I cut you, bitch
Gangs exist from one part of the world to the other. They're formed on the streets, or inside skyscrapers. A collective of individuals, who bring some special talent to the group. Money doesn't matter, but status reigns supreme. The dominant survive, while the weak and meek don't.
Imagine when I get caught in the crossfire of a fight. Immediately, it becomes a survival of the fittest.
The glass zooms past me and it breaks into multiple shards around me. If I move, my skin will be slashed. Blood pouring out of gaping wounds. There is no escape.
He comes closer, walks up to me, bends down and picks up a sharp piece of glass from the floor.
"I cut you, bitch," he says as he swings it in my face.
I accept his challange.
"Bring it on jefe, bring it oooonnnnn!!" I reply, my hands signalling the "give me" movements, posing in the fight-or-flight stance.
My voice travels like the Concorde in a transatlantic flight. People congregate around us.
"What was that noise? Did I hear something crash?" asks one of them.
"Oh, R got mad at me, so he was all like, I cut you, bitch, and I was all like, Bring it on..." I say as seriously as I can without breaking out in a fit of giggles.
They think I'm serious.
"That's a joke. Ha ha?" I look at the growing crowd. Their faces passive. "R knocked the glass, it flew my way and it broke into a million pieces. That's it."
"Oh..." they say as they stare at the broken glass around me.
They don't get it. They don't understand it's a joke.
Maybe they need to cut themselves to register a feeling. Hurt. Sadness. Laughter.
Maybe R should've thrown the glass their way.
Imagine when I get caught in the crossfire of a fight. Immediately, it becomes a survival of the fittest.
The glass zooms past me and it breaks into multiple shards around me. If I move, my skin will be slashed. Blood pouring out of gaping wounds. There is no escape.
He comes closer, walks up to me, bends down and picks up a sharp piece of glass from the floor.
"I cut you, bitch," he says as he swings it in my face.
I accept his challange.
"Bring it on jefe, bring it oooonnnnn!!" I reply, my hands signalling the "give me" movements, posing in the fight-or-flight stance.
My voice travels like the Concorde in a transatlantic flight. People congregate around us.
"What was that noise? Did I hear something crash?" asks one of them.
"Oh, R got mad at me, so he was all like, I cut you, bitch, and I was all like, Bring it on..." I say as seriously as I can without breaking out in a fit of giggles.
They think I'm serious.
"That's a joke. Ha ha?" I look at the growing crowd. Their faces passive. "R knocked the glass, it flew my way and it broke into a million pieces. That's it."
"Oh..." they say as they stare at the broken glass around me.
They don't get it. They don't understand it's a joke.
Maybe they need to cut themselves to register a feeling. Hurt. Sadness. Laughter.
Maybe R should've thrown the glass their way.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
2 Comments:
Ok, it was WAY funnier if you were there.
Too bad I made it sound like West Side Story.
It would be WAY funnier, if there hadn't been a stabbing in my "hood" Monday, about 4:30 AM.
And the girlfriend was yelling "fire" trying to get us to open the door. There's been fire here before, so..........
Did they say beotch in West Side Story? :-)
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