Black Hollow

Chapter 1 – The Arrival of the Black King

Mirror Lake was as flat as a broken mirror that late September afternoon. The water reflected the towering pines and the gray sky that hung low, almost crushing the village of Black Hollow against the damp earth. Four battered asphalt roads, a convenience store with peeling paint, the little Baptist church with a crooked sign, the town hall that looked like an inflated dollhouse, and Josie's diner where the coffee always tasted burnt and old.

There were one hundred and thirty-seven souls, counted the last time the old sheriff had taken the census out of boredom. Now she was the sheriff: Abigail "Abby" Harlan, 32, with light brown hair always pulled back in a tight ponytail, reading glasses on a chain around her neck, and a badge that seemed to weigh more on her chest than her gun.

Beside her, on the sidewalk in front of City Hall, was Kaylee Dunn, 22, a sheriff's deputy for just nine months. Long legs, still-childish cheeks, a blush easily. She looked at everything with wide eyes, as if every day were the first. Then there were the two patrol cars: Marlene Cobb, 45, short hair dyed an aggressive red, a voice hoarse from too many cigarettes and zero patience for assholes; and Vernon "Fat" Pritchard, 65, 230 pounds spread across 5'7", a belt that groaned with every step, but still capable of drawing his gun faster than one might expect from a man who breathed like a bellows.

And then there was the mayor.

Dorianne Whitaker, 47, carried like a goddess. Honey-blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun, a cream-colored suit that hugged her hips and chest as if sewn by a love-mad French tailor, full lips always painted a discreet yet bold red. Her husband, Travis Whitaker, 51, was the town accountant, barely five feet two inches tall in high heels, a thin voice, and—so it was rumored, but only among drunk women at Friday karaoke—an appendage that barely deserved the name of a dick. Dorianne always smiled in public, caressed her husband's hand with ostentatious affection, and then, when she was alone in the office with the curtains drawn, she would sit in the leather chair, slip a hand under her skirt, and close her eyes, thinking of anything but Travis. That day, Dorianne was standing on the steps of City Hall, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on her head, watching the moving truck pull up in front of the former fishing tackle shop that had been out of business for six years.

He stepped out of the truck.

Jermaine “J-Money” Carver. Thirty-nine years old, six foot three, shoulders as broad as the diner door, gold chains jingling against his black skin slick with sweat, an oversized dark purple sweatshirt with “King Shit” written in gold letters. Mirrored sunglasses, a crooked smile, a gold tooth that flashed when he spoke. He had two knockoff but eye-catching Louis Vuitton suitcases and a subwoofer so big it looked ready to give birth.

“Good morning, Madam Mayor,” he said in that deep voice that seemed to rise from a mine. He took off his glasses and looked her straight in the eye. “Nice fucking place you have.”

Dorianne didn't bat an eyelid.

"The lease was signed properly, Mr. Carver. But let me be clear: this isn't Atlanta. This isn't Miami. This isn't even that shithole Portland. There's a moral here."

Jermaine laughed, a hearty laugh that vibrated the air.

"Moral? Honey, I bring jobs. I bring money. I bring music videos that get millions of views. Your good white high school girls sneakily watch them under the covers and touch themselves, thinking about the big dicks they'll never find around here. Is that what scares you?"

Dorianne pursed her lips. Her lipstick seemed to darken.

"Your white dancers kneeling before your black singers with their tongues hanging out like bitches in heat…that's not art. That's trash. And I don't want that in my country."

"Your country?" Jermaine took a step closer, towering over her. "Look, I pay taxes like everyone else. And I pay rent to your husband, that little guy I saw walk into the diner looking like he'd apologize to the wind. So yeah, it's my town now, too, honey."

Dorianne inhaled slowly through her nose.

"Watch your tongue, Carver."

"Or?" He smiled even wider. "Are you sending your feminist sheriff in her white cotton panties to lecture me?"

At that moment, Abby's patrol car rounded the corner.

Abby got out first, her hand resting on her holster out of habit. Kaylee followed, already red in the face just from hearing Jermaine's tone from twenty meters away.

"Problems, Mayor?" Abby asked in a calm but firm voice.

Dorianne turned, her campaign smile back in place.

"No problem, Sheriff Mr. Carver was just… introducing himself.”

Jermaine looked Abby up and down, slowly, not hiding.

“Damn, Sheriff. You’re prettier than they said. Too bad about that badge, you’d look better in a collar.”

Abby went purple in half a second. Not out of anger. Out of pure embarrassment. Her hands shook slightly.

“Express yourself respectfully,” she managed, but her voice came out higher than usual.

Jermaine laughed again.

“Relax, badge. I don’t bite… unless you ask me to please.”

Kaylee took a step back, as if the air itself had become sticky. Marlene, who had remained in the car, rolled down the window and shouted, “Hey, you fucking nigger, turn the noise down or I’ll take you in for disturbing the peace!”

Vernon, on the other hand, was snoring in the passenger seat, his head resting against the glass.

Jermaine raised his hands in dramatic surrender.

"Calm down, grandmas. I'm a businessman. I'm opening the studio tomorrow. Black Hollow Records. Come check it out, I'll even give you a free audition." He winked at Kaylee, who nearly tripped on the sidewalk.

Dorianne took a step forward.

"One last thing, Carver. If I see a single minor enter that hole, I'll have you locked up in twenty-four hours. And if I find out you're doing stuff with our girls... well. You're not ready for what's coming."

Jermaine stared at her for a long time. Then he smiled slowly.

"You know what, Mayor? You look like you need a good, proper fuck. Ask your husband if I can lend him the fuck for five minutes. Maybe I'll even teach him how to use it."

Dorianne didn't answer. She simply turned and walked up the steps of City Hall, her heels clicking like gunshots.

Abby stood there, motionless, her heart pounding in her ears.

Kaylee whispered, "Abby... that's... dangerous."

Abby didn't answer. She just watched the moving truck unload boxes full of lights, microphones, and who knows what else.

Black Hollow had just welcomed its first real devil.

And the devil wore gold chains and a smile that promised trouble.