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"Hey, Ass-am," jeered one beefy lineman, grabbing the terrified student and shoving him roughly into the arms of another gridiron genius, "Go screw a camel, why don't ya?" Yeah," laughed his partner in human pitch-and-toss, clutching a fistful of the lad's wiry hair, "Isn't that what Mohammer did? Screw with camels?"I was standing there talking with my friend, a fellow basketball hopeful with the unfortunate name of Ed Normal. He was a light-skinned black who sometimes himself felt the sting of being on a long-end of majority-minority equation in this suburban community."Mohammer," I said. "These guys are dumber than a barrel of hair." I looked on in anger for another minute of this corridor cruelty, then put down my books and shrugged off my jacket. "Stand up for the weak" echoed through my brain like a mantra."You wanna give me a hand with this?" I asked Ed.He looked at the odds; seven or eight football players against two skinny freshmen, and shook his head. "Don't think so," he. She started flipping around the channels, looking for Regis, a rare weekday morning pleasure. She couldn't find it, which confused her. In fact, there seemed to be nothing on but sports. Suddenly her eyes widened. What the hell were sports doing on TV on Friday morning? A quick check of CNN confirmed her fears. It was 2 o'clock on Sunday afternoon. She cursed out loud. She got up and started to look around the apartment — for some kind of clue or just to relish being alone in her home for once. She still wasn't daring or stupid enough to venture into "his" bedroom. Her room she was familiar with, and the third bedroom had been converted into a dressing room, where her clothing was kept — he refused to allow anything but her cage and the sex toys in her room. Returning to the living room, she finally noticed one significant change. The artwork that had hung on her walls was gone and replaced by some new photographs varying from 8x10's scattered on the shelves to large framed pieces —.
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