“Hey whatcha doin’? Nice jacket, bro’.”
“Whatchu lookin’ at, huh. Pakeha faggot.” Fist through nose, bone into brain. Dial a sweetheart, you’re in heaven. No more competition from white rappers. Pass the bro anotha spot, huh.
Direct eye contact on 38th. Walking in opposite directions, one ignorant fraulein in floral pattern skirt with tube top and vest, long leg boots. The other innocent car converter in ripped shorts, smeared skivvy, stolen basketball shoes. Blade through bra, ripped down into stomach. Lotsa guts but no DNA match. One German tourist down, 3,854 to go. Bad scene, man.
“Uh oh, uh oh, go away. You stink.”
“Who you callin’ stink? Eat this.” Baseball bat in mouth, wood on bone, broken bones, strike three you’re out. Smile wifey, your face won’t matter where you goin’. Hubby says beer cans make good carpets.
All three murders make the papers but the reasons for them are lost in translation.
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