Mogo Rules
by Lucinda Kempe
Mogo brushed
his mocha-colored fur in the full-length 18th
century mirror. He admired himself in its glass.
Then he twirled, sambaed and sashayed across the
cypress-planked floor. He turned up the volume on
the turntable and sang: “I got rhythm. I got
music. I got myself. Who could ask for anything
more?” Mogo had been chosen to be the King
of Comus, the first black mole to reign in the
two hundred year history of the New Orleans
organization. The choice would batter down the
portcullis of prejudice and narrow minded thought
which had existed for decades in the old south.
‘Who’d
a thunk it? Celebration time!’ Mogo grabbed
his Mardi Gras scarf, wrapped it around his neck,
and jigged over to the phone to call his
girlfriend.
“Ho!
Tarty! Listen, babe, I know you know, but I
wanted to make it official. You’re coming as
my guest. Whatdaya mean no? Nothing to wear? Wear
yourself. We’ll be history busters. A mole
and an alligator mingling with the aris-toe-crats!
And besides doll, you’re luscious, wicked,
and hot. Luuuuvvvvvvvvv you. You gotta.
Please…You will!” Mogo did a two-step
polka for joy. He tossed a celebratory handful of
confetti in the air.
“Babe,
gotta finish blowing my coat. Call ya later Aly
Gator. Kissy-smak!” He shit grinned.
“Hey ya’ll Garden District Snoots,
I’m the King.” At that, he spun around
and bowed, his back to the glass, his button-pink
asshole winking back.
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