At 12:15 this past Sunday afternoon I approached a Harm City bus stop where a young hoodlum was ranting and raving to an older couple who were headed home from church. When I stepped up he, seeming to find me a more likely repository for his indignation, stepped over to me to plead his case. I was minus a notepad, so I recorded Sam’s trials and tribulations in the back of the book I was reading, Jack Donavan’s The Way of Men.
“Yo, he god me. I shoulda knowd it was like that. I put da fitty in’ is hand and he put da bag in my pocket. He tellin’ me he god da diesel, dat he got dat diesel shit. He god me good. Den I smell dat shit and it stink. You know whad it was; it was dat oregano shit: you know dat fake-ass shit you sprinkle on you food; that shit!
“Bitch-ass nigga! And was a black nigga, not no white nigga or no other kind a nigga. Shit, black niggas aint for each other they for dat monay. Bitch-ass nigga—I gonna smoke dat nigga! I’m gonna smoke dat bitch-ass nigga!”
Never fear Sam, this white-ass nigga feels for you, having been duped by a preserver of the oldest stoner rip-off ruse in the book.
