June 6th, 1967
Da rock went wide of its target, n' tha hoe wit tha singed eyebrows avoided it by inches. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stopped dead on tha sidewalk as it smacked tha fuck into a rustin street sign, n' then tha shoutin started.
Shakin her muthafuckin ass, she looked, n' found two ragtag gangz of thugs on either end of tha narrow street. Both was closin up in on tha lot wit tha yellow grass-the straight-up same dat freaky freaky biatch had been admirin from across tha street. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had barely noticed dem before. Instead dat freaky freaky biatch had been too focused on tha grass itself, n' how tha fuck up in tha heat of summer it had gone so dry n' brittle. Dat shiznit was such a muthafucka dat shiznit was up in tha middle of Boston instead of somewhere where dat biiiiatch wouldn't git up in shiznit if she lit tha whole thang on fire.
Da shoutin gots louder n' shit. Mo' rocks zinged by, none comin so close as tha first, n' they was answered wit jeers n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' discarded brew forty flung from tha other direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it spun lazily all up in tha air n' shattered on tha pavement: a signal.
Da on tha down-low of tha street splintered apart as tha packs slammed together like a thunderclap.
Bitch scarcely had time ta dive behind a cold-ass lil collection of musty furniture chillin on tha side of tha street, some suckaz of a unpaid n' unsympathetic landlord. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da gangs converged on one another, eight against seven by her count. They swung hockey sticks or bats or fists, they came at each other as mad dawgs would, all tha air a gangbangin' frantic choruz of howls n' yells. Insults was hurled like spears at mah playas n' everyonez mother, n' tha crew of eight, apparently all pluggin tha same mutha if looks was anythang ta go by, took grievous offense. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch peeped it as one of these, gangly n' wieldin a funky-ass bat, knocked down one of his opponents n' darted a lil ways back-he lobbed a funky-ass bizzle up in tha air above him, caught up his bat-swung-
Da basebizzle hit tha crumblin wall bout eight inches from her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da kid cussed n' started windin up fo' another, n' tha hoe decided dat shiznit was time ta muthafuckin bounce.
It looked like there was a openin up in tha direction she needed ta bounce tha fuck out. Well shiiiit, it had definitely been there a moment ago. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch bolted, cleared a gangbangin' fire hydrant, n' was nearly there when one of tha thugs staggered tha fuck into her path.
There was a soft whump, air leavin lungs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch threw up her handz ta catch her muthafuckin ass as tha pavement rushed up ta hook up her, n' white-hot pain seared all up in her palms as she made impact yo. Her arms gave way n' she knocked her grill against tha ground wit a sickenin smack.
Da riot took a dirt nap up in almost tha same moment, n' when her big-ass booty slowly pushed her muthafuckin ass up off tha pavement she found her muthafuckin ass surrounded by a silent crowd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch spat up blood.
Next ta her, tha pimp dat freaky freaky biatch had collided wit groaned, a hand comin ta his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Someone snorted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Yo phat friggin' thang Toby, you beat hoes up a lot?"
"Stuff it, dumbass, I-oh, crap, it straight-up be a girl."
Their lyrics barely registered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Her handz hurt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at one, n' found it a funky-ass bloody mess; so was tha other; tha heelz of her palms was thoroughly skinned. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da bright red made her blistered n' scarred handz even pala than usual.
Liftin her head, she found another hand outstretched toward her n' shit. Behind dat was a sheepish-lookin lil' man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was one of tha brothers, if tha fact dat schmoooove muthafucka had tha same nozzle n' ears as tha other seven was anythang ta go by yo. Dude was all gangly limbs n' bruises-he had a sick shiner brewin on his fuckin left eye, n' his fuckin lip had been split open up in two places. "Shoot, lady, wasn't lookin' where I was or nothin'-these wiseguys over here be thinkin itz they turn on tha lot-"
"Cuz it is," holla'd one.
Da muthafucka blasted a glare over his shoulder as she ignored his hand n' picked her muthafuckin ass up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brushed grime n' gravel off her clothes, looked up all up in tha pack. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'd bitten her tongue when she fell, n' tested tha sore place wit her teeth.
Her handz felt like hell. They burned, n' not even tha clean, sharp kind of warnin bite from a phat fire. This was a pulsing, mad salty ache. Experimentally she flexed her fingers n' winced all up in tha pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da one whoz ass had tried ta help her up took notice. "Aw, hell, dat be lookin like it hurts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Therez uh, there be a tha corner store just ova' there, you want I should-?"
Bitch shook her head, sayin nothing. There was gravel embedded up in her skin.
"Oh," tha pimp holla'd, deflating. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Someone else up in tha crowd chuckled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude hunched tha fuck into his dirty ass, handz tucked up in his thugged-out armpits, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "All, uh, aiiiight then."
Bitch scarcely heard him; dat biiiiatch was already struttin down tha street again.
Her handz still hurt. Da ache had dulled yo, but touchin anythang wit her palms busted a mad salty flare of pain up her arms. Even so, tha hoe wit tha singed eyebrows had all but torn tha salvage yard apart over tha course of tha afternoon, n' tha only thang dat freaky freaky biatch had ta show fo' dat shiznit was half a red brick.
Bitch threw her muthafuckin ass down on a stack of forlorn mattresses n' glared all up in tha empty wooden crates, tucked behind a row of rustin bicyclez n' warped wit age n' rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da crates was supposed ta have bricks up in em. They had had bricks up in dem fo' weeks, they hadn't been touched at all up in tha last half-dozen times she'd hit up tha salvage yard fo' parts n' pieces. Da straight-up fact tha bricks had been there so long was what tha fuck had gots her ta thankin bout dem up in tha straight-up original gangsta place, certain dat thugged-out biiiatch could put dem ta use fo' realz. And now dat dat freaky freaky biatch had finally figured up what tha fuck ta do, one of mah thugs had come along n' swiped em. Whoever dat shiznit was would probably do suttin' wack wit them, too, like pave a garden or something.
Now how tha fuck was her big-ass booty supposed ta build her kiln?
Bitch huffed aloud, n' her breath ruffled tha lock of neglected afro dat had escaped her ponytail while she'd looked fo' bricks elsewhere up in tha yard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it fluttered sadly fo' a instant before hittin her up in tha grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tucked it behind one ear, brushed dirt from her thrift-store clothes, n' then stood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da whole dope dizzle had been a waste, n' tha sky was startin ta dim.
Bitch shoved her fucked up handz tha fuck into her pockets, n' went ta wait fo' tha last buz of tha day, thankin bout how tha fuck rockin dem bricks fo' anythang but a kiln was probably a sin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They had been perfect, tha ideal raw material ta build what tha fuck dat freaky freaky biatch had come ta be thinkin of as a kind of altar.
Twenty minutes later, when tha bus rumbled haltingly ta a stop, dat biiiiatch was thankin of all tha ways dat thugged-out biiiatch could have made mo' betta use of dem bricks. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch barely bigged up tha driver, whoz ass always had suttin' thugged-out ta say, or tha smile from middle-aged bidnizzman wit tha blue tie she often found her muthafuckin ass on tha same routes with. When she automatically stood up n' followed tha gaggle of other ridaz gettin off tha bus, dat biiiiatch was thankin bout alternatives ta bricks n' systematically dismissin em. (Rocks, biatch? Too irregular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Metal, biatch? Too dangerous, n' where would she git tha right shapes?) As tha crowd dispersed, her big-ass booty stopped, n' looked around.
Around her stood gaunt, dull buildings n' stout lil shops, papered up in billboardz n' tattooed wit graffiti. Whips trundled down tha wide pavement like fat, chilly beetles. Da linez of telephone wires above cast blurry shadows over her, which formed theyselves up in strange crosshatches over whatever they touched. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A rustin newspaper rack kept a lonely vigil ta her left. Dat shiznit was noisy n' claustrophobic, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had gotten off all up in tha wack stop yo. Home was a phat forty-five minute strutt away.
Da hoe chewed her lip. Then dat thugged-out biiiatch clenched her fists, winced, n' mumbled suttin' unladylike under her breath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch jaywalked all up in traffic n' turned tha straight-up original gangsta corner dat thugged-out biiiatch came to.
There was a terrific, cracklin bang at her feet, n' she jerked backwards, her eyes wide n' body rigid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da sound was exactly like tha BB glocks she remembered firin at clay pigeons (and live ones) as a kid; it couldn't be anythang else; whoz ass was blastin at her?
Before dat thugged-out biiiatch could git behind cover-her chizzlez was either tha dented trash can or tha chartreuse VW Beetle parked on tha curb-someone holla'd something, sharp n' low. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stopped lookin fo' snipers n' instead looked at what tha fuck was up in front of her muthafuckin ass.
A positizzle stork of a funky-ass pimp was starin back at her wit moon-eyes yo. Dude couldn't done been mo' than all dem muthafuckin years tha fuck into his cold-ass twenties, not much younger than her muthafuckin ass yo. His limbs looked too long fo' him, n' he even held his dirty ass like da thug was permanently struttin on stilts yo. Dude clutched a lil' small-ass plastic bag up in one hand, n' dat shiznit was filled wit countless tiny white thangs. "Sorry 'bout that," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Didn't be thinkin no muthafucka'd be comin' dat … oh." His eyebrows jumped, n' tha hoe realized dat schmoooove muthafucka had a hell of a shiner on his fuckin left eye, n' his fuckin lip was split up in two places. "Yo ass is tha one from tha lot!"
Bitch stared back. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shrugged.
Silence ensued. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They looked at each other until tha muthafucka cleared his cold-ass throat n' straightened up some. "I uh, sorry, 'bout before. Don't be thinkin I holla'd dis shit." His knucklez was bruised.
Bitch shrugged again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude fidgeted, then snapped his wild lil' fingers. "Yo, aiiight, I know. Lemme make it up ta ya, howz free samplez sound?" Dude threw a thumb back over his shoulder as da perved-out muthafucka holla'd dat shit.
Behind his ass stood a white booth as lanky n' crazed as da thug was, set halfway tha fuck into a alley. Bright burstz of color was painted on its sides, n' a red-white-blue striped cloth covered tha top. Da inside of tha booth, behind tha dingy-lookin counter, was dark n' shadowy; faintly, dat thugged-out biiiatch could make up stackz of suttin' on shelvin inside.
"I holla'd ya eva lit a sparkler, lady?" tha muthafucka asked, n' her big-ass booty snapped back ta realitizzle fo' realz. After a long, awkward pause, she jerkily shook her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude gave her a hockey-player-gapped grin, n' he gestured her over ta tha booth. "Geez, ferreal, biatch? Heck, c'mon back, we'll set you right up. Fourth'a July comin' up, never had a sparkler, damn!"
Baffled, tha hoe followed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch peeped silently as tha pimp disappeared tha fuck into tha booth itself yo. Dude fumbled round up in tha half-dark fo' a moment, then turned n' dropped a thin cardboard box onto tha counter n' shit. Well shiiiit, it looked skankyly made, n' tha front was covered up in bright, stylized explosions. Da lyrics BLAZING GLORY was printed on tha front. "Here we go," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, slidin it open wit a practiced sort of motion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude produced a long, thin stick, mo' than half of it coated up in suttin' blue n' powdery-looking. "Watch all dis bullshit."
Bitch barely heard him: dat schmoooove muthafucka had pulled up a lighter from his thugged-out lil' pocket all up in tha same time. Dat shiznit was a Zippo, brassy wit age, scratched n' dented. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. A 1951 model, maybe, or tha 1966 reissue from last year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch owned nuff muthafuckin of dat model; dat shiznit was a phat one, though most Zippos were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Was it engraved?-it was too dark ta tell.
Dude flicked it open, smooth as anything, n' a light blazed tha fuck into game up in tha cavernous booth.
If da perved-out muthafucka holla'd anythang more, she missed dat shit. With a gangbangin' flourish of his bruised handz dat schmoooove muthafucka had presented both firework n' lighter, like a magician bout ta big-ass up a trick, n' then carefully put tha flame ta tha blue tip.
Bitch heard it before her big-ass booty saw it, a gangbangin' fizzlin staccato not-rhythm mixin wit soft tseeers n' cracklin flares. Da Zippo was pulled away n' tha Fire had bloomed tha fuck into suttin' new, bright n' dope threadz of sparks cascadin tha fuck into nothing.
Bitch was transfixed.
"We there yet?" tha pimp panted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Over tha two-by-two-foot crate of newly purchased fireworks cradled up in her arms, tha hoe shook her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch hadn't been able ta dislodge her smile since tha sparkla was lit. Da bricks, tha incident all up in tha avenue, n' her scraped handz was all forgotten.
Da boy, whoz ass was named Tobias n' apparently hit dat shiznit part-time all up in tha fireworks stand ("I gots seven brothas an' one ma, aiiight, gotta pull mah weight, I ain't no deadbeat."), was almost-but-not-quite laggin a pace or two behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude done cooked up a thugged-out drawn-out, wispy sort of noise dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't properly parse. "Awright, we close ta there yet?"
"Almost," tha hoe holla'd.
Her wallet had been utterly skinned of its contents just secondz afta tha sparkla Tobias had pressed tha fuck into her hand sputtered out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had dropped tha last half-hour fantasizin bout all tha pyrotechnics dat biiiiatch was now tha proud as a muthafucka balla of. Tobias, suddenly without capital n' a lil shell-shocked, had offered ta help her take dem home. Dat shiznit was only gentlemanly, he'd holla'd, n' da perved-out muthafucka still felt he owed her tha favor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da alternatizzle would done been nuff muthafuckin trips on her own, so she accepted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Dat shiznit was efficient.
Behind her, Tobias stumbled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da teeterin stack of fireworks his schmoooove ass carried did a spectacular leap n' he nearly toppled over entirely (she wasn't shizzle how tha fuck da ruffneck didn't) tryin ta hang onto them; he only regained his balizzle by ploughin hard tha fuck into her shoulder n' shiznit yo. Dude squawked exactly like a cold-ass lil chicken n' reeled backwards, spine board-stiff. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'd stopped n' locked her knees ta stay upright, n' swayed half a second before steadyin her muthafuckin ass. "Aw, dammit-crap, miss, sorry," Tobias holla'd, sheepishly. "Yo ass aiiiight?"
Bitch holla'd fo'sho, n' kept going.
Da evenin had turned damp. Overhead, cloudz threatened, n' tha air smoked thick yo, but even tha threat of gin n juice couldn't dull her vibe fo' now, nahmeean, biatch? They had left behind tha big-ass buildings n' cars, n' now tha ghetto was on tha fuckin' down-lowin as evenin drew on n' drained every last muthafuckin thang of its color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Beneath dem was weed-covered sidewalk, riddled wit cracks like spidery hands. Da remainz of one of mah thugss long-forgotten chicken wire fence had run alongside dem fo' tha last fifty yards. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Fucked up lil trees drooped at shoulder-height here n' there, crowded n' choked by skeletal bushes. Dat shiznit was silent but fo' they footsteps, n' tha occasionizzle breath of wind all up in tha trees.
Da hoe had just stepped over tha last cement slab onto mushy, chronic grass, tha five-minute-mark from her house, when Tobias holla'd, "What was ya doin' all up in tha lot, anyway, biatch? Seems kinda outta yo' way."
Bitch tilted her head ta one side all up in tha question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Was goin ta tha dump."
"Really, biatch? What for?"
"Bricks. There weren't any, though." Tobias had his own engraved Zippo, n' sold tha straight-up dope lil fireworks-maybe he understood Fire, like a muthafucka. Maybe da thug would KNOW how tha fuck she needed ta make her alter, her monument, n' what tha fuck a travesty tha bricks goin ta suttin' undoubtably mundane was. "I be buildin a kiln."
"A whoosit?"
Oh.
Bitch sighed, n' just gestured wit a jerk of her head fo' his ass ta follow.
They came round a funky-ass bend up in tha scraggly trees n' run-down fence, followin what tha fuck might have been, at some point up in its game, a path yo. Here tha immediate view was one wit oldschool wooden houses dottin tha landscape, up in various statez of decay n' neglect fo' realz. An especially sagging, squat lil home stood a lil off ta one side, red up in color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was surrounded by a high chain-link fence dat seemed put together from scrap, chunkz of salvaged pieces lashed together wit twine n' barbed wire fo' realz. A robin's-egg-blue shed-in even worse disrepair than tha rest, leanin crazily ta one side n' lookin like it might collapse at any moment-lay just beyond tha doggy den itself.
Tobias had caught up wit her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch glanced at him, n' found his ass gawkin all up in tha sickly buildings n' tha chain-link monstrosity. "That," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "wow. Tell me no muthafucka lives there."
"I do," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His head whipped round ta stare at her yo, but dat biiiiatch was already struttin toward dat shit. Dat shiznit was a perfectly phat house; what tha fuck a puzzlin thang ta say bout dat shit.
Da wind picked up as Tobias trailed afta her, bendin tha scrubs n' tha wild rosebushes dat ruled tha landscape as it went. Da hoe fumbled wit tha doorz handle, then eased it open: tha rusted lock on it had never hit dat shiznit as long as she'd lived there.
Tobias peeped her disappear tha fuck into tha dark grill of tha doorway, n' followed slowly yo. Dude hung back on tha stoop, watchin her as her big-ass booty set tha crate of fireworks on a spindly table. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did suttin' wit her hands, n' suddenly, there was light fo' realz. An old-fashioned candle dat thugged-out biiiatch cradled gently threw her shadow past her n' over tha dark shapes up in tha room.
Hummin gently, she flitted round tha room, lightin mo' n' mo' candles: wall-mounted ones, ones chillin on side-tables, a whole clusta of blue ones chillin up in tha bottom of what tha fuck was probably once a aquarium. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ignored tha light switch set tha fuck into one wall; tha wirin was shot, n' besides, dat freaky freaky biatch had never owned a lightbulb.
Deep shadows ate tha furthest cornerz of tha room, while tha ridin' dirty lights revealed a home dat was at once both spartan n' disorderly. There was not straight-up much there, beyond tha candles, n' tha lil' small-ass collection of tools, bowls, n' corrugated-cardboard boxes scattered n' stacked on every last muthafuckin available surface fo' realz. A calendar three muthafuckin years outta date hung on one wall. Everythang smelled like a cold-ass lil campfire.
Tobias might as well aint existed fo' all attention tha hoe gave his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fell tha fuck now upon tha fireworks, all fast fingers n' eager gestures. They was laid up one-by-one on tha table, stacked n' arranged by size n' color, quick as anything. Da crate clattered onto tha floor, empty, n' dat dunkadelic hoe turned back ta Tobias, handz outstretched.
"I can take dem now," her big-ass booty holla'd.
Tobias gawped down at her, n' up in return her big-ass booty stared fixedly at his baffled face. When da ruffneck did not a god damn thang else, dat freaky freaky biatch huffed softly, n' simply took as nuff as dat thugged-out biiiatch could carry right off tha top of tha stack.
They had already joined tha others by tha time Tobias came back ta his dirty ass, n' set tha rest on tha edge of tha table fo' her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch grabbed n' sorted dem too, n' then they was just both standin there, lookin all up in tha fireworks-or dat biiiiatch was, at least. Tobias was starin at her all up in tha haze of tha candlelight n' makin no attempt ta hide dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had folded her arms across her chest, n' was smilin a private smile.
"Well uh," Tobias holla'd, afta a while n' wit his handz shoved up in his thugged-out lil' pockets, "guess I mo' betta git back, anyway. Boss'll wanna know where all his crap went. Uh, sorry bout earlier."
Da hoe started, as if dat freaky freaky biatch had forgotten da thug was there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Then she looked at him, n' afta a sort of fucked up delay, extended her smile ta him, like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it felt awkward, stretchin her grill fo' so long. "Yeah. It aint nuthin but fine."
"Cool."
And as Tobias strutted home all dem minutes later, they peace outs exchanged, he realized dat schmoooove muthafucka had forgotten ta ask her name.
Hello! Yeah, I know, recycling a fanfiction, but I just couldn't resist.
This, in case you didn't realise, is W.C. Pemm's Sparkler, ran through an awesome site called Gizoogle. I don't own Gizoogle, TF2, or Sparkler, but I thought this would be hilarious.
If this gets enough views, I might even do the other chapters.
Ciao!
