Warm out-da-boddle eggnog chugged, flowing yellow ova da wooly bristle of beard and mustache as the boys looked on like devils at a penitent funeral.
“Ahh yeah. Where was I?”
“Bout ta buy a cartoon a smokes, yo,” opined Snickarious Webb, pocketing three dollars and some change from the twenty he used to buy the drink for the elder storyteller in the sit-rolling chair.”
Samjai corrected his set leader, “What’s in The Bag—affer the two evil crackas grab Otis en Slick-Ass!”
Jamalabad nodded, seconding that motion and took an elbow in the ribs from Snickarious, as Broke-Ass Rasheed recovered his bardic composure with a towering belch that sprayed the boys in yellow droplets and forged on into the storied past under the yellowed light of the whining Liquor Mart sign, the pain of years gone by painted in mad dashes of brightness across his leathered and nog-besmirched face by the passing headlights.
“So Otis ‘Gonna-ged-me-some-white-boody’ Poppleton sat in sorry dismay, hands taped behind, next to Slick-Ass ‘We-fuckeded-now’ Rasheed, who, likewise taped hands behind, sat next to his dumb-as-dog-shit partner on the very same cracker toolbox dat dem babblin’ niggas a ole must a used to build God’s misunderstood Tower a Baffled Bitches.”
Wincing at that bit of religious retrogression, the boys jolted back a step as Broke-Ass finished the unsavory baby milk drink for old drunks, belched thunderously and forged on with wide, clear eyes, like some TV nigga who finally see the monster in the movie that about to kill him…
“Den let the sorry-ass story be told!”
Continued in Epiphany: What’s in the Bag, soon as Broke-Ass Rasheed geds his drink on…
