He wasn’t black, nor was he white—nor Asian for all that mattered was that he spat upon the sick world that had literally spat him out.
He stood six feet tall and jiggled three feet wide.
His hair bobbled in a state of Afro-Affectation, billowing orangish and artificially micro-curled above his watermelon head.
A line of traffic had braked for this titan as toddler crossing of the street.
Once upon the curb he stopped, looked into the faces of the five motorists that now sat in quiet concourse for the light he had preempted, shook his effete mane like a young lion, struck a bloated pose and then ritually deposited his large soda cup on the sidewalk, 20-feet from a trash can.
He then hefted his bulk, glared once again at the motorists, spat in the teeth-spitting lickspittle style of the ghetto kangs and began a stately waddle southward, glancing, one-by-menaced-one into the quavering eyes of the mostly senior motorists.
As their cars warmed to the task ahead and began to roll, his elbows flared wider, his eyes glared rounder, as he strode like a shambling toad back into the concrete and asphalt muck that had spawned him.
White in the Savage Night: A Politically Incorrect Life In Words: 2016
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