Megan picks up a half cigarette and a lighter, leaves her smart phone next to her vodka and lemon, stands from the couch next to the author, as they watch an MMA fight. The winner is a black man who, unlike the other fighters on the card who have all shown respect, climbs onto the cage and begins humping it with his cup. She huffs in disgust, “They’re everywhere, waiting for you, to swing their sweaty dick in your face. Come on Poppy, Mamma needs a smoke.”

It is dark outside at 10:00 PM Friday in the East Baltimore barrio. She knocks on the inside of the door twice to scare rats away, so that they don’t dart inside from under the wooden porch where they live. As we step outside a Squatamalen dumps trash in the gutter across the street. Next door, a tidy Mexican family sets up a musical trampoline for the children to play on until the wee hours as the men drink.

Her silver hair is pulled back in a pony tail, her gray hoodie pulled over her pink sweat suit. Drawing on the cig she hisses, “Fucking spics. Trash everywhere, breeding like rabbits, double parked so that you can’t get your car out—but what the hell, this broke-ass bitch can’t afford a car and the spic men keep the niցցers away. At the dealership they treat me good. The old black man that drives the transport van, he looks out for me, fucks up those young Negroes when they get foul. Now, even the Africans are getting shitty. Last year they were all proper, going to church, polite at the counter. Now, when they come to pick up their new car that they neglected to change the oil in, they complain like an American nig that they should move to the front of the line.

“Yesterday this niցցer man comes into the lobby holding his dick through his sweats, showing it off, wagging it around. He walks up to the desk with his dick in his hand, no underwear under the sweats. I look away, ‘Sir, what can I do for you?’”

“He’s dumb as shit and mumbles that he has to cash out, that he bought his shitty car he’ll never pay off with God knows what, because he doesn’t work. I look up at him and he takes his hand off his dick, slides it down the back of his waist band, and pulls out the contract, with fresh ass sweat, the bill, with that same nasty hand. I looked at him and said, ‘Fuck no! Go wash your hands and keep your hands off your dick when you’re talking to me—SIR!’

“He paces around a bit, tapping the head of his dick hard enough with his Dracula fingernails that you can hear the ‘Thwack, thwack’ through the showroom. My boss, a man, takes care of this asshole. How do these people even reproduce? What woman could tolerate a man that is obsessed with his penis—you know that’s gay, right, that he’s sucked dick somewhere along the way?

“What am I saying though—their women are worse! Bitches from hell, storming into the showroom to yell at me for some greasy mechanic not taking their car first, before the people that were their early and on time when her lazy ass was late—because she’s DA QUEAN! QUEAN O DA WORL!

“Fucking Floyd gets a golden casket and my brother can’t have a funeral, in the same month, in 2020, because we’re trash and they’re gods. I’m sick of it, Baby, and of cussing too. I have to stop cussing so much. Its from having to be around people every day who never say a sentence without the F-word or the B-word or the N-word. When I was young, even when the black men were molesting us and the black beast girls were punching our faces in, and the teachers, principals and police protected them, upheld their bullshit, came down on our brothers for protecting us, still, I thought it was a good idea not to use that word. It’s an ugly word. Besides, its their word, using it is kissing their ass in imitation, just like kneeling, like when they prayed to that, N, N… I hate it it, hate this life, having to have the people that hate me, and can attack and blame me for it, held up like gods. Look at this fucker!”

[Points to Steve Harvey mentoring black leaders on TV commercial]

“—fuck them! And his rich wife. That motherfucker has a new suit every day—and we have to borrow clothes for weddings and funerals.”

“I want to say it, but that’s just another punishment for being white, for being a broke ass Pollack bitch. My dad and brothers died young, worked themselves to death while we were being chased out of the neighborhood we were born in... Baby, I’m so glad you are here. I can walk to the store. I don’t walk any more. At least I can go outside and smoke because of those trash slinging, drunken Spics—they won’t take any of that slavery bullshit.”

[Looks at INVICTA MMA fight, a beautiful short Latina in white against a tall, tattooed, ugly, rail of bony boyhood in black lace.]

“What, what is that? That is not a woman! There is the media darling, the wanna be chick with a dick who gets surgery to share the women’s room with our daughters and granddaughters. Go girl, get it, fuck that freak up! Sorry, Baby, I have had it, fed up to here with cοοns and queers.”

“Let me fix you something to eat,” and off into the shadowed kitchen she walks, shaking her head, “Can’t we see GI Joe fight Tarzan—it has to be a freak show?”