Who: The Black Panther Party and The Marijuana Party What: Homecoming Part One-- how to kidnap your brother who doesn't know he's your brother and berate your father for it. When: Friday afternoon Where: Chicago, Illinois Warnings: Language
Malcolm had always generally gotten along with his father, the Democratic Party. He hadn't seen him in awhile, but not because they couldn't stand the sight of each other (unlike his little shit of a sibling). Malcolm just felt more at home in Chicago while his father spent his time in New York and DC. His mother was in Louisiana and he hadn't seen her in some time, but that was fine because as a forty something year old God, Malcolm was of the opinion that the last thing he needed to be doing was living with his mom or dad. Still, he made sure to see each of the, every once in awhile. It was about four or five years too early for this visit though, given that he'd just seen his father in January at the Inauguration.
But, hell, shit happened. Shit happened and, well, he wouldn't have even bothered if he hadn't known that his older brother had just left New York, so the timing was particularly good. Malcolm and Johnny didn't talk and that was the long and short of it.
This time shit happening meant that he'd found himself a brother. It was more then a little unexpected. He'd taken a girl to see the Peoria Chiefs play at Wrigley one afternoon and felt, almost immediately upon leaving the field, the presence of another god. He'd been pissed, feeling obligated to cut his date short when that presence also screamed 'FAMILY!' It would have been just his luck that he'd ignored it and it turned out to be his Grandmother. Or his Uncle James.
Granny would have been worse. At least his Uncle James he could shoot straight up and be done with it.
It hadn't been either of them, thankfully. Instead it was just a twenty-something, scrawny-looking white kid (well, god) who smelled like weed and told Malcolm that his name was Thomas Reed and he was, coincidentally, up from Peoria. "Thomas Reed Harden Jackson-Smith, you mean, right?" Malcolm had replied promptly, but when the so called Thomas Reed had just stared at him blankly he had to reach for his cell phone. Not that his father was of any help: "Hi, this is Mia Jacobs, and you've reached Mark Harden's phone. Mark isn't in right now, but if this is an emergency (ie, if Ted Kennedy's on his deathbed) you can page him at—" Malcolm didn't bother to listen to the rest. There was no point.
After a quick Q&A session –how old was he? (four months) Where did he work? (The US Marijuana Party Head Office in Peoria) Did he know what he was? (for the most part) Did he know his parents? (I have parents?)-- Malcolm kidnapped bought them both bus tickets to New York City and made sure they were on the bus when it left Chicago late that night all the while muttering underneath his breath, "The things I fucking do for you, dad…"
It was a thirteen hour bus ride with a stop in Cleveland to spice things up around the six hour mark; not his idea of a great time. There shouldn't have been any surprise from Mark when the Malcolm pounding on his door at five in the afternoon with the waify looking kid was not in anyway a pleased Malcolm.
"What the hell, man? I found your kid wandering around Chicago. You're really gunning for that father of the year thing, aren't you?"
Why yes, in the Harden Jackson-Smith family this was considered an appropriate way to greet one's father.