Polsa Blood Suca Phuca

All Day Long #2

The second chapter of this saga has less morally or stylistically redeeming qualities than chapter one. I apologize for our first encounter, but I was warming up my rhymes like the sunrise in the beaches of San Juan. The second day of my little trip begins with a mouth-bang stereotype, it continues with a jovially gay Joycean moment, and it ends with a bang. Not the kind you think though, so, it all begins when I crave for the genie of the magical medical bong.

Red bandana wearing, black trench coat and white wife-beater bearing, suspenders not holding his baggy pants high enough to cover his shorts because he don’t mind the staring, nigger-wannabe Chaz the pimp dares to talk this way to the Lark. “Shit, bitch, I understand your itch, but you got no cash for breakfast and hash.” Fucking Chaz, he poses and waves his hands as if he had gas. His “old school” jive makes him look like a damn fool on stage, live. His rhymes are as madly predictable as arithmetic beating multiplication tables.

“I’ll give you a blow job, if you give me a little grass and a lot of grub.” He opens his fly and out comes the beast with one eye. I stick out my tongue and circle the foreskin. The faker’s shaft is as thin as a wide-tip marker. His cock is much darker than his white-bread skin. Maybe that’s where he gets this idea that he’s actually a "nigger-in-kin". I shake my tongue as he slides the snake down my mouth. His hands push me further down into the abyss of doing my quotidian biz. My wet lips carefully surround my carefully filed fangs. I’m not chancing any punishment, no thanks. I slide up and down, up and down the pole, like all the pretty horses on the merry-go-round of my soul. Within a few seconds, I’m taking it all, to the hilt and to his balls.

Up and down, round I go, when will he spunk? Nobody knows. Is this worth a bowl of the skunk, bro? Sometimes, even I don’t know. I feel the beast moving in for the kill. It shakes, and it shivers, it grows a tad more. A few drams of semen Chadzynski is spilling. My sweet little pink mouth that dude he doth fill-in. It’s all in a day’s work for this simple street whore. This is just my life in the Polack-hardcore. Stop laughing South Central girl because I’m being serious!

“Here you go bitch.” I smile through the cream as a bag full of dreams falls on my lap. She is my medicine, my little life rope, my friendly and helping, sticky green dope. I’m wrapped around her finger like Pandora’s Box to hope. While I fondle and caress my tiny plastic-wrapped reward, my pimp throws me into distress. “You’ve already had breakfast.” I cannot deal with this stress. “If you want more, better run fast, my freshly fucked lover. Today is the day the trash truck comes over.”

“Cholera!” I scoot out the door, with cum in my mouth and a bag in my boot. This is the everyday shame I must endure. This is done to ensure my survival, ladies and gentlemen. Please stick around guys and gals. I am the boy-toy who will be Chaz's rival of rivals. For now, I might as well be sucking on Hades’ semen, living in the world completely filled with demonic bastards that leave me steaming. Fortunately, tomorrow’s a new chapter and I plan to be the victor. I’m the slave-raptor, who’ll sip the nectar and whip his master in the coliseum! I can taste the victory. YUM!

Now that I finished eating trash, I going to need some more cash so, let us switch to the next scene and about noontime on the same day. You’ve followed me thus far you masochist, now let’s be on our way.

I'm pissy, I'm feeling bad. Amyl nitrite, loves this fag. It’s useful when taking cock. My dupa is getting some. I'm cranky, I feel so sad. I got Rocket, in my head. I'm used to it. It’s just like death. This old dude is going to cum. He's gonna cum. He's almost cum. He's finally cum. Yes. Ha! Ha! Ha! Switch! Finally, it's time to vent out of my rage. I'm the bisexual shaman, chuj-ramming transvestite sage.

If you could be here, now, you would simply stare. I'm taking my share, as my man-meat blood flares. I'm incorrigible in my sweet schoolgirl dress so lewd, as the man is carefully screwed. My pigtails as green as a pool table, they amuse. Skylark screws and loosens the noose. Detonating fuse! Who G-damn motherfucking made who? Stricture of his anus fiercely spurts out lube. Like a long neck goose, feeling loose and frictional. Mythical Sabeen, magical like fable, call this witchcraft, an alchemical view of a moon daisy.

Reckless is the sum of my cognition of what cum is. It is painless for me, as I fill him up with the whitest of shit. “You liked it?” I asked as he caught his breathing. Aren't H and the Ivy like love? Death ejaculate filled the glove. Unless of course you’re into the bareback, with an attitude like old-timers who thought tuberculosis was romantic. That kink too I will attack, but plain vanilla pedo-wannabe-freak didn’t want to get thwacked.

Thanks for the company and thanks for the cash. Now like the Missus, I must dash! I earned these dollars for making him holler. I’m not giving this wad of dinero to Chaz el pimpero. After tonight, that fucker won’t feel fine. His ass is mine, retribution divine. I’m finally going to put him in the back of the line for the reincarnation wine. Land of the Polska I love you, but my Rocket loves coca more than you. America, America, someday I will grow wings. It’s understood that in your ‘hoods, there’s bling and shiny bling.

It's about three or four. The old dude drops me off in that one alley by the abandoned art studio. I wave goodbye at Mr. Puzio as he motors off in his Ironhead Sportster. I rap at the door next to the dumpster. Marek Wnukowski recognizes me and opens the door. I walk into his illicit store and he knows the thing that I want more than my Rocket. “Cholera jasna,” he screams as he tries to find my killer-killer-bang-bang among the clutter and the clang-clang. As I tell him to hurry the fuck up in Polish, he yells at me the same language, “Odpierdol siê, cwelu!”

Ha! Ha! I supposed I deserved that bit of slang. I retort with a much gentler slam, “Nie b¹dŸ frajerem, pieprzony fagasie. Chaz musi umrzeæ, francowaty kutasie!” If you want to know what I just said in English, then it’s tough shit for thee. The translation loses the beat. This is Krakow, buddy, and that’s the way it be.

Marek shakes his vek like a wet dog emerging from a dank bog. He sells me a used and abused Smith and Wesson for the pimp to learn a lesson from my sweet little schoolgirl impersonation. If you think this is hard for you to swallow, Marek tells me something that you could translate as follows: “May you get cholera! If I didn’t know you were a fucking anorexic half-Japanese midget with a dick and cash, I’d rape you! I’d rape you in the ass and then I’d shoot you in the head. But, you’re such a faggot whore that you would probably enjoy it!” That slam is cute. It’s astute and accurate, and I really would enjoy it, because I have a death wish and that’s the sitch. There's goes my money but here's my gun. Marek, he tells me to go have some fun.

Joy mixed with pain accompanies me as I walk down the lane. I wonder if I am capable of killing for the thrill of watching Chaz suffer. Will it bother me to be that candle-dick’s snuffer? Will it bother me until I am insane? I need to make myself tougher and rougher if I am going to beat that motherfucker. The revolver is the problem solver, but is murder really the solution I seek? G-damn, that fucking bum garbage-herder that just passed by with his shopping cart reeks like fart, rum and hamburger. Train of thought choo-choos back on the track. What do I do, boo? Should I slay or let it go? Chadzynski, has to let me know. If he dis’ there will be rampage, if he hate there will be carnage. Chadzynski has to let me know: should I fuck him or fuck him up? “Czesc Wiktorja! Cześć Morela! I wave at my homegirls.

“Cześć Skowronek! Jak sie pan miewa?” The ladies shriek like a chorus of Greeks.

“I am well, thanks for asking!” Excuse me for losing the groove. I was saying hello Apricot and Victoria in my language, so don’t get all outraged. They’re new girls, the new members of the crew. They’re runaways from the villa. I eye Chaz’s new mini-bitches distractedly. They still dress in loose pants and glittery t-shirts. They still laugh without needing a high first. Give them some stress and a rapist’s glands. Touched by hundreds of groping hands, they’ll drink the squirts until they can’t stand. Before they know it, they’ll use some X for their giggles as their way-too-young-asses jiggle and wiggle. It’s really too bad.

It worked like that for me boys and girls. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl. Poor things they think they’re so free, but lunch my friends, it never comes gratis. I carry this gun in my hand, wondering whether it can make me a man. Probably not, but it all isn’t for naught. I see my Rocket and she waves me down. She cannot bear to see me frown. “Hey Zebedeusza, what’s your problem?”

I grump like the Gollum, because I hate it when she calls me that. I look down at the ground. I screw up my courage and open my mouth. “How the hell do I shoot a round from this gun I have found?”

She slaps me on my back and I nearly fall. I’m blaming the liquor for her g-damned gall. “Dracu,” my Gypsy Rocket muttered under her tipsy drunky breath, “you want shoot Chaz without having a basic working knowledge of how to use a forty-five. It’s a pure baxt you’re still alive, you loser Polack fag! Oh by the way, do you know if Bógumil scored some more crack?” I don’t know why she always uses people’s real names on the street when she’s intoxicated. That’s so fucking dangerous. Oops. I must regain my groove and bust a move.

“Roch Edyta, get a fucking grip. I just want to learn how to work this stupid thing, so don’t go on a trip.” Notice how “Rakieta”, the Polish version of Rocket’s street name, flows much better with her real name than with “Rocket”. I point this out, because it is linguistically and stylistically relevant to how Rocket got her soubriquet. You see, she is hot, but so is her temper. Like distemper, it festers and like a “rakieta”, it blasts off the spot. This is a tangent, irrelevant like a Matthew Walker knot. However, as a master freestyler, I thought it would be nice to share.

“You called me Roch Edyta. I really must be drunk like a Yiddish cock-sucker green-haired punk.” Fuck you, say my blue eyes to her guise. She clenches her teeth as if she were about to queaf and her eyes become big like golden dried figs. “Of, course, I did not mean all bagel-dogs, I mean clip-tips… um, Zionsts of the green-haired persuasion.”

The Skylark is annoyed like a cranky nark. I nearly slap the gun against her anti-Semitic yap but stop before I pop her chops. “Just teach me how to shoot this damn thing before I bitch slap you with it.” Word up!

Please credit Poganin for Polish text editing and jackalgoddess for other editorial assistance.