>>10164He never knew black balls like ever before; he certainly knew, however, about black cock.
We'd always walk together in Birmingham. All he'd say to me throughout our entire walk, heading to a café: "All them niggers can't tell me what to fucking do. I don't want to have anything to do with them fucking nigger fucks."
For some reason, every time he said the word "nigger", something liquid would emanate from his dry lips.
I'd tell him to wear chapstick, but he'd always reply, "Stop niggering around. I don't have any time for nigger things."
He was so high on crack that every utterance would be about a negro.
I opened the café door--we entered--and the moment we entered, old Bobby began to say a loud, "Them goddamn niggers workin' today!"
Everyone just stared at us--quiet. It was awkward for me. I could feel my entire nervous system: stagnant.
We made our way toward the cashier, and he said:
"The usual?" with a depressed air.
"Yeah," I replied, "Don't mind Bobby agai-"
"Oh them niggers! I can't stop yankin' on them in my mind! Fuck. I just want to linch a nigger and cuts its black balls off and cook em in my scrambled eggs! Fucking shit!"
Immediately the cashier's entire depressed appearance changed to one of surprise.
And so my thoughts go on.
