"Most likely on Friday," sez he, and plumbed into a deep meditation.

That moment Mulatto Maya strolled along the sidewalk, a cherry babe in her sweet 16.

Paraded herself, in fact, and in an unmistakably motivated way, it’s not a walk but embellished writing. The chick used walking to write the eternity sign with her buttocks, conveying an open hint and promise, and well addressed too. I wonder what’s that hairy yobbo touched her soft spot with, eh? She never attempts at such calligraphy when passing by us two, the bench and me.

He gave her a dimmed look.

"Well, well," thought I to myself, "the case is not quite hopeless 'cause of the unconditioned reflex is in its right place."

"Take my friendly advice, tanned paleface, you'd better not horse around that young squaw whose Daddy earns his living in the You’ll Get It bar at the position of a bouncer. And if you’re looking for a place to stable your erection in, why, choose a ripe lady from the Thai Salon across the street."

"Like I were saying or doing a thing at all," answers he and falls back into his thoughtfulness, like a kinda model for Rodin’s Thinker sporting a full beard to his abdomen.

This moment, quite western-like, a sharp shadow drops across our communication. And no need to look up, I know whose it is. A nigga’s from the young blades in the neighborhood, that’s whose.

They are Don’s hands, not directly 2Bsure. His henchmen pass them dope, they push it and get some commission percentage. And all of them keep calling each other “nigga”.

The fucking Hollywood has fucking spoiled the fucking kids.

So there he stands demonstrating his skills at chewing the gum with his mouth open for three-quarters in the process, and never less. 'Cause of he’s so fucking cool! 'Cause of the day before he spotted some downy growth in his soft scrotum!

Those niggas they don’t hang out together in the street. Each one has the areal of his own, and his own henchmen – small fry errand boys to push the goods in retail trade in the school yards and rest rooms. Yet they keep a peeled eye on each other and seeing the next one leaves his anchorage in obviously cruising speed, they also cast off to follow.

It’s like those vultures in the Nevada desert in congregation on the same carrion from ten miles around. When my tube was alive The Wild Life As Is was my favorite.

Ha! See what I mean? One more is nearing, and now there are two shadows already cast together upon our bench. And what for? This here hippie hick is a barren ground, in toto, no need for a spyglass to see there’s nothing to rip off. Just his beard and the mutilated jeans. While about me, the street is fully aware that I’m a nasty mastermind, you push me around and soon enough there happens an accident, and if it’s just a brick from the roof onto your dummy dome be thankful to your lucky star 'cause of a quarrel with coot Chris goes for a bad omen, uncontroversial, about this here neighborhood.

"Hey, nigga," sez I, "what’s the message in your What’s up? If there's questions to my interlocutor then his papers' clean, the guy’s on the AWOL from Santa-Monica."

He only moves the cud from his left molars to the right and goes on to slurp, to give the clue some time for sinking into his gray matter.

One more lost generation for you, they are unable to process human speech without “fuck!” slotted after every pair of words. No wonder he looks up at his buddy to kinda signal his need for a synchronous interpretation.

"Wow! Look who we’re having here!" sez I to the second comer. "I do know you, nigga, you are the only sonny of Andy Crinolog, the bookmaker! What are the odds, by the bye, in the coming match of the Russian National and the high school soccer aficionados from Burkina Faso? And here is another fucking “wow!” for you, man! Some fucking nice rags you have today. Mighty fucking, yeah.

God knows how he’s not boiled yet in that airtight shellac latex which goes for a uniform by them, along with a ruddy ingot chain.

n ancient Rome they put a dog collar on slaves to see who's who but these spiffy puppies stuck their necks in of their own accord…

But now he tugs the glinting shit of his waistcoat up to flash, like in the genre boilerplate from fucking Hollywood, the handle of a Makar or, maybe, Luger 'cause of for a Magnum the kouros’ balls are not hairy enough, stuck under the belt in his pants.

That’s when my range of vision widens up to the next door porch steps and—behold and lo!—please observe the reason for the scene of discontent around my bench. Who but Mulatto Maya sits there emanating the youthful beauty of her pliant thighs wrapped in the on-looker-friendly loin cloth! And how not to mention her stuck up tits under nothing more but a short T-shirt exposing her navel?.