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Ain’t nothin’ proper about happy hardcore, whatevuh kinda kinky BDSM nonsense that is.

“I don’t wanna hear another word about it. State of Alleybama says I gotta keep you halfway-home brothahs accordant with the law and with proper morals. Ain’t nothin’ proper about happy hardcore, whatevuh kinda kinky BDSM nonsense that is.” He stalked off then, leaving Desmond to make crude faces at his backside. Malcolm kept muttering as he went. “Darn tootin’, I knows about all that. Ain’t lettin’ no brothah go on that ecstasy trip, buggin’ up, droppin’ in, tunin’ out, gettin’ down, somethin’ like that…”

From Malcolm Don’t Take No for an Answer

pedestrian, gropitating

“If’n you don’t like mah rules, you can stroll right back down to lockup! I’ll even drive you if’n you ain’t the petesdrian type! But when you in my car, you steerin’ my wheel. No catcallin’ after girlies, no gropitatin‘ no females, no n-words!”

From Tyrell the Mandingo

Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash

Kids was phone-bullying other kids into stabbing they grandmas, lazy-eyed niggas was buying Russian wives on the phone, cauliflowery whiteboys be stealing the treasury on they phone and burning down schools, it happens, shit, look it up!

Thumper scanned books and told customers to swipe or insert they card. Two ways to pay: swipe or insert. Or cash, but ain’t a soul pay in cash all morning. Thumper thought paying with a plastic card was paltry shit. A proper nigga paid in cash. Cards was like a wheelchair for your wallet.

There’s cards you don’t even gotta swipe or insert. You just tap it around, and it goes ding. You could walk by a nigga, and he be dinging your card. Tap-a-tap-tap, he snap-snackin’ on ya cash. Bullshit. When Thumper told this one high-faluting ruddynut honky to swipe his card or insert it if he prefer, the honky said, “Nah, I’mma tap it, you trashy tapless nigger coming outta prison ign’ant and shit, I don’t swipe or insert, I tap, you don’t know nuffin, oughta put you back in a bitch-nigger cage to learn how to tap yo’ thing on the other thing”. He ain’t say that exactly, but what he said he said like Thumper was a piss-poor nigga for not guessing he was the kinda honky who tap steada swipe or insert.

You can pay with your phone now too. Swipe, insert, tap or phone.
Thumper don’t know how to put money into his phone, and he ain’t wanna axe, cuz they’d treat him a lost puppy and show him how and it’d take like a hundred steps, buncha passwords to forget, prolly gotto talk to a gravelchin nigga on the phone. Thumper don’t got time for that nonsense. He like having real cash he can count in reality like a real nigga living in real-time and real-space. One sunnyskin man did it though, hovering his phone around like a hypnotized helicopter, till eventually there was bunchesa buzzes and beeps and boops and the phone vibrated, and then the cash register said “approved”.

Ain’t even a real cash register, it was really a li’l computer that was really a big phone that was really just a monitor, but to the Puffin Books bitches it was a register. Everything was a phone nowadays. You best believe Thumper disapproved of that, disapproved hearty as stew.
The morning drifted on like time was a chore. Thumper’s mind wandered back to prison, where at least you paid in cash or like ramen noodle packets or something. That was better. Thumper wished the world would go back to barter. Like, I’ll trade you a cow for maybe… a thousand apples. But then what would you do with a thousand apples at once? Make cider maybe.
And cider’s delicious, so that’s fine.

World was going in the other direction though. Everything was more abstract, ain’t nothing physical to hold onto. News was on the phone and mainly talked about what people was typing into they phones — seriously, they do whole things on the news about what bunchesa nobodies said, like a serious-looking racially ambiguous reporter get up there and say “somebody named buttmama called for peace in the Congo, but then a non-somebody named noodlesucker said Congo niggas can go fuck a duck”, and then the news is over, and Thumper still ain’t got a update from Congo since Ali won the Rumble in the Jungle.

Young folk don’t even smoke weed proper no more. They vape it. It’s like weed and email got combined. They done optimize smoking weed till there ain’t nothing left, you just look at this little doodad that lights up, exhale smoke that smells like sleeping by yourself for the resta your life, and you done. Don’t get high, don’t laugh at nothing, don’t run from the cops. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.

From Thumper on Parole

It proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.

He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.

The rig bossman Mister Chow was half a dumpling high, but he shouted loud as soybeans, swear to God. He came rampaging like a Mongol into the corridor when a brawl went boom-a-boom-boom. Steel and Lem done throw down like a dogpound at some Haitian niggas, who got liquor they ain’t share. Lem proposed a transaction, and the Haitians was receptive, till the truck ‘tween them and he and him turnt truculent.

But only a paltry packa punches got dealt on both sides before Mister Chow chopsticked in like a miniature monsoon. He carried a cricket bat. “You bwack men-ooh you ooh-shoo choo-woo-moo-choo-” or some shit. Steel couldn’t understand Mister Chow when he wasn’t batting the butter outta Haitian booty and he damn sure ain’t catch a word now. He did pick up the oughty-notty that Mister Chow thought all the black men shouldn’t fight each other.
That had a certain logic to it, but it proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.

Soon enough, Mister Chow arrived, furying up a storm of stewed plums. He jabbed his fat little fingers in the air, and he said buncha words that Steel ain’t quite catch — Mister Chow got one helluva Chinaman accent. He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.

From Steel the Roughneck

He was a hands-off dumpling

He scolded Zon like a bossy noodle, but Zon ain’t understand a word of that ching-chong chatter, then Mistah Chow scurried back to his office.

By the time Mistah Chow strode in couple seconds later, Zon was nursing a bloody nose and ain’t no other combatants apparent. Nobody here was a snitch, and Mistah Chow ain’t care much anyways, as he was a hands-off dumpling. All he cared ’bout was that nobody got serious-hurt and that the scrap was o’er. He scolded Zon like a bossy noodle, but Zon ain’t understand a word of that ching-chong chatter, then Mistah Chow scurried back to his office.

From Buck on the Oil Rig

Arabs got good hat game

The Lebanese barrack was dappled with sheets and them nightgown-like things they wore. It smelled of obscure spices, like some sorta stank potpourri, like grandma’s kitchen if yo’ grandmama was a hairy sailor.

Waaaay too much body hair for Steel’s notions. The UN oughta shave all the Muslims. All they body hair is like pubes too. That’s what distinguishes Arabs from Persians. Persians got nice silky body hair. Arabs was like if steel wool got turned into a real boy. A unpleasant and aggressive real boy.

The Lebanese barrack was dappled with sheets and them nightgown-like things they wore, Steel don’t know what none that’s called. All them clothes was hung up to dry. It smelled of obscure spices, like some sorta stank potpourri, like grandma’s kitchen if yo’ grandmama was a hairy sailor. Steel ain’t like it one bit. And goddamn was the place a forest of chest hair. Steel could taste it from the doorway, like a copper penny baking on a sandy beach. Makes a nigga’s fillings wiggle.

One of ’em got that bristly body hair going over his shoulders and all the way down his back, like he was slowly turning into a carpet. One of ’em was wearing an Aladdin hat too, a real nice one. Arabs got good hat game. He gotsta to give ’em that one. They hat game was on point.

From Steel the Roughneck

Portugal’s a fucked-up place

Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it.

Lem got theories on why Italians was so awful, and he explainified them to Steel till Steel told him to get on with it. Steel got no distruck with Italians. He could eat the fuck outta some pizza too, the Portuguese cooks on the rig make pizza, but they makes it weird as Chinese beards. It’s on like flatbread or something. And they don’t even put pepperoni on it! Portugal’s a fucked-up place. Anyway, Steel got no hate for Portuguese crackers, nor Italians, but Lem got reasons to hate on every race. Every reason was unique to that race, but he got a million of ’em. Lem was an anthopplist of stereotyping.

From Steel the Roughneck

If it ain’t Christ, it ain’t right!

They was something, and whatever they was, it wasn’t right.

“Ohh-zshoo-woo-joo!” One of ’em said, or sumpin’ similar, Steel don’t listen to no Haitian voodoo. If it ain’t Christ, it ain’t right! But Steel did watch the video about respecting diversity on the oil rig, and he ain’t tell the Haitians they was some devil-worshipping pagans. Maybe. Steel don’t actually know what “pagan” means. But they was something, and whatever they was, it wasn’t right.

From Steel the Roughneck

Drink when it floods, nigga!

In prison, Steel saw a documentary, and it turned out lizards drink mad water, like desert lizards when it floods, they be guzzling that! Lizards is wise motherfuckers. Drink when it floods, nigga!

“Shit… Once I get my first paycheck, nigga, I’mma get so much liquor — we gonna be drinking like lizards after our first leave, Lem.” In prison, Steel saw a documentary, and it turned out lizards drink mad water, like desert lizards when it floods, they be guzzling that! Lizards is wise motherfuckers. Drink when it floods, nigga!

From Steel the Roughneck

You know Steel stays listening to Some Nigga

Some nigga said the whole rig was counted as a boat under the law, so any alcohol was tantamount to boating under the influence, and you know Steel stays listening to Some Nigga.

A boat did come every week with fresh food, but the boat ain’t allowed to bring no booze. Rig policy. Most technically, nobody on rig was supposed to have any alcohol. It was against the rules. Some nigga said the whole rig was counted as a boat under the law, so any alcohol was tantamount to boating under the influence, and you know Steel stays listening to Some Nigga.

From Steel the Roughneck