As in the days of King Arter and the Knights of the Black Table, you got Marvin your wizard and hardheaded thugs like Sir Jamalot, with Slick-Ass Rasheed basically your wizard in this case and Otis Poppleton the knight who forgot his Superman cape—S and all, left that shit in the closet.

A sign of things to come dawned on Slick-Ass Rasheed when the Number-Five—which they riding up into Cedonia—pass Frankford on Sinclair and Big Ben Witten had his Neked People sign out—meaning there’d be hos dancin’ in his bar and Otis was all ready to misdirect the expedition for buy-one-get-one-free Colt Forty-Five draft. But the Slick-Ass brains of the operation kept them to they gold, and before you know it they slinkin’ up White Avenue lookin’ for white people houses with no cars, because—and hear me now—if a white people house don’t have a car in front, them folks is out and you can take they shit. This one particular house have promise—no car—so we creep around back and Slick-Ass see a free-standin' garage which was probably for all they fancy junk, but might have a car in it—but no!

There he is—Otis that is, ‘cause Slick-Ass wouldn’t do such a fool thing—down in the back stairwell, peering into a lit-up club basement at some fine-ass, buck-naked white woman laid out face down on a pool table, polishing the eight-ball in her little hands as if to see her reflection, like she waitin’ on a brutha ta fall out of the sky.

Slick-ass, puts hands ta Otis’ shoulders and says, “No, ma butha,” and Otis is like, “Good, goog-a-moog—you see that. She been waitin’ fo black Santa Claus too long.”

“No, Otis, something ain’t quite right.”

“Shieed, nigga, you gay?”

“Be quiet!” hissed Slick-Ass.

“Shid, nigga, you hea’ dat music roarin’? She can’t hea’ shit.”

And before Slick-Ass could hold that heavy-boned brutha back, “crash,” Otis kick in the door and Slick-Ass right behind him with hands on shoulders ready to prevent a rape charge coming up out of this and the woman don’t even scream, but roll over and smile at them while the music cuts out and a loud click of a shotgun being pumped had them looking to their right, where one giant, hairy white man and one narrow, evil white devil be grinning like the cats that caught the mouse.

Actually, once the white woman rolled over she didn’t look all that good. But that was the least of their worries. The narrow, bald, mean, white devil was fingering a Rambo knife and rolling his eyes while the giant dude was looking at Slick-Ass and Otis down the barrel of the biggest shotgun eva made!

Slick-Ass thought they was dead, then the big man smiled and said, “Hey Snit, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Then the little devil comes with, “Can’t wait, Ronbone.”

Then the woman raised an objectifying tone, “Oh no, Ron, you know I don’t ride that dirt road.”

The big hairy man laughed and leveled Otis with a butt-stroke of the shotgun and stepped on Slick-Ass so he bent like a blade of grass and laughed, “Not you, Kath—finish cuttin’ the coke, will ya.”

With that Slick-Ass was yanked to his feet and tied with cord and duct tape by the evil Snit cracker while the woman arranged lines of coke on her belly, which the giant man snorted, all greedy like. Before Slick-Ass knew it he was sitting on the couch next to the giant Ronbone cracker, whose feet—as big as bread boxes—was pinning Otis to the floor while he drank beer with his left hand and hugged Slick-Ass with his other giant arm and they watched the cracker named Snit snorting coke off of this lady’s behind.

Otis done woked up about the time that Snit was finished snorting the powder out of the creases of that pasty white ass. Otis was dumber than usual after he woke. To begin with, Otis was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But after Ronbone went upside his head with that gun butt, he wasn’t even the sharpest spoon.

Then it comes, the death march of racism, those evil, white, muvafuckin’ racists havin' baited the heroes of the quest with that false white pussy and takin’ them to they doom. Up the stairs, hands tied and mouths taped, Otis and Slick-Ass went, the devil Snit prancing and cackling in front and the ugly white giant creaking the step boards behind. Then, as they was in the kitchen, the woman yelled from downstairs, “Hey, Hon, could you take out the crescent rolls. Mom and Dad are coming over and I need to get cleaned up.”

The giant rumbled, “Sure, Kath,” and did as she said, even handing a crescent roll to his friend, who gobbled it like a fiend. Stuffing they greedy, pale faces, they was then ushering Slick-Ass Rasheed and his booty-smitten sidekick:

Out into the cold, cruel night

At the mercy of all the evil that is white,

Toward an unmarked van of white,

To take those unlucky bruthas into the mad night.

Now don’t count Slick-Ass Rasheed and Otis Poppleton out yet, ‘cause they got one more chance fo redemption in What’s in the Bag, the next-to-last verse in The Song of Broke-Ass Rasheed, the last being as yet unsung, making What’s in the Bag the conclusion of the story of how a man comes to carry such a tragical name…