Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Part 2: Hawk, the Stripper, and two 'Steaks Wit'
Cont. from Monday...
As the summer wore on and the little skeeze intensified her efforts to ensnare my friend in her smooth-skinned, skinny-legged little trap, he came up with a plan; he would fuck her, but he wouldn’t tell Hawk.
That plan was quickly scrapped. Shooter was a thoughtful young man, enamored of psychedelics and Buddhism, and could not forsake the path of truth. He would fuck her, but he would first ask Hawk if it was cool.
“So, uhh, Hawk,” Shooter began one evening over Yeungling’s and bong-rips. “[Forgettably Named Skeezer]’s a real cool girl, uhh…”
“Yeah, bol, she’s cool. She a freak, though, nahmean?”
“Heh-heh,” Shooter forced a laugh as he coughed out a lung-full of smoke. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t kno... uhh, really?”
“Yeah, man, you know wha’msayin’! Ha!” Hawk winked as he pulled a massive tube.
Shooter grinned, squinting and nodding his head and letting little snorts escape his nose every few seconds. Yes, he thought, I know exactly what you’re saying, Hawk, exactly.
“So I, uhh, I got the green-light then?”
The stylized coy inked on his tricep rippled as Hawk slowly put down the bong.
“Huh?”
Suddenly, Shooter felt very high.
“The green-light, the all-clear, to, you know to, uhh…” Shooter bit his lip and pumped his fist in a half-hearted “gettin’-it-on” gesture.
“The fuck you say?” Hawk stood up, cocking his head at Shooter.
It took Shooter a couple of seconds to figure out exactly what had just happened. He was confused and couldn’t believe he had misread the situation so completely, then he was angry. It wasn’t as if he had actually done anything disrespectful.
He hadn’t. In fact, if anything, he was being overly respectful by asking permission at all. Yeah. He could have just hit that shit one afternoon and Hawk never would have been the wiser. Shit, every afternoon. Just taking that willowy, satin-skinned, little tramp and sticking his fingers in her glossy-lipped little mouth and wrapping those long-ass legs around…
“Nah, man. That’s my jawn, dawg. Hell no.”
Shooter was again forced to assess the situation at hand. Hawk was up and in his face and ready to rumble.
This is bullshit, he thought, and began to grow angry himself.
He stood, banging his knee on the coffee table and knocking over a Yuengling as he did so, but still managing to look something approximating threatening.
“I didn’t touch your jawn, who is a dirty little slut by the way, and…”
Shooter was interrupted by a crash of broken glass and splitting wood and a scream of terror from the front room. He and Hawk ran out there (both secretly relieved their throw-down had been forgotten) to see a bearded, emaciated, man from the mental–institution standing amidst the shattered remnants of their front-door wearing only a diaper, with a crack-pipe in his mouth and a squirrel on his shoulder.
In each hand he held a steaming, greasy paper-wrapped cheese-steak.
“You’se guys hungry? We got extras…”
Next borough my ass.
Like Serg Always Say: Clickity Clack Yerself Before You Rack Yerself:
- Scoop Jackson manages to squeeze references to both Run-n-Shoot and Magic City* into this cynical piece on the Hawks situation. I sure hope dude is wrong about Joe Johnson being the next Joe Smith.
- This would be funnier if it was real, but it's still good for a laugh. Prepare for downcount: 5...4...3...1...Offblast!
- Jim Jones handwritten diary entries. Fucking retarted.
- Ohio State Buckeyes say they're ballers, but they're acting like some bitches. I smell... (sniff, sniff) football.
