And so they stood under the dandruff sky, in the fading glow of the van lights as it backed up, our slick-ass hero, Rasheed and our dumbass zero, Otis. The lights and noises of the van soon faded into the distance as they contemplated the situation.

The big, brooding house on the hilltop was definitely where the hunter lived—no, sir, not even Otis were that dumb.

The house to the left had a Beamer and a Cadillac parked in the driveway—definitely where the rich man lived.

The house to the right, where the coke ho lived, had a Buick and a Nissan out front.

The choice was clear, take the house on the left by going up the back deck and breaking in, quiet-like.

Signaling to each other with their fingers and pointing to shit in the snow-speckled dark made them feel like commandos in some movie, and before they knew it they were standing on the back deck looking into a bedroom with a giant curtained bed and all kinds of girly things decorating the dresser. Otis’ eyes got big as he saw all of the jewelry laid out on the long dresser with the big mirror and the strange little chair in front of it that was pulled out like somebody had just been sitting there.

Otis’ eyes got big over the jewels, rings, bracelets, necklaces and hooped earrings as big as a pie plate!

Slick-Ass was somewhat worried over the chair seeming to have recently held an occupant and began making the commando sign for not going the fuck in just yet. But when he turned to look at Otis that dumbass was already heading through the decorative glass door, which had not even been locked. As Otis walked wide-eyed toward the jewels Slick-Ass Rasheed was behind him whispering, “Sometin ain’ right, Yo!”

Otis turned and shushed him with a scowl and then Slick-Ass Rasheed, looking over Otis’ shoulder at the movement his keen-ass eyes caught, saw, to his astonishment, the tallest, biggest, well-built sister a brutha could even imagine. I mean this bitch was NBA-big, was bald, out a her wig, which was on a robot head on the long dresser, wearing a fine purple dress and high heels, and throwing a karate kick right into Otis’ belly—and the brutha went down!

Slick-Ass Rasheed then found himself standing over his fallen partner, who was curled up in agony, as this towering, monster bitch pointed one long-ass finger in his face, a finger tipped with a two inch sharp fingernail, one big man hand on her giant hip and her big watermelon head bobbling as she hissed, “Little nigga, if I weren’t headed out to get me some strange dick I’d be kickin’ holes in that soft head a yours! What da fuck you think you doin’ up in here in my fuckin’ crib? You one a dem jealous niggas? A sister land her a pencil-dicked midget Jew and make good en some hood nigga got a pop his nappy head up outa da sewer en try ta tarnish dat shit—hugh, huh? You listenin’ to me, boy? Is you a hood nigga come to skulk on Aretha just ‘cause she scored a white man?”

Slick-Ass Rasheed stood up on his tippy-toes and gave his slickest smile ever and said, “I told him not to, Miss. I was trying to stop his ass. Really, we was supposed to take a message to a white bitch named Marry—we just got the wrong house—we good dudes, really we are.”

Her big eyes, one pretty and brown and the other scary and green, seemed to bore through his eyes and into his brain as she wagged that finger—and let me tell you little niggas, that finger could a scooped out an eye ball—in the face of Rasheed and then seemed to remember something, straightened up, noticed her bra was in disarray, tucked one giant titty back in its sling, crossed her arms, curled her lip and said, “Get da fuck out, negro and take this fat muvafucka with you—go on, before I change my mind and fuck up this new dress. Roughest part about bein’ with a rich white man—a bitch always gotta look her best, en dese kina clothes ain’t no good fo whoopin ass—shit, a bitch go upside a nigga’s head and flop, there goes a titty. A bitch put some back-talkin’ bitch at the CVS in a headlock, en pop, there go a seam that can’t be mended with no normal thread—now ged da fuck out ‘fo I tax yo chump ass!”

At that particular point in time Slick-Ass Rasheed temporarily became Strong-Ass Rasheed and dragged ole Otis out a harm’s wicked way, out the door, down the stairs and into the darkened yard.

They were soon hobbling away from the house across the street to the supposed white lady house, Otis getting his breath back and moaning, “Whad da fuck, yo? Dat was the biggest bitch dis nigga eva seen!”

Slick-Ass corrected that shit, “Shieed, Ma Nigga that was Dennis Rodman in drag!”

Now, on the side of the supposed white lady house, Otis crinkled up his face and whispered real loud, “Slick-Ass, I gots ta shit.”

“What, is you stupid?”

“Slick-Ass, she done kicked da shit out a me—it’s about ta blow—I gots ta go.”

“Okay, it’s natural—just somewhat inconvenient. Use these here bushes en I’ll keep guard by the corner of the house—make sure that evil bitch is really goin’ out.”

“Ma Main Man,” declared Otis, “I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

As Otis squeezed between the side-of-the-house-fancy-bushes, Slick-Ass spied on that monster bitch’s house and sure enough, there she go, marching out to the Cadillac, flopping down in that thing and speeding off to whatever kind a man could handle all of that. Then, as the sound of her car eased away, he heard Otis whisper, “Yo, Slick-Ass, I needs some help.”

Slick-Ass hissed back, “Are you kiddin’ me nigga?”

“Brutha,” said Otis, “Dat big ole bitch stepped on my hand en its brokeded!”

Slick-Ass then did the unthinkable, unbuckled a nigga’s belt en pulled down his pants, before returning to his lookout post, Otis grunting and whatnot in the background. Then, after the man had his moment, Otis called fo help getting his pants back up amid such an undesirable stench as a man never want to be called upon to deal with again.

“Oh, thank you, Ma Brutha,” said Otis, and hero and zero skulked on to the back of the house, up onto the deck, past a bedroom window and to a sliding glass door that opened into a big living room—and lo and take hold, don’t you know rich crackers in Richland don’t even lock they back doors and in they went. As soon as they got in they heard the thunder of explosions and other movie sounds coming from the basement, all the way up through the main floor. So they knew that the big hairy man had been correct and that some crazy goof sat below in his basement playing video games while the wife remained neglected upstairs, down the narrow hall to the right.

Otis slinked behind, letting Slick-Ass take the risk, and so the hero did, walking flat into that bedroom, to find a fine, tall white lady in nice white-lady clothes, emptying a shopping bag on her bed. She looked at them, got a scared look on her face, and then exchanged it for a sly grin and asked, “Are you friends of Ronbone?”

“I thought so,” she grinned, “What will it be?”

“Oh,” says Slick-Ass Rasheed, “Mister Ronbone wanted us to pick up some money for him. He was pressed for time and was unable to enjoy your company.”

A dark look shadowed her eyes, then she forced a smile and said, “The usual pickup?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Slick-Ass, too slick-like.

To this she snarled with a crazy look in her eyes, and dumped out the CVS bag, which had lubricant and a giant box of giant-sized condoms in it and spat, “So big Ron’s busy with Kathy, huh, and sends the B-team. Is that it?”

She stormed out of the room.

Otis and Slick-Ass looked at each other nervously and Otis said, “She is a fine bitch—white beside. Maybe we get some pussy?”

“How stupid can one nigga be!” hissed Slick-Ass, "that dude will kill us, 'in the river' he said."

Otis just shrugged his shoulders, “You know how it is, Yo. It’s my duty to service that booty. Besides, after that big bitch kicked my belly in I’d like some tender touchin.’”

The woman, Margaret, he thought her name was, came back into the room and handed Slick-Ass a bundle of 20-dollar bills as big as a brick, then ran her fingers around his neck and sat cross legged on the bed and looked up at both of them, saying in a husky voice, “Well, boys?” she said, licking her lips seductively and grinning sideways.

Slick-Ass said, “Thank you very much, miss.” And out the door and down the hall he went, hoping not to run into a crazy videogame insane man, made his way out through the door, onto the deck and down the stairs. Noticing that Otis wasn’t behind him he walked over into the grass enough that he could see up into the sliding glass door, deciding to give Otis a ten count before he went back in and got him.

Meanwhile, in the den of the evil crackers, dumbass Otis Poppleton was mesmerized by this fine white lady in brown hair, batting her eyes and handing the box of King Kong condoms to him. Otis didn’t know quite how to let the lady down and stood confused as to what should be said. She took this for a cute moment and stood up, real close to him, beginning to take her skirt off, so it was now or never and Otis blurted, “Miss, I’ll have to ask you for the regular kind ‘cauz, you know, it ain’t all dat.”

“That’s okay, Baby,” she purred and gave him a big juicy kiss on his fat lips—and if you must know—Otis was one ugly dude. But that kiss was mighty heartfelt and had Otis under her spell as she stepped back, her long, thin, pale arms resting momentarily on his round brown shoulders and said, with a wink and a smile, “Really, it’s okay Sugarbear—they aren’t for you.”

And, having said that weird shit she pulled up her skirt and Otis saw that she was really a dude! A dude that looked like he could do some damage at that!

So dumbass Otis, having failed to heed Slick-Ass Rasheed tore through the house, ran out the door and did not turn to go down the stairs, he was running so heavy and fast and plowed right through the deck railing and squashesd Slick-Ass Rasheed, breaking his fucking back and landing him in this metal chair—as Broke-Ass Rasheed.

The boys stood dumfounded, then Snickarius laughed harshly and Jamalabad took a step back. Only Samjai now seemed to be interested in the history of Broke-Ass Rasheed, “So what happened to Otis?”

Broke-Ass Rasheed was now drunk with despair, “Oh, his fat ass was fine since Rasheed broke his fall! He turned over a new leaf after that close call and is now the minister at Greater Peace Ministries Church over on Frederick Road.”

Samjai touched the back of Broke-Ass Rasheed’s hand, the leathery paw cracked with gray seams between the darkening brown in this cold night. “I’m sorry. How about if I just call you Rasheed?”

Broke-Ass Rasheed seemed a little choked up over that and nodded “yes” with his eyes. Then Snickarius had another question…

To be concluded in I’m Too Goddamn Old.