Davon rolled over and felt the mattress give beneath him. His eyes had been primed to open to take in the world, or at least his tiny tackily appointed portion of it. But now he wished to keep them shut. Once, before Iraq, he would have awakened up to the sound of a mattress groaning or a box spring creaking, and had then opened his eyes to the sounds of the birds—dumpster crows that they may be—outside his window. No longer was it so. Davon had lost his hearing-completely—when his eardrums exploded in the blast that took the lives and legs of his crew.
He didn’t feel Liza Spaz in bed with him, so he figured he best open his eyes as she bobbled her head at him and wagged her finger over his sleeping in once again. Liza had to be the worst morning girl he ever had. He should have her in the ho lineup with the girls you didn’t let sleep over. But somehow she had weaseled her way into spending the night the night before last, and again last night—and a nosey bitch at that!
Davon opened his eyes, and there she was in front of the dresser, pointing at his marker board that she had just written on in angry flowing cursing cursive with her right hand, as she held up MeeMee’s ‘don’t suffocate-under-me’ E-cup bra in her left hand, and ran her mouth like his deaf ass could hear.
The board read: Yo ho, that I.E.D. should have taken off yo muvafucking balls!
He winced—momentarily rejoiced in his deafness as she ran her mouth—and shrugged his shoulders. Liza Spaz was his new girl, so she had no drawer in the dresser. Her box of condoms—you always make the girl buy the condoms—was on top of the dresser. She was now counting out MeeMee’s condoms and sneered angrily at him when she found them mostly gone.
He shrugged again. This angered her, so, still holding MeeMee’s vast bra, she stepped over to his little box fridge, ripped open the door, grabbed his pint of milk, and screamed at him as she threw the milk, which winged over his head and splashed on the wall.
Davon thought for a moment, that with this mess Liza Spaz had just made dripping down the wall, he was going to have to text MeeMee—who was lazy as shit—not to come over, and text Vasquella the Mexican hottie, to come on over a day early so that he could get this mess cleaned up.
As Davon considered such weighty matters he had apparently missed a development in Liza Spaz Land, for he could feel a dresser drawer slam. Pulling his eyes away from the milk splatter on his wall he turned to see Liza rooting through ShauqueenBee’s drawer, holding up her tiny bra and bumble bee patch panties and cursing about whatever.
Liza Spaz was a cute little thing, with that kind of smooth light skin and athletic body that most guys liked. She was pretty, with big eyes and a button nose. Her hair was in a short natural afro which he thought was kind of cute, especially since she looked damned near white. Until now he had thought she had a small mouth, but now it was yawning open like the trap door to Hell itself—for the dudes at the community college, where they had met, had not named her Liza ‘Spaz’ for nothing.
Then, in a building rage, she slid open Vasquella’s drawer and found the almost empty box of Spanish labeled Hefe Grande Chiquita Espada condoms and went off!
He could tell by her mouth that she was saying over and over again, “A Mexican bitch!”
Davon was now being showered with pink panties and other girly attire items. Getting hit in the head with Brianna’s solid nickel high heel earrings did hurt a little. Then, Liza Spaz—who had been spaztastic in bed—bypassed Latiffa’s drawer and fixed with crazy eyes on the long drawer at the bottom of the dresser; the white girl drawer!
Liza tore open the bottom drawer. Reached within, and held up Susan’s panties, which, in all honesty, could have been used to cover Davon’s XT 500 on the parking pad out back. Liza mouthed over and over again, “A fat white bitch too!”
Davon shrugged his shoulders and finally decided to open his mouth and say something, which he knew was probably not a good idea as soon as he felt his words vibrate back through the base of his skull, “Of course, a man’s got to have at least one bitch that ain’t gonna bust his balls!”
Liza then grabbed his steak knife from among his plastic cutlery on top of the box fridge—which was also his kitchen table and counter—and got an evil light in her eyes as she pointed the toothed knife at him and twirled Susan’s bath towel-sized panties over her head like she was one of those gladiators with the pitch fork ready to net her opponent. She slid forward on her little bare feet, like a creeping two-legged cat, not yet dressed in the least.
As Davon bounced out of bed in response to her undeniable intent, she said, very slowly and mechanically, “I ought to cut your junk off.”
She lunged at him with the knife as the twirled and whipping underwear of Big Susan slapped him across the face. Liza’s thrust grazed his hip and felt a little like he had been sawed.
Liza said it again, slowly, while looking into his eyes, “I ought to cut your junk off,” and then did a backhand slash at his groin, which he avoided by sprawling back. Unfortunately he sprawled so well that he fell face first into a pushup position, right into MeeMee’s empty E-cups.
On instinct Davon rolled out to the right toward the bedroom door and hopefully the refuge of Whiteboy Wayne’s protection. The knife plunged past his ear and ‘thunked’ into the floor where it bent.
Davon crab-crawled backward with Mee-Mee’s bra in his hands as this insane bitch slinked forward like one of those cave crawlers from that terrible horror movie Descent. She lunged out with the knife at his neck even as she said that crazy phrase again, said it the exact same way and at the same tone and pace, “I ought to cut your junk off.”.
“Thank God for giant titties,” he thought as the steak knife stabbed through, but got caught up in, the left cup of MeeMee’s life-saving jug sling! With a bitch like squeal—which he was glad not to be able to hear, because it would have been way too embarrassing—he threw Liza Spaz across the room into the mattress, and slammed the door behind him, running downstairs in his jock strap, and nothing else, looking for Whiteboy Wayne to save the bitch-ass day.
As he hit the bottom of the stairs he felt the air pressure of the door pulling open above and behind him and then felt the vibration of it slamming, and then the creepy sensation of little naked insane feet hitting the staircase up behind him. Lacking the courage to stand and face his demonic attacker he bolted right toward the kitchen, hoping that his survivalist roommate would be in there cooking breakfast and stop this crazed bitch in her tracks with some hillbilly this or that.
The scream that escaped Davon’s lips must have been heard out the door and up the street, though he merely felt it, “Whiteboy Wayne! Help a brutha out!”
To be continued in Whiteboy Wayne! Help a Brutha Out!
