Dentin was now looking angry and Joan was recovering from her hurt moment, “Excuse me?” She said as she leaned closer.

Randy was now in the Righteous Argumentation Zone, “I’ve seen it a dozen times before, and it explains why you only brought your boy here instead of the whole fucking Fed Army. You seduced my stupid little brother and somehow he managed to get away, but not before he wrecked that perfect Аrуаn pussy with his monster porno cock!”

Her mouth fell open as a horrified response and stunned omission all at once. Dentin ground his teeth, “Yeh be careful boy, real careful!”

He nudged Greg, “Get this silverback here a banana Cuz.”

Greg half-rose and said to Dentin, “Do you want a ripe one or half-ripe?”

Dentin just growled, “Sit yer ass down boy!”and Greg returned to the comfort of his milkshake, sucking greedily.

This bitch is still speechless and is back to holding her belly.

Randy could no longer hold back, “Vagina is the downfall of us all. You expect me to believe that my little prick is going to satisfy you, when you can push a nine-pound wrecking ball through that thing! So you fake your orgasm and have my baby and then sic Uncle Satan on me by way of wage-garnishments for eighteen fucking years—the mookes are coming around, sitting closer, listening, of course, something they can understand—and then fall in love with my half-brother’s mutant cock and I’m supposed to be okay with that? He’s got you pregnant right Joan, right!”

Dentin was steaming and six or seven locals were now listening in to a live day-time talk show minus the paternity test.

Dentin then exploded, “Listen racist your brother brutally raped this woman—that is why we’re looking for him. That animal killed nine state and federal corrections officers and even ate two of them alive. He’s an animal I tell ya and we huntin’ ‘im down boy.”

I might have had my doubts before Jay, but I love you now!

Nine of Uncle Satan’s pigs for Pap’s barbeque pit and you couldn’t wait—even slurped two down raw!

I love you brother!

A hip-hopster could be heard in the background, “Yo Corn-fed en Skelator ‘bout ready ta go at it.”

Randy pointed a finger in her beautiful face now held stern against some unshed tear. “He did not rape you. You women can’t keep your hands off of the meathead. I don’t know why, but the need to fuck my little brother seems to be an immutable law of the universe. If he killed any federal pork they had it coming. He’s a dumb fuck to be sure, but he’s my brother and I am not giving him up.”

Dentin growled, “I might be cuffin’ yer skinny ass to a water-pipe before dinner if yeh don’t watch yer mouth boy.”

He then turned his finger on Dentin, “Listen you big fucking silverback mooke, if this woman is carrying my brother’s baby than that makes this a family matter; a White matter, and you, you fucking milk dud mooke, are not invited!”

The hip-hopsters could be heard, saying such things as, “Yo dis shit be serious”, “dis be some race-riot shit up in ‘ere”, but the most poignant comment came from Greg as he finished his quart milkshake with an irritating slurp, “What is the origin of the word mooke? I mean, I know it’s a racial insult based on the volatile context and incisive tone, but how exactly is it insulting?”

Dentin turned an even lighter shade of brown for a moment and just opened his hands in wonder. “Beats me buddy—never heard it before I met this cabbage head here.”

The vagina is silent.

What is this?

The older black man with the damaged eye orbit, sleepy lid and broken nose came over to the table, reeking of cheap wine, and said in a gravelly voice, “The etomology of mooke iz az zuch. Whitey alwayz called uz monkeyz back in da day ‘cauze we come from Africa en dey waz too ztupid ta tell a ape from a monkey en wanned a way a dehumanizing uz. Now when we won our freedom dey took ta callin’ uz zpookez az a way a exprezzin’ da Whiteman’z fear dat zome buck would zneak up ta ‘iz houze out a da woodpile under cover a da dark en lay pipe on ‘iz old lady. Yo combine da two inzultz born a fear en ignarence en you gotz mooke.”

Greg shook the man’s hand, “Thank you sir. My name’s Cousin Greg. Want a burger?”

The man lowered his already deep voice, “Name’z Ike Cotrane en I Don’ mine if I do. Hea’ zcooch yo zkinny azz ova dare, zo I can zit ‘crozz from diz upitty houze nigga who done fogot what he iz.”

Dentin leaned forward. “Old-timer this is a private conversation and you were not invited.”

In the background a hip-hopster could be heard whispering, “Check out Old School breaking bad with Corn-fed!”

I do not like having my personal business aired in front of these low-life inferiors.

You can use it. It’s potential chaos. Chaos is the bane of Uncle Satan.

Lord Krishna give me strength.

Joan then gave Randy a bemused look. “This is ridicules. We should just have a private conversation in your vehicle.”

He responded, “It is not private any longer, and I’m not even sure it’s still our conversation.”

Ike had already begun firing back at Dentin, “Lizten Corn-fed I done invited my ownzelf ‘cauze I a free Black Man, not zome high-yella dog walkin’ ‘roun behin’ zome fine White lady hopin’ ta ged hizzelf a zniff a dat blonde pie. You juzt give it up boy. Zhe gonna be laid up wit dat white-trash baby daddy zhe unfluctuated wit en you gonna be headed back home to zkin yo ballz on you barefoot wife’z brillo pad.”

Dentin was nearly in a rage, “Old-timer, I’m warnin’ yeh, this is government business…”

Ike cut him off while still chewing on a mouthful of greasy burger, “Govoment zhit. You needz ta wake yo dumbazz up!”

Dentin then turned to Joan, “Boss Lady, it is time to go. I’ll throw a collar on this skinhead if you want. But I’m done with the ghetto for today.”

Joan seemed shocked, a hip-hopster “ooed” in the background, and Ike did not miss a beat as he and Greg smashed through the last two burgers. Ike Coltrane turned to Randy and looked him dead in the face with his one good eye, “Waz a time when ‘The Man’ would neva ztand fo such talk ta a White lady from zome uppity Negro—zpecially a houzeboy zteppin’ out a line. Well man, you gonna let diz high-yella race-trada talk ta yo brutha’z baby’z mamma like he layin’ pipe on ‘er, or you gonna zlap ‘is azz down.”

Greg made field goal uprights out of his arms and cheered, “Beat his big ass Cuz!”

The hip-hopsters in the background were getting excited, as Joan attempted to put the lid back on this bubbling cauldron of testosterone. “Randy, Agent Dentin is not going to lay a hand on you. He would kill you. Besides, striking a federal officer would violate the terms of your probation.”

Dentin slapped the table. “Boss Lady, he is already in violation of his probation, and he is in violation of everything this nation stands for, and if yeh are not going to let me collar him, I beg yeh, let me straighten him out.”

Ike then looked at Randy, “So Randy iz you juz anotha chicken-zhit white-boy or iz you The Man!”

Randy began to rise as the joint went crazy and Joan held his hands. “Please, this is a real bad idea. Local law enforcement could respond, and then I’d be doing paperwork all week and would have to depict you as my snitch to keep you on the outside.”

The mouthiest hip-hopster stepped over to the table. “Hey lady, we can use the men’s room. We box in the men’s room every Wenzday night.”

Joan gave him ‘Oh my God’ eyes and Randy pulled his hands free of her luscious touch and slapped the table, “It looks like ‘The Man’ is slapping down a silverback, and its only Monday afternoon boys. Move Cuz.”

The hip-hopsters were already organizing. Two nominated themselves as Dentin’s corner-men. One was placed on door security. One held the bet money. The mouthy one was elected Master of Ceremonies. Joan was even suggested as the ring card girl; a notion she rejected with an indulgent frown, pointing out that she had to hold Dentin’s weapons and vest. The drive-through girl volunteered to do the honors, with ring-cards made of numbered meals from the menu-board. Greg rushed off to get a cup of water and ice on Ike’s instruction; for the mysterious and erudite wino Ike Coltrane, had elected himself as Randy’s trainer.

As Randy rose and walked toward the men’s room and a kid darted over to the counter to take bets from the girls who worked it, the aging man, who had obviously been a pro boxer, placed his heavy hand on his shoulder and drawled, “I hated me zome Whiteman fo many a year. Now I pretty much juz hatez ‘em all. You ad leazt gotz da characta’ ta ztand alone en da decency ta stake yo place. Neva could ztan’ an azz-kizzin’ nigga or a cowardly cracka.”

Randy just looked the man in his dead left eye, and Ike somehow knew it, because he smiled as they entered the most unsanitary fight venue he had ever attended—and he was the defending champion, the half-Korean imposter-champion of the White Race.

Knockout that monster pig and then make sure your little brother does the right thing by the woman of your dreams, the woman that could have given you a boy that didn’t even look a little Korean.

She has to want me. Somewhere inside she must need a man as intelligent as she is.