—No. Were waitin.
—Were not waiting, sez Sonia.
—You aint baying?
—Were just waiting, sez Yor slave.
—Wat you waitin for?
—Were not waiting!
—Edge up, bruv, we aint buying, sez Zak.
—Who you callin Bruv? says da Protecter of the Front, staring dem out under his Raiders hood, den wheels away sucking teef. An hes bowling it across da traffic:
—Well hurry up waitin, ain it! Befor I give you a ticket.
They watch him bowl across da traffic, shoot his fingers in parting—Boom.
And Zak gon red:
—Looka dat chief, finking his all badman an dat. Yeh, go back to yr click.
And she:
—Wat are we waiting for?
—Wait up, sez Your slave.
He goz out an rocks up at th Dixys, staring down da lookouts.
—I’m not waiting!
And Yor slave yanks th door from da hoodrats, da hoodrats blocking th Dixys:
—Scuse me boss.
All th Protecters rush ech other and are at a stand; as a variation of pressure or electrical or magnetic intensity. And da boat oscillates up an down.
As he eyes up the gash. They have no idea. How his vizion will be vindicated. An peple retributed.
Say, he waited in th Dixy for his man.
And his book doz not hasten or delay.
An his man parks up and nudges wiv da Merc crew, nudges wid da crew and dozent hurry; Your slave checks da creturs in the Audi, sees Sonya’s perfect teeth as da radio whacks up:
Jinke sar ho ishq chaaon, Paon ki neeche jannat hogi...
And da Followers for Sonya n Zack join da song: Chale chhaiyya chhaiyya chhaiyya chhaiyya…
Wile a shadow wiv clownlike hair an a lether coat waits in da street.
And all da Followers flex thir shields at a bulletshapt fate, as if it makes a diffrence.
For somtimes it seems we trace words alredy writ. And his actions trace my words.
Read!
Dat creture Izzat is tapping da table wiv an envelop, Yor creture watchin dat envelop.
—Deres peple wanna bang you out my frend. I herd you bin running yr mouth off alredy. Yore not in th game.
—Naw, naw boss.
—You wanna do bizniz le’s do biznis. But you alredy giving me greef my frend.
—Izzy, Izzy, this is me.
All da Followers on road sheer across to th next man wiv his clownish hair—who lifts his arm n points at da windows, and thir shields point at da windows...
And next man sqweezes his gat...
Read!
And Hamza n Alif shear across da creture an wrap dere Powers around him.
Yr creture thawt a rock blew out da window, blew past Yor creture’s ears. And a million splinters ar suspended in one world.
Den more shattering, and bare heads screeming. Everyone drops as s__t got bruck up.
He thot his man got cut. Allahu Akbar.
A sine wave singing in his ear. And peple bob or run out da door.
He saw that creture Izzat crease, in his hand dat envelop wiv da dosh—dat envelope belonged to him!
Yor slave looks around and reeched...
Thru da plateglass an its spider webs, dat servant Zack calls:
—Nassa, let’s go!
The Followers pick up Yor creatur as th street rolls under his crepes; past all da Followers spinning silat moves, laying waste da Hi Street.…
(Maghrib: 1757 GMT)
By da manifold Angels in da whip, watching over Your screeming slaves; we floor da clapping motor.
And Mikael of da wind an rack spred a hand across da sky dat expands and moves.
And th belevers hurry, hurry, to brake thir fast. In da blessed month.
This is the niht fortold in wich th worlds sing out; & for love of him th skyes ar turning.
Soon a deluge of angels brings down th Preservd Tablet to th relm a creaturs, and wiv them da soles of th beleving dead called down by du’as.
And Maalik, keeper of th gates of Hell, & his nineteen guards of da Fire. And seventy thozand Angels ech on seventy thozand ropes hawling da gates of Hell.
They rain down like da moving shelf of a waterfall and shear the atmosfere.
And th screeming cretures in da car; and Yor slave thinking, They’ll think I got him shot. And Sonia banging da wheel swearing down hes unbelevable, & the dum one seying, Slow down, slow down.
Somware up the road they mite crash, & the pickny inherit a kilo of smack. And th Noble Scribe must stay his entry, for this creture may yet repent & pray.
And the Followers throw thir shield around. As if they could deflect his corse an atoms bredth.
Yah! Hawl to, Protectors! Lets speed him to his doom! Ya Seen! Ya Seen!
Thez drop Yor slave at th flat, and he sez, Wait a minite, the dumm one sez, Maybe we shud get the car off rode.
By the manifold Protecting Angels in Aleesha’s flat, watching over th screeming cretures;
Dat slave tryin a sneek the other half a kilo of smack. Wile she’s screwing about da car.
And dat mother coms with claws.
Hamza & Alif throwing tiger forms to protect him:
Dat wifey is gon!
(Da Noble Scribe watches and shapes his Pen to the arcaic hand. But Atid must stay his entry, for dis creatur may yet repent or pray. For repentans erazes what happened befor.)
And da babby howling in th doorway.
