Slick Daddy

We were standing in a group, in a sort of-side cubicle off to the side of the dance floor. I can't remember what we were talking about. But I remember it wasn't just idle chat, it was something important, something serious.

Then someone else walked into the room. Actually, I don't even know if walk is the right word. He was all angles and elbows and knees, skinny arms and legs and a gigantic pair of boots that seemed to spend not a lot of time on the ground. He wore a deep, wine-red velvet tuxedo that seemed to sparkle, with a bulbous blue bow-tie that glowed. And on his head, a gigantic fedora cut long from front to back, in that same deep, wine red velvet, with a feather and a band in blue to match the bow tie.

He carried a cane that matched his clothes and hat, and fat-diamond rings on every finger like a set of extremely expensive extra knuckles. 

His smile was high up on his cheeks and pointed down right above his chin, thick lips closed, not painted but naturally a pink that resonated with the deep wine-red of the suit. He wore sunglasses, with frames in very dark blue, as close to the feather, band, and bow tie's blue as the pink on his thick, luscious lips was to the intoxicating deep, wine red of his suit and hat.

And he had a nose-piercing, a ring, and on the ring there was a stone, now follow me here: If one were to paint, onto a square canvas, four dots in a square pattern, and colored them the pink, red, dark blue, and blue, with the pink/red opposite one another and so of course the same for the dark blue and blue, and then I placed this canvas on the ground at the feet of two lovers in a passionate kiss, and watched the drool between them drip onto the canvas, making the colors run, tendrils wrapping around one another in a surface-tension embrace, and the mixing, forming new tendrils as the lovers lose themselves to the soul-caressing kiss, spilling more of that salival-elixr, until all the colors come together at the center of the canvas, come together, they come together to form a purple so pure and so platonic to the ideal of what purple is, it's vibration in light's reflecting in harmonic resonance with the songs of angels, a purity that denies the existence of any other color, of any other descriptive concept, of any structure that can't be worn by it's resounding truth, that was what color the stone was.

And then he said, "Slick, Daddy. Now what in the high-dang diggity is goin' on in this here sex-see-own which you born from porn apple peoples?"

We just stared at him.

"I believe like Jesus done believed in the holy mother mary that what I articulated to y'alls motherruckers is when I axed you what in the hee-haw lamp city orchestra is growing-nevermore-ing rain is pouring let's get going on in heeeeeeeyuuuuuuuaaaaauu?"

Someone said, "Who are you?"

He held up one hand, thrust out his chest, and took a very slow bow as he said, "Me, baby? I'm the gas-attack on a fire kraken flap jack, I am the doogie all on top of y' howser, I am the one and only and only one certified by the FDA FBI FIDC BA for baddass motherfucker to put so much shizzle up in yo nizzle y'all gonna have yourself right there a permanently drizzle." 

We all just kind of looked at each other. He came out of his bow with a flourish, then bent over to lean on his cane, and looking from one to the next of us, with eyes moving so languid and slow as if the space between was, merging us into one, a thick second skin sweaty with the heat of those eyes.

"What was your name again?" someone asked.

"Bitches," he said, clearly referring to us and getting our attention so that we were expecting him to speak, the word having no more meaning or connotation than any other pronoun, "I was never named nothin' that disaccurately described my myself and the state of I at that particular space-time as I'm a genuiwinning open-ass book and what you see, babies, is what y'all better be fixin to get, but along side dems dat dress this puss in the appropriate motherfucking contextuals, they's folks made of the same flesh and blood as the lord the jesus the ke-rice-toe, and my own damned self, who call me MC Square D.

There was a moment of silence, the kind of silence that isn't the sound but by not being the sound perfectly describing the sound of four heads exploding in awe? Terror? Achieving orgasmic completeness with the universe? Yes.

"Uh," another one of us said, in a voice that trembled so much that it was as smooth as the paralysis of a patient with Parkinson catatonic and ready for the gusto, "what do you want?"

He threw his head back and seemed to bend backwards so far that his head was almost completely upside-down, with his arms spread wide, and shouted "What does I wizzy iizzy nizzy tizzy wizzay?" Then he stood up straight and on his face a look of anger, rage, outrage, out-rigger-bigger madder than a matador mackin on mac-daddy-daddy macintosh covered in haagen dass and hoolaindaide-county sauce. His eyes were on fire but still invisible behind his sunglasses but shining with the bright-piercing white of a white-hot sun, pinning each of us to this moment in time like bugs stuck to the minute hand of a clock that doesn't work anymore. And all the while his smile climbed higher on his cheeks and became so sharp down into his chin that his chin stretched and grew in a caricature of the pleasure of pure evil.

Then he said, "I want what any man woman beast or child or sentient plant from the planet Gygagowix Seven in the dizelta quadrant wants. A little M to the motherfucking otherfucking respect. And," then then reached into a pocket and pulled out a bill folded in two lengthwise and held between the side of his first two fingers, and said, "change for a twenty?"

We quickly huddled up and plumbed the depths of our pockets for what coins or dollar bills we might have sequestered in the nooks and crannies of forgotten shovings, what doubloons, what earnest bank notes denoting a value commiserate with the alleged allegiance it had with a never-seen, never questioned stockpile of gold. Then one of us turned around. "Um. We only have nineteen." We held out the bills, and he reached toward them, and in that same motion was doing the exact opposite, pulling his hand away, leaving us with that twenty gripped in a fist.

One of us said "We can pay you back…"

He cocked his shoulder towards us, scrunched his head back on his neck, and gazed like lions graze on gazelles through half-lidded eyes at us for what wasn't an eternity but could give eternity a run for it's money or least not fall to a shut-out style sweep in a seven game series. At last he said, "Motherfuckers, you think I gives a rib-tickling, cousin-kissin, ding-dong diggity drama to the dilithium crystal crack-smokin damn about some measly dolla? Holla."

And then he was gone. He walked away. Like oil, no friction at all… 

Just slick, daddy.