The Talking Dreads' white-gloved hands bookend the words:
"THE ULTIMATE PLAN FOR THE DEGENERATE WHITE MAN"
The walls of the image-chamber spin with lights and color, projecting a holographic mirage of a small rural town in mid-air suspension. Circled by a nimbus of phosphorescent murk, the ' disembodied head speaks in a smug, no-nonsense voice.
On the surface, "Garvey's Corners" is a town as typical and serene as any other on the golden plains of America's wheat belt.
Dawn. As the sun rises over the small Midwestern town of "Garvey's Corner," a wizened Black Man in blue-denim overalls pushes a junk cart strung with clanging pots and pans. He drums his wares with two metal spoons, calling out in bluesy sing-song.
"Rags! Old iron! Raaaags!!! And old iron!"
The Junkman rolls his cart past the War Hero's Statue erected in the town square, his song echoing in the alleyways. An American flag undulates in the morning breeze. A handbill blown through the streets is caught in the grate of a curbside gutter. It reads:
"Town Bar-B-Q Tonite! Come One! Come All!"
With its circa 1920s architecture, "Garvey's Corner" is the town Norman Rockwell and his brother George might have built for their boyhood train set. In a well-ordered, tree-laden layout of municipal planning stands a Town Hall, a Post Office, a Church, a Little Red School House, a Sheriff's Station, and a Train Depot. It's a town so staunchly American and small town in its values and thinking, it could be called The Town That Made Frank Capra Throw Up!
Portly shopkeepers open the doors to their stores. The gray-haired School Marm climbs the steps to the Schoolhouse. The Postman waves good-day to the depot's Stationmaster. The Sheriff chats with the Junkman.
"You're sure you got enough horse sense to understand what I'm sayin' to you now, Joe?"
The Junkman whinnies and stomps his foot. The Sheriff pats the old man's bald black pate, flipping the old man a sugar cube. The Junkman intercepts the sugar cube with his tongue.
"I like it when you use your tongue like that. You're quick as a bullfrog, Joe, and a real credit to your kind."
A town where the air is sweetened by the warm aroma of a hot apple pie cooling in the window of a humble white-frame home.
One Family House. Backyard. Morning.
Crouching beneath the open back window, two Freckle-Faced Boys steal a deep-dish apple pie from the window's sill.
It's the kind of town where grizzled men-folk sit around the pickle barrel in the General Store, and hack gobs of chewing tobacco into the brine of phlegm-filled spittoons, cracking off-color jokes about their swarthy, sweat-secreting hired help.
General Store. Late Morning.
"That there's a lunger."
"Big, red, slimey sucker."
"Looks like a squid."
"Figger we can sell it to the Dagos?"
"Taste real good to 'em, too. Fry it up with garlic, be real tasty."
"Make a great pizza topping."
"Make a fortune off them wetbacks."
"Starin' at that sucker makes me kinda hungry."
It's a town where busty blonds and square-jawed boys tool down Main Street, U.S.A. in souped-up jalopies, who jitterbug to big band swing, and drink nothing stronger than bottled 'Pop' in the local Malt Shoppe.
Main Street. High Noon.
A pudgy-faced, gap-toothed, tousled-haired Teen, behind the steering wheel of a sputtering roadster, turns to the big-busted, pale-haired Girl beside him:
"Say, Judy, howsabout, drivin' over to the bad part of town so you can give me a blow job in the back seat?"
Bad Part of "Garvey's Corner." BackSeat of Andy's Car, Mid-afternoon.
Judy puffs her cheeks and blows a stream of air on the smegma-webbed projectile pulsing in Andy's lap.
"Gee, Judy, this is swell!! Can I come in your mouth?"
"Garvey's Corner" is the kind of old- fashioned American town that still knows the value of a day's hard work, the colors of their country's flag, and the Lord's commandments.
Outskirts of "Garvey's Corner." Late Afternoon.
As the sun sinks below the horizon, the Townspeople march to the edge of town armed with hoes, pickaxes, coils of rope, and an American flag. The town pastor leads the parade with a gold-crossed, leather-bound Bible clutched to his heart, his eyes aimed piously at the sky.
Suddenly, in a billowing trail of dust, the Junkman zips ahead of the pack, zooming past the sign Nigger! Don't Let the Sun Set!
Town Square. Dusk.
A bonfire blazes. The Townspeople, convened at the War Statue, daub their tearing eyes, their heart swollen with reverential emotion. Just below the American flag, swinging sadly at the end of an oiled rope, is the Junkman's tarred corpse with the Town Bar-B-Q handbill pinned to his flannel shirt.
But surfaces are deceiving. What looks like the familiar stars and striped of Old Glory's true red, white and blue, is, in reality ...
The American flag smokes into flames. The Junkman raises his head, opens his eyes and laughs maniacally. A ripple shivers across the surface of the holographic mirage. A Black, Red and Green flag flies above a bronze statue of Marcus Garvey.
... the black, red and green flag of the Black One World Government! Or Sambo's World!
The citizens of "Garvey's Corner" aren't crying at all. They are wiping off a peach-colored veneer of greasepaint; because underneath the grease, each inhabitant of "Garvey's Corner" is black!
For underneath its folky charm, "Garvey's Corner" is as phony as a set on a Holly- wood backlot!
"Garvey's Corner" microscopes to toy town dimensions.
Fire-bombed buildings, rubble-strewn lots, storefront churches and iron-grated liquor stores circle the "town's" false facades. Desperate people mill the streets. A trio of stingy-brimmed coolies doo-wop under the billboard "Welcome To Sambo's World!"
Located at the heart of America's most dangerous slum, "Garvey's Corner" is a mock town where Blacks are trained to look, act and think like ordinary law- abiding white citizens in order to under- mine all the rights and freedoms Ameri- can society has to offer the white race without the slightest detection!
These agents of subversion are so expert in the chameleon's art of camouflage they can even mimic the actual smell of whites by bathing in tubs of rancid milk!
Outlandish you say? A plot too far-fetched for the average Negro mind to conceive? Stop a moment and think.
Have you ever felt personally embarassed for someone who couldn't dance? I mean someone who really couldn't cut the carpet? And you, the very embodiment of style, fashion and attitude, groaned that this goldfish-gobbling jackass in the raccoon coat is the reason why the white race has such a bad name in discotheques throughout the world? Think again!
That person was probably borned and raised in Harlem - trained to make white people look bad!
The Sambo Institute for Artificial Caucasians ("White Today for a Black Tomorrow"). Classroom. Night.
"Remember, class, Min. Louis Farrakhan once remarked you can make a white man out of a black man, but you can't make a black man out of a white man so we made a white man out of Louis Farrakhan and got ..."
The video image of Fred MacMurray's Doppleganger flickers on a television monitor. The Doppleganger peels the rubber prosthetic mask from its face. And Louis Farrakhan crocodile smiles from under the tufts of cotton and bandaid colored latex. With a stick of white chalk, the instructor writes on the blackboard: red "Farrakhan" MacMurray: The Flubberized Nubian Man.
"If we are to successfully subvert the soul of the white man and dominate the globe with our negritude, we must in- habit his being as if it were our own! We must think as he thinks! See as he sees! We must attack his mind, undermine his "will to whiteness" and defeat him before the battle's begun! In other words, "we must drive the white man crazy!"
Tearing the rubber prosthetic from his face, the instructor, too, looks like Fred MacMurray.