Edward Lee - Header 2

I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know… She tried to remain naive. “Where’s the other man? The dark-haired one?”

“My son, Dumar,” Helton answered.

“Yeah,” Micky-Mack piped up. He was still rubbing his crotch. “Dumar, he’ll be back in a sec. Hadda git rid’a the b—”

SMACK!

“Gawd DAMN, Unc! That fuckin’ hurt! ”

“Next time I’se just might bust my hand on that thick head’a yers, boy. Just keep yer mouth SHUT. ” He pulled something from a plastic bag. “Here, Veronnerka. Have some…” He squinted at a small snack bag. “Veggie Chips, whatever the hail they is.”

She looked aghast at the offered bag. “I don’t want Veggie Chips, Helton! I want to go home! I want to be with Mike! ”

Helton chuckled huskily. “Aw, that silly fella, ya mean. Hon, that cocky boy ain’t good enough fer you. ”

Micky-Mack cracked a smile. “Sound like she all mushy in looooove… ”

Veronica was about to wail another objection; however—

The cellphone rang.

Helton and Micky-Mack tensed up.

“That’s got to be Paulie,” Veronica said.

Helton looked uncomprehending at the tiny phone. “Shee-it! I’se fergot how ta answer it!”

“Helton, just open the phone!” Veronica snapped.

Clumsily, the man did so. He put it to his ear. “Hello?”

At this distance, Veronica could decipher nothing, but she was aware of a very irate squawk coming from the cellphone. “Yeah?” Helton said, amused. “Well I just think that’s dandy, ya snake-shit-eatin’ city fuck…”

More squawking, then Helton said, “Well then bring it on, buster ’cos you snot-nose uppity city types gots no idea who yer messin’ with…” Then he hung up.

“Was that Paulie, Unc?”

“Shore as shit was, and he’s more riled than a pitbull with a ball-bag full’a ticks, he is!” Helton leaned hugely over and kissed Veronica on the cheek. “Veronnerka? You’s a flat-out genius! ”

“So Paulie saw your movin’ picture, ” she deduced.

“Oh yeah he did—”

“EEEEEEEE-ha!” Micky-Mack rejoiced, and then Dumar came in through the back, and when he was informed of the news…

“EEEEEEEE-ha!”

The three whooped, jumping up and down, high-fiving. The truck rocked from the impact of their booted feet.

Helton roared, “And ya knows what that city faggot tolt me? Tolt me he was goin’ ta all at WAR with us!”

More high-fiving and raucous hoots.

“He wants war, Paw! We’ll show that fucker war!”

Helton was so happy his face was turning pink. “This calls fer a cellar-bay-shun!” and then he extracted a liquor bottle from another bag. “Whatever cheap-ass rotgut swill this is, it don’t matter ’cos we stolt if from him!” Helton passed the bottle around. The label read JOHNNY WALKER BLUE - 40-YEAR.

But Veronica just seemed to sit and spin in this ever-increasing kaleidoscope of madness. “Helton!” she barked.

“Yeah, hon? Oh, you wanna nip?”

“I don’t want a nip! You said if I got the movie to Paulie, you’d let me go!”

He looked down in all sincerity. “Aw, hon. I’se already tolt ya we’ll let ya go…” and then his brows inched up. “Just…not any time soon. We’se just started gettin’ our revenge ‘gainst Paulie, and we’se gonna need ya fer a spell, fer yer exper- teese. ” He laughed. “We’se gonna need you ta send lots more movin’ pictures ta Paulie!”

Veronica began to cry.

“There, there, hon. Don’t be upset.” The crinkly bag was offered again. “Here. Have some…Veggie Chips. They’ll perk ya right up.”

— | — | —

Chapter 8

(I)

The three of them walked down Clag Street—Case Piece, Menduez, and Sung—Case Piece with his antiquated “boom box” on his shoulder. He was jammin’, and what he was jammin’ to was the brand-new CD by PREE-postur-ISS, which was especially appropriate since it featured Hip Hop Christmas songs. “Dig it, my dawgs,” he said, bopping along. He upped the volume:

“Rudolf the motherfuckin’ reindeer, had a motherfuckin’ shiny nose, and if you ever motherfuckin’ saw it, you would say it motherfuckin’ glows. All of the other motherfuckin’ reindeers, used to laugh and call him motherfuckin’ names. They never let poor Rudolf join in any goddamn motherfuckin’ reindeer games…”

“Turn that shit off!” bellowed an old woman on her doorstep. The gang turned to glare but resumed walking when they spied the 12-gauge in the woman’s hands. Case Piece turned off the music.

“Shit. Motherfuckin’ old white bitch ain’t got no Christmas spirit,” Case Piece complained.

“Yeah!” Sung agreed. “No Kwissmas spiwit at all!”

“I take a giant chit in her yard tonight, mang,” Menduez promised.

“Fuck ’em.” Case Piece thumbs-upped. “We ain’t gonna let no motherfucker crimp our motherfuckin’ joy, uh-uh.”

The moon glazed the old street, painting cracker-box houses. Christmas lights blinked in alternate windows, and from one scrubby yard, a plastic snowman waved. Ahead, a pair of sneakers dangled on some power lines. “Chit, yeah, mang. Tying ta sell more smack,” Menduez said, observing the dilapidated shadow at the phone pole.

“Sling it, bro.”

“Yeah, bwo!”

The skinny Caucasian female addict teetered forward with hollow eyes and a proffered $20 bill. Her arms looked like bones painted the color of lard, but with needle-tracks like lines of black pepper. Menduez slapped the heroin baggie into her hand, then, like a card trick, the $20 was in his own hand. “Chew only buy smack from us, right, woomahn?”

“Oh, yeah, man,” the stick-girl affirmed. Her clothes were rotten.

“Chew don’t never buy from no fuckin’ cowboys, right? ’cos, if chew do?” Menduez shook his head. “Chew wind up fucked .”

“No, no, I’d never do that, man,” the addict assured, shuffling away. She picked at the ass-crack in her rotten jeans. “Thanks, man.”

“Hey, girl!” Case Piece called out. “Merry Christmas—uh- huh! ”

They all high-fived when Menduez returned to the group.

“How many skag-bags we got left, my man?” Case Piece asked.

“All gron, man!” Sung informed.

Case Piece got back to his bop. “Our gig? Shit. It’s trick as a crown. It’s tip as a top—we drip to that drop.”

“Yeah, mang. Last week, chit took us all fockin’ week to sell what we sold in one fockin’ day,  mang.”

“Shit, all’s a sudden it seem like this recession be over,” Case Piece regarded hopefully. “Guess my top-dawg Obama, he must’ve fixed the economy. We movin’ skag.”

Menduez, “Yeah, mang, and we still got three kilos left, I tink.”

“Yeah! Twee,” Sung verified. “Our gig twop-dwawer, boyz!”

The three idiots continued walking. Case Piece…well, he rubbed his crotch. “And now we gots our own ‘ho with the trickin’-est bod.”

Menduez squeezed his crotch, too. “Where dat puta tonight, mang?”

“Turnin’ twicks?”

“Naw, she back the crib, baggin’ the next kilo. See what I mean, me’n my dawgs? We got it made in the shade. Paulie and his boyz, they bring it, we sling it, and Highball, she bag the skag and we slag the skag. Right on.”

Menduez frowned. “ Slag? What chew mean by dat chit, mang?”

“Yeah, Clase Pleece. Rut does slag mean?”