just too busy bein white? Ain’t no Muslim
language
,man. Ain’t no such thing. Ever heard of Arabic? Kiswahili? That’s you I’m talkin bout, white boy. You the Mzungu, devil.
Cool, Two Hand whispers to me, and before Mackie can squat and drop another stinking turd on this get-together I step up and say:
Hey. Whoa. Time out. Maybe I walked into the wrong room, but I thought this little chat was about something we could do for you, and that you just might do for us. And if we did this thing together, then all of us would make money. Lots of money. It’s a nice thing, money. It’s got nothing to do with colors. Except green. So why don’t we skip the shit-kicking this time and just get the fuck along?
I wave in CK’s direction. This here’s Mr. Kruikshank. He’s running this show. And—
And I’ve got a little something for you, CK says, right on cue. Mackie? You want to get the bag?
Juan E frowns, calls over to the Yellow Nigger:
Yo, G.
Whassup? the Yellow Nigger says, and the guy slips the sunglasses down his nose and looks at Juan E like he’s asked for the time of day. His eyes are blurs of blue. The guy is either stoned or he’s about three days short on sleep.
Juan E says: Well?
And the Yellow Nigger just closes those blue eyes and pushes the sunglasses back over them and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t smile and say: Let Mr. Kruikshank do his thing.
Juan E gives CK the nod and CK says something to Mackie and Mackie heads for the parking lot. Everybody else stands around staring at each other while the Yellow Nigger takes in more of the inside of his shades. Finally Mackie’s back with a bulky suit bag and, when CK nods, he unzips the bag and upends the contents onto the bed. It’s a lot of gleaming iron.
CK tells them it’s a little gift, says: Here’s something that’ll let you peel a few caps back.
So now we get smiles and maybe even some juice.
While his homeys are oohing and aahing, the Yellow Nigger stays bored. That takes him up another rung on my ladder. I wouldn’t touch one of those pieces of shit either. But we move them like crazy, especiallyin the inner city. Gangsters love this weapon. It’s the Cobray M-11/9, made by the same solid citizens who built the Street Sweeper. A brick of black steel about the weight of a newborn baby, the M-11/9 is descended from the MAC-10, which is a nice piece of work, God bless Gordon Ingram. But you buy a Cobray for the look: evil. It’s the Frankenstein of fullies, the gun that made the eighties roar. Sure they’re sold as semi-automatics, one squeeze, one shot, but with a quick fix, a couple minutes if you know the right guy or read the right book, these little monsters can fire thirty-two rounds in less than two seconds. Sucker torques like a bitch when you squeeze down. You got to use both hands, point and shoot as many rounds as you can, and pray you hit something before it jams.
CK says to Juan E: We have to talk. They’re out the door, buddies for life, with Mackie and Headband in tow, and I’m in here with a roomful of punks with their new guns, not to mention their old ones.
Which means it’s my turn again. So I say to the Yellow Nigger:
Listen, my friend. When we find ourselves in NYC, you’re with me.
Yeah? he says, never taking his eyes off the TV. Who says so?
You say so.
Yeah? he says, and this time he pulls down the sunglasses and gives me the stare, the one about coming close to a line. As if psychos have a line. A straight one, I mean. The kind you can read, the kind you can respect.
Yeah, I say, and I decide to save him some breath. There’s no need to ask why, because I’m going to tell him why:
See, I tell him, the way I figure it, when you get to NYC and you find yourself sitting in some building, lounging in some truck, worrying about a lot of iron and a lot of money with somebody who’s not from your streets and somebody who’s not from your crew, and let’s make that somebody who’s
language
,man. Ain’t no such thing. Ever heard of Arabic? Kiswahili? That’s you I’m talkin bout, white boy. You the Mzungu, devil.
Cool, Two Hand whispers to me, and before Mackie can squat and drop another stinking turd on this get-together I step up and say:
Hey. Whoa. Time out. Maybe I walked into the wrong room, but I thought this little chat was about something we could do for you, and that you just might do for us. And if we did this thing together, then all of us would make money. Lots of money. It’s a nice thing, money. It’s got nothing to do with colors. Except green. So why don’t we skip the shit-kicking this time and just get the fuck along?
I wave in CK’s direction. This here’s Mr. Kruikshank. He’s running this show. And—
And I’ve got a little something for you, CK says, right on cue. Mackie? You want to get the bag?
Juan E frowns, calls over to the Yellow Nigger:
Yo, G.
Whassup? the Yellow Nigger says, and the guy slips the sunglasses down his nose and looks at Juan E like he’s asked for the time of day. His eyes are blurs of blue. The guy is either stoned or he’s about three days short on sleep.
Juan E says: Well?
And the Yellow Nigger just closes those blue eyes and pushes the sunglasses back over them and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t smile and say: Let Mr. Kruikshank do his thing.
Juan E gives CK the nod and CK says something to Mackie and Mackie heads for the parking lot. Everybody else stands around staring at each other while the Yellow Nigger takes in more of the inside of his shades. Finally Mackie’s back with a bulky suit bag and, when CK nods, he unzips the bag and upends the contents onto the bed. It’s a lot of gleaming iron.
CK tells them it’s a little gift, says: Here’s something that’ll let you peel a few caps back.
So now we get smiles and maybe even some juice.
While his homeys are oohing and aahing, the Yellow Nigger stays bored. That takes him up another rung on my ladder. I wouldn’t touch one of those pieces of shit either. But we move them like crazy, especiallyin the inner city. Gangsters love this weapon. It’s the Cobray M-11/9, made by the same solid citizens who built the Street Sweeper. A brick of black steel about the weight of a newborn baby, the M-11/9 is descended from the MAC-10, which is a nice piece of work, God bless Gordon Ingram. But you buy a Cobray for the look: evil. It’s the Frankenstein of fullies, the gun that made the eighties roar. Sure they’re sold as semi-automatics, one squeeze, one shot, but with a quick fix, a couple minutes if you know the right guy or read the right book, these little monsters can fire thirty-two rounds in less than two seconds. Sucker torques like a bitch when you squeeze down. You got to use both hands, point and shoot as many rounds as you can, and pray you hit something before it jams.
CK says to Juan E: We have to talk. They’re out the door, buddies for life, with Mackie and Headband in tow, and I’m in here with a roomful of punks with their new guns, not to mention their old ones.
Which means it’s my turn again. So I say to the Yellow Nigger:
Listen, my friend. When we find ourselves in NYC, you’re with me.
Yeah? he says, never taking his eyes off the TV. Who says so?
You say so.
Yeah? he says, and this time he pulls down the sunglasses and gives me the stare, the one about coming close to a line. As if psychos have a line. A straight one, I mean. The kind you can read, the kind you can respect.
Yeah, I say, and I decide to save him some breath. There’s no need to ask why, because I’m going to tell him why:
See, I tell him, the way I figure it, when you get to NYC and you find yourself sitting in some building, lounging in some truck, worrying about a lot of iron and a lot of money with somebody who’s not from your streets and somebody who’s not from your crew, and let’s make that somebody who’s
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