这个给你 

Zhège gěi ne 

Mom says, stop by for dinner and pastries on your way home. 

Love Woo. 

– 8:57 PM –

I put on my glasses, take a picture of the fruit bowl “New color. D.A.D.88C”. Take off my glasses, polish them with my shirt tail, stick them in my  pocket, with my phone. 

“Please Start Silent Disco. Route selection Dimitri’s Patio, six mile meander.  Stop by Ma’s.” Grab an Asian Pear, throw my D. BOMB backpack over my shoulder, Miliue’s busted SONY monitor headphones over my neck and open the door and… 

“Ow Shit!”…kick Pen Man’s shin with my first step out. 

Standing right there smirking and spraying, “Where  you think you goin’ Bro?” through his spearmint Jolt and bourbon scented 1960 Julis Kelp whine.  

I Panic, scream like a sissy and kick his chins again and again. Until he backs up, flinching, “Ouch! Shit.  Margie and the Exes told me to pick you up. You got a bitch up in there? Yo. Sounds like Whynter’s sexy ah… 

Tonight, I might surrender to my desire to whoop  Pendragon Hedgeman’s ass, instead of two weeks from tommorow, when and where and why and how I want to, “Whatupdoh! Same  effin’ Propmasters’ Roast we go to every Sunday.  Dakini” 

My backpack answers, “Yeah Dude?” 

…voice.” 

Pen Man says, “Oh damn. It’s just your app.”  

My backpack, Dakini, says, “Yeah whatever Dude.  You have to talk to the furniture.  

Detroit – Bitch On My Backpack.  

And This backpack is your only connection to the body attached to this sexy  ass voice.

Cause Whynter won’t talk to yo lame ass.  

I’m Periwinkle Bubbles’

D. Bomb! Dakini numbah 1!” 

I say, “I’m sorry Baby! I know you can go on and on, but shut the fuck up and play the set without out me tonight. Send a message to Otaku Meganekko and Milieu, Apologize to Ma. Please. Thank you. Enjoy the set.”

Forty five minutes later I’m still sitting in Pendragon’s car, reading his new shit half aloud. Thinking, Why are we sitting here on the corner of the  Boulevard and Third, staring at the construction site across the street? 

Pendragon Hedgeman is in a dark, funky mood.  He’s yakkin about the HoJo, Red Barn and cinema that used to be here when we were kids. He claims that we’re saluting the loss of another home boy whose memory I can’t recall. Pen Man has no imagination. He doesn’t make up the stuff he writes, just twists real shit out of  context enough to be good reading. 

Tonight, Pen Man’s thoughts are more  than one hundred forty characters. Okay by me, he writes out of this dank, funky Beat poet vibe. Personally, I think he’s mourning the loss of our youth. I’m his only friend in real life.  

I write epic narratives. I suffer from Hypergraphia. Which means I almost never stop writing. I guess it’s probably something like giving a junky the ability to sweat the drug they’re hooked on. I should know. 

I sweat Psoul-psychodelicide.  

Because of a chemical accident involving a frozen phosphate blueberry-lime Ricky from Barthwell’s on Oakland Avenue, a spotted dick my mother kept in a Ball jar of Moonshine, hidden in the loft above Bubba Shadetree’s garage where she slept from the day she first step foot in Detroit and the day she married my dad, and some Silicone based microrganism that managed to thrive in the gunk and grime of the service station floor, I literally sweat the serum version of the nootropic drug PS 82.6.

My dad synthesized the active compound. Recently idiot hardcore game players have been experiementing with PS 82.6 as a street drug.

I’ll go into detail about all that and my folks another time. Let’s just say the deluted versions of PS 82.6 gamers Call G. I. V. (god’s eye view), and mix with various liquors before entering AR enhanced IRL environments. Allows people to kinda experience the world in my eyes. 

Anyway, I’m grateful to anyone that reads my shit and offers critique. Pen Man encourages me to translate my longhand gobbledygook into type.

I like writing. I bought a new wooden quill and ink to celebrate while I’m away from here. It’s been a long time. 

Pendragon and the Murder of Exes, this paper trail of women I inherited from Ron Allen and John Sinclair, that occasionally drag me into the incestuous above ground gene pool of Detroit artists, musicians and writers that like reading  my angry scribbles, which usually come out of my  childhood traumas, and the randomly reoccurring trysts I have with Watts Eurname, Umma Heyboo and Trulie Skrumshus.  

Pendragon and the Murder of Exes are a bunch of full time drunks that all spend an extraordinary amount of time playing the Bacchanalia, this stupid AR-LARP game, the Queen of the Minnie Me seduced out of me one gathering of Imaginary Friends. 

So, Pen Man and the exes are always hunting me down to drag me out someplace public, putting some sexy bitch in my face with a drink, getting me horny, then they let me know they want me to read. It’s always someplace with horrible food or worse  no food and always too damned far for me to walk home which pisses me off and…  

…Don’t laugh! That shit ain’t funny. I really don’t like reading out loud: 

The last time I let them talk me into doing a recital, I was desperate. I needed to go out and enjoy a really nice meal. Anyway just as I’m walking into this ruined  cathedral sanctuary, Pen Man spits, “Hey ahh hmm. Yeah well, Perry, I’ll throw you a buck and a half for twenty minutes on the lectern.” 

Not having anything to read I say, “Hey Bro. Thanks  but I didn’t bring anything to read.” Of course, Pen Man hands me a stack of coffee stained pornographic rants, I’d manage to type in the broken hearted faze before I forgot the muse. He’d been hoarding this pack in his trunk for just such an occasion. 

I could’ve thrown her against a buttress, flipped her skirt and fucked her blind and forgotten her name, right there in front of everybody, “Really?” I ask, “Emotional Tampon? You never read to me.” 

This kid Shango’s mom, Umma Heyboo climbing all over her like Whynter Wyatt when I’m well groomed, “Ooh! I like your reading voice, Lady.” My date hands me the kit, says, “Hi Pen Man. Make it three hundred and I’ll leave him with you.” 

Pen Man counts it off and she walks out saying, “You’ll get your half when you get home!” Pissing  me off, so I read it last. 

Still sitting in his car, presently holding his latest  book in front of my face. Feeling bad, because I didn’t remember the head or who had given me the gift card until right now, as I’m reading her  confession,  

“3:43 AM, I must be crazy.  

That first night I thought I knew what I was doing.  I made this old man tie me up, hang me hands and  feet from the skylight of his studio so that I’d come  and my Black Gurl Juice would drip from knots pressed against my chakra and into his “special cup” Into his “spice melange” for hot chocolate.  I thought I was gone just get my freak on with this  dirty ole man and be gone.  

But I needed those shoes.  

He don’t even remember my name. 

I don’t know why I’m at his door now.” 

I’m recalling afterwards the woman that runs the place, this kid Shango’s mom, Umma Heyboo, gave me a hundred dollar gift card for dinner at Pho Q!. So I let her give me a blow job in the belfry, while I  played the opening refrain of “Riders on the Storm’’ on the bells with my ink pens.  

I was really grateful for the gift card.  

 

Then, apropos of nothing, out of nowhere, Pen Man barks, “It’s Graduation Day! You’re a fucking writer. Shut the fuck up and write GaddammIt.” 

I ain’t sweating, Pen Man’s far too vain to spit on his own work.  

I haven’t spoken a word since I got in his Series  70 eggplant purple 1957 Eldorado Brougham, and said, “Whatupdoe.”  

I have gotten drunk on two sips of Pen Man’s Wild Turkey.

Putting the book down, looking up and  saying “What? Are you really spitting all over your pristine Fleetwood? Demanding that I write? Oh.  

Right now I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, “Damn! THIS IS A REAL GUN! Imbout ta fuk ewe up in here. Ya hear!” 

Pen Man says, “She’s an Eldo… 

…Huh? Eph Dee… Wha’?…  

Ow! Fuck!  

My hand. That hurts! ne gah.  

Let Go. 

Ouch! Please. 

Let Go! Ow! Fuck! My head. Wha’chu doin’!” 

Stripping his new pretty bright yellow nine millimeter fashion statement while Pen Man cries, “That’s not  the way this was supposed to go. Ouch. Shit. This ain’t the way this is supposed to work.” 

I’m raging, “Start the car and drive Ne ga! Don’t  take your hand off the wheel, don’t touch the radio.  Just drive or I’m gonna kick your face right through that vent window. Test me. Aright!” 

He’s whining like an eighties love song, “Are you  really taking apart my new twenty five hundred  dollar pistol? Aw Man!” 

With my left foot planted in his ribs, growling under my breath. “Don’t look at me! And Say it! Don’t spray it Bro. 

Pen Man, when I get back home. Immo whoop yo ass like you got a tail. 

I’ll be gone for what? Two weeks. A whole fuckin’ fortnight or something and you’re losing your fuckin’ mind.

Pen Man. Damn! Fuck’s wrong with you?”I’m throwing hollowpoint minifigure head packed bullets at his face, “S-So, instead of letting me have some fuckin’  peace. Letting me walk to the same fuckin’ Sunday night Propmasters’ Roast we’ve been going to for how many years?  

Your bitch ass has to drive me? Really? Like I’m not  going to be safe out here.  

Fuckin’ eh! Ain’t going to have fun.  

I’m leaving for Pripyat or Water Island or some toxic wasteland like that. I’m going to collect my winnings from the last time I  was in a fuckin’ Valhalla. I should’ve bashed your face in with that liquor bag full of Glitter. Whynter ain’t stopped laughing about that shit yet. (I’ll tell you the whole sad story later.) Then I’m going to get Buttercup. Then take care of some shit at the family farm. Then I’m going to handle that Orfeu shit you started with Shantell’s newest hustle. 

But damn. Fine, Immo write something for you before we get to the spot. And… 

…If you can put that toy back together, before I step out of this car, I’ll let you shoot me. But unless you kill me, I’m writing what the fuck I want to write. Now drive bitch!” 

As we rode, I wrote a poem about falling in love  and spending a lifetime with a woman with a lilted  Brixton Cockney.  

I’m just glad he didn’t demand that I read. 

That  would be so fucked up. Later on, this will be of  some import. Shit pissed Pen Man off to no end. 

On the way in to the party I’m still growling, “We will  not be revisiting or reliving my fuckin’ childhood just  for you to have something to write about while I’m  gone. Nah! I’m writing what the fuck I want to write  tonight… 

Okay so, mind you I haven’t been away from home  or out of the game for more than a three day  weekend in maybe fifteen twenty years. 

“…No! That was a real gun. What did you expect? Lucky I didn’t push your head out the vent window  of your own car when you turned into the yard.  I’m the only ne gah that hangs with yo lame ass. Why you always gotta test me?  

Where did you get that cheap ass banner? You could’ve painted it your damn self for less and who mispelled bon voyage. What I do to you?” 

Sounding like Smeagol, Pen Man coughs, “Isawyoufuckmymom” (An event I don’t remember, mostly because it hasn’t happern yet.)

Trying to change the subject Pen Man asks, “So, been a minute Bro, how was your week?” 

Almost as a reflex, I ask, “So, how’s Phoebe? Your mom. Here.” I say, “Take this apart.” Handing him the poem and like a dumbass, I’m explaining how my week been going, “Started with gettin’ your sister, Martes out of some dumb shit down river. She’s home, safe and sound, at the church with Mahalia. Then, Umma’s kid, the chick in your new book, walks into my studio, rams my funny bone with his little knot head, yelling through this fog of flamin’  pink Mu Shu Dragon Venom ‘I’m Shango! Imma GOD…’” 

He says, “Well you didn’t have to throw the pieces at my face and all over my car Man. I just got her conditioned. And what am I supposed to do with  this flowery Harry Hippy happy haiku syllable count no rhyme shi…” Spinning me around spitting and spurting like a reciprocating lawn sprinkler, “Yeah, but  Nigah. Check out the butt on the bitch in the blue and red.”  

I spot little Michael from State Fair and Schoenherr folding his chicory blue robes into his backpack. I say, “It’s a Gushi.”

He demands, “So, you hit that?” I say, I don’t think so. No, it’s an Old style formal Chinese poem. A Gushi. Besides, You’d be lying and that would, you know. Anyway, Hi  Doc, can we have some ice for Pen Man’s hand and  that knot on his forehead please. I should’ve pushed your big head out the window when you made that left under the viaduct.” 

– Call from Shantell – A.W.A. – 

-Sunday 11:08 PM- 

“I gotta take this. Shantel’s my publisher now. And that’s your fault too. Hold on man. I ain’t through wit’chu. Hey Baby Gurl. Wha’chu want?” 

Voice on the phone whispers, “Okay. Here goes”. Then projects, “Hello Mr.  Day…(HotKey Priority Code switch initiated)  …Mariposa”(HotKey Focus Override) 

I’m like, “Right Now? Really!” 

Voice on the phone, “Shantel says, play nice Dammit!” (HotKey Control) “This is Judy. Shantel gave me your numbers. I know you haven’t heard the show and I’m sorry to bother you but, I need to speak with him.” 

I put on my glasses. “Yeah alright. I’m here. Judy,  my Copy Editor Judy? Otaku Meganekko? The one with the cute headphone collection? Ni hao Xiao Māo. Sumthin’ sumthin. Hold On please.” 

I’m thinking, I know Pen Man didn’t mean it.  I always buy into that shit. I hate mobile phones too.  They’re like fuckin’ tethers and…

…Umaga is making a bee line right at me. She sees  little Michael from 12th and Clairmont, half naked  changing clothes in the kitchen, stumbles in her  clear heel fuck me pumps, bumps into Pen Man. The soles on her shoes starting blinking.  

She starts slurring, “You know, I still hate yo skinny  l’il blue ass for that shit you wrote, Nigah. But I’ve  had three of Doc’s… 

…What’s them Margarita things called.” 

I’m hoping that Umaga is talking to Pen Man. I’m saying, “Xiao māo Hold on please. Yeah. Yeah Pen. I Got it. 

I’m Fine. Gōnghuì jiékè. Thank you very much.” Now SHE is about five six, massive curly auburn afro puff. SHE is wearing Quincy Jones Signature  headphones, a hand painted Union Jack body suit, indigo peasant skirt. 

Pen Man sprays, “Wha’chu say Nigah?” With that stupid 1963 Julius Kelp accent. Union Jack giggles and says. “Oooh! Zài hēi’àn qìpào zhōng fāguāng. I’m fine. And, how are you, Sir?” 

Pen Man smirks. “Nigah what?” 

I say, Glow in the Dark Bubbles. Okay? That’s what she said in Cantonese.”

-Call from Vellocet- 

-Ignore 

I’m thinking, Three Umaga Huh? I wouldn’t mind messin’ up your weave. Neither one of us will remember a damned thing, and it’ll make Pen Man happy as hell for me to post photos of your Monday Morning Walk of Shame on the Ghetto News Network. I say, “ I like your shoes. Liquid Courage. I bet you’d like another.” 

Umaga says, “Yes please. Thank you.” Crosses her legs to start her spin, sees little Michael from Wildemere and Ewald, slips and falls into my arms saying, “Okay,”  

I’m standing her up and handing her over to Pen Man, “So, you keepin’em on when you fuck tonight?” 

Distracted by her shoes’ slow pulsing pink and amber glow. I say, “Pen Man, get the lady drunk please.” 

Umaga thinks about it a second, then barks, “Fuck you  Periwinkle Bubbles!” giggles, and growls, mumbling, “Yeah three of them! I’m still mad at you, but I’ve had three of them Liquid Courage things, so you can get some of this here thang tonight Buddy. Free ninety nine. Okay!” Umaga sneers, “Wait, I’m still mad at you.” 

I’m shooting my way out of this. I like round hips and Betty Rubble booty. Umaga is about fifty percent booty fifty percent crazy.

Pen Man is scared of real ass. He’s kind of like the Shadetree boys, Bubba Jr and Baby Bubba but with a higher IQ than both of them combined. Ass makes them stupid.  

About to start spitting rhyme and verse. I flood the  air, Pen Man’s crying. Shielding his face “Quit with  the…” 

All the ladies say, “Bubbles!”  

SHE says. “Oh Nag Champa and Lavendar. Yass!” 

Pen Man whimpers, “…bubbles Nigah!”  As I scoot into the alcove by the mop station, between the screen door and the cyclone fence gate Little Michael from Trojan and Basil is chillin’ in the glow of the kitchen’s yellow ghost light, “Whatupdoh!” Passes me a joint. Let’s off his bubble gun into the stream of people walking into the party. I lean against the gray brick wall next to him and watch the headphones stroll past.  

I missed the ass, missed the shoes, missed the face.”  

Ooh Pretty Bubbles, Thank you.” 

I got the voice. Back on the phone, “Anyway Kitten, where were we?” 

Judy, almost in tears, “Yes Sir.” sounding more  corporate kijira than American born Chinese bad  ass. I don’t like it. She’s saying, “Thank you for remembering, but now. I’m  Miss Palimpsest’s personal assis… 

…Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah. Nancy said, Fuck you. I’ll see you after GNO, if you still got a job bitch. Miss Wu! You make sure Hunter don’t do nothing stupid before… Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah!” Yeah! You know that Peanuts, Grown up trumpet sound. 

“Judy, you’re my contractor, My copy editor. I  swear… 

…Alright make sure to tell Shantell, I said,  Palimpsest pays you the same thing per hour, that she gets paid, for every nanosecond she stops you from working on my shit. Understood? Kitten.” 

She says, “Yes sir.”  

“If Shantell hadn’t told me to play nice, I’d be on a  plane right now to put that sow over my knee, just  as soon as I lay eyes on her. Right in the middle of  the reception area.  

Now What’s up Kitten?  

Oh yeah, what does she look like anyway?  It doesn’t matter, but I need to identify her when  I get there. You know, I’m a natural born asshole,  but I only want to be dick to her. Anyway, Kitten, go  ahead.”

Judy breathes deeply, giggles and says, “She looks like Indigo Obsession. I had one when I was a kid. Mom was always trying to teach me inclusion and 

acceptance. I’m not a bigot, I just don’t want to wake up with a stupid person. Is that wrong?” 

I ask, “Can they do stupid things, now and then? I do stupid shit all the time. That’s why I’m here in this stupid party.” 

She says, “Your dumb shit’s cute. Anyway. Sir, I’m In the Silent Disco with Miss Palimpsest. Now. She’s irate, shouting on the public chat, about how she made you rich and that you won’t return her calls.  I’m answering questions AS YOU. She’s paying for a  private chat.” 

“You mean like ALL CAPS, shouting? I don’t have her number. Her business card is probably thumb tacked to the corkboard wall in the break room, with all the other very important people I don’t give a shit about. Wait! I have a private chat? Why? Since when? Says who? Wait… 

…And someone to answer for me. Wow! How  much?”  

Judy continues, “Three sprinkles of Glitter per minute.”  

Beyond the gate and the wall I hear, “Okay! Meet me for coffee. 75 Sundae#242C. Ooh! look at all the bubbles.”

I’m saying, “Hey, I was going to give the Silent Disco just three more minutes, but since you’re all big pimpin’ and shit. We’ll give her five.  Then I’m going into that party. My going away party. I’m leaving town for two weeks Kitten. Just two fuckin’ weeks. And it’s like the Bon Voyage party for the Maiden Voyage of the Britannic. By the way, how’s the mix? I haven’t been able to listen to a minute of it tonight.” 

-Call from Vellocet- 

-Ignore 

A sexy laugh and a creamy Camuset Le Coq Sportif classic tropic jogging suit passes the gate with a hush of angry remorse and the scent of Nag  Champah.  

Overshadowing some day-glo green, over priced designer headphones wrapped around a cellophane tassel covered cocktail olive impaled on a Daliesque swizzle stick with tetherballs for tits saying, “Don’t he mean Titanic? Dumb Mah-fah.”  

Emitting SP 34.5, Socohol, the Stupid Pheromone from every hole in her loud ass synthetic sundress.  

Little Michael half smiles, takes off his glasses, writes Margaux’s name on the lenses with his finger and hands them to me. 

I’m thinking, Heifer, it’s damned near November. Okay, mind you, yes, it is seventy five degrees at  damned near midnight. Still, you’re out of season, and the scent emanating from your snatch is  moving at seven hundred and seventy five miles an hour, which means…  

That pussy can be heard like Wakko, P poppin’ pooh on the mic. And you really don’t want to play trivia games with me. Which means, the Hinx will  be out in mass, which means there will be feedin’,  fightin’, fuckin’ gettin’ fuct up and forgettin’ tonight. I shout, “I am not hanging around for that shit.” 

Judy says, “Palimpsest says, she wants to read short juicy bites of dumb, sweaty, cheap, rough, gross, main stream taboos and kinks. She’s got  to be a powerful, sexy, professional woman with a corner office, houses in the country. No sorry, a  Gilded Age estate and Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah,  fucks poet, poet falls in love, does the Reggie  Gibson thing, gets day job, climbs ladder Em-Wah Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah.” 

Of course, I’m like, “Disappears into obscurity  before they’re 60. Yeah Yeah. Who is this chick, my  daughter? Why a poet? A recluse professor I can  understand. A high powered executive goes to the  mailroom to be with someone they’re diggin’.  I can do that tear jerk crap. All day. But this really?  Okay, since we’re going to be typical and  unimaginative, let’s make her write the story.  Let’s get her all confessional. Start with a question 

like, Okay, yeah, how about she put it on some old  dude so good he left it in his will to her?” 

“Judy says, Palimpsest says, “Em-Wah-Em-Wah. She  says the character needs to be Em-Wah-Em-Wah Em-Wah.  

I say, “Okay Gotcha. Is it inherited? Nah she bought  it Retail? Didn’t she?“ 

Judy says, “By the way, the idea of you spanking her  got me a little excited. I saw the image in my head  and got a little envious too. I mean, I actually kind  of know someone that really respects the feminine  mind. I’d love to bend her over her desk and whip  her with my shoe like my mom did me.  

Palimpsest says, No. She’s self-made, strong,  independent and she works in a big Em-Wah-Em Wah-Em-Wah” 

I’m like, “Yeah okay! Whatever. I ain’t writing a  damned thing about no Black chick power broker  on Madison Avenue. I might write about one in San  Fran, maybe. I know a real one there.  

Okay Kitten, post this on the public hangout – I  want to spank your bottom in your office on your  receptionist’s desk in front of your subordinates,  but…” 

Judy says, “Palimpsest says, Em-Wah-Em-Wah Em Wah She’s marketing Orpheau as Em-Wah-Em-Wah  Black version of 50. Em-Wah-Em-Wah-Em-Wah”  I’m like, “No! Not another black woman with White Girl envy.” 

Judy says, “You can tell, she hasn’t read the book.  Palimpsest says something to the effect of Em-Em Wah… 

…I got the portfolio and the latest D-BOMB Shield.  I honestly feel like someone is writing for Sapio  freaks like me. I imagine you know our loneliness.  I felt sorry for you. I mean Papilion. I related to his  childhood and I really love the way you… I mean Papilion gets even.” 

I say, “Damn. You have read all my crap. Wow! I feel honored.? Fresh! Wow! Sweet! The kids over at little NIG gone love to hear that. They make each one by hand here in the D, in their own little shop.  Tell you what, I’m bringing you a version five and  a set of matching headphones. Flower Drum or..?  Nevermind. I got it.” 

Judy says, “The message board just went crazy.  Palimpsest says, Em-Wah- Em-Wah Em-Wah.” You really need to read the board responses when you get a chance. There’s some really sultry stuff! here. And more than enough mainstream stuff. Sunshine  Baby launched a Yellow Card with her name on it. There’s more than a shittonne of Glitter on a Tightlaced Tuesday.” 

I answer, “No offense to you Kitten, I’m trying not to think of you as sexy. You are, you really are, but I need your mind, you understand. Does that knucklehead know, I don’t have an advance, I paid  A. W. A. a retainer. I don’t think your wannabe boss is very bright.  

If I had an advance I would have written her a Black  Barbie bestseller a year ago. I know that A.W.A.  ships, scanned and sold, but I am not her elevator!  I’m writing what I want to write. Wait! Is she one the Umms Pendragon dredged up from my past? Hmm? Alright, agree to the deal and tell her she can get it.  

Anyway. Kitten. She doesn’t have any right to approve, edit or refuse. If She wants ratings? She  can pay me like an employee, I’ll perform like an employee.  

We can put her name on the title and give A.W.A.  a new hoodrat best seller every six months for the  next five years. In fact Pendragon says if I shut the  fuck up, he’ll publish the rest of the series. But I’m  writing for women like you. Are we clear?” 

I hear relief and some joy in her voice,”Yes, sir. I understand. Oh no. Please. Not that. We can fix  this publishing thing. You know I read about your childhood. I don’t want you to relive one more moment of that torture. Although the whole thing with the nuns and the Tesseract. Oh my. My panties are wet just thinking about it. Forgive me for saying  it, but Thank you Sir.” 

“Yeah, well. No Kitten. It is a privilege. Well we’ll talk  about that later. You know Kitten, I wonder how’d Palimpsest would like to issue me an electronic refund on my retainer? Tonight via cash cube, the same way I gave it to Shantell. Imagine me rubbing  my hand saying. Oh and send Judy along with my  refund Sow.  

Were it not for Shantell, I’d come get you rightnow. We could hire some old Manhattanite to represent me. One whose Nana will Bubbie me until he gives  in. Touching my hair for luck, grabbin’ my butt and feeding me great snacks. “Shut up you! If he were Jewish we’d call him a Mench. Come in Goy sit  down. He never brings his friends to see me. Makes  me think he’s ashamed of his Nana. Mangah  Mangah. Eat eat!“ 

Judy cries out in laughter, “I’d love for you to take me away from this. And my grandmother would do just that. Grab my dad by his nose and fuss.” 

“Yeah, nobody admits it, but every culture with soul has Bubbies. Anyway. Tell that sow to come to me tonight. Tell her, I’d like to tie her up by her feet and make her  recite Le Cygne, over a chopped and screwed remix of Hanna Chang’s The Swan. While a bunch of old  sissies in marabou tutus tickle her until she pisses  herself – every time she commits a reading error. 

Judy giggles, “Oh fuck! Ooh shit! If I could, I’d sit on your face and play ‘Funny how Time Flies’ on my Baroque Cello. But that’s too much. Oh, Palimpsest says, “M-Em-Wah  M-Em-Wah M-Em-Wah Em-Em-Wah…” 

I say, “You have been reading my stuff. Really Judy  I didn’t know you could talk like that. You and ego have synced first harmonics and I’ve gotten horny.  So, I need to say good night. I’m walking into my farewell party and need to leave before someone gets me just drunk enough to hook up with an ex or with somebody’s daughter and forget her name  before I cum. Tell that sow, I said, her five minutes are up.” 

Little Michael lights a Nag Champa, puts the  box back in its place, slips on his Grado Prestige  SR125e headphones and Propmaster hoodie.  Turns on his Subspace silent disco app, looks up,  flashes me a peace sign, blasts a round of smoke  filled bubbles into the air, dips out into traffic and  disappears. 

Judy says, “Palimpsest says, “M-Em-Wah M-Em-Wah  M-Em-Wah. M-Em-Wah! The chat has a life of its own tonight. I wish you would write about making her live as the defeated Trulie Skrumshus.” 

Pen Man is coming at me from behind the bar  yelling, “Dude! Com’on. I got somebody I want you to meet.” Umma Heyboo rushes up, smacks at the gate and screams like the same drunk, ‘I’m mad at (_blank_) …again…can I come over? I know you ain’t  doin nothin’… I’m outside!’ at 3:49 AM, booty call that sent me from “Youzakuleazzoledude. Nigah” to, “I aughta whoop your ass for that shit you wrote, pin you down and fuck you right here, right now.” 

Just as I’m saying, “Palimpsest is a whore. It’s all the same to her, except, the numbers make her  feel like not so cheap a whore. She’s going to figure  out how to justify saying yes to the money on that  Yellowcard.” 

I blast Pen Man, and slide past him while he’s  yelling, “Nigah! Quit with the fuckin…” 

All the ladies say, “Bubbles!”  

A dark, silky, smoky voice beyond the wall sighs, “Ooh! Umaga look. Glow in the dark Bubbles.” 

Pen Man continues, “already.” 

Umm growls, “Who do you think you calling a hoe?  Yo mans bought me like five of them Liquid Courage thangs. I’ll knock yo little funny lookin’ blue ass down and fuck you too. Free Ninety nine. Funny looking li’l blue muthafucka. Smelling like a kid’s bubble bath in a tattoo parlor. I love yo ass. But I’m mad at you for that shit you wrote.” 

Spraying the both of them with a flurry of Nag Champa scented bubbles, I yell, “I did not call you a hoe. Hoes are garden tools, Hoes are useful. You’re just pretty. What I said is Palimpsest Vellocet is a whore. But, I’m diggin’ your shoes. Umm… So, keep  it up. I might let you get it.” 

I continue, “You want me to write about what? Okay  Kitten.”

Judy finishes, “Yes Sir. I’d lay your head in my lap  and read to you until you fell asleep. Goodnight  Mister Bubbles.” 

I say, “Now that is a date. Pop music helps me  sleep. I’ll see you in a week and a day. Good night  Kitten.” 

-CALL END 11:23- 

-This edition of Silent Disco ended 

I’m thinking, Heifer, wait! I’m buying Captain Whyte  a new suit, a main gauche and a Beretta 94, I’ll be dressed just like this. Shit pissed me off so much, I’m buying a seat on the board in the company just to get at that bitch. Oh yeah! It is my going away party, I’m supposed to be having a good time. 

Pen Man steps off on some whore finding mission and I’m abandoned on Dimitri’s patio, surrounded by the murder of exes, who are all eyeballing the dessert table.  

Umm steps up to me and coos, “You know, I  thought about it and I don’t want you forgetting me. So Imma say thank you, but no.” 

The patio is decorated like the Bubble Lounge between the Bouncy Castle and subspace. I bow. I polish off little Michael’s glasses, step out onto the patio completely, unnoticed just like every weekend and with my trusty new bubble gun in hand, I set off to find Union Jack. 

When I find her, our first harmonic has synced, she’s horny, I can smell her, and I want to comply, but we both want something more enlightened. Unfortunately tonight is not meant for third harmonic bindings or seventh chakra orgasms. So, just as I had written it in the narrative, Pen Man forced upon my hand.  

SHE tucks a pair of AKG Q 701 Quincy Jones  Signature headphones under her dark ginger curls,  extends her leg to reach my hand with her jeweled  foot and says with a voice like weed smoke, “Hello  Bubbles! I knew you’d find me.”  

Crowned by the Murder of Exes, The Queen of  Desserts, spinning slowly, perched in the ‘Trip  Sitters Seat’: A Lyra hoop trapeze.  

SHE is dragging her naked foot in the ball pit  beneath her. The woman of my beautiful dark twisted fantasies says, “I knew this was your happy place.” 

I sit on the edge of the pit with a tres leche cake. 

SHE continues, “Way I see it. This is good!” Between  bites SHE says, “we’re going to go at it hot and  heavy for a minute. Then I’m going to hate you for a  long time and eventually, we’ll end up best friends.”

So, as it is proper and customary for me, I pop open  my watch, stop time for two point two seconds and  show her highlights of our shared lives.  

In her version, she’s right.  

Then In the course of a conversation a wonderful  meal, two drinks and the tres leche, this au lait tan,  beautiful freckle faced woman enjoys a complete  full and fulfilling relationship spanning a lifetime  with me.  

Rudely moaning aloud, then saying, “Oh my  goodness. I came. Oh. I don’t know. Oh yes. The  cake made me cum just like in the movie.” 

I say, “It’s my sister Corolla’s favorite. When I leave  the dessert table will be opened and the Little  Michaels will start inflating chairs for their guests  to relax and recount the night, while the boys  clean the place. Share the desserts whomever you  choose. Until you leave you are the Queen of the  Desserts.”  

The murder of exes are standing security. The little  Michaels are pouring out of the shadows. 

One ex says, “I bet he ran the shoe line oh her,” Margueaux replys, “No Girl, He’s only got two pick  up lines. That ain’t neither of them. That is a perfect  relationship. He’s getting up to excuse himself, pay 

his tab and leave before he fucks it up. I’ve seen it  a dozen times.” 

When Pen Man arrives I’ve just kissed her foot and  I’m asking her, “Now that you’ve seen our lives  together, can we please just skip to being best  friends?”  

She says, “I like your idea, but you know we fuckin’  Right? We can start the morning after. I’ll make you  breakfast.” 

I say, “Yeah I know, Sad shame face. I am Trulie’s  living dildo. But I don’t want to forget you so, can we  get to know each other before that? Like over coffee  or a walk through the D. I. A.? Pen Man is on his  way over to fuck up my happiness. So, when he gets  here, will you forgive and excuse me please? I want  to be gone before I say okay to sex with somebody  that already hates me. It happens. It’s been a rough  week and I’m feeling weak.” 

As is customary for me, Pen Man cock blocks,  stepping up, shouting, and… rubbing the rim of  a Margarita glass on my forehead. It sounds like  a Rin-gong (I’ll explain why later, right now I’m  pissed.)  

…and spitting, “You ain’t got no tab nigah. And you  ain’t leavin before you ate. George would be so  disappointed and you know John Sinclair doesn’t  get her until late.” These are facts. “And I gotta take 

you to get donuts for the shop tonight, before you  leave for Valhalla.” 

He plants a hand on my shoulder and spits shade  all over Union Jack’s hair and a list of ‘Detroit shit’  I gotta do before I get to ride in a hybrid airship,  “Excuse us Honey. I know it’s his party and all, but  Dude’s happiness is tertiary and he has fans that  want to meet him over there.”  

Pointing at my table, I know it’s my table because  of the roll of butcher paper and the sixty four color  boxes of crayons, with every shade of blue except  Periwinkle. 

The Daliesque Swizzle stick is too close to my table,  playing with my crayons and there’s a squadron of  Hinx looming around her. The exes are noting the  boys taking up positions. 

I ask, “Can we meet for coffee one day soon  please? I really should be trying to stay here, acting  like I’m comfortable and having a good time, but I  want to go home to write and get ready for my trip  tomorrow, but I have to do this all this Detroit crap  before I can leave. I really wish you could be with  me when I wake up. But I’d have to sleep in order  for that to happen. And I won’t be getting any sleep  with you for a while. We have a lot to talk about.” 

The murder of exes are spraying on Deep Hoods  OFF anti pick up repellent for the Hinx drawn in by the scent and sound of Socolhol SP 34.5 in sync  with sub bass harmonic thump of the mix.  

Dropping the two hundred and fifty dollar VIP  cover at the gate, to get at. “Yes! But not you. No!  Muthahfuckah! You may not have my number. I’m  not telling you my name. Yada yada ad nauseam…” 

The murder of exes get along fairly well, because  the few things they have in common are: their love  the little Michaels and dick, their lust of alcohol  and Periwinkle and their hatred of men in general,  me included and the fact that Periwinkle’s penis is  attached to me especially.  

That and given the right conditions they’d all do one  another. In one way or another. 

One Hink is yelling at Umaga, Penman’s and my  mutual poet exe, “Well, fine then. You fat ass, five  head Nigerian, Chinese-Puerto Rican, blue black,  high yellow, big lipped, short, skinny, flat chested,  mismatched eyes, half and half, too tall, no booty  havin’, pale, wig wearin’, red neck, wop…” 

When Little Michael from Six Mile and Oakland  stabs him in the Solar Plexus and starts filling a  chair with its frozen custard like entrails. What’s  left looks like a used condom. He ties a knot in the  husk, throws it in his backpack, smirks at me and  walks away. 

The Bacchanalia has begun. No Hinx will leave this place tonight. 

Pen Man is dragging me across the patio. On the  way I take off and polish little Michaels glasses and  hand them over to Margaux.  

Then Pen Man winds up and points the pale,  skanky Downriver cocktail olive on a swizzle stick  with big fake tits at me to hate fuck, ‘cause he  needs something to write.  

I say, “Pen Man Really? You got that whole  Eurocentric nobility incest thing down. She looks a  lot like your sister.” 

She steps up to me looking like Hugo Weaving  in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and says,” Hi!  How you doin’. Yo fren say yo name is a color. I’m  intrigued.” 

I blast Pendragon in the face with my bubble gun  while he’s saying, “Who Martes?” 

I say, “ Yeah. Your sister Tuesday.” 

Turn to the girl and say, “I’m well, thank you and yes  it is. It’s my nom de plume. I’m still feeling slightly  dejected. So, I’m a little sardonic right now. You’re  looking rather festive in that delightfully colorful  sundress tonight. Pendragon wants me to make  you take it off, while he watches. Please forgive my  rudeness, but I’m going to pay my tab and go home  now.”

She says, “You on’t member me, do ya?” 

Realizing that Penman has opened the Plexiglas  Confessional. This fucked up clause in the  Imaginary Friend contract that obligates the  Imaginary Friend (Me) to have sympathy sex with  strangers that spill their guts in public. 

I say, “Um…”Mind racing or mind playing tricks. Did  I go to Nestle Quick to get my game to kick? “Did we  have sex, and if we did, was it good, because I don’t  remember? It happens Yo.” 

Roni says, “Nah Ninja! If you been up in dis here piece right here nigah, you ain’t neva gone forget. But, you know, like, I was here ‘bout three weeks ago and you said you liked my shoes.” 

It’s okay. I only have two pick-up lines and that is  the intro to one of them. So, I say, “Please, forgive  me Umm.” Those shoes are not thee shoes that  caused that reaction. 

So I say, “I did, didn’t I? I was drunk.” I know because I can hear myself yelling in the background of Mike Clark’s mix tape CD. “Hell yeah! That’s my shit!” 

I hear Jack sing, “Ooh Bubbles. I love the scent of these bubbles.” 

I turn to see Umaga’s Road Sign Orange pumps blinking like a Plinko parlor. Dragging Union Jack out of the ball pit like a child, crying, “Gurl we can’t stay up in here. I’ll end up pregnant by one or three or five of these little mother fuckers. Let’s go! Now.” 

Jack is sighing, “Yeah I know, I saw you in the version where I get my way. Playing Auntie to all them little Buddah babies is what made me hate him. But he made me Queen of the Desserts. And you gets NONE. Ya’ll hear that. Right?” Margaux slaps Umaga’s hand away from the desserts, and the Murder of Exes take up defensive stances around the table. 

From beyond the wall, out of my sight I hear Union Jack say, “Oops! Excuse me. Sorry, I’m a little distracted. Ooh Gurl! I just had Dessert and some of that Liquid Courage. I’m on my way to get spiritually ready for some dick. Hold on. Love Union Jack. and send.” 

Then this voice like a lazy trumpet says, “It’s okay Honeysuckle. You are Bee Eau Tea Full.” 

Union Jack says, “Ooh Girrrrl! You have the prettiest  lips, is that plum?” 

The voice says, “Unt uh its called…” 

Pen Man says, “Dude! Would you quit with the  freakin’…”

Jack and the Voice beyond the wall sing in unison  and All the ladies say, “Ooh Bubbles!”  

Poof. It’s like magic. 

Umm just says, “Well my girlfriends Layla and Capri say there’s more to yo line.” 

Mind you, I didn’t write this part of what happened  next before it happened. In fact, I’m not even remotely prepared. And in fact, I only confess, because Umm. Roni will post the video on The Ghetto News Network. It won’t be very popular and  you can’t see my face, so I don’t care. I don’t think she got a pound of Glitter out of postin’.   

So I say, “Really? Well, I’m intrigued.” Really? Your  girlfriend didn’t tell you what I said to her, okay. You  need to fire that bitch! I continued, “Well, Veronica, are you just flirting with me or are you trying to pick  me up for the night?” 

She says, “Nah, I just want to know what the rest of your line is.” 

That’s Good! Oh Really? I’m raising a Yellow card. Some days I really hate being an imaginary friend. I should be pissed, but this too is par for the course of my life, so I roll with it… 

I say, “In that case, I’ll just have to see you in those shoes, won’t I Umm? I mean, these are nice sneakers and all, but they are not demanding my attention. Your smile is distracting me, I might like to wreck your makeup, but you’re just here to dance. Not trying to find anyone to press that W.T.W. button, right?” 

Being totally optimistic I’m thinking Not me please.  Yeah I’d like to give you the Super Selfie Face Fuck,  stick my dick through the fun house mirrored glory  hole wall, ‘til I gave you a black eye and moustache  with your own drawn on eyebrows. I still have yet to  figure out how it is the men that like dick, dictate to  

women that like dick, what beauty is. Because the  shit y’all do to compete with other women for the  approval of men that are in active competition with  you makes no damn sense to me. Jack looks like  a woman… Not a drag queen. A woman. Pen Man  chose the drag queen with a vagina that makes  good men into stupid boys. And I’m still pissed. 

Union Jack says, “Oh, and your toes are the same  color. You’re sexy. I hope they do like I would. Gurl!  U CAN GET IT!” 

The Voice says, “Hi, I’m Samantha.”  

Jack says, “Hi, I’m…” Penman screeches, “Yeah,  Nigah, I told yo gurl to meet me at Dutch Girl  Donuts. Said, we’ll have coffee and talk sonnets  and haiku and shit. She said…” 

All the lady says, “Pretty bubbles”. 

Pendragon continues, “…Dude! Quit with the  bubbles you’re fuckin’ up my game.”

“Game!” I bark, “What game? You get chicks  drunk, coked up and you fuck them like sheep.  Your problem is when they like it and feel like they  deserve it, you don’t want them anymore. Dude, you  got mommy issues. Deal with it. Oedipus.” I grimace, “Fuck you Pen Man! I’m getting ready to  check out and head home.” Blasting him in the face with my bubble gun. Thinking that’s alright, wait ‘til Margaux uploads tonight onto your net. 

The drag queen says, “Wait! I got’em in my car, right  there.”  

The chick dashes off and I’m like, “So, should I  follow you? ‘Cause I’m going that way.” Pointing in  the opposite direction. 

My fantasy girl sings over the wall, “Good night  Bubbles. Let’s get together for coffee soon. I like  talking with you.” My phone chirps, “You still gettin’  it. Union Jack. Thank you.” 

Honestly, I see Union Jack now and then, and if I  could remember her real name, I’m afraid I’d ask  her to marry me. Which would fuck up everything.  Margueaux thank you for rescuing Union Jack from  the Bacchanal Frenzy. Dutch Girl at 4AM. Anyway,  that exchange distracted me enough to forget…  Umm. 

So, I’m finally making my way to pay my tab. “Yeah 

Pen Man, I was saying, Detroit Gurls can’t fuck and  be friends too. So, I’m out.”  

Sadly, I say to myself, “Good Night Union Jack.  Thank you. Please be safe. I love you.” I’m singing,  “Je t’aime, au revoir. Fuck it. I’m out. Yup.”  Wait, hmm, nice walk, fifty feet, thirty feet, ten feet, I  say, “Wow! Nice shoes lady.”  

Loud ass day-glo green LED platform soled stiletto  heel pumps with orange and purple accents.  Pulsing the beat of the music. They are not made  for walkin farther than from the car to the elevator  and the elevator to whatever surface you land  against fuckin’. The shoes do tricks and things  once you’ve activated them by using them for their  intended name. But people wear them as fashion  statements. I know, we manufacture them here  in the hood. And sell them locally as imports and  bootlegs. 

The cocktail olive says, “Thank you. I’m Roni and  wha’cho name is?”  

Pen Man thinks I’m going to do to her what he  wants to do to his mother. Pen Man is pleased as  punch, until I shoot him in the face. I’m thinking,  Psyche! Ain’t happin’. 

And say, “Please allow me to introduce myself, I am  the incorrigible Mister Periwinkle Bubbles, please to  meet you Roni. Is that short for Veronica?” 

She says, “Yeah, but…”

I say, “I like Veronica. It’s sexier, sounds intelligent. Pen Man is crying, “Quit with the fuckin’… 

She’s saying, “I be in the Silent Disco all the time.  But, you know I ain’t feeling all the…” 

All the ladies say, “Bubbles.” 

I ask, “Veronica, can I ask you a stupid question?  Have you ever fucked in your Fuck Me Pumps?” Margauex yells, “Nah Bitch! That’s the shoe line.  Watch!” Up goes her yellow card. 

Roni topples, her head snaps to one side, I catch  her. Her shoes go dark, just as little Michael from  Trojan jabs two Hinx in their necks and inflates a set  of chairs.  

I say, “Excuse me please, I’m going to pay my tab  and I’m going home before I fuck somebody that  hates me tonight. Can I get you something to drink  on my way back? You look like you could use a  drink. My seat is right there. If you promise to hold it  for me, I’ll bring you back a Margarita.”  

I thought, It’s okay to go with line number one,  ‘cause we aren’t going to have very many genuine  or deep conversations. In fact, this might be  the deepest, most genuine exchange we ever  share. “How about Doc’s special Liquid Courage 

Margarita? Be right back.”  

I thought wrong. 

When I get back to the table, Penman is gloating.  I’m cringing at the thought of bruising my pelvis  trying to pleasure this skinny dim facsimile of  Pendragon’s mother, This pasty white fake real doll  that Pen Man has chosen for my last night in town. 

Hovering all over Umm Veronica, these little Hinx,  dressed in yellow and black Buffalo check plaid,  like picnic blankets, are rapping, “Yo Baby, what’s  yo phone numba? You know I gotsta be cooler than  this cat you sittin’ wit.” 

The Hinxes are completely ignoring the big girl in  the loose fitting Le Coq Sportif tracksuit, who acts  like she was coerced and dragged here, is also  sitting at my table. Sribblling with a plum colored  crayon. 

 SHE is saying, “Look Roni, I ain’t breaking it down  no deeper than this. There were three ships: The  Olympic, Britannic and the one that everybody  knows because of the movie with what’s his name  from Growing Pains. What the dude was saying  is called satire, he was making a reference to  something that normal people don’t know anything  about as if it were common knowledge.” 

Roni says, “That’s why you single, cause you too  damned smart. You need to quit reading and have a  good time girl.”

I have a plan, I pull out my red and gold tin of  D’jarum clove cigarettes and light up. The Hinx peel  off and come at me. “Yo dawg can I bum one? Yo.” As soon as the scent hits, the Hinx are rejecting my  offer and scattering, “Aw hell nah… That’s alright  Dawg. You ain’t got no ‘ports or no green squares…” 

They clear the lane I make it to the table and, write  on the back of the ‘RESERVED’ table card with a  dull sharpie, hand it to this one little pushy Hink  and say, “After she’s done with me, she may be in  the mood for something soft and squishy like you.” “867-5309!” While he’s looking down at the  number I poke him in the face with an inflator pin.  Little Michael from Manistique and little Michael  from St. Martin takes over and finishes off the other  three. 

The big girl touches my sleeve and almost whispers,  “Thank you for making them leave. May I have one  of your cloves please.”  

Now, I love big girls, but this one may as well be a  Muslim Ninja Nun. I can’t see anything to focus on,  except her glowing tablet, which reads, 

-He says, “Can’t we just skip to being best friends.” 

-She says, “The morning after, yes! But I read your  story aloud and I know what you can do…

Sitting the drink on the table in front of Umm  Veronica, I kneel to offer HER the open tin.  

Tipping up her big ass Jamiroquai cap, revealing the  biggest, most beautiful, fullest lips I’ve ever lusted.  “Thank you so much. I guess you understand the  loneliness of being a Sapio in a world in love with  idiocracy.” 

Et fuckin’ voilà! I’ve got an erection as hard as  theoretical physics. 

My Kryptonite, her freckles and Diastema  Illuminated in the glow of her tablet, the mouth  of an Egyptian queen sitting in the mask of dark  bronze is speaking to me.  

She smiles this big ole gap toothed smile. The  words on her tablet, the words the Queen of  Desserts spoke while twirling her foot in the black  ball pit under the Tripsitter’s Seat, “I want to be  more than just a pretty poem. 

I want you to remember me fondly.”  

Ashamed, I dropped my eyes to her shoes as an  automatic response. Thinking, Hiking sandals. Are  you planning to take me on a hiking date? Take me  please. I love walking. I polish off my glasses and  slip them on, say, “Your toenails are pretty. I really  like that color, is that Pluot Purple?” 

Our first harmonics are in sync. SHE touches my  chin and makes me realize that the band of her hat  is lace.

She turns off her tablet, tilts her hat back, locks  eyes with mine and says in the smokiest voice,  “Well now. You’re a chroma astute too. Cool. Yeah  it’s 242C, same as my lipstick. See!” 

I am awestruck. I want to wake up with my dick in  her mouth. I’m sorry to express it so crudely but,  I do! I want to sit across the holiday dinner table,  

resting my chin on my fist, watching HER while  SHE goes on and on about how much fun SHE had  blowing Bubbles in the butterfly garden, a thousand  Monday mornings from tonight. 

As I slide past a Hink parked next to Umm and  fart in his face, trying to get my bench seat, little  Michael from Euclid takes him out and prepares a  chair for his date.  

I pass Veronica her drink, She’s already got one in  her hand and I strongly suspect that’s the one Pen  Man salted with my sweat. “I’m Sorry Sister, I didn’t  know to get you one.” 

Umm says, “It’s okay Bubbles, yo boy got me one.  Plus, we share everything.” 

I hand Umm the drink I just bought, and direct her  to switch with HER. “Here take this from me so  that I can slide by you please.” Turning completely  around and flashing my crotch right past her at eye  level then, sitting between Umm and her friend, 

without HER ever losing contact with my sleeve. I offer HER a light. 

Um says, “Mister Bubbles, this is my bestie Sam.” Reaching over me to grab HER big unshaven leg,  pulling up her pant leg, Umm Veronica raises HER  leg into my lap, she says, “So what do you think?” 

Stroking the coat of fine hair that covers her entire  body with the back of my finger, I say, “That would  be great if we go on a hiking date. Could tickle on my back too. Hello Goddess. Thank you for being  here. By the way, Pen Man salted the rim of that  glass with my sweat. I sweat Psoulpsychedelicide.  Should I pitch this in the bushes or…” 

She says, “Samantha. Please,” takes the drink  from my hand, peels off her hat revealing a pair of  Custom etched V-Moda Crossfade M-100, the exact  same color as her hair, lips, nails and rims of her  wireframe glasses.”  

But I am absolutely fixated with her mouth. “Your  mouth is truly the sexiest place I’ve seen in years.  I could spend an eternity watching you read. Oh!  Were you my wife. I’d…” 

Samantha, blushes, takes a few sips and sees Pen  Man over my shoulder pressing the issue and the  Little Micheals killing the Hinx.  

So, I ask Roni again, “So, Umm, you ever fuck in  your Fuck Me Pumps? And do you think that you two are a couple?” 

Samantha takes a deep swallow of her Margarita  and sees the little Michaels massacring Hinx all over the yard. Covers the glass with her hand, pours out the rest in the bushes, saves the ice, then licks her fingers and the rim. “You seeing these guys Bubbles?” 

I’m like, “Yeah Goddess, welcome to my reality. Those are Hinx and the little guys popping Hinx like balloons are the little Michaels, I’m kind of like their uncle. I’ll tell you all about it one weekend.” 

“And the chicks?” She asks. 

“Okay,” I say, “What you’re seeing is the XR version  of the subspace silent disco. In their brains, they  are dancing their asses off and that’s the projection  we feed the live guess, in reality, they’re tripping on  the desert. They have a shot of SP 34.5 and a tiny  drop of Hinx juice. The rest of the Hinx is the stuff in  those inflatable chairs. 

Um says, “Nah. I never did. Always thought about it.  But, maybe I’d do that shit with Sam and you.” Pen  Man is excited and ready to leave. Samantha’s face is stuck on, Yuk! I read Maybe! But not with you. 

I say, “Yeah no! Thank you. No! Not with you.”  

Samantha says, “With those cheap ass headphones  you wear, you aughta just give me them shoes. I’ll  wear somebody out. Put him to sleep, wake him up and wear his ass out sum mo’.  I’ll give you them Fuck Me Pumps back blinkin’ like a video game fireworks. Yeah, but not with you.” 

I’m thinking, Sleep would be so wonderful. 

Eventually, we got to the understanding that Umm  had been wondering whether or not she was a  lesbian, because she’d been dealing with the mixed  feelings of having a crush on her life long best  friend. Umm says, “I like dick, I just hate men”. 

Mom is misandrist. I’ve had enough girlfriends  stolen by other girls and yeah well, most of the time  I hate being a man. I’m a Feminist and a Womanist,  so I take this too as just par for the course. I’m  thinking, Pen Man you can disengage this sensory  link and fuck Umm your damned self. If you make  me fuck her I’m projecting your face and erasing  the sensory net. 

We smoke a ring of joints with Margaux, Mike, Mike,  Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike and John Sinclair. It  was John’s weed. Then we start walking back to  Mister Pink’s Place at the Knickerbocker. Umm, Roni’s saying, “We can take my car.” 

Samantha says, “Yeah, and by the time you find a  place to park, Mister Bubbles and I will be in bed  naked and possibly asleep.” 

Margaux says, “Walk yo skinny ass on and don’t take off those Fuck Me Pumps, bitch!”  

Reminding me that she is plugged in to little Michaels’ glasses and Pen Man’s neuronet. Margaux yells, “Because I’m you tonight Peri, I’m  going to get donuts for Bubba and dem.” 

Then she flashes the ‘Green light Key Card’ on her phone to Samantha, “Peri, your girl got me this. Check this Sistah, Subspace silent disco pulsating  and vibrating dong with M-path sensory link,  GITD clone – A – willy, with three sweet potato and whipped cream nuts.”  

I’m almost jealous, she’s going bang the woman of my dreams. The one Samantha told, “You can get it.” 

Samantha wraps me in a buttery soft hug and I forget Union Jack for the night.  

Umm… Veronica says, “I got’chu one! Vanity Six shooter, chocolate, hazelnut and custard. It’s in your new B.O.M.B. pack.” 

While we walk, Samantha steps out forward all of  us, we’re synchronized harmonics and she knows the way. She comes out of her billowy layers, and modestly exhibits the Golden Ratio. She’s built like Monroe, just tall and dark. About five ten, around two hundred pounds, maybe two twenty. Hard to tell, she’s got a flat belly, tiny waist compared to her 

wide hips, solid round ass and toned arms. Ain’t a  lick of jiggle on her frame. 

The solar powered Bitch On My Back: Ballistic Shell  AP pack, looks like an east African shield across her  back. 

I am in lust and total admiration at the same time.  “Hey Goddess”, I say without thinking, “What’s that  book in your back pocket?”  

Samantha stops, smiles, touches my chin, looks me  in the eye and says, “Coronation, Chapter One. Why  are you picking me up? I read your shit you know.” 

She’s fucking perfect. And she’s a color nerd too.  Now I want to grow hair, just so I can sit on the  stairs between her thighs while she greases my  scalp. Sound and Perfume. Samantha’s heart is the  sound of my second harmonic frequency. 

We go up the backstairs through a crowd of  Cuddle Dust Bunnies. “Umm Veronica, yeah right,  Samantha, meet Poppa Delux and the Dust Cuddle  Bunnies. Cuddle Bunny Dust is a revolving follies of  next generation cosplay couch surfers. “Bunnies,  say hello.”  

They all grunt, moan, click or chirp something. We  step through the tiny kitchen, past the common  bath, up two steps and into the “Open Room”.  The Open Room is heavily insulated, both to contain  the sound that fills the space and for energy conservation, and is presently lightly carpeted with  half naked bodies all covered in tattoos, plastic  beads and sweat.  

They’re some kind of hold over from a subculture street circus. 

Surprisingly enough, Dust Bunnies don’t fuck as much as I thought they might, I’m still trying to figure out how they keep multiplying. 

At the end of our walk we enter ‘The control room’.  I spent a summer helping Mr. Pink convert his extra bedroom into one of Detroit’s many, but best-appointed mastering and broadcasting studios.