Find more chapters on .Côm
Atlanta, Fulton County.
It was a place so small that it was hard to find on a map.
But in the eyes of African Aricans, it was the Holy Land!
Because once it had been ho to the "greatest" fighter—Martin Luther King.
Even if this man was suspected of plagiarism, had a wanton private life, and violated doctrines.
Just like the Mahatma that the Indian had blown up to be, serving as a stretcher bearer for the British in South Africa until they despised him for his clumsy hands, desperately wanting to be British, only to be rejected due to skin color.
Then he conjured up a whole concept of non-violence and non-cooperation...
Both were staunch supporters of this slogan, but both t their ends through violence.
In a small two-story building, with exterior walls that were sowhat mottled, so areas even starting to peel, there was a portrait of Martin Luther King on the wall, his gaze looking off into the distance.
And this was also the residence of his eldest son, Martin III.
Unlike his father,
he was a devout Believer, blessing the "African descent" every Thursday at choir.
When his red Volvo pulled up to the parking spot in front of his house, and he got out of the car with his wife, just as he was about to open the front door, he heard a horn. Martin III turned his head in confusion and saw a police car parked at the curb, with two plainclothes officers stepping out.
"Good evening, Mr. Martin," said the white officer leading the two, smiling at him, hands on his holster.
Martin III sized up the other man, furrowed his brow, "Who are you?"
"CIA Senior Agent, Augustus," said the white man as he showed his badge, and Martin III, after a glance, felt slightly relieved, "How can I help you?"
"I have so questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind?"
"Of course, please co in."
The white Chief Investigator shook his head, pointing to the police car, "A chat in the car will do."
Martin III thought for a mont and nodded, saying a few words to his wife. She expressed her concern with a caution to be careful and went into the house with the children.
The three walked to the side of the police car, another CIA agent opened the door, Martin III even thanked him as he got in. But just as he sat down and hadn’t yet managed to speak, suddenly a hand covered his mouth and violently pushed his head against the window. Senior Agent Augustus, with a 20-centiter knife, ruthlessly stabbed it into his lower jaw!
Thud...
The blood sprayed on the window, Martin III’s eyes widened, his eyes froze, and the strength to struggle dissipated in an instant; he slumped inside...
"Let’s go!" Augustus and his companion fled the scene, abandoning the car.
His wife, who had been watching from the window, saw them run, stared in shock, then her expression changed, and she rushed outside quickly. She yanked the car door open only to see her husband, Martin III, in a horrific state of death, felt the world spinning, and let out loud cries.
"Help! Help..."
Many neighbors heard the news and ca, horrified when they saw Martin III with a knife wound to his throat, but they hurriedly scrambled to get him to the hospital.
But it was too late.
The eldest son of Martin Luther King was dead!
This was a huge story. When journalists who heard the news arrived at the hospital entrance and surrounded the widow, she was already crying uncontrollably, collapsing into the arms of a relative, her eyes lifeless.
But for Arican reporters, it didn’t matter who died, as long as they had material for a story, rember how thrilled they were when Kennedy was assassinated?
Many tabloids even speculated who would get Jacqueline.
"CIA!"
Standing nearby, Martin III’s younger son suddenly spoke out, imdiately drawing everyone’s attention. They looked over and saw him clenching his teeth.
"What did you just say? Was it the CIA? The CIA of the United States?" a reporter asked excitedly.
The rest of the reporters’ eyes lit up, holding their breath.
"They killed my father! I saw it with my own eyes, those bastard dogs killed my father!!!"
Oy!
The reporters almost jumped for joy, crowding around the child, bombarding him with questions, even trying to steer him in another direction, "So, do you want revenge?"
The widow of Martin III sprang up, pushing away the reporters, tightly embracing her child, "No, no more questions, please, no more."
But the tears of the mother moved none of these jackals.
They looked eagerly at the child.
"Of course! I must crush them ruthlessly underfoot, I must have my vengeance, I will kill them soday!!"
Very good… kid.
The reporters, satisfied with their material, left directly.
Leaving behind, relatives crying out lonely at the entrance...
Those news capitalists printed extra editions overnight.
When the sun rose the next day, the news shocked the entire United States!
At Martin III’s doorstep, a large number of black people started gathering!
In the square where Martin Luther King had spoken, soone raised their arms and shouted in rage, the angry cries echoed, "Gentlen! The United States is killing us, killing freedom, killing democracy!"
"Our leader is dead, dead beneath filthy politics, and now, we have failed to protect his son, Martin, our child; he died at the hands of the CIA!"
The black man on the stage, raising his arms excitedly, proclaid, "We can’t hide anymore! Gentlen, ladies, children!"
"We must fight!"
"Let Arica and the world hear the voice of black people!"
"Fight!"
"Fight!"
The voices grew louder, the responses more fervent, thousands of angry hands raised.
They began to gather in Santiago, inciting riots!
User Comments
0 comments from readers