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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.