all the way live #5
[warning: the following events are completely fictitious and feature stunts performed either by professionals or under the supervision of a doktor. accordingly, WGBUAOTO and the producers must insist that no one attempt to recreate or re-enact any stunt or activity performed in this story. any similarities between persons living or dead, or to any events outlined in any police blotters, are completely coincidental, accidental, and unfortunate…particularly until the statute of limitations has expired.]
cope was playing a late show on a friday night…and i was lookin’ right cuz my shit is tight, blazin’ blunts to city lights on sunset and crescent heights…bounced to house of blues and i slid in free with tennis shoes, sweatshirt, jeans, and no i.d….
uh, yeah.
anyway, i had four tickets to the show and the doktor and i planned to meet a couple of girls around the bend from the venue. i figured the best way to impress them was to bring some weed and light up during the show. real gangster shit. plus, cope lends himself well to that type of atmosphere, so we might as well turn the evening into a celebration, bitches. the doktor and i drove past the white-dude weed spot, but found the lights out and no answer at the door. time was of the essence, and if the plan was going to come to fruition, we would have to make haste. yes, haste…let’s blame my error in judgment on haste. because when the doktor said he “knew” where to go, i acquiesced.
“where the fuck are we?” i queried.
“we’re here…roll down your window and talk to the man.”
“uh, excuse me sir…”
“what you need? got that w.m.d.”
“we need some weed.”
one of the guys standing behind the street pharmacist grabbed his dick and said, “i got your weed, honky.”
“fuck y-,” the doktor began, but i flung my leg around the console and stomped on the gas pedal. no need for any trouble, i thought, just get the fuck out of here and get to the show without any race riots.
the street merchant yelled from his spot and the doktor stomped on the brakes, locking the engine in a struggle between stop and go, good and evil, life and death. fuck it, i thought, maybe he’s got some weed.
“what you need?”
i flashed an alexander hamilton in all his green glory…the guy snatched the bill and slapped a packed stamp bag in my hand. the doktor raised a middle finger out of his window as he mashed the gas.
“well…what’s it look like?”
“i don’t know…i don’t even know what the fuck ten dollars worth of weed looks like.”
“smell it.”
“how ‘bout you smell my ass. what i really wanna smell is your girl’s pussy…i think she’d like that…”
the doktor took both hands off the wheel at that point and wrested the bag from my hands. we hit a curb before the car bounced back into line, the doktor grabbing the wheel with one hand and popping the stamp bag open with the other.
“this ain’t weed…this ain’t fuckin’ weed.”
“how do you know?”
“i know what it ain’t and this ain’t fuckin’ weed.”
i assumed – once again, a big mistake with the doktor at the wheel – that we would return to the club to pick up the chicks and catch cope’s slow groove. wrong! the doktor wheels the car around and guns the engine, slides down a side street off the main avenue, and turns the lights out. he puts on a pair of those fuckin’ state trooper sunglasses and says, “let’s do this.”
“do what? what the fuck are you talking about?”
“we can’t let those niggas get away with this.”
“oh! easy! jesus christ…what the fuck are you talking about? and take those stupid fuckin’ glasses off.”
“they gotta go.”
“who?”
“tupac and his boys back there.”
“you can’t just go throwing the ‘n-word’ around like that…”
“i’ve got no time to split semantical hairs with you! you know as well as i do that scum like that give black people like my grandma a bad name. and decent, hard-working drug dealers for that matter as well…”
“i didn’t know your grandmother was black.”
he punched me in the chest real, real hard. the car rolled to a stop and we got out.
“we’ll need shotguns for this,” he said as he popped the trunk on the monte carlo.
“shotguns? that’s it…fuck off…i’m staying the car. you go file a complaint with customer service over there and i’ll help the paramedics scrape your retarded ass off the pavement, you stupid motherfucker.”
“what? are you getting soft?”
“fuck off.”
“cuz i’d hate to think you were getting soft. soft bitches call the cops, and man…that’s something i don’t even wanna think about.”
i didn’t either. he was holding a shotgun. “when did you get all gangster rap, yo?”
“what?”
“with the shotguns…”
“this ain’t got a damm thing to do with no rap music…i’m fin to do this.”
“listen to how you’re talking.”
“you listen to how the fuck i’m talkin’. now take the goddamm shotgun…stupid motherfucker.”
and that was that. all i wanted was a little juvenile delinquency and now, i’m about to commit a felony. i knew i should have never given the doktor that rap mix tape. i thought it was my duty or something to prove to him that rap has its merits, even when it’s not the beasties or chuck d. and this is the thanks i get…no good deed goes unpunished. what i hoped to be a mellow evening in the city’s yuppie district turned into an evening with tony montana. we approached the corner.
“oh shit…honky lips is back.”
the doktor walked right up on the dealer’s boy and placed the shotgun under his chin. i hung back since i was working crowd control…i cocked the gun for good measure. that always gets a ma-fuckas attention. i saw the doktor take a roll of bills and a bag of drugs from the dude. it was dark, but i thought i saw something green and leafy. he walked away and never turned his back on them.
i wanted in on the gangster shit, too, though. when some of those guys started mouthing off as we were walking away, i stopped and started walking forward again. i gave them all a real hardcore look like i was about to smack one of them in the fucking mouth. they were threatening my life, the doktor’s life, families, blow your house up, trying to impress upon us just who it was we were fuckin’ with…blah blah fuckin’ blah. the final straw was when they said they had our license plate number and threatened to track us down, maybe even report it to the police. i mean, where does that even come from? these guys are from the other side, man, and they are gonna go running to the cops? you have to be kidding me…there truly is no honor among thieves.
so, i did what any reasonable man would do in such a situation: i busted a shell at the ground and let the pellets hit the crowd. no one likes a snitch.
we went back to the club and bought the whole place a round. i got that whole tony soprano thing goin’, you know…
it’s a celebration!
cope was playing a late show on a friday night…and i was lookin’ right cuz my shit is tight, blazin’ blunts to city lights on sunset and crescent heights…bounced to house of blues and i slid in free with tennis shoes, sweatshirt, jeans, and no i.d….
uh, yeah.
anyway, i had four tickets to the show and the doktor and i planned to meet a couple of girls around the bend from the venue. i figured the best way to impress them was to bring some weed and light up during the show. real gangster shit. plus, cope lends himself well to that type of atmosphere, so we might as well turn the evening into a celebration, bitches. the doktor and i drove past the white-dude weed spot, but found the lights out and no answer at the door. time was of the essence, and if the plan was going to come to fruition, we would have to make haste. yes, haste…let’s blame my error in judgment on haste. because when the doktor said he “knew” where to go, i acquiesced.
“where the fuck are we?” i queried.
“we’re here…roll down your window and talk to the man.”
“uh, excuse me sir…”
“what you need? got that w.m.d.”
“we need some weed.”
one of the guys standing behind the street pharmacist grabbed his dick and said, “i got your weed, honky.”
“fuck y-,” the doktor began, but i flung my leg around the console and stomped on the gas pedal. no need for any trouble, i thought, just get the fuck out of here and get to the show without any race riots.
the street merchant yelled from his spot and the doktor stomped on the brakes, locking the engine in a struggle between stop and go, good and evil, life and death. fuck it, i thought, maybe he’s got some weed.
“what you need?”
i flashed an alexander hamilton in all his green glory…the guy snatched the bill and slapped a packed stamp bag in my hand. the doktor raised a middle finger out of his window as he mashed the gas.
“well…what’s it look like?”
“i don’t know…i don’t even know what the fuck ten dollars worth of weed looks like.”
“smell it.”
“how ‘bout you smell my ass. what i really wanna smell is your girl’s pussy…i think she’d like that…”
the doktor took both hands off the wheel at that point and wrested the bag from my hands. we hit a curb before the car bounced back into line, the doktor grabbing the wheel with one hand and popping the stamp bag open with the other.
“this ain’t weed…this ain’t fuckin’ weed.”
“how do you know?”
“i know what it ain’t and this ain’t fuckin’ weed.”
i assumed – once again, a big mistake with the doktor at the wheel – that we would return to the club to pick up the chicks and catch cope’s slow groove. wrong! the doktor wheels the car around and guns the engine, slides down a side street off the main avenue, and turns the lights out. he puts on a pair of those fuckin’ state trooper sunglasses and says, “let’s do this.”
“do what? what the fuck are you talking about?”
“we can’t let those niggas get away with this.”
“oh! easy! jesus christ…what the fuck are you talking about? and take those stupid fuckin’ glasses off.”
“they gotta go.”
“who?”
“tupac and his boys back there.”
“you can’t just go throwing the ‘n-word’ around like that…”
“i’ve got no time to split semantical hairs with you! you know as well as i do that scum like that give black people like my grandma a bad name. and decent, hard-working drug dealers for that matter as well…”
“i didn’t know your grandmother was black.”
he punched me in the chest real, real hard. the car rolled to a stop and we got out.
“we’ll need shotguns for this,” he said as he popped the trunk on the monte carlo.
“shotguns? that’s it…fuck off…i’m staying the car. you go file a complaint with customer service over there and i’ll help the paramedics scrape your retarded ass off the pavement, you stupid motherfucker.”
“what? are you getting soft?”
“fuck off.”
“cuz i’d hate to think you were getting soft. soft bitches call the cops, and man…that’s something i don’t even wanna think about.”
i didn’t either. he was holding a shotgun. “when did you get all gangster rap, yo?”
“what?”
“with the shotguns…”
“this ain’t got a damm thing to do with no rap music…i’m fin to do this.”
“listen to how you’re talking.”
“you listen to how the fuck i’m talkin’. now take the goddamm shotgun…stupid motherfucker.”
and that was that. all i wanted was a little juvenile delinquency and now, i’m about to commit a felony. i knew i should have never given the doktor that rap mix tape. i thought it was my duty or something to prove to him that rap has its merits, even when it’s not the beasties or chuck d. and this is the thanks i get…no good deed goes unpunished. what i hoped to be a mellow evening in the city’s yuppie district turned into an evening with tony montana. we approached the corner.
“oh shit…honky lips is back.”
the doktor walked right up on the dealer’s boy and placed the shotgun under his chin. i hung back since i was working crowd control…i cocked the gun for good measure. that always gets a ma-fuckas attention. i saw the doktor take a roll of bills and a bag of drugs from the dude. it was dark, but i thought i saw something green and leafy. he walked away and never turned his back on them.
i wanted in on the gangster shit, too, though. when some of those guys started mouthing off as we were walking away, i stopped and started walking forward again. i gave them all a real hardcore look like i was about to smack one of them in the fucking mouth. they were threatening my life, the doktor’s life, families, blow your house up, trying to impress upon us just who it was we were fuckin’ with…blah blah fuckin’ blah. the final straw was when they said they had our license plate number and threatened to track us down, maybe even report it to the police. i mean, where does that even come from? these guys are from the other side, man, and they are gonna go running to the cops? you have to be kidding me…there truly is no honor among thieves.
so, i did what any reasonable man would do in such a situation: i busted a shell at the ground and let the pellets hit the crowd. no one likes a snitch.
we went back to the club and bought the whole place a round. i got that whole tony soprano thing goin’, you know…
it’s a celebration!
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
3 Comments:
I catagorically deny that anyone alive has ever called me "honky lips". Faggot assed faggot. Ok. Dirty. Rotten. A waste of skin. Yep, yep and double yep. I've even been called honkey lips, but no one HAS EVER called me a communist.
If you found THIS offensive, round three will be upon us shortly... very shortly. I sense some awful, repugnant shit coming... better get your umbrella.
BTW: DC is looking ripe.
Cryptic my ass
the fuck is DC?
~ johnny carson [hi-o!]
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