We all met them, of every persuasion not necessarily black. Men whose unwed mothers left them in plastic bags at the naval yards in Brooklyn to be raised by seamen. Not the grimy, slimy punk Asses who were content to slither around in someone elses' mess like they was Bumpy Johnson, but was really somebitch, Ass nigger. done
done
I met two: the kind of men old enough to serve in Viet Nam and survived. Seen some Shit. Probably got too close to heroin to talk about it. The kind of menyouwanted to be bill collectors foryourcompany. Accounts receivable? Always paid on time, or like Frank Lucas, set a Bitch on fire, doused in gasoline then unload their peacemaker in your Ass. done
done
The two I met were movers for Mayflower in the seventies. Sweat so much, smelled like alcohol by the time they unload your Shit in the summertime in west, central Florida. Hotter than a Motherfucker. Both had perfect Afros, carefully picked out with only AfroSheen, no Jheri Curl juice. Real Niggers. One was tall, with the biggest biceps you seen; the other short, Squatty low to the ground, with that short compact kind of strength. Stack four, five unmarked boxes with a tether; strapped to his back, walk up flights of stairs in long-cut short pants in an oversized Tee-shirt. All sweat, alcohol no seat belt and no DUI, all the way from Brooklyn to Tampa with your Shit, and probably three other families in the same truck. I'd work with themany day. Or if I had the money, they would work for me.