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Lille Dook, On Patrol
Ridgely Oak Community, Baltimore County, Residential Side Street, 3:48 P.M., 3/22/17

Lille Dook was outfitted for a lone stalk, a scouting mission against the teeming warren of giant crackers he has come to hunt. But as big as these suckers are, a little, lone brother has to be cautious, and only hit easy targets of opportunity, noting the dangers and reporting back to his crew on targets that might be taken down as a pack.

Dook stands five-feet and two-inches and weighs in at a muscular 120 pounds.

He is dressed in dark sneakers, dark blue jeans, dark shirt, dark sweat shirt, dark gloves and dark full-face ski mask. The mask is a little hot on the mild day but it keeps a hunter’s face a secret and tests for fear. Masks started to be worn in poleese-heavy areas to test the poleese commitment to the battle. Cops always used to stop a nigga in a mask before. In fact, until The Purge kicked off, bus drivers would not drive they bus, would brake and sit and call into the MTA bitch-poleese if a nigga or even a white-nigga, had on a mask, even on a cold day. So if the poleese do not stop you for masking up they have lost their balls and won’t do shit the rough way when the time comes.

Lille Dook went up the alley, but cracker dogs were barking, so he walked around to the next side street where almost everybody was white—which means that their bitch-asses were born scared.

As Lille Dook came around and down the sidewalk he saw a cracker bitch heading for her car—a possibility. She was his size.

He checked her out and did a quick scan of the surroundings, which was a bitch because all of the cracker houses were up on hills. By the time he spotted the old, white nigger up on the porch across the way the cracker bitch was in her car and speeding off—a young, speedy bitch.

A cracker boy, about his size, a size he could take, was walking up the way, saw Lille Dook and then tucked tail and bitched out, crossing the street.

Lille Dook stepped out in the street and flexed, pushed his chest out, and watched the cracker boy go up and around the way.

With the acute sense of the vigilant hunter, who, due to his nature, knows that he too will be hunted, Lille Dook checked for danger before crossing the street and trailing the cracker boy.

He then noticed, upon looking up, that the old-ass, white nigger was grilling him, standing up on some porch, not following his bitch inside like a full-bloat cracker will normally do, but stood out there on the top stoop like a hard-ass, hood nigger, big stick in hand.

Dook checked his mask and adjusted it for more cover. He smoothed down his sweat shirt and went to turn and walk straight down the middle of the street. Then a chill hit him. He realized that this big ole white nigger wanted him to be afraid, was willing him to get on down the way. So Lille Dook sucked it up hard, like he had the last time his grand mammy had punched him in the face, lifted his chin, flexed, and walked with a swagger straight toward the white nigger’s hilltop house. When he got to the base of the hill, up on the sidewalk, he summoned up the courage to look the ole white nigger in the face and it was terrible. That mean old motherfucker had a nose big and bent, a white Santa beard like the fat man had been sent to Santa prison and sheared. Shit, someone should make a law against mamma making a little nigga sit on the lap of something scary like that. The eyes of the thing was the worst—that wasn’t even a real full-bloat cracker, but some kind of homeless nigger that had took a bath in bleach—and them cold, sky-colored eyes grilled a hole right through the soul.

Dook stopped with kind of a shiver, which he knew gave up his game and he would have to work on. But he had come here to face his fears and put his fear into the weak-ass minds of the crackers that lived here, so no way was he tucking tail like that cracker boy. Not daring to lock eyes with the bleach-faced nigger above, he cocked his head both ways, rolled his shoulders down like a boxer, made two fists in his black gloves, and strode, diagonal to the watcher above, like he ruled this fucking place—and maybe, one day, after that old motherfucker above had a stroke, he would.

Thriving in Bad Places

Add Comment
Bruno DiasMarch 25, 2017 7:46 PM UTC

Hey Mr. LaFond, are you the old man in this story?
responds:March 26, 2017 9:34 PM UTC

Yes, Bruno, I am the "full-bloat cracker," or as my Australian boss used to call me, "That goddamned dumb white nigger!"

I have described these kids from my perspective too much. So, as a writing exercise I am now committing to telling the story from their perspective.