Homeboys love to read it out loud sarcastic cuz in this part of town theres like a rule how no ones allowed to care about anything, not even if its a masterpiece of motion picture cinema. All youre supposed to do out here is chase pussy and talk smack and acquire a black hoodie to wear on top a your XXXL whitey. But this voice isnt making fun. It sounds serious. Not Éomer son of Théodwyn serious but pretty serious. I square up before I turn around just in case I need to defend Peter Jackson and his Oscar winning trilogy more time.

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<Swear. Oh. I swear to you. Still sounds like horse feathers.>

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Dick Trickle? Like I need this right now? Bony maloney is sitting his skeleton ass on the curb. Never seen him out from the counter before and check it, his ancient ass has legs and feet and everything except one a his legs is gimpy and the shoes got a special heel. Dont worry, his disability doesnt get me feeling a crumb a sympathy. Hes still got the usual Dick Trickle face like he thinks I peed in his old person medicine.

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Heres the thing. He isnt burning up a cig. I always figured him for a high commitment nicotine freak cuz he guarded the Walgreen smokes so dang hard. Instead his big old dentures are chomping a celery stick. Hes got a thermos too that looks like a smoothie but not a good smoothie with ice cream, one with fruit, which is gross, and vegetables, which is even grosser. Maybe its the Walgreen lights but Dick Trickle dont look so phantomy out here. Old as hell but healthy. He chomps his celery and nods his bald spot head at my jacket.

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He goes <What is that, some kind a gang garbage?>

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See? Here we go. Now I double wish Id thefted Barack Obama so this creaky ass civil rights mightyducker couldnt get in my grill. That bulls the last bull I got patience for today. I hike up the chemical bags and set to leaving but the dude is like <I asked you a question, young man> so I do a thug turn and roll up on that fogey like hes gonna get bruised.

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He takes a drink of veggie smoothie like hes got all the time in the world. Dont he know what day it is? Hasnt he ever checked a clock? Things are about to go wild on Yellow Street and he chooses this exact time and place to mess with me? I drop my bags and swagger up and say <Im my own dang gang, gramps. You wanna scrap? Show me your play, old man, lets see it.>

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