The New Flesh

Since becoming wealthy enough to do so without fear of embarrassing myself, I’d liked attending the horse races. Since meeting Miss Carol Chang, I’d come to love them.

Carol was a jockey, see. Mad about horses. I was mad about Carol.

I bought a horse. Sorry ladies, it’s a normal guy maneuver - pretty woman loves horses, I buy a horse, I get to meet her. Works every time.

*   *   *

I hit my head.

I was walking through the stables looking for Carol, thought I heard her call me, turned about hastily, and knocked myself half senseless on a horseshoe hung on a nail by a stable stall.

After the resulting headache subsided somewhat I became aware of voices speaking next to me.

“Yes,” said a pretty mare stalled next to my horse, “Humans have no taste whatsoever; I wonder what he sees in the yellow-skinned chink neo-communist bitch.”

“Flat-chested slopehead slut,” my horse added.

The horses were talking?

This was too real for me. “Did any of you just say something?” I asked politely.

The horses gaped at me in shock equal to mine. “You can hear us?”

“Uh huh.” I made sure I had unobstructed access to the stable door in case of danger to my person.

“Okay, we’ll level with you,” my horse said. “We don’t approve of your sniffing around that slant-eyed jade.”

Bradley, my black chauffeur, came into window-view then. “Oh look, it’s the jungle bunny again,” another horse said. The rest laughed heartily in derision.

Horses talking was one thing, but there was something very disturbing about this now.

“Why’d you just call Bradley a ‘jungle bunny’?” I asked, suddenly certain great enlightenment was about to hit me.

“He’s black.”

“So, why not just call him a black man?”

“Where’s the fun in that? We’re racists - we’ve got to insult people based on their ethnicity, or if that’s in doubt, where they originate from.”

“Aaaahh. You’re joking of course.”

“Nope, we’re horses. All horses are racists - it’s inborn.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean racers?”

"No, racists. Conjugate the verb ‘to race’. Race, racer, racist.”

“Should be racest then.”

“Yes. Racist."

*   *   *

They were serious. I tested them.

Soon the crowd for the 4:00 began to arrive.

“C’mon guys,” I said, “you’ve got to love Mrs. Jackson’s hat, just dig those natty feathers. And those shoes.”

“Stupid fat-assed nigger bitch.”

“Stupid? She’s medical director of a hospital.”

“So? Damn ho must have got her med degree on her back.”

“Okay, how about Carlos Alberto? Check out that suit and Rolex he’s wearing, and his wife’s dress, just lovely.”

“Spic drug-runner . . .”

“He’s an investment banker!”

“. . . . yeah sure. His greasy ass came over the border hidden in a fruit-cart. I know so for sure - my cousin Dinky pulled it; and that wife of his - good lord, don’t Mexican women ever stop eating?”

A distinguished old Jewish couple were crossing the lawn towards the stands. The 4:30 race would begin in fifteen minutes. I pointed them out. “And the Goldsteins?”

“I thought you had some class, boss, please don’t foul the air of this place by mentioning kikes.”

*   *   *

They went on and on and on and on.

Greeks and Canadians were degenerate sodomists. Italians were all Dago Mafiosos. Australians all had kangaroo mothers. Blacks were uneducated lazy pimps and wife beaters. The French were frogs, snail eaters, and Godzilla-making nuclear degenerates.

The British? I’ll have MI6 after me if I repeat what they said about the Queen and Prince Charles, the late Princess Diana, and David Beckham.

For some reason horses really hate David Beckham.

It got worse. Poor Salman Rushdie’s ordeal prevents me from repeating what they said about the Shah of Iran, and Arabs in general. To the horses, terrorism was the least of the Arab’s crimes. And I think it wise not to even consider offending the Russian Mafia, the Chinese Triads, Japanese Yakuza, Africans in general - the list was almost endless.

I assure you I heard more political incorrectness in that stable than I’ve ever heard anywhere else in my life.

*   *   *

Finally they convinced me. I stared at the horses in horror. “You really are racists.”

“Yeah, that’s what we do, we race.”

But you’ve mixed things up. There’s racing and then there’s . . .”

“Race, racer, racist, boss.”

A black stallion nodded agreement. “Word, boss.”

My mind slowly wrapped itself around the concept. “Okay so why aren’t you insulting me? I’m Irish.”

“Health insurance policy boss. No one here wants to wind up as cans of dog food. We’ll wait till you leave.”

That was honest at least.

The 4:30 was over, I could see the board from the stables, Abe Goldstein’s ‘Golda Mare’ had won.

I finally thought I saw where this was headed. “So, if you don’t like Jews, or Blacks, or Spaniards, or Asians, or Greeks, or the British, or the Russians, or Native Americans or South Americans, or just everyday un-prefixed Americans, who do you like? The Germans? I mean Hitler must be your hero, right? You wanna set up the Pureblood Aryan Horse Reich?”

My horse looked at me in disgust. “Screw that damn Kraut punk and his entire country.” It groaned at me, surprised at my hardheaded lack of comprehension of this most simple of equine principles. “We’re just racists - we don’t discriminate. Unlike you humans, we dislike everyone equally. You’re all to blame for the state of the world.

"Worse still,” the pretty mare in the next stall added, “You all ride on our backs.”

*   *   *

Chastened, I left the stables and walked slowly back to my Rolls.

I haven’t had any stomach for the racists . . . sorry I mean races, since then.

I sold my horse. It had already served its purpose. Miss Carol Chang now comes over to the house to visit me instead.

"A Day at the Racists"

Copyright: © 2011 Wol-vriey

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Wol-vriey is Nigerian, and quite tall. He believes that there actually are things that go bump in the night.