A Goat, a Jaguar and Some Yams
or The Aesop Of The Bronx By Cristobal Camaras
Mi hermano Little K, he lives down in Wheaton in Maryland and I get my buds from him and bring them up to Penn Station on Amtrak because the cracker State trooper be all on I-95 and the Turnpike, dude. The dogs they got sniffing now smell for al Qaida and Tala-bam nuclear bombs, not chronic. Little K, he buys the seeds from those monkey-ass Salvadorenos. Malva Salvatrucha can suck my dick. Faggots all of them - just monkeys with semi-auto armas and wearing those baggy 501’s on their narrow asses. Peasants, yo.
My uncle Esteban, Big Stevie Eschevarria, he was inca of the ultimate power. Viva los Latin Kings…Bronx, New York, bitch! And he retired, alive, eating MS-13 conchas for breakfast.
Then my cousin Antoine, they name him inca. King Tone, mutha-fucka! He’s the one who got me in the game. Got me aware of books, too. In school the English teacher Mr. Morris Bender say it’s called ‘ambivalence’. Two things are opposite but your shit is in both. Whatever. It’s ying and yang, baby.
I got in the game to sell yerba, that’s it. No fruity pebbles, no estuffa for them fiends laid-up in Hunts Point to stab-up in their arms. Just my own Zatecasca Purple from La Isla, Puerto Rico! Maybe some Jake shit from Queens for the Upper West Side whitefolks who still think they stoners. And then we got this chronic from Wheaton, dude - Little K calls it ‘Yellowstone’. Mira, he got name from me, cause I watch the Discovery Channel on the dish, and they say Yellowstone Park out west will blow up and will cover half the Earth. This shit will do the same to your brain, dude. And it gets me my paper, bobo. Paper I use to buy my study books at Barnes & Noble, Union Square. No lie, bruh. Ambivalence. Gangsta and scribe. Business Man and Storyteller. King Tone call me ‘Bullwinkle’. Funny? I read the fables and parables from olden times, bruh. Aesop. King Tone he watch Rocky and Bullwinkle when he was a kid and he like Bullwinkle’s Fractured Fables. Even thugs, got they fairy tales. Teach you to stay alive, muthafucka.
Check it out. King Tone was over in Garden City one Saturday with one of his other bitches. When dude got back to the Bronx he rolled up in front of his wife Lisa’s place up at Grand Concourse and 155th Street and she said she needed to go to that new Target and Lowes they built near Fordham. Lisa slides her apple-ass into Tone’s black Sequoia rocking a new purse, only Tone he don’t notice shit like that. He just give her the roll of Franklins to go to Barney’s and buy the shit. Husbands never know what’s in they wives’ purses, bruh. She say, “Tone, you like it? Got it at Paramus Mall when you was out on the Island playing softball. You pitch a shut-out, papi?” Tone shrugged, nodded, grinned like a liar. He’d chugged a whole bottle of Scope to get that pussy smell out his mouth and goatee, yo! He say it was a nice purse and then asked how much did it cost. She say, “Nigga it’ll cost you your cojones!”
Bitch had a Lorcin .380 in that purse and put lead in Tone’s nutsack! He only lost one ball and he can still make babies with the other. We went to visit him at the hospital, and he say, “Bullwinkle, pass me one of them Vicodin and tell me a