Ain’t nobody got time to text a notiony nigga like Thumper, he thought as he stretched hisself home silent as samurai on his lumpy feet. Lingering moonlight bathed his booty in both fog and dim. His brain felt old, but Baltimore was older. The city smelled like the past at night. It smelled like the future during the day, but at night, Thumper recognized streets he grew up on and windows he walked past back when, and he recollected names and faces that done drain away. Nighttime smelled of asphalt and history.
He was glad to go home alone. Them two Jaekwel and Deon smelled like clean knees, but parta Thumper’s noggin craved the nigga-heavy nights of a crowded cell, and he steady checked his phone before finally slipping into a solofied slumber.
Though he ain’t want nobody to know it, Thumper looked forward to work, and the dawn couldn’t come early enough.
From Thumper the Mover