I thought moving to the countryside would be my redemption. Fresh air, quiet streets, no city chaos. I’d left behind my old life, my mistakes, the things people never knew about me. I was ready to start over. Clean slate. A simple, mundane life where no one had to fear me—or know me at all.
But apparently, rural hospitality has a catch: black women in this town hate outsiders.
At the nail salon, the clerk, Belinda, barely looked at me as she clipped my nails. “You sure you wanna keep that color?” she asked, flicking a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her tone wasn’t helpful – it was sharp, judging. I forced a smile. “Yeah, this is one of my favorite colors.” She snorted and handed me the bill without meeting my eyes.
At the grocery store, I tried to make small talk with the Cashier Cathy. “It feels so good in here I almost don’t wanna go back out there.” I said, hoping for something friendly. The cashier didn’t reply. Instead, she scanned my items slowly, as if me being there was getting her nerves. When I handed her my card, she snatched it with an attitude, like I was her child. My hand twitched. But I stayed calm.
Even at the Social Security office, I felt it. Waiting in line, a woman behind me muttered just loud enough for me to hear. “She must not be from here. Bougie as.” I tried to ignore it and signing to notify them of why I was there. Even after we took our seats, she kept staring, lips tight, like I did something to her. Like she knew me from the streets or something.
The only crime I’d committed here was… being new.
And after a week of this? I snapped. I promised myself I wouldn’t k*ll again… but humiliation? That’s harmless, right?
I remembered every little smirk, every whispered comment, every pointed stare. “Bougie as,” I muttered under my breath, pacing in my tiny apartment. “Well, I guess it’s time to show them how a boujie B get down then. And Imma make sure they never forget me.”
I began planning.
It started small. Cow dookie on Belinda’s front steps. I sneaked it there at dawn, early enough that she wouldn’t leave for work or errands without seeing me. I waited, hidden behind the hedge, holding my breath. When she stepped outside, her foot slipped. She fell—right into it. Warm, steaming, clinging to every crevice of her shoes, pants, even her hair and face. The smell hit her instantly, and she started gagging. The look on her face… priceless.
That first one was just a warm-up.
The next was art. Cathy. Late for work one morning, rushing to her car. I had piled birdseed on her sunroof. As she started the engine and opened the sunroof, a cascade of seeds spilled inside. She tried to fling some out the window while driving, but it was everywhere. Windshield, side mirrors, dashboard, you name it.
And then came the birds.
Drawn by the smell or maybe the chaos. They dove at the glass, pecking, clawing, flapping their wings so hard that Cathy’s car rocked like a boat in a storm honey. Some birds found their way inside, flapping all of the place. Panic set in. Cathy honked wildly, trying to scare them off, swerving violently in the narrow street. Seeds spilled from her open sunroof, landing on her lap, sticking to her arms, her face, her hair.
And then the poop.
Birds panicked and released everywhere! Hot and sticky. She screamed, gagged out the window, swiping at her hair and the steering wheel. Cathy yanked the wheel so hard, she nearly skids into a mailbox.
By the time she finally pulled into the parking lot at her job, she looked like a walking, pooping disaster. Everyone stopped and stared. Some pulled their phones out to record. I watched from the hedge, grinning, the smell of chaos in the air, knowing I had just created masterpiece number two.
And that was when I knew… I could escalate.
A few hours later, fate handed me the perfect stage – our local gym. The chick from the Social Security office strutted in like she owned the place. Loud and bold, already talking junk. “Hi,” she tells the check-in clerk. “Hey, I’m Revecca. Tell me why y’all keep letting these new people fill up all the classes?” Then that fake whisper, sharp enough to cut across the room: “They only be here for a week. They need to go eat their Lil Debbie snacks and let us have the gym…”
She didn’t see me. My hat low, hoodie zipped. But I saw her. Same tight lips. Same fake smile she wore at the office, like she’d been waiting for me to mess up. I watched every move, every word, filing her down to size. She thought she was untouchable. That’s what made her easy.
That day, I had packed my pièce de résistance. A cocktail of rot that I hadn’t used yet. Fermented protein powder, a splash of spoiled almond milk, a half-melted boiled egg, and a splash of vinegar I’d let bake in the sun. The smell alone made me gag when I sealed the container. So, I knew it would blow her top off. I left her the biggest surprise in her gym bag, under her towel.
The timing was flawless. After her workout, she grabbed a smoothie like always and headed to grab her gym bag. As soon as she lifted her bag, her face contorted, lips twisting as she gagged. The smell hit instantly, sour and stomach churning, like a dumpster on fire. People turned, wrinkling their noses.
“Ugh, what is that?” someone said near the treadmills.
Revecca tried to cover, waving her hand dramatically. “I hate when new people come in here smelling like…,” she snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear.
But then silence.
Every eye in the room turned to her.
The odor had spread. Thick, rancid, undeniable. People gagged, dropping their weights with a hard thud. One woman on the elliptical actually dry-heaved into her towel. A group of teens from the boxing class pointed, whispering, their laughter sharp and cruel.
Then came the moment. She opened her bag.
Her face drained. “Who… who put this in here?” Her voice cracked as she pulled out the towel, soaked and dripping with the foul brew. The smell doubled, hitting the air like a bomb. Gasps, groans, someone muttering, “Oh, h- no.”
Revecca gagged, shoving the bag away from her body as people scrambled back. Nobody believed her. They didn’t care who put it there. All they saw – all they smelled – was her. The Funk Master.
Everyone took their phones out for pictures. A video or two. Her reputation, finished in less than five minutes.
And me? I sat in the corner, hat low, sipping water, smiling. The stench curled in my nose, but victory always did have an aftertaste.
That day, I finally realized: new life didn’t mean being polite. It meant survival, dominance, and reminding everyone that even in a small town – or a shiny, crowded gym – some things, and some people, are not to be played with.
And best believe I’m definitely not the one.
Black Sh33p's Corner 