Glowien ~ (Sphingo & The Black Empire, ch. 5)

January 2, 2017 § Leave a comment

Previous ch.: 1, 2, 3, 4

I am Osiris the king, who led My armies into all parts of the world…My substance is of the same nature as that which composes light. There is no place in the universe where I have not appeared, to bestow My benefits and make known My discoveries.

(The Osirian Column near Nysa in Arabia)


Sphingo & The Black Empire


The Man deemed Sphingo sat patiently aboard his first-class flight, having just landed at PDX International, his Beats faintly humming Daft Punk’s Motherboard, eyes closed, with his copy of the Shoninki resting in lap.

A gorgeous blend of Choctaw, Blackfoot, Cherokee, & Ghanian blood, he was strikingly beautiful, though deliberately emitting an unassuming air of dispassion towards his natural grace & poise.

His primary indulgence, aside from thick, beautiful women and fine red wine, is of The Mystic Sartorial Art.

Casually dressed in muted-grey, Tom Ford slacks, slip-on custom loafers, and an exquisite navy-blue, Egyptian-cotton v-neck, Sphingo was younger, healthier, stouter looking than his age of fifty let on.

His virility, potent.

He’s a squared six ft., with mid-back, thick, shimmering, black hair, which he mostly wore partially pulled back.

Sphingo’s incalculably wealthy.
Not rich…wealthy.
They’re two completely different statuses.

Chris Rock once made an appropriate joke: “Oprah Winfrey is rich. Bill Gates is wealthy.” Though Sphingo surpassed the aforementioned by the droves.

The only being in humanoid-history who was comparable to his providence of monetary-value, assets, and influence was Mansa Musa.

It’s not known of the 0%, let alone the one and ninety-nine, as to what Sphingo’s occupation is that garners him his pharaoh of the top-tier fortune.

He’s adoringly admired for his secrecy, discretion, and his uncanny ability to understate himself – it’s what his profession, mission, and true nature requires.


A light traveler, Sphingo had only his Louis Vuitton Pégase-55 rolling luggage piece as he disembarked the plane.

He was fond of this item, being synonymous with his personality: Elegant. Tactical. Luxurious. Black.

“Thanks for riding with us,” a cute, ample-hipped, middle-aged, flight attendant said as he passed.

Sphingo flashed an attractive grin with a slight drop of his head to acknowledge her.

“I’d like to ride him,” whispered her colleague as he passed, thinking he was out of range.

With his back turned, he smiled inwardly, always feeling gracious that he effortlessly attracted women.

Both attendants chuckled. They’d been swooning over him the entirety of the flight. His appeal was so seductive they forgot about the airline’s policy about engaging in sexual interactions with patrons. They didn’t care though – they wanted him. And that was precisely what Sphingo intended.

He knew this airport well.

Born and raised in NE Portland until the age of 18, Sphingo always disapproved of the way native-Oregonians seemed to act like they were above all who were transplants or who weren’t the hipster-vegan-indie-rock-type.

He saw a few of these Arcade Fire worshipers sitting at his preferred table at his favorite airport tavern…or rather, the tavern he owned.

Pondering on whether he should commandeer the area that was allotted him, he decided instead to act as an average citizen and sit at the bar enjoying whichever lame game was being broadcast.

“Glenfiddich 40,” motioned Sphingo to the bartender, the balance of his tenor resonating beyond the counter.

Felix did a double take.

“Mr. Candorberry!” He said hesitantly. “Good to see you, sir!”

“Just Sphingo,” he replied in his polite manner.

In an era where Natives were culturally debased and looked at no better than a homeless drunkard, Sphingo enjoyed his celebrity treatment from those whom knew or recognized him. He gloried in it, not only for himself, but for his people – the rightful inhabitant protectors of this Utopia.

Felix reverently handed Sphingo his drink, poured gently in his favorite crystal, with a spritz of purified spring water.

“Management didn’t tell us you were comin’ in this evenin’.”

Sphingo projected a cold, hard stare, letting Felix’s inquiry linger past the point of comfort.

“Deliberately. I like to surprise My establishments on occasion. Keeps everyone alert,” he said flippantly.

“I understand, Mr. Can…I mean, Sphingo, sir.”

Sphingo bellowed a hearty laugh.

“Relax, man. Your job’s not on the line. I’m mainly in town to visit My parents, not to speculate on the quality of My businesses. You’re aware that I employ a great general manager. I trust her and those she hires. Everything’s all good.”

Felix smiled, nodding in relief.

A mild feminine commotion filled the entrepreneur’s ears as he turned to view the sight he was waiting for – his two flight attendants who just so happened to walk into his bar to have a nightcap before retiring to the airport’s hotel, which he also owned.

They spotted Sphingo.

One of them whispered mischievously into the other’s ear, laughed out loud dramatically, and tried to look nonchalant as they found an unoccupied table near the front of his pub.

Felix noticed their interest in his boss.

“Have fun, sir,” he smirked enviously, wiping the counter’s spheres of condensation.


Sphingo gracefully picked up his drink with two-fingers & thumb, transitioning to sit with his prey.

He arrived.

“Two bewitching women walk into a bar, owned by a Native. One of the ladies says to the other, ‘Look what I’ve found – a successful Indian who owns a business.’ The other says, ‘So? That’s nothing. I’d be impressed if this successful Indian had a big dick.’”

The Milfs, staring upward, sat gawking at Sphingo as he finished the punchline.

After gaining her composure, the more extroverted of the two spoke.

“Tell me…does this rich Native have a big cock?” She said with her most non-obvious tone.

Her companion held back a snicker.

The left corner of Sphingo’s perfect mouth turned upward, happy that she’d played along.

“I live in the West Hills. Escort Me there to find out for yourselves,” he stated imperatively. His confidence, undeniable.

The giddy-one replied, “She would love to,” nudging the other.

“Perfect,” he said, gently lifting his chiseled chin. “Meet Me here in five minutes,” he crooned as he reached in his left pocket, pulled out, and slid them a card with his private terminal number.

The flight-attendants’ eyes went wide.

“Why the hell do you fly first-class when you own a private jet?”

“I don’t like to advertise my wealth…unless it gains me favor with beautiful women, of course,” he said flirtatiously. “Besides, it’s fun sometimes flying like commoners. If I hadn’t today, I wouldn’t have met you two.”

They grinned sillily.

Checkmate, he thought.

At a nearby table, an army-cadet, who was on leave, overheard Sphingo & The Nymphs’ conversation.

He was outraged.

Being undisciplined to keep his mouth shut, he got up from the table, his comrades in line, walking over to their area.

“S’cuse me, ma’ams…s’this guy botherin’ you?”

Their minds were elsewhere – conversing with one another, talkin’ ‘bout the things that women talk about when discussing a man they’d like to fuck.

The soldier turned his attention to Sphingo once he realized he’d been ignored, his southern-pride not allowing him to maturely walk away without being a hero; that was, after all, how he’d been programmed to act.

“Hey, bud,” the soldier grimaced condescendingly. “I think it best you let these gals be.”

Sphingo’s phone rang. The ringtone was Jay Z’s Open Letter. “Ya’ll gon’ learn t’day…

Slipping his hand down his right pocket, he retrieved his Blackphone, turned his back on the soldier and posse, then checked it.

He opened the text from B.E.:

Roselle, Alaniah, Eva
have been located. With
Belladonna’s assistance,
they’ve defeated Datura.
Deploy to Doernbecher’s.

The Blackphone’s camera scanned Sphingo’s retina, self-deleting the text upon him ending the reading.

Hm. Datura’s been defeated, he thought. An Initiate can’t complete The Masters’ task.

He took a cleansing breath before turning around, eying the slags.

“The Maybach’s waitin’. See you in five.”

He walked back to the bar to snag his luggage. After he extended the handle, he summoned Felix.

“Sir?” he said, a little ruffled due to how the cadet spoke to his boss, clearly unaware of who he was.

“Pay them no mind,” Sphingo said soothingly, downing his drink, yet savoring it.

He placed the crystal on the counter neatly, then palmed Felix a Benjamin as he shook his hand goodnight.

He stared at the greenback.

“Sir!” He exclaimed.

“’Till we meet again,” said Sphingo cooly. “The restaurant’s closin’ early tonight.”

He turned & departed, the wheels of his luggage rolling silently.

As he walked a few paces, he swayed his head to the left to catch glares with the soldier.

Sphingo winked, tuning his attention on the cadet’s abdomen.

The soldier hadn’t the knowledge to compute what Sphingo triggered within his body.

All he would remember is some distinguished, well-dressed, powerfully mild-mannered Native Man gazing at him, as he passed to exit some restaurant that he and his friends decided to try, while waiting for their families to arrive to welcome them home for two weeks, before they deployed on another leg of duty in the current war.

He’d never see his wife, nor his two sons and daughter.

The vomit mingled with blood spewing from his nose and mouth as he slumped lifelessly on Sphingo’s restaurant table would be his final ponderance.

His friends couldn’t perform mouth-to-mouth due to the excessive amount of sick, bile, and other intestinal fluids gushing from his oral cavity, the seizure not helping either.

The restaurant’s patrons were in an uproar.

Everyone was terrified of catching whatever this soldier had. They scrambled in an attempt to escape the vicinity.

In a panic, Felix grabbed the phone behind the bar.

“911, state your emergency.”

“Hello, yes, I’m at Duke’s Place/PDX International and a soldier is having some kind of seizure! There’s blood and puke everywhere, send an ambulance, quick!”

Felix disconnected the call before the dispatcher could ask any stupid questions.

Everyone on the west-coast knew that Duke’s Place was celebrated & well-loved; and that emergencies, here, never happened.

The patrons trammeled out the rathskeller into the airport walkway, the soldier’s crew included.

Felix calmed himself before slowly moving towards the decrepit body.

A Black-man yelled, “Stay back, bruh! You dunno what the fuck he’s got!”

Felix concurred with his logic and halted, treading reverse a few steps.

Bewildered, he blew forced air through his cheeks, his beard twitching as he grazed both hands through his mangled mane, trying to comprehend wtf just happened.

He’d never witnessed anything of this kind.

Dropping his arms to the sides, an intuitive spark igniting in his mind, he remembered what Sphingo announced to him before exiting.

The restaurant’s closin’ early tonight.

~ author: Hiram Surtyr – illustrator: Ruth Barbee ~

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