bait blud. You cant be flashing dat araond.
—Wot you on about? I aint gonna use it. Ting is just for ni-iceness.
And Naseeb threw his ting from da boot and da Followers for Zak throw a sheeld around him, an dat cretur halfspins around. An a prosthetic hand hit him over his Calvins and smacks to da ground.
—Rah!
And his dumb spar kicks away da hand, and Yor creature goz:
—Oi! Go eazy with ma gat!
And Yor creture examins da hand for scratches & Zach looks in da boot at da rest o th haul.
—Dat is som sick mash cuz.
For bridges got burnt running to Pakistan. And word went out and dere were twelve yer old wannabees redy to jack Yor creatur. He needs to speak to one of da faces. Coz its a mistake. He never ripped em off. He’ll pay it back.
And Yor slave didnt wanna leve his legs, he didn wanna go Zaks ride and leve a kilo in her boot.
Jam, brah, we got yor back, sez Alif.
And dey extend thir Wings round Leeshas car.
And Noble Atid sez, As tho ye change whats coming by a hairs bredth.
And Hamza sez, Why, wots coming?
And if you cud see Protecters poized on bonnets n hoods speeding to Stonbrigge Park!—thir wite robes or black tunics ripping, or as elastic deformasion, or electrical or magnetic intensity…
And dat slave was finking bout his dreme in Leeshas boot da hole ride.
(Taraweeh: 2105 GMT)
And outside Fat Tones street his bruckup Escort was on da street.
Dey sat in the Escort getting licky on Fat Tones draw.
An da Protecting Angels dissipate in da penging air. Sumewere on da hood deys busting silat moves n chattin air still. And thir Powers etiolated as gnat water.
And Yor creture sez:
—I need a coupla hundred, boss.
Da radio on, drum shakes da plastic dashbord. Fat Tone blazing a spliff. He aint saying nuffin.
Yore creture sez:
—Five years, Tone.
—Wot?
—Retire, innit. I cud a bin out alredy. I tell you bout my legal rep? He had his own supplier, but if I couda got in that... Professhnals, you imagin?
—Bun dat, boys.
—Its trade innit. Blatant. Only way anyone invest in the Fird World. Doze lawyers an media gash Id see—deyre keeping Bolivian pezants alive! I tole you, we shud go Class A. Time the Afghani farmers got in da game. Wot you think? Put your boyz to work.
—Im makin a move myself bruv.
—Giving you a chance to bring in da big dollars innit.
—Nah man. I need ma papers.
Busting ninety quid crepes up on da dash.
—You gonna lose dis geezer. I’ll front you da bags.
—Nah man.
—You dont wanna be baddest brer on road?
The air thick wiv fug and edge.
—Im already big in th game.
Yor creature sees, dat bony goofus poized to mark his yard.
—Yeah? Wha is th game?
Dat bony slave not bothered by a deddout older:
—Geezer, I am the game.
And th creture Zak is tracing shaved lines in his hed.
—Yeah? Its all jokes tho, innit? You got som face making da papers, driving flash car, propa don n that. An he cant even leve his yard. Living wiv his mom an everythin. Wats that about?
And Fat Tone seething:
—Its all bless.
Dat slave left them to his bruckup wheels and sloped away.
Somwere on da roof da Followers mimic da singer quacking about da papers hes stackin, da blocks on hold, his workers n shootas... Somwere on da roof dere busting silat moves, thir Powers as weak as water.
—Yu know how much wele make off a kilo of brown? Kilo and a half. Cane it...
And his spar, whoz almost invizible, took da spliff. And didnt say nuffin.
—Cant be a wasteman all yr life. You wanna be shotting weed for him all day?
—I aint dat any more.
—Wot, you above all that? Dont tell me you still playing yor gay choons with thoz jokers?
—I dunno. Its gonna affect things tho innit.
—Wot you on about? Hows it affect thos Afganis? Theyr looking after themselvz, ennit? You gorra look after yrself in this life...Yeah, but Im puttin back. Check me, Im opening up a hospital on th border. Yu know that? Yeh-man, help da cripples wiv thir legs an s__t. Dats wot this is about. So wot you think?
And his spar is saying nuffink.
And dey silent listening to drum. And Yr slave getting vex wiv Fat Tone and Zak and grimey singers on da radio.
—Who is dis whiney batty don?
—I dunno.
—Dook that little s__t up. I dunno what da yute listning to these days.
And his buzz gone sour.
—You wanna go home?
Dat servant drops Naseeb off back to his yard.
And da Noble Followers emerge from dissipacion. Dey rap thin chill around Yor slave.
And thoh his buzz was sour, and da Followers emerge from dissipacion, Yor creture was too mash to check Aleeshas car.
And da Protectors throw a vail over his eyes: were under the jaundisd street lite Aleeshas car had an orange clamp chained to da front weel.
Truly, his hert wud freeze an the ignominy of da weak wud overwelm! And a hundred bills swirl in his belly.
But da Followers throw a vail over his eyes and he didn see were da council had clampt da front weel.
And in da stairwell he called Ali.
—Salaam, Chaccha! Whassa news, boss?...
