John; the Hammer 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.

  John; the Hammer 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. 

The Royal Turkey crowed "frailty and frisky thy name is Creole woman" while watching everything and  said, "..at least we will have a man to help with the bairn that are born once a month at 8 lbs as she drinks the full food fat milk( le lait entir)  once a day  in this frontier and who ever he is must be the twice dead who thinks his selfish way will rule all of we as he cuts back the Dutch and their ways like  the full stipend benefit and the full health service within the good Dutch culture since he would like to ask what he got  and what he lost under a Dutch American Indian Creole...so we will raise the sales tax to 17%.. maybe 30% since this man is about to say we need to save and cancel what we spend on salt for food sanctification...that we need to save money.  If anyone tells me, we are trying to save money but then stealing the money and reducing the revenues with sales tax reduction, something not done in France, then he is trying to kill us, calling us a damn fool.  Then  he says all day that 'it will be all me...all me..no more king over me since you see me and what I can do...as me take it and have it now' he says. 

'....and if she argues with him once he will kill her.....and he says we need to save while he is stealing a pig and eggs from us to sell it at his own selfish stall at the market. He covers his selfishness as he calls it "Safeway'  instead of Selfish since Safeways; that kind of sounds  like Selfish as he takes a cut, kills and takes you all dead if you try to call the police on him. But who would tell me to cancel the salt, cancel the benefit and when the culture loses its sanctification, what is the point of the English Gujurat who could not sanctify it back to a basic Dutch or European normal or Asian normal and restore for everyone the normal? The problem is not the accent but who would want to become the fodder of a pirate native Creole from America since he is really disabled, an angry, murderous sex bum that keeps saying he can do It, whatever it is. Yet eventually you are dead with him since you can't get anything for free..you have to give everything.  There is too much sex and not enough bible in him.  

 It is not the English we are to resent or the Dutch but the pirate Native Creole who are killing everything European  and maybe also Middle Eastern since these cultures should nurture a child or any abandoned children, give them the time and attention a child needs instead of just that proffering themselves as more than others and as lauded above others but these cultures do not honor perfectly it's own message as the missionary. Where is the finger?  Where is the money transfer? Where is the money at the...where you work? Where is your children's benefit? Where is your benefit? You have super intelligent pop music but where is your benefit to pay the rent for your space where you can keep your collection of pop albums safe?   If the English owe you,  why go to live amongst  them and if you do, why not ensure that they pay and deliver all benefits equally, give them the salt and mercy of your culture that if it is superior, you will save them, tell them and Donald that they are wicked, save them from their wicked ways although they listen to and preach the gospel all day; selling bibles? The woman named their first son Fabian.   

Why tolerate the pirate who cancels the goods things in the culture?  Loom at what you have done?  You can't steal eggs from the King's cock any longer. His kingly cock will  strangle the cock of all those who try to depress us, reduce us, fodder us, occupy and pirate our nation full of fat bottom eggs since we needeth the money to feed the baby chicks.  We need some virtu, fortuna; opportunitas. The monkey that ran up from the Everglades (there are monkeys in the everglades) said "..what is the point of any culture that cannot handle one  little pirate girl...or boy that intends to be the pirate captain that might disguise himself as French or as the real New England English from England...innit? 

Until then, where is your Citroen next? The French hugenot ( A Dutch Creole really)  wants to ask if you know.    The Hugenot is really a pirate white native Creole and a cut throat in need of the love of a pure native woman who will ask him what is the point of all the violence if you can't relax any where  instead of hunting after the true Dutch with your anger (you are not true Dutch but an angry Creole).. instead of you hunting the English, hunting all of  the European and those European feelings and those who celebrate them, hunting down anything foreign to avenge for his finger and so he does not want anything foreign over him...."  The turkey realised that John  could be his father, his son. So, if it feels Dutch and quiet where all have their fingers, their benefits and their health services, he will cut something since if there is no more struggling there is no more war. He blocked the river to extortionate people to sell his own bottled water, trying to bottle the water on his own so he could make more money. This was his way to cut his own path for some kind of extortion-omics. 

This would be to  make you pay...make you pay...the Native you call Dog  that you ask to eat you and your couture.  But the Native does not want to be asked to spend money to eat you.  He decided to name the British Bull dog "Virago."  Then, he cut the turkey's head off and spread it open like a chicken, defecated inside of  it (..saying the world should be more me...) and called it Jerk Chicken since he didn't want any bird to look at him like it understood him, selling it at his Safeway's with a prayer that the whole world would be him. He did this while hoping to understand where it says in the Bible, God enabled me to forgive." 

  

The neighbours came to talk and the Adams' put on a proper old New England accent, sounding as if she was right of the pages of the 'Crucible".  The neighbours noticed that the lady was not up as Puritan early as usual so they looked into it and saw she was singing about John Big Bamboo and was singing other songs in her Creole patois tongue.   He heard them talking about a Montcalm in Quebec building a Chateau Frontenac.  He decided that he needed to be him since if John Por Favour os the Emperor and King then who is Montcalm. He heard about his just wages and said he does not think the French can afford it and he would show Montcalm how they do it in Jamaica,  that John Por Favour will be the General and Montcalm will be the poor, murderous stow away and farm hand. Vive Le escargot; a ha ha ha ha; a ha ha ha ha hahhhhh!!   The neighbours decided to watch him collecting apples as he was singing something like " Sad to Say I'm on my way..won't be back for a many a day..."; so they saw that was not John and John was not around.   

The dog was drunk. The lady was drunk on some White Apple rum this man made. So they shot him.  She said in her American accent that she would always forever love him and named her next two children Donald and Joe; neither of them very happy with croissants and so they dipped them in maple syrup since they did not want anything too too foreign over them.  They did not really want to do it their way. But what would be the point of New York or Tokyo with all that electrified excitement if people did not have money to enjoy it. 

The End.