B’fore’n the tussle ‘tween ’em could erupt, a hubbub commotioned itself behind ’em, and they both turned to see someone walk in. They both squared up.
Ain’t nobody allowed in they dead-end.
But it was Mistah Chow, the wonton-shape sunnyskin sumbitch who do run this oil rig. He was a scowling soybean, ticktocky voice like snapping chopsticks, and he looked down his nose at Lem fer being black and Buck fer being a hillbilly and the both them fer being American, trashy, ugly, dumb, hairy and barbaric. He do curl his lip. “You two, you go see medic, you have med-ic-aw fowms to do — you have vassinayshun, yes? You have done vassinayshun?” He stopped short on a frown like somebody spilled his rice when he seed the porno magazine in Lem’s hand. He grabbed it. “You haff po-no?”
“Aw, Mistah Chow-“
“No po-no! Is iwegaw!” Mistah Chow backed outta the dead-end, porno magazine in hand. “Go to med-ic to-night!” He was shouting like a Chinaman do, like a siren with a stutter, as he left the dead-end, and his words faded to machine-gunning echoes on all down the corridor.
A cathedral of silence spread thru the dead-end, and Buck and Lem exchanged knowing glances.From Buck on Bottom
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MN Manmacker's mansploitation