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The GPS Girl
How Not to Come to Harm City: A Phone Call from Miss Ezz
“Baby Cakes, I can’t believe this shit. I would not be surprised if one day the FBI established GPS as a cause of death.
“Not ten minutes ago, right after the big black cop chased one looter out the door towards the school, while Butch chased the other looter across the lot toward the mall, and the third looter is waltzing off behind them with two hundred dollars worth of Tide pellets in his pants, this couple pull up in a late model Mustang—that’s not a black car. They are cruising around tentatively and then pull up here while I stood smoking my cigarette. It was an eighteen year old girl—nice and innocent looking. Big eyes. You'd like her. They'd eat her alive down here—and her grandfather from York Pennsylvania who used her GPS to get to the nearest mall that carries the brand of purse she was looking for.
“I said, ‘Sweetie, get back in the car, and head up I-Eighty-Three until you cross the Pennsylvania line, and if you come back, don’t drive any farther south than Towson.’ And I looked at Pops and smiled, ‘It’s called Home Shopping Network—they deliver it. This is not a safe place—have a nice day!’
“Can you believe that shit—can you believe this town? Can you believe those people don’t know what the hell Baltimore is? Were they watching music videos back in April? We live in a war zone with people picking fights with cops in public and the Seven-Eleven clerk wearing a bullet proof vest! You’re a smart boy—please build a time machine and take me back to nineteen-seventy-four!”
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the gods of boxing
honor among men
yusef of the dusk
supplicant song
let the world fend for itself
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