In an Indian fishing village, a larger one, I was consorting with the vagabonds, sharing at pieces of fish, me handing over the rotgut for a moment or two. Indelicacies disallow the wiping of the rim of the bottle, so we all grimaced at our takes, sitting watching trash burning, that hissing and popping randomly, and our own stomachs doing things, making sounds of sea life.
Orca and Flipper.
I sauntered along the little seafood places and open air markets. I could hear random squeals from monkeys in cages, birds measuring anguished songs, and the flopping of fish so fresh as to not be quite officially DOA.
I got all hard, walking up towards a dance hall, getting ready for the weekend rap battle. I could hear from inside, "This is ain't no damn game, fool!" I was thinking, giving myself a proper talk up, the streets made me, ain't nothing surprise me, not even Santa Claus. My nuggets weren't hot; I been through stuff, man. Streets ain't got no love for an honest G.
They were loading Lil Shontay into a rental stretch Hummer, something about Nathan's Famous and the world record. And when the bathroom doors opened, you could see what was either silenced gunfire or camera flashes. Something flashing, lit-up like a Christmas tree. Meanwhile some college buddy cover band was breaking from Sweet Child O'Mine into Welcome To The Jungle, because neither of the two guitar players knew how to play the Sweet Child O'Mine solo, so they made the transition their, at that last chord change before that beautiful melody was supposed to hit.
"ARE YOU READY? I'M GONNA MAKE YOU BLEED!"
And I was thinking, I wouldn't even have a wake-up beer first, just wait, like the moment they cleared the stage, got their Peavey Amps and chain store p.a. system out of the way, I would come in and do the Godzilla nuclear breath all over the place, melting the microphone, it spitting sparks all over, people's hair catching fire.
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