston had been a policeman for twenty five years. In his time, he arrested White men, White women, Black men, Black women, Asians, Hispanics and everything in between. He didn't discriminate. Still, his undying hatred was reserved for Black men who abused their women. He loved his darling Mirene Jean-Baptiste, whom he met thirty years ago when she moved to America from her hometown of Cap-Haitien in the island of Haiti. They had three sons together, James, Mathieu and Bertrand. He raised his lads to be good men. They were all college-educated and hard-working. Two of them, James and Bertrand were happily married to young Black ladies they met in college. The third one, Mathieu, was gay and lived with a Jamaican guy named George. Still, Sheriff Luther Kingston cared for all of his sons with equal measure. All three were good men. That's what mattered. If Keith Rogers turned out to be the kind of Black man who would beat up a fine sister like Deirdre Blackstone, then Sheriff Luther Kingston would take him down himself. That was a promise.

The towering Black man hid in the dark, and watched everything from outside the young Black woman's hospital room window. It looked like she was going to be alright. Good. He had to return to the park. Soon, dawn would come and he would have to go back to the park. Still, he felt a yearning he hadn't felt since...well, since the colonists came for him and his horde of runaway slaves. He remembered those dark days and a cold fury filled his undying heart. He was born and raised on a plantation. Unlike the other slaves, he wasn't docile. Especially after a Christian minister taught him to read and write. His learning ability astonished the old white man. The slave's owner found his increased knowledge threatening. In time, he became a leader among the slaves of the plantation. One day, he organized their escape. They shot three white men and made their escape into the wilderness of Louisiana. And for a glorious year, they were free. Then the end came. They recaptured him, and killed his fellow runaway slaves. They then decided to make an example out of him, the fearless leader, by turning him into a statue. They poured cement over him, and killed him. Their only mistake was doing the foul deed on an ancient Native American burial ground. A rocky hill overlooking a clearing where hundreds of Native American men and women from the Attakapas tribe were buried. There, they buried the Negro men and women who followed him in his march toward freedom, and condemned him to the worst death they could think of.

The place was cursed, for the blood of slain Native American tribesmen mingled with that of Negro slaves in Louisiana and cried out for revenge. Thus, the ancient, eternal curse brought him back to life one night every ten years. The anniversary of his recapture and execution. On those nights, he lived and brought death to others. However, he was bound to the place and could never leave permanently. He was stone by day and flesh by night. However, he wasn't truly alive. He had found immortality in death, and longed to truly live. Every ten years he would stalk the streets of that sleepy Louisiana town, and slay anyone he caught mistreating one of his fellow Negroes. Thus, he became a legend to both Negroes and white folks around these parts. The Avenger of the Bayou, they called him. To the white folks, he was a force they didn't understand. To the Negroes, he was an ancient Spirit from the depths of Mother Africa come to avenge them. How he thirsted for the destruction of those who mistreated his kind. Now, his rage was semi-gone, replaced by another yearning. One he couldn't identify. It was definitely centered around the young Black woman in the hospital room, though. Would it really hurt, he wondered, if he looked at her one more time before returning to his solitary vigil as a man of stone in the park? He gently pushed the window...and found himself staring into the face of the most beautiful Black woman he'd ever seen in two centuries.

Deirdre Blackstone rose from her bed, wanting to get some fresh air. It was too bad she had lost her cell phone otherwise she would have called her boyfriend Keith Rogers to let him know she was alright. Where was he anyway? He always walked her home at night. Those cops and the doctor thought he did her wrong for sure but she laughed at the thought. Still...he was the last person she remembered seeing before everything got hazy. No....he wasn't. There was something else...someone else. She opened the window...and found herself staring at a tall brother clad in a loincloth. Deirdre's mouth opened in a silent scream...but she stopped herself just in time. Recognition flashed in her eyes. It was him! The guy she remembered. He stood there, staring at her. Who are you? She demanded. He stared at her, dumbfounded. Then he introduced himself as Thaddeus Sherman. He smiled and told her he was happy that she lived, by the Grace of God. He told her he'd worried that he acted too long before intervening as the other man struck her. Deirdre gasped. He had seen another man strike her? Who? She pressed him for answers. In her urgency she practically pulled him through the window. Standing face to face with this strange man, she finally realized how tall he was. At least seven feet tall, if not bigger.

Thaddeus Sherman looked at Deirdre. Wow. He'd never seen such beauty even while he was alive, and he'd seen beautiful ladies of all shades at the Louisiana plantation where he spent most of his life. If it could really be called a life. For back then he existed as the property of Morris Sherman, a ruthless slave owner and planter. Deirdre Blackstone suddenly felt puny standing in front of Thaddeus, but somehow he radiated harmlessness. He seemed more nervous to be around her than the other way around. In a really odd English accent, he told her what he had seen. And that's when Dr. Samantha Winston chose to come back into the room. She wanted to apologize to Deirdre for letting the cops interrogate her. She hadn't felt the young woman was ready but the law was the law. When she came back into Deirdre's room, she saw the tallest Black guy she'd ever seen in her entire life. And Dr. Winston was an NBA fan. She'd seen tall Black guys before but this one was something else. She gasped in shock, and her first thought upon seeing this seven-foot-plus, loincloth-wearing, wild-looking Black man was to summon the Northern Louisiana Medical Center's well-trained hospital security guards. She doubted they would be enough, though. Deirdre told her it was okay. Everything was alright. Deirdre gestured to the tall Black guy, introducing him as Thaddeus Sherman. The ebony giant looked at Deirdre, then gazed at the doctor, and politely nodded. Deirdre grabbed Thaddeus arm, and told him to tell Dr. Winston what he just told her. The giant nodded gravely, and what he said sent chills down Dr. Samantha Winston's spine.

Officers Luther Kingston and Carol Anne Webber contacted the Registrar's Office at the Ruston Campus of Louisiana Tech University. They asked about Keith Rogers, and the cheerful administrator, who sounded young, gladly told him all that she knew. Especially after the officers insisted it involved domestic violence and the possible sexual assault of a young woman. Thus, they went to the dormitories. They asked a frat boy if he knew Keith Rogers and the half-drunk guy pointed them to room 117 on the second floor. They knocked on the door, and a tall guy answered. Both officers eyes widened when they saw him. For he was definitely not who they were expecting. However, the way he reacted to them told them they definitely had their man. The tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed White guy bolted upon seeing them. They gave chase, and patrol officer Carol Anne Webber tackled him. Officer Luther Kingston watched as she cuffed him tightly. The young White man began whining and babbling, saying that he hadn't meant to kill Deirdre Blackstone, he just didn't like her attitude or the fact that she was friendly with some of his Black male teammates. The officers exchanged a look. Oh, yeah. He was definitely going down for this. They took him back to the police patrol car.

Deirdre Blackstone blinked back unshed tears as she listened to Thaddeus Sherman tell the story to Dr. Samantha Winston. He had a raw, haunted look on his face as he told them how Keith struck her, and then abandoned her bleeding body in the park. The doctor nodded, and said she'd contact the police immediately. She also offered the tall young Black man a hospital gown to wear because it was getting cold. She didn't ask about the ball and chain. She really didn't want to know. Just as she was about to get up, Ruston City police officers Carol Anne Webber and Luther Kingston came back into the room. They were actually smiling. Upon seeing Thaddeus Sherman, they immediately tensed. Deirdre Blackstone let out an outraged groan and put herself in front of Thaddeus, trying to shield the ebony giant with her body. She wouldn't let them take him. All the things he said had seemed unbelievable at first, then made perfect sense as she at last thought them through. Now she remembered arguing with Keith Rogers. The bastard shoved her, after she smacked him for disrespecting her. The bastard! And now the police were here, and like typical cops, they shot hostile glances at the Black guy in the room. Even though he was the man who saved her life. Never mind how weird he dressed or his odd way of speaking the English language. He didn't sound like an immigrant. He sounded like something out of Shakespeare.