clinch.
Weird voice, Too Hot thought, their heads locked. Kind of faggy. And how could he hit him any harder without knocking him out? “I did hit you hard,” he whispered back.
Goon broke away then whipped brass knucks from his trunks. But Too Hot’s expert side roll smacked Goon hard to the mat, and he twisted the knucks from the huge fingers.
“Real hard, right in the head,” Goon whispered, faking his own shock. “You’re grappling like a pussy.”
Too Hot didn’t like that. When Goon charged, he belted him a little too hard. Goon staggered but then charged again, locking up.
“What’s the matter with you?” came the weird whisper. “These fans didn’t pay to see paddycakes. Hit me hard with those knucks. Otherwise I’ll turn this into a shoot and kick your ass for real.”
“Think you can, asshole?”
Goon laid a chest slap that cracked through the arena like a gunshot. Too Hot lost his breath for a moment.
“What’s your problem, shithead?” he hissed in the next clinch.
“You,” Goon replied. “This is supposed to be a wrestling match, and all you’re doing is prancing around like some home-boy shuck and jive nigger.”
Too Hot’s teeth clenched. “You better watch that shit.”
“What? Nigger? Sorry, I meant to say porch monkey. Bet your mama’s cookin’ cornbread in some project, got about fifty welfare kids, huh?”
“You really want it bad, don’t you, you big white piece of shit?”
“Yeah, I want it bad, so give it to me. I fucked your sister last night—what’s her name? Lawanda, Sharonda, Linolium, some nigger name like that? She turns tricks at truck stops, ten bucks a pop. Lets nigger dealers knock her up so she can get more welfare. Or I should say mo’ weffair. What’s your favorite chicken, by the way? KFC or Popeye’s? Lub dat dickin’ at ‘Op-eyes!”
By now Too Hot was burning up. Goon was goading him, the insidious whisper inaudible to the fans at ringside but each word stinging Too Hot like a slap across the face. Why was Goon doing this? I could kill this guy with one solid punch in the head, he realized. And if he heard the word nigger one more time, he just might do it.
“Got no balls, huh? Same as all you spooks,” Goon continued to whisper. “I’m calling you a nigger to your face and you’re not doing anything about it. Typical yellow-belly, no-balls cornbread-eating nigger. No wonder your people were slaves for three hundred years, no balls to do anything about it. Took a white man to get you out of the cotton fields. Ask me we oughta nuke all your goddamn nigger ghettos, get rid of all them crack babies and players selling coke to nine-year-olds, raping white women ‘cos the nigger women are all three-hundred pound street cows slapping jive and buying sirloin with the welfare money whites give ‘em. You’ll be on welfare too, Sambo, after I break your knees so you can’t wrestle anymore.”
Too Hot seethed. “Call me nigger one more time and I’ll crack your coconut with these brass knucks.”
“Nigger. Why don’t you go back to the ‘hood, shoot some hoop, mug white people and panhandle in your $150 sneakers, and walk around like an asshole rubbing your crotch listening to gangsta cop-killer songs just like all the other useless, drop-out, thieving, crack-dealer niggers. Hey, blood, what up? Where dah white wimmins at? Where dah cornbread? Where 2-Pac?”
The red veil dropped. Prison would be next more than likely, or at the very least the final end to a career he’d already half-flushed down the toilet. Too Hot reeled back then—
crack!
—and landed a right hook into Goon’s temple with the brass knuckles. The crowd roared. The bell clanged, and as the ref was disqualifying him, Too Hot Romeo belly-slid out of the ring and dashed for the locker room. Gotta get out of here! I just killed that guy!
He scrambled to dress in the locker room. Maybe he could head back to Denver, disappear and…well…sell drugs. It
Weird voice, Too Hot thought, their heads locked. Kind of faggy. And how could he hit him any harder without knocking him out? “I did hit you hard,” he whispered back.
Goon broke away then whipped brass knucks from his trunks. But Too Hot’s expert side roll smacked Goon hard to the mat, and he twisted the knucks from the huge fingers.
“Real hard, right in the head,” Goon whispered, faking his own shock. “You’re grappling like a pussy.”
Too Hot didn’t like that. When Goon charged, he belted him a little too hard. Goon staggered but then charged again, locking up.
“What’s the matter with you?” came the weird whisper. “These fans didn’t pay to see paddycakes. Hit me hard with those knucks. Otherwise I’ll turn this into a shoot and kick your ass for real.”
“Think you can, asshole?”
Goon laid a chest slap that cracked through the arena like a gunshot. Too Hot lost his breath for a moment.
“What’s your problem, shithead?” he hissed in the next clinch.
“You,” Goon replied. “This is supposed to be a wrestling match, and all you’re doing is prancing around like some home-boy shuck and jive nigger.”
Too Hot’s teeth clenched. “You better watch that shit.”
“What? Nigger? Sorry, I meant to say porch monkey. Bet your mama’s cookin’ cornbread in some project, got about fifty welfare kids, huh?”
“You really want it bad, don’t you, you big white piece of shit?”
“Yeah, I want it bad, so give it to me. I fucked your sister last night—what’s her name? Lawanda, Sharonda, Linolium, some nigger name like that? She turns tricks at truck stops, ten bucks a pop. Lets nigger dealers knock her up so she can get more welfare. Or I should say mo’ weffair. What’s your favorite chicken, by the way? KFC or Popeye’s? Lub dat dickin’ at ‘Op-eyes!”
By now Too Hot was burning up. Goon was goading him, the insidious whisper inaudible to the fans at ringside but each word stinging Too Hot like a slap across the face. Why was Goon doing this? I could kill this guy with one solid punch in the head, he realized. And if he heard the word nigger one more time, he just might do it.
“Got no balls, huh? Same as all you spooks,” Goon continued to whisper. “I’m calling you a nigger to your face and you’re not doing anything about it. Typical yellow-belly, no-balls cornbread-eating nigger. No wonder your people were slaves for three hundred years, no balls to do anything about it. Took a white man to get you out of the cotton fields. Ask me we oughta nuke all your goddamn nigger ghettos, get rid of all them crack babies and players selling coke to nine-year-olds, raping white women ‘cos the nigger women are all three-hundred pound street cows slapping jive and buying sirloin with the welfare money whites give ‘em. You’ll be on welfare too, Sambo, after I break your knees so you can’t wrestle anymore.”
Too Hot seethed. “Call me nigger one more time and I’ll crack your coconut with these brass knucks.”
“Nigger. Why don’t you go back to the ‘hood, shoot some hoop, mug white people and panhandle in your $150 sneakers, and walk around like an asshole rubbing your crotch listening to gangsta cop-killer songs just like all the other useless, drop-out, thieving, crack-dealer niggers. Hey, blood, what up? Where dah white wimmins at? Where dah cornbread? Where 2-Pac?”
The red veil dropped. Prison would be next more than likely, or at the very least the final end to a career he’d already half-flushed down the toilet. Too Hot reeled back then—
crack!
—and landed a right hook into Goon’s temple with the brass knuckles. The crowd roared. The bell clanged, and as the ref was disqualifying him, Too Hot Romeo belly-slid out of the ring and dashed for the locker room. Gotta get out of here! I just killed that guy!
He scrambled to dress in the locker room. Maybe he could head back to Denver, disappear and…well…sell drugs. It
Similar Books
Untamed
Pamela Clare
Veneer
Daniel Verastiqui
The Islands of the Blessed
Nancy Farmer
44 Scotland Street
Alexander McCall Smith
Only Love (The Atonement Series)
Elle Chardou
Dead Man's Embers
Mari Strachan
Spy Games
Gina Robinson
Lord Devere's Ward
Sue Swift
Sleeping Beauty
Maureen McGowan