Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Fiction The Filthy Few
The Filthiest of the Filthy Few: Part 2 of 3
Big Sam was beside himself as this big somebody just trapesed across the frosty green mid-afternoon island—their age-old refuge don’t you know—like he owned this grassy island of…eh, okay, it wasn’t exactly a fortress of solitude, but it was a vastness—or was it properly a fastness, dam he missed Ole Jimmy Jam—of ingratitude if that meant anything to the scheming trespasser.
The negro of note stopped a good twenty paces off, looked first over this basketball of a shoulder, then over that Christmas ham of a shoulder, as if he were granting permission for the speeding white folks to drive on by, like a lion atop some eminence surveying that which he ruled by the might of his claws. There was something in the imagery of this attitude as reflected on the screen of Big Sam’s fuzzy, lack of horizontal control—well, maybe Big Sam was closer on to sixty than forty based on his mind’s eye conforming to broadcast TV UHF system test malfunction—that just rankled a soul, especially a loyal soul, the soul of Big Sam, whose sharp-ass brother, Jimmy Jam, formerly all about the plan, drooled on his shoulder and slurred, “Look at da size of dat Negro! En fit as a pack o’ Skittles…”
“What, say what Ma Brutha!?!” came the demand, the command, of the interloper, the man eying their bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 with the thirst reserved for them gay sissies what finally find they have some needs when J-Lo shows up on screen in stretchy leather pants. This somebody was too thirsty by half to be the real deal and Big Sam whispered cryptically to Jimmy Jam as the invader stalked closer, “Bro, this nigga all show—I knows you can work dis polished turd, even dough you be all fucked-up en slow. Bring it man, bring it—I knows you gots da word!”
Jimmy Jam then seized the bottle, with sudden inspiration, up ended that thing in one ashy shaking hand and knocked it all back down to his groans. Big Sam was momentarily pained that he had not got a last swig, that it had not been sip for sip. But he recognized an arcane gleam in the eye of Jimmy Jam—yeah, the Negro that knows still knew… he was just all buried under them sneaker treads done imprinted all that dumbness of mind on his brain. He was peeking through, saw this big somebody for the invader that he was and even now, from beyond the gravestone of his mind, from that lonely misunderstood place where Jimmy Jam somewhere thought great thoughts and could not make them known—he schemed yet, and Big Sam was glad, felt less alone then he ever had since that fateful day when the cab did a U-turn right over there, opened the passenger side door with a mop handle, and kicked Jimmy Jam out on the median, clutching his only possession, Dandelion Wine, a book by some big-brained white man with fucked up teeth, a book Jimmy Jam assured Big Sam answered every question ever thought up by man.
Jimmy Jam, I hope you slick-scheming ass is in there and keeping true, because if we just fuck up, Big Sam getting his ass whooped!
Then something happened that convinced Big Sam forever after that within that drooling, twitching, lolling head, Jimmy Jam lived, lived large, lived hard and was ultimately the mind in charge.
The big bull in his suede—which was redneck for velvet—vest and Chicago Bulls hat, his big brown soft Wal-Mart boots, “I done wear because I want my Land Lady’s other boyfriends to think I’m a working man and fail to find my food-stamp voucher under the insoles,” peeking out from under some camouflage fatigues that might have hid an entire paint can, brush and roller—or perhaps a machine gun or two, all bespeaking a propensity for violence perhaps a bit too forward, spoke, in a high, nasal way what made him sound like he was either a lawyer, Mike Tyson or gay: “Brutha man—en Big Sam, remember me do yah—thatz right, I’m Boone’s lille nigga so you said once!”
Yep, here comes that proper fucked situation. Hell, this Negro could whoop ma ass if he were a midget and he damn near as big as me.
And here came Jimmy Jam, like a prophet!
“Ma young brutha—I could see wit dis one half-good eye from across day way, dat yo was a man that could get at it until da break o’ day. Shieeeee. Big Sam en me… he done forget who he is… we done nursed dat bottle for three day, near half of it spit. We would, would, woul, wood, wha, whe, woo…”
The invader rudely completed the word, “Wouldn’t, as in, you would not.”
Jimmy Jam gave up the open hand that said, “Yep, like you said,” and stumbled onward across the line of scrimmage, getting that first down and keeping the game alive by pitching a lateral to Big Sam, “Big whi, whi, whi…ww…wwh, wa, whh…whhaitde fag, fag, fa…ah…fah faggot, on da bike, head…id down, down, dow…”
Once again the newcomer showed his lack of patience, “Downtown, big white faggot headed down town, on the bike—you mean that Frankenstein done knocked up Ted Nugent’s big sista en created dat ugly spawn—dat muthafucka? En what, out wit it negro ‘fo I get impatient wit you word-stumblin’ ass!”
Jimmy Jam laid his head on the soft shoulder of Big Sam as their mutual enemy loomed over both and Big Sam knew that it was now or never. It was his time, his time to shine—he’d have to lay out the plan…
The invader spoke in high, grating nasal, “Come on, Negro! I’m done thirsty enough as is and yo trifflin’ bull-shit is about to bring down the hammer on yo ass!” spake the Zarathustra of Shayner and Grasshit.
Jimmy Jam was pinching him, trying to impart a number system from thumb and forefinger to ass, so Big Sam just played for all the time he could grasp.
“Okay, ma young brutha-man, dat big hairy faggot on da bike headed downtown, he jus’ ain’t right. [Well dat shit is true!] He like him some chocolate, Pacifically [and it kind of made him sick to do it but he did it] a big black man. En, en, he headed downtown fo a bottle of Rican One-fitty-one Rum! Which dat shit he bring here, and we’ll all be at dat fresh batch.”
Jimmy Jam was drooling approvingly on his shoulder as this new negro said, “You mean—your retarded asses mean ta tell me, that that gigantic, scary, looking like he dealing meth to da Devil hisself, biker, he just all about suckin’ black dick? Really, dat is a homo—is that what you all tellin’ me?”
“Yezzzir,” said Big Sam and it was well punctuated by the affirmative spasmatics of Jimmy Jam who was twitching like he was a baby stuck on the end of some banker’s umbrella, drool draining down Big Sam’s coat.
The cruel newcomer seemed almost moved to pity and inquired, “Yo, Big Sam, dis nigga is fucked up!”
Jimmy Jam then gave him the snort and the thumbs up—gave it to Big Sam—and Big Sam knew, even if this newcomer did not, even though he of course noticed that shit, that he had been given the signal for the Lie of Friends, for the conclave of fools on the ship of schemes about to upend and he was good for it.
“My young brutha, dat scary lookin’ and fairy lovin’ devil comin’ back with yo bottle be sure, en we’ll wait fo our own swig at yo pleasure. But first, since you the new King o dis Grassy Island we’d like ta hear tell...we’d like ta know, just who da fuck is you!”
Jimmy Jam patted him softly on the knee as his head lolled and Big Sam felt like he had done well and knew it true when this big, arrogant, light-chocolate, damned-near-to-caramel bull started waxing all historic about his pretentious ass, truth be told but little about his bullshit past. And Big Sam was right there to pump him up and Jimmy Jam clapped softly, his one trembling hand slapping his one dead hand in a sardonic rhythm:
“Come a time, dat nigga Boone, baddest muthafucka in da Mota Citay, had—well, not a chyle, but a bitch, a big ole breedin’ bitch. Boone got deep. Boone got set up. Boone got caught, eventually did time with White Boy Rick. Right?
“Dats right!” barked Big Sam.
The sorry, self-serving and self-deceiving poet continued, “We all knows dat story. But dare da big breedin’ bitch, who holdin’ Boone’s get-out money. En Boone ged out, and waitin’ fo him is mamma—and lille ole me! Thanks be ta God dat Boone couldn’t count and didn’t get back with White Boy Rick to do dat math, ‘cause Boone looked at my big ass and said, “Ma boy!” seeing the big body bequeathed by the big ole breedin’ bitch. But what he overlooked was the beak. Look at dis—you see dis beak?”
The newcomer was standing in profile, one hand up overhead and the index finger pointing down at his unnatural probiscus and Jimmy Jam had a moment of clarity, “Whad da fuck?”
“Dat’s right!” shouted Big Sam, not knowing if it would get him the backhand or the forehand.”
The newcomer never lost his predatory edge, as he leaned in close “That is right, Big Sam, whose teddy bear ass I think I’m going to pimp out to that biker man,” to which Jimmy Jam shivered in apparent horror and the newcomer continued, “That’s right, Big Sam, and Brains made of Jam, you done heard of me, I know. I’m Beaker. Got the Jew-beak form ma daddy, Boone’s defense lawyer”—and they all laughed in high octave…
“Dat’s right,” shouted Big Sam, wishing he had a good bottle of 151, and Beaker pranced about like a giant brown peacock—not brown enough for Big Sam’s liking. You could never trust these pretentious half-white Negroes…
They sat and cheered and applauded and whatever else you called it, as Beaker, as he was known, recounted his capers and his victories, his triumphs and various chumps’ low tragedies.
There was the story of the Fat Orange-Haired Bitch and the Greedy Snitch.
There was the White Money man knocked off his Tour de France Bike.
There was the time Beaker back-talked Boone—an act committed far too soon!
There was the Posing Pimp and the bitch-made Simp, two robbed by one—that one being Boone’s big-assed, Jew-beaked son.
Playing for time, Jimmy Jam twitching and lolling on his shoulder, confident that there gambit would hold up and that their guardian devil would show up at Shayner and Grasshit before this big mean man started breaking out the pimp hand. That would be worse than a straight up beating, to be made a bitch on this Godforsaken stretch of life, damn near to New Year’s Eve night.
Oh, Downtown Charlie Brown, don’t let my old fat ass down!
prev:  Your Novel, Sir     ‹  fiction  ›     next:  ‘To Dip My Hands in Blood’
den of the ender
pillagers of time
the greatest lie ever sold
the combat space
Add Comment