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Drop Squad: The HBICs of the District of Columbia

July 24, 2009

Originally posted March 4, 2009

(It’s called SATIRE)

Drop Squad: The HBIC’s of the District of Columbia

Shadows cast transparent cloaks across the dark cherry wood walls of the massive study.  The Butler moved silently with his tray, serving each guest as he had countless times before:

Colin Powell, the first African American appointed Secretary of State under former President George Dubya Bush; Jack Daniels, straight- no ice.

Clarence Thomas, Supreme Court Justice of the United States; Sex on the Beach, of course.

Condoleezza Rice, That bitch who was buying shoes in New York while thousands of residents in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast suffered and died.  Former National Security Advisor and Secretary of State; White Russian.

Eric Holder, Attorney General of the United States; Gin and Tonic.

The tension was palpable, the silence deafening. Until…

“I cannot fathom that we have to deal with this in the first place,” an irritated Condi hissed while simultaneously fingering the silk collar of her blouse and admiring the three-inch blood red Jimmy Choo stilettos she killed small children for wore.

“We do what we must,” Colin quipped, engrossed by a game of Who Has WMD’s Battleship.

“We took an oath,” The Judge stated as he flipped through a first edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Condoleezza twisted around in her seat and squared her shoulders at him.  “You needn’t remind me of the oath,” she snapped, annoyed at his condescending tone. “Who here would claim I have done anything but uphold it to the fullest?!”

“Children,” Colin cooed at them, “play nice and stay focused on the mission.”

“Well where is he?” she whimpered, crossing one long, boney leg over the other, distracted by the shoes once more, “the jet is waiting to take me to Texas.”

“How is your husband Bush?” Justice Thomas asked.

“Drinking,” she replied.  “Both of them.”

“A car is pulling up,” interjected Eric, who stood at the window peering through the curtains at the street beyond.  “I think…yes, it’s him.”

Moments later a loud knock sounded through the thick oak door just before it swung open and a gentleman stepped inside- the guest they had gathered to welcome.


Michael Steele, the first African American to serve as Chair of the Republican National Committee spotted Eric Holder right away.  “My man!” He said, “How you be?”

Oblivious to the way the AG stiffened at the greeting, he moved further into the room where Condoleezza, Justice Thomas and Colin sat, a rhythmic drag in each step he took.

“Wassup wassup?” he bellowed, slapping Justice Thomas’ open yet unsuspecting hand.  “Uh oh!  C. Thomas got soul, heyyyy!”

He turned to the lady of the group.  “Condi girl, mm mm mm!  You are lookin’ good!  I know someone is soppin’ up all that gravy, I mean dayum gurl!”, he said, stomping his foot and looking her up and down; her bubbling rage flashed to a full boil.

He turned at last to Colin Powell.  “C.P. in the house ya’ll step back!  This is the original right here, the OG of DC, ain’t that right C.P.?”


The Butler reappeared:  “Your drink sir; a Screwdriver.”

“Man, ya’ll be holdin’ it down up in here.”  He laughed, impressed with his stealth use of street vernacular and took a swig of his drink.  “What’s the 411 yo?”

The Justice began, “we have something very important to discuss.”

The door to the study closed with an echoing thud as the Butler disappeared into the hall.

Michael Steele felt a chill down his spine.  Could it be?  Was this the moment he had dreamt of?  Everyone had said it was a myth, but he knew, in his gut he just knew why he had been summoned this fateful night.

“Oh snap!” he said looking at each of his hosts.  “This is it right?!  Ohhhhh, I knew it was real, I knew it!  You’re the HNIC right?  And now I am an HNIC too, right?!  He was nearly shrieking with happiness.  “We’re all Head Nigga’s in Charge!”

“Calm down,” Eric advised.

“How is your drink?” Colin asked with a placid smile.

He took another gulp and noticed a bitter aftertaste.  “I think the orange juice might be…”  He stumbled a bit as his legs weakened.

Condoleezza moved around the table and faced the RNC Chair.

“Whatchoo want mama,” he said licking his lips like LL.  “C’mere and tell Daddy Steele all-”


Michael dropped his glass and it shattered on the wooden floor, his hands covered his red hot cheek.  “Woman is you crazy?” he muttered.

“Do I look like the – head nigga in charge, hmmm?”” She said, each word dripping from her lips like venom.

“Condi it’s 2009.  We’ve taken an ugly word and made it a term of endearme- -“.


Stars danced in front of his eyes and his hands moved to the back of his head where Eric Holder, esteemed Attorney General of the United States had just hit him with a very large, very heavy book.

“Sit. Down.” Eric said, as Michael quickly fell into the chair behind him.

“Is this like annnnishiashun? Annnnn, nishiashum?” He giggled loudly at the sound of his voice and tried again to speak with clarity, “are ya’ll ‘nishiatin’ me into the club?”

“This is no club you fool!” Condoleezza spat the words with utter disgust, “and stop speaking that way, you sound like a buffoon!”

“Aw baby, I’m just trying to be down with my peoples…” his voice trailed off as Colin rose from his seat.

“We are members of a secret society known as-”

“I knew it!” Michael exclaimed.


Another blow to the back of the head.

“We are members of a secret society known as the HBIC of DC; Head Blacks in Charge of the District of Columbia.  We were sent here to talk to you about your behavior of late.”

“Awww come on Colin!  Look, don’t tell nobody.  What I am ’bout to reveal is a glosely carded…closely guarded secret; I was chosen as Chair of the RNC because I’m Black.  They are counting on me to represent!  Only I- me, no one else, can build the bridge to the hip hoppers in the cities and suburban neighborhoods across America.  Why you all hatin’?

Hating?” Justice Thomas said.  “Hating?! You are destroying everything that we have worked to build! For God’s sake did I see a pimp walk when you came in here?!”

Michael couldn’t help but smile at hearing Clarence Thomas say “pimp walk”.  “I’ve been working on that for weeks.”

“This behavior will stop,” Colin said matter-of-factly.

“Or?!  What are you going to do?!  I’m Michael Steele!  I’m the head nigga in charge of the RNC!”

“You ass,” Cololeeza said, “You are not now, nor have you ever been, nor will you ever be the leader of the RNC.  You, you pathetic little man, are what is commonly referred to as a token.  Everyone knows the head of the RNC is really – -”

“Condi,” the Judge cautioned, “we mustn’t.”

“Who?!” Michael yelled, struggling to his feet.  “I’m out. Ya’ll are suckas, and I don’t have to sit here and take this!”

“Eric,” Colin said matter-of-factly.

Without warning the Attorney General sucker punched Michael Steele in the gut sending him to his knees. He grabbed the drugged man by his shirt, pushing him back into his seat.

“You will apologize and vow to never behave in such a way again,” Colin said.  “Your conduct is a threat to and a mockery of everything respectable African Americans have fought and died for.  You behave as a caricature, and you are an embarrassment to us all.”

“But, but….they want me to be Black.”

“Then just be yourself,” Colin replied “You’re already Black.”

“No,” he said shaking his head frantically, “I can’t be myself, I have to be Black.  I have to show that the RNC is down, that we are hip and can offer something greater- more bling, more ho’s, more Patrone.”


The sound of industrial strength duct tape pulled from its roll was deafening.  Michael found himself bound to the chair in which he sat, his arms pinned in at his sides.

“Give me the hose Condi,” Holder said, holding out his hand.

“The…hose?” Michael asked, panic beginning to set in.

“See this” Holder said, raising the hose in front of Michael’s face.  “This is going in your mouth.”

“Whoa brotha…” Michael said, sweat trickling down his brow.

“See this?” Holder said in reference to the duct tape.

“But…but the United States doesn’t torture!” Michael insisted, “you said so yourself, no water boarding.”

“The United States does not torture those suspected of terrorism,” Holder clarified, “you sir, are simply a menace to society and African Americans everywhere.”

“If you agree to resign- -.” The Judge began.

“Never!” their captive screeched.

“So be it!” Colin bellowed.

“Let’s hurry this up,” Condoleezza moaned, “George hates it when I’m late for patty-cake.”

“Open your mouth!” Eric demanded.

“Mmmm mm!” Michael refused, turning his head from side to side like a kindergartener refusing cold medicine from his mother.


The library doors flew open and in strode 3 distinguished gentlemen.  They walked calmly to the center of the room and stopped on either side of the RNC head.  Michael Steele could not believe his eyes.  To his left stood Marion Barry, former crack head Mayor of the District of Columbia, and next to him, Kwame Kilpatrick, crooked ass, lyin‘ former Mayor of Detroit; on the other side, Jesse Jackson, head hypocrite of the Rainbow Push Coalition.  He looked up in awe.

“W’sup nigga?” Jesse said, briefly glancing down at the man before focusing his attention on Justice Thomas, AG Holder, Condoleezza and Colin Powell.

“This is highly unorthodox!” Justice Thomas said.

“Nigga shut up,” Jesse retorted.

Condoleezza gasped, clutching her arms to her breast.  “How dare you!”

“Enough!” Marion Barry demanded.  “As representatives of the HNIC, it is within our right to take custody of our brother Mr. Steele.  None of you would dare deny the covenant.  It was drawn hundreds of years ago, and we intend to use it.”

“Covenant?” Eric asked, confused.

“Yes,” Colin Powell relented.  “An agreement between the HBIC’s and the HNIC’s…if either group claims someone as a member…no harm can be done to them.  It is rarely invoked.”

“Nevertheless!” Marion continued, “We are claiming Mr. Steele as a member of the HNIC’s.  You must release him.”

“You self serving scoundrel!” Justice Thomas exploded.

“Nigga shut up,” Jesse said again.

“And what are you doing here?” Condoleezza asked, pointing a long, skeleton-like finger at Kwame.

“A nigga needed a job, shit.  Plus, we hittin’ the Playa Hata’s Ball after this.  All you can eat skrimps,” he said sucking his teeth.  C’mon dawg,” he motioned to Michael, who scrambled to his feet.

Feeling defeated, Eric picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp.

“Marion,” Colin said, as the 4 men prepared to depart, “did you get my email the other day?”

“About Jindal?  Yes, I got it.  And I agree with your points, but now is not the time.  We have to stop by the Vista hotel before the Ball.  I’ll call you tomorrow and we can chart a course of action.”

“Very well,” Colin said, grabbing his own jacket, “I’ll walk you out.”


Thanks Mizzo, GG, Mr. Verity and everyone else who helped via feedback and ideas.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. March 5, 2009 7:41 am

    No need to thank me. You did the work. This is great. Thank you.

  2. Rance Rob permalink
    March 5, 2009 8:06 am

    Yo this was good. If there is going to be a part 2 then let me know. Very hot and I could picture the comic strip. Very Aaron McGruder one of my faves. You should have made Huey Freeman an independent. I kid. This was good.

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