It was damned near dark in front of the Liquor Mart.

The dope-slinging hour was nigh but no fiends skulked 'round about waiting for their high.

The corner’s crew was no more. All that stood in the dying day’s sour light were three skinny-ass hoppers standing about the broken man in the chair as he sucked down a mini of Barcardi 151. They recoiled a bit as he missed the last sip, and licked out for the mind-numbing drop, instead, lapping up ancient snot.

They then came back to their story-eared senses and gathered ‘round, only to see a five dollar bill emerge in the big, meaty hand, the deep voice turned to gravel, “That shit were good, but went down a bit thick at the end. Get me anotha en a Steel Reserve—bottle for chuggin’ no can. Keep da dolla change…”

Samjai was on it, becoming fast friends with the Asian man behind the glass-encased counter.

Back out on the sidewalk, pocketing his well-earned dollar, Samjai held out the mini, which was dumped into the large bottle and then downed as one foul unit, noxious, white suds washing over the deep, leather-brown face—still failing to dislodge all of the heavy paste of snot from the scrub-pad mustache, glistening in the gray-streaked steel wool of the beard, seeming to wash away years of pain from the grizzled old countenance.

Then, like some mutherfucker from heaven shone the Light of the Lost African Ages on the brown face, a truck headlight momentarily blazed it with glory while making one of those turns that usually caused other drivers among the adults to cuss and beep—to which the bottle was flung to destruction on the curb, a mighty belch sounding before the Liquor Mart, Samjai barely avoiding a gelatinous drop of something with a bob of his big head.

Snickarius and Jamalabad were obviously impressed by this feat of drinking and nodded, as if they had come to the right place and all ears perked up as their storyteller drawled, “Y’all young-ass hoppers don’t wanna to sling no dope like a straight-up, low-down nigga or carry no punk, Whiteman-bought sign—so you wants a life a high adventure!”

The boys were engaged again, pumping their fists in the air, grinning in expectation of Christmas deeds to be told of old.

“Then gatha ‘round en hea’ The Quest of Slick-Ass Rasheed en his fateful—dumb-as-dog-shit-no doubt—homeboy, Otis Poppleton, hardheadedest nigga in da hood…”

A gurgling echoed in the meaty throat, then an inward reaching cough of disgusting proportions, caused the listeners to back up just a little, as Broke-Ass Rasheed flung a lunger at a passing car, a feat of spitsmanship that legend would one day have it scored a direct hit on the windshield.

The story teller then returned sternly to his edifying subject.

“…Two far-farin’ bruthas who took da Numba Five from Mondawmin all da way out ta Cedonia—in da white-ass Eastside—in the endless quest to recover reparations for fou-hundred years a woe, on the snowy night of December-Claus, nineteen-ninety-five. All dat glittered was bold dey been told...”

Having laid out the field of heroic reparations operations, Broke-Ass Rasheed was overcome with a spasm, and lurched, swinging his chair toward the gutter.

“Taking a break fo da surprise chapter.”

“What?” opined Jamalabad

“A course dere a surprise chapta’ so no white man can steal dat shit en copyright it, Fool. I’ll have a readymade eggnog ta settle dis belly. Here a twenty, keep da change, but bring me da big bottle!”

Snickarius snagged the bill and was in the Liquor Mart in a flash.

Samjai stood wondering how one told a story with a surprise chapter when it was his own story.

This joint to be continued [after Broke-Ass Rasheed is done throwing up in the gutter] in Otis Poppleton’s Big Idea…