appearances are deceiving. I presume you’d have no trouble dealing with this kind of problem—you are a businessman, after all—but I’m looking forward to eliminating Mr. Washington myself. Mr. Washington has become Marcy’s slave. He’ll do whatever she tells him to do. In fact, he’s come to trust her so much, he lets her prepare his injections.”
“I get the picture.” Crazy white motherfuckers. The wonder of the world. The wonder of his world. Old Davis wasn’t gonna do it to show Wendell how bad he was. Davis was gonna do it because he liked to do it.
“Then I invite you to watch closely while PURE enters the marketplace. There’s plenty of competition in our test marketing area and PURE is priced competitively. In effect, the heroin and crack addicts are deciding just how desirable our product is. But let’s assume that all goes well. Let’s assume that our consumers love PURE. In that case, I’ll put the manufacturing end into high gear while you set up local, regional and, eventually, national distribution. My goal is to market two hundred pounds of product, then sell the formula and get my white ass out of the business. I intend to accomplish that before PURE becomes illegal. And, of course, I guarantee you exclusive right to market PURE. Assuming you can handle the weight.”
“Man, you must be jokin’. Two hundred pounds? That ain’t more than ninety kilos. Shouldn’t be no problem whatsoever. Long as I get first bid on the formula when we’re done.”
“I believe we understand each other.”
Wendell took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Crazy was what the man was. Crazy and beautiful. In the meantime, Wendell Bogard’s future was looking like more than a jail cell and a series of high-priced lawyers. Imagine, a get-rich dope and the pigs can’t bust your ass. Goddamn miracle is what it was. “We got to find some way to seal this shit,” he declared.
“A handshake isn’t enough?” Craddock asked.
“African-Americans don’t do no handshakes. We do that slappin’ and bumpin’ shit.”
“Perhaps we could put Marcy into some really humiliating sexual position. She’d love that.”
“No, man, pussy ain’t strong enough for what we gonna do. Y’understand what I’m sayin’? We ain’t got no contract, so we got to find another way of statin’ our intentions.”
“And what would that be?”
“A song, my man. We gonna seal the deal with a song.”
“A song?” Davis Craddock couldn’t repress a wide grin. “What are we gonna sing, Wendell?”
“ ‘Pusher Man.’ It’s the national anthem of dope. ‘Oh, say can you see’ and that shit.”
When Abou heard the words coming from the next room, he damn near shit his pants. The blonde bitch was snapping her fingers and screeching: “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah.” The other one, the maggot, was doing the lyrics in a deep baritone while Wendell stayed a little behind, working the beats. Singin’ about niggers in alleys, about the pusher man being the only daddy and momma a dope addict would ever have. It was a song for the brothers and sisters, not the maggots.
Abou sucked hard on his beer. All kinds of crazy thoughts ran through his head, confusing him until they resolved themselves into a single idea: what the fuck am I doin’ in a room with thirty armed maggots when all I got is my motherfuckin’ dick to shoot with ?
Because if there was one thing Abou hated more than anything else in the world, it was a crazy white man. Never knew what the fucker might do.
NINE
from The Autobiography of Davis Craddock
H EEEEEERE, POOCHIE, POOCHIE, POOCHIE. Here, Poochie. Here, Poooooochie. Hop! Skip! Jump! Fly! That’s a good Poochie dog. That’s a good doggie.
Dear Marilyn provided the answer for my Poochie obsession. As she has for so many other obsessions.
I couldn’t get the cult thing out of my head. It seemed such a simple thing. There had to be tens of thousands of poochies out there
“I get the picture.” Crazy white motherfuckers. The wonder of the world. The wonder of his world. Old Davis wasn’t gonna do it to show Wendell how bad he was. Davis was gonna do it because he liked to do it.
“Then I invite you to watch closely while PURE enters the marketplace. There’s plenty of competition in our test marketing area and PURE is priced competitively. In effect, the heroin and crack addicts are deciding just how desirable our product is. But let’s assume that all goes well. Let’s assume that our consumers love PURE. In that case, I’ll put the manufacturing end into high gear while you set up local, regional and, eventually, national distribution. My goal is to market two hundred pounds of product, then sell the formula and get my white ass out of the business. I intend to accomplish that before PURE becomes illegal. And, of course, I guarantee you exclusive right to market PURE. Assuming you can handle the weight.”
“Man, you must be jokin’. Two hundred pounds? That ain’t more than ninety kilos. Shouldn’t be no problem whatsoever. Long as I get first bid on the formula when we’re done.”
“I believe we understand each other.”
Wendell took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Crazy was what the man was. Crazy and beautiful. In the meantime, Wendell Bogard’s future was looking like more than a jail cell and a series of high-priced lawyers. Imagine, a get-rich dope and the pigs can’t bust your ass. Goddamn miracle is what it was. “We got to find some way to seal this shit,” he declared.
“A handshake isn’t enough?” Craddock asked.
“African-Americans don’t do no handshakes. We do that slappin’ and bumpin’ shit.”
“Perhaps we could put Marcy into some really humiliating sexual position. She’d love that.”
“No, man, pussy ain’t strong enough for what we gonna do. Y’understand what I’m sayin’? We ain’t got no contract, so we got to find another way of statin’ our intentions.”
“And what would that be?”
“A song, my man. We gonna seal the deal with a song.”
“A song?” Davis Craddock couldn’t repress a wide grin. “What are we gonna sing, Wendell?”
“ ‘Pusher Man.’ It’s the national anthem of dope. ‘Oh, say can you see’ and that shit.”
When Abou heard the words coming from the next room, he damn near shit his pants. The blonde bitch was snapping her fingers and screeching: “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah.” The other one, the maggot, was doing the lyrics in a deep baritone while Wendell stayed a little behind, working the beats. Singin’ about niggers in alleys, about the pusher man being the only daddy and momma a dope addict would ever have. It was a song for the brothers and sisters, not the maggots.
Abou sucked hard on his beer. All kinds of crazy thoughts ran through his head, confusing him until they resolved themselves into a single idea: what the fuck am I doin’ in a room with thirty armed maggots when all I got is my motherfuckin’ dick to shoot with ?
Because if there was one thing Abou hated more than anything else in the world, it was a crazy white man. Never knew what the fucker might do.
NINE
from The Autobiography of Davis Craddock
H EEEEEERE, POOCHIE, POOCHIE, POOCHIE. Here, Poochie. Here, Poooooochie. Hop! Skip! Jump! Fly! That’s a good Poochie dog. That’s a good doggie.
Dear Marilyn provided the answer for my Poochie obsession. As she has for so many other obsessions.
I couldn’t get the cult thing out of my head. It seemed such a simple thing. There had to be tens of thousands of poochies out there
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