At the angle she lay, facedown on the couch, with her shimmering zig-zag jerking across her dirty blond hair with every thrust, you could almost imagine her as someone you knew. You felt a thrilling sensation running through your fore-arms, thighs, and testicles.
His big black cock thrust into her, she bobbed back and forth, wordlessly, lifelessly but for her breathing, on the couch. The attractive fat of her body bobbed back and forth more than the rest of her, almost mocking the stillness of her hands or feet.
“Oh, fuck yes! Give me this sweet white ass. Give it to me.” His butt cheeks tensed with every word, a quirk he wasn’t even aware he had. He wouldn’t be, of course. He couldn’t see himself fucking from behind, nor would you tell him, and risk being reprimanded for it, making it plain that you liked to film his little escapades without his knowing.
You couldn’t find much guilt in it though. You were really the one who made these fun romps happen for him. You were the one who found the girls under false pretenses, using the knowledge and privileges which came from your occupation to offer them backstage promotional passes to local shows, those of rock bands and pop stars. These were girls you specifically targeted, girls he specifically wanted you to find. Girls who were well out of his world, who had no interest in music made by someone with a criminal record and credible spousal abuse accusations (accusations you could, but never would, confirm for the world). Girls who existed universes apart from himself.
His black buttcheeks, chocolatey and almost feminine due to their size, tensed now as he was about release in his current victim’s soft pink ass. You had lured her into a drink, pretending to work for Pearl Jam. She sipped that drink, unaware of what was in it, the buzz of what you offered numbing the strange taste on her tongue. She said she loved Pearl Jam. Ever since listening to them in the backseat of her dad’s car as a child.
“They were my dad’s favorite she said.” She took another mousy sip, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and smiled.
“Fffuucckk!” he groaned.
You groaned the same in your chair, sounding just like him, having slowly absorbed his mannerisms, after watching him fuck so often. You had become a habitual holder of 8X11 notepads and pens, but also of hidden cameras. Sometimes the hidden camera would be in the form of a pen, and it would be tucked within the spiral binding of a notepad, sitting there, aimed toward the couch in question, ready to watch the next girl you had given him.
You often sat there, watching with your pants down, the notebook resting on your naked thigh, coming up with lyrics as your dick twitched and throbbed, looking up at the way he thrashed his next big, white unconscious ass, his black hands sliding all up and down those smooth bodies, squeezing where he may. He loved white women, loved them as much as you loved rapping. But just like you lacked the voice or personality to be a convincing rapper, he lacked the fanbase which would give him unbroken access to the very white flesh he craved.
It was a miracle you had found each other.
You watched the pretty white woman being fucked, her hair like your mother’s, her body, though less impressive, carrying some of your mother’s nuances. You looked over, seeing the filled page, your lyrics from its top line to the bottom, notes in the margins, rhyming words underlined, points of emphasis circled. It was a good verse. You were going to enjoy hearing it on record soon. Not in your own voice, not with your face in the video, nor screaming into a microphone on stage. But at least you would hear it. Not just from your own car, computer, or phone speakers, but from the car, computer, and phone speakers of sprinkled around the nation, sprinkled around the world.
You looked at the screen, seeing the sweating, squinting face of the man you were heard through, the man whose voice your lyrics introduced themselves in the drag of, watching his joy, his self satisfaction, as he nutted on another shapely young woman’s gorgeous white ass. You lifted your thumb, its nail scuffed with pen ink, and you covered the woman’s features, everything above her neck and beneath her hairline. You imagined another face there. And as you did, seeing that ass being splashed with his cum, you shut your eyes, feeling your own cum begin to rise. You were going to nut. You had no tissue. You reached for a notebook page.
You handed him the page.
It crinkled in his hands. He looked down at it, baffled. “The fuck is this?” You thought he would have been more calm having been recently indulged by the embrace of soft, Caucasian flesh.
You had already turned away, ready to leave. When you turned back, your white face was a flushed hot pink.
“The fuck is this?” he said again more quickly. He let the page hanging from its corner, which held between his thumb and forefinger.
“The fuck is wha-“
“Did you nut on this shit?”
You stood there, dying. “No….” you said, your voice trailing.
He had known you long enough that he could read your every tell. “You dirty motherfucker. What, your lyrics so good you busting nuts when you write ‘em, or what?”
You shuffled in place. “Well,” you cleared your throat. “Technically they’re you’re lyrics now.”
He looked at the stiff sheet of paper, rotating it by single digit degrees in his hand. “Technically,” he said. He had a compendium now of all your “white” words, and he made a habit of remembering them. That way, no one would notice the discrepancy between how he talked in interviews and how he rapped.
You stood there, your shoulders hunched (you could tell his white entourage from his black, even from a distance, using this and other a million other factors of gait and posture). You then both heard a squeaking, breaking the awkward moment.
You looked over to see Hal and E-Dawg rolling a cart around the corner. On the middle of the cart, between them, was a white body, her face down, with her big ass jiggling as they rolled her. You stared down at her as they rolled her between you and Greek, her face not visible to you, facedown behind that flurry of dirty blonde hair. They rolled her out the door (into the alley) and the last part you saw of her was her ass, itself conjuring some familiar memory in you, as it jiggled from the jerking of the cart over the barrier.
Then she was gone.
“Okay,” Greek said, looking down at the page. “The shit I can still read is dope. No denying that.”
You shrugged as if to thank him for the compliment.
“Next time though, keep your rhymebook and your tissue box separate, nigga. You a genius, but that don’t mean I’m a tolerate you handing me the entire content of your nutsack every time. You understand?”
Before you could even nod, Hal and E-Dawg came back in with the cart, rolling it between you, the sound of the squeaking as you saw Greek’s face flashing between their passing bodies.
“You understand?”
Of course you understood him. He knew you did. Just as well as he understood you. You were each other’s opposite half, after all.
Do you understand? Every wonder woman needs a wonder man
Your bitch’ pussy pickle dicks, I’m a give her my cucumber stand
You saw dirty blonde hair flash in your peripheral.
You looked up to see your mom, her hair glimmering in the sun, her head tilted as if to get a peek.
You nearly lunged over the page, guarding it with your arms and torso. You looked up at her. “Mom…” you said, sounding as if you were the parent. “I though I told you…”
She backed up, her eyes wide in playful indignation. “I just wanted to see what they pay you the big bucks for, is all.”
You took in a deep breath and shrugged, your arms still over your work. “You can just listen to the songs, mom.”
“I know, I know. I can… But I can’t. I can’t listen to that stuff. It’s too harsh for me.”
You exhaled with a grin. “You think it’s going to look any nicer on the page?”
She grinned with you. “I guess you’re right.” She looked out the window, her eyes gazing into memory. “It’s just hard to imagine my boy, the one I raised since wee small – since training wheels - dealing in such profanity… and violence.”
“You’re saying I’m a girly boy then?”
She giggled. “No. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that you’re a good boy. Always have been…” she held her warm gaze on you for a moment. Then, she tilted her head at the page again with mock-nosiness.
“Mom!” you said.
“Alright, alright, you got me!” she turned around and walked deeper into your living room, looking out the full body window at the neighborhood. A couple, both white, walked, with their blonde children on bicycles, down the opposing sidewalk.
You stared at the back of her, her ass pronounced in her jean shorts. She had wore them, in typical Gen-X fashion, to hide her giant ass. You had overheard her whispering that to one of her friends over the phone. You admired the way the fabric hugged her cheeks, happy to see her need to hide them fail. Your gaze then crawled up, crawled up to the dirty blonde mess that was the back of her head. Luscious and wild, yet mannered to an extremely specific, almost idealistic beauty. A zig-zag ran through it.
You gripped your pen.
You looked back down at your page and continued writing.
I slap her ass underhand
I run a tram. Calling on my dogs like I’m the Son of Sam
Fucking white bitches is a team sport
We gotta get that hoe clean out her jeans shorts
Your breathing became heavy, not even seeing the words you wrote anymore, just seeing their visual.
We gotta start spreading out her buttcheeks
Then put our ear closer up because that butt speaks
You stopped.
You looked down at the line, it looked back up at you like a child proud of itself, unwaveringly so, but knowing that you, in your adult rituals, the likes of which held no value or sense to any child, would have a very different reaction.
You struck out the line, feeling a strike in your heart as you did so. “Fucking gangster rap,” you murmured to yourself, feeling yourself chained to the term. Your mother looked over at you, hearing your murmur, but you didn’t see her.
You rewrote the line.
We gotta start spreading out her buttcheeks
My dick’s an underwater river cuz it runs deep
Many woman come to bed, but none sleep
Everyone to cum, it’s hung, you know I’m Young Greek
You saw the flash of dirty blonde again, almost mistaking it for the creative vision in your mind. You looked up across the table from yourself, to see your mom there, the silhouette of her head, above the hourglass silhouette of her body. When your eyes adjusted, you expected to see her there, looking down at what you wrote, even if she had to read it upside down. Instead, her eyes were locked on you, and they were in earnest now. “Listen,” she said. “I know you have to work. But you’ve been on tour for four months. Can we please have some mom-son time?”
You stared at her for a moment. Then you grinned, looked down and placed your pen on the table. You looked back up at her with a smile.
You understood why this was important to her. How could you not? You were each other’s other half.
You both decided not to go to the pool or the beach. For your mom, it was concern over her ass size, something that had always plagued her, but which became an even bigger issue (both figuratively and not) with age. You also had a big issue of your own. And you knew it would only grow in size (and throb visibly through your trunks) every time you’d see a male pool- or beach-goer gawking at your mom from behind her.
“You know,” you told her in the car. “You should go to the pool. I mean… not right now. I don’t even have trunks.” You fidgeted in your seat. “But some day, maybe when I’m back on the road. I hear they’re good for your health.”
“Hmm,” she said. She was staring ahead, both hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah, that sounds good…. I guess…”
It hurt to hear her lack of enthusiasm. There was nothing you loved more than your mom being admired. You remembered back in your teenage years, when you father was still around, knowing the doctors hadn’t given him much longer to live. You would lay on your bed, with posters of your Mount Rushmore (Tupac, Biggie, Jay-Z, and Nas) hanging over your bedroom mirror, staring down at your throbbing and naked cock. You imagined, with anticipation, all the men that would soon have access to your mom once your father was gone. Your raging hormones, and unrealistic teenage expectations (spurred on further by porn), accelerated these thoughts into lurid and feverish fantasies, your mind filling with vague moving impressions, like moaning flashes, of your mom’s most exquisite features being combined with the every private nook and cranny of a man, the throbbing and lifting beneath the dimension-giving pubes, all occurring to you mentally at once.
You imagined your classmates, whispering, tightly compact together in a group, about what a cuck you had become. You would pass by the doorway in the hall, and you’d imagine them bursting into suppressed titters, their minds hungry with your mom’s smooth skin and cheek.
You lay there, your idols, in both senses of the world, surrounding you as flat images on your walls. You then looked over. Your notepad sat there, a blank page ready for you.
You would lay chest down, your feet crossed at the ankles, writing more lines, your raps sounding labored and sing-songy like football cheers back in those days.
Come around, now that my dad is gone
Pull down your pants so you can get it on
You like Sheryl Flaherty? Well I do too
But in the meantime, Todd, you can have my mom
Your father then succumbed to his illness, and was tucked underneath the earth, and you disrobed from your black suit in your bedroom, now alone in your house with your mother, your cock flicked out from behind your unhooked belt. You felt a thrill felt by everyone when they were on the verge of their dreams coming to fruition.
Then, as the weeks past, your waiting expectation turned from an understanding patience (she needs her time to grieve), to a tug of worry (I’m sure she’ll be ready soon), then to a frustration (what’s the hold up? Dad’s been gone for three months), finally ending with a full-on panic (it’s been a year. She’s not going to budge, is she?).
That entire time, your notebook filled with more lyrics.
My mommy’s ass needs an assassin. A ravagin’
You find it ravishing? Why don’t you break window the glass and then
Come inside. Pin her down, pound and cum inside
Her ass is round. Just ask around. Hundreds tried
To get in it. For me there is no limit. I decide
What’s acceptable. I prep the bull with pride
Because the thought makes me weak like my daddy when he died
So I can’t be denied. She’s saddled for a ride.
The words spilled out of you so furiously, and in such a flurry of passion and frustration, that you didn’t even have time to stop and look back, comparing your current self with your past self, to see how good you were becoming.
Your mom sat outside in the living room, reading a magazine humming, with her bare feet, one crossed over the other, on the ottoman. Her pink toes wiggled, having no idea the monster she had unleashed only a few yards from where she sat.
Most society hadn’t realized yet. Every rapper was a cyclone. Something which sucked in the world, tore it to pieces, then refashioned it as a new whole, the page itself becoming that masterpiece of destruction and recreation. You were becoming a master at this process.
Face fuck the bitch, man. May your balls meet her chin
And smack-smack-smack em, full attack until you win
It’s not a blessing, not a curse, it is not a sin
It’s a reminder when I see her that she’s where your cock has been
Got a “grenade” in my pocket, I pull the pin
Drop it in her drink, watch it sink, and then it’s in
Knock at the door, who could it be? Answer, it’s him
Come in Prick-on-Wheels, now let the fun begin
As you held the notepad before your face, your furious pen stroke exploding past the blue lines, having completely fallen within the blank canvas, the four heads of Black Mount Rushmore stared down on your naked, twitching cock. It throbbed to its own time signature, one fashioned from a music much sweeter and deeper than any earthly genre.
Beyond culture, beyond time, beyond race, you were tapped into something more. Your mom’s body, as grounded in space and time as it was, had brought you to this place above both.
You would then sit there spent, your notebook to the side as if it were schoolwork, and you’d look up at those four faces. You would sometimes remind yourself that they had cocks of their own. You would imagine those cocks, nice and brown, the testicle flesh being dragged taught by the pull of those upsticking, tugging shafts. What you wouldn’t give to see one of your heroes’ nice, black cocks, naked and throbbing as they were in private. You thought maybe you were a bisexual at the time. That was the common word for it. But much later you realized what it truly was. It was being an artist, which meant someone who saw the beauty in everything, so much so that, with whatever craft they chose, they could bring out the beauty that existed even beyond the surface-level glory that everyone else was witness to. Big dick rappers, the shafts having a slight curve in them, being serviced by the quivering pink mouths of white soccer moms was as close to the aesthetic you were trying to conjure with words alone as you could imagine; weed smoke lingering through the air, guns heavy on the table, with a mother of three white boys, a black cock resting against the length of her face, while her tongue danced blissfully against a black testicle sack.
And it could be anyone’s mom. You just happened to derive the most bliss writing about it being your own.
Your mom whistled a melody, something she had heard before, not realizing she was being sanctified nearby in a song all your own, naïve to the way your mind took and twisted her image, bending her into wonderful humiliations, physical possibilities all the more exciting from being bent into practical implausibilities; her whistling itself, in 4-4, becoming the beat you subconsciously rapped to.
She sat now, outdoors on the steel chair, eating a vanilla ice cream, humming that same old tune.
“Vanilla…” you said, taking another lick of your chocolate-vanilla twist.
She clicked her tongue and swallowed. “Got a problem with it?” She took another defiant lick. People moved past in both directions on the nearby sidewalk.
“You’re lucky I don’t uppercut that thing.”
“Yeah? Just try me, tough guy. You don’t know what kind of mixed martial arts I’ve been involved with since you’ve left.” She jabbed her tongue, cat-like, at the cone. “Uppercut,” she repeated. “You use such specific words…”
“It’s my job,” you said.
She stared at you, still taking more dainty jabs at the ice cream with her pink tongue.
“Some words just flow better than others. And they have more meat on them. More connecting pieces that I can rhyme with.” You took another lick at your vanilla end. “Uppercut. Undercut. Buttercup…. Mmm… thunderstruck…” you began to smile. “tummy tuck. Run amuck…. Hundred bucks….” You were looking down at the cone. You took a lick of the chocolate. Fuck her butt, you thought. Fun to fuck.
She opened her mouth to speak, even while the lines were forming inside you: She’s fun to fuck, come on by and you can fuck her butt. I’ll stun the slut so you can come and have her, you hungry mutt.
“It’s interesting to me,” she took another jab. “How you notice that much about it all. I heard a couple songs. I’ve liked them before. But it’s always sounded like tough talking. That’s what I always thought it was.”
“It doesn’t have to be tough,” you said.
She looked up at you over her cone. She slowly began to nod, then looked back down at it and gave it another lick. You watched as her tongue carried a cloud of it, white and fluffy, in behind her lips. “I just figured,” she said. “What with the aggression and all, that it’s usually something to do with being a man and taking what’s yours.”
“It can be about giving too.”
She looked up at you again. You stared into her eyes, feeling that fuzzy hold she had on you, the one you had missed, had conjured up in fantasy on your bed in the tour bus, your dreams filled with her sounds and smells, and the occasional flash of her pink, blushing form, the night-road itself rocking you deeper into those sleepy impressions, their memory keeping you sane in a world without her.
You’d be broken out of it at hearing the bathroom door creak open and shut. You’d open your eyes to see the light under its door, then it would flush, and the door would open again, and you’d watch through the slit of your eye as E-Dawg (it was always E-Dawg) came back out, his big black cock visible through his boxers, it moving within them with the rumbling of the bus against the nighttime road. You’d fall back to sleep, thoughts of E-Dawg and your mom both, and the combination was sweet.
You looked into your mom’s eyes now, and she into yours, happy to have you back. She then looked back down at what was left of her cone. Beyond her, beyond its chain-link fence, the swimming pool across the street sat busy with life. A young man, his arms resting on the poolside, his chin resting on his arms, stared in your general direction. You didn’t even have to wonder. You knew he was staring at your mom’s backside, its heavy mass, as it occupied the steel bench, wrapped tightly within her jean shorts, which seemed to strain holding in the pressure.
Enjoy it, take a picture, you thought. It’ll last longer. You looked back at your mom’s down-turned gaze, then back at the boy. But no matter what, you’ll never see an ass stronger. You stared off at the boy, not at him, but through him, through everything.
Let your snake-head loose, you know, your black mamba
Her ass need that ultimate black, you know, Barack Obama
Each cheek on mama, is a sweet peach you eat and chomp up
I get beat and stomped up and still peek when you get it on, but-
“Turk-”
You heard it said, but like a snake rattle in the brush, you couldn’t place it. You squinted your eyes, and your mom stopped talking, looking over her shoulder at what you were looking at by the pool across the street. The boy on the pool’s edge was distracted, even from your mother, by whatever was said, and turned to swim toward the opposite pool-end.
“I don’t think so,” someone sitting near the pool said. “He’s been trash since Wrong Place, Wrong Time.”
“No,” protested his friend. They were all white. “Mr. Ethical and the One-Twos has some of his best shit.”
“Like three songs. It’s a double album. Three songs out of, like, twenty ain’t good.”
“I agree,” said the boy in the pool, wiping his face.
“It’s more than three, bitch.”
“Shut up,” said the one next to the Beats-by-Dre pill. “Listen.” He leaned over the table with the full length of his body and turned up the volume. The music became audible to you:
“Big Greek a geek. I see lockers when I hear ‘em speak
Shove him inside, he up and died, cuz he feared they’d see
Didn’t call for help. Not at all. He got the belt?
Then I’m taking it. Just to throw it in the trash. When his mom got kill’t?
I sat at home laughing, trying to find and call the killer
Give him half my networth, my chains made of gold and silver”
You started to grin, your knee suddenly fidgeting beneath the table. “Beef,” you murmured to yourself. Your mom turned around and stared at you.
You looked back at her with a grin in your eyes, an excitement she couldn’t understand. Your leg was fidgeting against hers without you realizing it. You said nothing, only hanging onto every lyric from that speaker, feeling a thrill knowing that those around you, whether sitting or passing, on either side of the street or sidewalk, would never know how important it was for you to listen now, just how much of what would come next in this historic moment in rap counted on it.
“Heard his shit, my head hurts. Who’s pulling your trigga?
That pen game lacks legitimacy, is your ghostwriter a nigga”
Your leg stopped fidgeting. Your mom’s face dropped when she saw yours. She had seen it in you, all at once. It was your complexion. It had gone ghostly white.
“He writes like he’s in college. Writes like he has too much to live ‘fer
Probably a mama’s boy. He’s middle class, a wigger”
If you had looked over at your mom in this moment, you would have seen the sudden concern in her eyes. You looked as if you had already given up the ghost.
“Don’t act so shocked, we got computer hackers
We know your every angle. We know your every factor
We know your ever nook and cranny. We know you can relate
We know all your proclivities, you like to violate
Don’t even try to push it, nigga. This is an L you’ll take
Cuz if your fans find out what I know, career’s a sorry state.”
You only stared at the young men, stared at the looks of astonishment on their faces. “Greek’s gotta respond to this.”
“He won’t, he’s trash,” said Turk’s recent naysayer. “Turk’s got him.”
Your felt something on your hand. You looked down to see the ice cream, the brown and white converged into a sludge, next to your thumb joint. “Are you okay?” You looked up to see your mom staring at you. “What is it?” Her hand came over yours, smearing the sticky liquid against it.
“Greek’s gotta respond,” one of the boys said again.
“Respond? To this? How?”
You stared down at your mom’s white fingers, gripping tighter around your own.
“Who’s the mole,” said Big Greek, his hand on his head, his finger bristling against his woolly head of hair.
“I don’t know, but when I find him,” Hal said, his voice high-pitched with anger.
“Cool it, nigga,” said E-Dawg, reminding his friend, with tone of voice alone, that he was white.
“It’s just-“
“Cool it. Greek, this nigga bluffin’. There’s no fuckin’ mole. Every nigga with a deal right now has some skeleton. He knows this and he’s just pushing that button. ‘specially after what happened with Diddy.”
You could hear their voices echoing down the venue hall.
You came inside the room to see their bodies all in motion. “Close the fucking door,” you said to them, shutting it behind yourself. “I could hear you down the hall.”
“Did you hear?” Greek asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear what that bitch nigga-“
“Yeah.”
“He’s bluffing, isn’t he?” E-Dawg said, looking for confirmation.
You looked at him, showing anything but in your eyes. “He knows who I am.”
They all stared at you.
“That wasn’t just an empty claim. He knew I was white.”
“What?” E-Dawg said. “Oh, the ghostwriter thing… that’s…” he froze, his palm still in the air, in preparation to explain it away. Instead, it hung there, his finger twitching, as if it were running down the lyrics he remembered. “Oh shit… He does.”
“That’s what I was saying,” said Greek. “This nigga knows I can’t rap like that. My old shit was all A, B, C. Not this hypertronic. Supersonic. Uh…” He stopped, trying to look for a rhyme.
“Stupid-tronic,” Hal offered. Everyone turned to him, including you. He blushed and looked down.
“Look, I’ll hit him,” you said.
“I’ll hit him too,” said Hal, nearly bursting out his skin.
“He meant with rhymes,” E-dawg explained. “Idiot.”
“There’s a studio down the block,” you said. “We’ll record there.”
“Tonight?” said Greek.
“Tonight. I’ll be back, just make sure your voice is warm. Make sure you feel confident. You need to let him know you’re not flustered. If anyone smells blood in the water…”
“Until then,” E-Dawg said before you could finish. “We’re not doing any of that.. you know…”
Everyone looked at him, including you. There was a silence for a moment, everyone apparently understanding the ‘that’ that E-Dawg was addressing.
“I might not be able to hold back,” Hal said, proving he was the only one who didn’t. “If I see that fucker, I’m-“
“I’m talking ‘bout the white girls,” E-Dawg said, his eyes wide with exasperation.
“No, we’re not,’ you said. They looked at you, seeing the seriousness in your eyes, understanding that you had the final say. Not only were you the one who provided the white girls, bringing them, their asses jiggling, on a silver platter, using your own harmless white suburban charm. You, for all intents and purposes, were Big Greek. His career was your own, but with a mask over it. And while Greek - having more power being the mask, especially in an industry mostly made up of appearances – usually called the shots which you were subordinate to, no one doubted that you were the authority now, now that lyrics had become the issue again. You had almost slipped into that authority without a second thought, and everyone in the room had buckled intuitively to this notion, not even questioning it themselves. “He’s going to hang onto anything that happens. Any whiff of something fucked up.” You turned to leave, then turned back and stood in the same place. “And in case he’s not bluffing, if he has a mole, or he's hacking us somehow, it’ll be almost impossible to hide our traces. If he knows who I am, I can’t even risk being seen alone with a white girl.” The thought of your mom sitting across from you outside of the ice cream parlor made you blush. You kept speaking, brushing past it. “I’m probably being watched, or I’m at least as likely to be watched as you are. Again, if he’s not bluffing.”
You turned around to leave, this time for good.
“Where you going?” Greek called through the open door, his voice echoing to you through the hall.
You called back to him without turning or slowing down. “Tonight,” you said. “Three verses. A-Cab’s beat. Be ready.”
Your pen struck at the paper furiously. Your mother floated around the dining room table, though, sensing your seriousness, she didn’t even look down at your paper. Nor did you look up to get a glimpse of her ass in her jean shorts, your focus, your monomania, blotting it out of being. Nothing but your page, and the possibility it represented, existed to you now.
You faked your life. You faked the intensity
Of your upbringing, you’re lacking in bone density
Yet you’re up singing. As if you won’t eventually
Get snapped in half. This Polygraph you connect to me’s
Fine by me, I got nothing to hide
The ballpoint of your pen snapped for the first time. You dropped the pen where it was, letting it spill a small but growing puddle of blue ink against the page. You picked up another pen, continuing:
Fine by me, I got nothing to hide
You’re gaslighting. Just taking your audience for a ride
Something you’ve been doing your whole career
Snitch ‘fore they even read rights, head lights, meet deer
Leave you dead right there on the page
You scratched out page. Your snapped pen lay on the end of your page, its tip resting over a small puddle of blue.
Leave you dead right there on the pavement
Ghostwriter? Yeah, every nigga on a slaveship
Got my people behind me. You got federal agents
You chill with lizard people who all came here on a spaceship
Either that or devils straight out from the cave, bitch
Hate black women yet you call ME a rapist?
The only ghost I write to is you in the grave, bitch
Red pill, blue pill, to you in the matrix
What’s the difference. Every inference is mental enslavement
Your whole gangster image is just a new raiment
You shouldn’t just apologize, but blow me for payment
The next time they’ll hear about you is at my arraignment
You pushed the page to the center of the table, and your mom watched you, her expression vague, as you leaned over the table with your phone, waited for the image to focus, then took the picture. You sent it to Greek over the group chat so he could become as familiar with it as possible, and before even getting a text, you were two lines through the next verse.
Your mom, despite not being relaxed in spirit, only sat there with her bare feet, one over the other, on her ottoman. As you pen struck at the paper, her toes wiggled with movement, an excess of it derived from where it should have been in the rest of her body. She sat there, otherwise still, knowing somehow this time not to break your concentration.
You had borrowed your mom’s car. You could feel the craterous impact she had left permanently carved into her seat as you drove to the studio. The cars on the road around you, many of them, those driven by people under thirty-five, fans of either Greek or Turk or both, still sat as obstacles before you, unaware that just by being there on the road in front of your anonymous self, they were obstructing what they wanted so feverishly to come next.
You had confidence that Greek would get him, had that confidence because it was confidence in yourself, a confidence, which while sometimes jittery, was never shaky, not since your first perfect verse at seventeen. It had been five years since, and you sat now on a pile of verses, most of them having never been recorded, their existence though, rather than useless, still serving as the practice which informed each newcoming verse. Not only would the public not know the work that went into these three-minute songs, Greek himself would never truly know, the lyrics he used to write having none of the skill or craft of those you wrote for him now. And even that short era of his creativity was likely lost now in the haze of incoming money, the scent of alcohol fumes and marijuana smoke, and the sensation of heavy-bottomed white woman grinding (being ground), without any knowledge that they were, against his hungry, invasive cock.
You thought about that - as you impatiently ran a fresh red light - about how your “treat” for him, and the enjoyment you found in secretly watching it yourself, was making him weak. Making him decadent, unaware. You knew white girls were an intoxicant as bad, if not worse, than the hard stuff, especially when blue velvet made them so easy to obtain. Women tricked into the possibility of a free Tim McGraw concert, only to be bottomless, riding the giant, curved cock of a black man, their rural white butt-cheeks spread wide, the private discoloration between them visible. Tiny white girls, thick-rimmed glasses on their mousy faces, unaware that their little Arcade Fire concert hadn’t materialized, being ran through deep by a cock which must have made it halfway up their skinny torsos internally. And the Swifties. Oh boy did he (and you) love the Swifties. Her fanbase, devoted beyond any other, were the ripest for the picking, having been primed for it by her songs, tuned to the perfect level of naivete. Coming for songs about love and experiences they could relate to being sung on a massive stage, and ending up with a thirty-five year old black thug getting “all up in their guts,” as he used to say, within the privacy of a tiny room. Hal would sometimes be caught, like an embarrassed jack rabbit, humping away at the girl afterwards in the bathroom, on the very same slab he carted her out on. E-Dawg would let him finish, chastising him all the while (it never took long), before they’d both cart her out to the alley and drop her jiggling flesh to the pavement there, naked and deprived of her things.
You could see how this culture, one you helped propagate, could lead to a slip in your whole operation, one which Turk must have gotten a whiff of. Even the usual after-show groupies, most of whom were black women, didn’t have the same intoxicating, mind-altering effect that white women had. And you said this as someone who was engaged to a black woman. Desiree, who you met as Greek’s sloppy seconds, and who had become the love your life, was a black woman. And you knew that as you kept Greek away from drugged white women, as circumstances would force you to do now and for the foreseeable future, he would only be taking more passes, even just out of a building frustration, at your fiancé. You didn’t mind. In fact, you wanted Greek to have some fun again with her fat black ass. You even thought about telling her as much, but thought better of it. It felt nicer, more intimate, to leave them to their “secrets” together, their hidden rituals, as black in body as they were in spirit, while you, pale and white, minded them from the outside.
As strange as it was to say, watching the footage of Greek and Desiree, their nude, brown bodies against one another, despite its greater degree of real cuckoldry, would still fail to be as hot as watching a woman of your own race being had, taken for the pleasure of the every black inch on that giant, curved penis you knew so well.
Your mind swam with these thoughts, the traffic around you melting into a neapolitan sludge even as you drove through it, gathering its every impression, like you always had, with you to the studio, and more so, onto the page; and these thoughts, tugging you by your arousal as if they were a taut thread tied within your darkest desires, were interrupted with a pull of a switch as you heard something coming from the car you pulled alongside of at the next red.
“Turk, sparing no time,” said the voice from the stereo. “Not giving us even a single second to effin’ breathe, just hitting us with one banger after another; it’s…”
“Yeah, we get it, we get it. Let’s hear that ish. Let’s hear it.”
“We loading it up now.”
“Load it faster.”
You looked over into the car, seeing the young black woman who drove it, looking down at her stereo, her expression stilled by anticipation.
You held your breath.
There was a honk behind you, and she looked up, even before you did, to see the light was green. You only accelerated, not noticing the honk or the green light, to keep up with her stereo, forgetting your mom’s car had one of its own.
“Okay! Here it is! You ready, 103 fam?”
“Load it up already!”
“Without further ado, Turk, at it again.”
The concern on your face as you ran parallel to the car, made slightly lighter by a bit of sportsmanship, at least its thrill, and the humor, began to take on a much more grave aspect as the verse, laid over a Kanye West beat, continued:
“Yo, jump off a bridge, ghostwriter said Simon says
I call him a predator, he’s got “nothing to hide,” he says.
Your verse need an editor. Now here one appears
Turk. I’ve been cutting niggas for hundreds of years
I hike up your skirt, start mounting your rear
Now that’s something you’ve been doing for your whole damn career”
You saw the car in front of you, but you almost rear-ended it anyway, your mind now in a panic at what you were hearing. The car in the next lane, switched a lane further to the left, and you swerved through traffic trying to get next to her again.
“Leave me dead on the pavement? Ghostwriter from a slaveship?
Yakub-ass nigga. Your ghostwriter’s from a cave, bitch
The only white boy who’s not a federal agent
And if he wasn’t marrying one of ours, I’d say that he’s gay, shit
Not even a lizard person. An Epstein, a sicker version
But I can’t even say it, won’t mention which perversion
You both feed off the other like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton
And if you had Liz Taylor, she’d be leaving with her ass hurtin’
I’m the boy who cried Virginia Woolf- ”
You slowed down to a crawl when the car did, forgetting to breathe, your shirt drenched in your own sweat. You cut before the car behind her, hearing the music faintly over the distance and the angry and prolonged honk behind you. After turning, following her, you pulled back to the right of her and continued, the music continuing with you:
“Red pill, blue pill? Must’ve been on your mind
You’re Morpheus, slipping blue pills to the beautiful kind
Take her like R Kelly for that bump and grind
I’d say you hate black women, but it’s never a ‘shine’
You like blue pills to get the girls with the blue eyes
The innocent ones, only been with a few guys
If he ghostwrites for you, why is he giving you payments?
Curious? You’ll find out soon at both your arraignments”
You were pale, almost to the point of looking dead already.
The song came to a close, and the DJs on the station came back, loud, excited, and calling for Greek to respond. You had no idea if Greek was listening to them. But you were, and whether they realized it or not, it was you they were actually talking to. You who had to take it upon himself to respond.
You pulled away, taking a few right turns, your hands sweating up the steering wheel, trying to get back on track to the studio. When you found the main road, you stopped, tires screeching at a red. You sat there for a moment, then you smashed your steering wheel with your palms “How!” you screamed out loud. A few men and women on the sidewalk glared at you as they passed.
You didn’t care that they saw you. You only looked ahead. How is he doing it? You asked yourself, now silently. He had gotten a hold of your verses somehow, verses written only hours ago, and, the more you thought about it, the more you were sure he only had the first one, at least at the time when he wrote his song. He had recorded a rebuttal in only a few hours. He didn’t respond to anything else you had said in the second or third verse, despite you sending all of it, all three verses, over text. He got that first verse, by whatever means, and scrambled to write something. He was writing it while I was writing my second and third. You had chills imagining it. Chills at Turk’s giftedness, his ability to do it so effortless, as well as chills of the more negative kind, chills imagining what would come next.
You knew there was only two possibilities.
Either Greek would lose this beef, and take a hit to his career, one irreversible. Or, the worst possibility: Turk, not caring about his own street cred, or, possibly, pushing someone else to sing to the cops in his place, would try to get Greek locked up due to these secrets that you could now be sure he knew. And if so, you would be locked up with Greek as his co-conspirator. There was almost certainly an incomplete line being drawn of police reports in various towns, one perfectly lining up with Greek’s tour dates. And, once the news was out, more police reports would come in, filling those discrepancies. The DNA evidence he loved leaving on these girls, coagulating between their ass cheeks, or in the follicles of their bangs, would be more than enough to seal the deal. Greek’s collection of accumulating bracelets and toe-rings kept within his home in Miami wouldn’t help either. On top of that, Hal would fold with minimal questioning.
A real fear passed over you. But more severe than the visions of prison bars, was the vision of your mother beyond them, looking in at you with glistening eyes. She’d say your name, followed with “…why?” The strange resolve in her otherwise soft facial structure betraying her inability to ever understand.
And as you looked over her, seeing the shape of her body, the shape you grew up adoring, the shape which wrote a million lines, you suddenly felt a hand grip your shoulder. You looked over to see a black fist there, angry, clutching at your shirt. You look back to your mom to see her twirling in angst, bawling into her fingers as she leaves filled with sadness and shame. You watch her ass as she goes, and then feel a hand on your own, squeezing your naked buttcheek, with something solid and firm pushing at your crack.
The thought, surreal and real all at once, faded, with Greek waiting outside the studio, staring at you, helpless despite the façade of rage, with a complexion almost as white as your own.
You both came in to Hal humping the nude black-haired girl who lay on the studio couch.
“Jesus,” you said.
Hal looked up, not slowing down in his thrusts, only staring at you through his determination. His bony hips thrusting back and forth mechanically against the surplus of feminine phat.
You looked at Greek. “I thought we agreed you were done.”
He said nothing.
“Should I stop?” Hal asked, still humping, his pelvis filling her soft, pale ass.
You stared for a vague moment. “No,” you said. “Might as well finish her off.” You watched her soft flesh give, enjoying seeing it in person for once. You turned over to Greek. “Did you…” you pointed at the girl.
“Yeah,” he said. “Five minutes ago. That’s when I heard the song.” He was breathing heavy, stressed beyond any appropriate level of guilt. “Listen. I have a problem.”
“Might as well do it again,” you said, making it sound as if it were a rhetorical point alone, depriving each syllable of your every want. “Leave your nut all over her while you’re at it. If he knows you do it, he probably knows with who, and half those girls probably had rape kits done. Might as well go the whole nine…” Your voice began to pick up an enticing rasp near the last few words, so you cut your sentence short.
You could feel Greek’s graveness behind you. Hal though, not understanding, smiled knowing that he had permission for what he was about to do. He pulled out, mounting the girl’s thighs with his own and nutted onto the giant cheeks of her ass. You knew that if her hair was blonde, and if her head was turned, you could have imagined she was someone else.
“Greek,” you said, looking to him with a blank expression. You nodded toward the girl.
“I already did.”
“Might as well do it twice. Let off some steam,” you said softly. “Get rid of some stress.”
There was a silence then, only Hal’s labored breathing as he sat aside now, naked, his penis, already small, getting smaller with each passing second.
“Okay,” Greek said. He moved toward the girl, removing his clothes. Your own breathing became heavy, more so with the thought that this might be your last time seeing this, and your first time seeing it in person.
His black cock came loose, half-hard again, throbbing over the pale shapely body below. But before he could mount her, there was a knock outside. You looked at Greek, who hovered over the pretty girl’s sleeping face, then you turned around. The door knocked again.
You moved to the vestibule and opened it, standing in a way that barred whoever stood there entry or sight into the room. Standing there was a young man, dressed like he was a member of The Cure or Bauhaus. “Hey, sorry to bother you, guys. Just wondering if my lead singer wandered in here.”
“No,” you said, and shifted in place. “Just us.”
“Okay.” He was about to turn and leave.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him though. What does he look like.”
“She looks like,” he answered, an emphasis on ‘she.’ “Like a… well… like me.” He motioned down at himself. “But she’s a lot prettier… obviously.”
Your face was pale, paler than his own. “No,” you said. “Haven’t seen her.” You realized that if you had been wearing as much makeup as he was, beads of sweat would be cutting lines through it right now.
“But you’ll tell me if you do,” he said, pointing at you playfully. “Like you said.”
You swallowed almost audibly before him. “Like I said,” you repeated hoarsely.
“Cool, man. Anyways, good luck with the record.”
You watched him go. He turned once to throw up a hand gesture. “Rock and roll,” he said encouragingly.
It was only once he disappeared around the corner that you shut the door. When you came back into the studio, Greek was standing there, fully clothed, her big naked ass below him. A look of guilt on his face.
“What are you doing?” you hissed. “She records here…”
“I need my fix,” he said. “I have a problem.”
No, you thought. WE have a problem.
You helped Hal stuff her in a duffle bag, feeling the smoothness of her flesh against your palm and fingers, her soft weight in your arms, as you lifted her in. You got most of her inside, but were having trouble with her left ass cheek, which you had to press beyond the gate of the zipper with your finger tips, one inch of fat at a time. You felt bad touching her nude like this, like you were cheating on Desiree somehow. Once she was in, you zipped it up, leaving it a little bit open for air. When E-Dawg came up, him and Hal took her outside using the stairwell.
“You sure this park is legit?” Greek asked.
“It is,” you said. “There’s plenty of homeless people there these days. They’ll get blamed for it. A few of them will probably find her and use her first, so it’ll work out perfectly. Cops are lazy. They’ll go with what’s obvious. Everyone does.”
He snorted, not out of humor, but out of stress. “I’m lucky I have you, man.” His voice was strained, heavy with an uncharacteristic emotion. “Without you, I’d be... I don’t know, man.”
I don’t know either, you thought.
“Do we…” he looked at the empty recording booth. “Should I…”
“He already has all three verses,” you said, referring to Turk. “To record and release them would just confirm that he knows all about you.”
Greek was silent for a moment. “He really played this one beautifully, didn’t he?”
They call him the best for a reason, you thought. “Yeah…”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” you said. You were silent for a moment, looking at the ground in thought. “I’ll write something new, I guess. And tomorrow, I’ll drive it in. I won’t show no one until then.”
You heard the outer door open, and you could hear E-Dawg and Hal’s voices, the former chastising the latter, as usual.
“No one…” Greek said, before they entered the room.
They came in, still arguing.
“No one,” you repeated, and you looked down at the floor. Not even my own mother.
-------------------------------------
A crumpled piece of paper, made messy with 32 lines of lyrics, fell onto his lap. He looked up at you, then looked down at it, squinting to read your writing.
“There’s more on the other side,” you said. “Let’s do four verses.”
He turned it over. “Four,” he repeated.
“For good luck,” you said. “Like the leaves on a clover.”
He readied to get up from his slouched position, still wearing the gait of defeat. Then he stopped mid motion and looked around. “Should we wait ‘til E and Hal get here?”
You looked at him sternly, then leaned forward and spoke low. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
He knew what you meant immediately. The bare fringes of his face as he leaned back showed he did. He grabbed the page off his lap and moved past you. You stepped aside, watching him as he moved to the booth with confidence. You saw that confidence, and, in response, you grinned.
------------------------------------
Earlier that day, you sat in the kitchen, furiously scribbling at the pages of your notebook, pages which had began the morning blank…
And uncrumpled…
Your mom, moving past, was invisible to you. Her ass, even in its eye-catching blue skirt, wasn’t even registered by your conscious awareness. Your entire focus was absorbed by that page and what you wrote, in your own shade of blue, within its lines.
You bluepill rappers. Put ‘em to sleep when you spoke
I keep feeding ‘em red meat, now they’re woke
You’re dead meat. I drop bars, you drop soap
A dead heap. Your every word and peep, it’s just cope
Your mother sat, her calves underneath her thighs, the heels of her feet resting against the fat of her ass cheeks. Her brow was knitted into concern. She now sat, the scribbled words, the sound of their scratching against page, pulling her into their unknown vortex. She felt herself being sucked in by the energy, felt herself being sucked upward, her clothes sucked harder, sucked off her and sucked upward and away, with her naked self not too far behind, being projected up through the storm’s eye.
It was a strange sensation. They were just pen strokes after all. But it was as if they contained their own gravity, and she, being in their world, would succumb to that gravity. Succumb to it… whether she liked it or not.
Unlike me. I’m China white, I’m just dope
And the vagina I like is white? That’s a nope
I like black women, moolies. Bad women
Booties carried around by these beauties, that expand denim
My plan for winnin’ against you sittin’This a protest, it’s a sit in. You’re all-
There was a knock at the door, breaking you, with extreme violence, out of your focus. The world sucked back into physical being around you. You shot up, and towards the door, driven by impatience toward the source of your interruption. You emerged from the kitchen to see your mom, a shapely blue now apparent to you for the first time today, to your left, but you continued on, getting to her door before she could. She stopped dead, and her phat, as you could see in your peripheral, jiggled from the inertia.
You opened the door.
E-Dawg stood there, alone, with his usual grin. You stared at him a moment, alarmed, but you didn’t know why. Before you could figure it out, he spoke.
“Hey,” he said, looking a bit nervous. Especially in the eyes. “Mind if I come in?”
You noted a trembling in his lip. “Sure,” you said, and you slowly began backing away from the door.
He didn’t move. “Mind if I bring in a friend?”
You stopped.
----------------------------------------------------
Greek came out of the booth, you looked up at him from the boards. His expression was bright, its shape infected by the whiteness of his teeth, which showed from one end of his mouth to its other. “How’d it sound?” he asked.
“Good,” you said. “We need Hal in here later to clean it up though. We’ll publish it while he’s in the room to make sure that…”
“How’d I sound?” he asked, confidently, but with the barest traces of anxiety.
“Great,” you said. He could tell by the look in your face that you meant it. “I think that might be your best work.”
“Great, great,” he said. He looked around the studio with a simple expression, one childlike and gleeful. “Hey, what you say we celebrate. I’ll get the shit. The… uh.. Cristal.”
He moved to the corner of the room, toward the mini-fridge.
“Uh,” you said. “Speaking of celebration.” He stopped and turned to look at you. “I… here, I”ll just show you.”
------------------------------------------
It was as E-Dawg stood there, in your mother’s doorway, waiting for your reply, that it occurred to you what it was that disturbed you so much: You didn’t remember telling any of them where your mother lived. Not even Greek.
You didn’t say anything, but as if it was sufficient enough to get his answer, E’s arm extended beyond the doorway’s edge, and when it came back, he held a black man by the hood of his sweater.
“Where the white rappers at!?” the man said comically, and then smiled, his white row of teeth wide.
You recognized him even before the smile. But the smile made it unavoidable to you now.
“Turk,” you said.
He only stared back with his trademark grin. “Greek,” he said. “It’s finally good to match the true face with the name.”
--------------------------------------
“Where we going?” Greek asked from behind.
You guided him down the hallway, stopping yourself from wiping your moistening palms against the side of your jeans.
“Nigga. I ain’t one for surprises. I told you once. Where I’m from, surprises is set-ups half the time.”
You swallowed but kept moving. You were about to say something, even through the tightness in your throat, just to break the silence, just to keep him at ease.
He laughed to himself, destroying the need for it. “Don’t want to end up like Pesci in Goodfellas.”
He began laughing behind you. You saw the door up ahead. You began laughing with him, feeling it get easier, calming your nerves as the door got closer. Maybe not calming them enough.
You grabbed the doorknob.
“Can’t wait to see what this is,” Greek said. “You’re just delivering gift after gift today, aren’t you?”
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Your mom stood next to the dining room table, moving things around, not knowing how to occupy herself with these strange men now in her house, sitting in her kitchen, turning it into their own little office. The fact that one of them was apparently a celebrity had her on edge. And though she would never admit it to herself, the fact that they were both black factored in almost as strangely, even if the effect were only viscerally felt, birthed from some unknown part of her, some instinct she had suppressed.
“Beautiful house, this is,” Turk said.
He sat across your mom’s kitchen table from you. He looked over at the wall. Beyond the wall, all three of you knew, your mom was standing there in the dining room. As of now, she wasn’t visible to any of you.
“It’s not really my type. But I can appreciate beauty when I see it. What did Greek – uh, I mean you, of course – what did you say in that one line? ‘I’d rewind it right back, you’re as blind as a bat.’ Something like that.”
“That’s it,” you said, your voice drained of life.
“How did I find you?” he said, knowing you were curious. Then he continued speaking to the rhythm of your lyrics, finishing them with his own. “I must be a true detective. Time is a flat –“ He paused, letting the rhyming word breathe. “…circle. Greek’s ghost writer is the white Steve Urkle.” He leaned back. “I apologize for that one. It’s out of line.”
You nodded slowly, stiffly.
“You know who’s never out of line? Out of lines, I mean. You and I.” He motioned toward the two of you with his thumb. “We just – our brains – it’s like…” his two fingers were twirling in the air. “…it’s like… it just spills right out of us. Doesn’t it?”
You nodded.
“Doesn’t it?”
“It does,” you said.
“You think Greek understands that at all?”
E-Dawg looked at you with a grin on his mouth.
“No,” you said, and you adjusted in your seat. “I don’t think he does.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Turk. “Because he’s not really an artist. Not like us. That’s what you and I have in common.”
Your mom moved to the other side of the dining room table, adjusting things aimlessly, her breathing slight. She could see the back of the two black heads beyond the doorway, but she said nothing. Nor could she penetrate the thick cloud of obscurity, the labyrinth of words and ideas the conversation seemed to keep itself afloat on. Her mouth was dry. Her bottom lip, just for a moment, quivered.
“Though,” Turk continued. “As similar as we are… there’s one way you and him… one way you’re the same…” He nodded and shrugged. “A very big way…” His eyes went wide, nearly in mockery. “And I’ve seen it all. Everything. It pays having an inside man…” he motioned with his head toward E-Dawg.
E-Dawg only continued to grin.
“One who knows he’s an inside man. And… another… one much less quick-witted than E… and one much, much less quick-witted than you… who… sort of…” he tilted his head to both sides quickly. “...doesn’t realize who he’s working for. That’s… uh… studio engineers for you. ‘specially the white ones. Mine are the same.”
“You tell him to do something with all our phones and laptops,“ E-Dawg said. “But you don’t tell him why. He’ll do it. And he’ll never connect the dots. That’s why I love that dumb white nigga.”
Turk was looking at E with a smile, hands together in a barely-plausible cordiality. “You know, you’d think that white nigga is too high up in the clouds to question anything. After all, he’s getting more from Greek than you are.” He turned to look deep into your eyes. “At least… heh… that’s how it’d look on first glance. Thanks to that retarded white nigga and his computer savantism, I know how you get paid.”
He adjusted in his seat comfortably, as you sat stiff, motionless, and sweating, saying nothing.
“I know about your little black eye, all the things it sees. All the hours of footage you have. I have it too… now, I mean. For the past few months. Again… they’re not my type, but…” he turned again to look, this time, his left eye, peeking beyond the edge of the kitchen doorway, looking into your mother’s right. “…I get the appeal.”
She turned her head, it invisible now. Her big ass, wrapped in blue, could still be seen poking beyond the frame of the doorway.
He turned to look back at you, his expression now frightful in its joy and the intensity of that joy. “I know what you get out of it… being the secret genius… being the one who always goes unsung… with your gifts. Is that what you got into this shit for… to die in obscurity? You got that good… heh… all those years of practice… all those verses, verse after verse after verse after verse… all of it… years worth of trial and error, years worth of blood, sweat and tears… all… just to be a nobody?” He was leaning in now, one eye squinted. “I know…. What you see as payment. I know, giving him those…” he stopped himself from saying. “I know why giving him them is its own reward.”
You said nothing, only able to continue looking him in the face because it took more courage to look away.
“I know what you’re paid…. And…” he leaned in now, his face nearing yours. “I know what you wished you were paid.”
He began laughing, E-Dawg smiling next to him, then he slowly fell back into his seat.
----------------------------------------------------------
You opened the door.
“What you gotta show me, ni-“ Greek froze. There was a silence for the moment. “Motherfucker…” he said. He shook his head, in true disbelief, not just for show. “This… this one right here…” He shook his head again, his eyes moist, hungry. “This one might be the best one yet.”
---------------------------------------------------------
You looked down at them, the red one on you mom’s kitchen table. Turk pointed toward it with his upturned hand. It was a red M&M. Then you looked to the one his other hand pointed toward. The blue one.
“Which will it be?” he said. “Red pill? ….or the blue pill?”
The blue one sat there, chalky. So small, so innocuous, yet it would decide so much.
You stared at this fork in the road before you, your frame trembling. It was strange that a decision so weighty could be supported by your mom’s kitchen table. You turned and looked at the wall, seeing nothing, but feeling your mom burning on its other side. Little did you know, she was staring at you through that very same wall. She felt a tremble run through her, just as you had.
Though unlike you, she didn’t know why.
------------------------------------------
His big black hand came down, smacking against the lump of flesh within the blue skirt. “Motherfucker,” Greek said. Just like he always did.
Motherfucker, you thought from the doorway. And as you closed his grinning face in the room with his new, and his last, moment of fun, you knew you did so with another, much smaller friend to keep its on eye on the festivities for you.
Its little black eye.
You shut the door.
-----------------------------------------
“Wh-?” your voice broke through.
Your mom heard the strain in it, felt your awkward gait, intuiting it like the walls in her home were transparent and plastic.
“Why are you doing this?”
Rather than answer with words, Turk leaned forward. You followed his hand with your eyes until it found your notebook. Then you followed as he slid that notebook slowly, snakelike. Its pages were filled with blasphemy against him. He slid it between the two of you. He then, all at once, tore the page, then quietly, with none of the rage the tearing implied, rolled it up into a ball, and threw it over his shoulder. Your mom saw it bounce on her kitchen floor, hit her stove and then stop dead. It laid there, its ends expanding barely noticeably, puckering like a flower.
“Let’s start from scratch,” he said, grabbing the pen, not looking you in the eye. “Me and you.” He looked up at you, his natural mouth forming into a grin. “As equals.”
You felt a sudden rush go through you.
Noticing it in your face, he continued. “It looks like this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
He looked down at the page.
“Matter fact.” He began writing. “Looks like we got our first line.”
-----------------------------------------
You shut the door to the booth behind you. Then you turned around, seeing your laptop sitting, open-lid, on the chair you dragged within. The studio microphone loomed above it. You had never been so close to it before.
Your mouth was dry, your lips trembling. You could hear the sound of Greek’s thick lips against the soft white flesh you left him with.
You picked your laptop up in your trembling hands, and you sat down where it was laying. Then, you leaned forward, placing it on the opposing chair. You held your breath as you pulled the chair closer to your knees.
Then you opened the laptop lid.
Your face went white.
He was starting the way he always started, by freeing those “pink toes,” the start of the ritual, their hue and shape, still exotic to him after all these years, still the greatest evidence that he had made it.
You watched him do it again, not even a little bit novel in his method, but in spirit now, it was world’s apart. Because the foot you were staring at, the one he held before his hungry eyes as evidence of his apex standing at the top of the food chain, was the foot of your own mother.
------------------------------
Her feet sat underneath the kitchen table, her toes bare against her kitchen tiles, as her leg fidgeted awkwardly, a guest within her own kitchen now.
“A toast,” Turk said, lifting his glass. “To this beautiful household. Perhaps,” he said, then he looked at you. “The most beautiful we’ve seen yet.”
Your mom, awkwardly, lifted her glass of champagne. It clanked against everyone, including your own, which shook in your hand.
Turk smiled at you after his sip. “What rhymes with friendship. Let’s let the genius do it.”
Your mom looked over at you, then at the pen you held in your fingers, then at the blank page below it.
A red M&M, sitting entirely by its lonesome, rested at the edge of the notebook.
Her champagne hissed and sizzled.
----------------------------------------
You pulled your cock loose from your pants. It was harder now than it ever had been.
Harder than the time you lay naked on your bed as a teenager, next to that blank page, your mind, the wide breadth of your imagination, filling with strange possibilities, with rhythms which, like wings, could support those possibilities, making them airborne, making them mobile and majestic, allowing them to fly vividly into your open window, sitting next to you cooing in the privacy, the intensity, of your childhood bedroom.
You lay next to it, with all time and space before you.
--------------------------------------------
Looks like this is a start to a beautiful friendship
Ghostwriting rumors? Let’s put ‘em to bed, bitch
“Ooh, nice,” Turk said. “Straight off the jump.”
Your mom stared down at the line as you continued below it.
Take heed to Young Turk, and the truth that he lead with
The proof, you’ll see in Greek’s next return message
“Fuck,” said Turk, eyes wide. “Vicious, nigga. Vicious.”
This piranha bites the hand it was fed with
Because that hand on its own? It’s really a led fist
Something tells me Turk’ll eat em for breakfast
Greek’s next line will barely pass as a sentence
“Keep going! Keep going!”
He’ll be on his knees, sucking for verses
Licking the ballsack, on my nuts with the purpose
Because without me writing his shit, he is worthless
He’ll be on the casting couch, sucking Turk’s serpent
“Let me jump in, nigga,” Turk said. His chair scraped the ground as he scooted it next to yours.
Both E and your mom, over their glasses of champagne, looked down at the page. Your mom, silently fascinated by what she was seeing. As Turk began to write, you motioned to her glass. “Drink mom,” you said, with an awkward but genuine smile. “This is how we celebrate. It’s a hip-hop thing.”
Turks spoke his lines aloud as he wrote them:
“My black serpent, out my pants it’s emergin’
In it’s shaft there’s a curve and, drinks my cum then he’s burpin’
Giving that head with a twist, Ellen Burstyn
Or is it Linda Blair, cum in his hair quick when I’m burstin’”
You grabbed the notebook from beneath the heel of his hand and began writing:
Give her-
You scratched out ‘her.’
Give him a facefuck. Fucking his face right
First for real then in song, that means he’s gonna get raped twice
Your mom’s expression was flat, but her eyes ran over every line. Somehow her expression became even more flat as it went, as if the reality of what she was seeing, of what she had wanted so bad to see, rather than being a revelation, was an empty void, one which sat plain to her now.
Only wrote for him because I had stagefright
Now I’m hanging with Turk, which means I’m gonna get paid right
Now I say what I wanna say, but I’ll stay white
Turk fucking Greek’s mouth, I won’t say that it ain’t right
Turk, again speaking his lyrics as he wrote:
“Turk a plumber, just the way that that he lay pipe
My cock block out the sun, it could turn the midday night
“Smack that ass as she’s sucking my snake, like
Alcatraz, bitch their ain’t no escape tonight”
You grabbed the pad:
You’re gonna get your cheeks squeezed and your mouth fucked
The white boys here just to give his white house up
Disiree my fiancé, black and white, what I mean is
While I fuck my black bitch, Turk getting his penis
serviced by white lips. I look over and watch
Becky sucking that dick, racists calling the cops
He grabbed the pad. Your mom watched it change hands, her face growing red. She lifted her glass and sipped from it, just out of muscle memory alone. Her lips pursed at the taste of it, a taste she should have noticed as not right. Her eyes scanned over the lyrics, lyrics she should have known were beyond the acceptable pale. And even when she heard them aloud, her expression, untarnished, remained the same.
“White bitches now, they’re sucking black cocks
But if you sick like Ole’ Greek then you slip their ciroc
With a blue pill, gets ‘em in REM
While I’m fucking bitches legit with the new Eminem
The black bitch he got, well he’s gotta have zen
He got it from his mother, she’s a ten out of ten”
He looked at your mom after saying it.
As you grabbed the notepad from him, your mom’s glass, nearly empty, fell from her fingers, against the table. E-Dawg grabbed it for her, and put it back in her hand, pressing its stem between her pink-beige fingers with his black-purple thumb. She took it, looking down at it strangely.
Yes my mom, she’s like a million bucks
She’s Greek’s exact type, and the last that he’ll fuck
The new biggest rapper, is the world’s biggest cuck
My mom’s a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck
Turk said his lyrics now without grabbing the pad. He wanted you to write them for him:
“She’s already had the drink now she’s stuck
I’ve seen Greek at his work, I guess she’s shit out of luck
“With Greek inside her, he’ll be running amuck
And if he’s as gangster as he says, he’ll put a gun in her butt
Fuck him a white bitch to get him a nut
Thanks to her son, she’s easy as a minigolf putt
A hole in one. But she’s got more holes to fuck
Greek’ll treat this wet dog smelling bitch like a mutt”
The glass fell again. And your mom showed no signs of knowing it. Her head swayed as she looked down at the table, her eyes focusing on nothing. E-Dawg looked at her from behind, staring at the back of her blond head, a grin on his face. Her eyes caught the notepad again, and she stared at its flurry of lyrics, their body twisting up into one undefinable mass of navy blue, scribbles which, when together, provided the aspect of a storm, a nightmare of unbridled, unchecked thought made manifest in a world where no such thing should exist.
She’s just sweet meat, a pound of flesh for Greek to eat
The percussive of her cheeks getting clapped is the beat that we
Rap over. A plague on her ass like this is Passover
Her ass over. Spreading those cheeks so all our fans know her
By her butthole. Put the clip on the internet
I’m a bastion of charity, I know you gotta give to get
Turk:
“It’s Young Turk, I’m getting all the bitches wet
and getting hard at your mom getting fucked, don’t mean no disrespect
But two niggas at her house, what did the bitch expect?
Never relax around us blacks, did this bitch forget?"
She didn’t forget, she’s straight up in outerspace now
I’m taking her to Greek soon. It’s going to be great how
He enjoys her pawg ass that God has provided him
My mom’s brain is fried, and that feeling inside is him
“Look at her now” He grabbed your mom by the back of her neck and shook her playfully. She squinted then stared into space.
“----------------She’s as good as it gets
I’m like Mel Gibson in As Good as it Gets
I can read this bitch’s mind. It’s as blank as your cheque
As blank as Greek’s page after his ghostwriter left
It’s as blank as any smidgen you have of regret
Instead you’re having thanks that her ass getting wrecked”
All I want’s to see her ass black and blue
For him to get in those guts. For him to split her in two
Just because you’re her guest, don’t mean it’s wrong to be rude
Matter fact, Turk. Here. Rub your dick in her food
“The refrigerator’s full of mayonnaise and ribs for later
Fix a plate of fish, and the dish taste like my dick to sate her
It’s high in carbs, and it’s bad for the system major
But with Greek’s dick inside her, who needs a defibrillator?”
And you’re wondering, my mother, did I hate her?
If her parenting’s a failure? Or what she must have did that made her
Worthy of this fate. Did she go to hell and kiss its mayor?
But I’m here to let you all know, there never was a woman greater
It’s just that her fat fucking ass, it’s built and tailored
To be grasped and pulled apart and fucked by the dick it’s made for
She’s now sitting right here, can’t wait to betray her
Can’t wait for Greek to get deeper than my daddy’s layer
“Your mom has layers, this song has layers, it’s crazy
Your genius is as big as Tupac, Biggie, and Jay-Z
As big as Nas. As big as the cheeks of your mom’s ass
He’ll go in raw. Pulverize her at long last”
It’s a strong mass of flesh. Her white body
Gets used in his shameful, depraved, illegal hobby
He thought he’d take to the grave. He thought wrongly
But before prison, he gets this white slave on his salami
“And that’s the cheat code for life like Konami
The beast mode. The elite code like Hammurabi
All thanks to this white boy who’s scrawny
His life’s joy’s to get that black pipe up in his mommy”
It’s so strong, I can’t even write this calmly
I wanna see her ass fucked, I wanna see it strongly
I wanna see it violated against her will
That’s why we slipped her glass of champagne with a blue velvet pill
I hope the ass’ll be okay. “To hell it will”
Turks leaned in, his arm around her, feeling the curve of her ass.
“Look at this ass. Recover? It never will
That black cock will tear this ass up, better still
It’ll destroy her fucking pride and take your name out of her will”
You think I mind? Like I care about cash?
All I care about’s seeing my mom fucked in her ass
Her pure white image being shattered like glass
Her ass getting smashed, you can call it the monster mash
A nice mix. Get in her ass like ice picks
“Your white tricks. Adding her to your list of night flicks
Like nitrous. Pedal to the medal like cyclists
Greek’s right is to fuck someone of her likeness”
Right kids! Listen and hear this song
And do what I do, be brave and drug your mom
Invite your gym teachers over to get it on
If it feels this right, how could it be wrong?
“And though my voice getting hoarse like Tara Strong
I got my eye out for this like Justin Long
Jeepers Creepers, the two of us are Barbarians
And the way Greek’ll take this white bitch like King Kong”
And that’s the one goal. The essence of your son’s soul
And though you’re my mom, soon you’ll be saying uncle
Removing my belt buckle from a location that’s unknown
But I’ll be right there, watching your open butthole
Watching your butt go ‘blap blap’ to the beat
Not sure what you’re doing here, like Radiohead, Creep
But thanks to Turk’s drug, you won’t be saying a peep
Hope daddy watches me feeding your white chocolate to Greek
“The night watchman, you watch and are like ‘gosh’ and
Whatever white people say when they see a sight that’s ‘awesome’
You’re playing owl in the tree. She’s playing possum
Greek’s playing the wolf, I’m playing the Robin
“Singing the 411 to all the press and the cops and
All his fans ‘bout how he’s fuckin’ with no condom”
And after he’s done, she’ll be laying on that cart and
Takin’ by Hal to be fucked as her last partin’
He’ll dump her goofy ass in the park on the margins
The homeless will give it to her soft ass hard in the dark and
And that’s who’ll they’ll end up blaming it on
I wanna let it be known through the lines of my first song
But then Turk would go to prison with us too
He's the one who gave me the ultimatum, red or the blue
But with Greek’s new song, every line that he threw
Turk’s simultaneous song addressed it, like he knew
He cracked a smile, then brought me up on the stage
And from that point on, my popularity grew
I left the studio that day without backpay
Just a harddrive of memories to cheer me up on a bad day
My mom woke up, never knowing she’s been Greeked
Just being fucked in the park by a hobo who reeked
With not even a clue as to how she got there
With sweat and cum on her body, and some in her blonde hair
The cops swabbed her for cum in her big rear
As she thought “why me?” She sobbed. “It isn’t fair”
And though Greek would never get exposed as the culprit
He’s exposed as a fraud now, I did that one from the pulpit
Of fame. Critics say my lyrics are indulgent
If they only knew about what I write here and I don’t spit
On any song. Just write to release
Like I used to in my bedroom, to give myself peace
Gave her to Greeks without heading to Greece
If Greek was the Argonaut, then she was the Fleece
Golden hair with her derriere sweet
And no one knows where me and Turk got that beat
The one we debuted as a group and rapped over
The one that went “boom bap-pap-pap-“ and “pap” over
And over again. On her couch, my mom hears it
She’s proud of me, truly, but really what’s weird is
The thing that bothers her, it’s not the song or its lyrics
It's that it causes her toes to wiggle but somehow it kills her spirit
And it’s like that!
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