Start 4:56 a.m., 12/17/14

With Terrence in the Joint flipping on the entire Black Gorilla Family, except for his two hardest hitters Kebmo and Wray-Wray, these two suddenly unemployed enforcement specialists have decided to get into the distribution business. Their epic tale opens with them standing outside in the cold December rain in front of the drug store across the way from the New York Fried Chicken joint keeping an eye on T-Bone their newest—well their first actually—retailer.

“Yo Wray Wray, you sho we can trus’ dis nigga?”

“Trus his ass ta do somtin’ stupid! Dat why we hea. I had ta give ‘im a go ‘cause he ma mom’s peeps.”

“Yo Wray Wray dis shid be cold up in hea—wish it were da old days so I could keep warm whoopin’ some ass fo ole Terrence.”

“Soon enough ma heavy nigga, soon enough—oh yo hab gotz ta be shittin’ me Yo!”

As Wray Wray and Kebmo stood in amazement T-Bone, already bored with slinging dope after only two hours, stopped some gay white dude leaving the chicken joint, took his carryout bag, shoved the frightened little white dude to the pavement where he sat and cried, and made off up the way and across the street to the alley behind their vacant.

“En da dumb nigga takin’ dat shit to our crib Yo—oh hell no! Kebmo grab his dumbass en hold him in da pit. I’ll be right dare.”

With those words Wray Wray was loping across North Avenue like Denzel hisself about to make everything okay for whitey. The pasty little white man was trying to work his phone so Wray Wray went into damage control mode as he grabbed the little man and stood him up, brushed him off, placed the smart phone in its dumbass front coat pocket, and coddled the little faɡɡot in one muscular arm. “We got this sir. Nobody gits away wit jackin’ you on Wray Wray’s watch. My heavy nigga makin’ dis shid right as we speak. In da meantime so yo can ged yo eat on I gotz dis.”

He walked the shivering little man into the fried chicken joint and spoke to Wyraythea behind the counter, “Sista double dis man’s order,” as he dropped his knot roll on the counter.

Of course this was his actual flesh and blood sister, so there was some obligatory backtalk. “Say what nigga! Yo smokin’ dat white owl cigar?” as she eyed the little gay man critically.

Of course this shit could not stand. “Bitch, ged da man his eats fo’ I slap da tase outa yo mouth!”

Wyraythea went about her duty, barking to the old Liberian dude in the kitchen as Wray Wray comforted the little white man and sat him down on the window ledge. “Sir dis shid ‘ill neva happen ta you again, en if yo o any a yo liddle faɡɡot friends eva ged waylayed anywhere’s up dis side o town you jus’ call Wray Wray.”

The man seemed comforted by this statement of civic duty and held onto Wray Wray’s giant pinkie and thumb and cried into his open hand until the snuffles came—then Wray Wray heroically reached over the counter, ripped the entire towel dispenser off the wall and handed it to the little faɡɡot so he could blow his nose. As a practical matter he also retrieved his knot roll, peeling off three $20s, placing them in the man’s hand as Wyraythea stood bobbling her head with hands on hips, biting her bitchass tongue.

“Thank you Sirherher,” the man snuffled as he dabbed at his nose. But Wray Wray, in need of making sure dumbass Kebmo did not produce a body and give him another headache, was out the door, around the corner, and down the alley before the pretty little fellow finished his sentence.

Wray Wray gave the crooked knock on the door and Kebmo whispered through the iron bars that Oldass Johnson had just installed for them, “Who it be?”

“Who you think it be nigga!” hissed Wray Wray.

With that the door creaked inward and he stepped into the dull lava lamp light, which Oldass Johnson had suggested for messing with the eyesight of door-crashing popo. What he saw on the floor of this orange glow room made his eyes bug out. A long heavy two-wheeled ATV that looked like the tires could have been on some tractor that them country white boys used to make bread with was laid across the back end of the room, and propped up against it was one of the weirdest looking white men he had ever seen. The man wore a black point-eared mask coming down over the top of his face, framing a bloody mess of a chin below it, and beneath that a suit of body armor with a cape draped over everything like this dude was Dracula. A fancy tool belt with a mind boggling array of cop shit was buckled around his slim waist and the boots looked like something an old school pimp might wear on the moon.

In the back left corner of the room above the stairs which led down into The Pit proper was T-Bone holding his grill and his front teeth in his hand and looking at the mess like it was going to be okay someday. Wray Wray looked at him and snarled, “What da fuck Yo!”

"Sry Wray Wray," sloshed the mushy blood dripping mouth, “I ‘uz ‘ungray.”

Wray Wray fixed him with ‘the look’ which caused T-Bone to curl up and sob, which really got Wray Wray pissed. “I ain’ gonna do you boy—now git, crawl on up da way!”

T-Bone sulked up the stairs to the ‘Bitch Crib’ where they kept the bath tub and the mattress with the actual sheets on it for their hos. Wray Wray’s words followed him with a tone of disgust, “En yo bes’ not be bleedin’ on my sheets—gotz me a bitch lata today. Ged cleaned up in da tub and sleep in da conna fool!”

The masked bloody-lipped white man was looking at him intensely as Wray Wray considered the strange sight before him and gave the ‘you can run your mouth now nigga’ nod to Kebmo, who complied in his dumbass way. “Okay Wray Wray, I bitch slappin’ piss outta dat bitchass nigga en dis Dracula faɡɡot roll up on dat gay ATV and say citizen dis en citizen dat so I takes him to da wall en fold ‘im in half en here his weird ass iz. I about dropped my nut draggin’ him en T-Bone and dat ATV trough da doo—daz it Wray Wray.”

Wray Wray squatted over one knee with his big hands draped over both knees as he got low and in the face of this interloper and whispered in his most menacing drawl, “So who iz you, some kine a police?”

“I am Batman.”

“What?”

The man’s voice adopted a note of hurt pride, “The Dark Knight if you will.”

“Cracka’ da night always be dark—don’ you know anyting!”

The man then rolled his eyes and Kebmo could be heard in the background as Wray Wray’s cheeks started to sizzle with anger, “Oh no he didn’t!”

“What you talkin’ ‘bout boy?” hissed Wray Wray.

“I presume you read comic books?”

The anger was red hot now. “Oh hea’ it is—inferorizin’ da Blackman for not bein’ able ta read ‘cause the Whiteman’s schools don’ teach a lille nigga shit! Is dat it—you inferiorizin’ me!”

Wray Wray was now nose to nose with the white man, dripping menace, and the prisoner, who apparently was suffering from a badly broken leg, rephrased his hurtful statement. “I am, citizen, what has been called a superhero. New York is no longer an open city so I and some of my associates have moved our operations to Baltimore. I am prepared to forget this unfortunate misunderstanding and—”

Wray Wray was in a rage now and was dragging the painfully gasping man across the room and down the stairs as he rumbled deep in his throat, “Fogget shit supafaggot! Kebmo bring da gravy!”

The man was mumbling with admirable composure, which, considering his badly broken leg, was a sign of a determined enemy who would not forget. Wray Wray might not know how to read comic books or school books, but he knew how to read men, and this was one of these rare white men you couldn’t leave minding your business unless you wanted cops crawling up your ass or his no-quitting ass coming back on it.

“Citizen, I assure you that you are making a mistake.”

That did it. This Halloween cracker was not going to belittle his smarts one more time. Wray Wray stepped off the bottom step onto the ancient brick floor of the basement lit round about the base with low watt light bulbs installed by Oldass Johnson for the prisoner’s consideration, picked him up and kneed him in the groin, and then slammed him flat on his back. He then bent and ripped off the belt with the cop nic nacs on it, which might be useful.

As Kebmo stepped up beside him with the Styrofoam cup of gravy the man looked up into Wray Wray’s eyes with a hurt realization. Wray Wray snarled down at him, “That’s right supafaggot shit’s real up in hea! Slather him up Kebmo.”

The man was paralyzed except for his furiously darting eyes as the slathering got underway. Wray Wray yanked off the boots and gloves and socks, then balled up the gloves and socks and stuffed them in the man’s open mouth. He then took the handcuffs that Oldass Johnson had welded to chains bolted into the floor and clapped them on wrists and ankles, real tight like. This done Kebmo began spreading the gravy on the exposed hands and feet while Wray Wray tore away the gay black panties and tights and Under Armor briefs to expose the main course, to be dutifully slathered by Kebmo.

This done the man was now aware of his plight, gagging against the socks and gloves jamming his mouth and wiggling his fingers and toes—slathered with gravy as they were—as his eyes bugged out considering the multitude of rat holes at the base of the wall where the dirt trench between brick floor and block wall revealed many three inch holes. These holes shone darkly with red darting eyes and pointy whiskered snouts twitching with silent anticipation of the feast to come.

Wray Wray felt right again as this weirdass night came to an end, his easy manner returned, and he patted Kebmo on the back. “Lez roll out to da Waffle house Yo. Latter supafaggot.”

The moaning of the man below was drowned out by the creaking of the stairs that brought into focus the world above.

Finish, 6:32 a.m., 12/17/14, encoded as written, copying onto back end of sight now. Proofed at 6:52 at 1,960 words, publishing.