Reverend without a pause
“you the cops or somethin’?”
i didn’t say anything, just took a spot on the wall next to the piss-rusted door at the back of the movie theater.
“yo…honkey…what? you deaf or somethin’?”
“do you know why black people call white people honkeys?”
“yo! what you say? cracka-ass cracka…”
“nothing, my son…really…just waiting for opportunity to knock.”
“yo don’t be callin’ me ‘son’ neither…i’ma grown-ass man. i hear that ‘son’ shit and i might have a flashback to them plantation days…might stomp me a cracka’s ass right here…”
“why are You here?”
“none of your goddamm…”
“calm down…i’m here just like you…just tryin’ to make some conversation.”
“yo…you tryin’ to sneak into the movies too?”
“hey…that’s my business…”
“…cracka-ass cracka…”
“but, to be honest with you, yes…i am sneaking in to the movies. i’m stickin’ it to the man.”
“whatever.”
“who are you waiting on to let you in?”
“…these girls…”
“white?”
“so what the fuck does that matter?”
“they’re Devils, those white girls…stay away from them.”
“oh yeah?”
“not really,”
“…oh…”
“what movie are you going to see, my son…”
“yo what the fuck i tell you about that ‘son’ shit?”
“forgive me…i’m a Reverend…force of habit…”
“oh yeah? well you don’t look like no Reverend.”
“you’re welcome.”
“whatever man…i’ma Get Rich or Die Tryin’ nigga.”
“you are?”
“yeah…i mean, no…i mean yeah i am…but that’s the movie, that’s the movie i’m waiting to get in to…”
“weak.”
“what?”
“weak…that movie…it’s weak.”
“yo…fifty! that nigga got shot nine times…mafucka eats bullets.”
“whatever…looks like his 8 Mile to me…looks like Rocky with rap and guns instead of the boxing gloves.”
“what you know, cracka-ass…”
“i know that people are buyin’ into that shit, like it’s the real thing, like it's the Only thing."
“nigga please!”
“hey…come on…i’m not even Black…”
“nigga i know…i meant that as a compliment…ah fuck it man, nevermind…”
“uh, well…thanks, i guess…anyway…don’t you get tired of all that fake-ass street gangsterism and that hardcore posing? it’s old, man, played out. it’s weak. see, now, i remember when Crack hit the streets, probably when you were just a little guy…and things have calmed down considerably. it’s not to say there is no violence…but clearin’ the block with a street-sweeper isn’t quite as frequent as some of those movies would have you believe.”
“yo…you don’t know shit about Crack. that music, this movie…that shit’s real.”
“real for who? like it's the only thing out there...look, most of those hardcore gangbangers got locked up for a real long time. even without all the violence, there’s too much money for the Federalés to let it go unchecked. but what the fuck do i know…You just keep groovin’ to some kind of nostalgia for poison. i know i’m old and shit but i just don’t get it. i mean, i like to listen to it when i’m drivin’ or about to do some gangster shit…”
“…see…”
“but, i don’t…i mean, i’m just tired of That Shit gettin’ all the attention…where is the rest, man, the other side?”
“i ain't tryin' to hear that...i ain't tryin' to hear that. and i don’t Even know what the fuck you’re sayin’ anyway. what are You goin’ to see again?”
“me? Jarhead.”
“why?”
“why? that’s a good question my s-…i mean my brother,”
“don’t try that shit either.”
“alright…i want to see it because i believe it will be an insightful analysis into the mind of the modern day soldier - struggling with beliefs, politicos, morals, directives...particularly within the context of a Middle Eastern War.”
“for real? no shit.”
“plus i like the way jamie foxx says ‘hoo-ra’ in the trailer.”
“oh.”
“uh huh.”
“yeah man…ain’t that some shit? fightin’ overseas…how? they’re fightin’ on my block. over there, it’s for some oil, over here it’s for a rock. fucked up man…fucked up…shit proves there is no God.”
“naw…just proves there’s a Devil.”
“speakin' of...i’m getting’ tired of waitin’ on these bitches…”
“no no no, listen to those words you use…see, you’ve been brainwashed. how about ‘i’m tired of waiting on these beautiful Nubian princesses.’”
“i told you yo…they white.”
“oh…well…Snow Princesses then…”
“you’re a retarded mafucka, you know that…but fuck it man…you wanna smoke?”
“smoke what? weed?”
“yeah man…the ‘dro, man…purple haze, the chronic, greens, endo, cheeb, funk, ganja, Old Toby, sticky-icky, chocolate, solid, dank, Bobby Brown, doja, smoke, fire, Bill Clinton. you know…Weed, nigga, weed!”
“i never touch the stuff, as far as you know. look, i got some spray paint…i'm gonna go graffiti a bank.”
“word.”
“and if somebody comes lookin’ for me, tell her
i didn’t say anything, just took a spot on the wall next to the piss-rusted door at the back of the movie theater.
“yo…honkey…what? you deaf or somethin’?”
“do you know why black people call white people honkeys?”
“yo! what you say? cracka-ass cracka…”
“nothing, my son…really…just waiting for opportunity to knock.”
“yo don’t be callin’ me ‘son’ neither…i’ma grown-ass man. i hear that ‘son’ shit and i might have a flashback to them plantation days…might stomp me a cracka’s ass right here…”
“why are You here?”
“none of your goddamm…”
“calm down…i’m here just like you…just tryin’ to make some conversation.”
“yo…you tryin’ to sneak into the movies too?”
“hey…that’s my business…”
“…cracka-ass cracka…”
“but, to be honest with you, yes…i am sneaking in to the movies. i’m stickin’ it to the man.”
“whatever.”
“who are you waiting on to let you in?”
“…these girls…”
“white?”
“so what the fuck does that matter?”
“they’re Devils, those white girls…stay away from them.”
“oh yeah?”
“not really,”
“…oh…”
“what movie are you going to see, my son…”
“yo what the fuck i tell you about that ‘son’ shit?”
“forgive me…i’m a Reverend…force of habit…”
“oh yeah? well you don’t look like no Reverend.”
“you’re welcome.”
“whatever man…i’ma Get Rich or Die Tryin’ nigga.”
“you are?”
“yeah…i mean, no…i mean yeah i am…but that’s the movie, that’s the movie i’m waiting to get in to…”
“weak.”
“what?”
“weak…that movie…it’s weak.”
“yo…fifty! that nigga got shot nine times…mafucka eats bullets.”
“whatever…looks like his 8 Mile to me…looks like Rocky with rap and guns instead of the boxing gloves.”
“what you know, cracka-ass…”
“i know that people are buyin’ into that shit, like it’s the real thing, like it's the Only thing."
“nigga please!”
“hey…come on…i’m not even Black…”
“nigga i know…i meant that as a compliment…ah fuck it man, nevermind…”
“uh, well…thanks, i guess…anyway…don’t you get tired of all that fake-ass street gangsterism and that hardcore posing? it’s old, man, played out. it’s weak. see, now, i remember when Crack hit the streets, probably when you were just a little guy…and things have calmed down considerably. it’s not to say there is no violence…but clearin’ the block with a street-sweeper isn’t quite as frequent as some of those movies would have you believe.”
“yo…you don’t know shit about Crack. that music, this movie…that shit’s real.”
“real for who? like it's the only thing out there...look, most of those hardcore gangbangers got locked up for a real long time. even without all the violence, there’s too much money for the Federalés to let it go unchecked. but what the fuck do i know…You just keep groovin’ to some kind of nostalgia for poison. i know i’m old and shit but i just don’t get it. i mean, i like to listen to it when i’m drivin’ or about to do some gangster shit…”
“…see…”
“but, i don’t…i mean, i’m just tired of That Shit gettin’ all the attention…where is the rest, man, the other side?”
“i ain't tryin' to hear that...i ain't tryin' to hear that. and i don’t Even know what the fuck you’re sayin’ anyway. what are You goin’ to see again?”
“me? Jarhead.”
“why?”
“why? that’s a good question my s-…i mean my brother,”
“don’t try that shit either.”
“alright…i want to see it because i believe it will be an insightful analysis into the mind of the modern day soldier - struggling with beliefs, politicos, morals, directives...particularly within the context of a Middle Eastern War.”
“for real? no shit.”
“plus i like the way jamie foxx says ‘hoo-ra’ in the trailer.”
“oh.”
“uh huh.”
“yeah man…ain’t that some shit? fightin’ overseas…how? they’re fightin’ on my block. over there, it’s for some oil, over here it’s for a rock. fucked up man…fucked up…shit proves there is no God.”
“naw…just proves there’s a Devil.”
“speakin' of...i’m getting’ tired of waitin’ on these bitches…”
“no no no, listen to those words you use…see, you’ve been brainwashed. how about ‘i’m tired of waiting on these beautiful Nubian princesses.’”
“i told you yo…they white.”
“oh…well…Snow Princesses then…”
“you’re a retarded mafucka, you know that…but fuck it man…you wanna smoke?”
“smoke what? weed?”
“yeah man…the ‘dro, man…purple haze, the chronic, greens, endo, cheeb, funk, ganja, Old Toby, sticky-icky, chocolate, solid, dank, Bobby Brown, doja, smoke, fire, Bill Clinton. you know…Weed, nigga, weed!”
“i never touch the stuff, as far as you know. look, i got some spray paint…i'm gonna go graffiti a bank.”
“word.”
“and if somebody comes lookin’ for me, tell her
Johnny St. Clair wuz here at 11:58 PM
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