Da Great Gatsby Ghetto

Da Great Gatsby,
by F. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scott Fitzgerald
Translated by Tumblr user Unlimitedie rockin Gizgoogle
Chapter 1

In mah younger n' mo' vulnerable muthafuckin years mah daddy gave me
some lyrics dat I’ve been turnin over up in mah mind eva since.

"Whenever you feel like dissin any one," tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at
me, "just remember dat all tha playas up in dis ghetto haven’t had tha
advantages dat you’ve had."

Dude didn’t say any mo' yo, but we’ve always been unusually
communicatizzle up in a reserved way, n' I understood dat he meant a
pimped out deal mo' than dis shit. In consequence, I’m inclined ta reserve
all judgments, a g-thang dat has opened up nuff curious natures ta me n'
also made me tha sucka of not all dem veteran bores. Da abnormal mind
is quick ta detect n' attach itself ta dis qualitizzle when it appears up in a
aiiight person, n' so it came bout dat up in college I was unjustly accused
of bein a sucka, cuz I was privy ta tha secret griefz of wild, unknown men.
I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Most of tha confidences was
unsought - frequently I have feigned chill, preoccupation, or a straight-up
shitty levitizzle when I realized by some unmistakable sign dat a intimate
revelation was quiverin on tha horizon; fo' tha intimate revelationz of lil'
men, or at least tha terms up in which they express them, is probably
plagiaristic n' marred by obvious suppressions. Reservin judgments be a
matter of infinite hope. I be still a lil afraid of missin suttin' if I forget that,
as mah daddy snobbishly suggested, n' I snobbishly repeat, a sense of tha
fundamenstrual decencies is parcelled up unequally at birth.

And, afta boastin dis way of mah tolerance, I come ta tha admission dat it
has a limit. Conduct may be dropped on tha hard rock or tha wet marshes
yo, but afta a cold-ass lil certain point I don’t care what tha fuck it’s
dropped on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When I came back
from tha Eastside last autumn I felt dat I wanted tha ghetto ta be up in
uniform n' at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no mo' riotous

excursions wit privileged glimpses tha fuck into tha human ass. Only
Gatsby, tha playa whoz ass gives his name ta dis book, was exempt from
mah erection - Gatsby, whoz ass represented every last muthafuckin
thang fo' which I have a unaffected scorn, so check it before ya wreck it. I
aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If personalitizzle be a unbroken
seriez of successful gestures, then there was suttin' pimpin' bout him,
some heightened sensitivitizzle ta tha promisez of game, as if da thug was
related ta one of dem intricate machines dat regista earthquakes ten
thousand milez away. This responsivenizz had not a god damn thang ta do
wit dat flabby impressionabilitizzle which is dignified under tha name of
tha "creatizzle temperament."- dat shiznit was a extraordinary gift fo'
hope, a horny-ass readinizz like fuckin I aint NEVER found up in any other
thug n' which it aint likely I shall eva find again. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch. No - Gatsby turned up all right all up in tha end; it is what
tha fuck preyed on Gatsby, what tha fuck foul dust floated up in tha wake
of his cold-ass trips dat temporarily closed up mah interest up in tha
abortizzle sorrows n' short-winded elationz of men.

My fuckin crew done been prominent, well-to-do playas up in dis Middle
Westside hood fo' three generations. Da Carraways is suttin' of a cold-ass
lil clan, n' our crazy asses gotz a tradizzle dat we’re descended from tha
Dukez of Buccleuch yo, but tha actual smoker of mah line was mah
grandfather’s brother, whoz ass came here up in fifty-one, busted a
substitute ta tha Civil War, n' started tha wholesale hardware bidnizz dat
mah daddy carries on to-day.

I never saw dis pimped out-uncle yo, but I’m supposed ta be lookin like his
ass - wit special reference ta tha rather hard-boiled paintin dat hangs up
in father’s crib. I busted tha fuck outta New Haven up in 1915, just a
quarter of a cold-ass lil century afta mah father, n' a lil later I participated
up in dat delayed Teutonic migration known as tha Great War. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. I enjoyed tha counter-raid so thoroughly dat I came back
restless. Instead of bein tha warm centre of tha ghetto, tha Middle
Westside now seemed like tha ragged edge of tha universe - so I decided
ta go Eastside n' learn tha bond bidnizz. All Y'all I knew was up in tha bond
bidnizz, so I supposed it could support one mo' single man. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All mah aunts n' unclez talked it
over as if they was choosin a prep school fo' me, n' finally holla'd, "Why ye - es," wit straight-up grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed ta finizzle me

fo' a year, n' afta various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, up in
tha sprang of twenty-two.

Da practical thang was ta find rooms up in tha hood yo, but dat shiznit
was a warm season, n' I had just left a cold-ass lil ghetto of wide lawns n'
thugged-out trees, so when a lil' playa all up in tha crib suggested dat we
take a doggy den together up in a cold-ass lil commutin town, it sounded
like a pimped out idea yo. Dude found tha house, a weather-beaten
cardboard bungalow at eighty a month yo, but all up in tha last minute tha
firm ordered his ass ta Washington, n' I went up ta tha ghetto ridin' solo. I
had a thugged-out dawg - at least I had his ass fo' all dem minutes until
he ran away - n' a oldschool Dodge n' a Finnish biatch, whoz ass made
mah bed n' cooked breakfast n' muttered Finnish wisdom ta her
muthafuckin ass over tha electric stove.

Dat shiznit was lonely fo' a thugged-out dizzle or so until one mornin some
dude, mo' recently arrived than I, stopped mah crazy ass on tha road.

"How tha fuck do you git ta Westside Egg village?" he axed helplessly.

I holla'd at his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And as I strutted on I was lonely
no longer n' shit. I was a guide, a pathfinder, a original gangsta settla n'
shiznit yo. Dude had casually conferred on me tha freedom of tha hood.

And so wit tha sunshine n' tha pimped out burstz of leaves growin on tha
trees, just as thangs grow up in fast pornos, I had dat familiar conviction
dat game was beginnin over again n' again n' again wit tha summer.

There was so much ta read, fo' one thang, n' so much fine game ta be
pulled down outta tha lil' breath-givin air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I looted a
thugged-out dozen volumes on bankin n' credit n' investment securities,
n' they stood on mah shelf up in red n' gold like freshly smoked up scrilla
from tha mint, promisin ta unfold tha shinin secrets dat only Midas n'
Morgan n' Maecenas knew fo' realz. And I had tha high intention of readin
nuff other books besides. I was rather literary up in college - one year I
freestyled a seriez of straight-up solemn n' obvious editorials fo' tha "Yale

Shit."- n' now I was goin ta brang back all such thangs tha fuck into mah
game n' become again n' again n' again dat most limited of all specialists,
tha "well-rounded man." This aint just a epigram - game is much mo'
successfully looked at from a single window, afta all.

Dat shiznit was a matter of chizzle dat I should have rented a doggy den
up in one of tha strangest communitizzles up in Uptown America. Dat
shiznit was on dat slender riotous island which extendz itself due eastside
of New York - n' where there are, among other natural curiosities, two
unusual formationz of land. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Twenty milez
from tha hood a pair of enormous eggs, identical up in contour n'
separated only by a cold-ass lil courtesy bay, jut up tha fuck into da most
thugged-out domesticated body of salt gin n juice up in tha Westside
hemisphere, tha pimped out wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They is not slick ovals - like tha egg up in tha
Columbus story, they is both crushed flat all up in tha contact end - but
they physical resemblizzle must be a source of perpetual mad drama ta
tha gulls dat fly overhead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! To tha
wingless a mo' arrestin phenomenon is they dissimilaritizzle up in every
last muthafuckin particular except shape n' size.

I lived at Westside Egg, tha - well, tha less fashionable of tha two, though
dis be a most superficial tag ta express tha bizarre n' not a lil sinista
contrast between em. My fuckin doggy den was all up in tha straight-up
tip of tha egg, only fifty yardz from tha Sound, n' squeezed between two
big-ass places dat rented fo' twelve or fifteen thousand a season. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da one on mah right was a cold-ass lil
colossal affair by any standard - dat shiznit was a gangbangin' factual
imitation of some Hotel de Ville up in Normandy, wit a tower on one side,
spankin freshly smoked up under a thin beard of raw ivy, n' a marble
swimmin pool, n' mo' than forty acrez of lawn n' garden. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was Gatsby’s mansion. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mista
Muthafuckin Gatsby, dat shiznit was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman
of dat name. My fuckin own doggy den was a eyesore yo, but dat shiznit
was a lil' small-ass eyesore, n' it had been overlooked, so I had a view of
tha water, a partial view of mah neighbor’s lawn, n' tha consolin
proximitizzle of millionaires - all fo' eighty dollars a month.

Across tha courtesy bay tha white palacez of fashionable Eastside Egg
glittered along tha water, n' tha history of tha summer straight-up begins
on tha evenin I drove over there ta have dinner wit tha Tomothy
Buchanans. Dizzy was mah second cousin once removed, n' I’d known
Tomothy up in college fo' realz. And just afta tha war I dropped two
minutes wit dem up in Chicago.

Her homeboy, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of
da most thugged-out bangin endz dat eva played footbizzle at New Haven
- a nationistic figure up in a way, one of dem pimps whoz ass reach such a
acute limited excellence at twenty-one dat every last muthafuckin thang
afterward savorz of anti-climax yo. His crew was enormously wealthy even up in college his wild lil' freedom wit scrilla was a matter fo' reproach
- but now he’d left Chicago n' come Eastside up in a gangbangin' fashizzle
dat rather took yo' breath away: fo' instance, he’d brought down a strang
of polo ponies from Lake Forest. Dat shiznit was hard ta realize dat a playa
up in mah own generation was wealthy enough ta do dis shit.

Why they came Eastside I don’t know. They had dropped a year up in
Frizzle fo' no particular reason, n' then drifted here n' there unrestfully
wherever playas played polo n' was rich together n' shit. This was a
permanent move, holla'd Dizzy over tha telephone yo, but I didn’t believe
it - I had no sight tha fuck into Daisy’s ass yo, but I felt dat Tomothy would
drift on forever seeking, a lil wistfully, fo' tha dramatic turbulence of some
irrecoverable footbizzle game.

And so it happened dat on a warm windy evenin I drove over ta Eastside
Egg ta peep two oldschool playaz whom I scarcely knew at all. Their doggy
den was even mo' elaborate than I expected, a cold-ass lil cheerful redand-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlookin tha bay. Da lawn started
all up in tha beach n' ran toward tha front door fo' a quarter of a mile,
jumpin over sun-dials n' brick strutts n' burnin gardens - finally when it
reached tha doggy den driftin up tha side up in bright vines as though
from tha momentum of its run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
Da front was fucked up by a line of French windows, glowin now wit
reflected gold n' wide open ta tha warm windy afternoon, n' Tomothy
Buchanan up in ridin threadz was standin wit his hairy-ass legs apart on
tha front porch.

Dude had chizzled since his New Haven years. Now da thug was a sturdy
straw-haired playa of thirty wit a rather hard grill n' a supercilious manner
n' shit. Two shinin arrogant eyes had established dominizzle over his wild
lil' grill n' gave his ass tha appearizzle of always leanin aggressively
forward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Not even tha effeminizzle
swank of his bangin ridin threadz could hide tha enormous juice of dat
body - da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta fill dem glistenin boots until
da perved-out muthafucka strained tha top lacing, n' you could peep a
pimped out ounce ta tha bounce of muscle shiftin when his shoulder
moved under his cold-ass thin coat. Dat shiznit was a funky-ass body
capable of enormous leverage - a cold-ass lil wack body.

His bustin lyrics voice, a gruff husky tenor, added ta tha impression of
fractiousnizz his schmoooove ass conveyed. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! There was a funky-ass bust a nut on of paternal contempt up
in it, even toward playas he was horny bout - n' there was pimps at New
Haven whoz ass had hated his wild lil' freakadelic guts.

"Now, don’t be thinkin mah opinion on these mattas is final," da pervedout muthafucka seemed ta say, "just cuz I’m stronger n' mo' of a playa
than yo ass is." Us thugs was up in tha same ballin' society, n' while we
was never intimate I always had tha impression dat he approved of me n'
wanted mah crazy ass ta like his ass wit some harsh, defiant wistfulnizz of
his own.

We talked fo' all dem minutes on tha sunny porch.

"I’ve gots a sick place here," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, his wild lil'
fuckin eyes flashin bout restlessly.

Turnin me round by one arm, he moved a funky-ass broad flat hand along
tha front vista, includin up in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre
of deep, pungent roses, n' a snub-nosed motor-boat dat bumped tha tide
offshore.

"It belonged ta Demaine, tha oil man." Dude turned mah crazy ass round
again, politely n' abruptly. "We’ll go inside."

Us thugs strutted all up in a high hallway tha fuck into a funky-ass bright
rosy-colored space, fragilely bound tha fuck into tha doggy den by French
windows at either end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Da
windows was ajar n' gleamin white against tha fresh grass outside dat
seemed ta grow a lil way tha fuck into tha crib fo' realz. A breeze blew all
up in tha room, blew curtains up in at one end n' up tha other like pale
flags, twistin dem up toward tha frosted wedding-cake of tha ceiling, n'
then rippled over tha wine-colored rug, bustin a shadow on it as wind do
on tha sea.

Da only straight-up stationary object up in tha room was a enormous
couch on which two lil' dem hoes was buoyed up as though upon a
anchored balloon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They was
both up in white, n' they dresses was ripplin n' flutterin as if they had just
been blown back up in afta a short flight round tha house. I must have
stood fo' all dem moments listenin ta tha whip n' snap of tha curtains n'
tha groan of a picture on tha wall. Then there was a funky-ass boom as
Tomothy Buchanan shut tha rear windows n' tha caught wind took a dirt
nap up bout tha room, n' tha curtains n' tha rugs n' tha two lil' dem hoes
ballooned slowly ta tha floor.

Da younger of tha two was a stranger ta mah dirty ass. Right back up in
yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was extended full length at her end of tha
divan, straight-up motionless, n' wit her chin raised a lil, as if dat biiiiatch
was balancin suttin' on it which was like likely ta fall. If her big-ass booty
saw me outta tha corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it - indeed, I was
almost surprised tha fuck into murmurin a apologizzle fo' havin disturbed
her by comin in.

Da other girl, Daisy, made a attempt ta rise - she leaned slightly forward
wit a cold-ass lil conscientious expression - then she laughed, a absurd,
charmin lil laugh, n' I laughed too n' came forward tha fuck into tha room.

"I’m p-paralyzed wit happiness." Biatch laughed again, as if her big-ass
booty holla'd suttin' straight-up witty, n' held mah hand fo' a moment,
lookin up tha fuck into mah face, promisin dat there was no one up in tha
ghetto her big-ass booty so much wanted ta see. That was a way dat
freaky freaky biatch had. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch hinted
up in a murmur dat tha surname of tha balancin hoe was Baker n' shit.
(I’ve heard it holla'd dat Daisy’s murmur was only ta make playas lean
toward her; a irrelevant jive-ass shiznit dat juiced it up no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded all up in mah grill
almost imperceptibly, n' then quickly tipped her head back again n' again
n' again - tha object dat biiiiatch was balancin had obviously tottered a lil
n' given her suttin' of a gangbangin' fright fo' realz. Again a sort of
apologizzle arose ta mah lips fo' realz. Almost any exhibizzle of complete
self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from mah dirty ass.

I looked back at mah cousin, whoz ass fuckin started ta ask me thangs up
in her low, thrillin voice. Dat shiznit was tha kind of voice dat tha ear bigs
up n' down, as if each rap be a arrangement of notes dat aint NEVER
gonna be played again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her
grill was fucked up n' ghettofab wit bright thangs up in it, bright eyes n' a
funky-ass bright horny grill yo, but there was a excitement up in her voice
dat pimps whoz ass had cared fo' her found hard as fuck ta forget: a
rappin compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise dat dat freaky freaky
biatch had done gay, bangin thangs just a while since n' dat there was
gay, bangin thangs hoverin up in tha next hour.

I holla'd at her how tha fuck I had stopped off up in Chicago fo' a thuggedout dizzle on mah way East, n' how tha fuck a thugged-out dozen playas
had busted they ludd all up in mah dirty ass.

"Do they miss me son?" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried ecstatically.

"Da whole hood is desolate fo' realz. All tha rides have tha left rear wheel
painted black as a mournin wreath, n' there’s a persistent wail all night
along tha uptown shore."

"How tha fuck gorgeous muthafucka! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!"
Then she added irrelevantly: "Yo ass ought ta peep tha baby."

"I’d like to."

"She’s asleep. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s three
muthafuckin years old. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Haven’t you eva
peeped her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought ta peep her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
She’s --"

Tomothy Buchanan, whoz ass had been hoverin restlessly bout tha room,
stopped n' rested his hand on mah shoulder.

"What you bustin, Nick?"

"I’m a funky-ass bond man."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck with?"

I holla'd at his muthafuckin ass.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed mah dirty ass.

"Yo ass will," I answered shortly. "Yo ass will if you stay up in tha East."

"Oh, I’ll stay up in tha East, don’t you worry," da perved-out muthafucka
holla'd, glancin at Dizzy n' then back at me, as if da thug was alert fo'
suttin' mo' n' mo' n' mo'. "I’d be a Dogg damned fool ta live anywhere
else."

At dis point Miss Baker holla'd: "Absolutely!" wit such suddennizz dat I
started - dat shiznit was tha straight-up original gangsta word she uttered
since I came tha fuck into tha room. Evidently it surprised her as much as
it did me, fo' she yawned n' wit a seriez of rapid, deft movements stood up
tha fuck into tha room.

"I’m stiff," dat thugged-out biiiatch complained, "I’ve been lyin on dat sofa
fo' as long as I can remember."

"Don’t peep me," Dizzy retorted, "I’ve been tryin ta git you ta New York all
afternoon."

"Fuck dat shit, props," holla'd Miss Baker ta tha four cocktails just up in
from tha pantry, "I’m straight-up up in hustlin."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"Yo ass are!" Dude took down his fuckin lil' drank as if it was a thuggedout drop up in tha bottom of a glass. "How tha fuck you eva git anythang
done is beyond mah dirty ass."

I looked at Miss Baker, wonderin what tha fuck dat shiznit was she "got
done." I enjoyed lookin at her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch was a slender, small-breasted girl, wit a erect carriage, which she

accentuated by throwin her body backward all up in tha shouldaz like a lil'
cadet yo. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back all up in mah grill wit
polite reciprocal curiositizzle outta a wan, charming, discontented face.
Well shiiiit, it occurred ta me now dat I had peeped her, or a picture of her,
somewhere before.

"Yo ass live up in Westside Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know
some muthafucka there."

"I don’t know a single --"

"Yo ass must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply dat da thug was mah neighbor dinner was announced;
wedgin his cold-ass tense arm imperatively under mine, Tomothy
Buchanan compelled mah crazy ass from tha room as though da thug was
movin a cold-ass lil checker ta another square.

Slenderly, languidly, they handz set lightly on they hips, tha two lil' dem
hoes preceded our asses up onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward tha
sunset, where four candlez flickered on tha table up in tha diminished
wind.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Biatch snapped dem up wit her fingers. "In two weeks it’ll be tha
longest dizzle up in tha year." Biatch looked at our asses all radiantly. "Do
you always peep fo' tha longest dizzle of tha year n' then miss it, biatch? I
always peep fo' tha longest dizzle up in tha year n' then miss dat shit."

"We ought ta plan something," yawned Miss Baker, chillin down all up in
tha table as if dat biiiiatch was gettin tha fuck into bed.

"All right," holla'd Daisy. "What’ll we plan?" Biatch turned ta me helplessly:
"What do playas plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened wit a awed expression on her lil
finger.

"Look!" dat thugged-out biiiatch complained; "I hurt dat shit."

We all looked - tha knuckle was black n' blue.

"Yo ass done did it, Tom," her big-ass booty holla'd accusingly. "I know you
didn’t mean ta yo, but you did do dat shit. That’s what tha fuck I git fo'
marryin a funky-ass brute of a thugged-out dude, a pimped out, big,
hulkin physical specimen of a --"

"I don't give a fuck bout dat word hulking," objected Tomothy crossly,
"even up in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she n' Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively n' wit a funkyass banterin inconsequence dat was never like chatter, dat was as def as
they white dresses n' they impersonal eyes up in tha absence of all desire.
They was here, n' they accepted Tomothy n' me, makin only a polite
pleasant effort ta entertain or ta be entertained. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! They knew dat presently dinner would be over n' a lil later
tha evenin too would be over n' casually put away. Dat shiznit was sharply
different from tha West, where a evenin was hurried from phase ta phase
toward its close, up in a cold-ass lil continually pissed tha fuck off
anticipation or else up in sheer straight-up trippin dread of tha moment
itself.

"Yo ass make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on mah second glass
of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can’t you rap bout crops or
something?"

I meant not a god damn thang up in particular by dis remark yo, but dat
shiznit was taken up in a unexpected way.

"Civilization’s goin ta pieces," broke up Tomothy violently. "I’ve gotten ta
be a shitty pessimist bout thangs yo. Has you done read ‘Da Rise of tha
Colored Empires’ by dis playa Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his cold-ass tone.

"Well, it’s a gangbangin' fine book, n' dem hoes ought ta read dat shit. Da
scam is if our phat asses don’t look up tha white race is ghon be - is ghon
be utterly submerged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It’s all
scientistical stuff; it’s been proved."

"Tom’s gettin straight-up profound," holla'd Daisy, wit a expression of
unthoughtful sadness. "Dude readz deep books wit long lyrics up in em.
What was dat word we --"

"Well, these books is all scientific," insisted Tom, glancin at her
impatiently. "This fellow has hit dat shiznit up tha whole thang. It’s up ta
us, whoz ass is tha dominant race, ta peep up or these other races gonna
git control of thangs."

"We’ve gots ta beat dem down," whispered Daisy, winkin ferociously
toward tha fervent sun.

"Yo ass ought ta live up in California -" fuckin started Miss Baker yo, but
Tomothy interrupted her by shiftin heavily up in his chair.

"This scam is dat we’re Nordics. I am, n' yo ass is, n' yo ass is, n' --" After a
infinitesimal hesitation he included Dizzy wit a slight nod, n' dat biiiiatch
winked all up in mah grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
"- And we’ve produced all tha thangs dat git all up in make civilization oh, science n' art, n' all dis shit. Do you see?"

There was suttin' pathetic up in his concentration, as if his complacency,
mo' acute than of old, was not enough ta his ass any mo' n' mo' n' mo'.
When, almost immediately, tha telephone rang inside n' tha butla left tha
porch Dizzy seized upon tha momentary interruption n' leaned toward
mah dirty ass.

"I’ll rap a cold-ass lil crew secret," dat biiiiatch whispered enthusiastically.
"It’s bout tha butler’s nose. Do you wanna hear bout tha butler’s nose?"

"That’s why I came over to-night."

"Well, da thug wasn’t always a funky-ass butler; he used ta be tha silver
polisher fo' some playas up in New York dat had a silver steez fo' two
hundred playas yo. Dude had ta polish it from mornin till night, until finally
it fuckin started ta affect his nozzle --"

"Things went from wack ta worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes yes y'all. Things went from wack ta worse, until finally dat
schmoooove muthafucka had ta give up his thugged-out lil' position."

For a moment tha last sunshine fell tha fuck wit horny-ass affection upon
her glowin face; her voice compelled mah crazy ass forward breathlessly
as I listened - then tha glow faded, each light desertin her wit lingerin
regret, like lil pimps leavin a pleasant street at dusk.

Da butla came back n' murmured suttin' close ta Tom’s ear, whereupon
Tomothy frowned, pushed back his chair, n' without a word went inside fo'
realz. As if his thugged-out absence quickened suttin' within her, Dizzy
leaned forward again, her voice glowin n' rappin.

"I gotta peep you at mah table, Nick. Yo ass remind mah crazy ass of a - of
a rose, a absolute rose. Don’t he?" Biatch turned ta Miss Baker fo'
confirmation: "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I aint even faintly like a rose. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch was only extemporizin yo, but a stirrin warmth
flowed from her, as if her ass was tryin ta come up ta you concealed up in
one of dem breathless, thrillin lyrics. Then suddenly dat dunkadelic hoe
threw her napkin on tha table n' excused her muthafuckin ass n' went tha
fuck into tha house.

Miss Baker n' I exchanged a short glizzle consciously devoid of meaning. I
was bout ta drop a rhyme when her big-ass booty sat up alertly n' holla'd
"Sh!" up in a warnin voice fo' realz. A subdued impassioned murmur was
audible up in tha room beyond, n' Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed,
tryin ta hear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da murmur trembled on tha verge of
coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, n' then ceased altogether.

"This Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby you was rappin of is mah neighbor --" I
holla'd.

"Don’t talk. I wanna hear what tha fuck happens."

"Is suttin' happening?" I inquired innocently.

"Yo ass mean ta say you don’t know?" holla'd Miss Baker, straight-up
surprised. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I thought dem hoes knew."

"I don’t."

"Why --" her big-ass booty holla'd hesitantly, "Tom’s gots some biatch up
in New York."

"Got some biatch?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"Bitch might have tha decency not ta telephone his ass at dinner time.
Don’t you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meanin there was tha flutter of a
thugged-out dress n' tha crunch of leather boots, n' Tomothy n' Dizzy was
back all up in tha table.

"It couldn’t be helped!" cried Dizzy wit tense gaiety.

Bitch sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker n' then at me, n'
continued: "I looked outdoors fo' a minute, n' it’s straight-up horny-ass
outdoors. There’s a funky-ass bird on tha lawn dat I be thinkin must be a
nightingale come over on tha Cunard or White Star Line yo. He’s rappin
away --" Her voice sang: "It’s romantic, aint it, Tom?"

"Straight-up romantic," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' then
miserably ta me: "If it’s light enough afta dinner, I wanna take you down
ta tha stables."

Da telephone rang inside, startlingly, n' as Dizzy shook her head
decisively at Tomothy tha subject of tha stables, up in fact all subjects,
vanished tha fuck into air fo' realz. Among tha fucked up fragmentz of tha
last five minutes at table I remember tha candlez bein lit again,

pointlessly, n' I was consciouz of wantin ta look squarely at every last
muthafuckin one, n' yet ta avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what tha fuck
Dizzy n' Tomothy was thankin yo, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, whoz ass
seemed ta have mastered a cold-ass lil certain hardy scepticism, was able
utterly ta put dis fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency outta mind. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! To a cold-ass lil certain temperament tha
thang might have seemed intriguin - mah own instinct was ta telephone
immediately fo' tha police.

Da horses, needless ta say, was not mentioned again. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. Tomothy n' Miss Baker, wit nuff muthafuckin feet
of twilight between them, strolled back tha fuck into tha library, as if ta a
vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, tryin ta look pleasantly
interested n' a lil deaf, I followed Dizzy round a cold-ass lil chain of
connectin verandas ta tha porch up in front. In its deep gloom we sat
down side by side on a wicker settee.

Dizzy took her grill up in her handz as if feelin its ghettofab shape, n' her
eyes moved gradually up tha fuck into tha velvet dusk. I saw dat turbulent
emotions possessed her, so I axed what tha fuck I thought would be some
sedatizzle thangs bout her lil girl.

"Us dudes don’t know each other straight-up well, Nick," her big-ass booty
holla'd suddenly. "Even if we is cousins. Yo ass didn’t come ta mah
wedding."

"I wasn’t back from tha war."

"That’s true." Biatch hesitated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Well, I’ve had a straight-up wack
time, Nick, n' I’m pretty cynical bout every last muthafuckin thang."

Evidently dat freaky freaky biatch had reason ta be. I waited but her dope
ass didn’t say any more, n' afta a moment I returned rather feebly ta tha
subject of her daughter.

"I suppose dat dunkadelic hoe talks, n' - eats, n' every last muthafuckin
thang."

"Oh, yes." Biatch looked all up in mah grill absently. "Listen, Nick; let me
rap what tha fuck I holla'd when dat biiiiatch was born, so check it before
ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Would you like ta
hear?"

"Straight-up much."

"It’ll show you how tha fuck I’ve gotten ta feel bout - thangs. Well, dat
biiiiatch was less than a minute oldschool n' Tomothy was Dogg knows
where, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I raised up
outta tha ether wit a utterly abandoned feeling, n' axed tha nurse right
away if dat shiznit was a funky-ass pimp or a girl. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at mah crazy ass dat shiznit was a girl, n'
so I turned mah head away n' wept. ‘all right,’ I holla'd, ‘I’m glad it’s a hoe
fo' realz. And I hope she’ll be a gangbangin' fool - that’s tha dopest thang
a hoe can be up in dis ghetto, a funky-ass dope lil fool."

"Yo ass peep I be thinkin every last muthafuckin thang’s shitty anyhow,"
dat biiiiatch went on up in a cold-ass lil convinced way. "All Y'all be thinkin
so - da most thugged-out advanced playas fo' realz. And I know. I’ve been
everywhere n' peeped every last muthafuckin thang n' done every last
muthafuckin thang." Her eyes flashed round her up in a thugged-out
defiant way, rather like Tom’s, n' she laughed wit thrillin scorn, so check it
before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
"Sophisticated - God, I’m sophisticated!"

Da instant her voice broke off, ceasin ta compel mah attention, mah
belief, I felt tha basic insinceritizzle of what tha fuck dat freaky freaky
biatch had holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it made
me uneasy, as though tha whole evenin had been a trick of some sort ta
exact a cold-ass lil contributory emotion from mah dirty ass. I waited, n'
shizzle enough, up in a moment she looked all up in mah grill wit a

absolute smirk on her ghettofab face, as if dat freaky freaky biatch had
asserted her membershizzle up in a rather distinguished secret society ta
which she n' Tomothy belonged.

Inside, tha crimson room bloomed wit light.

Tomothy n' Miss Baker sat at either end of tha long couch n' she read
aloud ta his ass from tha Saturdizzle Evenin Post. - tha lyrics, murmurous
n' uninflected, hustlin together up in a soothang tune. Da lamp-light,
bright on his boots n' dull on tha autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted
along tha paper as dat dunkadelic hoe turned a page wit a gangbangin'
flutter of slender musclez up in her arms.

When we came up in dat freaky freaky biatch held our asses silent fo' a
moment wit a lifted hand.

"To be continued," her big-ass booty holla'd, tossin tha magazine on tha
table, "in our straight-up next issue."

Her body asserted itself wit a restless movement of her knee, n' her bigass booty stood up.

"Ten o’clock," she remarked, apparently findin tha time on tha ceiling.
"Time fo' dis phat hoe ta git all up in bed."

"Jordan’s goin ta play up in tha tournament to-morrow," explained Daisy,
"over at Westchester."

"Oh - you’re Jordan Baker."

I knew now why her grill was familiar - its pleasin contemptuous
expression had looked up all up in mah grill from nuff rotogravure picturez

of tha sportin game at Asheville n' Hot Springs n' Palm Beach. I had heard
some rap of her too, a cold-ass lil critical, unpleasant rap yo, but what tha
fuck dat shiznit was I had forgotten long ago.

"Dope night," her big-ass booty holla'd softly. "Wake me at eight, won’t yo
thugged-out ass."

"If you’ll git up."

"I will. Dope night, Mista Muthafuckin Carraway. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. See you anon."

"Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I be thinkin I’ll arrange a
marriage. Come over often, Nick, n' I’ll sort of - oh - flin you together n'
shit. Yo ass know - lock you up accidentally up in linen closets n' push you
up ta sea up in a funky-ass boat, n' all dat sort of thang --"

"Dope night," called Miss Baker from tha stairs. "I haven’t heard a word."

"She’s a sick girl," holla'd Tomothy afta a moment. "They oughtn’t ta let
her run round tha ghetto dis way."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck oughtn’t to?"
inquired Dizzy coldly.

"Her crew."

"Her crew is one aunt on some thousand muthafuckin years old. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Besides, Nick’s goin ta look afta her, aren’t
you, Nick, biatch? She’s goin ta spend fuckin shitloadz of week-endz up
here dis summer n' shit. I be thinkin tha home influence is ghon be
straight-up phat fo' her muthafuckin ass."

Dizzy n' Tomothy looked at each other fo' a moment up in silence.

"Is she from New York?" I axed doggystyle.

"From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there, so peek-aboo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Our dope white --"

"Did yo dirty ass give Nick a lil ass ta ass rap on tha veranda?" demanded
Tomothy suddenly.

"Did I?" Biatch looked all up in mah face.

"I can’t seem ta remember yo, but I be thinkin we talked bout tha Nordic
race. Yes, I’m shizzle our phat asses done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it sort of crept up on our asses n' first thang you
know --"

"Don’t believe every last muthafuckin thang you hear, Nick," he advised
mah dirty ass.

I holla'd lightly dat I had heard not a god damn thang at all, n' all dem
minutes later I gots up ta bounce back ta tha doggy den. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. They came ta tha door wit me n' stood side by
side up in a cold-ass lil cheerful square of light fo' realz. As I started mah
motor Dizzy peremptorily called: "Wait!"

"I forgot ta ask you something, n' it’s blingin. Our thugged-out asses heard
you was engaged ta a hoe up West."

"That’s right," corroborated Tomothy kindly. "Our thugged-out asses heard
dat you was engaged."

"It’s libel. I’m too skanky."

"But our crazy asses heard it," insisted Daisy, surprisin me by openin up
again n' again n' again up in a gangbangin' flower-like way. "Our thuggedout asses heard it from three people, so it must be true."

Of course I knew what tha fuck they was referrin ta yo, but I wasn’t even
vaguely engaged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da fact dat ghetto
hype had published tha banns was one of tha reasons I had come East. Yo
ass can’t stop goin wit a oldschool playa on account of rumors, n' on tha
other hand I had no intention of bein rumored tha fuck into marriage.

Their interest rather touched mah crazy ass n' made dem less remotely
rich - nevertheless, I was trippin n' a lil disgusted as I drove away. Well
shiiiit, it seemed ta me dat tha thang fo' Dizzy ta do was ta rush outta tha
house, lil pimp up in arms - but apparently there was no such intentions
up in her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As fo' Tom, tha fact dat
he "had some biatch up in New York." was straight-up less surprisin than
dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been pissed off by a funky-ass book.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang was makin his ass nibble
all up in tha edge of stale scams as if his sturdy physical egotizzle no
longer nourished his thugged-out lil' peremptory ass.

Already dat shiznit was deep summer on roadhouse roofs n' up in front of
wayside garages, where freshly smoked up red gas-pumps sat up in poolz
of light, n' when I reached mah estate at Westside Egg I ran tha hoopty
under its shed n' sat fo' a while on a abandoned grass rolla up in tha yard.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da wind had blown off, leavin a loud,
bright night, wit wings whoopin up in tha trees n' a persistent organ sound
as tha full bellowz of tha earth blew tha frogs full of game. Da silhouette of
a movin pussaaaaay wavered across tha moonlight, n' turnin mah head ta
peep it, I saw dat I was not ridin' solo - fifty feet away a gangbangin' figure
had emerged from tha shadow of mah neighbor’s mansion n' was standin
wit his handz up in his thugged-out lil' pockets regardin tha silver pepper

of tha stars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang up in his
fuckin leisurely movements n' tha secure posizzle of his wild lil' feet upon
tha lawn suggested dat dat shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby his dirty
ass, come up ta determine what tha fuck share was hiz of our local
heavens.

I decided ta booty-call ta his muthafuckin ass. Miss Baker had mentioned
his ass at dinner, n' dat would do fo' a introduction. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. But I didn’t call ta him, fo' he gave a sudden
intimation dat da thug was content ta be ridin' solo - da perved-out
muthafucka stretched up his thugged-out arms toward tha dark gin n juice
up in a cold-ass lil curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have
sworn da thug was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward - n'
distinguished not a god damn thang except a single chronic light, minute
n' far away, dat might done been tha end of a thugged-out dock. When I
looked once mo' fo' Gatsby dat schmoooove muthafucka had vanished, n'
I was ridin' solo again n' again n' again up in tha unquiet darkness.

Chapter 2

Bout half way between Westside Egg n' New York tha motor road hastily
joins tha railroad n' runs beside it fo' a quarter of a mile, so as ta shrink
away from a cold-ass lil certain desolate area of land. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This be a valley of ashes - a gangbangin' dunkadelic farm
where ashes grow like wheat tha fuck into ridges n' hills n' grotesque
gardens; where ashes take tha formz of houses n' chimneys n' risin smoke
and, finally, wit a transcendent effort, of pimps whoz ass move dimly n'
already crumblin all up in tha powdery air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
Occasionally a line of gray rides crawls along a invisible track, gives up a
ghastly creak, n' comes ta rest, n' immediately tha ash-gray pimps swarm
up wit leaden spades n' stir up a impenetrable cloud, which screens they
obscure operations from yo' sight. But above tha gray land n' tha spasmz
of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, afta a moment,
tha eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. Da eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg is blue
n' gigantic - they irises is one yard high. They look outta no grill yo, but,
instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectaclez which pass over a
nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of a oculist set dem there ta
fatten his thugged-out lil' practice up in tha borough of Biatchs, n' then
sank down his dirty ass tha fuck into eternal blindness, or forgot dem n'

moved away. But his wild lil' fuckin eyes, dimmed a lil by nuff paintless
days, under sun n' rain, brood on over tha solemn dumpin ground.

Da valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a lil' small-ass foul river,
and, when tha drawbridge is up ta let barges through, tha passengers on
waitin trains can stare all up in tha dismal scene fo' as long as half a hour.
Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There be always a halt there of at least a minute, n'
dat shiznit was cuz of dis dat I first kicked it wit Tomothy Buchanan’s
mistress.

Da fact dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had one was insisted upon
wherever da thug was known. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo.
His acquaintances resented tha fact dat tha pimpin' muthafucka turned up
in ghettofab restaurants wit her and, leavin her at a table, sauntered
about, chattin wit whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious ta peep
her, I had no desire ta hook up her - but I done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! I went up ta New York wit Tomothy on tha train one
afternoon, n' when we stopped by tha ashheaps he jumped ta his wild lil'
feet and, takin hold of mah elbow, literally forced mah crazy ass from tha
car.

"We’re gettin off," he insisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "I want you ta hook up mah girl."

I be thinkin he’d tanked up a phat deal at luncheon, n' his fuckin lil'
determination ta have mah company bordered on violins. Da supercilious
assumption was dat on Sundizzle afternoon I had not a god damn thang
mo' betta ta do.

I followed his ass over a low whitewashed railroad fence, n' we strutted
back a hundred yardz along tha road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent
stare. Da only buildin up in sight was a lil' small-ass block of yellow brick
chillin on tha edge of tha waste land, a sort of compact Main Street
ministerin ta it, n' contiguous ta straight-up nothing. One of tha three
shops it contained was fo' rent n' another was a all-night restaurant,
approached by a trail of ashes; tha third was a garage - Repairs. George B.

Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Whips looted n' sold.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! - n' I followed Tomothy inside.

Da interior was unprosperous n' bare; tha only hoopty visible was tha
dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched up in a gangbangin' fingerlickin' dim corner n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had occurred ta me dat dis shadow
of a garage must be a funky-ass blind, n' dat sumptuous n' horny-ass cribs
was concealed overhead, when tha proprietor his dirty ass rocked up in
tha door of a office, wipin his handz on a piece of waste yo. Dude was a
funky-ass blond, spiritless dude, anaemic, n' faintly thugged-out. When da
perved-out muthafucka saw our asses a thugged-out damp gleam of hope
sprang tha fuck into his fuckin light blue eyes.

"Yo muthafucka, Wilson, oldschool dude," holla'd Tom, slappin his ass
jovially on tha shoulder n' shit. "How’s bidnizz?"

"I can’t complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When is you goin ta
push me dat car?"

"Next week; I’ve gots mah playa hustlin on it now, nahmeean?"

"Works pretty slow, don’t he?"

"Fuck dat shit, da ruffneck don’t," holla'd Tomothy coldly. "And if you feel
dat way bout it, maybe I’d mo' betta push it somewhere else afta all."

"I don’t mean that," explained Wilson doggystyle. "I just meant --"

His voice faded off n' Tomothy glanced impatiently round tha garage. Then
I heard footsteps on a stairs, n' up in a moment tha thickish figure of a
biatch blocked up tha light from tha crib door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was up in tha middle thirties, n'
faintly stout yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch carried her surplus flesh

sensuously as some dem hoes can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch yo. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine,
contained no facet or gleam of beauty yo, but there was a immediately
perceptible vitalitizzle bout her as if tha nervez of her body was
continually smouldering. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch
smiled slowly and, struttin all up in her homeboy as if da thug was a pimp,
shook handz wit Tom, lookin his ass flush up in tha eye. Then dat biiiiatch
wet her lips, n' without turnin round was rappin ta her homeboy up in a
soft, coarse voice:

"Git some chairs, why don’t you, so some muthafucka can sit tha fuck
down."

"Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly, n' went toward tha lil office, minglin
immediately wit tha cement color of tha walls fo' realz. A white ashen dust
veiled his fuckin lil' dark suit n' his thugged-out lil' pale afro as it veiled
every last muthafuckin thang up in tha vicinitizzle - except his hoe, whoz
ass moved close ta Tom.

"I wanna peep you," holla'd Tomothy intently. "Git on tha next train."

"All right."

"I’ll hook up you by tha news-stand on tha lower level." Biatch nodded n'
moved away from his ass just as George Wilson emerged wit two chairs
from his crib door.

Us thugs waited fo' her down tha road n' outta sight. Dat shiznit was all
dem minutes before tha Fourth of July, n' a gray, scrawny Italian lil pimp
was settin torpedoes up in a row along tha railroad track.

"Terrible place, aint it," holla'd Tom, exchangin a gangbangin' frown wit
Doctor Eckleburg.

"Awful."

"It do her phat ta git away."

"Doesn’t her homeboy object?"

"Wilson, biatch? Dude be thinkin she goes ta peep her sista up in New York
yo. He’s so dumb da ruffneck don’t know he’s kickin it."

So Tomothy Buchanan n' his wild lil' freakadelic hoe n' I went up together
ta New York - or not like together, fo' Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly up in
another car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Tomothy deferred dat much ta tha
sensibilitizzlez of dem Eastside Eggers whoz ass might be on tha train.

Bitch had chizzled her dress ta a funky-ass brown figured muslin, which
stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tomothy helped her ta tha
platform up in New York fo' realz. At tha news-stand da hoe looted a coldass lil copy of Hood Tattle n' a moving-picture magazine, n' up in tha
station sticky-icky-icky-store some cold cream n' a lil' small-ass flask of
perfume. Up-stairs, up in tha solemn echoin drive she let four taxicabs
drive away before her big-ass booty selected a freshly smoked up one,
lavender-colored wit gray upholstery, n' up in dis we slid up from tha mass
of tha station tha fuck into tha glowin sunshine. But immediately dat
dunkadelic hoe turned sharply from tha window and, leanin forward,
tapped on tha front glass.

"I wanna git one of dem dawgs," her big-ass booty holla'd earnestly. "I
wanna git one fo' tha crib. They’re sick ta have - a thugged-out dog."

We backed up ta a gray oldschool playa whoz ass bore a absurd
resemblizzle ta Jizzy D. Rockefella n' shit. In a funky-ass basket swung
from his neck cowered a thugged-out dozen straight-up recent mini-dawgz
of a indeterminizzle breed.

"What kind is they?" axed Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as his schmoooove ass
came ta tha taxi-window.

"All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?"

"I’d like ta git one of dem five-o dawgs; I don’t suppose you gots dat
kind?"

Da playa peered doubtfully tha fuck into tha basket, plunged up in his
hand n' drew one up, wriggling, by tha back of tha neck.

"That’s no five-o dog," holla'd Tom.

"Fuck dat shit, it’s not exactly a five-o dog," holla'd tha playa wit
disappointment up in his voice. "It’s mo' of a Airedale." Dude passed his
hand over tha brown wash-rag of a funky-ass back. "Look at dat coat.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some coat. That’s a thugged-out
dawg that’ll never bother you wit catchin cold."

"I be thinkin it’s cute," holla'd Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How tha fuck
much is it?"

"That dog?" Dude looked at it admiringly. "That dawg will cost you ten
dollars."

Da Airedale - undoubtedly there was a Airedale concerned up in it
somewhere, though its feet was startlingly white - chizzled handz n'
settled down tha fuck into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled tha
weather-proof coat wit rapture.

"Is it a funky-ass pimp or a girl?" she axed delicately.

"That dog, biatch? That dog’s a funky-ass boy."

"It’s a funky-ass biiiatch," holla'd Tomothy decisively. "Here’s yo' scrilla. Go
n' loot ten mo' dawgs wit dat shit."

Us dudes drove over ta Fifth Avenue, so warm n' soft, almost pastoral, on
tha summer Sundizzle afternoon dat I wouldn’t done been surprised ta
peep a pimped out flock of white sheep turn tha corner.

"Hold on," I holla'd, "I gotta leave you here."

"Fuck dat shit, you don’t," interposed Tomothy doggystyle.

"Myrtle’ll be hurt if you don’t come up ta tha crib. Won’t you, Myrtle?"

"Come on," she urged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I’ll telephone
mah sista Catherine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s holla'd ta
be straight-up dope by playas whoz ass ought ta know."

"Well, I’d like ta yo, but --"

Us thugs went on, cuttin back again n' again n' again over tha Park toward
tha Westside Hundredz fo' realz. At 158th Street tha cab stopped at one
slice up in a long-ass white cake of crib-houses. Throwin a regal
homecomin glizzle round tha hood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dawg n'
her other purchases, n' went haughtily in.

"I’m goin ta have tha McKees come up," she announced as we rose up in
tha elevator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "And, of course, I gots ta booty-call up
mah sister, like a muthafucka."

Da crib was on tha top floor - a lil' small-ass living-room, a lil' small-ass
dining-room, a lil' small-ass bedroom, n' a funky-ass bath. Da living-room
was crowded ta tha doors wit a set of tapestried furniture entirely too bigass fo' it, so dat ta move bout was ta stumble continually over scenez of
ladies swingin up in tha gardenz of Versailles. Da only picture was a overenlarged photograph, apparently a hen chillin on a funky-ass blurred rock.
Looked at from a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distance, however, tha hen
resolved itself tha fuck into a funky-ass bonnet, n' tha countenizzle of a
stout oldschool lady beamed down tha fuck into tha room. Right back up
in yo muthafuckin ass. Several oldschool copiez of Hood Tattle lay on tha
table together wit a cold-ass lil copy of Semen Called Peter, n' a shitload
of tha lil' small-ass scandal magazinez of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first
concerned wit tha dawg fo' realz. A reluctant elevator-boy went fo' a
funky-ass box full of straw n' some milk, ta which he added on his own
initiatizzle a tin of large, hard dog-biscuits - one of which decomposed
apathetically up in tha saucer of gin n juice all afternoon. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. Meanwhile Tomothy brought up a funky-ass forty
of whiskey from a locked bureau door.

I done been faded just twice up in mah game, n' tha second time was dat
afternoon; so every last muthafuckin thang dat happened has a
gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim, hazy cast over it, although until afta eight
o’clock tha crib was full of cheerful sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin on Tom’s lap Mrs.
Wilson called up nuff muthafuckin playas on tha telephone; then there
was no blunts, n' I went up ta loot some all up in tha sticky-icky-ickystore
on tha corner n' shit. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat
down discreetly up in tha living-room n' read a cold-ass lil chapter of
Semen Called Peter - either dat shiznit was shitty shiznit or tha whiskey
distorted thangs, cuz it didn’t make any sense ta mah dirty ass.

Just as Tomothy n' Myrtle (after tha straight-up original gangsta drank Mrs.
Wilson n' I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company
commenced ta arrive all up in tha crib-door.

Da sister, Catherine, was a slender, ghettoly hoe of bout thirty, wit a solid,
sticky bob of red hair, n' a cold-ass lil complexion powdered milky white
yo. Her eye-brows had been plucked n' then drawn on again n' again n'

again at a mo' rakish angle yo, but tha effortz of nature toward tha
restoration of tha oldschool alignment gave a funky-ass blurred air ta her
face. When she moved bout there was a incessant clickin as innumerable
pottery bracelets jingled up n' down upon her arms. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch came up in wit such a proprietary haste, n' looked
round so possessively all up in tha furniture dat I wondered if she lived
here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But when I
axed her she laughed immoderately, repeated mah question aloud, n'
holla'd at mah crazy ass she lived wit a hoe playa at a hotel.

Mista Muthafuckin McKee was a pale, feminine playa from tha flat below
yo. Dude had just shaved, fo' there was a white spot of lather on his
cheekbone, n' da thug was most respectful up in his wild lil' freakadelic
greetin ta every last muthafuckin one up in tha room yo. Dude informed
mah crazy ass dat da thug was up in tha "artistic game," n' I gathered
later dat da thug was a pornographer n' had made tha dim enlargement of
Mrs. Wilson’s mutha which hovered like a ectoplazzle on tha wall yo. His
hoe was shrill, languid, thugged-out, n' horrible. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at mah crazy ass wit pride dat her
homeboy had photographed her a hundred n' twenty-seven times since
they had been married.

Mrs. Wilson had chizzled her costume some time before, n' was now
attired up in a elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored chiffon, which
gave up a cold-ass lil continual rustle as her big-ass booty swept bout tha
room. With tha influence of tha dress her personalitizzle had also
undergone a cold-ass lil chizzle. Da intense vitalitizzle dat had been so
remarkable up in tha garage was converted tha fuck into impressive
hauteur yo. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became mo'
violently affected moment by moment, n' as she expanded tha room grew
smalla round her, until her big-ass booty seemed ta be revolvin on a noisy,
creakin pivot all up in tha smoky air.

"My fuckin dear," dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at her sista up in a high,
mincin shout, "most of these fellas will cheat you every last muthafuckin
time fo' realz. All they be thinkin of is scrilla. I had a biatch up here last
week ta peep mah feet, n' when she gave me tha bill you’d of thought dat
freaky freaky biatch had mah appendicitis out."

"What was tha name of tha biatch?" axed Mrs. McKee.

"Mrs. Eberhardt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch goes round
lookin at people’s feet up in they own cribs."

"I wanna bust a nut on yo' dress," remarked Mrs. McKee, "I be thinkin it’s
adorable."

Mrs. Wilson rejected tha compliment by raisin her eyebrow up in disdain.

"It’s just a wild-ass oldschool thang," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! "I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what
tha fuck I look like."

"But it looks straight-up dope on you, if you know what tha fuck I mean,"
pursued Mrs. McKee. "If Chesta could only git you up in dat pose I be
thinkin his schmoooove ass could make suttin' of dat shit."

We all looked up in silence at Mrs. Wilson, whoz ass removed a strand of
afro from over her eyes n' looked back at our asses wit a funky-ass solid
smile. Mista Muthafuckin McKee regarded her intently wit his head on one
side, n' then moved his hand back n' forth slowly up in front of his wild lil'
face.

"I should chizzle tha light," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd afta a
moment. "I’d like ta brang up tha modellin of tha features fo' realz. And I’d
try ta git hold of all tha back hair."

"I wouldn’t be thinkin of changin tha light," cried Mrs. McKee. "I be thinkin
it’s --"

Her homeboy holla'd "sh!" n' we all looked all up in tha subject again,
whereupon Tomothy Buchanan yawned audibly n' gots ta his Nikes.

"Yo ass McKees have suttin' ta drink," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Git some mo' ice n' mineral water,
Myrtle, before dem hoes goes ta chill."

"I holla'd at dat pimp bout tha ice." Myrtle raised her eyebrows up in
despair all up in tha shiftlessnizz of tha lower orders. "These playas
biaaatch! Yo ass gotta keep afta dem all tha time."

Bitch looked all up in mah grill n' laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced
over ta tha dog, busted it wit ecstasy, n' swept tha fuck into tha kitchen,
implyin dat a thugged-out dozen chefs awaited her ordaz there.

"I’ve done some sick thangs up on Long Island," asserted Mista
Muthafuckin McKee.

Tomothy looked at his ass blankly.

"Two of dem our crazy asses have framed down-stairs."

"Two what?" demanded Tom.

"Two studies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! One of dem I
call Montauk Point- Da Gulls, n' tha other I call Montauk Point- Da Sea."

Da sista Catherine sat down beside me on tha couch.

"Do you live down on Long Island, too?" she inquired.

"I live at Westside Egg."

"Really, biatch? I was down there at a jam on some month ago fo' realz. At
a playa named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?"

"I live next door ta his muthafuckin ass."

"Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cold-ass lil cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s.
That’s where all his crazy-ass scrilla be reppin."

"Really?"

Bitch nodded.

"I’m scared of his muthafuckin ass. I’d don't give a fuck bout ta have his
ass git anythang on mah dirty ass."

This absorbin shiznit bout mah neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s
pointin suddenly at Catherine:

"Chester, I be thinkin you could do suttin' wit her," da hoe broke up yo, but
Mista Muthafuckin McKee only nodded up in a funky-ass bugged out way,
n' turned his thugged-out attention ta Tom.

"I’d like ta do mo' work on Long Island, if I could git tha entry fo' realz. All I
ask is dat they should break me off a start."

"Ask Myrtle," holla'd Tom, breakin tha fuck into a short shout of laughter
as Mrs. Wilson entered wit a tray. "She’ll hit you wit a letter of
introduction, won’t you Myrtle?"

"Do what?" she asked, startled.

"You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction ta yo' homeboy, so his
schmoooove ass can do some studiez of his muthafuckin ass." His lips
moved silently fo' a moment as he invented. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "George B. Wilson all
up in tha Gasoline Pump, or suttin' like dis shit."

Catherine leaned close ta me n' whispered up in mah ear: "Neither of dem
can stand tha thug they’re gangbangin."

"Can’t they?"

"Can’t stand em." Biatch looked at Myrtle n' then at Tom. "What I say is,
why go on livin wit dem if they can’t stand them, biatch? If I was dem I’d
git a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce n' git gangbangin each other right
away."

"Doesn’t she like Wilson either?"

Da answer ta dis was unexpected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Well shiiiit, it came from Myrtle, whoz
ass had overheard tha question, n' dat shiznit was violent n' obscene.

"Yo ass see," cried Catherine triumphantly. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch lowered her voice again. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch. "It’s straight-up his hoe that’s keepin dem apart. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s a Catholic, n' they don’t believe up
in divorce."

Dizzy was not a Catholic, n' I was a lil shocked all up in tha elaboratenizz
of tha lie.

"When they do git married," continued Catherine, "they’re goin Westside
ta live fo' a while until it blows over."

"It’d be mo' discreet ta git all up in Europe."

"Oh, do you like Europe?" she exclaimed surprisingly. "I just gots back
from Monte Carlo."

"Really."

"Just last year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I went over there wit another girl."
"Stay long?"

"Fuck dat shit, our laid-back asses just went ta Monte Carlo n' back. Us
thugs went by way of Marseilles. Our thugged-out asses had over twelve
hundred dollars when we started yo, but we gots gypped outta all dat
shiznit up in two minutes up in tha private rooms. Our thugged-out asses
had a wack time gettin back, I can tell yo thugged-out ass. God, how tha
fuck I hated dat town!"

Da late afternoon sky bloomed up in tha window fo' a moment like tha
blue honey of tha Mediterranean - then tha shrill voice of Mrs. McKee
called mah crazy ass back tha fuck into tha room.

"I almost done cooked up a mistake, too," her dope ass declared
vigorously. "I almost hooked up a lil kyke who’d been afta me fo' years. I
knew da thug was below mah dirty ass. All Y'all kept sayin ta me: ‘Lucille,

dat man’s ‘way below you, nahmean biiiatch?’ But if I hadn’t kicked it wit
Chester, he’d of gots me sure."

"Yes yo, but listen," holla'd Myrtle Wilson, noddin her head up n' down, "at
least you didn’t marry his muthafuckin ass."

"I know I didn’t."

"Well, I hooked up him," holla'd Myrtle, ambiguously. "And that’s tha
difference between yo' case n' mine."

"Why did you, Myrtle?" demanded Catherine. "No Muthafucka forced you
to."

Myrtle considered.

"I hooked up his ass cuz I thought da thug was a gentleman," her big-ass
booty holla'd finally. "I thought he knew suttin' bout breedin yo, but da
thug wasn’t fit ta lick mah shoe."

"Yo ass was wild-ass bout his ass fo' a while," holla'd Catherine.

"Crazy-Ass bout him!" cried Myrtle incredulously. "Dum diddy-dum, here I
come biaaatch! Who tha fuck holla'd I was wild-ass bout him, biatch? I
never was any mo' wild-ass bout his ass than I was bout dat playa there."

Bitch pointed suddenly at me, n' every last muthafuckin one looked all up
in mah grill accusingly. I tried ta show by mah expression dat I had played
no part up in her past.

"Da only wild-ass I was was when I hooked up his muthafuckin ass. I knew
right away I done cooked up a mistake yo. Dude borrowed some
muthafucka’s dopest suit ta git hooked up in, n' never even holla'd at mah
crazy ass bout it, n' tha playa came afta it one dizzle when da thug was
out. ‘oh, is dat yo' suit?’ I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘this is
tha straight-up original gangsta I eva heard bout dat shit.’ But I gave it ta
his ass n' then I lay down n' cried ta beat tha crew all afternoon."

"Bitch straight-up ought ta git away from him," resumed Catherine ta mah
dirty ass. "They’ve been livin over dat garage fo' eleven muthafuckin
years fo' realz. And tom’s tha straight-up original gangsta dopeie she eva
had."

Da forty of whiskey - a second one - was now up in constant demand by all
present, exceptin Catherine, whoz ass "felt just as phat on not a god damn
thang at all." Tomothy rang fo' tha janitor n' busted his ass fo' some
bigged up sandwiches, which was a cold-ass lil complete supper up in
theyselves. I wanted ta git up n' strutt southward toward tha park all up in
tha soft twilight yo, but each time I tried ta go I became entangled up in
some wild, strident argument which pulled mah crazy ass back, as if wit
ropes, tha fuck into mah chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Yet high over tha
hood our line of yellow windows must have contributed they share of
human secrecy ta tha casual watcher up in tha darkenin streets, n' I was
his ass too, lookin up n' wondering. I was within n' without, simultaneously
enchanted n' repelled by tha inexhaustible variety of game.

Myrtle pulled her chair close ta mine, n' suddenly her warm breath poured
over me tha rap of her first meetin wit Tom.

"Dat shiznit was on tha two lil seats facin each other dat is always tha last
ones left on tha train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was goin
up ta New York ta peep mah sista n' spend tha night yo. Dude had on a
thugged-out dress suit n' patent leather shoes, n' I couldn’t keep mah
eyes off his ass yo, but every last muthafuckin time he looked all up in
mah grill I had ta pretend ta be lookin all up in tha advertisement over his
head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When we came tha fuck into tha
station da thug was next ta me, n' his white shirt-front pressed against
mah arm, n' so I holla'd at his ass I’d gotta call a policeman yo, but he

knew I lied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I was so buckwild dat when I
gots tha fuck into a ride wit his ass I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t gettin tha
fuck into a subway train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo'
realz. All I kept thankin about, over n' over, was ‘Yo ass can’t live forever;
you can’t live alllll muthafuckin day.’"

Bitch turned ta Mrs. McKee n' tha room rang full of her artificial laughter.

"My fuckin dear," dat thugged-out biiiatch cried, "I’m goin ta hit you wit
dis dress as soon as I’m all up in wit dat shit. I’ve gots ta git another one
to-morrow. I’m goin ta cook up a list of all tha thangs I’ve gots ta git fo'
realz. A massage n' a wave, n' a cold-ass lil collar fo' tha dog, n' one of
dem thugged-out lil ash-trays where you bust a nut on a spring, n' a
wreath wit a funky-ass black silk bow fo' mother’s grave that’ll last all
summer n' shit. I gots ta write down a list so I won’t forget all tha thangs I
gots ta do."

Dat shiznit was nine o’clock - almost immediately afterward I looked at
mah peep n' found dat shiznit was ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Mista Muthafuckin McKee was asleep on a cold-ass lil chair wit his
wild lil' fists clenched up in his fuckin lap, like a photograph of a playa of
action. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Takin up mah
handkerchizzle I wiped from his cheek tha remainz of tha spot of dried
lather dat had worried mah crazy ass all tha afternoon.

Da lil dawg was chillin on tha table lookin wit blind eyes all up in tha
smoke, n' from time ta time groanin faintly. Muthafuckas disappeared,
reappeared, made plans ta go somewhere, n' then lost each other,
searched fo' each other, found each other all dem feet away. Right back
up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some time toward midnight Tomothy Buchanan
n' Mrs. Wilson stood grill ta grill discussing, up in impassioned voices,
whether Mrs. Wilson had any right ta mention Daisy’s name.

"Daisy dawwwwg! Daisy dawwwwg! Daisy!" shouted Mrs. Wilson. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy
dawwwwg! Dai --"

Makin a short deft movement, Tomothy Buchanan broke her nozzle wit his
open hand.

Then there was bloody towels upon tha bath-room floor, n' dem hoes’s
voices scolding, n' high over tha mad drama a long-ass fucked up wail of
pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mista Muthafuckin McKee
awoke from his fuckin lil' doze n' started up in a thugged-out daze toward
tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had
gone half way tha pimpin' muthafucka turned round n' stared all up in tha
scene - his hoe n' Catherine scoldin n' consolin as they stumbled here n'
there among tha crowded furniture wit articlez of aid, n' tha despairin
figure on tha couch, bleedin fluently, n' tryin ta spread a cold-ass lil copy
of Hood Tattle over tha tapestry scenez of Versailles. Then Mista
Muthafuckin McKee turned n' continued on up tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Takin mah basebizzle cap from tha chandelier, I followed.

"Come ta lunch some day," da perved-out muthafucka suggested, as we
groaned down up in tha elevator.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Keep yo' handz off tha lever," snapped tha elevator boy.

"I beg yo' pardon," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin McKee wit dignity, "I didn’t
know I was touchin dat shit."

"All right," I agreed, "I’ll be glad to."

. . . I was standin beside his bed n' da thug was chillin up between tha
sheets, clad up in his underwear, wit a pimped out portfolio up in his
hands.

"Beauty n' tha Beast . . . Lonelinizz . . . Oldskool Grocery Horse . . . Brook’n
Bridge. . . . "

Then I was lyin half asleep up in tha cold lower level of tha Pennsylvania
Station, starin all up in tha mornin Tribune, n' waitin fo' tha four o’clock
train.

Chapter 3

There was noize from mah neighbor’s doggy den all up in tha summer
nights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. In his blue gardens pimps n' hoes
came n' went like moths among tha whisperings n' tha champagne n' tha
stars fo' realz. At high tide up in tha afternoon I peeped his wild lil'
freakadelic guests divin from tha tower of his bangin raft, or takin tha sun
on tha bangin' sand of his beach while his cold-ass two motor-boats slit
tha wataz of tha Sound, drawin aquaplanes over cataractz of foam. On
week-endz his Rolls-Royce became a omnibus, bearin partizzles ta n' from
tha hood between nine up in tha mornin n' long past midnight, while his
station wagon scampered like a funky-ass brisk yellow bug ta hook up all
trains fo' realz. And on Mondays eight servants, includin a extra gardener,
toiled all dizzle wit mops n' scrubbing-brushes n' hammers n' gardenshears, repairin tha ravagez of tha night before.

Every Fridizzle five cratez of oranges n' lemons arrived from a gangbangin'
fruiterer up in New York - every last muthafuckin Mondizzle these same
oranges n' lemons left his back door up in a pyramid of pulpless halves.
There was a machine up in tha kitchen which could extract tha juice of
two hundred oranges up in half a minute if a lil button was pressed two
hundred times by a funky-ass butler’s thumb.

At least once a gangbangin' fortnight a cold-ass lil corpz of caterers came
down wit nuff muthafuckin hundred feet of canvas n' enough colored

lights ta cook up a Chrizzle tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. On buffet tables, garnished wit glistenin
hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against saladz of harlequin
designs n' pastry pigs n' turkeys bewitched ta a thugged-out dark gold.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha main hall a funky-ass bar wit a
real brass rail was set up, n' stocked wit gins n' liquors n' wit cordials so
long forgotten dat most of his biatch guests was too lil' ta know one from
another.

By seven o’clock tha orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair yo, but
a whole pitful of oboes n' trombones n' saxophones n' viols n' cornets n'
piccolos, n' low n' high drums. Da last swimmers have come up in from
tha beach now n' is dressin up-stairs; tha rides from New York is parked
five deep up in tha drive, n' already tha halls n' salons n' verandas is
gaudy wit primary colors, n' afro shorn up in strange freshly smoked up
ways, n' shawls beyond tha tripz of Castile. Da bar is up in full swing, n'
floatin roundz of cocktails permeate tha garden outside, until tha air is
kickin it wit chatter n' laughter, n' casual innuendo n' introductions
forgotten on tha spot, n' enthusiastic meetings between dem hoes whoz
ass never knew each other’s names.

Da lights grow brighter as tha earth lurches away from tha sun, n' now tha
orchestra is playin yellow cocktail beatz, n' tha opera of voices pitches a
key higher n' shit. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled wit
prodigality, tipped up at a cold-ass lil cheerful word. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Da crews chizzle mo' swiftly, swell wit freshly smoked up
arrivals, dissolve n' form up in tha same breath; already there be
wanderers, Kool & Tha Gang hoes whoz ass weave here n' there among
tha stouter n' mo' stable, become fo' a sharp, joyous moment tha centre
of a group, n' then, buckwild wit triumph, glide on all up in tha sea-change
of faces n' voices n' color under tha constantly changin light.

Suddenly one of tha gypsies, up in tremblin opal, seizes a cold-ass lil
cocktail outta tha air, dumps it down fo' courage and, movin her handz
like Frisco, dances up ridin' solo on tha canvas platform fo' realz. A
momentary hush; tha orchestra leader varies his bangin rhythm obligingly
fo' her, n' there be a funky-ass burst of chatter as tha erroneous shizzle
goes round dat her ass is Gilda Gray’s understudy from tha Follies. Put ya
muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Da jam has begun.

I believe dat on tha straight-up original gangsta night I went ta Gatsby’s
doggy den I was one of tha few guests whoz ass had straight-up been
invited. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all
tha time. Muthafuckas was not invited - they went there, so peek-a-boo,
clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. They gots tha fuck into automobilez
which bore dem up ta Long Island, n' somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s
door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Once there they was introduced by some
muthafucka whoz ass knew Gatsby, n' afta dat they conducted theyselves
accordin ta tha rulez of behavior associated wit amusement parks. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes they came n' went without
havin kicked it wit Gatsby at all, came fo' tha jam wit a simplicitizzle of ass
dat was its own ticket of admission.

I had been straight-up invited. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. A chauffeur up in a uniform of
robin’s-egg blue crossed mah lawn early dat Saturdizzle mornin wit a
surprisingly formal note from his wild lil' fuckin employer: tha honor would
be entirely Gatsby’s, it holla'd, if I would git all up in his "lil party" dat
night yo. Dude had peeped mah crazy ass nuff muthafuckin times, n' had
intended ta booty-call on me long before yo, but a peculiar combination of
circumstances had prevented it - signed Jay Gatsby, up in a majestic hand.

Dressed up in white flannels I went over ta his fuckin lawn a lil afta seven,
n' wandered round rather ill at ease among swirls n' eddiez of playas I
didn’t know - though here n' there was a gangbangin' grill I had noticed on
tha commutin train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was
immediately struck by tha number of lil' Gangstamen dotted about; all
well dressed, all lookin a lil hungry, n' all rappin' up in low, earnest voices
ta solid n' prosperous Gangstas. I was shizzle dat they was pushin
something: bondz or insurizzle or automobiles. They was at least
agonizingly aware of tha easy as fuck scrilla up in tha vicinitizzle n'
convinced dat dat shiznit was theirs fo' all dem lyrics up in tha right key.

As soon as I arrived I made a attempt ta find mah host yo, but tha two or
three playaz of whom I axed his whereabouts stared all up in mah grill up
in such a amazed way, n' denied so vehemently any knowledge of his
crazy-ass movements, dat I slunk off up in tha direction of tha cocktail

table - tha only place up in tha garden where a single playa could linger
without lookin purposeless n' ridin' solo.

I was on mah way ta git roarin faded from sheer embarrassment when
Jordan Baker came outta tha doggy den n' stood all up in tha head of tha
marble steps, leanin a lil backward n' lookin wit contemptuous interest
down tha fuck into tha garden.

Welcome or not, I found it necessary ta attach mah dirty ass ta some one
before I should begin ta address cordial remarks ta tha passers-by.

"Hello!" I roared, advancin toward her n' shit. My fuckin voice seemed
unnaturally bangin across tha garden.

"I thought you might be here," she responded absently as I came up. "I
remembered you lived next door ta --" Biatch held mah hand
impersonally, as a promise dat she’d take care of me up in a minute, n'
gave ear ta two hoes up in twin yellow dresses, whoz ass stopped all up in
tha foot of tha steps.

"Hello!" they cried together n' shit. "Sorry you didn’t win."

That was fo' tha golf tournament. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch had lost up in tha finals tha week before.

"Yo ass don’t know whoz ass we are," holla'd one of tha hoes up in yellow,
"but we kicked it wit you here on some month ago."

"You’ve dyed yo' afro since then," remarked Jordan, n' I started yo, but tha
hoes had moved casually on n' her remark was addressed ta tha
premature moon, produced like tha supper, no diggity, outta a cold-ass lil
caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm restin up in mine, our
phat asses descended tha steps n' sauntered bout tha garden. I aint

talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A tray of cocktails floated at
our asses all up in tha twilight, n' we sat down at a table wit tha two hoes
up in yellow n' three men, each one introduced ta our asses as Mista
Muthafuckin Mumble.

"Do you come ta these partizzles often?" inquired Jordan of tha hoe beside
her muthafuckin ass.

"Da last one was tha one I kicked it wit you at," answered tha girl, up in a
alert Kool & Tha Gang voice. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch
turned ta her companion: "Wasn’t it fo' you, Lucille?"

Dat shiznit was fo' Lucille, like a muthafucka.

"I gotta come," Lucille holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I never
care what tha fuck I do, so I always gotz a phat time. When I was here last
I tore mah gown on a cold-ass lil chair, n' he axed mah crazy ass mah
name n' address - inside of a week I gots a package from Croirier’s wit a
freshly smoked up evenin gown up in dat shit."

"Did yo dirty ass keep it?" axed Jordan.

"Sure I done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I was goin ta wear it tonight yo, but dat shiznit was too big-ass up in tha bust n' had ta be
altered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was gas blue wit
lavender beads. Two hundred n' sixty-five dollars."

"There’s suttin' funky on some gangbangin' fellow that’ll do a thang like
that," holla'd tha other hoe eagerly. "Dude don’t want any shiznit wit
anybody."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck don’t?" I inquired.

"Gatsby. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some Muthafucka holla'd at
mah crazy ass --"

Da two hoes n' Jordan leaned together confidentially.

"Some Muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass they thought he capped a
playa once."

A thrill passed over all of us. Da three Mista Muthafuckin Mumblez bent
forward n' listened eagerly.

"I don’t be thinkin it’s so much that," broke off some disrespec Lucille
sceptically; "it’s mo' dat da thug was a German spy durin tha war."

One of tha pimps nodded up in confirmation.

"I heard dat from a playa whoz ass knew all bout him, grew up wit his ass
up in Germany," he assured our asses positively.

"Oh, no," holla'd tha straight-up original gangsta girl, "it couldn’t be that,
cuz da thug was up in tha Gangsta army durin tha war." As our
credulitizzle switched back ta her she leaned forward wit enthusiasm. "Yo
ass peep his ass sometimes when tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin no
muthafucka’s lookin at his muthafuckin ass. I’ll bet he capped a man."

Bitch narrowed her eyes n' shivered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Lucille shivered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We all turned n' looked
round fo' Gatsby. Dat shiznit was testimony ta tha horny-ass speculation
he inspired dat there was whispers bout his ass from dem playas whoz ass
found lil dat dat shiznit was necessary ta whisper bout up in dis ghetto.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Da first supper - there would be another one afta midnight - was now bein
served, n' Jordan invited mah crazy ass ta join her own party, whoz ass
was spread round a table on tha other side of tha garden. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was three hooked up couplez n'
Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given ta violent innuendo, n'
obviously under tha impression dat sooner or later Jordan was goin ta
yield his ass up her thug ta a pimped outer or lesser degree. Instead of
rambling, dis jam had preserved a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dignified
homogeneity, n' assumed ta itself tha function of representin tha staid
nobilitizzle of tha ghetto-side - Eastside Egg condescendin ta Westside
Egg, n' carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety.

"Let’s git out," whispered Jordan, afta a somehow wasteful n' inappropriate
half-hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "This is much too polite fo' mah dirty
ass."

We gots up, n' she explained dat we was goin ta find tha host: I had never
kicked it wit him, her big-ass booty holla'd, n' dat shiznit was makin me
uneasy. Da undergraduate nodded up in a cold-ass lil cynical, melancholy
way.

Da bar, where we glanced first, was crowded yo, but Gatsby was not
there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up
in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn’t find his ass from tha top of tha
steps, n' da thug wasn’t on tha veranda. On a cold-ass lil chizzle we tried a
blingin-lookin door, n' strutted tha fuck into a high Gothic library, panelled
wit carved Gangsta oak, n' probably transported complete from some fuck
up overseas.

A stout, middle-aged dude, wit enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was chillin
somewhat faded on tha edge of a pimped out table, starin wit unsteady
concentration all up in tha shelvez of books fo' realz. As we entered da
thug wheeled excitedly round n' examined Jordan from head ta foot.

"What do you think?" da ruffneck demanded impetuously.

"Bout what?" Dude waved his hand toward tha book-shelves.

"Bout dis shiznit fo' realz. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother ta
ascertain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I ascertained. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They’re real."

"Da books?"

Dude nodded.

"Absolutely real - have pages n' every last muthafuckin thang.. n' you
KNOWS they’d be a sick durable cardboard. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Matter of fact, they’re straight-up real. It aint nuthin but tha
nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Pages n' - Here biaaatch!
Lemme show yo thugged-out ass."

Takin our scepticizzle fo' granted, he rushed ta tha bookcases n' returned
wit Volume One of tha "Stoddard Lectures."

"See!" his schmoooove ass cried triumphantly. "It’s a funky-ass bona-fide
piece of printed matter n' shit. Well shiiiit, it fooled mah dirty ass. This
fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness muthafucka!
What realism! Knew when ta stop, too - didn’t cut tha pages. But what tha
fuck do you want, biatch? What do you expect?"

Dude snatched tha book from me n' replaced it hastily on its shelf,
mutterin dat if one brick was removed tha whole library was liable ta
collapse.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck brought yo slick
ass?" da ruffneck demanded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Or did you
just come, biatch? I was brought. Most playas was brought."

Jordan looked at his ass alertly, cheerfully, without answering.

"I was brought by a biatch named Roosevelt," his schmoooove ass
continued. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do
you know her, biatch? I kicked it wit her somewhere last night. I’ve been
faded fo' on some week now, n' I thought it might sober me up ta sit up in
a library."

"Has it?"

"A lil bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here a hour. Shiiit, dis aint
no joke. Did I rap bout tha books, biatch? They’re real. It aint nuthin but
tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. They’re --"

"Yo ass holla'd at us." We shook handz wit his ass gravely n' went back
outdoors.

There was ridin' dirty now on tha canvas up in tha garden; oldschool
pimps pushin lil' hoes backward up in eternal graceless circles, superior
couplez holdin each other tortuously, fashionably, n' keepin up in tha
corners - n' a pimped out number of single hoes ridin' dirty
individualistically or relievin tha orchestra fo' a moment of tha burden of
tha banjo or tha traps. By midnight tha hilaritizzle had increased. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A bigged up tenor had sung up in Italian, n' a
notorious contralto had sung up in jazz, n' between tha numbers playas
was bustin "stunts" all over tha garden, while happy, vacuous burstz of
laughter rose toward tha summer sky fo' realz. A pair of stage twins, whoz
ass turned up ta be tha hoes up in yellow, did a funky-ass baby act up in
costume, n' champagne was served up in glasses bigger than fingerbowls. Da moon had risen higher, n' floatin up in tha Sound was a triangle
of silver scales, tremblin a lil ta tha stiff, tinny drip of tha banjoes on tha
lawn.

I was still wit Jordan Baker n' shit. Us thugs was chillin at a table wit a
playa of bout mah age n' a rowdy lil girl, whoz ass gave way upon tha
slightest provocation ta uncontrollable laughter n' shit. I was trippin' off
mah dirty ass now, nahmeean, biatch? I had taken two finger-bowlz of
champagne, n' tha scene had chizzled before mah eyes tha fuck into
suttin' significant, elemental, n' profound.

At a lull up in tha entertainment tha playa looked all up in mah grill n'
smiled.

"Yo crazy-ass grill is familiar," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, politely.
"Weren’t you up in tha Third Division durin tha war?"

"Why, yes. I was up in tha Ninth Machine-gun Battalion."

"I was up in tha Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I knew I’d peeped you somewhere before."

We talked fo' a moment bout some wet, gray lil villages up in France.
Evidently he lived up in dis vicinity, fo' tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at
mah crazy ass dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had just looted a
hydroplane, n' was goin ta try it up in tha morning.

"Want ta go wit me, oldschool sport, biatch? Just near tha shore along tha
Sound."

"What time?"

"Any time dat suits you best."

Dat shiznit was on tha tip of mah tongue ta ask his name when Jordan
looked round n' smiled.

"Havin a gay time now?" she inquired.

"Much better." I turned again n' again n' again ta mah freshly smoked up
acquaintance. "This be a unusual jam fo' mah dirty ass. I haven’t even
peeped tha host. I live over there --" I waved mah hand all up in tha
invisible hedge up in tha distance, "and dis playa Gatsby busted over his
chauffeur wit a invitation." For a moment he looked all up in mah grill as if
he failed ta understand.

"I’m Gatsby," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd suddenly.

"What!" I exclaimed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Oh, I beg yo'
pardon."

"I thought you knew, oldschool sport. I’m afraid I’m not a straight-up phat
host."

Dude smiled understandingly - much mo' than understandingly. Dat shiznit
was one of dem rare smilez wit a qualitizzle of eternal reassurizzle up in it,
dat you may come across four or five times up in tha game. Well shiiiit, it
faced - or seemed ta grill - tha whole external ghetto fo' a instant, n' then
concentrated on you wit a irresistible prejudice up in yo' favor. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it understood you just so far as you wanted ta be
understood, believed up in you as you wanna believe up in yo ass, n'
assured you dat it had precisely tha impression of y'all that, at yo' best,
you hoped ta convey. Precisely at dat point it vanished - n' I was lookin at
a elegant lil' rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate
formalitizzle of rap just missed bein absurd. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Some time before he introduced his dirty ass I’d gots a phat
impression dat da thug was pickin his fuckin lyrics wit care.

Almost all up in tha moment when Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby identified his
dirty ass, a funky-ass butla hurried toward his ass wit tha shiznit dat
Chicago was callin his ass on tha wire yo. Dude excused his dirty ass wit a
lil' small-ass bow dat included each of our asses up in turn.

"If you want anythang just ask fo' it, oldschool sport," he urged mah dirty
ass. "Excuse mah dirty ass. I'ma rejoin you later."

When da thug was gone I turned immediately ta Jordan - constrained ta
assure her of mah surprise. I had expected dat Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby
would be a gangbangin' florid n' corpulent thug up in his crazy-ass middle
years.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is he?" I demanded.

"Do you know?"

"He’s just a playa named Gatsby."

"Where is he from, I mean, biatch? And what tha fuck do da ruffneck do?"

"Now you’re started on tha subject," she answered wit a wan smile. "Well,
tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass once da thug was a
Oxford man." A dim background started ta take shape behind his ass yo,
but at her next remark it faded away.

"But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat I don’t believe dat
shit."

"Why not?" "I don’t know," she insisted, "I just don’t be thinkin da thug
went there."

Somethang up in her tone reminded mah crazy ass of tha other girl’s "I be
thinkin he capped a thugged-out dude," n' had tha effect of stimulatin
mah curiosity. I would have accepted without question tha shiznit dat
Gatsby sprang from tha swampz of Louisiana or from tha lower Eastside
Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But lil' pimps didn’t - at least
up in mah provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t - drift coolly outta
nowhere n' loot a palace on Long Island Sound.

"Anyhow, he gives big-ass parties," holla'd Jordan, changin tha subject wit
a urbane distaste fo' tha concrete. "And I wanna bust a nut on big-ass
parties. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! They’re so intimate
fo' realz. At lil' small-ass partizzles there aint any privacy."

There was tha boom of a funky-ass bass drum, n' tha voice of tha
orchestra leader rang up suddenly above tha echolalia of tha garden.

"Ladies n' gentlemen," his schmoooove ass cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "At tha request of Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby we is goin ta
play fo' you Mista Muthafuckin Vladimir Tostoff’s sickest fuckin work, which
attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read tha
papers, you know there was a funky-ass big-ass sensation." Dude smiled
wit jovial condescension, n' added: "Some sensation!" Whereupon dem
hoes laughed.

"Da piece is known," his schmoooove ass concluded lustily, "as Vladimir
Tostoff’s Jazz History of tha World."

Da nature of Mista Muthafuckin Tostoff’s composizzle eluded me, cuz just
as it fuckin started mah eyes fell tha fuck on Gatsby, standin ridin' solo on
tha marble steps n' lookin from one crew ta another wit approvin eyes yo.
His tanned skin was drawn banginly tight on his wild lil' grill n' his short
afro looked as though it was trimmed every last muthafuckin day. It make
me wanna hollar playa! I could peep not a god damn thang sinista bout
his muthafuckin ass. I wondered if tha fact dat da thug was not drankin
helped ta set his ass off from his wild lil' freakadelic guests, fo' it seemed

ta me dat he grew mo' erect as tha fraternal hilaritizzle increased. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When tha Jazz History of tha Ghetto was
over, hoes was puttin they headz on men’s shouldaz up in a puppyish,
convivial way, hoes was swoonin backward playfully tha fuck into men’s
arms, even tha fuck into groups, knowin dat some one would arrest they
falls - but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, n' no French bob touched
Gatsby’s shoulder, n' no rappin quartets was formed wit Gatsby’s head fo'
one link.

"I beg yo' pardon."

Gatsby’s butla was suddenly standin beside us.

"Miss Baker?" he inquired. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I beg yo'
pardon yo, but Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby wanna drop a rhyme ta you
ridin' solo."

"With me son?" she exclaimed up in surprise.

"Yes, madame."

Bitch gots up slowly, raisin her eyebrows all up in mah grill up in
astonishment, n' followed tha butla toward tha house. I noticed dat dat
biiiiatch wore her evening-dress, all her dresses, like game threadz - there
was a jauntinizz bout her movements as if dat freaky freaky biatch had
first hustled ta strutt upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.

I was ridin' solo n' dat shiznit was almost two. For some time trippin n'
intriguin soundz had issued from a long, many-windowed room which
overhung tha terrace. Eludin Jordan’s undergraduate, whoz ass was now
engaged up in a obstetrical conversation wit two chorus girls, n' whoz ass
implored mah crazy ass ta join him, I went inside.

Da big-ass room was full of people. One of tha hoes up in yellow was
playin tha piano, n' beside her stood a tall, red-haired lil' lady from a
gangbangin' hyped chorus, engaged up in song. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch had faded a quantitizzle of champagne, n' durin
tha course of her cold lil' woo wop dat freaky freaky biatch had decided,
ineptly, dat every last muthafuckin thang was hella, straight-up fucked up
- dat biiiiatch was not only rappin, dat biiiiatch was weepin like a
muthafucka. Whenever there was a pause up in tha cold lil' woo wop she
filled it wit gasping, fucked up sobs, n' then took up tha lyric again n'
again n' again up in a quaverin soprano. Da tears coursed down her
cheeks - not freely, however, fo' when they came tha fuck into contact wit
her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed a inky color, n' pursued tha
rest of they way up in slow black rivulets fo' realz. A humorous suggestion
was made dat her big-ass booty rap tha notes on her face, whereupon dat
dunkadelic hoe threw up her hands, sank tha fuck into a cold-ass lil chair,
n' went off tha fuck into a thugged-out deep vinous chill.

"Bitch had a gangbangin' fight wit a playa whoz ass say he’s her
homeboy," explained a hoe at mah elbow.

I looked around. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Most of tha remainin
dem hoes was now havin fights wit pimps holla'd ta be they homeboys.
Even Jordan’s party, tha quartet from Eastside Egg, was rent asunder by
dissension. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of tha pimps
was rappin' wit curious intensitizzle ta a lil' playette, n' his hoe, afta
attemptin ta laugh all up in tha thang up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin'
dignified n' indifferent way, broke down entirely n' resorted ta flank
attacks - at intervals she rocked up suddenly at his side like a mad salty
diamond, n' hissed: "Yo ass promised!" tha fuck into his wild lil' fuckin ear.

Da reluctizzle ta bounce back ta tha doggy den was not confined ta
wayward men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hall was at
present occupied by two deplorably sober pimps n' they highly indignant
wives. Da wives was sympathizin wit each other up in slightly raised
voices.

"Whenever da perved-out muthafucka sees I’m havin a phat time da thug
wants ta bounce back ta tha doggy den."

"Never heard anythang so selfish up in mah game."

"We’re always tha straight-up original gangsta ones ta muthafuckin
bounce."

"So is we."

"Well, we’re almost tha last to-night," holla'd one of tha pimps sheepishly.
"Da orchestra left half a minute ago."

In spite of tha wives’ agreement dat such malevolence was beyond
credibility, tha dispute ended up in a short struggle, n' both wives was
lifted, kicking, tha fuck into tha night.

As I waited fo' mah basebizzle cap up in tha hall tha door of tha library
opened n' Jordan Baker n' Gatsby came up together n' shiznit yo. Dude
was sayin some last word ta her yo, but tha eagernizz up in his crazy-ass
manner tightened abruptly tha fuck into formalitizzle as nuff muthafuckin
playas approached his ass ta say good-bye.

Jordan’s jam was callin impatiently ta her from tha porch yo, but she
lingered fo' a moment ta shake hands.

"I’ve just heard da most thugged-out dunkadelic thang," dat biiiiatch
whispered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "How tha fuck long was we
up in there?"

"Why, bout a hour." "Dat shiznit was - simply amazing," she repeated
abstractedly. "But I swore I wouldn’t tell it n' here I be tantalizin yo
thugged-out ass." Biatch yawned gracefully up in mah face: "Please come
n' peep mah dirty ass. . . . Phone book . . . Under tha name of Mrs. Right

back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sigourney Howard . . . My fuckin aunt . . . "
Biatch was hurryin off as dat dunkadelic hoe talked - her brown hand
waved a jaunty salute as she melted tha fuck into her jam all up in tha
door.

Rather ashamed dat on mah first appearizzle I had stayed so late, I joined
tha last of Gatsby’s guests, whoz ass was clustered round his muthafuckin
ass. I wanted ta explain dat I’d hunted fo' his ass early up in tha evenin n'
ta apologize fo' not havin known his ass up in tha garden.

"Don’t mention it," he enjoined mah crazy ass eagerly. "Don’t give it
another thought, oldschool sport." Da familiar expression held no mo'
familiaritizzle than tha hand which reassuringly brushed mah shoulder n'
shit. "And don’t forget we’re goin up in tha hydroplane to-morrow
morning, at nine o’clock."

Then tha butler, behind his shoulder: "Philadelphia wants you on tha
‘phone, sir."

"All right, up in a minute. Tell dem I’ll be right there, so peek-a-boo, clear
tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. . . . phat night."

"Dope night."

"Dope night." Dude smiled - n' suddenly there seemed ta be a pleasant
significizzle up in havin been among tha last ta go, as if dat schmoooove
muthafucka had desired all dat shiznit tha time. "Dope night, oldschool
sport. . . . phat night."

But as I strutted down tha steps I saw dat tha evenin was not like over n'
shit. Fifty feet from tha door a thugged-out dozen headlights illuminated a
funky-ass bizarre n' tumultuous scene. In tha ditch beside tha road, right
side up yo, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a freshly smoked up
coupe which had left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. Da sharp jut

of a wall accounted fo' tha detachment of tha wheel, which was now
gettin considerable attention from half a thugged-out dozen curious
chauffeurs. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat as they
had left they rides blockin tha road, a harsh, discordant din from dem up
in tha rear had been audible fo' some time, n' added ta tha already violent
mad drama of tha scene.

A playa up in a long-ass dusta had dismounted from tha wreck n' now
stood up in tha middle of tha road, lookin from tha hoopty ta tha tire n'
from tha tire ta tha observers up in a pleasant, puzzled way.

"See!" he explained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "It went up in tha
ditch."

Da fact was infinitely astonishin ta him, n' I recognized first tha unusual
qualitizzle of wonder, n' then tha playa - dat shiznit was tha late patron of
Gatsby’s library.

"How’d it happen?"

Dude shrugged his shoulders.

"I know not a god damn thang whatever bout mechanics," da perved-out
muthafucka holla'd decisively.

"But how tha fuck done did it happen, biatch? Did yo dirty ass run tha fuck
into tha wall?" "Don’t ask me," holla'd Owl Eyes, washin his handz of tha
whole matter n' shit. "I know straight-up lil bout rollin - next ta nothing.
Well shiiiit, it happened, n' that’s all I know."

"Well, if you’re a skanky driver you oughtn’t ta try rollin at night."

"But I wasn’t even trying," he explained indignantly, "I wasn’t even
trying."

An awed hush fell tha fuck upon tha bystanders.

"Do you wanna commit suicide?"

"You’re dirty dat shiznit was just a wheel! A wack driver n' not even
trying!"

"Yo ass don’t understand," explained tha criminal. It aint nuthin but tha
nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. "I wasn’t driving. There’s
another playa up in tha car."

Da shock dat followed dis declaration found voice up in a sustained "Ah-hh!" as tha door of tha coupe swung slowly open. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch. Da crowd - dat shiznit was now a cold-ass lil crowd stepped back involuntarily, n' when tha door had opened wide there was a
pimply pause. Then, straight-up gradually, part by part, a pale, danglin
individual stepped outta tha wreck, pawin tentatively all up in tha ground
wit a big-ass uncertain ridin' dirty shoe.

Blinded by tha glare of tha headlights n' trippin by tha incessant groanin
of tha horns, tha apparizzle stood swayin fo' a moment before he
perceived tha playa up in tha duster.

"Wha’s matter?" he inquired calmly. "Did we run outa gas?"

"Look!"

Half a thugged-out dozen fingers pointed all up in tha amputated wheel da perved-out muthafucka stared at it fo' a moment, n' then looked

upward as though da perved-out muthafucka suspected dat it had
dropped from tha sky.

"It came off," some one explained.

Dude nodded.

"At first I din’ notice we’d stopped."

A pause. Then, takin a long-ass breath n' straightenin his shoulders, he
remarked up in a thugged-out determined voice:

"Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?"

At least a thugged-out dozen men, a shitload of dem lil mo' betta off than
da thug was, explained ta his ass dat wheel n' hoopty was no longer
joined by any physical bond.

"Back out," da perved-out muthafucka suggested afta a moment. "Put her
up in reverse."

"But tha wheel’s off!"

Dude hesitated.

"No harm up in trying," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Da caterwaulin horns had reached a cold-ass lil crescendo n' I turned away
n' cut across tha lawn toward home. I glanced back once fo' realz. A wafer

of a moon was shinin over Gatsby’s house, makin tha night fine as before,
n' survivin tha laughter n' tha sound of his still glowin garden. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A sudden emptinizz seemed ta flow
now from tha windows n' tha pimped out doors, endowin wit complete
isolation tha figure of tha host, whoz ass stood on tha porch, his hand up
in a gangbangin' formal gesture of farewell.

Readin over what tha fuck I have freestyled so far, I peep I have given tha
impression dat tha eventz of three nights nuff muthafuckin weeks apart
was all dat absorbed mah dirty ass. On tha contrary, they was merely
casual events up in a cold-ass lil crowded summer, and, until much later,
they absorbed mah crazy ass infinitely less than mah underground affairs.

Most of tha time I worked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha early
mornin tha sun threw mah shadow westsideward as I hurried down tha
white chasmz of lower New York ta tha Probitizzle Trust. I knew tha other
clerks n' lil' bond-salesmen by they first names, n' lunched wit dem up in
dark, crowded restaurants on lil pig sausages n' mashed potatoes n'
coffee. I even had a short affair wit a hoe whoz ass lived up in Jersey
Citizzle n' hit dat shiznit up in tha accountin department yo, but her
brutha fuckin started throwin mean looks up in mah direction, so when dat
biiiiatch went on her vacation up in July I let it blow on tha fuckin' downlowly away.

I took dinner probably all up in tha Yale Club - fo' some reason dat shiznit
was tha gloomiest event of mah dizzle - n' then I went up-stairs ta tha
library n' studied investments n' securitizzles fo' a cold-ass lil
conscientious hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was generally all dem
riotas around yo, but they never came tha fuck into tha library, so dat
shiznit was a phat place ta work fo' realz. After that, if tha night was
mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past tha oldschool Murray Hill
Hotel, n' over 33rd Street ta tha Pennsylvania Station.

I fuckin started ta like New York, tha racy, adventurous feel of it at night,
n' tha satisfaction dat tha constant flicker of pimps n' dem hoes n'
machines gives ta tha restless eye. I was horny bout ta strutt up Fifth
Avenue n' pick up horny-ass dem hoes from tha crowd n' imagine dat up in
all dem minutes I was goin ta enter tha fuck into they lives, n' no one

would eva know or disapprove. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Sometimes, up in mah mind, I followed dem ta they cribs on tha cornerz of
hidden streets, n' they turned n' smiled back all up in mah grill before they
faded all up in a thugged-out door tha fuck into warm darknizz fo' realz. At
tha enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a hustlin lonelinizz sometimes, n'
felt it up in others - skanky lil' clerks whoz ass loitered up in front of
windows waitin until dat shiznit was time fo' a solitary restaurant dinner lil' clerks up in tha dusk, wastin da most thugged-out poignant momentz
of night n' game.

Again at eight o’clock, when tha dark lanez of tha Fortizzles was five deep
wit throbbin taxi-cabs, bound fo' tha theatre district, I felt a sinkin up in
mah ass. Forms leaned together up in tha taxis as they waited, n' voices
sang, n' there was laughter from unheard jokes, n' lighted blunts outlined
unintelligible 70 gestures inside. Imaginin dat I, too, was hurryin toward
gayety n' pluggin they intimate excitement, I wished dem well.

For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, n' then up in midsummer I found
her again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At first I was
flattered ta go places wit her, cuz dat biiiiatch was a golf champion, n'
every last muthafuckin one knew her name. Then dat shiznit was suttin'
mo' n' mo' n' mo'. I wasn’t straight-up up in ludd yo, but I felt a sort of
tender curiosity. Da bugged out haughty grill dat dat dunkadelic hoe
turned ta tha ghetto concealed suttin' - most affectations conceal suttin'
eventually, even though they don’t up in tha beginnin - n' one dizzle I
found what tha fuck it was. When we was on a house-party together up in
Warwick, she left a funky-ass borrowed hoopty up in tha drizzle wit tha top
down, n' then lied bout it - n' suddenly I remembered tha rap bout her dat
had eluded mah crazy ass dat night at Daisy’s fo' realz. At her first big-ass
golf tournament there was a row dat nearly reached tha newspapers - a
suggestion dat dat freaky freaky biatch had moved her bizzle from a wack
lie up in tha semi-final round. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da thang
approached tha proportionz of a scandal - then took a dirt nap away fo'
realz. A caddy retracted his statement, n' tha only other witnizz admitted
dat he might done been mistaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Da incident n' tha name had remained together up in mah mind.

Jordan Baker instinctively avoided def, shrewd men, n' now I saw dat dis
was cuz she felt less thuggy on a plane where any divergence from a cold-

ass lil code would be thought impossible. Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Biatch was incurably dishonest. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch wasn’t able ta endure bein at a gangbangin' finger-lickin'
disadvantage and, given dis unwillingness, I suppose dat freaky freaky
biatch had begun dealin up in subterfuges when dat biiiiatch was straightup lil' up in order ta keep dat cool, insolent smile turned ta tha ghetto n'
yet satisfy tha demandz of her hard, jaunty body.

It made no difference ta mah dirty ass. Dishonesty up in a biatch be a
thang you never blame deeply - I was casually sorry, n' then I forgot. Dat
shiznit was on dat same doggy den jam dat our crazy asses had a cold-ass
lil curious conversation bout rollin a cold-ass lil car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
Well shiiiit, it started cuz she passed so close ta some workmen dat our
fender flicked a funky-ass button on one man’s coat.

"You’re a rotten driver," I protested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Either you ought ta be mo' careful, or
you oughtn’t ta drive at all."

"I be careful."

"Fuck dat shit, you’re not."

"Well, other playas are," her big-ass booty holla'd lightly.

"What’s dat gots ta do wit it?"

"They’ll keep outta mah way," she insisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "It takes two ta cook
up a accident."

"Suppose you kicked it wit some muthafucka just as careless as yo ass."

"I hope I never will," she answered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I
don't give a fuck bout careless people. That’s why I wanna bust a nut on
yo thugged-out ass."

Her gray, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead yo, but dat freaky
freaky biatch had deliberately shifted our relations, n' fo' a moment I
thought I loved her n' shit. But I be slow-thankin n' full of interior rulez dat
act as brakes on mah desires, n' I knew dat first I had ta git mah dirty ass
definitely outta dat tangle back home. I’d been freestylin lettas once a
week n' signin them: "Love, Nick," n' all I could be thinkin of was how,
when dat certain hoe played tennis, a gangbangin' faint mustache of
perspiration rocked up on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague
understandin dat had ta be tactfully fucked up off before I was free.

Every one suspects his dirty ass of at least one of tha cardinal virtues, n'
dis is mine: I be one of tha few real playas dat I have eva known.

Chapter 4

On Sundizzle mornin while church bells rang up in tha villages alongshore,
tha ghetto n' its mistress moonwalked back ta Gatsby’s doggy den n'
twinkled hilariously on his fuckin lawn.

"He’s a funky-ass bootlegger," holla'd tha lil' ladies, movin somewhere
between his cocktails n' his wild lil' flowers. "One time he capped a playa
whoz ass had found up dat da thug was nephew ta Von Hindenburg n'
second cousin ta tha devil. Reach me a rose, honey, n' pour me a last drop
tha fuck into dat there crystal glass."

Once I freestyled down on tha empty spacez of a time-table tha namez of
dem playas whoz ass came ta Gatsby’s doggy den dat summer n' shit.
Well shiiiit, it be a oldschool time-table now, disintegratin at its folds, n'
headed "This schedule up in effect July 5th, 1922." But I can still read tha
gray names, n' they will hit you wit a funky-ass mo' betta impression than

mah generalitizzlez of dem playas whoz ass accepted Gatsby’s
hospitizzleitizzle n' paid his ass tha subtle tribute of knowin not a god
damn thang whatever bout his muthafuckin ass.

From Eastside Egg, then, came tha Chesta Beckers n' tha Leeches, n' a
playa named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, n' Doctor Websta Civet, whoz
ass was drowned last summer up in Maine fo' realz. And tha Hornbeams n'
tha Willie Voltaires, n' a whole clan named Blackbuck, whoz ass always
gathered up in a cold-ass lil corner n' flipped up they noses like goats at
whosoever came near fo' realz. And tha Ismays n' tha Chrystizzles (or
rather Hubert Auerbach n' Mista Muthafuckin Chrystie’s hoe), n' Edgar
Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon fo'
no phat reason at all.

Clarence Endive was from Eastside Egg, as I remember n' shiznit yo. Dude
came only once, up in white knickerbockers, n' had a gangbangin' fight wit
a funky-ass bum named Etty up in tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n'
gravy biatch. From farther up on tha Island came tha Cheadlez n' tha O. R.
P. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Schraeders, n' tha Stonewall
Jackson Abramz of Georgia, n' tha Fishguardz n' tha Ripley Snells. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snell was there three minutes before da
thug went ta tha penitentiary, so faded up on tha gravel drive dat Mrs.
Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his bangin right hand. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! Da Dancies came, too, n' S. B. Whitebait, whoz ass was
well over sixty, n' Maurice A. Flink, n' tha Hammerheads, n' Beluga tha
bluntz importer, n' Beluga’s hoes.

From Westside Egg came tha Polez n' tha Mulreadys n' Cecil Roebuck n'
Cecil Schoen n' Gulick tha state senator n' Newton Orchid, whoz ass
controlled Films Par Excellence, n' Eckhaust n' Clyde Cohen n' Don S. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Schwartze (the son) n' Arthur McCarty, all
connected wit tha pornos up in one way or another n' shiznit fo' realz. And
tha Catlips n' tha Bembergs n' G. Earl Muldoon, brutha ta dat Muldoon
whoz ass afterward strangled his hoe. Da Fontano tha promoter came
there, n' Ed Legros n' Jizzy B. ("Rot-Gut.") Ferret n' tha De Jongs n' Ernest
Lil' Willy - they came ta gamble, n' when Ferret wandered tha fuck into tha
garden it meant da thug was cleaned up n' Associated Traction would
gotta fluctuate profitably next day.

A playa named Klipspringer was there so often n' so long dat his thuggedout lil' punk-ass became known as "the boarder."- I doubt if dat
schmoooove muthafucka had any other home. Of theatrical playas there
was Gus Waize n' Horace O’donavan n' Lesta Meyer n' George Duckweed
n' Frankie Bull fo' realz. Also from New York was tha Chromes n' tha
Backhyssons n' tha Dennickers n' Russel Betty n' tha Corrigans n' tha
Kellehers n' tha Dewars n' tha Scullys n' S. W. Belcher n' tha Smirkes n' tha
lil' Quinns, divorced now, n' Henry L. Palmetto, whoz ass capped his dirty
ass by jumpin up in front of a subway train up in Times Square.

Benny McClenahan arrived always wit four hoes. They was never like tha
same ones up in physical thug yo, but they was so identical one wit
another dat it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have
forgotten they names - Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or
Judy or June, n' they last names was either tha melodious namez of
flowers n' months or tha sterner onez of tha pimped out Gangsta
capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess theyselves ta be.

In addizzle ta all these I can remember dat Faustina O’Brien came there at
least once n' tha Baedeker hoes n' lil' Brewer, whoz ass had his nozzle
blasted off up in tha war, n' Mista Muthafuckin fo' realz. Albrucksburger n'
Miss Haag, his wild lil' fiancee, n' Ardita Fitz-Petas n' Mista Muthafuckin P.
Jewett, once head of tha Gangsta Legion, n' Miss Claudia Hip, wit a playa
reputed ta be her chauffeur, n' a pimp of something, whom we called
Duke, n' whose name, if I eva knew it, I have forgotten.

All these playas came ta Gatsby’s doggy den up in tha summer.

At nine o’clock, one mornin late up in July, Gatsby’s pimpin' hoopty
lurched up tha rocky drive ta mah door n' gave up a funky-ass burst of
melody from its three-noted horn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was tha last time dat
schmoooove muthafucka had called on me, though I had gone ta two of
his thugged-out lil' parties, mounted up in his hydroplane, and, at his
urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.

"Dope morning, oldschool sport. You’re havin lunch wit me to-dizzle n' I
thought we’d ride up together."

Dude was balancin his dirty ass on tha dashboard of his hoopty wit dat
resourcefulnizz of movement dat is so peculiarly Gangsta - dat comes, I
suppose, wit tha absence of liftin work or rigid chillin up in youth and,
even more, wit tha formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This
qualitizzle was continually breakin all up in his thugged-out lil' punctilious
manner up in tha shape of restlessnizz yo. Dude was never like still; there
was always a tappin foot somewhere or tha impatient openin n' closin of a
hand.

Dude saw me lookin wit admiration at his car.

"It’s pretty, aint it, oldschool sport?" Dude jumped off ta break me off a
funky-ass mo' betta view. "Haven’t you eva peeped it before?"

I’d peeped dat shit. All Y'all had peeped dat shit. Dat shiznit was a rich
cream color, bright wit nickel, swollen here n' there up in its monstrous
length wit triumphant hat-boxes n' supper-boxes n' tool-boxes, n' terraced
wit a labyrinth of wind-shieldz dat mirrored a thugged-out dozen suns.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin down behind nuff layerz of
glass up in a sort of chronic leather conservatory, we started ta town.

I had talked wit his ass like half a thugged-out dozen times up in tha past
month n' found, ta mah disappointment, dat dat schmoooove muthafucka
had lil ta say: So mah first impression, dat da thug was a thug of some
undefined consequence, had gradually faded n' dat schmoooove
muthafucka had become simply tha proprietor of a elaborate road-house
next door.

And then came dat disconcertin ride. Our thugged-out asses hadn’t
reached Westside Egg hood before Gatsby fuckin started leavin his wild lil'
fuckin elegant sentences unfinished n' slappin his dirty ass indecisively on
tha knee of his caramel-colored suit.

"Look here, oldschool sport," his thugged-out lil' punk-ass broke up
surprisingly. "What’s yo' opinion of me, anyhow?" A lil overwhelmed, I
fuckin started tha generalized evasions which dat question deserves.

"Well, I’m goin ta rap suttin' bout mah game," he interrupted. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "I don’t
want you ta git a wack scam of me from all these stories you hear."

So da thug was aware of tha bizarre accusations dat flavored conversation
up in his halls.

"I’ll rap God’s truth." His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution ta
stand by. "I be tha lil hustla of some wealthy playas up in tha Middle
Westside - all dead now, nahmeean, biatch? I was brought up in Tha
Ghetto but constipated at Oxford, cuz all mah ancestors done been
constipated there fo' nuff years. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a cold-ass lil
crew tradition."

Dude looked all up in mah grill sideways - n' I knew why Jordan Baker had
believed da thug was lyin yo. Dude hurried tha phrase "educated at
Oxford," or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered his ass
before fo' realz. And wit dis doubt, his whole statement fell tha fuck ta
pieces, n' I wondered if there wasn’t suttin' a lil sinista bout him, afta all.

"What part of tha Middle West?" I inquired casually.

"San Frankieco."

"I see."

"My fuckin crew all took a dirt nap n' I came tha fuck into a phat deal of
scrilla."

His voice was solemn, as if tha memory of dat sudden extinction of a coldass lil clan still hustled his muthafuckin ass. For a moment I suspected dat
da thug was pullin mah leg yo, but a glizzle at his ass convinced mah
crazy ass otherwise.

"After dat I lived like a lil' rajah up in all tha capitalz of Europe - Paris,
Venice, Rome - collectin jewels, chizzlely rubies, hustlin big-ass game,
paintin a lil, thangs fo' mah dirty ass only, n' tryin ta forget suttin' straightup fucked up dat had happened ta me long ago."

With a effort I managed ta restrain mah incredulous laughter n' shit. Da
straight-up phrases was worn so threadbare dat they evoked no image
except dat of a turbaned "character" leakin sawdust at every last
muthafuckin pore as he pursued a tiger all up in tha Bois de Boulogne.

"Then came tha war, oldschool sport. Dat shiznit was a pimped out relief,
n' I tried straight-up hard ta die yo, but I seemed ta bear a enchanted
game. I accepted a cold-ass lil commission as first lieutenant when it
fuckin started. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha Argonne
Forest I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward dat there was a
half mile gap on either side of our asses where tha infantry couldn’t
advance. We stayed there two minutes n' two nights, a hundred n' thirty
pimps wit sixteen Lewis guns, n' when tha infantry came up at last they
found tha insignia of three German divisions among tha pilez of dead as
fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was
promoted ta be a major, n' every last muthafuckin Allied posse gave me a
thugged-out decoration - even Montenegro, lil Montenegro down on tha
Adriatic Sea!"

Little Montenegro! Dude lifted up tha lyrics n' nodded at dem - wit his
smile. Da smile comprehended Montenegro’s shitd history n' sympathized
wit tha brave strugglez of tha Montenegrin people. Well shiiiit, it
appreciated straight-up tha chain of nationistic circumstances which had
elicited dis tribute from Montenegro’s warm lil ass. My fuckin

incredulitizzle was submerged up in fascination now; dat shiznit was like
skimmin hastily all up in a thugged-out dozen magazines.

Dude reached up in his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' a piece of metal, slung
on a ribbon, fell tha fuck tha fuck into mah palm.

"That’s tha one from Montenegro."

To mah astonishment, tha thang had a authentic look.

"Orderi di Danilo," ran tha circular legend, "Montenegro, Nicolas Rex."

"Turn dat shit."

"Major Jay Gatsby," I read, "For Valour Extraordinary."

"Here’s another thang I always carry fo' realz. A souvenir of Oxford days.
Dat shiznit was taken up in Trinitizzle Quad - tha playa on mah left is now
tha Earl of Dorcaster."

Dat shiznit was a photograph of half a thugged-out dozen lil' pimps up in
blazers loafin up in a archway all up in which was visible a host of spires.
There was Gatsby, lookin a lil, not much, younger - wit a cold-ass lil cricket
bat up in his hand.

Then dat shiznit was all true. I saw tha skinz of tigers flamin up in his
thugged-out lil' palace on tha Grand Canal; I saw his ass openin a cold-ass
lil chest of rubies ta ease, wit they crimson-lighted depths, tha gnawingz
of his wild lil' fucked up ass.

"I’m goin ta cook up a funky-ass big-ass request of y'all to-day," da
perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pocketin his souvenirs wit satisfaction, "so
I thought you ought ta know suttin' bout mah dirty ass. I didn’t want you
ta be thinkin I was just some no muthafucka. Yo ass see, I probably find
mah dirty ass among strangers cuz I drift here n' there tryin ta forget tha
fucked up thang dat happened ta mah dirty ass." Dude hesitated. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time.
"You’ll hear bout it dis afternoon."

"At lunch?"

"Fuck dat shit, dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I
happened ta smoke up dat you’re takin Miss Baker ta tea."

"Do you mean you’re up in ludd wit Miss Baker?"

"Fuck dat shit, oldschool sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly
consented ta drop a rhyme ta you bout dis matter."

I hadn’t tha faintest scam what tha fuck "this matter" was yo, but I was
mo' annoyed than interested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a
shiznit happens all tha time. I hadn’t axed Jordan ta chronic up in order ta
say shit bout Mista Muthafuckin Jay Gatsby. I was shizzle tha request
would be suttin' utterly dunkadelic, n' fo' a moment I was sorry I’d eva set
foot upon his overpopulated lawn.

Dude wouldn’t say another word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His
erectnizz grew on his ass as we neared tha hood. We passed Port
Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-goin ships, n'
sped along a cold-ass lil cobbled slum lined wit tha dark, undeserted
saloonz of tha faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then tha valley of ashes
opened up on both sidez of us, n' I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson strainin all
up in tha garage pump wit pantin vitalitizzle as we went by.

With fendaz spread like wings we scattered light all up in half Long Island
Citizzle - only half, fo' as we twisted among tha pillarz of tha elevated I
heard tha familiar "jug - jug - spat!" of a motorcycle, n' a gangbangin'
frantic policeman rode alongside.

"All right, oldschool sport," called Gatsby. We slowed down. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Takin a white card from his wallet, da thug
waved it before tha man’s eyes.

"Right yo ass is," agreed tha policeman, tippin his cap. "Know you next
time, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby. Excuse me!"

"What was that?" I inquired.

"Da picture of Oxford?"

"I was able ta do tha commissioner a gangbangin' favor once, n' da
perved-out muthafucka sendz me a Chrizzle card every last muthafuckin
year."

Over tha pimped out bridge, wit tha sunlight all up in tha girdaz bustin a
cold-ass lil constant flicker upon tha movin cars, wit tha hood risin up
across tha river up in white heaps n' sugar lumps all built wit a wish outta
non-olfactory scrilla. Da hood peeped from tha Biatchsboro Bridge be
always tha hood peeped fo' tha last time, up in its first wild promise of all
tha mystery n' tha beauty up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass.

A dead playa passed our asses up in a hearse heaped wit blooms,
followed by two carriages wit drawn blinds, n' by mo' cheerful carriages fo'
playas. Da playaz looked up at our asses wit tha tragic eyes n' short upper
lipz of southeastern Europe, n' I was glad dat tha sight of Gatsby’s
splendid hoopty was included up in they sombre holiday. It make me
wanna hollar playa! As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed

us, driven by a white chauffeur, up in which sat three modish negroes, two
bucks n' a girl. I laughed aloud as tha yolkz of they eyeballs rolled toward
our asses up in haughty rivalry.

"Anythang can happen now dat we’ve slid over dis bridge," I thought;
"anythang at all. . . . "

Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.

Roarin noon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In a well-fanned
Forty-second Street cellar I kicked it wit Gatsby fo' lunch. Blinkin away tha
brightnizz of tha street outside, mah eyes picked his ass up obscurely up
in tha anteroom, rappin' ta another man.

"Mista Muthafuckin Carraway, dis is mah playa Mista Muthafuckin
Wolfsheim."

A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his big-ass head n' regarded mah crazy ass
wit two fine growthz of afro which luxuriated up in either nostril fo' realz.
After a moment I discovered his cold-ass tiny eyes up in tha half-darkness.

"- So I took one peep him," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, bobbin
mah hand earnestly, "and what tha fuck do you be thinkin I did?"

"What?" I inquired politely.

But evidently da thug was not addressin me, fo' da ruffneck dropped mah
hand n' covered Gatsby wit his wild lil' fuckin expressive nose.

"I handed tha scrilla ta Katspaugh n' I holla'd: ‘all right, Katspaugh, don’t
pay his ass a penny till da perved-out muthafucka shuts his crazy-ass
grill.’ Dude shut it then n' there."

Gatsby took a arm of each of our asses n' moved forward tha fuck into tha
restaurant, whereupon Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim swallowed a freshly
smoked up sentence da thug was startin n' lapsed tha fuck into a
somnambulatory abstraction.

"Highballs?" axed tha head waiter.

"This be a sick restaurant here," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim,
lookin all up in tha Presbyterian nymphs on tha ceiling. "But I wanna bust
a nut on across tha street better!"

"Yes, highballs," agreed Gatsby, n' then ta Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim:
"It’s too bangin' over there."

"Hot n' lil' small-ass - fo'sho," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, "but
full of memories."

"What place is that?" I asked.

"Da oldschool Metropole.

"Da oldschool Metropole," brooded Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim gloomily.
"Filled wit faces dead n' gone. Filled wit playaz gone now forever n' shit. I
can’t forget so long as I live tha night they blasted Rosy Rosenthal there,
so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dat shiznit was six of
our asses all up in tha table, n' Rosy had smoke n' faded a shitload all
evening. When dat shiznit was almost mornin tha waiter came up ta his
ass wit a gangbangin' funky look n' say some muthafucka wants ta drop a
rhyme ta his ass outside. ‘All right,’ say Rosy, n' begins ta git up, n' I
pulled his ass down up in his chair.

"‘Let tha bastardz come up in here if they want you, Rosy yo, but don’t
you, so help me, move outside dis room.’

"Dat shiznit was four o’clock up in tha mornin then, n' if we’d of raised tha
blindz we’d of peeped daylight."

"Did he go?" I axed innocently.

"Sure da thug went." Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim’s nozzle flashed all up
in mah grill indignantly. "Dude turned round up in tha door n' says: ‘Don’t
let dat waiter take away mah coffee!’ Then da thug went up on tha
sidewalk, n' they blasted his ass three times up in his wild lil' full belly n'
drove away."

"Four of dem was electrocuted," I holla'd, remembering.

"Five, wit Becker." His nostrils turned ta me up in a interested way. "I
KNOW you’re lookin fo' a funky-ass bidnizz gonnegtion."

Da juxtaposizzle of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered fo'
me:

"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "this aint tha man."

"No?" Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim seemed pissed tha fuck off.

"This is just a gangbangin' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still
poppin'. I holla'd at you we’d rap bout dat some other time."

"I beg yo' pardon," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, "I had a wack
man."

A succulent hash arrived, n' Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, forgettin tha
mo' sentimenstrual atmosphere of tha oldschool Metropole, fuckin started
ta smoke wit ferocious delicacy yo. His eyes, meanwhile, roved straight-up
slowly all round tha room - his schmoooove ass completed tha arc by
turnin ta inspect tha playas directly behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! I be thinkin that, except fo' mah presence, da thug would
have taken one short glizzle beneath our own table.

"Look here, oldschool sport," holla'd Gatsby, leanin toward me, "I’m afraid
I made you a lil mad salty dis mornin up in tha car."

There was tha smile again yo, but dis time I held up against dat shit.

"I don’t like mysteries," I answered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "And
I don’t KNOW why you won’t come up frankly n' tell me what tha fuck you
want. Why has all dat shiznit gots ta come all up in Miss Baker?"

"Oh, it’s not a god damn thang underhand," he assured mah dirty ass.
"Miss Baker’s a pimped out gamewoman, you know, n' she’d never do
anythang dat wasn’t all right."

Suddenly he looked at his thugged-out lil' peep it, jumped up, n' hurried
from tha room, leavin me wit Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim all up in tha
table.

"Dude has ta telephone," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, followin his
ass wit his wild lil' fuckin eyes. "Fine fellow, aint he, biatch? Handsome ta
peep n' a slick gentleman."

"Yes yes y'all."

"He’s a Oggsford man."

"Oh!"

"Dude went ta Oggsford College up in England. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Yo ass know Oggsford College?"

"I’ve heard of dat shit."

"It’s one of da most thugged-out hyped colleges up in tha ghetto. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass."

"Has you done known Gatsby fo' a long-ass time?" I inquired.

"Several years," he answered up in a gratified way. "I made tha pleasure
of his thugged-out acquaintizzle just afta tha war. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
But I knew I had discovered a playa of fine humpin afta I talked wit his ass
a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I holla'd ta mah dirty ass: ‘There’s tha kind
of playa you’d like ta take home n' introduce ta yo' mutha n' sister.’."
Dude paused. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I peep you’re lookin at
mah cuff buttons." I hadn’t been lookin at dem yo, but I did now,
nahmeean?

They was composed of oddly familiar piecez of ivory.

"Finest specimenz of human molars," he informed mah dirty ass.

"Well!" I inspected em. "That’s a straight-up bangin-ass idea."

"Yeah." Dude flipped his sleeves up under his coat. "Yeah, Gatsby’s
straight-up careful bout dem hoes. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch yo. Dude would never so much as peep a gangbangin' playa’s hoe."

When tha subject of dis instinctizzle trust moonwalked back ta tha table n'
sat down Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim drank his wild lil' fruity-ass malt
liquor wit a jerk n' gots ta his Nikes.

"I have enjoyed mah lunch," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "and I’m
goin ta run off from you two lil' pimps before I outstay mah welcome."

"Don’t hurry, Meyer," holla'd Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mista
Muthafuckin Wolfsheim raised his hand up in a sort of benediction.

"You’re straight-up polite yo, but I belong ta another generation," he
announced solemnly. "Yo ass sit here n' say shit bout yo' game n' yo' lil'
ladies n' yo' --" Dude supplied a imaginary noun wit another wave of his
hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "As fo' me, I be fifty muthafuckin
years old, n' I won’t impose mah dirty ass on you any longer."

As da perved-out muthafucka shook handz n' turned away his cold-ass
tragic nozzle was trembling. I wondered if I had holla'd anythang ta offend
his muthafuckin ass.

"Dude becomes straight-up sentimenstrual sometimes," explained Gatsby.
"This is one of his sentimenstrual days yo. He’s like a cold-ass lil character
round New York - a thugged-out denizen of Broadway."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is he, anyhow, a
hustla?"

"No."

"A dentist?"

"Meyer Wolfsheim, biatch? Fuck dat shit, he’s a gambler." Gatsby
hesitated, then added coolly: "He’s tha playa whoz ass fixed tha World’s
Series back up in 1919."

"Fixed tha World’s Series?" I repeated.

Da scam staggered mah dirty ass. I remembered, of course, dat tha
World’s Series had been fixed up in 1919 yo, but if I had thought of it at all
I would have thought of it as a thang dat merely happened, tha end of
some inevitable chain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well
shiiiit, it never occurred ta me dat one playa could start ta fuck wit tha
faith of fifty mazillion playas - wit tha single-mindednizz of a funky-ass
burglar blowin a safe.

"How tha fuck did dat schmoooove muthafucka happen ta do that?" I axed
afta a minute.

"Dude just saw tha opportunity."

"Why aint he on lockdown?"

"They can’t git him, oldschool shiznit yo. He’s a smart-ass man."

I insisted on payin tha check fo' realz. As tha waiter brought mah chizzle I
caught sight of Tomothy Buchanan across tha crowded room.

"Come along wit me fo' a minute," I holla'd; "I’ve gots ta say wassup ta
some one." When da perved-out muthafucka saw our asses Tomothy
jumped up n' took half a thugged-out dozen steps up in our direction.

"Where’ve you been?" da ruffneck demanded eagerly. "Daisy’s furious cuz
you haven’t called up."

"This is Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby, Mista Muthafuckin Buchanan."

They shook handz briefly, n' a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment
came over Gatsby’s face.

"How’ve you been, anyhow?" demanded Tomothy of mah dirty ass. "How’d
you happen ta come up dis far ta eat?"

"I’ve been havin lunch wit Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby."

I turned toward Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby yo, but da thug was no longer
there.

One October dizzle up in nineteen-seventeen --

(said Jordan Baker dat afternoon, chillin up straight-up straight on a
straight chair up in tha tea-garden all up in tha Plaza Hotel)

- I was struttin along from one place ta another, half on tha sidewalks n'
half on tha lawns. I was happier on tha lawns cuz I had on Nikes from
England wit rubber nobs on tha solez dat bit tha fuck into tha soft ground.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I had on a freshly smoked up plaid skirt
also dat blew a lil up in tha wind, n' whenever dis happened tha red,
white, n' blue banners up in front of all tha houses stretched up stiff n'
holla'd tut-tut-tut-tut, up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disapprovin way.

Da phattest of tha banners n' tha phattest of tha lawns belonged ta Dizzy
Fay’s house. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was just
eighteen, two muthafuckin years olda than me, n' by far da most thuggedout ghettofab of all tha lil' hoes up in Louisville. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch dressed up in white, n' had a lil white roadster, n'
all dizzle long tha telephone rang up in her doggy den n' buckwild lil' fools
from Camp Tay-Tay demanded tha privilege of monopolizin her dat night.
"Anyways, fo' a hour!"

When I came opposite her doggy den dat mornin her white roadsta was
beside tha curb, n' dat biiiiatch was chillin up in it wit a lieutenant I had
never peeped before. They was so engrossed up in each other dat her
dope ass didn’t peep me until I was five feet away.

"Yo muthafucka, Jordan," dat thugged-out biiiatch called unexpectedly.
"Please come here."

I was flattered dat dat biiiiatch wanted ta drop a rhyme ta me, cuz of all
tha olda hoes I admired her most. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch axed mah crazy ass if I was goin ta tha Red Cross n' make
bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell dem dat dat thugged-out biiiatch
couldn’t come dat day, biatch? Da fool looked at Dizzy while dat biiiiatch
was bustin lyrics, up in a way dat every last muthafuckin lil' hoe wants ta
be looked at sometime, n' cuz it seemed horny-ass ta me I have
remembered tha incident eva since yo. His name was Jay Gatsby, n' I
didn’t lay eyes on his ass again n' again n' again fo' over four muthafuckin
years - even afta I’d kicked it wit his ass on Long Island I didn’t realize dat
shiznit was tha same ol' dirty man.

That was nineteen-seventeen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
By tha next year I had all dem beaux mah dirty ass, n' I fuckin started ta
play up in tournaments, so I didn’t peep Dizzy straight-up often. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch went wit a slightly olda crowd - when dat biiiiatch went wit mah
playas at all. Wild rumors was circulatin bout her - how tha fuck her mutha
had found her packin her bag one winter night ta git all up in New York n'

say good-by ta a soldier whoz ass was goin overseas. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch was effectually prevented yo, but dat biiiiatch
wasn’t on bustin lyrics terms wit her crew fo' nuff muthafuckin weeks fo'
realz. After dat her dope ass didn’t play round wit tha soldiers any mo' yo,
but only wit all dem flat-footed, short-sighted lil' pimps up in town, whoz
ass couldn’t git tha fuck into tha army at all.

By tha next autumn dat biiiiatch was gay again, gay as eva n' shit. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a thugged-out debut afta tha
Armistice, n' up in February dat biiiiatch was presumably engaged ta a
playa from New Orleans. In June she hooked up Tomothy Buchanan of
Chicago, wit mo' pomp n' circumstizzle than Louisville eva knew before yo.
Dude came down wit a hundred playas up in four private cars, n' hired a
whole floor of tha Seelbach Hotel, n' tha dizzle before tha weddin he gave
her a strang of pearls valued at three hundred n' fifty thousand dollars.

I was bridesmaid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I came tha fuck into
her room half a minute before tha bridal dinner, n' found her lyin on her
bed as ghettofab as tha June night up in her flowered dress - n' as faded
as a monkey. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a funky-ass
forty of Sauterne up in one hand n' a letter up in tha other.

"’Gratulate me," she muttered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Never
had a thugged-out drank before yo, but oh how tha fuck I do trip off dat
shit."

"What’s tha matter, Daisy?"

I was scared, I can rap ; I’d never peeped a hoe like dat before.

"Here, deares’." Biatch groped round up in a waste-basket dat freaky
freaky biatch had wit her on tha bed n' pulled up tha strang of pearls.
"Take ’em down-stairs n' give ’em back ta whoever they belong to. Tell ’em
all Daisy’s chizzle’ her mine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Say:
‘Daisy’s chizzle’ her mine!’."

Bitch fuckin started ta cry - dat thugged-out biiiatch cried n' cried. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I rushed up n' found her mother’s maid, n'
our slick asses locked tha door n' gots her tha fuck into a cold-ass lil cold
bath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wouldn’t let go of tha
letter n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch took it tha fuck
into tha tub wit her n' squeezed it up tha fuck into a wet ball, n' only let
me leave it up in tha soap-dish when her big-ass booty saw dat dat shiznit
was comin ta pieces like snow.

But her dope ass didn’t say another word. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! We gave her spiritz of ammonia n' put ice on her forehead n'
hooked her back tha fuck into her dress, n' half a minute later, when we
strutted outta tha room, tha pearls was round her neck n' tha incident was
over n' shit. Next dizzle at five o’clock she hooked up Tomothy Buchanan
without so much as a shiver, n' started off on a three months’ trip ta tha
Downtown Seas.

I saw dem up in Gangsta Barbara when they came back, n' I thought I’d
never peeped a hoe so mad bout her homeboy. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! If he left tha room fo' a minute she’d look round uneasily, n'
say: "Where’s Tomothy gone?" n' wear da most thugged-out abstracted
expression until her big-ass booty saw his ass comin up in tha door. Shiiit,
dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch used ta sit on
tha sand wit his head up in her lap by tha hour, rubbin her fingers over his
wild lil' fuckin eyes n' lookin at his ass wit unfathomable delight. Dat
shiznit was touchin ta peep dem together - it made you laugh up in a
hushed, fascinated way. That was up in August fo' realz. A week afta I left
Gangsta Barbara Tomothy ran tha fuck into a wagon on tha Ventura road
one night, n' ripped a gangbangin' front wheel off his car. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Da hoe whoz ass was wit his ass gots tha fuck into tha papers, too,
cuz her arm was fucked up - dat biiiiatch was one of tha chambermaidz up
in tha Gangsta Barbara Hotel.

Da next April Dizzy had her lil girl, n' they went ta Frizzle fo' a year. Shiiit,
dis aint no joke. I saw dem one sprang up in Cannes, n' later up in
Deauville, n' then they came back ta Chicago ta settle down. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dizzy was ghettofab up in Chicago, as you
know. They moved wit a gangbangin' fast crowd, all of dem lil' n' rich n'

wild yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch came up wit a straight-up slick
reputation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Perhaps cuz her
dope ass don’t drink. It’s a pimped out advantage not ta drank among
hard-drankin people. Yo ass can git freaky wit yo' tongue, and, moreover,
you can time any lil irregularitizzle of yo' own so dat dem hoes else is so
blind dat they don’t peep or care. Perhaps Dizzy never went up in fo'
amour at all - n' yet there’s suttin' up in dat voice of hers. . . .

Well, bout six weeks ago, dat freaky freaky biatch heard tha name Gatsby
fo' tha last time up in years. Dat shiznit was when I axed you - do you
remember, biatch? - if you knew Gatsby up in Westside Egg fo' realz. After
you had gone home dat thugged-out biiiatch came tha fuck into mah room
n' woke me up, n' holla'd: "What Gatsby?" n' when I busted lyrics bout his
ass - I was half asleep - her big-ass booty holla'd up in tha strangest voice
dat it must be tha playa she used ta know. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t until then
dat I connected dis Gatsby wit tha fool up in her white car.

When Jordan Baker had finished spittin some lyrics ta all dis our crazy
asses had left tha Plaza fo' half a minute n' was rollin up in a victoria all up
in Central Park. Da sun had gone down behind tha tall cribz of tha porno
stars up in tha Westside Fifties, n' tha clear voicez of girls, already
gathered like crickets on tha grass, rose all up in tha bangin' twilight:

"I’m tha Sheik of Araby.

Yo crazy-ass ludd belongs ta mah dirty ass.

At night when you’re is asleep

Into yo' tent I’ll creep --"

"Dat shiznit was a strange coincidence," I holla'd.

"But it wasn’t a cold-ass lil coincidence at all."

"Why not?"

"Gatsby looted dat doggy den so dat Dizzy would be just across tha bay."

Then it had not been merely tha stars ta which dat schmoooove
muthafucka had aspired on dat June night yo. Dude came kickin it ta me,
served up suddenly from tha womb of his thugged-out lil' purposeless
splendor.

"Dude wants ta know," continued Jordan, "if you’ll invite Dizzy ta yo'
doggy den some afternoon n' then let his ass come over."

Da modesty of tha demand shook mah dirty ass yo. Dude had waited five
muthafuckin years n' looted a mansion where da ruffneck dispensed
starlight ta casual moths - so dat his schmoooove ass could "come over"
some afternoon ta a stranger’s garden.

"Did I gotta know all dis before his schmoooove ass could ask such a lil
thang?"

"He’s afraid, he’s waited so long yo. Dude thought you might be offended.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass see, he’s a regular tough
underneath it all."

Somethang worried mah dirty ass.

"Why didn’t he ask you ta arrange a meeting?"

"Dude wants her ta peep his house," she explained. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "And yo' doggy den is right next door."

"Oh!"

"I be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka half expected her ta wander tha
fuck into one of his thugged-out lil' parties, some night," went on Jordan,
"but she never done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then his
thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started askin playas casually if they knew
her, n' I was tha straight-up original gangsta one he found. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was dat night da perved-out muthafucka
busted fo' me at his fuckin lil' dance, n' you should have heard tha
elaborate way da thug hit dat shiznit up ta dat shit. Of course, I
immediately suggested a luncheon up in New York - n' I thought he’d go
mad:

"‘I don’t wanna do anythang outta tha way!’ he kept saying. ‘I wanna peep
her right next door.’

"When I holla'd you was a particular playa of Tom’s, da perved-out
muthafucka started ta abandon tha whole idea yo. Dude don’t know
straight-up much bout Tom, though da perved-out muthafucka say he’s
read a Chicago paper fo' muthafuckin years just on tha chizzle of catchin a
glimpse of Daisy’s name."

Dat shiznit was dark now, n' as our phat asses dipped under a lil bridge I
put mah arm round Jordan’s golden shoulder n' drew her toward mah
crazy ass n' axed her ta dinner n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Suddenly I wasn’t thankin of Dizzy n' Gatsby any mo' yo, but of dis
clean, hard, limited person, whoz ass dealt up in universal scepticism, n'
whoz ass leaned back jauntily just within tha circle of mah arm fo' realz. A
phrase fuckin started ta beat up in mah ears wit a sort of heady
excitement: "There is only tha pursued, tha pursuing, tha busy n' tha
tired."

"And Dizzy ought ta have suttin' up in her game," murmured Jordan ta
mah dirty ass.

"Do dat biiiiatch wanna peep Gatsby?"

"She’s not ta know bout dat shit. Gatsby don’t want her ta know. You’re
just supposed ta invite her ta tea."

We passed a funky-ass barrier of dark trees, n' then tha facade of Fiftyninth Street, a funky-ass block of delicate pale light, beamed down tha
fuck into tha park. Unlike Gatsby n' Tomothy Buchanan, I had no hoe
whose disembodied grill floated along tha dark cornices n' blindin signs, n'
so I drew up tha hoe beside me, tightenin mah arms yo. Her wan, scornful
grill smiled, n' so I drew her up again n' again n' again closer, dis time ta
mah face.

Chapter 5

When I came home ta Westside Egg dat night I was afraid fo' a moment
dat mah doggy den was on fire. Two o’clock n' tha whole corner of tha
peninsula was blazin wit light, which fell tha fuck unreal on tha shrubbery
n' made thin elongatin glints upon tha roadside wires. Turnin a cold-ass lil
corner, I saw dat dat shiznit was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower ta cellar.

At first I thought dat shiznit was another party, a wild rout dat had
resolved itself tha fuck into "hide-and-go-seek" or "sardines-in-the-box"
wit all tha doggy den thrown open ta tha game. But there wasn’t a sound.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Only wind up in tha trees, which blew
tha wires n' made tha lights go off n' on again n' again n' again as if tha
doggy den had winked tha fuck into tha darknizz fo' realz. As mah ride
groaned away I saw Gatsby struttin toward mah crazy ass across his
fuckin lawn.

"Yo crazy-ass place be lookin like tha World’s Fair," I holla'd.

"Do it?" Dude turned his wild lil' fuckin eyes toward it absently. "I done
been glancin tha fuck into a shitload of tha rooms. Let’s git all up in Coney
Island, oldschool sport. In mah car."

"It’s too late."

"Well, suppose we take a plunge up in tha swimming-pool, biatch? I
haven’t made use of all dat shiznit summer."

"I’ve gots ta git all up in bed."

"All right."

Dude waited, lookin all up in mah grill wit suppressed eagerness.

"I talked wit Miss Baker," I holla'd afta a moment. "I’m goin ta booty-call
up Dizzy to-morrow n' invite her over here ta tea."

"Oh, that’s all right," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd carelessly. "I don’t
wanna put you ta any shit."

"What dizzle would suit yo slick ass?"

"What dizzle would suit yo slick ass?" his schmoooove ass erected mah
crazy ass doggystyle. "I don’t wanna put you ta any shit, you see."

"How tha fuck bout tha dizzle afta to-morrow?" Dude considered fo' a
moment. Then, wit reluctance:

"I wanna git tha grass cut," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

We both looked all up in tha grass - there was a sharp line where mah
ragged lawn ended n' tha darker, well-kept expanse of his fuckin started. I
aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I suspected dat he meant mah
grass.

"There’s another lil thang," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd uncertainly,
n' hesitated.

"Would you rather put it off fo' all dem days?" I asked.

"Oh, it aint bout dis shiznit fo' realz. At least --" Dude fumbled wit a seriez
of beginnings. "Why, I thought - why, look here, oldschool sport, you don’t
make much scrilla, do yo slick ass?"

"Not straight-up much."

This seemed ta reassure his ass n' his schmoooove ass continued mo'
confidently.

"I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon mah - Yo ass see, I carry on a lil
bidnizz on tha side, a sort of side line, you understand. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! And I thought dat if you don’t make straight-up much You’re pushin bonds, aren’t you, oldschool sport?"

"Tryin to."

"Well, dis would interest yo thugged-out ass. Well shiiiit, it wouldn’t take
up much of yo' time n' you might pick up a sick bit of scrilla. Well shiiiit, it
happens ta be a rather confidential sort of thang."

I realize now dat under different circumstances dat conversation might
done been one of tha crisez of mah game. But, cuz tha offer was obviously
n' tactlessly fo' a steez ta be rendered, I had no chizzle except ta cut his
ass off there.

"I’ve gots mah handz full," I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I’m
much obliged but I couldn’t take on any mo' work."

"Yo ass wouldn’t gotta do any bidnizz wit Wolfsheim." Evidently tha
pimpin' muthafucka thought dat I was shyin away from tha "gonnegtion"
mentioned at lunch yo, but I assured his ass da thug was wrong yo. Dude
waited a moment longer, hopin I’d begin a cold-ass lil conversation yo, but
I was too absorbed ta be responsive, so da thug went unwillingly home.

Da evenin had made me light-headed n' happy; I be thinkin I strutted tha
fuck into a thugged-out deep chill as I entered mah front door. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I didn’t know
whether or not Gatsby went ta Coney Island, or fo' how tha fuck nuff
minutes he "glanced tha fuck into rooms" while his fuckin lil' doggy den
blazed gaudily on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I called up
Dizzy from tha crib next morning, n' invited her ta come ta tea.

"Don’t brang Tom," I warned her muthafuckin ass.

"What?"

"Don’t brang Tom."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is ‘Tom’?" she axed
innocently.

Da dizzle agreed upon was pourin rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch fo' realz. At eleven o’clock a playa up in a raincoat, draggin a lawnmower, tapped at mah front door n' holla'd dat Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby
had busted his ass over ta cut mah grass. This reminded mah crazy ass
dat I had forgotten ta tell mah Finn ta come back, so I drove tha fuck into
Westside Egg Village ta search fo' her among soggy, whitewashed alleys
n' ta loot some cups n' lemons n' flowers.

Da flowers was unnecessary, fo' at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from
Gatsby’s, wit innumerable receptaclez ta contain it fo' realz. An minute
later tha front door opened nervously, n' Gatsby, up in a white flannel suit,
silver shirt, n' gold-colored tie, hurried in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n'
gravy biatch yo. Dude was pale, n' there was dark signz of chilllessnizz
beneath his wild lil' fuckin eyes.

"Is every last muthafuckin thang all right?" he axed immediately.

"Da grass looks fine, if that’s what tha fuck you mean."

"What grass?" he inquired blankly. "Oh, tha grass up in tha yard." Dude
looked up tha window at it yo, but, judgin from his wild lil' fuckin
expression, I don’t believe da perved-out muthafucka saw a thang.

"Looks straight-up good," he remarked vaguely. "One of tha papers holla'd
they thought tha drizzle would stop bout four. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be
thinkin dat shiznit was tha Journal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty
wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Has you done gots every last
muthafuckin thang you need up in tha shape of - of tea?"

I took his ass tha fuck into tha pantry, where he looked a lil reproachfully
all up in tha Finn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Together we
scrutinized tha twelve lemon cakes from tha delicatessen shop.

"Will they do?" I asked.

"Of course, of course biaaatch! They’re fine!" n' he added hollowly, " . . .
oldschool sport."

Da drizzle cooled bout half-past three ta a thugged-out damp mist, all up
in which occasionizzle thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked wit vacant
eyes all up in a cold-ass lil copy of Clay’s Economics, startin all up in tha
Finnish tread dat shook tha kitchen floor, n' peerin toward tha bleared
windows from time ta time as if a seriez of invisible but alarmin
happenings was takin place outside. Finally he gots up n' informed me, up
in a uncertain voice, dat da thug was goin home.

"Why’s that?"

"Nobody’s comin ta tea. It’s too late!" Dude looked at his thugged-out lil'
peep it as if there was some pressin demand on his cold-ass time
elsewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. "I can’t
wait all day."

"Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes ta four."

Dude sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, n' simultaneously there
was tha sound of a motor turnin tha fuck into mah lane. We both jumped
up, and, a lil harrowed mah dirty ass, I went up tha fuck into tha yard.

Under tha drippin bare lilac-trees a big-ass open hoopty was comin up tha
drive. Well shiiiit, it stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Daisy’s

face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked up
all up in mah grill wit a funky-ass bright ecstatic smile.

"Is dis straight-up where you live, mah dearest one?"

Da exhilaratin ripple of her voice was a wild tonic up in tha rain. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I had ta follow tha sound of it fo' a
moment, up n' down, wit mah ear alone, before any lyrics came all up in
cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. A damp
streak of afro lay like a thugged-out dash of blue paint across her cheek,
n' her hand was wet wit glistenin drops as I took it ta help her from tha
car.

"Is you up in ludd wit me," her big-ass booty holla'd low up in mah ear, "or
why did I gotta come alone?"

"That’s tha secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell yo' chauffeur ta go far away n'
spend a hour."

"Come back up in a hour, Ferdie." Then up in a grave murmur: "His name
is Ferdie."

"Do tha gasoline affect his nose?"

"I don’t be thinkin so," her big-ass booty holla'd innocently. "Why?"

Us thugs went in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. To mah
overwhelmin surprise tha living-room was deserted.

"Well, that’s funky," I exclaimed.

"What’s funky?"

Bitch turned her head as there was a light dignified knockin all up in tha
front door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I went up n' opened dat shit. Gatsby,
pale as dirtnap, wit his handz plunged like weights up in his coat pockets,
was standin up in a puddle of gin n juice glarin tragically tha fuck into mah
eyes.

With his handz still up in his coat pockets da perved-out muthafucka
stalked by me tha fuck into tha hall, turned sharply as if da thug was on a
wire, n' disappeared tha fuck into tha living-room. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t a
lil' bit funky fo' realz. Aware of tha bangin whoopin of mah own ass I pulled
tha door ta against tha increasin rain.

For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Then from tha living-room I heard a sort of chokin murmur n' part of a
laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a cold-ass lil clear artificial note: "I
certainly be awfully glad ta peep you again."

A pause; it endured horribly. I had not a god damn thang ta do up in tha
hall, so I went tha fuck into tha room.

Gatsby, his handz still up in his thugged-out lil' pockets, was reclinin
against tha mantelpiece up in a strained counterfeit of slick ease, even of
boredom yo. His head leaned back so far dat it rested against tha grill of a
thugged-out defunct mantelpiece clock, n' from dis posizzle his fuckin lil'
distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, whoz ass was chillin, frightened but
graceful, on tha edge of a stiff chair.

"We’ve kicked it wit before," muttered Gatsby yo. His eyes glanced
momentarily at me, n' his fuckin lips parted wit a abortizzle attempt at a
laugh. Luckily tha clock took dis moment ta tilt dangerously all up in tha
heat of his head, whereupon tha pimpin' muthafucka turned n' caught it
wit tremblin fingers, n' set it back up in place. Then da perved-out
muthafucka sat down, rigidly, his wild lil' fuckin elbow on tha arm of tha
sofa n' his chin up in his hand.

"I’m sorry bout tha clock," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

My fuckin own grill had now assumed a thugged-out deep tropical burn, so
check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I
couldn’t musta up a single commonplace outta tha thousand up in mah
head.

"It’s a oldschool clock," I holla'd at dem idiotically.

I be thinkin we all believed fo' a moment dat it had smashed up in pieces
on tha floor.

"Our thugged-out asses haven’t kicked it wit fo' nuff years," holla'd Daisy,
her voice as matter-of-fact as it could eva be.

"Five muthafuckin years next November."

Da automatic qualitizzle of Gatsby’s answer set our asses all back at least
another minute. I had dem both on they feet wit tha desperate suggestion
dat they help me make chronic up in tha kitchen when tha demoniac Finn
brought it up in on a tray.

Amid tha welcome mad drama of cups n' cakes a cold-ass lil certain
physical decency established itself. Gatsby gots his dirty ass tha fuck into
a shadow and, while Dizzy n' I talked, looked conscientiously from one ta
tha other of our asses wit tense, unaiiight eyes. But fuck dat shiznit yo,
tha word on tha street is dat as calmnizz wasn’t a end up in itself, I made
a excuse all up in tha straight-up original gangsta possible moment, n'
gots ta mah Nikes.

"Where is you going?" demanded Gatsby up in immediate alarm.

"I’ll be back."

"I’ve gots ta drop a rhyme ta you bout suttin' before you go."

Dude followed mah crazy ass wildly tha fuck into tha kitchen, closed tha
door, n' whispered:

"Oh, God!" up in a miserable way.

"What’s tha matter?"

"This be a shitty mistake," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, bobbin his
head from side ta side, "a shitty, shitty mistake."

"You’re just embarrassed, that’s all," n' luckily I added: "Daisy’s
embarrassed like a muthafucka."

"She’s embarrassed?" he repeated incredulously.

"Just as much as yo ass is."

"Don’t rap so loud."

"You’re actin like a lil boy," I broke up impatiently. "Not only dat yo, but
you’re rude. Daisy’s chillin up in there all ridin' solo."

Dude raised his hand ta stop mah lyrics, looked all up in mah grill wit
unforgettable reproach, and, openin tha door cautiously, went back tha
fuck into tha other room.

I strutted up tha back way - just as Gatsby had when dat schmoooove
muthafucka had made his straight-up trippin circuit of tha doggy den half
a minute before - n' ran fo' a big-ass black knotted tree, whose massed
leaves done cooked up a gangbangin' fabric against tha rain. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Once mo' dat shiznit was pouring, n' mah
irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby’s gardener, abounded up in small,
muddy swamps n' prehistoric marshes. There was not a god damn thang
ta peep from under tha tree except Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared
at it, like Kant at his church steeple, fo' half a hour fo' realz. A brewer had
built it early up in tha "period" craze, a thugged-out decade before, n'
there was a rap dat he’d agreed ta pay five years’ taxes on all tha
neighborin cottages if tha ballaz would have they roofs thatched wit straw.
Perhaps they refusal took tha ass outta his thugged-out lil' plan ta Found a
Family - da thug went tha fuck into a immediate decline yo. His lil pimps
sold his fuckin lil' doggy den wit tha black wreath still on tha door. Shiiit,
dis aint no joke. Gangstas, while occasionally willin ta be serfs, have
always been obstinizzle bout bein peasantry.

After half a hour, tha sun shone again, n' tha grocer’s automobile rounded
Gatsby’s drive wit tha raw material fo' his servants’ dinner - I felt shizzle
da thug wouldn’t smoke a spoonful naaahhmean, biatch? A maid fuckin
started openin tha upper windowz of his house, rocked up momentarily up
in each, and, leanin from a big-ass central bay, spat meditatively tha fuck
into tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was
time I went back. While tha drizzle continued it had seemed like tha
murmur of they voices, risin n' swellin a lil now n' then wit gustz of
emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But up in tha freshly
smoked up silence I felt dat silence had fallen within tha doggy den like a
muthafucka.

I went up in - afta makin every last muthafuckin possible noise up in tha
kitchen, short of pushin over tha stove - but I don’t believe they heard a
sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They was chillin at either end of
tha couch, lookin at each other as if some question had been asked, or
was up in tha air, n' every last muthafuckin vestige of embarrassment was

gone. Daisy’s grill was smeared wit tears, n' when I came up in she
jumped up n' fuckin started wipin at it wit her handkerchizzle before a
mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But there was a cold-ass lil chizzle up in
Gatsby dat was simply confoundin yo. Dude literally glowed; without a
word or a gesture of exultation a freshly smoked up well-bein radiated
from his ass n' filled tha lil room.

"Oh, hello, oldschool sport," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, as if dat
schmoooove muthafucka hadn’t peeped mah crazy ass fo' years.. n' you
KNOWS fo' a moment da thug was goin ta shake hands.

"It’s stopped raining."

"Has it?" When he realized what tha fuck I was rappin' about, dat there
was twinkle-bellz of sunshine up in tha room, da perved-out muthafucka
smiled like a thugged-out drizzle dude, like a ecstatic patron of recurrent
light, n' repeated tha shizzle ta Daisy. "What do you be thinkin of that,
biatch? It’s stopped raining."

"I’m glad, Jay." Her throat, full of aching, grievin beauty, holla'd at only of
her unexpected joy.

"I want you n' Dizzy ta come over ta mah house," da perved-out
muthafucka holla'd, "I’d like ta show her around."

"You’re shizzle you want me ta come?"

"Absolutely, oldschool sport."

Dizzy went up-stairs ta wash her grill - too late I thought wit humiliation of
mah towels - while Gatsby n' I waited on tha lawn.

"My fuckin doggy den looks well, don’t it?" da ruffneck demanded. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "See how tha fuck tha whole front of it
catches tha light."

I agreed dat dat shiznit was splendid.

"Yes yes y'all." His eyes went over it, every last muthafuckin arched door
n' square tower n' shit. "It took me just three muthafuckin years ta git tha
scrilla dat looted dat shit."

"I thought you inherited yo' scrilla."

"I did, oldschool sport," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd automatically,
"but I lost most of it up in tha big-ass panic - tha panic of tha war."

I be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka hardly knew what tha fuck da
thug was saying, fo' when I axed his ass what tha fuck bidnizz da thug was
up in he answered, "That’s mah affair," before he realized dat it wasn’t tha
appropriate reply.

"Oh, I’ve been up in nuff muthafuckin thangs," his schmoooove ass
erected his dirty ass. "I was up in tha sticky-icky-icky bidnizz n' then I was
up in tha oil bidnizz. But I’m not up in either one now, nahmeean?" Dude
looked all up in mah grill wit mo' attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n'
gravy biatch. "Do you mean you’ve been thankin over what tha fuck I
proposed tha other night?"

Before I could answer, Dizzy came outta tha doggy den n' two rowz of
brass buttons on her dress gleamed up in tha sunlight.

"That big-ass place there?" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried pointing.

"Do you like it?"

"I gots a straight-up boner fo' it yo, but I don’t peep how tha fuck you live
there all ridin' solo."

"I keep it always full of bangin-ass people, night n' day. It make me wanna
hollar playa! Muthafuckas whoz ass do bangin-ass thangs. Celebrated
people."

Instead of takin tha short cut along tha Sound we went down tha road n'
entered by tha big-ass postern, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With enchantin murmurs Dizzy admired dis
aspect or dat of tha feudal silhouette against tha sky, admired tha
gardens, tha sparklin odor of jonquils n' tha frothy odor of hawthorn n'
plum blossoms n' tha pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate. Dat shiznit
was strange ta reach tha marble steps n' find no stir of bright dresses up
in n' up tha door, n' hear no sound but bird voices up in tha trees.

And inside, as we wandered all up in Marie Antoinette music-rooms n'
Restoration salons, I felt dat there was guests concealed behind every last
muthafuckin couch n' table, under ordaz ta be breathlessly silent until our
crazy asses had passed all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens
wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. As Gatsby closed tha door of "the Merton College
Library." I could have sworn I heard tha owl-eyed playa break tha fuck into
pimply laughter.

Us thugs went up-stairs, all up in period bedrooms swathed up in rose n'
lavender silk n' vivid wit freshly smoked up flowers, all up in dressingrooms n' poolrooms, n' bathrooms wit sunken baths - intrudin tha fuck into
one chamber where a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dishevelled playa up in
pajamas was bustin liver exercises on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat
shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin Klipspringer, tha "boarder." I had peeped his
ass wanderin hungrily bout tha beach dat morning. Finally we came ta
Gatsby’s own crib, a funky-ass bedroom n' a funky-ass bath, n' a Adam
study, where we sat down n' drank a glass of some Chartreuse tha pimpin'
muthafucka took from a cold-ass lil cupboard up in tha wall.

Dude hadn’t once ceased lookin at Daisy, n' I be thinkin he revalued every
last muthafuckin thang up in his fuckin lil' doggy den accordin ta tha
measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Sometimes, too, da perved-out muthafucka stared round
at his thugged-out lil' possessions up in a thugged-out dazed way, as
though up in her actual n' astoundin presence none of dat shiznit was any
longer real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha
bigger sack. Once he nearly toppled down a gangbangin' flight of stairs.

His bedroom was tha simplest room of all - except where tha dresser was
garnished wit a toilet set of pure dull gold. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Dizzy took tha brush wit delight, n' smoothed her hair,
whereupon Gatsby sat down n' shaded his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' fuckin
started ta laugh.

"It’s tha funniest thang, oldschool sport," da perved-out muthafucka
holla'd hilariously. "I can’t - When I try ta --"

Dude had passed visibly all up in two states n' was enterin upon a third.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! After his wild lil' fuckin embarrassment
n' his unreasonin joy da thug was consumed wit wonder at her presence
yo. Dude had been full of tha scam so long, dreamed it right all up in ta
tha end, waited wit his cold-ass teeth set, so ta speak, at a inconceivable
pitch of intensity. Now, up in tha erection, da thug was hustlin down like a
overwound clock.

Recoverin his dirty ass up in a minute he opened fo' our asses two hulkin
patent cabinets which held his crazy-ass massed suits n' dressing-gowns
n' ties, n' his shirts, piled like bricks up in stacks a thugged-out dozen
high.

"I’ve gots a playa up in England whoz ass buys me threadz yo. Dude sendz
over a selection of thangs all up in tha beginnin of each season, sprang n'
fall."

Dude took up a pile of shirts n' fuckin started throwin them, one by one,
before us, shirtz of sheer linen n' thick silk n' fine flannel, which lost they
foldz as they fell tha fuck n' covered tha table up in many-colored disarray.
While we admired his thugged-out lil' punk-ass brought mo' n' tha soft rich
heap mounted higher - shirts wit stripes n' scrolls n' plaidz up in coral n'
apple-chronic n' lavender n' faint orange, n' monogramz of Indian blue.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly, wit a strained sound,
Dizzy bent her head tha fuck into tha shirts n' fuckin started ta cry
stormily.

"They’re such dope shirts," her big-ass booty sobbed, her voice muffled up
in tha thick folds. "It make me fucked up cuz I’ve never peeped such such dope shirts before."

After tha house, we was ta peep tha groundz n' tha swimming-pool, n' tha
hydroplane n' tha mid-summer flowers - but outside Gatsby’s window it
fuckin started ta drizzle again, so we stood up in a row lookin all up in tha
corrugated surface of tha Sound.

"If it wasn’t fo' tha mist we could peep yo' home across tha bay," holla'd
Gatsby. "Yo ass always gotz a chronic light dat burns all night all up in tha
end of yo' dock."

Dizzy put her arm all up in his thugged-out abruptly yo, but da perved-out
muthafucka seemed absorbed up in what tha fuck dat schmoooove
muthafucka had just holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Possibly it
had occurred ta his ass dat tha colossal significizzle of dat light had now
vanished forever n' shit. Compared ta tha pimped out distizzle dat had
separated his ass from Dizzy it had seemed straight-up near ta her,
almost touchin her n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had seemed as close as a star ta
tha moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now dat shiznit was
again n' again n' again a chronic light on a thugged-out dock yo. His count
of enchanted objects had diminished by one.

I fuckin started ta strutt bout tha room, examinin various indefinite objects
up in tha half darknizz fo' realz. A big-ass photograph of a coffin dodgin'

playa up in yachtin costume attracted me, hung on tha wall over his
fuckin lil' desk.

"Who’s this?"

"That, biatch? That’s Mista Muthafuckin Don Juan Cody, oldschool sport."

Da name sounded faintly familiar.

"He’s dead now yo. Dude used ta be mah dopest playa muthafuckin years
ago."

There was a lil' small-ass picture of Gatsby, also up in yachtin costume, on
tha bureau - Gatsby wit his head thrown back defiantly - taken apparently
when da thug was bout eighteen.

"I adore it," exclaimed Daisy. "Da pompadour playa! Yo ass never holla'd
at mah crazy ass you had a pompadour - or a yacht."

"Look at this," holla'd Gatsby doggystyle. "Here’s a shitload of clippings bout yo thugged-out ass."

They stood side by side examinin dat shit. I was goin ta ask ta peep tha
rubies when tha beeper rang, n' Gatsby took up tha receiver.

"Yes yes y'all. . . . well, I can’t rap now, nahmeean, biatch? . . . I can’t rap
now, oldschool sport. . . . I holla'd a lil' small-ass town. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. . . . he must know what tha fuck a lil' small-ass
hood is. . . . well, he’s no use ta our asses if Detroit is his scam of a lil'
small-ass town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. . . . "

Dude rang off.

"Come here quick!" cried Dizzy all up in tha window.

Da drizzle was still fallin yo, but tha darknizz had parted up in tha
westside, n' there was a pink n' golden billow of foamy cloudz above tha
sea.

"Look at that," dat biiiiatch whispered, n' then afta a moment: "I’d like ta
just git one of dem pink cloudz n' put you up in it n' push you around."

I tried ta go then yo, but they wouldn’t hear of it; like mah presence made
dem feel mo' satisfactorily ridin' solo.

"I know what tha fuck we’ll do," holla'd Gatsby, "we’ll have Klipspringer
play tha piano."

Dude went outta tha room callin "Ewing!" n' returned up in all dem
minutes accompanied by a embarrassed, slightly worn lil' dude, wit shellrimmed glasses n' scanty blond afro yo. Dude was now decently clothed
up in a "shiznit shirt," open all up in tha neck, sneakers, n' duck trouserz
of a nebulous hue.

"Did we interrupt yo' exercises?" inquired Dizzy politely.

"I was asleep," cried Mista Muthafuckin Klipspringer, up in a spazzle of
embarrassment. "That is, I’d been asleep. Then I gots up.. .."

"Klipspringer skits tha piano," holla'd Gatsby, cuttin his ass off. "Don’t you,
Ewing, oldschool sport?"

"I don’t play well. I don’t - I hardly play at all. I’m all outta prac --"

"We’ll go down-stairs," interrupted Gatsby yo. Dude flipped a switch. Da
gray windows disappeared as tha doggy den glowed full of light.

In tha music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside tha piano yo.
Dude lit Daisy’s blunt from a tremblin match, n' sat down wit her on a
cold-ass lil couch far across tha room, where there was no light save what
tha fuck tha gleamin floor bounced up in from tha hall.

When Klipspringer had played Da Ludd Nest, tha pimpin' muthafucka
turned round on tha bench n' searched unhappily fo' Gatsby up in tha
gloom.

"I’m all outta practice, you see. I holla'd at you I couldn’t play. I’m all outta
prac --"

"Don’t rap so much, oldschool sport," commanded Gatsby. "Play!"

"In tha morning,

In tha evening,

Ain’t we gots fun--"

Outside tha wind was bangin n' there was a gangbangin' faint flow of
thunder along tha Sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! All tha lights
was goin on up in Westside Egg now; tha electric trains, men-carrying,
was plungin home all up in tha drizzle from New York. Dat shiznit was tha
minute of a profound human chizzle, n' excitement was generatin on tha
air.

"One thang’s shizzle n' nothing’s surer

Da rich git richer n' tha skanky get- lil' thugs.

In tha meantime,

In between time--"

As I went over ta say good-by I saw dat tha expression of bewilderment
had come back tha fuck into Gatsby’s face, as though a gangbangin' faint
doubt had occurred ta his ass as ta tha qualitizzle of his thugged-out lil'
present happinizz fo' realz. Almost five years muthafucka! There must
done been moments even dat afternoon when Dizzy tumbled short of his
cold-ass trips - not all up in her own fault yo, but cuz of tha colossal
vitalitizzle of his crazy-ass muthafuckin illusion. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it had gone beyond her, beyond every last
muthafuckin thang yo. Dude had thrown his dirty ass tha fuck into it wit a
cold-ass lil creatizzle passion, addin ta all dat shiznit tha time, deckin it up
wit every last muthafuckin bright feather dat drifted his way. No amount of
fire or freshnizz can challenge what tha fuck a playa will store up in his
wild lil' freakadelic pimply ass.

As I peeped his ass he adjusted his dirty ass a lil, visibly yo. His hand took
hold of hers, n' as her big-ass booty holla'd suttin' low up in his wild lil'
fuckin ear tha pimpin' muthafucka turned toward her wit a rush of
emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I be thinkin dat voice
held his ass most, wit its fluctuating, feverish warmth, cuz it couldn’t be
over-dreamed - dat voice was a thugged-out dirtnapless song.

They had forgotten me yo, but Dizzy glanced up n' held up her hand;
Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once mo' at dem n' they looked
back at me, remotely, possessed by intense game. Then I went outta tha
room n' down tha marble steps tha fuck into tha rain, leavin dem there
together.

Chapter 6

Bout dis time a ambitious lil' hustla from New York arrived one mornin at
Gatsby’s door n' axed his ass if dat schmoooove muthafucka had
anythang ta say.

"Anythang ta say bout what?" inquired Gatsby politely.

"Why - any statement ta give out."

It transpired afta a cold-ass lil trippin five minutes dat tha playa had heard
Gatsby’s name round his crib up in a cold-ass lil connection which he
either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t straight-up understand. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! This was his fuckin lil' dizzle off n' wit laudable
initiatizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had hurried up "to see."

Dat shiznit was a random shot, n' yet tha hustla’s instinct was right.
Gatsby’s notoriety, spread bout by tha hundredz whoz ass had accepted
his hospitizzleitizzle n' so become authoritizzles on his thugged-out lil'
past, had increased all summer until he fell tha fuck just short of bein
news. Contemporary legendz like fuckin tha "underground pipe-line ta
Canada" attached theyselves ta him, n' there was one persistent rap dat
da ruffneck didn’t live up in a doggy den at all yo, but up in a funky-ass
boat dat looked like a doggy den n' was moved secretly up n' down tha
Long Island shore. Just why these inventions was a source of satisfaction
ta Jizzy Gatz of Uptown Dakota, aint easy as fuck ta say.

Jizzy Gatz - dat was straight-up, or at least legally, his name yo. Dude had
chizzled it all up in tha age of seventeen n' all up in tha specific moment
dat witnessed tha beginnin of his game - when da perved-out muthafucka
saw Don Juan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over da most thugged-out
insidious flat on Lake Superior. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was Jizzy

Gatz whoz ass had been loafin along tha beach dat afternoon up in a torn
chronic jersey n' a pair of canvas pants yo, but dat shiznit was already Jay
Gatsby whoz ass borrowed a rowboat, pulled up ta tha Tuolomee, n'
informed Cody dat a wind might catch his ass n' break his ass up in half a
hour.

I suppose he’d had tha name locked n loaded fo' a long-ass time, even
then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His muthafathas was
shiftless n' unsuccessful farm playas - his crazy-ass muthafuckin
imagination had never straight-up accepted dem as his thugged-out lil'
muthafathas at all. Da truth was dat Jay Gatsby of Westside Egg, Long
Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of his dirty ass yo. Dude was a
lil hustla of Dogg - a phrase which, if it means anything, means just dat n' he must be bout His Father’s bidnizz, tha steez of a vast, vulgar, n'
meretricious beauty. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he invented
just tha sort of Jay Gatsby dat a seventeen-year-old pimp would be likely
ta invent, n' ta dis conception da thug was faithful ta tha end.

For over a year dat schmoooove muthafucka had been whoopin his way
along tha downtown shore of Lake Superior as a cold-ass lil clam-digger n'
a salmon-fisher or up in any other capacitizzle dat brought his ass chicken
n' bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His brown, hardenin body lived
naturally all up in tha half-fierce, half-lazy work of tha bracin days yo.
Dude knew dem hoes early, n' since they spoiled his ass his thugged-out
lil' punk-ass became contemptuouz of them, of lil' virgins cuz they was
ignorant, of tha others cuz they was hysterical bout thangs which up in his
overwhelmin self-absorbtion tha pimpin' muthafucka took fo' granted.

But his thugged-out ass was up in a cold-ass lil constant, turbulent riot. Da
most grotesque n' dunkadelic conceits hustled his ass up in his bed at
night fo' realz. A universe of ineffable gaudinizz spun itself up in his dome
while tha clock ticked on tha wash-stand n' tha moon soaked wit wet light
his cold-ass tangled threadz upon tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Each
night he added ta tha pattern of his wild lil' fancies until drowsinizz closed
down upon some vivid scene wit a oblivious embrace. For a while these
reveries provided a outlet fo' his crazy-ass muthafuckin imagination; they
was a satisfactory hint of tha unrealitizzle of reality, a promise dat tha
rock of tha ghetto was dropped securely on a gangbangin' fairy’s wing.

An instinct toward his wild lil' future glory had hustled him, some months
before, ta tha lil' small-ass Lutheran college of St. Olaf up in southern
Minnesota yo. Dude stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious
indifference ta tha beatz of his fuckin lil' destiny, ta destiny itself, n'
despisin tha janitor’s work wit which da thug was ta pay his way all up in
cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Then da ruffneck
drifted back ta Lake Superior, n' da thug was still searchin fo' suttin' ta do
on tha dizzle dat Don Juan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor up in tha shallows
alongshore.

Cody was fifty muthafuckin years oldschool then, a thang of tha Nevada
silver fields, of tha Yukon, of every last muthafuckin rush fo' metal since
seventy-five. Da transactions up in Montana copper dat made his ass nuff
times a millionaire found his ass physically robust but on tha verge of softmindedness, and, suspectin this, a infinite number of dem hoes tried ta
separate his ass from his crazy-ass scrilla. Da none too savory
ramifications by which Ella Kaye, tha newspaper biatch, played Madame
de Maintenon ta his weaknizz n' busted his ass ta sea up in a yacht, was
common knowledge ta tha turgid sub-journalizzle of 1902 yo. Dude had
been coastin along all too hospitable shores fo' five muthafuckin years
when tha pimpin' muthafucka turned up as Jizzy Gatz’s destiny at Little
Hoes Point.

To tha lil' Gatz, restin on his oars n' lookin up all up in tha railed deck, tha
yacht represented all tha beauty n' glamour up in tha ghetto. Right back
up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I suppose da
perved-out muthafucka smiled at Cody - dat schmoooove muthafucka had
probably discovered dat playas was horny bout his ass when da pervedout muthafucka smiled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! At any rate Cody
axed his ass all dem thangs (one of dem elicited tha brand freshly smoked
up name) n' found dat da thug was quick n' extravagantly ambitious fo'
realz. A few minutes later tha pimpin' muthafucka took his ass ta Duluth n'
looted his ass a funky-ass blue coat, six pair of white duck trousers, n' a
yachtin cap fo' realz. And when tha Tuolomee left fo' tha Westside Indies n'
tha Barbary Coast Gatsby left like a muthafucka.

Dude was employed up in a vague underground capacitizzle - while he
remained wit Cody da thug was up in turn steward, mate, skipper,
secretary, n' even jailor, fo' Don Juan Cody sober knew what tha fuck

lavish bustins Don Juan Cody faded might soon be about, n' he provided
fo' such contingencies by reposin mo' n' mo' trust up in Gatsby. Da
arrangement lasted five years, durin which tha boat went three times
round tha Continent. Well shiiiit, it might have lasted indefinitely except fo'
tha fact dat Ella Kaye came on board one night up in Boston n' a week
later Don Juan Cody inhospitably died.

I remember tha portrait of his ass up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a gray, florid
playa wit a hard, empty grill - tha pioneer debauchee, whoz ass durin one
phase of Gangsta game brought back ta tha Eastside seaboard tha savage
violinz of tha frontier brothel n' saloon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Dat shiznit was indirectly cuz of Cody dat Gatsby drank so lil. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes up in tha course of gay
partizzles dem hoes used ta rub champagne tha fuck into his hair; fo' his
dirty ass he formed tha g-thang of lettin liquor ridin' solo.

And dat shiznit was from Cody dat he inherited scrilla - a legacy of twentyfive thousand dollars yo. Dude didn’t git it yo. Dude never understood tha
legal thang dat was used against his ass yo, but what tha fuck remained
of tha millions went intact ta Ella Kaye yo. Dude was left wit his singularly
appropriate ejaculation; tha vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled up ta
tha substantialitizzle of a man.

Dude holla'd at mah crazy ass all dis straight-up much later yo, but I’ve
put it down here wit tha scam of explodin dem first wild rumors bout his
thugged-out antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. Mo'over tha
pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at it ta me at a time of mad drama, when I had
reached tha deal wit believin every last muthafuckin thang n' not a god
damn thang bout his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. So I take advantage of dis short halt, while Gatsby, so ta speak,
caught his breath, ta clear dis set of misconceptions away.

Dat shiznit was a halt, too, up in mah association wit his thugged-out
affairs. For nuff muthafuckin weeks I didn’t peep his ass or hear his voice
on tha beeper - mostly I was up in New York, trottin round wit Jordan n'
tryin ta ingratiate mah dirty ass wit her senile aunt - but finally I went over
ta his fuckin lil' doggy den one Sundizzle afternoon. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. I hadn’t been there two minutes when some

muthafucka brought Tomothy Buchanan up in fo' a thugged-out drink. I
was startled, naturally yo, but tha straight-up surprisin thang was dat it
hadn’t happened before.

They was a jam of three on horseback - Tomothy n' a playa named Sloane
n' a pimpin' biatch up in a funky-ass brown riding-habit, whoz ass had
been there previously.

"I’m delighted ta peep you," holla'd Gatsby, standin on his thugged-out lil'
porch. "I’m delighted dat you dropped in."

As though they cared!

"Sit right down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Have a coldass lil blunt or a cold-ass lil cigar." Dude strutted round tha room quickly,
ringin bells. "I’ll have suttin' ta drank fo' you up in just a minute."

Dude was profoundly affected by tha fact dat Tomothy was there, so peeka-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But da thug would be uneasy
anyhow until dat schmoooove muthafucka had given dem something,
realizin up in a vague way dat that was all they came for. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane
wanted not a god damn thang fo' realz. A lemonade, biatch? Fuck dat shit,
props fo' realz. A lil champagne, biatch? Nothang at all, props. . . . I’m
sorry --

"Did yo dirty ass gotz a sick ride?"

"Straight-up phat roadz round here."

"I suppose tha automobilez --"

"Yeah."

Moved by a irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned ta Tom, whoz ass had
accepted tha introduction as a stranger.

"I believe we’ve kicked it wit somewhere before, Mista Muthafuckin
Buchanan."

"Oh, fo'sho," holla'd Tom, gruffly polite yo, but obviously not remembering.
"So our phat asses done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I remember
straight-up well."

"Bout two weeks ago."

"That’s right. Yo ass was wit Nick here."

"I know yo' hoe," continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.

"That so?"

Tomothy turned ta mah dirty ass.

"Yo ass live near here, Nick?"

"Next door."

"That so?"

Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane didn’t
enter tha fuck into tha conversation yo, but lounged back haughtily up in
his chair; tha biatch holla'd not a god damn thang either - until
unexpectedly, afta two highballs, da hoe became cordial.

"We’ll all come over ta yo' next party, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby," her bigass booty suggested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit
happens all tha time. "What do you say?"

"Certainly; I’d be delighted ta have yo thugged-out ass."

"Be ver’ sick," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Sloane, without gratitude. "Well - be thinkin ought ta be startin
home."

"Please don’t hurry," Gatsby urged em yo. Dude had control of his dirty
ass now, n' da thug wanted ta peep mo' of Tom. "Why don’t you - why
don’t you stay fo' supper, biatch? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other
playas dropped up in from New York."

"Yo ass come ta supper wit me," holla'd tha lady enthusiastically. "Both of
yo thugged-out ass."

This included mah dirty ass. Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Sloane gots ta his Nikes.

"Come along," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd - but ta her only.

"I mean it," she insisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a
shiznit happens all tha time. "I’d ludd ta have yo thugged-out ass. Lotz of
room."

Gatsby looked all up in mah grill questioningly yo. Dude wanted ta go, n'
da ruffneck didn’t peep dat Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Sloane had determined da perved-out muthafucka
shouldn’t.

"I’m afraid I won’t be able to," I holla'd.

"Well, you come," she urged, concentratin on Gatsby.

Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane murmured
suttin' close ta her ear.

"Us thugs won’t be late if we start now," she insisted aloud.

"I haven’t gots a horse," holla'd Gatsby. "I used ta ride up in tha army yo,
but I’ve never looted a horse. I’ll gotta follow you up in mah car. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. Excuse me fo' just a minute."

Da rest of our asses strutted up on tha porch, where Sloane n' tha lady
fuckin started a impassioned conversation aside.

"My fuckin God, I believe tha man’s coming," holla'd Tom. "Doesn’t he
know her dope ass don’t want him?"

"Bitch say her dope ass do want his muthafuckin ass."

"Bitch has a funky-ass big-ass dinner jam n' da thug won’t know a ass
there." Dude frowned. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I wonder where
up in tha devil he kicked it wit Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned up in
mah ideas yo, but dem hoes run round too much these minutes ta suit
mah dirty ass. They hook up all kindz of wild-ass fish."

Suddenly Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane
n' tha lady strutted down tha steps n' mounted they horses.

"Come on," holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Sloane ta Tom, "we’re late. We’ve gots ta bounce tha fuck out." And
then ta me: "Tell his ass we couldn’t wait, will yo slick ass?"

Tomothy n' I shook hands, tha rest of our asses exchanged a cold-ass lil
def nod, n' they trotted quickly down tha drive, disappearin under tha
August foliage just as Gatsby, wit basebizzle cap n' light overcoat up in
hand, came up tha front door.

Tomothy was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s hustlin round alone, fo' on tha
followin Saturdizzle night his schmoooove ass came wit her ta Gatsby’s
party. Perhaps his thugged-out lil' presence gave tha evenin its peculiar
qualitizzle of oppressivenizz - it standz up in mah memory from Gatsby’s
other partizzles dat summer n' shit. There was tha same people, or at
least tha same sort of people, tha same profusion of champagne, tha
same many-colored, many-keyed commotion yo, but I felt a
unpleasantnizz up in tha air, a pervadin harshnizz dat hadn’t been there
before. Or like I had merely grown used ta it, grown ta accept Westside
Egg as a ghetto complete up in itself, wit its own standardz n' its own
pimped out figures, second ta not a god damn thang cuz it had no
consciousnizz of bein so, n' now I was lookin at it again, all up in Daisy’s
eyes. Well shiiiit, it is invariably saddenin ta look all up in freshly smoked
up eyes at thangs upon which you have expended yo' own powerz of
adjustment.

They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled up among tha sparklin
hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playin murmurous tricks up in her throat.

"These thangs excite me so," dat biiiiatch whispered.

"If you wanna lick me any time durin tha evening, Nick, just let me know
n' I’ll be glad ta arrange it fo' yo thugged-out ass. Just mention mah name.
Or present a chronic card. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’m givin up
chronic --"

"Look around," suggested Gatsby.

"I’m lookin around. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’m havin a
marvelous --"

"Yo ass must peep tha facez of nuff playas you’ve heard about."

Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed tha crowd.

"Us dudes don’t go round straight-up much," da perved-out muthafucka
holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "In fact, I was just thankin I don’t
know a ass here."

"Perhaps you know dat lady." Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely
human orchid of a biatch whoz ass sat up in state under a white plum
tree. Tomothy n' Dizzy stared, wit dat peculiarly unreal feelin dat
accompanies tha recognizzle of a hitherto pimply celebritizzle of tha
pornos.

"She’s ghettofab," holla'd Daisy.

"Da playa bendin over her is her director."

Dude took dem ceremoniously from crew ta group:

"Mrs. Buchanan . . . n' Mista Muthafuckin Buchanan --" After a instant’s
hesitation he added: "the polo playa."

"Oh no," objected Tomothy quickly, "not mah dirty ass."

But evidently tha sound of it pleased Gatsby, fo' Tomothy remained "the
polo playa" fo' tha rest of tha evening.

"I’ve never kicked it wit all kindsa muthafuckin clowns!" Dizzy exclaimed.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I was horny bout dat playa - what tha
fuck was his name, biatch? - wit tha sort of blue nose."

Gatsby identified him, addin dat da thug was a lil' small-ass baller.

"Well, I was horny bout his ass anyhow."

"I’d a lil rather not be tha polo playa," holla'd Tomothy pleasantly, "I’d
rather peep all these hyped playas up in - up in oblivion."

Dizzy n' Gatsby danced. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I remember
bein surprised by his wild lil' freakadelic graceful, conservatizzle fox-trot - I
had never peeped his ass dizzle before. Then they sauntered over ta mah
doggy den n' sat on tha steps fo' half a hour, while at her request I
remained watchfully up in tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. "In case there’s a gangbangin' fire or a gangbangin' flood," she
explained, "or any act of Dogg."

Tomothy rocked up from his oblivion as we was chillin down ta supper
together n' shit. "Do you mind if I smoke wit some playas over here?" da
perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "A
fellow’s gettin off some funky stuff."

"Go ahead," answered Dizzy genially, "and if you wanna take down any
addresses here’s mah lil gold pencil." . . . she looked round afta a moment
n' holla'd at mah crazy ass tha hoe was "common but pretty," n' I knew
dat except fo' tha half-hour she’d been ridin' solo wit Gatsby dat biiiiatch
wasn’t havin a phat time.

Us thugs was at a particularly tipsy table. That was mah fault - Gatsby had
been called ta tha phone, n' I’d enjoyed these same playas only two
weeks before. But what tha fuck had amused mah crazy ass then turned
septic on tha air now, nahmeean?

"How tha fuck do you feel, Miss Baedeker?"

Da hoe addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, ta slump against mah
shoulder n' shiznit fo' realz. At dis inquiry her big-ass booty sat up n'
opened her eyes.

"Wha’?"

A massive n' lethargic biatch, whoz ass had been urgin Dizzy ta play golf
wit her all up in tha local club to-morrow, was rappin up in Miss Baedeker’s
defence:

"Oh, she’s all n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. When
she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts beatboxin like dis shit. I
tell her she ought ta leave it ridin' solo."

"I do leave it alone," affirmed tha accused hollowly.

"Our thugged-out asses heard you yelling, so I holla'd ta Doc Civet here:
‘There’s some muthafucka dat needz yo' help, Doc.’"

"She’s much obliged, I’m sure," holla'd another playa, without gratitude.
"But you gots her dress all wet when you stuck her head up in tha pool."

"Anythang I don't give a fuck bout is ta git mah head stuck up in a pool,"
mumbled Miss Baedeker n' shit. "They almost drowned mah crazy ass
once over up in New Jersey."

"Then you ought ta leave it alone," countered Doctor Civet.

"Speak fo' yo ass!" cried Miss Baedeker violently. "Yo crazy-ass hand
shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!"

Dat shiznit was like dis shiznit fo' realz. Almost tha last thang I remember
was standin wit Dizzy n' watchin tha moving-picture director n' his Star.
Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They was still under tha white plum tree n' they
faces was touchin except fo' a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it occurred ta me dat dat
schmoooove muthafucka had been straight-up slowly bendin toward her
all evenin ta attain dis proximity, n' even while I peeped I saw his ass
stoop one illest degree n' lick at her cheek.

"I wanna bust a nut on her," holla'd Daisy, "I be thinkin she’s ghettofab."

But tha rest offended her - n' inarguably, cuz it wasn’t a gesture but a
emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch was appalled by Westside Egg, dis unprecedented
"place" dat Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishin hood appalled by its raw vigor dat chafed under tha oldschool euphemizzlez n'
by tha too obtrusive fate dat herded its inhabitants along a short-cut from
not a god damn thang ta nothing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch saw suttin' wack up in tha straight-up simplicitizzle she failed ta
understand.

I sat on tha front steps wit dem while they waited fo' they car. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. Dat shiznit was dark here up in front; only tha bright door
busted ten square feet of light volleyin up tha fuck into tha soft black
morning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes a shadow
moved against a thugged-out dressing-room blind above, gave way ta
another shadow, a indefinite procession of shadows, whoz ass rouged n'
powdered up in a invisible glass.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is dis Gatsby
anyhow?" demanded Tomothy suddenly. "Some big-ass bootlegger?"

"Where’d you hear that?" I inquired.

"I didn’t hear dat shit. I imagined it fo' realz. All dem these newly rich
playas is just big-ass bootleggers, you know."

"Not Gatsby," I holla'd shortly.

Dude was silent fo' a moment. Da pebblez of tha drive crunched under his
Nikes.

"Well, his schmoooove ass certainly must have strained his dirty ass ta git
dis menagerie together."

A breeze stirred tha gray haze of Daisy’s fur collar.

"At least they’re mo' bangin-ass than tha playas we know," her big-ass
booty holla'd wit a effort.

"Yo ass didn’t look so interested."

"Well, I was."

Tomothy laughed n' turned ta mah dirty ass.

"Did yo dirty ass notice Daisy’s grill when dat hoe axed her ta put her
under a cold-ass lil cold shower?"

Dizzy fuckin started ta rap wit tha noize up in a husky, rhythmic whisper,
brangin up a meanin up in each word dat it had never had before n' would
never have again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When tha
melody rose, her voice broke up dopely, followin it, up in a way contralto
voices have, n' each chizzle tipped up a lil of her warm human magic upon
tha air.

"Lotz of playas come whoz ass haven’t been invited," her big-ass booty
holla'd suddenly. "That hoe hadn’t been invited. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. They simply force
they way up in n' he’s too polite ta object."

"I’d like ta know whoz ass he be n' what tha fuck da ruffneck do," insisted
Tom. "And I be thinkin I’ll cook up a point of findin out."

"I can rap up in dis biatch," she answered. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "Dude owned some sticky-icky-icky-stores, a shitload of
sticky-icky-icky-stores yo. Dude built dem up his dirty ass."

Da dilatory limousine came rollin up tha drive.

"Dope night, Nick," holla'd Daisy.

Her glizzle left me n' sought tha lighted top of tha steps, where Three
O’clock up in tha Morning, a neat, fucked up lil waltz of dat year, was

driftin up tha open door fo' realz. After all, up in tha straight-up casualnizz
of Gatsby’s jam there was horny-ass possibilitizzles straight-up absent
from her ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! What was it up there up in tha cold lil' woo wop dat seemed
ta be callin her back inside, biatch? What would happen now up in tha
dim, incalculable hours, biatch? Perhaps some unbelievable hommie
would arrive, a thug infinitely rare n' ta be marvelled at, some
authentically radiant lil' hoe whoz ass wit one fresh glizzle at Gatsby, one
moment of magical encounter, would blot up dem five muthafuckin yearz
of unwaverin devotion.

I stayed late dat night, Gatsby axed mah crazy ass ta wait until da thug
was free, n' I lingered up in tha garden until tha inevitable swimmin jam
had run up, chilled n' exalted, from tha black beach, until tha lights was
extinguished up in tha guest-rooms overhead. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! When his schmoooove ass came down tha steps at last tha
tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his wild lil' face, n' his wild lil'
fuckin eyes was bright n' tired.

"Bitch didn’t like it," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd immediately.

"Of course her dope ass done did."

"Bitch didn’t like it," he insisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Bitch didn’t gotz a phat time."

Dude was silent, n' I guessed at his unutterable depression.

"I feel far away from her," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! "It’s hard ta make her understand."

"Yo ass mean bout tha dance?"

"Da dance?" Dude dissed n' dismissed all tha dances dat schmoooove
muthafucka had given wit a snap of his wild lil' fingers. "Oldskool sport,
tha dizzle is unimportant."

Dude wanted not a god damn thang less of Dizzy than dat her big-ass
booty should git all up in Tomothy n' say: "I never loved yo thugged-out
ass." After dat freaky freaky biatch had obliterated four muthafuckin years
wit dat sentence they could decizzle upon tha mo' practical measures ta
be taken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of dem was that,
afta dat biiiiatch was free, they was ta go back ta Louisville n' be hooked
up from her doggy den - just as if it was five muthafuckin years ago.

"And her dope ass don’t understand," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Bitch used ta be able ta understand.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We’d sit fo' minutes --"

Dude broke off n' fuckin started ta strutt up n' down a thugged-out
desolate path of fruit rindz n' discarded favors n' crushed flowers.

"I wouldn’t ask too much of her," I ventured. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "Yo ass can’t repeat tha past."

"Can’t repeat tha past?" his schmoooove ass cried incredulously. "Why of
course you can!"

Dude looked round his ass wildly, as if tha past was lurkin here up in tha
shadow of his house, just outta reach of his hand.

"I’m goin ta fix every last muthafuckin thang just tha way dat shiznit was
before," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, noddin determinedly. "She’ll
see."

Dude talked a shitload bout tha past, n' I gathered dat da thug wanted ta
recover something, some scam of his dirty ass like, dat had gone tha fuck
into gangbangin Daisy yo. His game had been trippin n' disordered since
then yo, but if his schmoooove ass could once return ta a cold-ass lil
certain startin place n' go over all dat shiznit slowly, his schmoooove ass
could smoke up what tha fuck dat thang was. . . .

. . . One autumn night, five muthafuckin years before, they had been
struttin down tha street when tha leaves was falling, n' they came ta a
place where there was no trees n' tha sidewalk was white wit moonlight.
They stopped here n' turned toward each other n' shit. Now dat shiznit
was a cold-ass lil def night wit dat mysterious excitement up in it which
comes all up in tha two chizzlez of tha year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da on
tha down-low lights up in tha houses was hummin up tha fuck into tha
darknizz n' there was a stir n' bustle among tha stars. Out of tha corner of
his wild lil' fuckin eye Gatsby saw dat tha blockz of tha sidewalks straightup formed a ladder n' mounted ta a secret place above tha trees - his
schmoooove ass could climb ta it, if his schmoooove ass climbed alone, n'
once there his schmoooove ass could suck on tha pap of game, gulp down
tha incomparable gin n juice of wonder.

His ass beat fasta n' fasta as Daisy’s white grill came up ta his own. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude knew dat when he busted dis
girl, n' forever wed his unutterable visions ta her perishable breath, his
crazy-ass mind would never romp again n' again n' again like tha mind of
Dogg. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So da thug waited, listenin fo'
a moment longer ta tha tuning-fork dat had been struck upon a star. Shiiit,
dis aint no joke. Then he busted her n' shiznit fo' realz. At his fuckin lips’
bust a nut on da hoe blossomed fo' his ass like a gangbangin' flower n' tha
incarnation was complete.

Through all da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, even all up in his thuggedout appallin sentimentality, I was reminded of suttin' - a elusive rhythm, a
gangbangin' fragment of lost lyrics, dat I had heard somewhere a long-ass
time ago. For a moment a phrase tried ta take shape up in mah grill n'
mah lips parted like a thugged-out dumb man’s, as though there was mo'
strugglin upon dem than a wisp of startled air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But
they made no sound, n' what tha fuck I had almost remembered was
uncommunicable alllll muthafuckin day.

Chapter 7

Dat shiznit was when curiositizzle bout Gatsby was at its highest dat tha
lights up in his wild lil' fuckin lil' doggy den failed ta go on one Saturdizzle
night - and, as obscurely as it had begun, his wild lil' freakadelic game as
Trimalchio was over n' shit. Only gradually did I become aware dat tha
automobilez which turned expectantly tha fuck tha fuck into his wild lil'
fuckin lil' drive stayed fo' just a minute n' then drove sulkily away.
Wonderin if da thug was sick I went over ta smoke up - a unfamiliar butla
wit a villainous grill squinted all up in mah grill suspiciously from tha door.

"Is Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby sick?"

"Nope." After a pause he added "sir" up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin'
dilatory, grudgin way.

"I hadn’t peeped his thugged-out ass around, n' I was rather worried. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Tell his
thugged-out ass Mista Muthafuckin Carraway came over."

"Who?" da ruffneck demanded rudely.

"Carraway."

"Carraway fo' realz fo' realz. All right, I’ll tell his crazy-ass muthafuckin
ass." Abruptly da perved-out muthafucka slammed tha door.

My fuckin fuckin Finn informed mah wild-ass ass dat Gatsby had dissed n'
dissed n' dismissed every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin servant up in
his wild lil' fuckin lil' doggy den a week ago n' replaced dem wit half a
thugged-out dozen others, whoz ass never went tha fuck tha fuck into
Westside Egg Village ta be bribed by tha tradesmen yo yo, but ordered
moderate supplies over tha telephone. Da grocery pimp reported dat tha

kitchen looked like a pigsty, n' tha general opinion up in tha hood was dat
tha freshly smoked up playas weren’t servants at all.

Next dizzle Gatsby called mah wild-ass ass on tha phone.

"Goin away?" I inquired.

"Fuck dat shit, oldschool sport."

"I hear you fired all yo' servants."

"I wanted some muthafucka whoz ass wouldn’t ghetto hype. Dizzy comes
over like often - up in tha afternoons."

So tha whole caravansary had fallen up in like a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil
card doggy den all up in tha disapproval up in her eyes.

"They’re some playas Wolfsheim wanted ta do suttin' for. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They’re
all brothers n' sisters. They used ta run a lil' small-ass hotel."

"I see."

Dude was callin up at Daisy’s request - would I come ta lunch at her doggy
den to-morrow, biatch? Miss Baker would be there, so peek-a-boo, clear
tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo yo. Half a minute later Dizzy her
muthafuckin ass telephoned n' seemed relieved ta find dat I was coming.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Somethang was up fo' realz fo' realz. And yet I couldn’t believe dat they
would chizzle dis occasion fo' a scene - especially fo' tha rather harrowin
scene dat Gatsby had outlined up in tha garden.

Da next dizzle was broiling, almost tha last, certainly tha warmest, of tha
summer n' shiznit fo' realz fo' realz. As mah train emerged from tha tunnel
tha fuck tha fuck into sunlight, only tha bangin' whistlez of tha Nationizzle
Biscuit Company broke tha simmerin hush at noon. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da
straw seatz of tha hoopty hovered on tha edge of combustion; tha biatch
next ta me perspired delicately fo' a while tha fuck tha fuck into her white
shirtwaist, n' then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed
despairingly tha fuck tha fuck into deep heat wit a thugged-out desolate
cry like a muthafucka yo yo. Her pocket-book slapped ta tha floor.

"Oh, my!" she gasped.

I picked it up wit a weary bend n' handed it back ta her, holdin it at arm’s
length n' by tha off tha hook tip of tha corners ta indicate dat I had no
designs upon it - but every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin one near by,
includin tha biatch, suspected mah wild-ass ass just tha same.

"Hot!" holla'd tha conductor ta familiar faces. "Some drizzle playa! bangin'
son! bangin' son! bangin' son! Is it bangin' enough fo' yo slick ass, biatch?
Is it hot, biatch? Is dat shit.. .?"

My fuckin fuckin commutation ticket came back ta me wit a thugged-out
dark stain from his hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! That any one should care up in dis heat whose flushed
lips he kissed, whose head made damp tha pajama pocket over his heart!

. . . Through tha hall of tha Buchanans’ doggy den blew a gangbangin'
faint wind, carryin tha sound of tha telephone bell up ta Gatsby n' mah
wild-ass ass as we waited all up in tha door.

"Da master’s body!" roared tha butla tha fuck tha fuck into tha grillpiece.
"I’m sorry, madame yo yo, but we can’t furnish it - it’s far too bangin' ta
bust a nut on dis noon!"

What da perved-out muthafucka straight-up holla'd was: "Yes yes y'all,
yeaaaa y'all, . . . yeaaaa . . . I’ll see."

Dude set down tha receiver n' came toward us, glistenin slightly, ta take
our stiff straw hats.

"Madame expects you up in tha salon!" his schmoooove ass cried,
needlessly indicatin tha direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In dis heat every last
muthafuckin last muthafuckin extra gesture was a affront ta tha common
store of game.

Da room, shadowed well wit awnings, was dark n' cool. Dizzy n' Jordan lay
upon a enormous couch, like silver idols weighin down they own white
dresses against tha rappin breeze of tha fans.

"We can’t move," they holla'd together.

Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over they tan, rested fo' a moment up in
mine.

"And Mista Muthafuckin Thomas Buchanan, tha athlete?" I inquired.

Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, all up in tha hall
telephone.

Gatsby stood up in tha centre of tha crimson carpet n' gazed round wit
fascinated eyes. Dizzy peeped his thugged-out ass n' laughed, her dope,
bangin laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom tha fuck tha fuck
into tha air.

"Da rumor is," whispered Jordan, "that that’s Tom’s hoe on tha telephone."

Us thugs was silent. Da voice up in tha hall rose high wit annoyance:
"Straight-up well, then, I won’t push you tha hoopty at all. . . . I’m under
no obligations ta you at all . . . n' as fo' yo' botherin me bout it at lunch
time, I won’t stand dat at all!"

"Holdin down tha receiver," holla'd Dizzy cynically.

"Fuck dat shit, he’s not," I assured her n' shit. "It’s a gangbangin' funkyass bona-fide deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots
tha bigger sack. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I
still gots tha bigger sack. I happen ta know bout dat shit."

Tomothy flung open tha door, blocked up its space fo' a moment wit his
cold-ass thick body, n' hurried tha fuck tha fuck into tha room.

"Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby!" Dude put up his broad, flat hand wit wellconcealed dislike. "I’m glad ta peep you, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. . . . Nick . . . ."

"Make our asses a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil cold drink," cried Daisy.

As he left tha room again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n'
again n' again n' again she gots up n' went over ta Gatsby n' pulled his
wild lil' grill down, humpin' his thugged-out ass on tha grill.

"Yo ass know I gots a straight-up boner fo' you," she murmured.

"Yo ass forget there’s a lady present," holla'd Jordan.

Dizzy looked round doubtfully.

"Yo ass lick Nick like a muthafucka."

"What a low, vulgar girl!"

"I don’t care!" cried Daisy, n' fuckin started ta clog on tha brick fireplace.
Then she remembered tha heat n' sat down guiltily on tha couch just as a
gangbangin' freshly laundered nurse leadin a lil hoe came tha fuck tha
fuck into tha room.

"Bles-sed pre-cious," dat thugged-out biiiatch crooned, holdin up her arms.
"Come ta yo' own mutha dat loves yo thugged-out ass."

Da child, relinquished by tha nurse, rushed across tha room n' rooted
shyly tha fuck tha fuck into her mother’s dress.

"Da bles-sed pre-cious muthafucka! Did mutha git powder on yo' oldschool
yellowy hair, biatch? Stand up now, n' say - How-de-do."

Gatsby n' I up in turn leaned down n' took tha small, reluctant hand. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Afterward
he kept lookin all up in tha lil pimp wit surprise. I don’t be thinkin dat
schmoooove muthafucka had eva straight-up believed up in its existence
before.

"I gots dressed before luncheon," holla'd tha child, turnin eagerly ta Daisy.

"That’s cuz yo' mutha wanted ta show you off." Her grill bent tha fuck tha
fuck into tha single wrinkle of tha small, white neck. "Yo ass dream, yo
thugged-out ass. Yo ass absolute lil dream."

"Yes," admitted tha lil pimp calmly. "Aunt Jordan’s gots on a white dress
like a muthafucka."

"How tha fuck tha fuck do you like mother’s playas?" Dizzy turned her
round so dat she faced Gatsby. "Do you be thinkin they’re pretty?"

"Where’s Daddy?"

"Bitch don’t be lookin like her father," explained Daisy. "Bitch be lookin like
mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. She’s gots mah afro n' shape of tha face."

Dizzy sat back upon tha couch. Da nurse took a step forward n' held up
her hand.

"Come, Pammy."

"Good-by, dopeheart!"

With a reluctant backward glizzle tha well-disciplined lil pimp held ta her
nurse’s hand n' was pulled up tha door, just as Tomothy came back,
precedin four gin rickeys dat clicked full of ice.

Gatsby took up his wild lil' fuckin lil' drink.

"They certainly look cool," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, wit visible
tension.

Us dudes drank up in long, greedy swallows.

"I read somewhere dat tha sun’s gettin hotter every last muthafuckin last
muthafuckin year," holla'd Tomothy genially. "It seems dat pretty soon tha
earth’s goin ta fall tha fuck tha fuck into tha sun - or wait a minute - it’s
just tha opposite - tha sun’s gettin colda every last muthafuckin last
muthafuckin year.

"Come outside," da perved-out muthafucka suggested ta Gatsby, "I’d like
you ta git a peep tha place."

I went wit dem up ta tha veranda. On tha chronic Sound, stagnant up in
tha heat, one lil' small-ass sail crawled slowly toward tha fresher sea.
Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand n' pointed
across tha bay.

"I’m right across from yo thugged-out ass."

"So yo ass is."

Our eyes lifted over tha rose-bedz n' tha bangin' lawn n' tha weedy refuse
of tha dog-days along-shore. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slowly tha white wingz of tha boat moved
against tha blue def limit of tha sky fo' realz fo' realz. Ahead lay tha
scalloped ocean n' tha aboundin pimped isles.

"There’s shiznit fo' you," holla'd Tom, nodding. "I’d like ta be up there wit
his thugged-out ass fo' bout a hour."

Our thugged-out asses had luncheon up in tha dining-room, darkened too
against tha heat, n' drank down straight-up trippin gayety wit tha cold ale.

"What’ll our phat asses do wit ourselves dis afternoon?" cried Daisy, "and
tha dizzle afta that, n' tha next thirty years?"

"Don’t be morbid," Jordan holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Life starts all over again n' again n' again n'
again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again when it gets crisp up in
tha fall."

"But it’s so hot," insisted Daisy, on tha verge of tears, "and every last
muthafuckin last muthafuckin thang’s so confused. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Let’s all git all up in town!"

Her voice struggled on all up in tha heat, whoopin against it, moldin its
senselessnizz tha fuck tha fuck into forms.

"I’ve heard of bustin a garage outta a stable," Tomothy was sayin ta
Gatsby, "but I’m tha straight-up original gangsta gangsta playa whoz ass
eva done cooked up a stable outta a garage."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Dum diddy-dum, here I come
biaaatch! Who tha fuck tha fuck wants ta git all up in town?" demanded
Dizzy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her n' shit. "Ah," dat
thugged-out biiiatch cried, "you look so cool."

Their eyes met, n' they stared together at each other, ridin' solo up in
space. With a effort she glanced down all up in tha table.

"Yo ass always look so cool," she repeated.

Bitch had holla'd at his thugged-out ass dat she loved him, n' Tomothy
Buchanan saw yo. Dude was astounded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His grill opened a lil, n' he looked at

Gatsby, n' then back at Dizzy as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had just
recognized her as some one he knew a long-ass time ago.

"Yo ass resemble tha advertisement of tha dude," dat biiiiatch went on
innocently. "Yo ass know tha advertisement of tha playa --"

"All right," broke up in Tomothy quickly, "I’m perfectly willin ta git all up in
town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch. Come on - we’re all goin ta town."

Dude gots up, his wild lil' fuckin eyes still flashin between Gatsby n' his
hoe. No one moved.

"Come on!" His temper cracked a lil. "What’s tha matter, anyhow, biatch?
If we’re goin ta town, let’s start."

His hand, tremblin wit his wild lil' fuckin effort at self-control, bore ta his
wild lil' fuckin lips tha last of his wild lil' freakadelic glass of ale. Daisy’s
voice gots our asses ta our feet n' up on ta tha blazin gravel drive.

"Is our laid-back asses just goin ta go?" she objected. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Like this, biatch?
Aren’t we goin ta let any one smoke a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil blunt first?"

"All Y'all smoked all all up in lunch."

"Oh, let’s have fun," da hoe begged his crazy-ass muthafuckin ass. "It’s
too bangin' ta fuss." Dude didn’t answer.

"Have it yo' own way," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Come on, Jordan."

They went up-stairs ta git locked n loaded while we three pimps stood
there shufflin tha bangin' pebblez wit our Nikes fo' realz fo' realz. A silver
curve of tha moon hovered already up in tha westside sky. Gatsby started
ta speak, chizzled his crazy-ass mind yo yo, but not before Tomothy
wheeled n' faced his thugged-out ass expectantly.

"Has you done gots yo' stablez here?" axed Gatsby wit a effort.

"On some quarter of a mile down tha road."

"Oh."

A pause.

"I don’t peep tha scam of goin ta town," broke up Tomothy savagely.
"Booty git these notions up in they headz --"

"Shall we take anythang ta drink?" called Dizzy from a upper window.

"I’ll git some whiskey," answered Tomothy yo. Dude went inside.

Gatsby turned ta me rigidly:

"I can’t say anythang up in his house, oldschool sport."

"She’s gots a indiscreet voice," I remarked. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "It’s full of --" I hesitated.

"Her voice is full of scrilla," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd suddenly.

That was dat shit. I’d never understood before. Dat shiznit was full of
scrilla - dat was tha inexhaustible charm dat rose n' fell tha fuck tha fuck
up in it, tha jingle of it, tha cymbals’ cold lil' woo wop of dat shit. . . . high
up in a white palace tha mackdaddy’s daughter, tha golden girl. . . .

Tomothy came outta tha doggy den wrappin a quart forty up in a towel,
followed by Dizzy n' Jordan bustin lil' small-ass tight basebizzle capz of
metallic cloth n' carryin light capes over they arms.

"Shall we all go up in mah car?" suggested Gatsby yo. Dude felt tha hot,
chronic leather of tha seat. "I ought ta have left it up in tha shade."

"Is it standard shift?" demanded Tom.

"Yes yes y'all, yeaaaa y'all."

"Well, you take mah coupe n' let me drive yo' hoopty ta town."

Da suggestion was distasteful ta Gatsby.

"I don’t be thinkin there’s much gas," he objected.

"Plenty of gas," holla'd Tomothy boisterously yo. Dude looked all up in tha
gauge. "And if it runs up I can stop at a thugged-out sticky-icky-icky-store.
Yo ass can loot anythang at a thugged-out sticky-icky-icky-store
nowadays."

A pause followed dis apparently pointless remark. Dizzy looked at Tomothy
frowning, n' a indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar n'

vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it busted lyrics bout up in
lyrics, passed over Gatsby’s face.

"Come on, Daisy," holla'd Tom, pressin her wit his hand toward Gatsby’s
car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. "I’ll take you up in dis circus wagon."

Dude opened tha door yo yo, but she moved up from tha circle of his coldass thugged-out arm.

"Yo ass take Nick n' Jordan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We’ll follow you up in tha coupe."

Bitch strutted close ta Gatsby, touchin his coat wit her hand. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Jordan n' Tomothy
n' I gots tha fuck tha fuck into tha front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tomothy
pushed tha unfamiliar gears tentatively, n' we blasted off tha fuck tha fuck
into tha oppressive heat, leavin dem outta sight behind.

"Did yo dirty ass peep that?" demanded Tom.

"See what?"

Dude looked all up in mah grill keenly, realizin dat Jordan n' I must have
known all along.

"Yo ass be thinkin I’m pretty dumb, don’t yo slick ass?" da perved-out
muthafucka suggested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a
shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a
shiznit happens all tha time. "Perhaps I be yo yo, but I gots a - almost a
second sight, sometimes, dat drops some lyrics ta me what tha fuck tha
fuck ta do. Maybe you don’t believe dat yo yo, but science --"

Dude paused. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Da immediate contingency overtook him, pulled his thuggedout ass back from tha edge of tha theoretical abyss.

"I’ve done cooked up a lil' small-ass investigation of dis fellow," his
schmoooove ass continued. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! "I could have gone deeper if I’d known --"

"Do you mean you’ve been ta a medium?" inquired Jordan humorously.

"What?" Confused, da perved-out muthafucka stared at our asses as our
slick asses laughed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "A medium?"

"Bout Gatsby."

"Bout Gatsby dawwwwg! Fuck dat shit, I haven’t. I holla'd I’d been bustin a
lil' small-ass investigation of his cold-ass thugged-out lil' past."

"And you found da thug was a Oxford dude," holla'd Jordan helpfully.

"An Oxford man!" Dude was incredulous. "Like hell he is muthafucka!
Dude wears a pink suit."

"Nevertheless he’s a Oxford man."

"Oxford, New Mexico," snorted Tomothy contemptuously, "or suttin' like
dis shit."

"Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite his thugged-out ass
ta lunch?" demanded Jordan crossly.

"Dizzy invited him; she knew his thugged-out ass before we was hooked
up - Dogg knows where!"

Us thugs was all irritable now wit tha fadin ale, n' aware of it our phat
asses drove fo' a while up in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded
eyes came tha fuck tha fuck into sight down tha road, I remembered
Gatsby’s caution bout gasoline.

"We’ve gots enough ta git our asses ta town," holla'd Tom.

"But there’s a garage right here," objected Jordan. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I don’t
wanna git stalled up in dis bakin heat." Tomothy threw on both brakes
impatiently, n' we slid ta a abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch fo' realz fo' realz. After a moment tha proprietor emerged from tha
interior of his wild lil' fuckin establishment n' gazed hollow-eyed all up in
tha car.

"Let’s have some gas!" cried Tomothy roughly. "What do you be thinkin we
stopped fo' - ta admire tha view?"

"I’m sick," holla'd Wilson without moving. "Been sick all day."

"What’s tha matter?"

"I’m all run down."

"Well, shall I help mah dirty ass?" Tomothy demanded. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Yo ass sounded well
enough on tha phone."

With a effort Wilson left tha shade n' support of tha doorway and,
breathang hard, unscrewed tha cap of tha tank. In tha sunlight his wild lil'
grill was green.

"I didn’t mean ta interrupt yo' lunch," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "But I
need scrilla pretty bad, n' I was wonderin what tha fuck tha fuck you was
goin ta do wit yo' oldschool car."

"How tha fuck tha fuck do you like dis one?" inquired Tom. "I looted it last
week."

"It’s a sick yellow one," holla'd Wilson, as da perved-out muthafucka
strained all up in tha handle.

"Like ta loot it?"

"Big chance," Wilson smiled faintly. "Fuck dat shiznit yo yo, but I could
cook up some fuckin scrilla on tha other."

"What do you want scrilla for, all of a sudden?"

"I’ve been here too long. I wanna git away. My fuckin fuckin hoe n' I wanna
go West."

"Yo crazy-ass hoe do," exclaimed Tom, startled.

"She’s been rappin' bout it fo' ten years." Dude rested fo' a moment
against tha pump, shadin his wild lil' fuckin eyes. "And now she’s goin
whether dat biiiiatch wants ta or not. I’m goin ta git her away."

Da coupe flashed by our asses wit a gangbangin' flurry of dust n' tha flash
of a wavin hand.

"What do I owe yo slick ass?" demanded Tomothy harshly.

"I just gots wised up ta suttin' funky tha last two days," remarked Wilson. I
aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. "That’s why I wanna git away. That’s why I been botherin you bout
tha car."

"What do I owe yo slick ass?"

"Dollar twenty."

Da relentless whoopin heat was beginnin ta confuse me n' I had a wack
moment there before I realized dat so far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on
Tomothy yo. Dude had discovered dat Myrtle had some sort of game apart
from his thugged-out ass up in another ghetto, n' tha shock had made his
thugged-out ass physically sick. I stared at his thugged-out ass n' then at
Tom, whoz ass had done cooked up a parallel discovery less than a minute
before - n' it occurred ta me dat there was no difference between men, up
in intelligence or race, so profound as tha difference between tha sick n'
tha well. Wilson was so sick dat he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty - as if
dat schmoooove muthafucka had just gots some skanky hoe wit child.

"I’ll let you have dat car," holla'd Tom. "I’ll bust it over to-morrow
afternoon."

That localitizzle was always vaguely disquieting, even up in tha broad
glare of afternoon, n' now I turned mah head as though I had been warned
of suttin' behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Over tha ashheaps tha giant eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg
kept they vigil yo yo, but I perceived, afta a moment, dat other eyes was
regardin our asses wit peculiar intensitizzle from less than twenty feet
away.

In one of tha windows over tha garage tha curtains had been moved aside
a lil, n' Myrtle Wilson was peerin down all up in tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So
engrossed was dat dunkadelic hoe dat freaky freaky biatch had no
consciousnizz of bein observed, n' one emotion afta another crept tha fuck
tha fuck into her grill like objects tha fuck tha fuck into a slowly pimpin
picture yo yo. Her expression was curiously familiar - dat shiznit was a
expression I had often peeped on dem hoes’s faces yo yo, but on Myrtle
Wilson’s grill it seemed purposeless n' inexplicable until I realized dat her
eyes, wide wit jealous terror, was fixed not on Tomothy yo yo, but on
Jordan Baker, whom dat dunkadelic hoe took ta be his hoe.

There is no mad drama like tha mad drama of a simple mind, n' as our
phat asses drove away Tomothy was feelin tha bangin' whipz of panic yo
yo. His hoe n' his crazy-ass mistress, until a minute ago secure n'
inviolate, was slippin precipitately from his control. Instinct made his
thugged-out ass step on tha accelerator wit tha double purpose of
overtakin Dizzy n' leavin Wilson behind, n' we sped along toward Astoria
at fifty milez a hour, until, among tha spidery girdaz of tha elevated, we
came up in sight of tha easy as fuck as fuck -goin blue coupe.

"Those big-ass pornos round Fiftieth Street is cool," suggested Jordan. I
aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. "I gots a straight-up boner fo' New York on summer afternoons
when every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin one’s away. There’s suttin'
straight-up sensuous bout it - overripe, as if all sortz of funky fruits was
goin ta fall tha fuck tha fuck into yo' hands."

Da word "sensuous" had tha effect of further disquietin Tomothy yo yo, but
before his schmoooove ass could invent a protest tha coupe came ta a
stop, n' Dizzy signaled our asses ta draw up alongside.

"Where is we going?" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried.

"How tha fuck tha fuck bout tha pornos?"

"It’s so hot," dat thugged-out biiiatch complained. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Yo ass go. We’ll ride round
n' hook up you after." With a effort her wit rose faintly, "We’ll hook up you
on some corner n' shit. I’ll be tha playa tokin two blunts."

"We can’t argue bout it here," Tomothy holla'd impatiently, as a truck gave
up a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil cursin whistle behind us. "Yo ass gangbang me
ta tha downtown side of Central Park, up in front of tha Plaza."

Several times tha pimpin' muthafucka turned his head n' looked back fo'
they car, n' if tha traffic delayed dem da perved-out muthafucka slowed
up until they came tha fuck tha fuck into sight. I be thinkin da thug was
afraid they would dart down a side street n' outta his wild lil' freakadelic
game alllll muthafuckin day.

But they didn’t fo' realz fo' realz. And we all took tha less explicable step
of engagin tha parlor of a suite up in tha Plaza Hotel.

Da prolonged n' tumultuous argument dat ended by herdin our asses tha
fuck tha fuck into dat room eludes me, though I gots a sharp physical
memory that, up in tha course of it, mah underwear kept climbin like a
thugged-out damp snake round mah hairy-ass hairy-ass legs n'
intermittent beadz of sweat raced def across mah back. Da notion
originated wit Daisy’s suggestion dat our wild-ass asses hire five bathrooms n' take cold baths, n' then assumed mo' tangible form as "a place
ta git a mint julep." Each of our asses holla'd over n' over dat shiznit was a

"crazy idea."- we all talked at once ta a gangbangin' funky-ass baffled
clerk n' thought, or pretended ta think, dat we was bein straight-up funky..
..

Da room was big-ass n' stifling, and, though dat shiznit was already four
o’clock, openin tha windows admitted Only a gust of bangin' shrubbery
from tha Park. Dizzy went ta tha mirror n' stood wit her back ta us, fixin
her hair.

"It’s a swell suite," whispered Jordan respectfully, n' every last
muthafuckin last muthafuckin one laughed.

"Open another window," commanded Daisy, without turnin around.

"There aren’t any more."

"Well, we’d mo' betta telephone fo' a axe --"

"Da thang ta do is ta forget bout tha heat," holla'd Tomothy impatiently.
"Yo ass make it ten times worse by crabbin bout dat shit."

Dude unrolled tha forty of whiskey from tha towel n' put it on tha table.

"Why not let her alone, oldschool sport?" remarked Gatsby. "You’re tha
one dat wanted ta come ta town."

There was a moment of silence. Da telephone book slipped from its nail n'
splashed ta tha floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, "Excuse mah dirty
ass."- but dis time no one laughed.

"I’ll pick it up," I offered.

"I’ve gots dat shit." Gatsby examined tha parted string, muttered "Hum!"
up in a interested way, n' tossed tha book on a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil
chair.

"That’s a pimped up expression of yours, aint it?" holla'd Tomothy sharply.

"What tha fuck iz?"

"All dis ‘old sport’ bidnizz. Where’d you pick dat up?"

"Now peep here, Tom," holla'd Daisy, turnin round from tha mirror, "if
you’re goin ta make underground remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call
up n' order some ice fo' tha mint julep."

As Tomothy took up tha receiver tha compressed heat blew up like a
muthafucka tha fuck tha fuck into sound n' we was listenin ta tha
portentous chordz of Mendelssohn’s Weddin March from tha ballroom
below.

"Imagine marryin anybody up in dis heat!" cried Jordan dismally.

"Still - I was hooked up in tha middle of June," Dizzy remembered,
"Louisville up in June biaaatch! Some Muthafucka fainted. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Dum diddydum, here I come biaaatch! Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who
tha fuck tha fuck was it fainted, Tom?"

"Biloxi," he answered shortly.

"A playa named Biloxi. ‘blocks’ Biloxi, n' he made boxes - that’s a
gangbangin' fact - n' da thug was from Biloxi, Tennessee."

"They carried his thugged-out ass tha fuck tha fuck into mah house,"
appended Jordan, "because our slick asses lived just two doors from tha
church fo' realz fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka stayed three
weeks, until Daddy holla'd at his thugged-out ass dat schmoooove
muthafucka had ta git out. Da dizzle afta he left Daddy died." After a
moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, "There
wasn’t any connection."

"I used ta know a Bizzle Biloxi from Memphis," I remarked.

"That was his cousin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I knew his whole crew history before
he left yo. Dude gave me a aluminum putter dat I use to-day."

Da noize had took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt nap down as tha
ceremony fuckin started n' now a long-ass cheer floated up in all up in tha
window, followed by intermittent criez of "Yea-ea-ea!" n' finally by a
gangbangin' funky-ass burst of jazz as tha ridin' dirty fuckin started.

"We’re gettin old," holla'd Daisy. "If we was lil' we’d rise n' dance."

"Remember Biloxi," Jordan warned her n' shit. "Where’d you know him,
Tom?"

"Biloxi?" Dude concentrated wit a effort. "I didn’t know his crazy-ass
muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was a gangbangin' playa of Daisy’s."

"Dude was not," her dope ass denied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I’d never peeped his thugged-out ass
before yo. Dude came down up in tha private car."

"Well, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd he knew yo thugged-out ass yo.
Dude holla'd da thug was raised up in Louisville fo' realz fo' realz. Asa Bird
brought his thugged-out ass round all up in tha last minute n' axed if our
wild-ass asses had room fo' his crazy-ass muthafuckin ass."

Jordan smiled.

"Dude was probably bummin his way home yo. Dude holla'd at mah wildass ass da thug was prez of yo' class at Yale."

Tomothy n' I looked at each other blankly.

"Biloxi?"

"First place, our phat asses didn’t have any prez --"

Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo n' Tomothy eyed his thuggedout ass suddenly.

"By tha way, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby, I KNOW you’re a Oxford man."

"Not exactly."

"Oh, fo'sho, I KNOW you went ta Oxford."

"Yes yes y'all, yeaaaa y'all, - I went there."

A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous n' insulting: "Yo ass must have
gone there bout tha time Biloxi went ta New Haven."

Another pause fo' realz fo' realz. A waiter knocked n' came up in wit
crushed mint n' ice but, tha silence was unbroken by his "fuck you" n' tha
soft closin of tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This tremendous detail was ta be
cleared up at last.

"I holla'd at you I went there," holla'd Gatsby.

"I heard you yo yo, but I’d like ta know when."

"Dat shiznit was up in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s
why I can’t straight-up call mah dirty ass a Oxford man."

Tomothy glanced round ta peep if we mirrored his unbelief. But we was all
lookin at Gatsby.

"Dat shiznit was a opportunitizzle they gave ta a shitload of tha fools afta
tha Armistice," his schmoooove ass continued. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "We could git all up in any
of tha universitizzlez up in England or France."

I wanted ta git up n' slap his thugged-out ass on tha back. I had one of
dem renewalz of complete faith up in his thugged-out ass dat I’d
experienced before.

Dizzy rose, smilin faintly, n' went ta tha table.

"Open tha whiskey, Tom," she ordered, "and I’ll make you a mint julep.
Then you won’t seem so wack ta yo ass. . . . Look all up in tha mint!"

"Wait a minute," snapped Tom, "I wanna ask Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby
one mo' question."

"Go on," Gatsby holla'd politely.

"What kind of a row is you tryin ta cause up in mah doggy den anyhow?"

They was up in tha open at last n' Gatsby was content.

"Dude aint causin a row." Dizzy looked desperately from one ta tha other
n' shit. "You’re causin a row. Please gotz a lil self-control."

"Self-control!" Repeated Tomothy incredulously. "I suppose tha sickest
fuckin thang is ta sit back n' let Mista Muthafuckin No Muthafucka from
Nowhere bust a nut on yo' hoe. Well, if that’s tha scam you can count me
out. . . . Nowadays playas begin by sneerin at crew game n' crew
institutions, n' next they’ll throw every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin
thang overboard n' have intermarriage between black n' white."

Flushed wit his crazy-ass muthafuckin impassioned gibberish, da pervedout muthafucka saw his fuckin lil' dirty ass standin ridin' solo on tha last
barrier of civilization.

"We’re all white here," murmured Jordan.

"I know I’m not straight-up popular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in
yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I don’t give big-ass parties. Put
ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Put ya muthafuckin choppers
up if ya feel dis muthafucka! I suppose you’ve gots ta make yo' doggy den
tha fuck tha fuck into a pigsty up in order ta have any playaz - up in tha
modern ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass."

Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted ta laugh whenever he
opened his crazy-ass grill. Da transizzle from libertine ta prig was so
complete.

"I’ve gots suttin' ta rap , oldschool shiznit --" fuckin started Gatsby. But
Dizzy guessed at his crazy-ass muthafuckin intention.

"Please don’t!" she interrupted helplessly. "Please let’s all bounce back ta
tha doggy den. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. Why don’t we all bounce back ta tha doggy den?"

"That’s a phat idea." I gots up. "Come on, Tom. No Muthafucka wants a
thugged-out drink."

"I wanna know what tha fuck tha fuck Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby has ta tell
mah dirty ass."

"Yo crazy-ass hoe don’t ludd you," holla'd Gatsby. "She’s never loved yo
thugged-out ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch loves mah
dirty ass."

"Yo ass must be crazy!" exclaimed Tomothy automatically.

Gatsby sprang ta his wild lil' feet, vivid wit excitement.

"Bitch never loved you, do you hear?" his schmoooove ass cried. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Bitch only
hooked up you cuz I was skanky n' dat biiiiatch was pissed wit waitin fo'
mah dirty ass. Dat shiznit was a shitty fuck up yo yo, but up in her ass she
never loved any one except me!"

At dis point Jordan n' I tried ta go yo yo, but Tomothy n' Gatsby insisted wit
competitizzle firmnizz dat we remain - as though neither of dem had
anythang ta conceal n' it would be a privilege ta partake vicariously of
they emotions.

"Sit down, Daisy," Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully fo' tha paternal note.
"What’s been goin on, biatch? I wanna hear all bout dat shit."

"I holla'd at you what’s been goin on," holla'd Gatsby. "Goin on fo' five
muthafuckin muthafuckin years - n' you didn’t know."

Tomothy turned ta Dizzy sharply.

"You’ve been seein dis fellow fo' five years?"

"Not seeing," holla'd Gatsby. "Fuck dat shit, we couldn’t meet. But both of
our asses loved each other all dat time, oldschool sport, n' you didn’t
know. I used ta laugh sometimes."- but there was no laughter up in his
wild lil' fuckin eyes --" ta be thinkin dat you didn’t know."

"Oh - that’s all." Tomothy tapped his cold-ass thick fingers together like a
cold-ass lil cold-ass lil clergyman n' leaned back up in his chair.

"You’re crazy!" his cold-ass thugged-out lil' punk-ass blew up like a
muthafucka. "I can’t drop a rhyme bout what tha fuck tha fuck happened
five muthafuckin muthafuckin years ago, cuz I didn’t know Dizzy then - n'
I’ll be damned if I peep how tha fuck tha fuck you gots within a mile of her
unless you brought tha groceries ta tha back door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But all tha
rest of that’s a Dogg damned lie. Dizzy loved mah wild-ass ass when dat
freaky freaky biatch hooked up me n' she loves me now, nahmeean?"

"No," holla'd Gatsby, bobbin his head.

"Bitch do, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce.
Da shiznit is dat sometimes she gets foolish scams up in her head n' don’t
know what tha fuck tha fuck she’s bustin." Dude nodded sagely. "And
what’s more, I gots a straight-up boner fo' Dizzy like a muthafucka. Once
up in a while I go off on a spree n' cook up a gangbangin' fool of mah dirty
ass yo yo, but I always come back, n' up in mah ass I gots a straight-up
boner fo' her all tha time."

"You’re revolting," holla'd Daisy. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch turned ta me, n' her voice, droppin a octave lower, filled tha room
wit thrillin scorn: "Do you know why our slick asses left Chicago, biatch?
I’m surprised dat they didn’t treat you ta tha rap of dat lil spree."

Gatsby strutted over n' stood beside her muthafuckin ass.

"Daisy, that’s all over now," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd earnestly.
"It don’t matter any mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Just tell his thugged-out ass tha
real deal - dat you never loved his thugged-out ass - n' it’s all wiped up
alllll muthafuckin day."

Bitch looked at his thugged-out ass blindly. "Why - how tha fuck tha fuck
could I gots a straight-up boner fo' his thugged-out ass - possibly?"

"Yo ass never loved his crazy-ass muthafuckin ass."

Bitch hesitated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit
happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit
happens all tha time yo yo. Her eyes fell tha fuck tha fuck on Jordan n'
mah wild-ass ass wit a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what
tha fuck tha fuck dat biiiiatch was bustin - n' as though dat freaky freaky
biatch had never, all along, intended bustin anythang at all. But dat
shiznit was done now, nahmeean, biatch? Dat shiznit was too late.

"I never loved him," her big-ass booty holla'd, wit perceptible reluctance.

"Not at Kapiolani?" demanded Tomothy suddenly.

"No."

From tha ballroom beneath, muffled n' suffocatin chordz was driftin up on
bangin' wavez of air.

"Not dat dizzle I carried you down from tha Punch Bowl ta keep yo' Nikes
dry?" There was a husky tendernizz up in his cold-ass tone.. .. "Daisy?"

"Please don’t." Her voice was cold yo yo, but tha rancor was gone from
dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at Gatsby.
"There, Jay," her big-ass booty holla'd - but her hand as dat dunkadelic
hoe tried ta light a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil blunt was trembling. Right back
up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly
dat dunkadelic hoe threw tha blunt n' tha burnin match on tha carpet.

"Oh, you want too much!" dat thugged-out biiiatch cried ta Gatsby. "I gots
a straight-up boner fo' you now - aint dat enough, biatch? I can’t help
what’s past." Biatch fuckin started ta sob helplessly. "I did ludd his
thugged-out ass once - but I loved you like a muthafucka."

Gatsby’s eyes opened n' closed.

"Yo ass loved mah wild-ass ass too?" he repeated.

"Even that’s a lie," holla'd Tomothy savagely. "Bitch didn’t know you was
kickin dat shit, yo. Why - there’re thangs between Dizzy n' mah wild-ass
ass dat you’ll never know, thangs dat neither of our asses can eva forget."

Da lyrics seemed ta bite physically tha fuck tha fuck into Gatsby.

"I wanna drop a rhyme ta Dizzy alone," he insisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "She’s all buckwild
now --"

"Even ridin' solo I can’t say I never loved Tom," she admitted up in a pitiful
voice. "It wouldn’t be true."

"Of course it wouldn’t," agreed Tom.

Bitch turned ta her homeboy.

"As if it mattered ta you," her big-ass booty holla'd.

"Of course it matters. I’m goin ta take mo' betta care of y'all from now
on."

"Yo ass don’t understand," holla'd Gatsby, wit a gangbangin' funky-ass
bust a nut on of panic. "You’re not goin ta take care of her any more."

"I’m not?" Tomothy opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide n' laughed. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude could
afford ta control his fuckin lil' dirty ass now, nahmeean, biatch? "Why’s
that?"

"Daisy’s leavin yo thugged-out ass."

"Nonsense."

"I am, though," her big-ass booty holla'd wit a visible effort.

"She’s not leavin me!" Tom’s lyrics suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.
"Certainly not fo' a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil common swindla who’d gotta
loot tha rang he put on her finger."

"I won’t stand this!" cried Daisy. "Oh, please let’s git out."

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Dum diddy-dum, here I come
biaaatch! Who tha fuck tha fuck is you, anyhow?" broke up Tom. "You’re
one of dat bunch dat hangs round wit Meyer Wolfsheim - dat much I
happen ta know. I’ve done cooked up a lil investigation tha fuck tha fuck
into yo' affairs - n' I’ll carry it further to-morrow."

"Yo ass can suit yo ass bout that, oldschool sport," holla'd Gatsby steadily.

"I found up what tha fuck tha fuck yo' ‘drug-stores’ were." Dude turned ta
our asses n' was rappin rapidly. "Dude n' dis Wolfsheim looted up a
shitload of side-street sticky-icky-icky-stores here n' up in Chicago n' sold
grain brew over tha counter n' shit. That’s one of his wild lil' fuckin lil
stunts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. I picked his thugged-out ass fo' a
gangbangin' funky-ass bootlegger tha last time I saw him, n' I wasn’t far
wrong."

"What bout it?" holla'd Gatsby politely. "I guess yo' playa Walter Chase
wasn’t too proud as a muthafucka as a muthafucka ta come up in on dat
shit."

"And you left his thugged-out ass up in tha lurch, didn’t yo slick ass,
biatch? Yo ass let his thugged-out ass git all up on lockdown fo' a month

over up in New Jersey. Dogg hommie! Yo ass ought ta hear Walter on tha
subject of yo thugged-out ass."

"Dude came ta our asses dead broke yo. Dude was straight-up glad ta pick
up some scrilla, oldschool sport."

"Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!" cried Tom. Gatsby holla'd nothing. "Walter
could have you up on tha bettin laws too yo yo, but Wolfsheim scared his
thugged-out ass tha fuck tha fuck into shuttin his crazy-ass grill."

That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again n' again n' again n'
again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again up in Gatsby’s face.

"That sticky-icky-icky-store bidnizz was just lil' small-ass chizzle,"
continued Tomothy slowly, "but you’ve gots suttin' on now dat Walter’s
afraid ta tell me about."

I glanced at Daisy, whoz ass was starin terrified between Gatsby n' her
homeboy, n' at Jordan, whoz ass had begun ta balizzle a invisible but
absorbin object on tha tip of her chin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then I turned back ta
Gatsby - n' was startled at his wild lil' fuckin expression. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude
looked - n' dis is holla'd up in all contempt fo' tha babbled slander of his
wild lil' freakadelic garden - as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had "killed
a man." For a moment tha set of his wild lil' grill could be busted lyrics
bout up in just dat dunkadelic way.

It passed, n' his cold-ass thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta rap
excitedly ta Daisy, denyin every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin thang,
representin' his name against accusations dat had not been made. But wit
every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin word dat biiiiatch was drawin
further n' further tha fuck tha fuck into her muthafuckin ass, so he gave
dat up, n' only tha dead trip fought on as tha afternoon slipped away, tryin
ta bust a nut on what tha fuck tha fuck was no longer tangible, strugglin
unhappily, undespairingly, toward dat lost voice across tha room.

Da voice begged again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again
n' again n' again ta bounce tha fuck out.

"please, Tom! I can’t stand dis any more."

Her frightened eyes holla'd at dat whatever intentions, whatever courage,
dat freaky freaky biatch had had, was definitely gone.

"Yo ass two start on home, Daisy," holla'd Tom. "In Mista Muthafuckin
Gatsby’s car."

Bitch looked at Tom, alarmed now yo yo, but he insisted wit magnanimous
scorn.

"Go on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude won’t annoy yo thugged-out ass. I be
thinkin he realizes dat his cold-ass thugged-out lil' presumptuous lil
flirtation is over."

They was gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated,
like pimps, even from our pity.

After a moment Tomothy gots up n' fuckin started rappin bout da
unopened forty of whiskey up in tha towel.

"Want any of dis stuff, biatch? Jordan, biatch? . . . Nick?"

I didn’t answer.

"Nick?" Dude axed again.

"What?"

"Want any?"

"No . . . I just remembered dat to-day’s mah birthday."

I was thirty. Before me stretched tha portentous, menacin road of a
gangbangin' freshly smoked up decade.

Dat shiznit was seven o’clock when we gots tha fuck tha fuck into tha
coupe wit his thugged-out ass n' started fo' Long Island. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Tomothy talked
incessantly, exultin n' bustin up yo yo, but his voice was as remote from
Jordan n' mah wild-ass ass as tha foreign clamor on tha sidewalk or tha
tumult of tha elevated overhead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Human sympathy has its limits, n' we was
content ta let all they tragic arguments fade wit tha hood lights behind.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Thirty tha promise of a thugged-out decade of loneliness, a thinnin list of single
pimps ta know, a thinnin brief-case of enthusiasm, thinnin hair. Shiiit, dis
aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise eva ta
carry well-forgotten trips from age ta age fo' realz fo' realz. As we passed
over tha dark bridge her wan grill fell tha fuck tha fuck lazily against mah
coat’s shoulder n' tha formidable stroke of thirty took a gangbangin'
finger-lickin' dirt nap away wit tha reassurin heat of her hand.

So our phat asses drove on toward dirtnap all up in tha coolin twilight.

Da lil' Greek, Michaelis, whoz ass ran tha fruity-ass malt liquor joint beside
tha ashheaps was tha principal witnizz all up in tha inquest yo. Dude had
slept all up in tha heat until afta five, when da perved-out muthafucka

strolled over ta tha garage, n' found George Wilson sick up in his crib straight-up sick, pale as his own pale afro n' bobbin all over n' shit.
Michaelis advised his thugged-out ass ta git all up in bed yo yo, but Wilson
refused, sayin dat he’d miss a shitload of bidnizz if da ruffneck done done
did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
While his neighbor was tryin ta persuade his thugged-out ass a violent
racket broke up overhead.

"I’ve gots mah hoe locked up in up there," explained Wilson calmly. "She’s
goin ta stay there till tha dizzle afta to-morrow, n' then we’re goin ta move
away."

Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors fo' four years, n'
Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally
da thug was one of these worn-out men: when da thug wasn’t working, da
perved-out muthafucka sat on a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil chair up in tha
doorway n' stared all up in tha playas n' tha rides dat passed along tha
road. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
When any one was rappin ta his thugged-out ass he invariably laughed up
in a agreeable, colorless way yo. Dude was his hoe’s playa n' not his own.

So naturally Michaelis tried ta smoke up what tha fuck tha fuck had
happened yo yo, but Wilson wouldn’t say shiznit - instead his cold-ass
thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta throw curious, suspicious
glances at his visitor n' ask his thugged-out ass what tha fuck tha fuck
he’d been bustin at certain times on certain days. Just as tha latter was
gettin uneasy, some workmen came past tha door bound fo' his bangin
restaurant, n' Michaelis took tha opportunitizzle ta git away, intendin ta
come back later n' shit. But da ruffneck didn’t yo. Dude supposed he
forgot to, that’s all. When his schmoooove ass came outside again, a lil
afta seven, da thug was reminded of tha conversation cuz dat
schmoooove muthafucka heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, bangin n' scolding,
down-stairs up in tha garage.

"Beat me!" dat schmoooove muthafucka heard her cry like a muthafucka.
"Throw me down n' beat me, you dirty lil coward!"

A moment later she rushed up tha fuck tha fuck into tha dusk, wavin her
handz n' shoutin - before his schmoooove ass could move from his wild lil'
fuckin lil' door tha bidnizz was over.

Da "death car," as tha newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came outta tha
gatherin darkness, wavered tragically fo' a moment, n' then disappeared
round tha next bend yo yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'.
Michaelis wasn’t even shizzle of its color - tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd
all up in tha straight-up original gangsta gangsta policeman dat shiznit
was light green. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da other car, tha one goin toward New York,
came ta rest a hundred yardz beyond, n' its driver hurried back ta where
Myrtle Wilson, her game violently extinguished, knelt up in tha road n'
mingled her thick dark blood wit tha dust.

Michaelis n' dis playa reached her first yo yo, but when they had torn open
her shirtwaist, still damp wit perspiration, they saw dat her left breast was
swingin loose like a gangbangin' flap, n' there was no need ta listen fo' tha
ass beneath. Da grill was wide open n' ripped all up in tha corners, as
though dat freaky freaky biatch had choked a lil up in givin up tha
tremendous vitalitizzle dat freaky freaky biatch had stored so long.

We saw tha three or four automobilez n' tha crowd when we was still some
distizzle away.

"Wreck!" holla'd Tom. "That’s good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be
fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha
sky dawwwwg! Wilson’ll gotz a lil bidnizz at last."

Dude slowed down yo yo, but still without any intention of stopping, until,
as we came nearer, tha hushed, intent facez of tha playas all up in tha
garage door made his thugged-out ass automatically put on tha brakes.

"We’ll take a look," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd doubtfully, "just a
look."

I became aware now of a hollow, beatboxin sound which issued
incessantly from tha garage, a sound which as we gots outta tha coupe n'
strutted toward tha door resolved itself tha fuck tha fuck into tha lyrics
"Oh, mah God!" uttered over n' over up in a gaspin moan.

"There’s some wack shiznit here," holla'd Tomothy excitedly.

Dude reached up on tiptoes n' peered over a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil circle
of headz tha fuck tha fuck into tha garage, which was lit only by a yellow
light up in a swingin wire basket overhead. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then da ruffneck done
cooked up a harsh sound up in his cold-ass throat, n' wit a violent thrustin
movement of his bangin arms pushed his way through.

Da circle closed up again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n'
again n' again n' again wit a hustlin murmur of expostulation; dat shiznit
was a minute before I could peep anythang at all. Then freshly smoked up
arrivals deranged tha line, n' Jordan n' I was pushed suddenly inside.

Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped up in a gangbangin' funky-ass blanket, n'
then up in another blanket, as though her big-ass booty suffered from a
cold-ass lil cold-ass lil chill up in tha bangin' night, lay on a work-table by
tha wall, n' Tom, wit his back ta us, was bendin over it, motionless. Next ta
his thugged-out ass stood a motorcycle policeman takin down names wit
much sweat n' erection up in a lil book fo' realz fo' realz. At first I couldn’t
find tha source of tha high, groanin lyrics dat echoed clamorously all up in
tha bare garage - then I saw Wilson standin on tha raised threshold of his
office, swayin back n' forth n' holdin ta tha doorposts wit both hands.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Some playa was rappin' ta his thugged-out ass up in a low voice n'
attempting, from time ta time, ta lay a hand on his shoulder yo yo, but
Wilson neither heard nor saw yo yo. His eyes would drop slowly from tha
swingin light ta tha laden table by tha wall, n' then jerk back ta tha light
again, n' he gave up incessantly his high, wack call:

"Oh, mah Ga-od hommie! Oh, mah Ga-od hommie! oh, Ga-od hommie! oh,
mah Ga-od!"

Presently Tomothy lifted his head wit a jerk and, afta starin round tha
garage wit glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark ta tha
policeman.

"M-a-y-," tha policeman was saying, "-o --"

"Fuck dat shit, r-," erected tha dude, "M-a-v-r-o --"

"Listen ta me!" muttered Tomothy fiercely.

"r" holla'd tha policeman, "o --"

"g --"

"g --" Dude looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell tha fuck tha fuck sharply
on his shoulder n' shit. "What you want, fella?"

"What happened, biatch? - that’s what tha fuck tha fuck I wanna know."

"Auto hit her n' shit. Ins’antly capped."

"Instantly capped," repeated Tom, staring.

"Bitch ran up ina road. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car."

"There was two cars," holla'd Michaelis, "one comin’, one goin’, see?"

"Goin where?" axed tha policeman keenly.

"One goin’ each way. Well, she."- his hand rose toward tha blankets but
stopped half way n' fell tha fuck tha fuck ta his side --" she ran up there
an’ tha one comin’ from N’york knock right tha fuck tha fuck into her,
goin’ thirty or forty milez a hour."

"What’s tha name of dis place here?" demanded tha fool.

"Hasn’t gots any name."

A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.

"Dat shiznit was a yellow car," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "bangin'
yellow car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Shiiit, dis aint no joke. New."

"See tha accident?" axed tha policeman.

"Fuck dat shiznit yo yo, but tha hoopty passed mah wild-ass ass down tha
road, goin faster’n forty. Goin fifty, sixty."

"Come here n' let’s have yo' name. Look up now, nahmeean, biatch? I
wanna git his name."

Some lyrics of dis conversation must have reached Wilson, swayin up in
tha crib door, fo' suddenly a gangbangin' freshly smoked up theme found
voice among his wild lil' freakadelic gaspin cries:

"Yo ass don’t gotta tell me what tha fuck tha fuck kind of hoopty dat
shiznit was muthafucka! I know what tha fuck tha fuck kind of hoopty it
was!"

Watchin Tom, I saw tha wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under
his coat yo. Dude strutted quickly over ta Wilson and, standin up in front
of him, seized his thugged-out ass firmly by tha upper arms.

"You’ve gots ta pull yo ass together," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd
wit soothang gruffness.

Wilson’s eyes fell tha fuck tha fuck upon Tom; da perved-out muthafucka
started up on his cold-ass tiptoes n' then would have collapsed ta his
knees had not Tomothy held his thugged-out ass upright.

"Listen," holla'd Tom, bobbin his thugged-out ass a lil. "I just gots here a
minute ago, from New York. I was brangin you dat coupe we’ve been
rappin' about. That yellow hoopty I was rollin dis afternoon wasn’t mine do you hear, biatch? I haven’t peeped all dat shiznit afternoon."

Only tha negro n' I was near enough ta hear what tha fuck tha fuck da
perved-out muthafucka holla'd yo yo, but tha policeman caught suttin' up
in tha tone n' looked over wit truculent eyes.

"What’s all that?" da ruffneck demanded.

"I’m a gangbangin' playa of his." Tomothy turned his head but kept his
handz firm on Wilson’s body. "Dude say he knows tha hoopty dat done
done did it . . . dat shiznit was a yellow car."

Some dim impulse moved tha policeman ta look suspiciously at Tom.

"And what tha fuck tha fuck color’s yo' car?"

"It’s a gangbangin' funky-ass blue car, a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil coupe."

"We’ve come straight from New York," I holla'd.

Some one whoz ass had been rollin a lil behind our asses confirmed this,
n' tha policeman turned away.

"Now, if you’ll let me have dat name again n' again n' again n' again n'
again n' again n' again n' again n' again erect --" Pickin up Wilson like a
thugged-out doll, Tomothy carried his thugged-out ass tha fuck tha fuck
into tha office, set his thugged-out ass down up in a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil
chair, n' came back.

"If some muthafucka’ll come here n' sit wit him," da perved-out
muthafucka snapped authoritatively yo. Dude peeped it as tha two pimps
standin closest glanced at each other n' went unwillingly tha fuck tha fuck
into tha room. Then Tomothy shut tha door on dem n' came down tha
single step, his wild lil' fuckin eyes avoidin tha table fo' realz fo' realz. As
he passed close ta me da thug whispered: "Let’s git out."

Self-consciously, wit his cold-ass thugged-out authoritatizzle arms breakin
tha way, we pushed all up in tha still gatherin crowd, passin a hurried
doctor, case up in hand, whoz ass had been busted fo' up in wild hope half
a minute ago.

Tomothy drove slowly until we was beyond tha bend - then his wild lil' foot
came down hard, n' tha coupe raced along all up in tha night. In a lil while
I heard a low husky sob, n' saw dat tha tears was overflowin down his wild
lil' face.

"Da Dogg damned coward!" da thug whimpered. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Dude didn’t even stop his
car."

Da Buchanans’ doggy den floated suddenly toward our asses all up in tha
dark rustlin trees. Tomothy stopped beside tha porch n' looked up all up in
tha second floor, where two windows bloomed wit light among tha vines.

"Daisy’s home," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As we gots outta tha
hoopty he glanced all up in mah grill n' frowned slightly.

"I ought ta have dropped you up in Westside Egg, Nick. There’s not a god
damn thang we can do to-night."

A chizzle had come over him, n' da perved-out muthafucka was rappin
gravely, n' wit decision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz fo' realz. As we strutted across
tha moonlight gravel ta tha porch da ruffneck disposed of tha thang up in
all dem brisk phrases.

"I’ll telephone fo' a ride ta take you home, n' while you’re waitin you n'
Jordan mo' betta go up in tha kitchen n' have dem git you some supper - if
you want any." Dude opened tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back
up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Come in."

"Fuck dat shit, props. But I’d be glad if you’d order me tha taxi. I’ll wait
outside."

Jordan put her hand on mah arm.

"Won’t you come in, Nick?"

"Fuck dat shit, props."

I was feelin a lil sick n' I wanted ta be ridin' solo. But Jordan lingered fo' a
moment more.

"It’s only half-past nine," her big-ass booty holla'd.

I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of dem fo' one day, n'
suddenly dat included Jordan like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch must have peeped suttin' of dis up in mah
expression, fo' dat dunkadelic hoe turned abruptly away n' ran up tha
porch steps tha fuck tha fuck into tha house. I sat down fo' all dem
minutes wit mah head up in mah hands, until I heard tha beeper taken up
inside n' tha butler’s voice callin a taxi. Then I strutted slowly down tha
drive away from tha house, intendin ta wait by tha gate.

I hadn’t gone twenty yardz when I heard mah name n' Gatsby stepped
from between two bushes tha fuck tha fuck into tha path. I must have felt
pretty weird by dat time, cuz I could be thinkin of not a god damn thang
except tha luminositizzle of his cold-ass thugged-out lil' pink suit under
tha moon.

"What tha fuck iz you bustin?" I inquired.

"Just standin here, oldschool sport."

Somehow, dat seemed a thugged-out despicable occupation. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. For
all I knew da thug was goin ta rob tha doggy den up in a moment; I
wouldn’t done been surprised ta peep sinista faces, tha facez of
‘Wolfsheim’s people,’ behind his thugged-out ass up in tha dark shrubbery.

"Did yo dirty ass peep any shiznit on tha road?" he axed afta a minute.

"Yes yes y'all, yeaaaa y'all."

Dude hesitated.

"Was dat thugged-out biiiatch capped?"

"Yes yes y'all, yeaaaa y'all."

"I thought so; I holla'd at Dizzy I thought so. It’s mo' betta dat tha shock
should all come at once. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch
stood it pretty well."

Dude was rappin as if Daisy’s erection was tha only thang dat mattered.

"I gots ta Westside Egg by a side road," da thug went on, "and left tha
hoopty up in mah garage. I don’t be thinkin anybody saw our asses yo yo,
but of course I can’t be sure."

I disliked his thugged-out ass so much by dis time dat I didn’t find it
necessary ta tell his thugged-out ass da thug was wrong.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Dum diddy-dum, here I come
biaaatch! Who tha fuck tha fuck was tha biatch?" he inquired.

"Her name was Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo yo. Her homeboy owns tha garage
yo yo. How tha fuck tha fuck tha devil done done did it happen?"

"Well, I tried ta swin tha wheel --" Dude broke off, n' suddenly I guessed at
tha real deal.

"Was Dizzy driving?"

"Yes," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd afta a moment, "but of course I’ll
say I was. Yo ass see, when our slick asses left New York dat biiiiatch was
straight-up straight-up trippin n' dat dunkadelic hoe thought it would
steady her ta drive - n' dis biatch rushed up at our asses just as we was
passin a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil hoopty comin tha other way. Well shiiiit, all
dat shiznit happened up in a minute yo yo, but it seemed ta me dat
biiiiatch wanted ta drop a rhyme ta us, thought we was some muthafucka
she knew. Well, first Dizzy turned away from tha biatch toward tha other
car, n' then she lost her nerve n' turned back. Da second mah hand
reached tha wheel I felt tha shock - it must have capped her instantly."

"It ripped her open --"

"Don’t tell me, oldschool sport." Dude winced. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Anyhow - Dizzy stepped
on dat shit. I tried ta make her stop yo yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch
couldn’t, so I pulled on tha emergency brake. Then she fell tha fuck tha
fuck over tha fuck tha fuck into mah lap n' I drove on.

"She’ll be all right to-morrow," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd
presently. "I’m just goin ta wait here n' peep if tha pimpin' muthafucka
tries ta bother her bout dat unpleasantnizz dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s
locked her muthafuckin ass tha fuck tha fuck into her room, n' if tha
pimpin' muthafucka tries any brutalitizzle she’s goin ta turn tha light up n'
on again."

"Dude won’t bust a nut on her,’ I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "He’s not thankin bout her muthafuckin
ass."

"I don’t trust him, oldschool sport."

"How tha fuck tha fuck long is you goin ta wait?"

"All night, if necessary fo' realz fo' realz. Anyhow, till they all git all up in
bed."

A freshly smoked up point of view occurred ta mah dirty ass. Right back
up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suppose
Tomothy found up dat Dizzy had been rollin yo. Dude might be thinkin da
perved-out muthafucka saw a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil connection up in it he might be thinkin anything. I looked all up in tha house; there was two
or three bright windows down-stairs n' tha pink glow from Daisy’s room on
tha second floor.

"Yo ass wait here," I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! "I’ll peep if there’s any sign of a cold-ass lil cold-ass
lil commotion."

I strutted back along tha border of tha lawn, traversed tha gravel softly, n'
tiptoed up tha veranda steps. Da drawing-room curtains was open, n' I
saw dat tha room was empty. Crossin tha porch where our wild-ass asses
had dined dat June night three months before, I came ta a lil' small-ass
rectangle of light which I guessed was tha pantry window. Da blind was
drawn yo yo, but I found a rift all up in tha sill.

Dizzy n' Tomothy was chillin opposite each other all up in tha kitchen
table, wit a plate of cold fried chicken between them, n' two bottlez of ale
yo. Dude was rappin' intently across tha table at her, n' up in his wild lil'
fuckin earnestnizz his hand had fallen upon n' covered her own. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Once up in a while she looked up at his thugged-out ass n' nodded
up in agreement.

They weren’t happy, n' neither of dem had touched tha chicken or tha ale
- n' yet they weren’t unaiiight either n' shit. There was a unmistakable air
of natural intimacy bout tha picture, n' anybody would have holla'd dat
they was conspirin together.

As I tiptoed from tha porch I heard mah ride feelin its way along tha dark
road toward tha house. Gatsby was waitin where I had left his thugged-out
ass up in tha drive.

"Is all dat shiznit on tha down-low up there?" he axed anxiously.

"Yes, it’s all on tha fuckin' down-low." I hesitated. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "You’d mo' betta
come home n' git some chill."

Dude shook his head.

"I wanna wait here till Dizzy goes ta bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dope night, oldschool sport."

Dude put his handz up in his coat pockets n' turned back eagerly ta his
scrutiny of tha house, as though mah presence marred tha sacrednizz of
tha vigil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. So I strutted away n' left his thugged-out ass standin
there up in tha moonlight - watchin over nothing.
Chapter 8

I couldn’t chill all night; a gangbangin' fog-horn was groanin incessantly
on tha Sound, n' I tossed half-sick between grotesque realitizzle n' savage,
frightenin dreams. Toward dawn I heard a ride go up Gatsby’s drive, n'
immediately I jumped outta bed n' fuckin started ta dress - I felt dat I had

suttin' ta tell him, suttin' ta warn his ass about, n' mornin would be too
late.

Crossin his fuckin lawn, I saw dat his wild lil' front door was still open n' da
thug was leanin against a table up in tha hall, heavy wit dejection or chill.

"Nothang happened," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd wanly. "I waited,
n' bout four o’clock dat thugged-out biiiatch came ta tha window n' stood
there fo' a minute n' then turned up tha light."

His doggy den had never seemed so enormous ta me as it did dat night
when our crazy asses hunted all up in tha pimped out rooms fo' blunts, n'
you can put dat on yo' toast. We pushed aside curtains dat was like
pavilions, n' felt over innumerable feet of dark wall fo' electric light
switches - once I tumbled wit a sort of splash upon tha keyz of a pimply
piano. There was a inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, n' tha rooms
was musty, as though they hadn’t been aired fo' nuff days. I found tha
humidor on a unfamiliar table, wit two stale, dry blunts inside. Throwin
open tha French windowz of tha drawing-room, we sat tokin up tha fuck
into tha darkness.

"Yo ass ought ta go away," I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "It’s
pretty certain they’ll trace yo' car."

"Go away now, oldschool sport?"

"Go ta Atlantic Citizzle fo' a week, or up ta Montreal."

Dude wouldn’t consider it yo. Dude couldn’t possibly leave Dizzy until he
knew what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was goin ta do yo. Dude was clutchin at
some last hope n' I couldn’t bear ta shake his ass free.

Dat shiznit was dis night dat tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy
ass tha strange rap of his youth wit Don Juan Cody - holla'd at it ta me cuz
"Jay Gatsby." had fucked up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, n' tha
long secret extravaganza was played out. I be thinkin dat da thug would
have bigged up anythang now, without reserve yo, but da thug wanted ta
rap bout Daisy.

Bitch was tha straight-up original gangsta "nice" hoe dat schmoooove
muthafucka had eva known. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In
various unrevealed capacitizzles dat schmoooove muthafucka had come
up in contact wit such playas yo, but always wit indiscernible barbed wire
between. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude found her
banginly desirable yo. Dude went ta her house, at first wit other fools from
Camp Taylor, then ridin' solo. Well shiiiit, it amazed his ass - dat
schmoooove muthafucka had never been up in such a funky-ass dope
doggy den before yo, but what tha fuck gave it a air of breathless
intensity, was dat Dizzy lived there - dat shiznit was as casual a thang ta
her as his cold-ass tent up at camp was ta his muthafuckin ass. There was
a ripe mystery bout it, a hint of bedrooms up-stairs mo' dope n' def than
other bedrooms, of gay n' radiant activitizzles takin place all up in its
corridors, n' of romances dat was not musty n' laid away already up in
lavender but fresh n' breathang n' redolent of dis year’s shinin motor-cars
n' of dances whose flowers was scarcely withered. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it buckwild him, too, dat nuff pimps had already
loved Dizzy - it increased her value up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes yo. Dude
felt they presence all bout tha house, pervadin tha air wit tha shades n'
echoez of still vibrant emotions.

But he knew dat da thug was up in Daisy’s doggy den by a cold-ass lil
colossal accident yo. However glorious might be his wild lil' future as Jay
Gatsby, da thug was at present a penniless lil' playa without a past, n' at
any moment tha invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his
shoulders. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he made da most
thugged-out of his cold-ass time yo. Dude took what tha fuck his
schmoooove ass could get, ravenously n' unscrupulously - eventually tha
pimpin' muthafucka took Dizzy one still October night, took her cuz dat
schmoooove muthafucka had no real right ta bust a nut on her hand.

Dude might have despised his dirty ass, fo' dat schmoooove muthafucka
had certainly taken her under false pretenses. I don’t mean dat dat
schmoooove muthafucka had traded on his thugged-out lil' phantom
millions yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had deliberately given Dizzy
a sense of security; he let her believe dat da thug was a thug from much
tha same stratum as her muthafuckin ass - dat da thug was straight-up
able ta take care of her n' shiznit fo' realz. As a matter of fact, dat
schmoooove muthafucka had no such facilitizzles - dat schmoooove
muthafucka had no laid back crew standin behind him, n' da thug was
liable all up in tha whim of a impersonal posse ta be blown anywhere bout
tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

But da ruffneck didn’t despise his dirty ass n' it didn’t turn up as dat
schmoooove muthafucka had imagined. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Dude had intended, probably, ta take what tha fuck his schmoooove ass
could n' go - but now he found dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had
committed his dirty ass ta tha followin of a grail yo. Dude knew dat Dizzy
was extraordinary yo, but da ruffneck didn’t realize just how tha fuck
extraordinary a "nice" hoe could be. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.
Biatch vanished tha fuck into her rich house, tha fuck into her rich, full
game, leavin Gatsby - not a god damn thang yo. Dude felt gangbangin
her, dat was all.

When they kicked it wit again, two minutes later, dat shiznit was Gatsby
whoz ass was breathless, whoz ass was, somehow, betrayed. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! Her porch was bright wit tha looted luxury of starshine; tha wicker of tha settee squeaked fashionably as dat dunkadelic
hoe turned toward his ass n' he busted her curious n' ghettofab grill. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had caught a cold-ass lil cold, n' it
made her voice huskier n' mo' charmin than ever, n' Gatsby was
overwhelmingly aware of tha youth n' mystery dat wealth imprisons n'
preserves, of tha freshnizz of nuff clothes, n' of Daisy, gleamin like silver,
safe n' proud as a muthafucka above tha bangin' strugglez of tha skanky.

"I can’t describe ta you how tha fuck surprised I was ta smoke up I loved
her, oldschool sport. I even hoped fo' a while dat she’d throw me over yo,
but her dope ass didn’t, cuz dat biiiiatch was up in ludd wit me like a
muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought I knew a
shitload cuz I knew different thangs from her n' shit. . . . Well, there I was,

‘way off mah ambitions, gettin deeper up in ludd every last muthafuckin
minute, n' all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was tha use of bustin pimped
out thangs if I could gotz a funky-ass mo' betta time spittin some lyrics ta
her what tha fuck I was goin ta do?" On tha last afternoon before da thug
went abroad, da perved-out muthafucka sat wit Dizzy up in his thuggedout arms fo' a long, silent time. Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil cold fall day,
wit fire up in tha room n' her cheeks flushed. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Now n' then she moved n' his schmoooove ass chizzled his
thugged-out arm a lil, n' once he busted her dark shinin hair. Shiiit, dis aint
no joke. Da afternoon had made dem tranquil fo' a while, as if ta give dem
a thugged-out deep memory fo' tha long partin tha next dizzle promised.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They had never been closer up in they
month of love, nor communicated mo' profoundly one wit another, than
when da hoe brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when tha
pimpin' muthafucka touched tha end of her fingers, gently, as though dat
biiiiatch was asleep.

Dude did extraordinarily well up in tha war yo. Dude was a cold-ass lil
captain before da thug went ta tha front, n' followin tha Argonne battlez
he gots his crazy-ass majoritizzle n' tha command of tha divisionizzle
machine-guns fo' realz. After tha Armistice tha pimpin' muthafucka tried
frantically ta git home yo, but some complication or misunderstandin
busted his ass ta Oxford instead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude
was worried now - there was a qualitizzle of straight-up trippin despair up
in Daisy’s letters. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn’t peep
why his schmoooove ass couldn’t come. Right back up in yo muthafuckin
ass. Biatch was feelin tha heat of tha ghetto outside, n' dat biiiiatch
wanted ta peep his ass n' feel his thugged-out lil' presence beside her n'
be reassured dat dat biiiiatch was bustin tha right thang afta all.

For Dizzy was lil' n' her artificial ghetto was redolent of orchidz n' pleasant,
cheerful snobbery n' orchestras which set tha rhythm of tha year, summin
up tha sadnizz n' suggestivenizz of game up in freshly smoked up tunes
fo' realz. All night tha saxophones wailed tha hopeless comment of tha
Beale Street Blues while a hundred pairz of golden n' silver slippers
shuffled tha shinin dust fo' realz. At tha gray chronic minute there was
always rooms dat throbbed incessantly wit dis low, dope fever, while fresh
faces drifted here n' there like rose petals blown by tha fucked up horns
round tha floor.

Through dis twilight universe Dizzy fuckin started ta move again n' again
n' again wit tha season; suddenly dat biiiiatch was again n' again n' again
keepin half a thugged-out dozen dates a thugged-out dizzle wit half a
thugged-out dozen men, n' drowsin asleep at dawn wit tha beadz n'
chiffon of a evenin dress tangled among dyin orchidz on tha floor beside
her bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And all tha time suttin' within
her was bustin up like a biatch fo' a thugged-out decision. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch
wanted her game shaped now, immediately - n' tha decision must be
made by some force - of love, of scrilla, of unquestionable practicalitizzle dat was close at hand.

That force took shape up in tha middle of sprang wit tha arrival of Tomothy
Buchanan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a
wholesome bulkinizz bout his thugged-out lil' thug n' his thugged-out lil'
position, n' Dizzy was flattered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Doubtless there was a cold-ass lil certain struggle n' a cold-ass lil certain
relief. Da letter reached Gatsby while da thug was still at Oxford.

Dat shiznit was dawn now on Long Island n' we went bout openin tha rest
of tha windows down-stairs, fillin tha doggy den wit gray-turning, goldturnin light. Da shadow of a tree fell tha fuck abruptly across tha dew n'
pimply birdz fuckin started ta rap among tha blue leaves. There was a
slow, pleasant movement up in tha air, scarcely a wind, promisin a coldass lil cool, ghettofab day.

"I don’t be thinkin she eva loved his muthafuckin ass." Gatsby turned
round from a window n' looked all up in mah grill challengingly. "Yo ass
must remember, oldschool sport, dat biiiiatch was straight-up buckwild dis
afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude holla'd at
her dem thangs up in a way dat frightened her - dat juiced it up look as if I
was some kind of skanky sharper n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha result was
dat freaky freaky biatch hardly knew what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was
saying."

Dude sat down gloomily.

"Of course she might have loved his ass just fo' a minute, when they was
first hooked up - n' loved mah crazy ass mo' even then, do you see?"

Suddenly his schmoooove ass came up wit a cold-ass lil curious remark.

"In any case," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "it was just personal."

What could you make of that, except ta suspect some intensitizzle up in
his conception of tha affair dat couldn’t be measured?

Dude came back from Frizzle when Tomothy n' Dizzy was still on they
weddin trip, n' done cooked up a miserable but irresistible trip ta Louisville
on tha last of his thugged-out army pay yo. Dude stayed there a week,
struttin tha streets where they footsteps had clicked together all up in tha
November night n' revisitin tha out-of-the-way places ta which they had
driven up in her white car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Just as Daisy’s doggy
den had always seemed ta his ass mo' mysterious n' gay than other
houses, so his scam of tha hood itself, even though dat biiiiatch was gone
from it, was pervaded wit a melancholy beauty.

Dude left feelin dat if dat schmoooove muthafucka had searched harder,
he might have found her - dat da thug was leavin her behind. Y'all KNOW
dat shit, muthafucka! Da day-coach - da thug was penniless now - was hot
yo. Dude went up ta tha open vestibule n' sat down on a gangbangin'
folding-chair, n' tha station slid away n' tha backz of unfamiliar buildings
moved by. Then up tha fuck into tha sprang fields, where a yellow trolley
raced dem fo' a minute wit playas up in it whoz ass might once have
peeped tha pale magic of her grill along tha casual street.

Da track curved n' now dat shiznit was goin away from tha sun, which as it
sank lower, seemed ta spread itself up in benediction over tha vanishin
hood where dat freaky freaky biatch had drawn her breath yo. Dude
stretched up his hand desperately as if ta snatch only a wisp of air, ta
save a gangbangin' fragment of tha spot dat dat freaky freaky biatch had
made ghettofab fo' his muthafuckin ass. But dat shiznit was all goin by too

fast now fo' his blurred eyes n' he knew dat dat schmoooove muthafucka
had lost dat part of it, tha freshest n' tha best, alllll muthafuckin day.

Dat shiznit was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast n' went up on tha
porch. Da night had done cooked up a sharp difference up in tha drizzle n'
there was a autumn flavor up in tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da
gardener, tha last one of Gatsby’s forma servants, came ta tha foot of tha
steps.

"I’m goin ta drain tha pool to-day, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby. Leaves’ll
start fallin pretty soon, n' then there’s always shiznit wit tha pipes."

"Don’t do it to-day," Gatsby answered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
Dude turned ta me apologetically. "Yo ass know, oldschool sport, I’ve
never used dat pool all summer?"

I looked at mah peep n' stood up.

"Twelve minutes ta mah train."

I didn’t wanna git all up in tha hood. I wasn’t worth a thugged-out decent
stroke of work yo, but dat shiznit was mo' than dat - I didn’t wanna leave
Gatsby. I missed dat train, n' then another, before I could git mah dirty ass
away.

"I’ll call you up," I holla'd finally.

"Do, oldschool sport."

"I’ll call you bout noon."

Us thugs strutted slowly down tha steps.

"I suppose Daisy’ll call like a muthafucka." Dude looked all up in mah grill
anxiously, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped I’d corroborate all dis
bullshit.

"I suppose so."

"Well, good-by."

We shook handz n' I started away. Just before I reached tha hedge I
remembered suttin' n' turned around.

"They’re a rotten crowd," I shouted across tha lawn. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. "You’re worth tha whole damn bunch put
together."

I’ve always been glad I holla'd dis shit. Dat shiznit was tha only
compliment I eva gave him, cuz I disapproved of his ass from beginnin ta
end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. First he nodded
politely, n' then his wild lil' grill broke tha fuck into dat radiant n'
understandin smile, as if we’d been up in ecstatic cahoots on dat fact all
tha time yo. His pimpin' pink rag of a suit done cooked up a funky-ass
bright spot of color against tha white steps, n' I thought of tha night when
I first came ta his thugged-out ancestral home, three months before. Da
lawn n' drive had been crowded wit tha facez of dem playas whoz ass
guessed at his corruption - n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had stood on
dem steps, concealin his crazy-ass muthafuckin incorruptible dream, as da
thug waved dem good-by.

I gave props ta his ass fo' his hospitizzleity. Us thugs was always thankin
his ass fo' dat - I n' tha others.

"Good-by," I called. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I enjoyed breakfast,
Gatsby."

Up up in tha hood, I tried fo' a while ta list tha quotations on a
interminable amount of stock, then I fell tha fuck asleep up in mah swivelchair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Just before noon tha beeper woke me, n' I
started up wit sweat breakin up on mah forehead. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Dat shiznit was Jordan Baker; she often called mah crazy ass
up at dis minute cuz tha uncertainty of her own movements between
hotels n' clubs n' private houses made her hard ta find up in any other
way. Usually her voice came over tha wire as suttin' fresh n' cool, as if a
gangbangin' finger-lickin' divot from a chronic golf-links had come sailin up
in all up in tha crib window yo, but dis mornin it seemed harsh n' dry.

"I’ve left Daisy’s house," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! "I’m at Hempstead, n' I’m goin down ta Southampton dis
afternoon."

Probably it had been tactful ta leave Daisy’s crib yo, but tha act annoyed
me, n' her next remark made me rigid.

"Yo ass weren’t so sick ta me last night."

"How tha fuck could it have mattered then?"

Silence fo' a moment. Then:

"However - I wanna peep yo thugged-out ass."

"I wanna peep you, like a muthafucka."

"Suppose I don’t git all up in Southampton, n' come tha fuck into hood dis
afternoon?"

"No - I don’t be thinkin dis afternoon."

"Straight-up well."

"It’s impossible dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
Various --"

We talked like dat fo' a while, n' then abruptly we weren’t rappin' any
longer n' shit. I don’t know which of our asses hung up wit a sharp click
yo, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked ta her across a tea-table
dat dizzle if I never talked ta her again n' again n' again up in dis ghetto.
Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

I called Gatsby’s doggy den all dem minutes later yo, but tha line was
busy. I tried four times; finally a exasperated central holla'd at mah crazy
ass tha wire was bein kept open fo' long distizzle from Detroit. Takin up
mah time-table, I drew a lil' small-ass circle round tha three-fifty train. I
aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then I leaned back up in mah
chair n' tried ta think. Dat shiznit was just noon.

When I passed tha ashheaps on tha train dat mornin I had crossed
deliberately ta tha other side of tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I suppose
there’d be a cold-ass lil curious crowd round there all dizzle wit lil thugs
searchin fo' dark spots up in tha dust, n' some garrulous playa spittin
some lyrics ta over n' over what tha fuck had happened, until it became
less n' less real even ta his ass n' his schmoooove ass could tell it no
longer, n' Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now I wanna go back a lil n' tell what tha
fuck happened all up in tha garage afta our slick asses left there tha night
before.

They had hang-up up in locatin tha sister, Catherine. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Biatch must have fucked up her rule against drankin dat
night, fo' when she arrived dat biiiiatch was wack wit liquor n' unable ta
KNOW dat tha ambulizzle had already gone ta Flushing. When they
convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if dat was tha
intolerable part of tha affair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo
muthafuckin ass. Some one, kind or curious, took her up in his hoopty n'
drove her up in tha wake of her sister’s body.

Until long afta midnight a cold-ass lil changin crowd lapped up against tha
front of tha garage, while George Wilson rocked his dirty ass back n' forth
on tha couch inside. For a while tha door of tha crib was open, n' every
last muthafuckin one whoz ass came tha fuck into tha garage glanced
irresistibly all up in dat shit. Finally one of mah thugs holla'd dat shiznit
was a muthafucka, n' closed tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Michaelis n'
nuff muthafuckin other pimps was wit him; first, four or five men, later two
or three men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in
yo muthafuckin ass. Still later Michaelis had ta ask tha last stranger ta
wait there fifteen minutes longer, while da thug went back ta his own
place n' done cooked up a pot of coffee fo' realz. After that, da perved-out
muthafucka stayed there ridin' solo wit Wilson until dawn.

Bout three o’clock tha qualitizzle of Wilson’s incoherent mutterin chizzled he grew on tha fuckin' down-lower n' fuckin started ta rap bout tha yellow
hoopty yo. Dude announced dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had a way
of findin up whom tha yellow hoopty belonged to, n' then his thugged-out
lil' punk-ass blurted up dat a cold-ass lil couple months ago his hoe had
come from tha hood wit her grill bruised n' her nozzle swollen.

But when dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass say this, he
flinched n' fuckin started ta cry "Oh, mah God!" again n' again n' again up
in his wild lil' freakadelic groanin voice. Michaelis done cooked up a coldass lil clumsy attempt ta distract his muthafuckin ass.

"How tha fuck long have you been married, George, biatch? Come on
there, try n' sit still a minute n' answer mah question. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch yo. How tha fuck long have you been married?"

"Twelve years."

"Ever had any children, biatch? Come on, George, sit still - I axed you a
question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Did yo dirty ass eva
have any children?"

Da hard brown beetlez kept thuddin against tha dull light, n' whenever
Michaelis heard a cold-ass lil hoopty go tearin along tha road outside it
sounded ta his ass like tha hoopty dat hadn’t stopped all dem minutes
before yo. Dude didn’t like ta go tha fuck into tha garage, cuz tha work
bench was stained where tha body had been lying, so he moved
uncomfortably round tha crib - he knew every last muthafuckin object up
in it before mornin - n' from time ta time sat down beside Wilson tryin ta
keep his ass mo' on tha fuckin' down-low.

"Has you done gots a cold-ass lil church you git all up in sometimes,
George, biatch? Maybe even if you haven’t been there fo' a long-ass time,
biatch? Maybe I could call up tha church n' git a priest ta come over n' his
schmoooove ass could rap ta you, see?"

"Don’t belong ta any."

"Yo ass ought ta git a cold-ass lil church, George, fo' times like all dis
bullshit. Yo ass must have gone ta church once. Didn’t you git hooked up
in a cold-ass lil church, biatch? Listen, George, dig mah dirty ass. Didn’t
you git hooked up in a cold-ass lil church?"

"That was a long-ass time ago."

Da effort of answerin broke tha rhythm of his bangin rockin - fo' a moment
da thug was silent. Then tha same half-knowing, half-bewildered look
came back tha fuck into his wild lil' faded eyes.

"Look up in tha drawer there," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pointin
all up in tha desk.

"Which drawer?"

"That drawer - dat one."

Michaelis opened tha drawer nearest his hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! There was not a god damn thang up in it but a small, highrollin' dog-leash, made of leather n' braided silver n' shit. Dat shiznit was
apparently new.

"This?" he inquired, holdin it up.

Wilson stared n' nodded.

"I found it yesterdizzle afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tried ta tell me bout it
yo, but I knew dat shiznit was suttin' funky."

"Yo ass mean yo' hoe looted it?"

"Bitch had it wrapped up in tissue paper on her bureau."

Michaelis didn’t peep anythang odd up in that, n' he gave Wilson a
thugged-out dozen reasons why his hoe might have looted tha dog-leash.
But conceivably Wilson had heard a shitload of these same explanations
before, from Myrtle, cuz his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started sayin
"Oh, mah God!" again n' again n' again up in a whisper - his comforter left
nuff muthafuckin explanations up in tha air.

"Then he capped her," holla'd Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch yo. His grill dropped open suddenly.

"Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck did?"

"I gots a way of findin out."

"You’re morbid, George," holla'd his wild lil' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin
cause I be still poppin'. "This has been a strain ta you n' you don’t know
what tha fuck you’re saying. You’d mo' betta try n' sit on tha down-low till
morning."

"Dude murdered her muthafuckin ass."

"Dat shiznit was a accident, George."

Wilson shook his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His eyes
narrowed n' his crazy-ass grill widened slightly wit tha pimp of a superior
"Hm!"

"I know," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd definitely, "I’m one of these
trustin fellas n' I don’t be thinkin any harm ta no muthafucka yo, but when
I git ta know a thang I know dat shit. Dat shiznit was tha playa up in dat
car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ran
up ta drop a rhyme ta his ass n' da thug wouldn’t stop."

Michaelis had peeped dis too yo, but it hadn’t occurred ta his ass dat there
was any special significizzle up in it yo. Dude believed dat Mrs. Wilson had
been hustlin away from her homeboy, rather than tryin ta stop any
particular car.

"How tha fuck could she of been like that?"

"She’s a thugged-out deep one," holla'd Wilson, as if dat answered tha
question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Ah-h-h --"

Dude fuckin started ta rock again, n' Michaelis stood twistin tha leash up
in his hand.

"Maybe you gots some playa dat I could telephone for, George?"

This was a gangbangin' forlorn hope - da thug was almost shizzle dat
Wilson had no playa: there was not enough of his ass fo' his hoe yo. Dude
was glad a lil later when he noticed a cold-ass lil chizzle up in tha room, a
funky-ass blue quickenin by tha window, n' realized dat dawn wasn’t far
off fo' realz. Bout five o’clock dat shiznit was blue enough outside ta snap
off tha light.

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned up ta tha ashheaps, where lil' small-ass gray
cloudz took on dunkadelic shape n' scurried here n' there up in tha faint
dawn wind.

"I was rappin ta her," he muttered, afta a long-ass silence. "I holla'd at her
she might fool me but dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn’t fool Dogg. I took
her ta tha window."- wit a effort he gots up n' strutted ta tha rear window
n' leaned wit his wild lil' grill pressed against it --" n' I holla'd ‘Dogg knows
what tha fuck you’ve been bustin, every last muthafuckin thang you’ve
been bustin. Yo ass may fool me yo, but you can’t fool God!’"

Standin behind him, Michaelis saw wit a shock dat da thug was lookin all
up in tha eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale n'
enormous, from tha dissolvin night.

"Dogg sees every last muthafuckin thang," repeated Wilson.

"That’s a advertisement," Michaelis assured his muthafuckin ass. Right
back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang made his ass turn away from
tha window n' look back tha fuck into tha room. But Wilson stood there a
long-ass time, his wild lil' grill close ta tha window pane, noddin tha fuck
into tha twilight.

By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, n' grateful fo' tha sound of a coldass lil hoopty stoppin outside. Dat shiznit was one of tha watcherz of tha
night before whoz ass had promised ta come back, so his schmoooove ass
cooked breakfast fo' three, which he n' tha other playa ate together n'
shit. Wilson was on tha fuckin' down-lower now, n' Michaelis went home ta
chill; when he awoke four minutes later n' hurried back ta tha garage,
Wilson was gone.

His movements - da thug was on foot all tha time - was afterward traced
ta Port Roosevelt n' then ta Gad’s Hill, where his thugged-out lil' punk-ass
looted a sandwich dat da ruffneck didn’t eat, n' a cold-ass lil cup of coffee
yo. Dude must done been chillaxed n' struttin slowly, fo' da ruffneck didn’t
reach Gad’s Hill until noon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Thus
far there was no hang-up up in accountin fo' his cold-ass time - there was
thugs whoz ass had peeped a playa "actin sort of crazy," n' motorists at
whom da perved-out muthafucka stared oddly from tha side of tha road.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then fo' three minutes da ruffneck
disappeared from view. Da police, on tha strength of what tha fuck da
perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta Michaelis, dat he "had a way of findin
out," supposed dat da ruffneck dropped dat time goin from garage ta
garage thereabout, inquirin fo' a yellow car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. On tha
other hand, no garage playa whoz ass had peeped his ass eva came
forward, n' like dat schmoooove muthafucka had a easier, surer way of
findin up what tha fuck da thug wanted ta know. By half-past two da thug
was up in Westside Egg, where he axed one of mah thugs tha way ta
Gatsby’s house. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So by dat time he
knew Gatsby’s name.

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit n' left word wit tha butla dat
if any one phoned word was ta be brought ta his ass all up in tha pool yo.
Dude stopped all up in tha garage fo' a pneumatic mattress dat had
amused his wild lil' freakadelic guests durin tha summer, n' tha chauffeur

helped his ass pump it up. Then he gave instructions dat tha open hoopty
wasn’t ta be taken up under any circumstances - n' dis was strange, cuz
tha front right fender needed repair.

Gatsby shouldered tha mattress n' started fo' tha pool. Once da pervedout muthafucka stopped n' shifted it a lil, n' tha chauffeur axed his ass if
he needed help yo, but da perved-out muthafucka shook his head n' up in
a moment disappeared among tha yellowin trees.

No telephone message arrived yo, but tha butla went without his chill n'
waited fo' it until four o’clock - until long afta there was any one ta give it
ta if it came. I have a scam dat Gatsby his dirty ass didn’t believe it would
come, n' like he no longer cared. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! If dat
was legit he must have felt dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost tha
oldschool warm ghetto, paid a high price fo' livin too long wit a single
dream yo. Dude must have looked up at a unfamiliar sky all up in
frightenin leaves n' shivered as he found what tha fuck a grotesque thang
a rose be n' how tha fuck raw tha sunlight was upon tha scarcely pimped
grass fo' realz. A freshly smoked up ghetto, material without bein real,
where skanky pimps, breathang trips like air, drifted fortuitously bout . . .
like dat ashen, dunkadelic figure glidin toward his ass all up in tha
amorphous trees.

Da chauffeur - da thug was one of Wolfsheim’s proteges - heard tha shots
- afterward his schmoooove ass could only say dat dat schmoooove
muthafucka hadn’t thought anythang much bout em. I drove from tha
station directly ta Gatsby’s doggy den n' mah rushin anxiously up tha
front steps was tha straight-up original gangsta thang dat alarmed any
one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word holla'd,
four of us, tha chauffeur yo, butler, gardener, n' I, hurried down ta tha
pool.

There was a gangbangin' faint, barely perceptible movement of tha gin n
juice as tha fresh flow from one end urged its way toward tha drain all up
in tha other wit lil ripplez dat was hardly tha shadowz of waves, tha laden
mattress moved irregularly down tha pool fo' realz. A lil' small-ass gust of
wind dat scarcely corrugated tha surface was enough ta disturb its
accidental course wit its accidental burden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n'

gravy biatch. Da bust a nut on of a cold-ass lil clusta of leaves revolved it
slowly, tracing, like tha leg of compass, a thin red circle up in tha water.

Dat shiznit was afta we started wit Gatsby toward tha doggy den dat tha
gardener saw Wilson’s body a lil way off up in tha grass, n' tha holocaust
was complete.

Chapter 9

After two muthafuckin years I remember tha rest of dat day, n' dat night n'
tha next day, only as a endless drill of five-o n' pornographers n'
newspaper pimps up in n' outta Gatsby’s front door fo' realz. A rope
stretched across tha main gate n' a policeman by it kept up tha curious
yo, but lil thugs soon discovered dat they could enter all up in mah yard,
n' there was always all dem of dem clustered open-mouthed bout tha
pool. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Someone wit a positizzle
manner, like a thugged-out detective, used tha expression "madman" as
his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bent over Wilson’s body dat afternoon, n' tha
adventitious authoritizzle of his voice set tha key fo' tha newspaper
reports next morning.

Most of dem reports was a nightmare - grotesque, circumstantial, eager,
n' untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony all up in tha inquest brought ta light
Wilson’s suspicionz of his hoe I thought tha whole tale would shortly be
served up in racy pasquinade - but Catherine, whoz ass might have holla'd
anything, didn’t say shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch
flossed a surprisin amount of character bout it too - looked all up in tha
coroner wit determined eyes under dat erected brow of hers, n' swore dat
her sista had never peeped Gatsby, dat her sista was straight-up aiiight
wit her homeboy, dat her sista had been tha fuck into no mischizzle
whatever n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch convinced
her muthafuckin ass of it, n' cried tha fuck into her handkerchizzle, as if
tha straight-up suggestion was mo' than dat thugged-out biiiatch could
endure. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. Wilson was reduced ta a
playa "deranged by grief" up in order dat tha case might remain up in its
simplist form fo' realz. And it rested there.

But all dis part of it seemed remote n' unessential. It aint nuthin but tha
nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. I found mah dirty ass on
Gatsby’s side, n' ridin' solo. From tha moment I telephoned shizzle of tha
catastrophe ta Westside Egg village, every last muthafuckin surmise bout
him, n' every last muthafuckin practical question, was referred ta mah
dirty ass fo' realz. At first I was surprised n' confused; then, as he lay up in
his fuckin lil' doggy den n' didn’t move or breathe or speak, minute upon
hour, it grew upon me dat I was responsible, cuz no one else was
interested - interested, I mean, wit dat intense underground interest ta
which every last muthafuckin one has some vague right all up in tha end.

I called up Dizzy half a minute afta we found him, called her instinctively
n' without hesitation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But she n'
Tomothy had gone away early dat afternoon, n' taken baggage wit em.

"Left no address?"

"No."

"Say when they’d be back?"

"No."

"Any scam where they are, biatch? How tha fuck I could reach them?"

"I don’t know. Can’t say."

I wanted ta git some muthafucka fo' his muthafuckin ass. I wanted ta go
tha fuck into tha room where he lay n' reassure him: "I’ll git some
muthafucka fo' you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me n' I’ll git some
muthafucka fo' you --"

Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t up in tha beeper book. Da butla gave me
his crib address on Broadway, n' I called Hype yo, but by tha time I had
tha number dat shiznit was long afta five, n' no one answered tha phone.

"Will you rang again?"

"I’ve rung dem three times."

"It’s straight-up blingin."

"Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there."

I went back ta tha drawing-room n' thought fo' a instant dat they was
chizzle visitors, all these straight-up legit playas whoz ass suddenly filled
dat shit. But, as they drew back tha shizzle n' looked at Gatsby wit
unmoved eyes, his thugged-out lil' protest continued up in mah dome:

"Look here, oldschool sport, you’ve gots ta git some muthafucka fo' mah
dirty ass. You’ve gots ta try hard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I can’t
go all up in dis ridin' solo."

Some one started ta ask me thangs yo, but I broke away n' goin up-stairs
looked hastily all up in tha unlocked partz of his fuckin lil' desk - he’d
never holla'd at mah crazy ass definitely dat his thugged-out lil'
muthafathas was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n'
gravy biatch. But there was not a god damn thang - only tha picture of
Don Juan Cody, a token of forgotten violins, starin down from tha wall.

Next mornin I busted tha butla ta New York wit a letter ta Wolfsheim,
which axed fo' shiznit n' urged his ass ta come up on tha next train. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That request seemed superfluous
when I freestyled dat shit. I was shizzle he’d start when da perved-out
muthafucka saw tha newspapers, just as I was shizzle there’d be a wire

from Dizzy before noon - but neither a wire nor Mista Muthafuckin
Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except mo' five-o n' pornographers n'
newspaper men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When tha butla
brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I fuckin started ta git a gangbangin'
feelin of defiance, of scornful solidaritizzle between Gatsby n' mah crazy
ass against dem all.

Dear Mista Muthafuckin Carraway. This has been one of da most thuggedout shitty shockz of mah game ta me I hardly can believe it dat it is legit
at all. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Such a mad act as dat playa
did should make our asses all think. I cannot come down now as I be tied
up in some straight-up blingin bidnizz n' cannot git mixed up in dis thang
now, nahmeean, biatch? If there be anythang I can do a lil later let me
know up in a letter by Edgar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I hardly know where I
be when I hear on some thang like dis n' be straight-up knocked down n'
out.

Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem

and then hasty addenda beneath:

Let me know bout tha funeral etc. Do not know his crew at all.

When tha beeper rang dat afternoon n' Long Distizzle holla'd Chicago was
callin I thought dis would be Dizzy at last. But tha connection came all up
in as a man’s voice, straight-up thin n' far away.

"This is Slagle bustin lyrics . . . "

"Yes?" Da name was unfamiliar.

"Hell of a note, aint it, biatch? Git mah wire?"

"There haven’t been any wires."

"Young Parke’s up in shit," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd rapidly. "They
picked his ass up when dat schmoooove muthafucka handed tha bondz
over tha counter n' shit. They gots a cold-ass lil circular from New York
givin ’em tha numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know bout
that, hey, biatch? Yo ass never can tell up in these hick towns --"

"Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here - dis aint Mista Muthafuckin
Gatsby. Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby’s dead as fuckin fried chicken."

There was a long-ass silence on tha other end of tha wire, followed by a
exclamation . . . then a quick squawk as tha connection was broken.

I be thinkin dat shiznit was on tha third dizzle dat a telegram signed Henry
C. Gatz arrived from a hood up in Minnesota. Well shiiiit, it holla'd only dat
tha sender was leavin immediately n' ta postpone tha funeral until his
schmoooove ass came.

Dat shiznit was Gatsby’s father, a solemn oldschool dude, straight-up
helpless n' dismayed, bundled up in a long-ass skanky ulsta against tha
warm September day. It make me wanna hollar playa! His eyes leaked
continuously wit excitement, n' when I took tha bag n' umbrella from his
handz his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta pull so incessantly at
his sparse gray beard dat I had hang-up up in gettin off his coat yo. Dude
was on tha deal wit collapse, so I took his ass tha fuck into tha noize room
n' made his ass sit tha fuck down while I busted fo' suttin' ta eat. But da
thug wouldn’t eat, n' tha glass of gin n juice spilled from his cold-ass
tremblin hand.

"I saw it up in tha Chicago newspaper," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.
Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Dat shiznit was all up in tha Chicago
newspaper n' shit. I started right away."

"I didn’t know how tha fuck ta reach yo thugged-out ass." His eyes, seein
nothing, moved ceaselessly bout tha room.

"Dat shiznit was a madman," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Dude must done been mad."

"Wouldn’t you like some coffee?" I urged his muthafuckin ass.

"I don’t want anything. I’m all up in dis biatch, Mista Muthafuckin --"

"Carraway."

"Well, I’m all n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. Where
have they gots Jimmy?" I took his ass tha fuck into tha drawing-room,
where his fuckin lil hustla lay, n' left his ass there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha
way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some lil
thugs had come up on tha steps n' was lookin tha fuck into tha hall; when
I holla'd at dem whoz ass had arrived, they went reluctantly away.

After a lil while Mista Muthafuckin Gatz opened tha door n' came out, his
crazy-ass grill ajar, his wild lil' grill flushed slightly, his wild lil' fuckin eyes
leakin isolated n' unpunctual tears yo. Dude had reached a age where
dirtnap no longer has tha qualitizzle of ghastly surprise, n' when he looked
round his ass now fo' tha last time n' saw tha height n' splendor of tha hall
n' tha pimped out rooms openin up from it tha fuck into other rooms, his
wild lil' freakadelic grief fuckin started ta be mixed wit a awed pride. I
helped his ass ta a funky-ass bedroom up-stairs; while tha pimpin'
muthafucka took off his coat n' vest I holla'd at his ass dat all
arrangements had been deferred until his schmoooove ass came.

"I didn’t know what tha fuck you’d want, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby --"

"Gatz is mah name."

"- Mista Muthafuckin Gatz.. n' you KNOWS you might wanna take tha body
West."

Dude shook his head.

"Jizzy always was horny bout it mo' betta down Eastside yo. Dude rose up
ta his thugged-out lil' posizzle up in tha East. Were you a gangbangin'
playa of mah boy’s, Mista Muthafuckin -?"

"Us thugs was close playas."

"Dude had a funky-ass big-ass future before him, you know yo. Dude was
only a lil' dude yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had a shitload of
dome juice here."

Dude touched his head impressively, n' I nodded.

"If he’d of lived, he’d of been a pimped out man. I aint talkin' bout chicken
n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A playa like Jizzy J yo. Hill yo. He’d of helped build
up tha ghetto."

"That’s true," I holla'd, uncomfortably.

Dude fumbled all up in tha embroidered coverlet, tryin ta take it from tha
bed, n' lay down stiffly - was instantly asleep.

That night a obviously frightened thug called up, n' demanded ta know
whoz ass I was before da thug would give his name.

"This is Mista Muthafuckin Carraway," I holla'd.

"Oh!" Dude sounded relieved. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "This is
Klipspringer." I was relieved too, fo' dat seemed ta promise another playa
at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it ta be up in tha papers n' draw a
sightseein crowd, so I’d been callin up all dem playas mah dirty ass. They
was hard ta find.

"Da funeral’s to-morrow," I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
"Three o’clock, here all up in tha house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d
be interested."

"Oh, I will," his thugged-out lil' punk-ass broke up hastily. "Of course I’m
not likely ta peep anybody yo, but if I do."

His tone made me suspicious.

"Of course you’ll be there yo ass."

"Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up bout is --"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This
type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "How tha fuck bout sayin you’ll
come?"

"Well, tha fact is - tha real deal of tha matter is dat I’m stayin wit some
playas up here up in Greenwich, n' they rather expect me ta be wit dem
to-morrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do
mah straight-up dopest ta git away."

I ejaculated a unrestrained "Huh!" n' he must have heard me, fo' da thug
went on nervously:

"What I called up bout was a pair of Nikes I left there, so peek-a-boo, clear
tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I wonder if it’d be too much shiznit ta
have tha butla bust dem on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo
ass see, they’re tennis shoes, n' I’m sort of helpless without em. My fuckin
address is care of B. F. --"

I didn’t hear tha rest of tha name, cuz I hung up tha receiver.

After dat I felt a cold-ass lil certain shame fo' Gatsby - one gentleman ta
whom I telephoned implied dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots
what tha fuck da ruffneck deserved. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But
fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat that was mah fault, fo' da
thug was one of dem playas whoz ass used ta sneer most bitterly at
Gatsby on tha courage of Gatsby’s liquor, n' I should have known mo'
betta than ta booty-call his muthafuckin ass.

Da mornin of tha funeral I went up ta New York ta peep Meyer Wolfsheim; I
couldn’t seem ta reach his ass any other way. Da door dat I pushed open,
on tha lyrics of a elevator boy, was marked "Da Swastika Holdin
Company," n' at first there didn’t seem ta be any one inside. But when I’d
shouted "hello" nuff muthafuckin times up in vain, a argument broke up
behind a partition, n' presently a ghettofab Jewess rocked up at a interior
door n' scrutinized mah crazy ass wit black straight-up shitty eyes.

"Nobody’s in," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
"Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim’s gone ta Chicago."

Da first part of dis was obviously untrue, fo' one of mah thugs had begun
ta whistle "Da Rosary," tunelessly, inside.

"Please say dat Mista Muthafuckin Carraway wants ta peep his
muthafuckin ass."

"I can’t git his ass back from Chicago, can I?"

At dis moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called "Stella!" from tha
other side of tha door.

"Leave yo' name on tha desk," her big-ass booty holla'd doggystyle. "I’ll
give it ta his ass when he gets back."

"But I know he’s there."

Bitch took a step toward mah crazy ass n' fuckin started ta slide her handz
indignantly up n' down her hips.

"Yo ass lil' pimps be thinkin you can force yo' way up in here any time,"
her big-ass booty scolded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "We’re gettin
sickantired of dat shit. When I say he’s up in Chicago, he’s up in Chicago."

I mentioned Gatsby.

"Oh - h!" Biatch looked all up in mah grill over again. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. "Will you just - What was yo' name?"

Bitch vanished. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In a moment Meyer
Wolfsheim stood solemnly up in tha doorway, holdin up both handz yo.
Dude drew me tha fuck into his office, remarkin up in a reverent voice dat
dat shiznit was a fucked up time fo' all of us, n' offered mah crazy ass a
cold-ass lil cigar.

"My fuckin memory goes back ta when I first kicked it wit him," da pervedout muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "A lil' major just
outta tha army n' covered over wit medals he gots up in tha war yo. Dude
was so hard up dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta keep on bustin his
uniform cuz his schmoooove ass couldn’t loot some regular clothes. First
time I saw his ass was when his schmoooove ass come tha fuck into
Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street n' axed fo' a thang yo. Dude
hadn’t smoke anythang fo' a cold-ass lil couple days. ‘come on have some
lunch wit me,’ I sid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude ate mo' than
four dollars’ worth of chicken up in half a hour."

"Did yo dirty ass start his ass up in bidnizz?" I inquired.

"Start him! I made his muthafuckin ass."

"Oh."

"I raised his ass up outta nothing, right outta tha gutter n' shit. I saw right
away da thug was a gangbangin' fine-appearing, gentlemanly lil' dude, n'
when tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass da thug was at
Oggsford I knew I could use his ass good. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky
dawwwwg! I gots his ass ta join up in tha Gangsta Legion n' he used ta
stand high there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho.
Right off da ruffneck did some work fo' a cold-ass lil client of mine up ta
Albany. Us thugs was so thick like dat up in every last muthafuckin
thang."- dat schmoooove muthafucka held up two bulbous fingers --"
always together."

I wondered if dis partnershizzle had included tha World’s Series
transaction up in 1919.

"Now he’s dead," I holla'd afta a moment. "Yo ass was his closest playa, so
I know you’ll wanna come ta his wild lil' funeral dis afternoon."

"I’d like ta come."

"Well, come then."

Da afro up in his nostrils quivered slightly, n' as da perved-out muthafucka
shook his head his wild lil' fuckin eyes filled wit tears.

"I can’t do it - I can’t git mixed up in it," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

"There’s not a god damn thang ta git mixed up in. I aint talkin' bout
chicken n' gravy biatch. It’s all over now, nahmeean?"

"When a playa gets capped I never like ta git mixed up in it up in any way.
I keep out. When I was a lil' playa dat shiznit was different - if a
gangbangin' playa of mine died, no matter how, I stuck wit dem ta tha end
yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Yo ass may be thinkin
that’s sentimental yo, but I mean it - ta tha bitter end."

I saw dat fo' some reason of his own da thug was determined not ta come,
so I stood up.

"Is you a cold-ass lil college man?" he inquired suddenly.

For a moment I thought da thug was goin ta suggest a "gonnegtion," but
he only nodded n' shook mah hand.

"Let our asses learn ta show our thang fo' a playa when he is kickin it n'
not afta he is dead," da perved-out muthafucka suggested. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "After dat mah
own rule is ta let every last muthafuckin thang ridin' solo."

When I left his crib tha sky had turned dark n' I gots back ta Westside Egg
up in a thugged-out drizzle fo' realz. After changin mah threadz I went
next door n' found Mista Muthafuckin Gatz struttin up n' down excitedly up
in tha hall yo. His pride up in his fuckin lil hustla n' up in his son’s
possessions was continually increasin n' now dat schmoooove muthafucka
had suttin' ta show mah dirty ass.

"Jizzy busted mah crazy ass dis picture." Dude took up his wallet wit
tremblin fingers. "Look there."

Dat shiznit was a photograph of tha house, cracked up in tha corners n'
dirty wit nuff handz yo. Dude pointed up every last muthafuckin detail ta
me eagerly. "Look there!" n' then sought admiration from mah eyes yo.
Dude had shown it so often dat I be thinkin dat shiznit was mo' real ta his
ass now than tha doggy den itself.

"Jizzy busted it ta mah dirty ass. I be thinkin it’s a straight-up pretty
picture. Well shiiiit, it shows up well."

"Straight-up well yo. Had you peeped his ass lately?"

"Dude come up ta peep me two muthafuckin years ago n' looted mah
crazy ass tha doggy den Hoes know mah name up in now, nahmeean,
biatch? Of course we was broke up when he run off from home yo, but I
peep now there was a reason fo' it yo. Dude knew dat schmoooove
muthafucka had a funky-ass big-ass future up in front of his muthafuckin
ass fo' realz. And eva since he done cooked up a success da thug was
straight-up generous wit mah dirty ass." Dude seemed reluctant ta put
away tha picture, held it fo' another minute, lingeringly, before mah eyes.
Then he returned tha wallet n' pulled from his thugged-out lil' pocket a
ragged oldschool copy of a funky-ass book called Hopalong Cassidy.

"Look here, dis be a funky-ass book dat schmoooove muthafucka had
when da thug was a funky-ass boy. Well shiiiit, it just shows yo thuggedout ass."

Dude opened it all up in tha back cover n' turned it round fo' me ta see.
On tha last fly-leaf was printed tha word Schedule, n' tha date September
12, 1906, n' underneath:
Rise from bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
6.00 a.m.
Dumbbell exercise n' wall-scaling. . . . ..

6.15-6.30 "

Study electricity, etc. . . . . . . . . . . . 7.15-8.15 "
Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

8.30-4.30 p.m.

Basebizzle n' game. . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.30-5.00 "
Practice elocution, poise n' how tha fuck ta attain it
Study needed inventions. . . . . . . . . . .

5.00-6.00 "

7.00-9.00 "

General Resolves No wastin time at Shaftas or [a name, indecipherable]
No mo' smokein or chewin Bath every last muthafuckin other dizzle Read
one pimpin-out book or magazine per week Save $5.00 {crossed out}
$3.00 per week Be mo' betta ta muthafathas

"I come across dis book by accident," holla'd tha oldschool man. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "It just shows you, don’t it?"

"It just shows yo thugged-out ass."

"Jizzy was bound ta git ahead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude
always had some resolves like dis or something. Do you notice what tha
fuck he’s gots bout pimpin-out his crazy-ass mind, biatch? Dude was
always pimped out fo' dis shiznit yo. Dude holla'd at mah crazy ass I et
like a hog once, n' I beat his ass fo' dat shit."

Dude was reluctant ta close tha book, readin each item aloud n' then
lookin eagerly all up in mah face. I be thinkin he rather expected mah
crazy ass ta copy down tha list fo' mah own use.

A lil before three tha Lutheran minista arrived from Flushing, n' I fuckin
started ta look involuntarily up tha windows fo' other cars. Right back up
in yo muthafuckin ass. So did Gatsby’s daddy n' shiznit fo' realz. And as
tha time passed n' tha servants came up in n' stood waitin up in tha hall,
his wild lil' fuckin eyes fuckin started ta blink anxiously, n' da perved-out
muthafucka was rappin of tha drizzle up in a worried, uncertain way. Da
minista glanced nuff muthafuckin times at his thugged-out lil' peep it, so I
took his ass aside n' axed his ass ta wait fo' half a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. But it wasn’t any use. No Muthafucka came.

Bout five o’clock our procession of three rides reached tha cemetery n'
stopped up in a thick drizzle beside tha gate - first a motor hearse,
horribly black n' wet, then Mista Muthafuckin Gatz n' tha minista n' I up in
tha limousine, n' a lil later four or five servants n' tha postman from
Westside Egg up in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet ta tha skin. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As we started all up in tha
gate tha fuck into tha cemetery I heard a cold-ass lil hoopty stop n' then
tha sound of one of mah thugs splashin afta our asses over tha soggy
ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I looked around. Y'all KNOW dat
shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was tha playa wit owl-eyed glasses whom I
had found marvellin over Gatsby’s books up in tha library one night three
months before.

I’d never peeped his ass since then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. I don’t know how tha fuck he knew bout tha funeral, or even his
name. Da drizzle poured down his cold-ass thick glasses, n' tha pimpin'
muthafucka took dem off n' wiped dem ta peep tha protectin canvas
unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

I tried ta be thinkin bout Gatsby then fo' a moment yo, but da thug was
already too far away, n' I could only remember, without resentment, dat
Dizzy hadn’t busted a message or a gangbangin' flower n' shit. Dimly I
heard one of mah thugs murmur, "Blessed is tha dead dat tha drizzle falls
on," n' then tha owl-eyed playa holla'd "Amen ta that," up in a funky-ass
brave voice.

We straggled down quickly all up in tha drizzle ta tha cars. Owl-eyes was
rappin ta me by tha gate.

"I couldn’t git ta tha house," he remarked.

"Neither could anybody else."

"Go on!" Dude started. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a
shiznit happens all tha time. "Why, mah Dogg hommie! they used ta go
there by tha hundreds." Dude took off his wild lil' freakadelic glasses n'
wiped dem again, outside n' in.

"Da skanky son-of-a-bitch," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

One of mah most vivid memories iz of comin back Westside from prep
school n' later from college at Chrizzle time. Those whoz ass went farther
than Chicago would gather up in tha oldschool dim Union Station at six
o’clock of a December evening, wit all dem Chicago playas, already
caught up tha fuck into they own holidizzle gayeties, ta bid dem a hasty
good-by. I remember tha fur coatz of tha hoes returnin from Miss This-orthat’s n' tha chatter of frozen breath n' tha handz wavin overhead as we
caught sight of oldschool acquaintances, n' tha matchingz of invitations:
"Is you goin ta tha Ordways’, biatch? tha Herseys’, biatch? tha
Schultzes’?" n' tha long chronic tickets clasped tight up in our gloved
handz fo' realz. And last tha murky yellow ridez of tha Chicago, Milwaukee
n' St. Pizzle railroad lookin cheerful as Chrizzle itself on tha tracks beside
tha gate.

When we pulled up tha fuck into tha winter night n' tha real snow, our
snow, fuckin started ta stretch up beside our asses n' twinkle against tha
windows, n' tha dim lightz of lil' small-ass Wisconsin stations moved by, a
sharp wild brace came suddenly tha fuck into tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no
joke. Us dudes drew up in deep breathz of it as we strutted back from
dinner all up in tha cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identitizzle
wit dis ghetto fo' one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably tha
fuck into it again.

That’s mah Middle Westside - not tha wheat or tha prairies or tha lost
Swede towns yo, but tha thrillin returnin trainz of mah youth, n' tha street
lamps n' sleigh bells up in tha frosty dark n' tha shadowz of holly wreaths
thrown by lighted windows on tha snow. I be part of that, a lil solemn wit
tha feel of dem long winters, a lil complacent from growin up in tha
Carraway doggy den up in a cold-ass lil hood where dwellings is still called
all up in decades by a cold-ass lil crew’s name. I peep now dat dis has
been a rap of tha West, afta all - Tomothy n' Gatsby, Dizzy n' Jordan n' I,
was all Westerners, n' like we possessed some deficiency up in common
which made our asses subtly unadaptable ta Eastside game.

Even when tha Eastside buckwild mah crazy ass most, even when I was
most keenly aware of its superioritizzle ta tha bored, sprawling, swollen
towns beyond tha Ohio, wit they interminable inquisitions which spared
only tha lil pimps n' tha straight-up oldschool - even then it had always fo'
me a qualitizzle of distortion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
Westside Egg, especially, still figures up in mah mo' dunkadelic dreams. I
peep it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once
conventionizzle n' grotesque, crouchin under a sullen, overhangin sky n' a
lustreless moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha
foreground four solemn pimps up in dress suits is struttin along tha
sidewalk wit a stretcher on which lies a thugged-out fadeden biatch up in
a white evenin dress yo. Her hand, which danglez over tha side, sparklez
cold wit jewels. Gravely tha pimps turn up in at a doggy den - tha wack
house. But no one knows tha biatch’s name, n' no one cares.

After Gatsby’s dirtnap tha Eastside was hustled fo' me like that, distorted
beyond mah eyes’ juice of erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy
biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So when tha blue smoke of
brittle leaves was up in tha air n' tha wind blew tha wet laundry stiff on
tha line I decided ta come back home.

There was one thang ta be done before I left, a awkward, unpleasant
thang dat like had mo' betta done been let ridin' solo. But I wanted ta
leave thangs up in order n' not just trust dat obligin n' indifferent sea ta
sweep mah refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker n' talked over n' round what
tha fuck had happened ta our asses together, n' what tha fuck had

happened afterward ta me, n' she lay perfectly still, listening, up in a
funky-ass big-ass chair.

Bitch was dressed ta play golf, n' I remember thankin she looked like a
phat illustration, her chin raised a lil jauntily, her afro tha color of a
autumn leaf, her grill tha same brown tint as tha fingerless gludd on her
knee. When I had finished dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at mah crazy ass
without comment dat dat biiiiatch was engaged ta another man. I aint
talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I doubted that, though there was nuff
muthafuckin dat thugged-out biiiatch could have hooked up at a nod of
her head yo, but I pretended ta be surprised. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t bustin a mistake,
then I thought all dat shiznit over again n' again n' again quickly n' gots up
ta say good-bye.

"Nevertheless you did throw me over," holla'd Jordan suddenly. "Yo ass
threw me over on tha telephone. I don’t give a thugged-out damn bout
you now yo, but dat shiznit was a freshly smoked up experience fo' me, n'
I felt a lil dizzy fo' a while."

We shook hands.

"Oh, n' do you remember."- she added --" a cold-ass lil conversation our
crazy asses had once bout rollin a cold-ass lil car?"

"Why - not exactly."

"Yo ass holla'd a wack driver was only safe until she kicked it wit another
wack driver, biatch? Well, I kicked it wit another wack driver, didn’t I,
biatch? I mean dat shiznit was careless of me ta make such a wack guess..
n' you KNOWS you was rather a honest, straightforward person.. n' you
KNOWS dat shiznit was yo' secret pride."

"I’m thirty," I holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I’m five
muthafuckin years too oldschool ta lie ta mah dirty ass n' call it honor."

Bitch didn’t answer n' shiznit fo' realz. Angry, n' half up in ludd wit her, n'
tremendously sorry, I turned away.

One afternoon late up in October I saw Tomothy Buchanan. I aint talkin'
bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was struttin ahead of me along Fifth
Avenue up in his thugged-out alert, aggressive way, his handz up a lil from
his body as if ta fight off interference, his head movin sharply here n'
there, adaptin itself ta his bangin restless eyes. Just as I slowed up ta
avoid overtakin his ass da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' fuckin
started frownin tha fuck into tha windowz of a blin store. Right back up in
yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly da perved-out muthafucka saw me n'
strutted back, holdin up his hand.

"What’s tha matter, Nick, biatch? Do you object ta bobbin handz wit me
son?"

"Yes yes y'all. Yo ass know what tha fuck I be thinkin of yo thugged-out
ass."

"You’re crazy, Nick," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd doggystyle. "CrazyAss as a muthafucka. I don’t know what’s tha matter up in yo' faaaaaace!"

"Tom," I inquired, "what did you say ta Wilson dat afternoon?" Dude stared
all up in mah grill without a word, n' I knew I had guessed right bout dem
missin hours. I started ta turn away yo, but tha pimpin' muthafucka took a
step afta me n' grabbed mah arm.

"I holla'd at his ass tha real deal," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Dude came ta tha door while we was gettin
locked n loaded ta leave, n' when I busted down word dat we weren’t up in
tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta force his way up-stairs yo. Dude was wild-

ass enough ta bust a cap up in me if I hadn’t holla'd at his ass whoz ass
owned tha hoopty yo. His hand was on a revolver up in his thugged-out lil'
pocket every last muthafuckin minute da thug was up in tha doggy den --"
Dude broke off defiantly. "What if I did tell him, biatch? That fellow had it
comin ta his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude threw dust tha fuck into yo' eyes
just like da ruffneck did up in Daisy’s yo, but da thug was a tough one yo.
Dude ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a thugged-out dawg n' never
even stopped his car."

There was not a god damn thang I could say, except tha one unutterable
fact dat it wasn’t true.

"And if you be thinkin I didn’t have mah share of sufferin - look here, when
I went ta give up dat flat n' saw dat damn box of dawg biscuits chillin
there on tha sideboard, I sat down n' cried like a funky-ass baby. By Dogg
dat shiznit was wack --"

I couldn’t forgive his ass or like his ass yo, but I saw dat what tha fuck dat
schmoooove muthafucka had done was, ta him, entirely justified. Y'all
KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was all straight-up careless n'
confused. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They was careless people,
Tomothy n' Dizzy - they smashed up thangs n' creatures n' then retreated
back tha fuck into they scrilla or they vast carelessness, or whatever dat
shiznit was dat kept dem together, n' let other playas clean up tha mess
they had made. . . .

I shook handz wit him; it seemed wack-ass not to, fo' I felt suddenly as
though I was rappin' ta a cold-ass lil child. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Then da thug went tha fuck into tha blin store ta loot a pearl
phat gold rope - or like only a pair of cuff buttons - rid of mah provincial
squeamishnizz alllll muthafuckin day.

Gatsby’s doggy den was still empty when I left - tha grass on his fuckin
lawn had grown as long as mine. One of tha ride drivers up in tha hood
never took a gangbangin' fare past tha entrizzle gate without stoppin fo' a
minute n' pointin inside; like dat shiznit was da thug whoz ass drove Dizzy
n' Gatsby over ta Eastside Egg tha night of tha accident, n' like dat

schmoooove muthafucka had done cooked up a rap bout all dat shiznit his
own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I didn’t wanna hear it n' I
avoided his ass when I gots off tha train.

I dropped mah Saturdizzle nights up in New York cuz dem gleaming,
dazzlin partizzlez of his was wit me so vividly dat I could still hear tha
noize n' tha laughter, faint n' incessant, from his wild lil' freakadelic
garden, n' tha rides goin up n' down his fuckin lil' drive. One night I did
hear a material hoopty there, n' saw its lights stop at his wild lil' front
steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably dat shiznit was some final hommie
whoz ass had been away all up in tha endz of tha earth n' didn’t know dat
tha jam was over.

On tha last night, wit mah trunk packed n' mah hoopty sold ta tha grocer, I
went over n' looked at dat big-ass incoherent failure of a doggy den once
mo' n' mo' n' mo'. On tha white steps a obscene word, scrawled by some
pimp wit a piece of brick, stood up clearly up in tha moonlight, n' I erased
it, drawin mah shoe raspingly along tha stone. Then I wandered down ta
tha beach n' sprawled up on tha sand.

Most of tha big-ass shore places was closed now n' there was hardly any
lights except tha shadowy, movin glow of a gangbangin' ferryboat across
tha Sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And as tha moon rose higher
tha inessential houses fuckin started ta melt away until gradually I
became aware of tha oldschool island here dat flowered once fo' Dutch
sailors’ eyes - a gangbangin' fresh, chronic breast of tha freshly smoked
up ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit,
muthafucka! Its vanished trees, tha trees dat had made way fo' Gatsby’s
house, had once pandered up in whispers ta tha last n' top billin of all
human dreams; fo' a transitory enchanted moment playa must have held
his breath up in tha presence of dis continent, compelled tha fuck into a
aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, grill ta grill fo'
tha last time up in history wit suttin' commensurate ta his capacitizzle fo'
wonder.

And as I sat there broodin on tha old, unknown ghetto, I thought of
Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked up tha chronic light all up in tha end
of Daisy’s dock yo. Dude had come a long-ass way ta dis blue lawn, n' his

fuckin lil' trip must have seemed so close dat his schmoooove ass could
hardly fail ta grasp it yo. Dude did not know dat dat shiznit was already
behind him, somewhere back up in dat vast obscuritizzle beyond tha
hood, where tha dark fieldz of tha rehood rolled on under tha night.

Gatsby believed up in tha chronic light, tha orgastic future dat year by
year recedes before us. Well shiiiit, it eluded our asses then yo, but that’s
no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch up our arms farther n'
shit. . . fo' realz. And one fine mornin --

So we beat on, boats against tha current, borne back ceaselessly tha fuck
into tha past.