Hey James. ‘Dat Gay ATV’ was one of the sickest things I have ever read. The entire time I was reading I kept saying to myself, ‘Whoever wrote this is a sick person’, but could not stop reading. I want to know what happens to these guys. They have Batman’s belt, and this is Baltimore. Are there more superheroes? What about that nasty bed for the hos? What kind of women would WrayWray and Kebmo get into that vacant house? What about that twerp T-Bone? You should call it Wireless, because your stuff is as good as The Wire, but your characters so low rent!
-Aikira, 1/27/15
Begun 1:31 p.m. 1/29/15
The Vacant
WrayWray and Kebmo feasted at the Waffle House into the gray winter morning and got a cab back down to North and Maryland. As they crossed and headed up the alley off Maryland they noticed that Oldass Johnson was already out and about, with his bling fishing gear. The old ghetto engineer was fishing for jewelry and change down in the storm drain with his paper clip fishing line which could be used with magnets or bubble gum attached to snag what was valuable. The old man nodded respectfully to them as they passed and then winked at WrayWray and mumbled, “T-Bone brought ya sometin’ sweet—a whide girl!”
Kebmo nudged him. “Dumb lille nigga be makin’ up ends ova dat faɡɡot chicken shit.”
As they walked on up the still darkened alley WrayWray was disconcerted. “Whad’ da hell I gonna do wit a whide bitch?”
Kebmo was pleased to know more about some facet of hood life than his leader. “If she a big ole fat girl den it all like da usual—jus like a sista dat won’t stab you in da back fo eatin’ da las’ poptart. A skinny bitch do, dat ain’ fo no Kebmo.”
WrayWray was suspicious as they hit the door, and he let Kebmo work the combination lock, since he needed a lot of practice to keep the numbers in his head. “I don’ know ‘bout T-Bone bringin’ shid up in hea. Jus’ wait till I talk ta yo grilles nigga ‘bout dis shid.”
They were now on the ground floor, lit oddly by the lava lamp that Oldass Johnson assured them would confuse the police if they ever did a door crash here.
Kebmo spoke up. “Do you really tink Oldass Johnson be right about dis weird orange light messin’ whit da polices eyes?”
“Actalay whad da ancient nigga said was it would blind any white police ‘cause a dey blue eyes. Said dem caveboys back in da ice age day burned mammoth bones what burned white like snow en dat dis hea deep orange glow ‘ill mess wit dey sight. I don’ know, but it growin’ on me. He done good wit da doors, bars and pit—yo see dat light upstairs Kebmo, dat da ho candle. Shid if T-Bone ain’ straight up in hea. Make sho da pit good en den take up the overlook. Wray Wray bunnyin up.”
T-Bone’s Ho
WrayWray pushed the sheet of cardboard aside and stepped through the doorway into the ho crib where he had that old mattress all covered up nice with a dark flowery sheet and big old burgundy quilt. Standing above the mattress next to the cleanest milk crate in B’more was a petite little white thing with long blonde hair, who was handling the police belt of the superfaggot that Kebmo waylaid last night.
She was dressed in jeans and a sweater and looked up at him and smiled, and then spoke in a raspy voice that seemed off somehow, “With all I heard about ‘large and in charge’ Wray Wray ‘The Mightay’ I did not expect you to be a superhero fan, let alone collect such authentic movie props.”
He did not like this stranger all in his business like this. “Prop what bitch? I ain’t give no nigga no props.”
She looked up at him weirdly and smiled before clarifying her statement as she ran the belt sensuously threw her hands, “You know, that this is the original Adam West Batman belt, but upgraded with Christian Bale level technology.”
That was it, all he could stand of this trifling white bitch getting in his business. “Bitch, I ain’t no Christian, neva had trouble makin’ no bail, en I don’ know no Batman from no bat boy!”
She dropped the belt on the milk crate where they kept their bowl of Skittles and stepped up to him, throwing her skinny pale arms up over his neck, raising on tip toe and kissing him, which seemed kind of weird with her only having paint-on lips and feeling like a squishy bag of bones.
But she was white!
This bitch was white!
He pushed her back by the shoulders and gave her that ‘get on with it bitch’ look, which brought a slutty smirk to her lips. She stepped back, pulled a coke can out of her purse next to the milk crate, dropped a ready rock into the dip, lit that sucker up and smoked her crack, which caused her to start twerking and wheezing. After a minute or so of sucking on that coke can she turned around and winked at him and one of her press on eye lashes fell off. She chuckled in embarrassment and placed both eye lashes in the bowl of Skittles, then reached into her mouth and pulled out a double mouthpiece—no old people teeth—and placed them in the bowl.
“Bitch, don’y be makin’ da color on my Skittles run!”
She mumbled like an old lady, “Orry,” and grabbed the soggy teeth, lifted her hair which was a wig, off of her bald scared head, and wrapped the teeth up in that and stuck it under the pillow.
“God Lord bitch—is you some alien ho?”
The—whatever it was—puckered her skinny lips, smiled and said, “Baby I’m MissMiss, and I’m glad to meet you.”
He felt his mouth hanging open as she stepped forward and grabbed his big hands in her cold little ones and pressed them to her boyish hips and crooned, “What does WrayWray the Mightay need?”
In a panic, knowing that he’d rather kiss a cop than touch this creepy ho again, he thought about telling her to get gone or hitting her. But some women get upset over stuff like that and he didn’t need her calling down Five-O on his joint—then Bat Boy or Bat Bail Bondsmen, or whoever the hell he was, came to the rescue—and WrayWray was back in the planning grove and laying it down.
“Bitch naw—you fine en all—bud I all ‘bout bidness dese days. How ‘bout if you see how much you can get at da pawn shop fo dat gay police belt en you keeps half?”
The bald crack ho looked up at him with a surprised light in her eyes and said, “Really WrayWray, you’d cut me in for half?”
“Well it beats getting’ all complicated en shit; parcentagin out dat shit like Terrence.”
The little bald thing then let go of his hands, put her little hands on his chest, kissed him on the chin, and said, “I know you can protect me WrayWray, so I’ll level with you. T-Bone is taking a fifth of your powder out Washington Boulevard, smashing it all up with washer machine detergent and selling it to them fiends up in Baltimore Highlands. He told me not to tell you less he bust a cap in my ass.”
WrayWray felt momentarily guilty for finding this sick little lady so unattractive and patted her on the back thankfully and said the nicest thing to her he could come up with. “You a good true bitch MissMiss. You can hang out here. Clear a place cross da hall—jus’ keep it quiet. How’d you like ta smash my powder up fo me—since T-Bone done fucked dat up?”
She paused to pop her teeth back in and her voice got husky again as she fussed with the wig, “WrayWray, I will not only cut your keys but market that shit—improve your packaging. I just need to keep making some money. I’m saving up for an operation and that stuff ain’t cheap.”
Feeling even more guilty for thinking about hitting her, now knowing that she had cancer of something, WrayWray spread his hands and moved into leadership mode where he was getting ever more comfortable. “MissMiss, you on the crew, and aint no nigga trifling with you. Kebmo ‘ill get you set up in the cuttin’ room. I’ll see you tonight girl!”
He was halfway out into the hallway by the time she got her voice back. “Where you goin’ baby?”
WrayWray, halted, looked down over his shoulder at the little alien ho of his, and drawled playfully, “Oh I’m headin’ out fo lunch. Heard dare was dis mighty right steak joint up in da Highlans—gotz ta have mine raw baby—later.”
Finish 2:34 p.m.
Proofed 2:49 p.m.
Encoded 3:01 p.m.
