Mackdaddy Gatsby

Chapta 1

In mah younger n' mo' vulnerable muthafuckin years mah daddy gave me some lyrics dat I’ve been turnin over up in mah mind eva since.

“Whenever you feel like dissin any one,” tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at me, “just remember dat all tha playas up in dis ghetto haven’t had tha advantages dat you’ve had.”

idiot didn’t say any mo' yo, but we’ve always been unusually communicatizzle up in a reserved way, n' I understood dat he meant a pimped out deal mo' than dis shit. In consequence, I’m inclined ta reserve all judgments, a g-thang dat has opened up nuff curious natures ta me n' also made me tha sucka of not all dem veteran bores. Da abnormal mind is quick ta detect n' attach itself ta dis qualitizzle when it appears up in a aiiight person, n' so it came bout dat up in college I was unjustly accused of bein a sucka, cuz I was privy ta tha secret griefz of wild, unknown men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Most of tha confidences was unsought — frequently I have feigned chill, preoccupation, or a straight-up shitty levitizzle when I realized by some unmistakable sign dat a intimate revelation was quiverin on tha horizon; fo' tha intimate revelationz of lil' men, or at least tha terms up in which they express them, is probably plagiaristic n' marred by obvious suppressions. Reservin judgments be a matta of infinite hope. I be still a lil afraid of missin suttin' if I forget that, as mah daddy snobbishly suggested, n' I snobbishly repeat, a sense of tha fundamenstrual decencies is parcelled up unequally at birth.

And, afta boastin dis way of mah tolerance, I come ta tha admission dat it has a limit. Conduct may be dropped on tha hard rock or tha wet marshes yo, but afta a cold-ass lil certain point I don’t care what tha fuck it’s dropped on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When I came back from tha Eastside last autumn I felt dat I wanted tha ghetto ta be up in uniform n' at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no mo' riotous excursions wit privileged glimpses tha fuck into tha human ass. Only Gatsby, tha playa whoz ass gives his name ta dis book, was exempt from mah erection — Gatsby, whoz ass represented every last muthafuckin thang fo' which I gots a unaffected scorn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If personalitizzle be a unbroken seriez of successful gestures, then there was suttin' pimpin' bout him, some heightened sensitivitizzle ta tha promisez of game, as if da thug was related ta one of dem intricate machines dat regista earthquakes ten thousand milez away. This responsivenizz had not a god damn thang ta do wit dat flabby impressionabilitizzle which is dignified under tha name of tha “creatizzle temperament.”— dat shiznit was a extraordinary gift fo' hope, a horny-ass readinizz like fuckin I aint NEVER found up in any other thug n' which it aint likely I shall eva find again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. No — Gatsby turned up all right all up in tha end; it is what tha fuck preyed on Gatsby, what tha fuck foul dust floated up in tha wake of his cold-ass trips dat temporarily closed up mah interest up in tha abortizzle sorrows n' short-winded elationz of men.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah crew done been prominent, well-to-do playas up in dis Middle Westside hood fo' three generations. Da Carraways is suttin' of a cold-ass lil clan, n' our crazy asses gotz a tradizzle dat we’re descended from tha Dukez of Buccleuch yo, but tha actual smoker of mah line was mah grandfather’s brother, whoz ass came here up in fifty-one, busted a substitute ta tha Civil War, n' started tha wholesale hardware bidnizz dat mah daddy carries on to-day.

I never saw dis pimped out-uncle yo, but I’m supposed ta be lookin like his ass — wit special reference ta tha rather hard-boiled paintin dat hangs up in father’s crib. I busted tha fuck outta New Haven up in 1915, just a quarta of a cold-ass lil century afta mah father, n' a lil lata I participated up in dat delayed Teutonic migration known as tha Great War. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I enjoyed tha counter-raid so thoroughly dat I came back restless. Instead of bein tha warm centre of tha ghetto, tha Middle Westside now seemed like tha ragged edge of tha universe — so I decided ta go Eastside n' learn tha bond bidnizz. All Y'all I knew was up in tha bond bidnizz, so I supposed it could support one mo' single man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All mah aunts n' unclez talked it over as if they was choosin a prep school fo' me, n' finally holla'd, “Why — ye — es,” wit straight-up grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed ta finizzle me fo' a year, n' afta various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, up in tha sprang of twenty-two.

Da practical thang was ta find rooms up in tha hood yo, but dat shiznit was a warm season, n' I had just left a cold-ass lil ghetto of wide lawns n' thugged-out trees, so when a lil' playa all up in tha crib suggested dat we take a doggy den together up in a cold-ass lil commutin town, it sounded like a pimped out idea yo. idiot found tha house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month yo, but all up in tha last minute tha firm ordered his ass ta Washington, n' I went up ta tha ghetto ridin' solo. I had a thugged-out dawg — at least I had his ass fo' all dem minutes until he ran away — n' a oldschool Dodge n' a Finnish biatch, whoz ass made mah bed n' cooked breakfast n' muttered Finnish wisdom ta her muthafuckin ass over tha electric stove.

Dat shiznit was lonely fo' a thugged-out dizzle or so until one mornin some idiot, mo' recently arrived than I, stopped mah crazy ass on tha road.

“How tha fuck do you git ta Westside Egg village?” he axed helplessly.

I holla'd at his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And as I strutted on I was lonely no longer n' shit. I was a guide, a pathfinder, a original gangsta settla n' shiznit yo. idiot had casually conferred on me tha freedom of tha hood.

And so wit tha sunshine n' tha pimped out burstz of leaves growin on tha trees, just as thangs grow up in fast pornos, I had dat familiar conviction dat game was beginnin over again n' again n' again wit tha summer.

There was so much ta read, fo' one thang, n' so much fine game ta be pulled down outta tha lil' breath-givin air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I looted a thugged-out dozen volumes on bankin n' credit n' investment securities, n' they stood on mah shelf up in red n' gold like freshly smoked up scrilla from tha mint, promisin ta unfold tha shinin secrets dat only Midas n' Morgan n' Maecenas knew fo' realz. And I had tha high intention of readin nuff other books besides. I was rather literary up in college — one year I freestyled a seriez of straight-up solemn n' obvious editorials fo' tha “Yale News.”— n' now I was goin ta brang back all such thangs tha fuck into mah game n' become again n' again n' again dat most limited of all specialists, tha “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just a epigram — game is much mo' successfully looked at from a single window, afta all.

Dat shiznit was a matta of chizzle dat I should have rented a doggy den up in one of tha strangest communitizzles up in Uptown America. Dat shiznit was on dat slender riotous island which extendz itself due eastside of New York — n' where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formationz of land. Twenty milez from tha hood a pair of enormous eggs, identical up in contour n' separated only by a cold-ass lil courtesy bay, jut up tha fuck into da most thugged-out domesticated body of salt wata up in tha Westside hemisphere, tha pimped out wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They aint slick ovals — like tha egg up in tha Columbus story, they is both crushed flat all up in tha contact end — but they physical resemblizzle must be a source of perpetual mad drama ta tha gulls dat fly overhead. To tha wingless a mo' arrestin phenomenon is they dissimilaritizzle up in every last muthafuckin particular except shape n' size.

I lived at Westside Egg, tha — well, tha less fashionable of tha two, though dis be a most superficial tag ta express tha bizarre n' not a lil sinista contrast between dem wild-ass muthafuckas. My fuckin doggy den was all up in tha straight-up tip of tha egg, only fifty yardz from tha Sound, n' squeezed between two big-ass places dat rented fo' twelve or fifteen thousand a season. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da one on mah right was a cold-ass lil colossal affair by any standard — dat shiznit was a gangbangin' factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville up in Normandy, wit a tower on one side, spankin freshly smoked up under a thin beard of raw ivy, n' a marble swimmin pool, n' mo' than forty acrez of lawn n' garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was Gatsby’s mansion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby, dat shiznit was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of dat name. My fuckin own doggy den was a eyesore yo, but dat shiznit was a lil' small-ass eyesore, n' it had been overlooked, so I had a view of tha water, a partial view of mah neighbor’s lawn, n' tha consolin proximitizzle of millionaires — all fo' eighty dollars a month.

Across tha courtesy bay tha white palacez of fashionable Eastside Egg glittered along tha water, n' tha history of tha summer straight-up begins on tha evenin I drove over there ta have dinner wit tha Tomothy Buchanans. Dizzy was mah second cousin once removed, n' I’d known Tomothy up in college fo' realz. And just afta tha war I dropped two minutes wit dem up in Chicago.

Her homeboy, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of da most thugged-out bangin endz dat eva played footbizzle at New Haven — a nationistic git into in a way, one of dem pimps whoz ass reach such a acute limited excellence at twenty-one dat every last muthafuckin thang afterward savorz of anti-climax yo. His crew was enormously wealthy — even up in college his wild lil' freedom wit scrilla was a matta fo' reproach — but now he’d left Chicago n' come Eastside up in a gangbangin' fashizzle dat rather took yo' breath away: fo' instance, he’d brought down a strang of polo ponies from Lake Forest. Dat shiznit was hard ta realize dat a playa up in mah own generation was wealthy enough ta do all dis bullshit.

Why they came Eastside I don’t know. They had dropped a year up in Frizzle fo' no particular reason, n' then drifted here n' there unrestfully wherever playas played polo n' was rich together n' shit. This was a permanent move, holla'd Dizzy over tha telephone yo, but I didn’t believe it — I had no sight tha fuck into Daisy’s ass yo, but I felt dat Tomothy would drift on forever seeking, a lil wistfully, fo' tha dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable footbizzle game.

And so it happened dat on a warm windy evenin I drove over ta Eastside Egg ta peep two oldschool playaz whom I scarcely knew at all. Their doggy den was even mo' elaborate than I expected, a cold-ass lil cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlookin tha bay. Da lawn started all up in tha beach n' ran toward tha front door fo' a quarta of a mile, jumpin over sun-dials n' brick strutts n' burnin gardens — finally when it reached tha doggy den driftin up tha side up in bright vines as though from tha momentum of its run. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da front was fucked up by a line of French windows, glowin now wit reflected gold n' wide open ta tha warm windy afternoon, n' Tomothy Buchanan up in ridin threadz was standin wit his hairy-ass legs apart on tha front porch.

idiot had chizzled since his New Haven years. Now da thug was a sturdy straw-haired playa of thirty wit a rather hard grill n' a supercilious manner n' shit. Two shinin arrogant eyes had established dominizzle over his wild lil' grill n' gave his ass tha appearizzle of always leanin aggressively forward. Not even tha effeminizzle swank of his bangin ridin threadz could hide tha enormous juice of dat body — da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta fill dem glistenin boots until da perved-out muthafucka strained tha top lacing, n' you could peep a pimped out ounce ta tha bounce of muscle shiftin when his shoulder moved under his cold-ass thin coat. Dat shiznit was a funky-ass body capable of enormous leverage — a cold-ass lil wack body.

His bustin lyrics voice, a gruff husky tenor, added ta tha impression of fractiousnizz his schmoooove ass conveyed. There was a funky-ass bust a nut on of paternal contempt up in it, even toward playas he was horny bout — n' there was pimps at New Haven whoz ass had hated his wild lil' freakadelic guts.

“Now, don’t be thinkin mah opinion on these mattas is final,” da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta say, “just cuz I’m stronger n' mo' of a playa than yo ass is.” Us thugs was up in tha same ballin' society, n' while we was never intimate I always had tha impression dat he approved of me n' wanted mah crazy ass ta like his ass wit some harsh, defiant wistfulnizz of his own.

We talked fo' all dem minutes on tha sunny porch.

“I’ve gots a sick place here,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, his wild lil' fuckin eyes flashin bout restlessly.

Turnin me round by one arm, he moved a funky-ass broad flat hand along tha front vista, includin up in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, n' a snub-nosed motor-boat dat bumped tha tide offshore.

“It belonged ta Demaine, tha oil man.” idiot turned mah crazy ass round again, politely n' abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

Us thugs strutted all up in a high hallway tha fuck into a funky-ass bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound tha fuck into tha doggy den by French windows at either end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Da windows was ajar n' gleamin white against tha fresh grass outside dat seemed ta grow a lil way tha fuck into tha crib fo' realz. A breeze blew all up in tha room, blew curtains up in at one end n' up tha other like pale flags, twistin dem up toward tha frosted wedding-cake of tha ceiling, n' then rippled over tha wine-colored rug, bustin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow on it as wind do on tha sea.

Da only straight-up stationary object up in tha room was a enormous couch on which two lil' dem hoes was buoyed up as though upon a anchored balloon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They was both up in white, n' they dresses was ripplin n' flutterin as if they had just been blown back up in afta a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short flight round tha house. I must have stood fo' all dem moments listenin ta tha whip n' snap of tha curtains n' tha groan of a picture on tha wall. Then there was a funky-ass boom as Tomothy Buchanan shut tha rear windows n' tha caught wind took a dirt nap up bout tha room, n' tha curtains n' tha rugs n' tha two lil' dem hoes ballooned slowly ta tha floor.

Da younger of tha two was a stranger ta mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was extended full length at her end of tha divan, straight-up motionless, n' wit her chin raised a lil, as if dat biiiiatch was balancin suttin' on it which was like likely ta fall. If her big-ass booty saw me outta tha corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it — indeed, I was almost surprised tha fuck into murmurin a apologizzle fo' havin disturbed her by comin in.

Da other girl, Daisy, made a attempt ta rise — she leaned slightly forward wit a cold-ass lil conscientious expression — then she laughed, a absurd, charmin lil laugh, n' I laughed too n' came forward tha fuck into tha room.

“I’m p-paralyzed wit happiness.” Biatch laughed again, as if her big-ass booty holla'd suttin' straight-up witty, n' held mah hand fo' a moment, lookin up tha fuck into mah face, promisin dat there was no one up in tha ghetto her big-ass booty so much wanted ta see. That was a way dat freaky freaky biatch had. Biatch hinted up in a murmur dat tha surname of tha balancin hoe was Baker n' shit. (I’ve heard it holla'd dat Daisy’s murmur was only ta make playas lean toward her; a irrelevant jive-ass shiznit dat juiced it up no less charming.)

At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded all up in mah grill almost imperceptibly, n' then quickly tipped her head back again n' again n' again — tha object dat biiiiatch was balancin had obviously tottered a lil n' given her suttin' of a gangbangin' fright fo' realz. Again a sort of apologizzle arose ta mah lips fo' realz. Almost any exhibizzle of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from mah dirty ass.

I looked back at mah cousin, whoz ass fuckin started ta ask me thangs up in her low, thrillin voice. Dat shiznit was tha kind of voice dat tha ear bigs up n' down, as if each rap be a arrangement of notes dat aint NEVER gonna be played again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her grill was fucked up n' ghettofab wit bright thangs up in it, bright eyes n' a funky-ass bright horny grill yo, but there was a excitement up in her voice dat pimps whoz ass had cared fo' her found hard as fuck ta forget: a rappin compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise dat dat freaky freaky biatch had done  bangin thangs just a while since n' dat there was  bangin thangs hoverin up in tha next hour.

I holla'd at her how tha fuck I had stopped off up in Chicago fo' a thugged-out dizzle on mah way East, n' how tha fuck a thugged-out dozen playas had busted they ludd all up in mah dirty ass.

“Do they miss me son?” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried ecstatically.

“Da whole hood is desolate fo' realz. All tha rides have tha left rear wheel painted black as a mournin wreath, n' there’s a persistent wail all night along tha uptown shore.”

“How tha fuck gorgeous muthafucka! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “Yo ass ought ta peep tha baby.”

“I’d like to.”

“She’s asleep. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s three muthafuckin years old. Haven’t you eva peeped her?”

“Never.”

“Well, you ought ta peep her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s ——”

Tomothy Buchanan, whoz ass had been hoverin restlessly bout tha room, stopped n' rested his hand on mah shoulder.

“What you bustin, Nick?”

“I’m a funky-ass bond man.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck with?”

I holla'd at his muthafuckin ass.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.

This annoyed mah dirty ass.

“Yo ass will,” I answered shortly. “Yo ass will if you stay up in tha East.”

“Oh, I’ll stay up in tha East, don’t you worry,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, glancin at Dizzy n' then back at me, as if da thug was alert fo' suttin' mo' n' mo' n' mo'. “I’d be a Dogg damned fool ta live anywhere else.”

At dis point Miss Baker holla'd: “Absolutely!” wit such suddennizz dat I started — dat shiznit was tha straight-up original gangsta word she uttered since I came tha fuck into tha room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, fo' she yawned n' wit a seriez of rapid, deft movements stood up tha fuck into tha room.

“I’m stiff,” dat thugged-out biiiatch complained, “I’ve been lyin on dat sofa fo' as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t peep me,” Dizzy retorted, “I’ve been tryin ta git you ta New York all afternoon.”

“Fuck dat shit, props,” holla'd Miss Baker ta tha four cocktails just up in from tha pantry, “I’m straight-up up in hustlin.”

Her host looked at her incredulously.

“Yo ass are!” idiot took down his fuckin lil' drank as if it was a thugged-out drop up in tha bottom of a glass. “How tha fuck you eva git anythang done is beyond mah dirty ass.”

I looked at Miss Baker, wonderin what tha fuck dat shiznit was she “got done.” I enjoyed lookin at her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was a slender, small-breasted girl, wit a erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwin her body backward all up in tha shouldaz like a lil' cadet yo. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back all up in mah grill wit polite reciprocal curiositizzle outta a wan, charming, discontented face. Well shiiiit, it occurred ta me now dat I had peeped her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

“Yo ass live up in Westside Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know some muthafucka there.”

“I don’t know a single ——”

“Yo ass must know Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”

Before I could reply dat da thug was mah neighbor dinner was announced; wedgin his cold-ass tense arm imperatively under mine, Tomothy Buchanan compelled mah crazy ass from tha room as though da thug was movin a cold-ass lil checker ta another square.

Yo, slenderly, languidly, they handz set lightly on they hips, tha two lil' dem hoes preceded our asses up onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward tha sunset, where four candlez flickered on tha table up in tha diminished wind.

“Why candlez?” objected Daisy, frowning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch snapped dem up wit her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be tha longest dizzle up in tha year.” Biatch looked at our asses all radiantly. “Do you always peep fo' tha longest dizzle of tha year n' then miss it, biatch? I always peep fo' tha longest dizzle up in tha year n' then miss dat shit.”

“We ought ta plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, chillin down all up in tha table as if dat biiiiatch was gettin tha fuck into bed.

“All right,” holla'd Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” Biatch turned ta me helplessly: “What do playas plan?”

Before I could answer her eyes fastened wit a awed expression on her lil finger.

“Look!” dat thugged-out biiiatch complained; “I hurt dat shit.”

We all looked — tha knuckle was black n' blue.

“Yo ass done did it, Tom,” her big-ass booty holla'd accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean ta yo, but you did do dat shit. That’s what tha fuck I git fo' marryin a funky-ass brute of a thugged-out idiot, a pimped out, big, hulkin physical specimen of a ——”

“I don't give a fuck bout dat word hulking,” objected Tomothy crossly, “even up in kidding.”

“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.

Yo, sometimes she n' Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively n' wit a funky-ass banterin inconsequence dat was never like chatter, dat was as def as they white dresses n' they impersonal eyes up in tha absence of all desire. They was here, n' they accepted Tomothy n' me, makin only a polite pleasant effort ta entertain or ta be entertained. They knew dat presently dinner would be over n' a lil lata tha evenin too would be over n' casually put away. Dat shiznit was sharply different from tha West, where a evenin was hurried from phase ta phase toward its close, up in a cold-ass lil continually pissed tha fuck off anticipation or else up in sheer straight-up trippin dread of tha moment itself.

“Yo ass make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on mah second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you rap bout crops or something?”

I meant not a god damn thang up in particular by dis remark yo, but dat shiznit was taken up in a unexpected way.

“Civilization’s goin ta pieces,” broke up Tomothy violently. “I’ve gotten ta be a shitty pessimist bout thangs yo. Has you done read ‘Da Rise of tha Colored Empires’ by dis playa Goddard?”

“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his cold-ass tone.

“Well, it’s a gangbangin' fine book, n' dem hoes ought ta read dat shit. Da scam is if our phat asses don’t look up tha white race is ghon be — is ghon be utterly submerged. It’s all scientistical stuff; it’s been proved.”

“Tom’s gettin straight-up profound,” holla'd Daisy, wit a expression of unthoughtful sadness. “idiot readz deep books wit long lyrics up in dem wild-ass muthafuckas. What was dat word we ——”

“Well, these books is all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancin at her impatiently. “This fellow has hit dat shiznit up tha whole thang. It’s up ta us, whoz ass is tha dominant race, ta peep up or these other races gonna git control of thangs.”

“We’ve gots ta beat dem down,” whispered Daisy, winkin ferociously toward tha fervent sun.

“Yo ass ought ta live up in California —” fuckin started Miss Baker yo, but Tomothy interrupted her by shiftin heavily up in his chair.

“This scam is dat we’re Nordics. I am, n' yo ass is, n' yo ass is, n' ——” Afta a infinitesimal hesitation he included Dizzy wit a slight nod, n' dat biiiiatch winked all up in mah grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “— And we’ve produced all tha thangs dat git all up in make civilization — oh, science n' art, n' all dis shit. Do you see?”

There was suttin' pathetic up in his concentration, as if his complacency, mo' acute than of old, was not enough ta his ass any mo' n' mo' n' mo'. When, almost immediately, tha telephone rang inside n' tha butla left tha porch Dizzy seized upon tha momentary interruption n' leaned toward mah dirty ass.

“I’ll rap a cold-ass lil crew secret,” dat biiiiatch whispered enthusiastically. “It’s bout tha butler’s nose. Do you wanna hear bout tha butler’s nose?”

“That’s why I came over to-night.”

“Well, da thug wasn’t always a funky-ass butler; he used ta be tha silver polisher fo' some playas up in New York dat had a silver steez fo' two hundred playas yo. idiot had ta polish it from mornin till night, until finally it fuckin started ta affect his nozzle ——”

“Things went from shitty ta worse,” suggested Miss Baker.

“Yes yes y'all. Things went from shitty ta worse, until finally dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta give up his thugged-out lil' position.”

For a moment tha last sunshine fell tha fuck wit horny-ass affection upon her glowin face; her voice compelled mah crazy ass forward breathlessly as I listened — then tha glow faded, each light desertin her wit lingerin regret, like lil pimps leavin a pleasant street at dusk.

Da butla came back n' murmured suttin' close ta Tom’s ear, whereupon Tomothy frowned, pushed back his chair, n' without a word went inside fo' realz. As if his thugged-out absence quickened suttin' within her, Dizzy leaned forward again, her voice glowin n' rappin.

“I gotta peep you at mah table, Nick. Yo ass remind mah crazy ass of a — of a rose, a absolute rose. Don’t he?” Biatch turned ta Miss Baker fo' confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

This was untrue. I aint even faintly like a rose. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was only extemporizin yo, but a stirrin warmth flowed from her, as if her ass was tryin ta come up ta you concealed up in one of dem breathless, thrillin lyrics. Then suddenly dat dunkadelic hoe threw her napkin on tha table n' excused her muthafuckin ass n' went tha fuck into tha house.

Miss Baker n' I exchanged a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short glizzle consciously devoid of meaning. I was bout ta drop a rhyme when her big-ass booty sat up alertly n' holla'd “Sh!” up in a warnin voice fo' realz. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible up in tha room beyond, n' Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, tryin ta hear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da murmur trembled on tha verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, n' then ceased altogether.

“This Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby you was rappin of is mah neighbor ——” I holla'd.

“Don’t talk. I wanna hear what tha fuck happens.”

“Is suttin' happening?” I inquired innocently.

“Yo ass mean ta say you don’t know?” holla'd Miss Baker, straight-up surprised. “I thought dem hoes knew.”

“I don’t.”

“Why ——” her big-ass booty holla'd hesitantly, “Tom’s gots some biatch up in New York.”

“Got some biatch?” I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

“Bitch might have tha decency not ta telephone his ass at dinner time. Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped her meanin there was tha flutta of a thugged-out dress n' tha crunch of leather boots, n' Tomothy n' Dizzy was back all up in tha table.

“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Dizzy wit tense gaiety.

Yo, she sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker n' then at me, n' continued: “I looked outdoors fo' a minute, n' it’s straight-up horny-ass outdoors. There’s a funky-ass bird on tha lawn dat I be thinkin must be a nightingale come over on tha Cunard or White Star Line yo. He’s rappin away ——” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Straight-up romantic,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' then miserably ta me: “If it’s light enough afta dinner, I wanna take you down ta tha stables.”

Da telephone rang inside, startlingly, n' as Dizzy shook her head decisively at Tomothy tha subject of tha stables, up in fact all subjects, vanished tha fuck into air fo' realz. Among tha fucked up fragmentz of tha last five minutes at table I remember tha candlez bein lit again, pointlessly, n' I was consciouz of wantin ta look squarely at every last muthafuckin one, n' yet ta stay tha fuck away from all eyes. I couldn’t guess what tha fuck Dizzy n' Tomothy was thankin yo, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, whoz ass seemed ta have mastered a cold-ass lil certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly ta put dis fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency outta mind. To a cold-ass lil certain temperament tha thang might have seemed intriguin — mah own instinct was ta telephone immediately fo' tha police.

Da horses, needless ta say, was not mentioned again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tomothy n' Miss Baker, wit nuff muthafuckin feet of twilight between them, strolled back tha fuck into tha library, as if ta a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, tryin ta look pleasantly interested n' a lil deaf, I followed Dizzy round a cold-ass lil chain of connectin verandas ta tha porch up in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Dizzy took her grill up in her handz as if feelin its ghettofab shape, n' her eyes moved gradually up tha fuck into tha velvet dusk. I saw dat turbulent emotions possessed her, so I axed what tha fuck I thought would be some sedatizzle thangs bout her lil girl.

“Us idiots don’t know each other straight-up well, Nick,” her big-ass booty holla'd suddenly. “Even if we is cousins. Yo ass didn’t come ta mah wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from tha war.”

“That’s true.” Biatch hesitated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Well, I’ve had a straight-up shitty time, Nick, n' I’m pretty cynical bout every last muthafuckin thang.”

Evidently dat freaky freaky biatch had reason ta be. I waited but her dope ass didn’t say any more, n' afta a moment I returned rather feebly ta tha subject of her daughter.

“I suppose dat dunkadelic hoe talks, n' — eats, n' every last muthafuckin thang.”

“Oh, yes.” Biatch looked all up in mah grill absently. “Listen, Nick; let me rap what tha fuck I holla'd when dat biiiiatch was born, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Would you like ta hear?”

“Straight-up much.”

“It’ll show you how tha fuck I’ve gotten ta feel bout — thangs. Well, dat biiiiatch was less than a minute oldschool n' Tomothy was Dogg knows where, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I raised up outta tha ether wit a utterly abandoned feeling, n' axed tha nurse right away if dat shiznit was a funky-ass pimp or a girl. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at mah crazy ass dat shiznit was a girl, n' so I turned mah head away n' wept. ‘all right,’ I holla'd, ‘I’m glad it’s a hoe fo' realz. And I hope she’ll be a gangbangin' fool — that’s tha dopest thang a hoe can be up in dis ghetto, a funky-ass dope lil fool.”

“Yo ass peep I be thinkin every last muthafuckin thang’s shitty anyhow,” dat biiiiatch went on up in a cold-ass lil convinced way. “All Y'all be thinkin so — da most thugged-out advanced playas fo' realz. And I know. I’ve been everywhere n' peeped every last muthafuckin thang n' done every last muthafuckin thang.” Her eyes flashed round her up in a thugged-out defiant way, rather like Tom’s, n' she laughed wit thrillin scorn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “Sophisticated — God, I’m sophisticated!”

Da instant her voice broke off, ceasin ta compel mah attention, mah belief, I felt tha basic insinceritizzle of what tha fuck dat freaky freaky biatch had holla'd. Well shiiiit, it made me uneasy, as though tha whole evenin had been a trick of some sort ta exact a cold-ass lil contributory emotion from mah dirty ass. I waited, n' shizzle enough, up in a moment she looked all up in mah grill wit a absolute smirk on her ghettofab face, as if dat freaky freaky biatch had asserted her membershizzle up in a rather distinguished secret society ta which she n' Tomothy belonged.

Inside, tha crimson room bloomed wit light.

Tomothy n' Miss Baker sat at either end of tha long couch n' she read aloud ta his ass from tha Saturdizzle Evenin Post. — tha lyrics, murmurous n' uninflected, hustlin together up in a soothang tune. Da lamp-light, bright on his boots n' dull on tha autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along tha paper as dat dunkadelic hoe turned a page wit a gangbangin' flutta of slender musclez up in her arms.

When we came up in dat freaky freaky biatch held our asses silent fo' a moment wit a lifted hand.

“To be continued,” her big-ass booty holla'd, tossin tha magazine on tha table, “in our straight-up next issue.”

Her body asserted itself wit a restless movement of her knee, n' her big-ass booty stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently findin tha time on tha ceiling. “Time fo' dis phat hoe ta git all up in bed.”

“Jordan’s goin ta play up in tha tournament to-morrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”

“Oh — you’re Jordan Baker.”

I knew now why her grill was familiar — its pleasin contemptuous expression had looked up all up in mah grill from nuff rotogravure picturez of tha sportin game at Asheville n' Hot Springs n' Palm Beach. I had heard some rap of her too, a cold-ass lil critical, unpleasant rap yo, but what tha fuck dat shiznit was I had forgotten long ago.

“Dope night,” her big-ass booty holla'd softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you, biatch.”

“If you’ll git up.”

“I will. Dope night, Mista Muthafuckin Carraway. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See you anon.”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I be thinkin I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, n' I’ll sort of — oh — flin you together n' shit. Yo ass know — lock you up accidentally up in linen closets n' push you up ta sea up in a funky-ass boat, n' all dat sort of thang ——”

“Dope night,” called Miss Baker from tha stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“She’s a sick girl,” holla'd Tomothy afta a moment. “They oughtn’t ta let her run round tha ghetto dis way.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck oughtn’t to?” inquired Dizzy coldly.

“Her crew.”

“Her crew is one aunt on some thousand muthafuckin years old. Besides, Nick’s goin ta look afta her, aren’t you, Nick, biatch? She’s goin ta spend fuckin shitloadz of week-endz up here dis summer n' shit. I be thinkin tha home influence is ghon be straight-up phat fo' her muthafuckin ass.”

Dizzy n' Tomothy looked at each other fo' a moment up in silence.

“Is she from New York?” I axed doggystyle.

“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Our dope white ——”

“Did yo dirty ass give Nick a lil ass ta ass rap on tha veranda?” demanded Tomothy suddenly.

“Did I?” Biatch looked all up in mah face.

“I can’t seem ta remember yo, but I be thinkin we talked bout tha Nordic race. Yes, I’m shizzle our phat asses done did. Well shiiiit, it sort of crept up on our asses n' first thang you know ——”

“Don’t believe every last muthafuckin thang you hear, Nick,” he advised mah dirty ass.

I holla'd lightly dat I had heard not a god damn thang at all, n' all dem minutes lata I gots up ta bounce back ta tha doggy den. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They came ta tha door wit me n' stood side by side up in a cold-ass lil cheerful square of light fo' realz. As I started mah motor Dizzy peremptorily called: “Wait!”

“I forgot ta ask you something, n' it’s blingin. Our thugged-out asses heard you was engaged ta a hoe up West.”

“That’s right,” corroborated Tomothy kindly. “Our thugged-out asses heard dat you was engaged.”

“It’s libel. I’m too skanky.”

“But our crazy asses heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprisin me by openin up again n' again n' again up in a gangbangin' flower-like way. “Our thugged-out asses heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what tha fuck they was referrin ta yo, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. Da fact dat ghetto hype had published tha banns was one of tha reasons I had come East. Yo ass can’t stop goin wit a oldschool playa on account of rumors, n' on tha other hand I had no intention of bein rumored tha fuck into marriage.

Their interest rather touched mah crazy ass n' made dem less remotely rich — nevertheless, I was trippin n' a lil disgusted as I drove away. Well shiiiit, it seemed ta me dat tha thang fo' Dizzy ta do was ta rush outta tha house, lil pimp up in arms — but apparently there was no such intentions up in her head. As fo' Tom, tha fact dat he “had some biatch up in New York.” was straight-up less surprisin than dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been pissed off by a funky-ass book. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang was makin his ass nibble all up in tha edge of stale scams as if his sturdy physical egotizzle no longer nourished his thugged-out lil' peremptory ass.

Already dat shiznit was deep summer on roadhouse roofs n' up in front of wayside garages, where freshly smoked up red gas-pumps sat up in poolz of light, n' when I reached mah estate at Westside Egg I ran tha hoopty under its shed n' sat fo' a while on a abandoned grass rolla up in tha yard. Da wind had blown off, leavin a loud, bright night, wit wings whoopin up in tha trees n' a persistent organ sound as tha full bellowz of tha earth blew tha frogs full of game. Da silhouette of a movin pussaaaaay wavered across tha moonlight, n' turnin mah head ta peep it, I saw dat I was not ridin' solo — fifty feet away a gangbangin' figure had emerged from tha shadow of mah neighbor’s mansion n' was standin wit his handz up in his thugged-out lil' pockets regardin tha silver pepper of tha stars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang up in his fuckin leisurely movements n' tha secure posizzle of his wild lil' feet upon tha lawn suggested dat dat shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby his dirty ass, come up ta determine what tha fuck share was hiz of our local heavens.

I decided ta booty-call ta his muthafuckin ass. Miss Baker had mentioned his ass at dinner, n' dat would do fo' a introduction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But I didn’t call ta him, fo' he gave a sudden intimation dat da thug was content ta be ridin' solo — da perved-out muthafucka stretched up his thugged-out arms toward tha dark wata up in a cold-ass lil curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn da thug was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward — n' distinguished not a god damn thang except a single chronic light, minute n' far away, dat might done been tha end of a thugged-out dock. When I looked once mo' fo' Gatsby dat schmoooove muthafucka had vanished, n' I was ridin' solo again n' again n' again up in tha unquiet darkness. Chapta 2

Bout half way between Westside Egg n' New York tha motor road hastily joins tha railroad n' runs beside it fo' a quarta of a mile, so as ta shrink away from a cold-ass lil certain desolate area of land. This be a valley of ashes — a gangbangin' dunkadelic farm where ashes grow like wheat tha fuck into ridges n' hills n' grotesque gardens; where ashes take tha formz of houses n' chimneys n' risin smoke and, finally, wit a transcendent effort, of pimps whoz ass move dimly n' already crumblin all up in tha powdery air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Occasionally a line of gray rides crawls along a invisible track, gives up a ghastly creak, n' comes ta rest, n' immediately tha ash-gray pimps swarm up wit leaden spades n' stir up a impenetrable cloud, which screens they obscure operations from yo' sight. But above tha gray land n' tha spasmz of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, afta a moment, tha eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. Da eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg is blue n' gigantic — they irises is one yard high. They look outta no grill yo, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectaclez which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of a oculist set dem there ta fatten his thugged-out lil' practice up in tha borough of Biatchs, n' then sank down his dirty ass tha fuck into eternal blindness, or forgot dem n' moved away. But his wild lil' fuckin eyes, dimmed a lil by nuff paintless days, under sun n' rain, brood on over tha solemn dumpin ground.

Da valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a lil' small-ass foul river, and, when tha drawbridge is up ta let barges through, tha passengers on waitin trains can stare all up in tha dismal scene fo' as long as half a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There be always a halt there of at least a minute, n' dat shiznit was cuz of dis dat I first kicked it wit Tomothy Buchanan’s mistress.

Da fact dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had one was insisted upon wherever da thug was known. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His acquaintances resented tha fact dat tha pimpin' muthafucka turned up in ghettofab restaurants wit her and, leavin her at a table, sauntered about, chattin wit whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious ta peep her, I had no desire ta hook up her — but I done did. I went up ta New York wit Tomothy on tha train one afternoon, n' when we stopped by tha ashheaps he jumped ta his wild lil' feet and, takin hold of mah elbow, literally forced mah crazy ass from tha car.

“We’re gettin off,” he insisted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “I want you ta hook up mah girl.”

Yo ass KNOW he’d tanked up a phat deal at luncheon, n' his fuckin lil' determination ta have mah company bordered on shit. Da supercilious assumption was dat on Sundizzle afternoon I had not a god damn thang betta ta do.

I followed his ass over a low whitewashed railroad fence, n' we strutted back a hundred yardz along tha road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare. Da only buildin up in sight was a lil' small-ass block of yellow brick chillin on tha edge of tha waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministerin ta it, n' contiguous ta straight-up nothing. One of tha three shops it contained was fo' rent n' another was a all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; tha third was a garage — Repairs. George B. Wilson. Whips looted n' sold. — n' I followed Tomothy inside.

Da interior was unprosperous n' bare; tha only hoopty visible was tha dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim corner n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had occurred ta me dat dis shadow of a garage must be a funky-ass blind, n' dat sumptuous n' horny-ass cribs was concealed overhead, when tha proprietor his dirty ass rocked up in tha door of a office, wipin his handz on a piece of waste yo. idiot was a funky-ass blond, spiritless idiot, anaemic, n' faintly thugged-out. When da perved-out muthafucka saw our asses a thugged-out damp gleam of hope sprang tha fuck into his fuckin light blue eyes.

“Yo muthafucka, Wilson, oldschool idiot,” holla'd Tom, slappin his ass jovially on tha shoulder n' shit. “How’s bidnizz?”

“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When is you goin ta push me dat car?”

“Next week; I’ve gots mah playa hustlin on it now, nahmeean?”

“Works pretty slow, don’t he?”

“Fuck dat shit, da ruffneck don’t,” holla'd Tomothy coldly. “And if you feel dat way bout it, maybe I’d betta push it somewhere else afta all.”

“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson doggystyle. “I just meant ——”

His voice faded off n' Tomothy glanced impatiently round tha garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, n' up in a moment tha thickish figure of a biatch blocked up tha light from tha crib door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was up in tha middle thirties, n' faintly stout yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some dem hoes can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty yo, but there was a immediately perceptible vitalitizzle bout her as if tha nervez of her body was continually smouldering. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch smiled slowly and, struttin all up in her homeboy as if da thug was a pimp, shook handz wit Tom, lookin his ass flush up in tha eye. Then dat biiiiatch wet her lips, n' without turnin round was rappin ta her homeboy up in a soft, coarse voice:

“Git some chairs, why don’t you, so some muthafucka can sit tha fuck down.”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, n' went toward tha lil office, minglin immediately wit tha cement color of tha walls fo' realz. A white ashen dust veiled his fuckin lil' dark suit n' his thugged-out lil' pale afro as it veiled every last muthafuckin thang up in tha vicinitizzle — except his hoe, whoz ass moved close ta Tom.

“I wanna peep you,” holla'd Tomothy intently. “Git on tha next train.”

“All right.”

“I’ll hook up you by tha news-stand on tha lower level.” Biatch nodded n' moved away from his ass just as George Wilson emerged wit two chairs from his crib door.

Us thugs waited fo' her down tha road n' outta sight. Dat shiznit was all dem minutes before tha Fourth of July, n' a gray, scrawny Italian lil pimp was settin torpedoes up in a row along tha railroad track.

“Terrible place, isn’t it,” holla'd Tom, exchangin a gangbangin' frown wit Doctor Eckleburg.

“Awful.”

“It do her phat ta git away.”

“Doesn’t her homeboy object?”

“Wilson, biatch? idiot be thinkin she goes ta peep her sista up in New York yo. He’s so dumb da ruffneck don’t know he’s kickin it.”

Yo, so Tomothy Buchanan n' his wild lil' freakadelic hoe n' I went up together ta New York — or not like together, fo' Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly up in another car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Tomothy deferred dat much ta tha sensibilitizzlez of dem Eastside Eggers whoz ass might be on tha train.

Yo, she had chizzled her dress ta a funky-ass brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tomothy helped her ta tha platform up in New York fo' realz. At tha news-stand da hoe looted a cold-ass lil copy of Hood Tattle n' a moving-picture magazine, n' up in tha station sticky-icky-icky-store some cold cream n' a lil' small-ass flask of perfume. Up-stairs, up in tha solemn echoin drive she let four taxicabs drive away before her big-ass booty selected a freshly smoked up one, lavender-colored wit gray upholstery, n' up in dis we slid up from tha mass of tha station tha fuck into tha glowin sunshine. But immediately dat dunkadelic hoe turned sharply from tha window and, leanin forward, tapped on tha front glass.

“I wanna git one of dem dawgs,” her big-ass booty holla'd earnestly. “I wanna git one fo' tha crib. They’re sick ta have — a thugged-out dog.”

We backed up ta a gray oldschool playa whoz ass bore a absurd resemblizzle ta Jizzy D. Rockefella n' shit. In a funky-ass basket swung from his neck cowered a thugged-out dozen straight-up recent mini-dawgz of a indeterminizzle breed.

“What kind is they?” axed Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as his schmoooove ass came ta tha taxi-window.

“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?”

“I’d like ta git one of dem five-o dawgs; I don’t suppose you gots dat kind?”

Da playa peered doubtfully tha fuck into tha basket, plunged up in his hand n' drew one up, wriggling, by tha back of tha neck.

“That’s no five-o dog,” holla'd Tom.

“Fuck dat shit, it’s not exactly a police dog,” holla'd tha playa wit disappointment up in his voice. “It’s mo' of a Airedale.” idiot passed his hand over tha brown wash-rag of a funky-ass back. “Look at dat coat. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some coat. That’s a thugged-out dawg that’ll never bother you wit catchin cold.”

“I be thinkin it’s cute,” holla'd Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How tha fuck much is it?”

“That dog?” idiot looked at it admiringly. “That dawg will cost you ten dollars.”

Da Airedale — undoubtedly there was a Airedale concerned up in it somewhere, though its feet was startlingly white — chizzled handz n' settled down tha fuck into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled tha weather-proof coat wit rapture.

“Is it a funky-ass pimp or a girl?” she axed delicately.

“That dog, biatch? That dog’s a funky-ass boy.”

“It’s a funky-ass biiiatch,” holla'd Tomothy decisively. “Here’s yo' scrilla. Go n' loot ten mo' dawgs wit dat shit.”

Us idiots drove over ta Fifth Avenue, so warm n' soft, almost pastoral, on tha summer Sundizzle afternoon dat I wouldn’t done been surprised ta peep a pimped out flock of white sheep turn tha corner.

“Hold on,” I holla'd, “I gotta leave you here.”

“Fuck dat shit, you don’t,” interposed Tomothy doggystyle.

“Myrtle’ll be hurt if you don’t come up ta tha crib. Won’t you, Myrtle?”

“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone mah sista Catherine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s holla'd ta be straight-up dope by playas whoz ass ought ta know.”

“Well, I’d like ta yo, but ——”

Us thugs went on, cuttin back again n' again n' again over tha Park toward tha Westside Hundredz fo' realz. At 158th Street tha cab stopped at one slice up in a long-ass white cake of crib-houses. Throwin a regal homecomin glizzle round tha hood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dawg n' her other purchases, n' went haughtily in.

“I’m goin ta have tha McKees come up,” she announced as we rose up in tha elevator. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. “And, of course, I gots ta booty-call up mah sister, like a muthafucka.”

Da crib was on tha top floor — a lil' small-ass living-room, a lil' small-ass dining-room, a lil' small-ass bedroom, n' a funky-ass bath. Da living-room was crowded ta tha doors wit a set of tapestried furniture entirely too big-ass fo' it, so dat ta move bout was ta stumble continually over scenez of ladies swingin up in tha gardenz of Versailles. Da only picture was a over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen chillin on a funky-ass blurred rock. Looked at from a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distance, however, tha hen resolved itself tha fuck into a funky-ass bonnet, n' tha countenizzle of a stout oldschool lady beamed down tha fuck into tha room. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Several oldschool copiez of Hood Tattle lay on tha table together wit a cold-ass lil copy of Semen Called Peter, n' a shitload of tha lil' small-ass scandal magazinez of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned wit tha dawg fo' realz. A reluctant elevator-boy went fo' a funky-ass box full of straw n' some milk, ta which he added on his own initiatizzle a tin of large, hard dog-biscuits — one of which decomposed apathetically up in tha saucer of gin n juice all afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Meanwhile Tomothy brought up a funky-ass forty of whiskey from a locked bureau door.

I done been faded just twice up in mah game, n' tha second time was dat afternoon; so every last muthafuckin thang dat happened has a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim, hazy cast over it, although until afta eight o’clock tha crib was full of cheerful sun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up nuff muthafuckin playas on tha telephone; then there was no blunts, n' I went up ta loot some all up in tha sticky-icky-ickystore on tha corner n' shit. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down discreetly up in tha living-room n' read a cold-ass lil chapta of Semen Called Peter — either dat shiznit was shitty shiznit or tha whiskey distorted thangs, cuz it didn’t make any sense ta mah dirty ass.

Just as Tomothy n' Myrtle (afta tha straight-up original gangsta drank Mrs. Wilson n' I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced ta arrive all up in tha crib-door.

Da sister, Catherine, was a slender, ghettoly hoe of bout thirty, wit a solid, sticky bob of red hair, n' a cold-ass lil complexion powdered milky white yo. Her eye-brows had been plucked n' then drawn on again n' again n' again at a mo' rakish angle yo, but tha effortz of nature toward tha restoration of tha oldschool alignment gave a funky-ass blurred air ta her face. When she moved bout there was a incessant clickin as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up n' down upon her arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch came up in wit such a proprietary haste, n' looked round so possessively all up in tha furniture dat I wondered if she lived here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But when I axed her she laughed immoderately, repeated mah question aloud, n' holla'd at mah crazy ass she lived wit a hoe playa at a hotel.

Mista Muthafuckin McKee was a pale, feminine playa from tha flat below yo. idiot had just shaved, fo' there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, n' da thug was most respectful up in his wild lil' freakadelic greetin ta every last muthafuckin one up in tha room yo. idiot informed mah crazy ass dat da thug was up in tha “artistic game,” n' I gathered lata dat da thug was a pornographer n' had made tha dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’s mutha which hovered like a ectoplazzle on tha wall yo. His hoe was shrill, languid, thugged-out, n' horrible. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holla'd at mah crazy ass wit pride dat her homeboy had photographed her a hundred n' twenty-seven times since they had been married.

Mrs. Wilson had chizzled her costume some time before, n' was now attired up in a elaborate afternoon dress of cream-colored chiffon, which gave up a cold-ass lil continual rustle as her big-ass booty swept bout tha room. With tha influence of tha dress her personalitizzle had also undergone a cold-ass lil chizzle. Da intense vitalitizzle dat had been so remarkable up in tha garage was converted tha fuck into impressive hauteur yo. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became mo' violently affected moment by moment, n' as she expanded tha room grew smalla round her, until her big-ass booty seemed ta be revolvin on a noisy, creakin pivot all up in tha smoky air.

“My fuckin dear,” dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at her sista up in a high, mincin shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every last muthafuckin time fo' realz. All they be thinkin of is scrilla. I had a biatch up here last week ta peep mah feet, n' when she gave me tha bill you’d of thought dat freaky freaky biatch had mah appendicitis out.”

“What was tha name of tha biatch?” axed Mrs. McKee.

“Mrs. Eberhardt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch goes round lookin at people’s feet up in they own cribs.”

“I wanna bust a nut on yo' dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I be thinkin it’s adorable.”

Mrs. Wilson rejected tha compliment by raisin her eyebrow up in disdain.

“It’s just a wild-ass oldschool thang,” her big-ass booty holla'd. “I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what tha fuck I look like.”

“But it looks straight-up dope on you, if you know what tha fuck I mean,” pursued Mrs. McKee. “If Chesta could only git you up in dat pose I be thinkin his schmoooove ass could make suttin' of dat shit.”

We all looked up in silence at Mrs. Wilson, whoz ass removed a strand of afro from over her eyes n' looked back at our asses wit a funky-ass solid smile. Mista Muthafuckin McKee regarded her intently wit his head on one side, n' then moved his hand back n' forth slowly up in front of his wild lil' face.

“I should chizzle tha light,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd afta a moment. “I’d like ta brang up tha modellin of tha features fo' realz. And I’d try ta git hold of all tha back hair.”

“I wouldn’t be thinkin of changin tha light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I be thinkin it’s ——”

Her homeboy holla'd “sh!” n' we all looked all up in tha subject again, whereupon Tomothy Buchanan yawned audibly n' gots ta his Nikes.

“Yo ass McKees have suttin' ta drink,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “Git some mo' ice n' mineral water, Myrtle, before dem hoes goes ta chill.”

“I holla'd at dat pimp bout tha ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows up in despair all up in tha shiftlessnizz of tha lower orders. “These playas biaaatch! Yo ass gotta keep afta dem all tha time.”

Yo, she looked all up in mah grill n' laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over ta tha dog, busted it wit ecstasy, n' swept tha fuck into tha kitchen, implyin dat a thugged-out dozen chefs awaited her ordaz there.

“I’ve done some sick thangs up on Long Island,” asserted Mista Muthafuckin McKee.

Tomothy looked at his ass blankly.

“Two of dem our crazy asses have framed down-stairs.”

“Two what?” demanded Tom.

“Two studies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! One of dem I call Montauk Point— Da Gulls, n' tha other I call Montauk Point— Da Sea.”

Da sista Catherine sat down beside me on tha couch.

“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired.

“I live at Westside Egg.”

“Really, biatch? I was down there at a jam on some month ago fo' realz. At a playa named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?”

“I live next door ta his muthafuckin ass.”

“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cold-ass lil cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his crazy-ass scrilla be reppin.”

“Really?”

Yo, she nodded.

“I’m scared of his muthafuckin ass. I’d don't give a fuck bout ta have his ass git anythang on mah dirty ass.”

This absorbin shiznit bout mah neighbor was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointin suddenly at Catherine:

“Chester, I be thinkin you could do suttin' wit her,” da hoe broke up yo, but Mista Muthafuckin McKee only nodded up in a funky-ass bugged out way, n' turned his thugged-out attention ta Tom.

“I’d like ta do mo' work on Long Island, if I could git tha entry fo' realz. All I ask is dat they should break me off a start.”

“Ask Myrtle,” holla'd Tom, breakin tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short shout of laughta as Mrs. Wilson entered wit a tray. “She’ll hit you wit a letta of introduction, won’t you Myrtle?”

“Do what?” she asked, startled.

“You’ll give McKee a letta of introduction ta yo' homeboy, so his schmoooove ass can do some studiez of his muthafuckin ass.” His lips moved silently fo' a moment as he invented. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “George B. Wilson all up in tha Gasoline Pump, or suttin' like dat n' like dis n' like dat y'all.”

Catherine leaned close ta me n' whispered up in mah ear: “Neither of dem can stand tha thug they’re gangbangin.”

“Can’t they?”

“Can’t stand dem wild-ass muthafuckas.” Biatch looked at Myrtle n' then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on livin wit dem if they can’t stand them, biatch? If I was dem I’d git a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce n' git gangbangin each other right away.”

“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?”

Da answer ta dis was unexpected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Well shiiiit, it came from Myrtle, whoz ass had overheard tha question, n' dat shiznit was violent n' obscene.

“Yo ass see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch lowered her voice again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “It’s straight-up his hoe that’s keepin dem apart. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s a Catholic, n' they don’t believe up in divorce.”

Dizzy was not a Catholic, n' I was a lil shocked all up in tha elaboratenizz of tha lie.

“When they do git married,” continued Catherine, “they’re goin Westside ta live fo' a while until it blows over.”

“It’d be mo' discreet ta git all up in Europe.”

“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just gots back from Monte Carlo.”

“Really.”

“Just last year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I went over there wit another girl.” “Stay long?”

“Fuck dat shit, our laid-back asses just went ta Monte Carlo n' back. Us thugs went by way of Marseilles. Our thugged-out asses had over twelve hundred dollars when we started yo, but we gots gypped outta all dat shiznit up in two minutes up in tha private rooms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Our thugged-out asses had a wack time gettin back, I can rap, biatch. God, how tha fuck I hated dat town!”

Da late afternoon sky bloomed up in tha window fo' a moment like tha blue honey of tha Mediterranean — then tha shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called mah crazy ass back tha fuck into tha room.

“I almost done cooked up a mistake, too,” her dope ass declared vigorously. “I almost hooked up a lil kyke who’d been afta me fo' years. I knew da thug was below mah dirty ass. All Y'all kept sayin ta me: ‘Lucille, dat man’s ‘way below you, nahmean biiiatch?’ But if I hadn’t kicked it wit Chester, he’d of gots me sure.”

“Yes yo, but listen,” holla'd Myrtle Wilson, noddin her head up n' down, “at least you didn’t marry his muthafuckin ass.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“Well, I hooked up him,” holla'd Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s tha difference between yo' case n' mine.”

“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “No Muthafucka forced you to.”

Myrtle considered.

“I hooked up his ass cuz I thought da thug was a gentleman,” her big-ass booty holla'd finally. “I thought he knew suttin' bout breedin yo, but da thug wasn’t fit ta lick mah shoe.”

“Yo ass was wild-ass bout his ass fo' a while,” holla'd Catherine.

“Crazy-Ass bout him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck holla'd I was wild-ass bout him, biatch? I never was any mo' wild-ass bout his ass than I was bout dat playa there.”

Yo, she pointed suddenly at me, n' every last muthafuckin one looked all up in mah grill accusingly. I tried ta show by mah expression dat I had played no part up in her past.

“Da only crazy I was was when I hooked up his muthafuckin ass. I knew right away I done cooked up a mistake yo. idiot borrowed some muthafucka’s dopest suit ta git hooked up in, n' never even holla'd at mah crazy ass bout it, n' tha playa came afta it one dizzle when da thug was out. ‘oh, is dat yo' suit?’ I holla'd. ‘this is tha straight-up original gangsta I eva heard bout dat shit.’ But I gave it ta his ass n' then I lay down n' cried ta beat tha crew all afternoon.”

“Bitch straight-up ought ta git away from him,” resumed Catherine ta mah dirty ass. “They’ve been livin over dat garage fo' eleven muthafuckin years fo' realz. And tom’s tha straight-up original gangsta dopeie she eva had.”

Da forty of whiskey — a second one — was now up in constant demand by all present, exceptin Catherine, whoz ass “felt just as phat on not a god damn thang at all.” Tomothy rang fo' tha janitor n' busted his ass fo' some bigged up sandwiches, which was a cold-ass lil complete supper up in theyselves. I wanted ta git up n' strutt southward toward tha park all up in tha soft twilight yo, but each time I tried ta go I became entangled up in some wild, strident argument which pulled mah crazy ass back, as if wit ropes, tha fuck into mah chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Yet high over tha hood our line of yellow windows must have contributed they share of human secrecy ta tha casual watcher up in tha darkenin streets, n' I was his ass too, lookin up n' wondering. I was within n' without, simultaneously enchanted n' repelled by tha inexhaustible variety of game.

Myrtle pulled her chair close ta mine, n' suddenly her warm breath poured over me tha rap of her first meetin wit Tom.

“Dat shiznit was on tha two lil seats facin each other dat is always tha last ones left on tha train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was goin up ta New York ta peep mah sista n' spend tha night yo. idiot had on a thugged-out dress suit n' patent leather shoes, n' I couldn’t keep mah eyes off his ass yo, but every last muthafuckin time he looked all up in mah grill I had ta pretend ta be lookin all up in tha advertisement over his head. When we came tha fuck into tha station da thug was next ta me, n' his white shirt-front pressed against mah arm, n' so I holla'd at his ass I’d gotta call a policeman yo, but he knew I lied. I was so buckwild dat when I gots tha fuck into a ride wit his ass I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t gettin tha fuck into a subway train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All I kept thankin about, over n' over, was ‘Yo ass can’t live forever; you can’t live alllll muthafuckin day.’”

Yo, she turned ta Mrs. McKee n' tha room rang full of her artificial laughter.

“My fuckin dear,” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried, “I’m goin ta hit you wit dis dress as soon as I’m all up in wit dat shit. I’ve gots ta git another one to-morrow. I’m goin ta cook up a list of all tha thangs I’ve gots ta git fo' realz. A massage n' a wave, n' a cold-ass lil collar fo' tha dog, n' one of dem thugged-out lil ash-trays where you bust a nut on a spring, n' a wreath wit a funky-ass black silk bow fo' mother’s grave that’ll last all summer n' shit. I gots ta write down a list so I won’t forget all tha thangs I gots ta do.”

Dat shiznit was nine o’clock — almost immediately afterward I looked at mah peep n' found dat shiznit was ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mista Muthafuckin McKee was asleep on a cold-ass lil chair wit his wild lil' fists clenched up in his fuckin lap, like a photograph of a playa of action. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Takin up mah handkerchizzle I wiped from his cheek tha remainz of tha spot of dried lather dat had worried mah crazy ass all tha afternoon.

Da lil dawg was chillin on tha table lookin wit blind eyes all up in tha smoke, n' from time ta time groanin faintly. Muthafuckas disappeared, reappeared, made plans ta go somewhere, n' then lost each other, searched fo' each other, found each other all dem feet away. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some time toward midnight Tomothy Buchanan n' Mrs. Wilson stood grill ta grill discussing, up in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson had any right ta mention Daisy’s name.

“Daisy dawwwwg! Daisy dawwwwg! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy dawwwwg! Dai ——”

Makin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short deft movement, Tomothy Buchanan broke her nozzle wit his open hand.

Then there was bloody towels upon tha bath-room floor, n' dem hoes’s voices scolding, n' high over tha mad drama a long-ass fucked up wail of pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mista Muthafuckin McKee awoke from his fuckin lil' doze n' started up in a thugged-out daze toward tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone half way tha pimpin' muthafucka turned round n' stared all up in tha scene — his hoe n' Catherine scoldin n' consolin as they stumbled here n' there among tha crowded furniture wit articlez of aid, n' tha despairin figure on tha couch, bleedin fluently, n' tryin ta spread a cold-ass lil copy of Hood Tattle over tha tapestry scenez of Versailles. Then Mista Muthafuckin McKee turned n' continued on up tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Takin mah basebizzle cap from tha chandelier, I followed.

“Come ta lunch some day,” da perved-out muthafucka suggested, as we groaned down up in tha elevator.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Keep yo' handz off tha lever,” snapped tha elevator idiot.

“I beg yo' pardon,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin McKee wit dignity, “I didn’t know I was touchin dat shit.”

“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”

. . . I was standin beside his bed n' da thug was chillin up between tha sheets, clad up in his underwear, wit a pimped out portfolio up in his hands.

“Beauty n' tha Beast. . . Lonelinizz. . . Oldskool Grocery Horse. . . Brook’n Bridge. . . . ”

Then I was lyin half asleep up in tha cold lower level of tha Pennsylvania Station, starin all up in tha mornin Tribune, n' waitin fo' tha four o’clock train. Chapta 3

There was noize from mah neighbor’s doggy den all up in tha summer nights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. In his blue gardens pimps n' hoes came n' went like moths among tha whisperings n' tha champagne n' tha stars fo' realz. At high tide up in tha afternoon I peeped his wild lil' freakadelic guests divin from tha tower of his bangin raft, or takin tha sun on tha bangin' sand of his beach while his cold-ass two motor-boats slit tha wataz of tha Sound, drawin aquaplanes over cataractz of foam. On week-endz his Rolls-Royce became a omnibus, bearin partizzles ta n' from tha hood between nine up in tha mornin n' long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a funky-ass brisk yellow bug ta hook up all trains fo' realz. And on Mondays eight servants, includin a extra gardener, toiled all dizzle wit mops n' scrubbing-brushes n' hammers n' garden-shears, repairin tha ravagez of tha night before.

Every Fridizzle five cratez of oranges n' lemons arrived from a gangbangin' fruiterer up in New York — every last muthafuckin Mondizzle these same oranges n' lemons left his back door up in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine up in tha kitchen which could extract tha juice of two hundred oranges up in half a minute if a lil button was pressed two hundred times by a funky-ass butler’s thumb.

At least once a gangbangin' fortnight a cold-ass lil corpz of caterers came down wit nuff muthafuckin hundred feet of canvas n' enough colored lights ta cook up a Chrizzle tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. On buffet tables, garnished wit glistenin hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against saladz of harlequin designs n' pastry pigs n' turkeys bewitched ta a thugged-out dark gold. In tha main hall a funky-ass bar wit a real brass rail was set up, n' stocked wit gins n' liquors n' wit cordials so long forgotten dat most of his biatch guests was too lil' ta know one from another.

By seven o’clock tha orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair yo, but a whole pitful of oboes n' trombones n' saxophones n' viols n' cornets n' piccolos, n' low n' high drums. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da last swimmers have come up in from tha beach now n' is dressin up-stairs; tha rides from New York is parked five deep up in tha drive, n' already tha halls n' salons n' verandas is gaudy wit primary colors, n' afro shorn up in strange freshly smoked up ways, n' shawls beyond tha tripz of Castile. Da bar is up in full swing, n' floatin roundz of cocktails permeate tha garden outside, until tha air is kickin it wit chatta n' laughter, n' casual innuendo n' introductions forgotten on tha spot, n' enthusiastic meetings between dem hoes whoz ass never knew each other’s names.

Da lights grow brighta as tha earth lurches away from tha sun, n' now tha orchestra is playin yellow cocktail beatz, n' tha opera of voices pitches a key higher n' shit. Laughta is easier minute by minute, spilled wit prodigality, tipped up at a cold-ass lil cheerful word. Da crews chizzle mo' swiftly, swell wit freshly smoked up arrivals, dissolve n' form up in tha same breath; already there be wanderers, Kool & Tha Gang hoes whoz ass weave here n' there among tha stouta n' mo' stable, become fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp, joyous moment tha centre of a group, n' then, buckwild wit triumph, glide on all up in tha sea-change of faces n' voices n' color under tha constantly changin light.

Yo, suddenly one of tha gypsies, up in tremblin opal, seizes a cold-ass lil cocktail outta tha air, dumps it down fo' courage and, movin her handz like Frisco, dances up ridin' solo on tha canvas platform fo' realz. A momentary hush; tha orchestra leader varies his bangin rhythm obligingly fo' her, n' there be a funky-ass burst of chatta as tha erroneous shizzle goes round dat her ass is Gilda Gray’s understudy from tha Follies. Da jam has begun.

I believe dat on tha straight-up original gangsta night I went ta Gatsby’s doggy den I was one of tha few guests whoz ass had straight-up been invited. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Muthafuckas was not invited — they went there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. They gots tha fuck into automobilez which bore dem up ta Long Island, n' somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Once there they was introduced by some muthafucka whoz ass knew Gatsby, n' afta dat they conducted theyselves accordin ta tha rulez of behavior associated wit amusement parks. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes they came n' went without havin kicked it wit Gatsby at all, came fo' tha jam wit a simplicitizzle of ass dat was its own ticket of admission.

I had been straight-up invited. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. A chauffeur up in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed mah lawn early dat Saturdizzle mornin wit a surprisingly formal note from his wild lil' fuckin employer: tha honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, it holla'd, if I would git all up in his “lil party” dat night yo. idiot had peeped mah crazy ass nuff muthafuckin times, n' had intended ta booty-call on me long before yo, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it — signed Jay Gatsby, up in a majestic hand.

Dressed up in white flannels I went over ta his fuckin lawn a lil afta seven, n' wandered round rather ill at ease among swirls n' eddiez of playas I didn’t know — though here n' there was a gangbangin' grill I had noticed on tha commutin train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was immediately struck by tha number of lil' Gangstamen dotted about; all well dressed, all lookin a lil hungry, n' all poppin' off up in low, earnest voices ta solid n' prosperous Gangstas. I was shizzle dat they was pushin something: bondz or insurizzle or automobiles. They was at least agonizingly aware of tha easy as fuck scrilla up in tha vicinitizzle n' convinced dat dat shiznit was theirs fo' all dem lyrics up in tha right key.

As soon as I arrived I made a attempt ta find mah host yo, but tha two or three playaz of whom I axed his whereabouts stared all up in mah grill up in such a amazed way, n' denied so vehemently any knowledge of his crazy-ass movements, dat I slunk off up in tha direction of tha cocktail table — tha only place up in tha garden where a single playa could linger without lookin purposeless n' ridin' solo.

I was on mah way ta git roarin faded from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came outta tha doggy den n' stood all up in tha head of tha marble steps, leanin a lil backward n' lookin wit contemptuous interest down tha fuck into tha garden.

Welcome or not, I found it necessary ta attach mah dirty ass ta some one before I should begin ta address cordial remarks ta tha passers-by.

“Hello!” I roared, advancin toward her n' shit. My fuckin voice seemed unnaturally bangin across tha garden.

“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door ta ——” Biatch held mah hand impersonally, as a promise dat she’d take care of me up in a minute, n' gave ear ta two hoes up in twin yellow dresses, whoz ass stopped all up in tha foot of tha steps.

“Hello!” they cried together n' shit. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

That was fo' tha golf tournament. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had lost up in tha finals tha week before.

“Yo ass don’t know whoz ass we are,” holla'd one of tha hoes up in yellow, “but we kicked it wit you here on some month ago.”

“You’ve dyed yo' afro since then,” remarked Jordan, n' I started yo, but tha hoes had moved casually on n' her remark was addressed ta tha premature moon, produced like tha supper, no diggity, outta a cold-ass lil caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm restin up in mine, our phat asses descended tha steps n' sauntered bout tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A tray of cocktails floated at our asses all up in tha twilight, n' we sat down at a table wit tha two hoes up in yellow n' three men, each one introduced ta our asses as Mista Muthafuckin Mumble.

“Do you come ta these partizzles often?” inquired Jordan of tha hoe beside her muthafuckin ass.

“Da last one was tha one I kicked it wit you at,” answered tha girl, up in a alert Kool & Tha Gang voice. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned ta her companion: “Wasn’t it fo' you, Lucille?”

Dat shiznit was fo' Lucille, like a muthafucka.

“I gotta come,” Lucille holla'd. “I never care what tha fuck I do, so I always gotz a phat time. When I was here last I tore mah gown on a cold-ass lil chair, n' he axed mah crazy ass mah name n' address — inside of a week I gots a package from Croirier’s wit a freshly smoked up evenin gown up in dat shit.”

“Did yo dirty ass keep it?” axed Jordan.

“Sure I done did. I was goin ta wear it to-night yo, but dat shiznit was too big-ass up in tha bust n' had ta be altered. Dat shiznit was gas blue wit lavender beads. Two hundred n' sixty-five dollars.”

“There’s suttin' funky on some gangbangin' fellow that’ll do a thang like that,” holla'd tha other hoe eagerly. “idiot don’t want any shiznit wit anybody.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck don’t?” I inquired.

“Gatsby. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some Muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass ——”

Da two hoes n' Jordan leaned together confidentially.

“Some Muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass they thought he capped a playa once.”

A thrill passed over all of us. Da three Mista Muthafuckin Mumblez bent forward n' listened eagerly.

“I don’t be thinkin it’s so much that,” broke off some disrespec Lucille sceptically; “it’s mo' dat da thug was a German spy durin tha war.”

One of tha pimps nodded up in confirmation.

“I heard dat from a playa whoz ass knew all bout him, grew up wit his ass up in Germany,” he assured our asses positively.

“Oh, no,” holla'd tha straight-up original gangsta girl, “it couldn’t be that, cuz da thug was up in tha Gangsta army durin tha war.” As our credulitizzle switched back ta her she leaned forward wit enthusiasm. “Yo ass peep his ass sometimes when tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin no muthafucka’s lookin at his muthafuckin ass. I’ll bet he capped a man.”

Yo, she narrowed her eyes n' shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned n' looked round fo' Gatsby. Dat shiznit was testimony ta tha horny-ass speculation he inspired dat there was whispers bout his ass from dem playas whoz ass found lil dat dat shiznit was necessary ta whisper bout up in dis ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Da first supper — there would be another one afta midnight — was now bein served, n' Jordan invited mah crazy ass ta join her own party, whoz ass was spread round a table on tha other side of tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was three hooked up couplez n' Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given ta violent innuendo, n' obviously under tha impression dat sooner or lata Jordan was goin ta yield his ass up her thug ta a pimped outa or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, dis jam had preserved a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dignified homogeneity, n' assumed ta itself tha function of representin tha staid nobilitizzle of tha ghetto-side — Eastside Egg condescendin ta Westside Egg, n' carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety.

“Let’s git out,” whispered Jordan, afta a somehow wasteful n' inappropriate half-hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. “This is much too polite fo' mah dirty ass.”

We gots up, n' she explained dat we was goin ta find tha host: I had never kicked it wit him, her big-ass booty holla'd, n' dat shiznit was makin me uneasy. Da undergraduate nodded up in a cold-ass lil cynical, melancholy way.

Da bar, where we glanced first, was crowded yo, but Gatsby was not there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn’t find his ass from tha top of tha steps, n' da thug wasn’t on tha veranda. On a cold-ass lil chizzle we tried a blingin-lookin door, n' strutted tha fuck into a high Gothic library, panelled wit carved Gangsta oak, n' probably transported complete from some fuck up overseas.

A stout, middle-aged OG, wit enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was chillin somewhat faded on tha edge of a pimped out table, starin wit unsteady concentration all up in tha shelvez of books fo' realz. As we entered da thug wheeled excitedly round n' examined Jordan from head ta foot.

“What do you think?” da ruffneck demanded impetuously.

“Bout what?” That retarded-ass boi waved his hand toward tha book-shelves.

“Bout dis shiznit fo' realz. As a matta of fact you needn’t bother ta ascertain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I ascertained. They’re real.”

“Da books?”

He nodded.

“Absolutely real — have pages n' every last muthafuckin thang.. n' you KNOWS they’d be a sick durable cardboard. Matta of fact, they’re straight-up real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Pages n' — Here biaaatch! Lemme show you, biatch.”

Takin our scepticizzle fo' granted, he rushed ta tha bookcases n' returned wit Volume One of tha “Stoddard Lectures.”

“See!” his schmoooove ass cried triumphantly. “It’s a funky-ass bona-fide piece of printed matter n' shit. Well shiiiit, it fooled mah dirty ass. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness muthafucka! What realism! Knew when ta stop, too — didn’t cut tha pages. But what tha fuck do you want, biatch? What do you expect?”

idiot snatched tha book from me n' replaced it hastily on its shelf, mutterin dat if one brick was removed tha whole library was liable ta collapse.

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck brought yo slick ass?” da ruffneck demanded. “Or did you just come, biatch? I was brought. Most playas was brought.”

Jordan looked at his ass alertly, cheerfully, without answering.

“I was brought by a biatch named Roosevelt,” his schmoooove ass continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her, biatch? I kicked it wit her somewhere last night. I’ve been faded fo' on some week now, n' I thought it might sober me up ta sit up in a library.”

“Has it?”

“A lil bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Did I rap bout tha books, biatch? They’re real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. They’re ——”

“Yo ass holla'd at us.” We shook handz wit his ass gravely n' went back outdoors.

There was ridin' dirty now on tha canvas up in tha garden; oldschool pimps pushin lil' hoes backward up in eternal graceless circles, superior couplez holdin each other tortuously, fashionably, n' keepin up in tha corners — n' a pimped out number of single hoes ridin' dirty individualistically or relievin tha orchestra fo' a moment of tha burden of tha banjo or tha traps. By midnight tha hilaritizzle had increased. A bigged up tenor had sung up in Italian, n' a notorious contralto had sung up in jazz, n' between tha numbers playas was bustin “stunts” all over tha garden, while happy, vacuous burstz of laughta rose toward tha summer sky fo' realz. A pair of stage twins, whoz ass turned up ta be tha hoes up in yellow, did a funky-ass baby act up in costume, n' champagne was served up in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. Da moon had risen higher, n' floatin up in tha Sound was a triangle of silver scales, tremblin a lil ta tha stiff, tinny drip of tha banjoes on tha lawn.

I was still wit Jordan Baker n' shit. Us thugs was chillin at a table wit a playa of bout mah age n' a rowdy lil girl, whoz ass gave way upon tha slightest provocation ta uncontrollable laughter n' shit. I was trippin' off mah dirty ass now, nahmeean, biatch? I had taken two finger-bowlz of champagne, n' tha scene had chizzled before mah eyes tha fuck into suttin' significant, elemental, n' profound.

At a lull up in tha entertainment tha playa looked all up in mah grill n' smiled.

“Yo crazy-ass grill is familiar,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, politely. “Weren’t you up in tha Third Division durin tha war?”

“Why, yes. I was up in tha Ninth Machine-gun Battalion.”

“I was up in tha Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I knew I’d peeped you somewhere before.”

We talked fo' a moment bout some wet, gray lil villages up in France. Evidently he lived up in dis vicinity, fo' tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had just looted a hydroplane, n' was goin ta try it up in tha morning.

“Want ta go wit me, oldschool sport, biatch? Just near tha shore along tha Sound.”

“What time?”

“Any time dat suits you best.”

Dat shiznit was on tha tip of mah tongue ta ask his name when Jordan looked round n' smiled.

“Havin a gay time now?” she inquired.

“Much better.” I turned again n' again n' again ta mah freshly smoked up acquaintance. “This be a unusual jam fo' mah dirty ass. I haven’t even peeped tha host. I live over there ——” I waved mah hand all up in tha invisible hedge up in tha distance, “and dis playa Gatsby busted over his chauffeur wit a invitation.” For a moment he looked all up in mah grill as if he failed ta understand.

“I’m Gatsby,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd suddenly.

“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg yo' pardon.”

“I thought you knew, oldschool sport. I’m afraid I’m not a straight-up phat host.”

That idiot smiled understandingly — much mo' than understandingly. Dat shiznit was one of dem rare smilez wit a qualitizzle of eternal reassurizzle up in it, dat you may come across four or five times up in tha game. Well shiiiit, it faced — or seemed ta grill — tha whole external ghetto fo' a instant, n' then concentrated on you wit a irresistible prejudice up in yo' favor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it understood you just so far as you wanted ta be understood, believed up in you as you wanna believe up in yo ass, n' assured you dat it had precisely tha impression of y'all that, at yo' best, you hoped ta convey. Precisely at dat point it vanished — n' I was lookin at a elegant lil' rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formalitizzle of rap just missed bein absurd. Some time before he introduced his dirty ass I’d gots a phat impression dat da thug was pickin his fuckin lyrics wit care.

Almost all up in tha moment when Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby identified his dirty ass, a funky-ass butla hurried toward his ass wit tha shiznit dat Chicago was callin his ass on tha wire yo. idiot excused his dirty ass wit a lil' small-ass bow dat included each of our asses up in turn.

“If you want anythang just ask fo' it, oldschool sport,” he urged mah dirty ass. “Excuse mah dirty ass. I'ma rejoin you later.”

When da thug was gone I turned immediately ta Jordan — constrained ta assure her of mah surprise. I had expected dat Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby would be a gangbangin' florid n' corpulent thug up in his crazy-ass middle years.

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is he?” I demanded.

“Do you know?”

“He’s just a playa named Gatsby.”

“Where is he from, I mean, biatch? And what tha fuck do da ruffneck do?”

“Now you’re started on tha subject,” she answered wit a wan smile. “Well, tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass once da thug was a Oxford man.” A dim background started ta take shape behind his ass yo, but at her next remark it faded away.

“But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat I don’t believe dat shit.”

“Why not?” “I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t be thinkin da thug went there.”

Yo, somethang up in her tone reminded mah crazy ass of tha other girl’s “I be thinkin he capped a thugged-out idiot,” n' had tha effect of stimulatin mah curiosity. I would have accepted without question tha shiznit dat Gatsby sprang from tha swampz of Louisiana or from tha lower Eastside Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But lil' pimps didn’t — at least up in mah provincial inexperience I believed they didn’t — drift coolly outta nowhere n' loot a palace on Long Island Sound.

“Anyhow, he gives big-ass parties,” holla'd Jordan, changin tha subject wit a urbane distaste fo' tha concrete. “And I wanna bust a nut on big-ass parties. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! They’re so intimate fo' realz. At lil' small-ass partizzles there isn’t any privacy.”

There was tha boom of a funky-ass bass drum, n' tha voice of tha orchestra leader rang up suddenly above tha echolalia of tha garden.

“Ladies n' gentlemen,” his schmoooove ass cried. “At tha request of Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby we is goin ta play fo' you Mista Muthafuckin Vladimir Tostoff’s sickest fuckin work, which attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read tha papers, you know there was a funky-ass big-ass sensation.” idiot smiled wit jovial condescension, n' added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon dem hoes laughed.

“Da piece is known,” his schmoooove ass concluded lustily, “as Vladimir Tostoff’s Jazz History of tha World.”

Da nature of Mista Muthafuckin Tostoff’s composizzle eluded me, cuz just as it fuckin started mah eyes fell tha fuck on Gatsby, standin ridin' solo on tha marble steps n' lookin from one crew ta another wit approvin eyes yo. His tanned skin was drawn banginly tight on his wild lil' grill n' his short afro looked as though it was trimmed every last muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! I could peep not a god damn thang sinista bout his muthafuckin ass. I wondered if tha fact dat da thug was not drankin helped ta set his ass off from his wild lil' freakadelic guests, fo' it seemed ta me dat he grew mo' erect as tha fraternal hilaritizzle increased. When tha Jazz History of tha World was over, hoes was puttin they headz on men’s shouldaz up in a puppyish, convivial way, hoes was swoonin backward playfully tha fuck into men’s arms, even tha fuck into groups, knowin dat some one would arrest they falls — but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, n' no French bob touched Gatsby’s shoulder, n' no rappin quartets was formed wit Gatsby’s head fo' one link.

“I beg yo' pardon.”

Gatsby’s butla was suddenly standin beside us.

“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg yo' pardon yo, but Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby wanna drop a rhyme ta you ridin' solo.”

“With me son?” she exclaimed up in surprise.

“Yes, madame.”

Yo, she gots up slowly, raisin her eyebrows all up in mah grill up in astonishment, n' followed tha butla toward tha house. I noticed dat dat biiiiatch wore her evening-dress, all her dresses, like game threadz — there was a jauntinizz bout her movements as if dat freaky freaky biatch had first hustled ta strutt upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.

I was ridin' solo n' dat shiznit was almost two. For some time trippin n' intriguin soundz had issued from a long, many-windowed room which overhung tha terrace. Eludin Jordan’s undergraduate, whoz ass was now engaged up in a obstetrical conversation wit two chorus girls, n' whoz ass implored mah crazy ass ta join him, I went inside.

Da big-ass room was full of people. One of tha hoes up in yellow was playin tha piano, n' beside her stood a tall, red-haired lil' lady from a gangbangin' hyped chorus, engaged up in song. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had faded a quantitizzle of champagne, n' durin tha course of her cold lil' woo wop dat freaky freaky biatch had decided, ineptly, dat every last muthafuckin thang was hella, straight-up fucked up — dat biiiiatch was not only rappin, dat biiiiatch was weepin like a muthafucka. Whenever there was a pause up in tha cold lil' woo wop she filled it wit gasping, fucked up sobs, n' then took up tha lyric again n' again n' again up in a quaverin soprano. Da tears coursed down her cheeks — not freely, however, fo' when they came tha fuck into contact wit her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed a inky color, n' pursued tha rest of they way up in slow black rivulets fo' realz. A humorous suggestion was made dat her big-ass booty rap tha notes on her face, whereupon dat dunkadelic hoe threw up her hands, sank tha fuck into a cold-ass lil chair, n' went off tha fuck into a thugged-out deep vinous chill.

“Bitch had a gangbangin' fight wit a playa whoz ass say he’s her homeboy,” explained a hoe at mah elbow.

I looked around. Most of tha remainin dem hoes was now havin fights wit pimps holla'd ta be they homeboys. Even Jordan’s party, tha quartet from Eastside Egg, was rent asunder by dissension. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of tha pimps was poppin' off wit curious intensitizzle ta a lil' playette, n' his hoe, afta attemptin ta laugh all up in tha thang up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dignified n' indifferent way, broke down entirely n' resorted ta flank attacks — at intervals she rocked up suddenly at his side like a mad salty diamond, n' hissed: “Yo ass promised!” tha fuck into his wild lil' fuckin ear.

Da reluctizzle ta bounce back ta tha doggy den was not confined ta wayward men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da hall was at present occupied by two deplorably sober pimps n' they highly indignant wives. Da wives was sympathizin wit each other up in slightly raised voices.

“Whenever da perved-out muthafucka sees I’m havin a phat time da thug wants ta bounce back ta tha doggy den.”

“Never heard anythang so selfish up in mah game.”

“We’re always tha straight-up original gangsta ones ta muthafuckin bounce.”

“So is we.”

“Well, we’re almost tha last to-night,” holla'd one of tha pimps sheepishly. “Da orchestra left half a minute ago.”

In spite of tha wives’ agreement dat such malevolence was beyond credibility, tha dispute ended up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short struggle, n' both wives was lifted, kicking, tha fuck into tha night.

As I waited fo' mah basebizzle cap up in tha hall tha door of tha library opened n' Jordan Baker n' Gatsby came up together n' shiznit yo. idiot was sayin some last word ta her yo, but tha eagernizz up in his crazy-ass manner tightened abruptly tha fuck into formalitizzle as nuff muthafuckin playas approached his ass ta say good-bye.

Jordan’s jam was callin impatiently ta her from tha porch yo, but she lingered fo' a moment ta shake hands.

“I’ve just heard da most thugged-out dunkadelic thang,” dat biiiiatch whispered. “How tha fuck long was we up in there?”

“Why, bout a hour.” “Dat shiznit was — simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I wouldn’t tell it n' here I be tantalizin you, biatch.” Biatch yawned gracefully up in mah face: “Please come n' peep mah dirty ass. . . . Phone book. . . Under tha name of Mrs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sigourney Howard. . . My fuckin aunt. . . ” Biatch was hurryin off as dat dunkadelic hoe talked — her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted tha fuck into her jam all up in tha door.

Rather ashamed dat on mah first appearizzle I had stayed so late, I joined tha last of Gatsby’s guests, whoz ass was clustered round his muthafuckin ass. I wanted ta explain dat I’d hunted fo' his ass early up in tha evenin n' ta apologize fo' not havin known his ass up in tha garden.

“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined mah crazy ass eagerly. “Don’t give it another thought, oldschool sport.” Da familiar expression held no mo' familiaritizzle than tha hand which reassuringly brushed mah shoulder n' shit. “And don’t forget we’re goin up in tha hydroplane to-morrow morning, at nine o’clock.”

Then tha butler, behind his shoulder: “Philadelphia wants you on tha ‘phone, sir.”

“All right, up in a minute. Tell dem I’ll be right there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. . . . phat night.”

“Dope night.”

“Dope night.” That boi smiled — n' suddenly there seemed ta be a pleasant significizzle up in havin been among tha last ta go, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had desired all dat shiznit tha time. “Dope night, oldschool sport. . . . phat night.”

But as I strutted down tha steps I saw dat tha evenin was not like over n' shit. Fifty feet from tha door a thugged-out dozen headlights illuminated a funky-ass bizarre n' tumultuous scene. In tha ditch beside tha road, right side up yo, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a freshly smoked up coupe which had left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. Da sharp jut of a wall accounted fo' tha detachment of tha wheel, which was now gettin considerable attention from half a thugged-out dozen curious chauffeurs. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat as they had left they rides blockin tha road, a harsh, discordant din from dem up in tha rear had been audible fo' some time, n' added ta tha already violent mad drama of tha scene.

A playa up in a long-ass dusta had dismounted from tha wreck n' now stood up in tha middle of tha road, lookin from tha hoopty ta tha tire n' from tha tire ta tha observers up in a pleasant, puzzled way.

“See!” he explained. “It went up in tha ditch.”

Da fact was infinitely astonishin ta him, n' I recognized first tha unusual qualitizzle of wonder, n' then tha playa — dat shiznit was tha late patron of Gatsby’s library.

“How’d it happen?”

idiot shrugged his shoulders.

“I know not a god damn thang whatever bout mechanics,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd decisively.

“But how tha fuck done did it happen, biatch? Did yo dirty ass run tha fuck into tha wall?” “Don’t ask me,” holla'd Owl Eyes, washin his handz of tha whole matter n' shit. “I know straight-up lil bout rollin — next ta nothing. Well shiiiit, it happened, n' that’s all I know.”

“Well, if you’re a skanky driver you oughtn’t ta try rollin at night.”

“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even trying.”

An awed hush fell tha fuck upon tha bystanders.

“Do you wanna commit suicide?”

“You’re dirty dat shiznit was just a wheel! A shitty driver n' not even trying!”

“Yo ass don’t understand,” explained tha criminal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. “I wasn’t driving. There’s another playa up in tha car.”

Da shock dat followed dis declaration found voice up in a sustained “Ah-h-h!” as tha door of tha coupe swung slowly open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da crowd — dat shiznit was now a cold-ass lil crowd — stepped back involuntarily, n' when tha door had opened wide there was a pimply pause. Then, straight-up gradually, part by part, a pale, danglin individual stepped outta tha wreck, pawin tentatively all up in tha ground wit a big-ass uncertain ridin' dirty shoe.

Blinded by tha glare of tha headlights n' trippin by tha incessant groanin of tha horns, tha apparizzle stood swayin fo' a moment before he perceived tha playa up in tha duster.

“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?”

“Look!”

Half a thugged-out dozen fingers pointed all up in tha amputated wheel — da perved-out muthafucka stared at it fo' a moment, n' then looked upward as though da perved-out muthafucka suspected dat it had dropped from tha sky.

“It came off,” some one explained.

He nodded.

“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.”

A pause. Then, takin a long-ass breath n' straightenin his shoulders, he remarked up in a thugged-out determined voice:

“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?”

At least a thugged-out dozen men, a shitload of dem lil betta off than da thug was, explained ta his ass dat wheel n' hoopty was no longer joined by any physical bond.

“Back out,” da perved-out muthafucka suggested afta a moment. “Put her up in reverse.”

“But tha wheel’s off!”

He hesitated.

“No harm up in trying,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Da caterwaulin horns had reached a cold-ass lil crescendo n' I turned away n' cut across tha lawn toward home. I glanced back once fo' realz. A wafer of a moon was shinin over Gatsby’s house, makin tha night fine as before, n' survivin tha laughta n' tha sound of his still glowin garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A sudden emptinizz seemed ta flow now from tha windows n' tha pimped out doors, endowin wit complete isolation tha figure of tha host, whoz ass stood on tha porch, his hand up in a gangbangin' formal gesture of farewell.

Readin over what tha fuck I have freestyled so far, I peep I have given tha impression dat tha eventz of three nights nuff muthafuckin weeks apart was all dat absorbed mah dirty ass. On tha contrary, they was merely casual events up in a cold-ass lil crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed mah crazy ass infinitely less than mah underground affairs.

Most of tha time I worked. In tha early mornin tha sun threw mah shadow westsideward as I hurried down tha white chasmz of lower New York ta tha Probitizzle Trust. I knew tha other clerks n' lil' bond-salesmen by they first names, n' lunched wit dem up in dark, crowded restaurants on lil pig sausages n' mashed potatoes n' coffee. I even had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short affair wit a hoe whoz ass lived up in Jersey Citizzle n' hit dat shiznit up in tha accountin department yo, but her brutha fuckin started throwin mean looks up in mah direction, so when dat biiiiatch went on her vacation up in July I let it blow on tha fuckin' down-lowly away.

I took dinner probably all up in tha Yale Club — fo' some reason dat shiznit was tha gloomiest event of mah dizzle — n' then I went up-stairs ta tha library n' studied investments n' securitizzles fo' a cold-ass lil conscientious hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There was generally all dem riotas around yo, but they never came tha fuck into tha library, so dat shiznit was a phat place ta work fo' realz. Afta that, if tha night was mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past tha oldschool Murray Hill Hotel, n' over 33rd Street ta tha Pennsylvania Station.

I fuckin started ta like New York, tha racy, adventurous feel of it at night, n' tha satisfaction dat tha constant flicker of pimps n' dem hoes n' machines gives ta tha restless eye. I was horny bout ta strutt up Fifth Avenue n' pick up horny-ass dem hoes from tha crowd n' imagine dat up in all dem minutes I was goin ta enta tha fuck into they lives, n' no one would eva know or disapprove. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes, up in mah mind, I followed dem ta they cribs on tha cornerz of hidden streets, n' they turned n' smiled back all up in mah grill before they faded all up in a thugged-out door tha fuck into warm darknizz fo' realz. At tha enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a hustlin lonelinizz sometimes, n' felt it up in others — skanky lil' clerks whoz ass loitered up in front of windows waitin until dat shiznit was time fo' a solitary restaurant dinner — lil' clerks up in tha dusk, wastin da most thugged-out poignant momentz of night n' game.

Again at eight o’clock, when tha dark lanez of tha Fortizzles was five deep wit throbbin taxi-cabs, bound fo' tha theatre district, I felt a sinkin up in mah ass. Forms leaned together up in tha taxis as they waited, n' voices sang, n' there was laughta from unheard jokes, n' lighted blunts outlined unintelligible 70 gestures inside. Imaginin dat I, too, was hurryin toward gayety n' pluggin they intimate excitement, I wished dem well.

For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, n' then up in midsummer I found her again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At first I was flattered ta go places wit her, cuz dat biiiiatch was a golf champion, n' every last muthafuckin one knew her name. Then dat shiznit was suttin' mo' n' mo' n' mo'. I wasn’t straight-up up in ludd yo, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. Da bugged out haughty grill dat dat dunkadelic hoe turned ta tha ghetto concealed suttin' — most affectations conceal suttin' eventually, even though they don’t up in tha beginnin — n' one dizzle I found what tha fuck it was. When we was on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a funky-ass borrowed hoopty up in tha drizzle wit tha top down, n' then lied bout it — n' suddenly I remembered tha rap bout her dat had eluded mah crazy ass dat night at Daisy’s fo' realz. At her first big-ass golf tournament there was a row dat nearly reached tha newspapers — a suggestion dat dat freaky freaky biatch had moved her bizzle from a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass lie up in tha semi-final round. Da thang approached tha proportionz of a scandal — then took a dirt nap away fo' realz. A caddy retracted his statement, n' tha only other witnizz admitted dat he might done been mistaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da incident n' tha name had remained together up in mah mind.

Jordan Baker instinctively avoided def, shrewd men, n' now I saw dat dis was cuz she felt less thuggy on a plane where any divergence from a cold-ass lil code would be thought impossible. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was incurably dishonest. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wasn’t able ta endure bein at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disadvantage and, given dis unwillingness, I suppose dat freaky freaky biatch had begun dealin up in subterfuges when dat biiiiatch was straight-up lil' up in order ta keep dat cool, insolent smile turned ta tha ghetto n' yet satisfy tha demandz of her hard, jaunty body.

It made no difference ta mah dirty ass. Dishonesty up in a biatch be a thang you never blame deeply — I was casually sorry, n' then I forgot. Dat shiznit was on dat same doggy den jam dat our crazy asses had a cold-ass lil curious conversation bout rollin a cold-ass lil car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Well shiiiit, it started cuz she passed so close ta some workmen dat our fender flicked a funky-ass button on one man’s coat.

“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Either you ought ta be mo' careful, or you oughtn’t ta drive at all.”

“I be careful.”

“Fuck dat shit, you’re not.”

“Well, other playas are,” her big-ass booty holla'd lightly.

“What’s dat gots ta do wit it?”

“They’ll keep outta mah way,” she insisted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “It takes two ta cook up a accident.”

“Suppose you kicked it wit some muthafucka just as careless as yo ass.”

“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I don't give a fuck bout careless people. That’s why I wanna bust a nut on you, biatch.”

Her gray, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had deliberately shifted our relations, n' fo' a moment I thought I loved her n' shit. But I be slow-thankin n' full of interior rulez dat act as brakes on mah desires, n' I knew dat first I had ta git mah dirty ass definitely outta dat tangle back home. I’d been freestylin lettas once a week n' signin them: “Love, Nick,” n' all I could be thinkin of was how, when dat certain hoe played tennis, a gangbangin' faint mustache of perspiration rocked up on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague understandin dat had ta be tactfully fucked up off before I was free.

Every one suspects his dirty ass of at least one of tha cardinal virtues, n' dis is mine: I be one of tha few real playas dat I have eva known. Chapta 4

On Sundizzle mornin while church bells rang up in tha villages alongshore, tha ghetto n' its mistress moonwalked back ta Gatsby’s doggy den n' twinkled hilariously on his fuckin lawn.

“He’s a funky-ass bootlegger,” holla'd tha lil' ladies, movin somewhere between his cocktails n' his wild lil' flowers. “One time he capped a playa whoz ass had found up dat da thug was nephew ta Von Hindenburg n' second cousin ta tha devil. Reach me a rose, honey, n' pour me a last drop tha fuck into dat there crystal glass.”

Once I freestyled down on tha empty spacez of a time-table tha namez of dem playas whoz ass came ta Gatsby’s doggy den dat summer n' shit. Well shiiiit, it be a oldschool time-table now, disintegratin at its folds, n' headed “This schedule up in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read tha gray names, n' they will hit you wit a funky-ass betta impression than mah generalitizzlez of dem playas whoz ass accepted Gatsby’s hospitizzleitizzle n' paid his ass tha subtle tribute of knowin not a god damn thang whatever bout his muthafuckin ass.

From Eastside Egg, then, came tha Chesta Beckers n' tha Leeches, n' a playa named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, n' Doctor Websta Civet, whoz ass was drowned last summer up in Maine fo' realz. And tha Hornbeams n' tha Willie Voltaires, n' a whole clan named Blackbuck, whoz ass always gathered up in a cold-ass lil corner n' flipped up they noses like goats at whosoever came near fo' realz. And tha Ismays n' tha Chrystizzles (or rather Hubert Auerbach n' Mista Muthafuckin Chrystie’s hoe), n' Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winta afternoon fo' no phat reason at all.

Clarence Endive was from Eastside Egg, as I remember n' shiznit yo. idiot came only once, up in white knickerbockers, n' had a gangbangin' fight wit a funky-ass bum named Etty up in tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. From farther up on tha Island came tha Cheadlez n' tha O. R. P. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Schraeders, n' tha Stonewall Jackson Abramz of Georgia, n' tha Fishguardz n' tha Ripley Snells. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snell was there three minutes before da thug went ta tha penitentiary, so faded up on tha gravel drive dat Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his bangin right hand. Da Dancies came, too, n' S. B. Whitebait, whoz ass was well over sixty, n' Maurice A. Flink, n' tha Hammerheads, n' Beluga tha bluntz importer, n' Beluga’s hoes.

From Westside Egg came tha Polez n' tha Mulreadys n' Cecil Roebuck n' Cecil Schoen n' Gulick tha state senator n' Newton Orchid, whoz ass controlled Films Par Excellence, n' Eckhaust n' Clyde Cohen n' Don S. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Schwartze (the son) n' Arthur McCarty, all connected wit tha pornos up in one way or another n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha Catlips n' tha Bembergs n' G. Earl Muldoon, brutha ta dat Muldoon whoz ass afterward strangled his hoe. Da Fontano tha promota came there, n' Ed Legros n' Jizzy B. (“Rot-Gut.”) Ferret n' tha De Jongs n' Ernest Lil' Willy — they came ta gamble, n' when Ferret wandered tha fuck into tha garden it meant da thug was cleaned up n' Associated Traction would gotta fluctuate profitably next day.

A playa named Klipspringer was there so often n' so long dat his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became known as “the boarder.”— I doubt if dat schmoooove muthafucka had any other home. Of theatrical playas there was Gus Waize n' Horace O’donavan n' Lesta Meyer n' George Duckweed n' Frankie Bull fo' realz. Also from New York was tha Chromes n' tha Backhyssons n' tha Dennickers n' Russel Betty n' tha Corrigans n' tha Kellehers n' tha Dewars n' tha Scullys n' S. W. Belcher n' tha Smirkes n' tha lil' Quinns, divorced now, n' Henry L. Palmetto, whoz ass capped his dirty ass by jumpin up in front of a subway train up in Times Square.

Benny McClenahan arrived always wit four hoes. They was never like tha same ones up in physical thug yo, but they was so identical one wit another dat it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten they names — Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, n' they last names was either tha melodious namez of flowers n' months or tha sterner onez of tha pimped out Gangsta capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess theyselves ta be.

In addizzle ta all these I can remember dat Faustina O’Brien came there at least once n' tha Baedeker hoes n' lil' Brewer, whoz ass had his nozzle blasted off up in tha war, n' Mista Muthafuckin fo' realz. Albrucksburger n' Miss Haag, his wild lil' fiancee, n' Ardita Fitz-Petas n' Mista Muthafuckin P. Jewett, once head of tha Gangsta Legion, n' Miss Claudia Hip, wit a playa reputed ta be her chauffeur, n' a pimp of something, whom we called Duke, n' whose name, if I eva knew it, I have forgotten.

All these playas came ta Gatsby’s doggy den up in tha summer.

At nine o’clock, one mornin late up in July, Gatsby’s pimpin' hoopty lurched up tha rocky drive ta mah door n' gave up a funky-ass burst of melody from its three-noted horn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was tha last time dat schmoooove muthafucka had called on me, though I had gone ta two of his thugged-out lil' parties, mounted up in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.

“Dope morning, oldschool sport. You’re havin lunch wit me to-dizzle n' I thought we’d ride up together.”

idiot was balancin his dirty ass on tha dashboard of his hoopty wit dat resourcefulnizz of movement dat is so peculiarly Gangsta — dat comes, I suppose, wit tha absence of liftin work or rigid chillin up in youth and, even more, wit tha formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This qualitizzle was continually breakin all up in his thugged-out lil' punctilious manner up in tha shape of restlessnizz yo. idiot was never like still; there was always a tappin foot somewhere or tha impatient openin n' closin of a hand.

He saw me lookin wit admiration at his 4-banger.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it, oldschool sport?” The dude jumped off ta break me off a funky-ass betta view. “Haven’t you eva peeped it before?”

I’d peeped dat shit. All Y'all had peeped dat shit. Dat shiznit was a rich cream color, bright wit nickel, swollen here n' there up in its monstrous length wit triumphant hat-boxes n' supper-boxes n' tool-boxes, n' terraced wit a labyrinth of wind-shieldz dat mirrored a thugged-out dozen suns. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin down behind nuff layerz of glass up in a sort of chronic leather conservatory, we started ta town.

I had talked wit his ass like half a thugged-out dozen times up in tha past month n' found, ta mah disappointment, dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had lil ta say: So mah first impression, dat da thug was a thug of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had become simply tha proprietor of a elaborate road-house next door.

And then came dat disconcertin ride. Our thugged-out asses hadn’t reached Westside Egg hood before Gatsby fuckin started leavin his wild lil' fuckin elegant sentences unfinished n' slappin his dirty ass indecisively on tha knee of his caramel-colored suit.

“Look here, oldschool sport,” his thugged-out lil' punk-ass broke up surprisingly. “What’s yo' opinion of me, anyhow?” A lil overwhelmed, I fuckin started tha generalized evasions which dat question deserves.

“Well, I’m goin ta rap suttin' bout mah game,” he interrupted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “I don’t want you ta git a wack scam of me from all these stories you hear.”

Yo, so da thug was aware of tha bizarre accusations dat flavored conversation up in his halls.

“I’ll rap God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution ta stand by. “I be tha lil hustla of some wealthy playas up in tha Middle Westside — all dead now, nahmeean, biatch? I was brought up in Tha Ghetto but constipated at Oxford, cuz all mah ancestors done been constipated there fo' nuff years. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a cold-ass lil crew tradition.”

idiot looked all up in mah grill sideways — n' I knew why Jordan Baker had believed da thug was lyin yo. He hurried tha phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered his ass before fo' realz. And wit dis doubt, his whole statement fell tha fuck ta pieces, n' I wondered if there wasn’t suttin' a lil sinista bout him, afta all.

“What part of tha Middle West?” I inquired casually.

“San Frankieco.”

“I see.”

“My fuckin crew all took a dirt nap n' I came tha fuck into a phat deal of scrilla.”

His voice was solemn, as if tha memory of dat sudden extinction of a cold-ass lil clan still hustled his muthafuckin ass. For a moment I suspected dat da thug was pullin mah leg yo, but a glizzle at his ass convinced mah crazy ass otherwise.

“Afta dat I lived like a lil' rajah up in all tha capitalz of Europe — Paris, Venice, Rome — collectin jewels, chizzlely rubies, hustlin big-ass game, paintin a lil, thangs fo' mah dirty ass only, n' tryin ta forget suttin' straight-up fucked up dat had happened ta me long ago.”

With a effort I managed ta restrain mah incredulous laughter n' shit. Da straight-up phrases was worn so threadbare dat they evoked no image except dat of a turbaned “character” leakin sawdust at every last muthafuckin pore as he pursued a tiger all up in tha Bois de Boulogne.

“Then came tha war, oldschool sport. Dat shiznit was a pimped out relief, n' I tried straight-up hard ta die yo, but I seemed ta bear a enchanted game. I accepted a cold-ass lil commission as first lieutenant when it fuckin started. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha Argonne Forest I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward dat there was a half mile gap on either side of our asses where tha infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two minutes n' two nights, a hundred n' thirty pimps wit sixteen Lewis guns, n' when tha infantry came up at last they found tha insignia of three German divisions among tha pilez of dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was promoted ta be a major, n' every last muthafuckin Allied posse gave me a thugged-out decoration — even Montenegro, lil Montenegro down on tha Adriatic Sea!”

Little Montenegro! idiot lifted up tha lyrics n' nodded at dem — wit his smile. Da smile comprehended Montenegro’s shitd history n' sympathized wit tha brave strugglez of tha Montenegrin people. Well shiiiit, it appreciated straight-up tha chain of nationistic circumstances which had elicited dis tribute from Montenegro’s warm lil ass. My fuckin incredulitizzle was submerged up in fascination now; dat shiznit was like skimmin hastily all up in a thugged-out dozen magazines.

idiot reached up in his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell tha fuck into mah palm.

“That’s tha one from Montenegro.”

To mah astonishment, tha thang had a authentic look.

“Orderi di Danilo,” ran tha circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.”

“Turn dat shit.”

“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.”

“Here’s another thang I always carry fo' realz. A souvenir of Oxford days. Dat shiznit was taken up in Trinitizzle Quad — tha playa on mah left is now tha Earl of Dorcaster.”

Dat shiznit was a photograph of half a thugged-out dozen lil' pimps up in blazers loafin up in a archway all up in which was visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, lookin a lil, not much, younger — wit a cold-ass lil cricket bat up in his hand.

Then dat shiznit was all true. I saw tha skinz of tigers flamin up in his thugged-out lil' palace on tha Grand Canal; I saw his ass openin a cold-ass lil chest of rubies ta ease, wit they crimson-lighted depths, tha gnawingz of his wild lil' fucked up ass.

“I’m goin ta cook up a funky-ass big-ass request of y'all to-day,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pocketin his souvenirs wit satisfaction, “so I thought you ought ta know suttin' bout mah dirty ass. I didn’t want you ta be thinkin I was just some no muthafucka. Yo ass see, I probably find mah dirty ass among strangers cuz I drift here n' there tryin ta forget tha fucked up thang dat happened ta mah dirty ass.” Dude hesitated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “You’ll hear bout it dis afternoon.”

“At lunch?”

“Fuck dat shit, dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I happened ta smoke up dat you’re takin Miss Baker ta tea.”

“Do you mean you’re up in ludd wit Miss Baker?”

“Fuck dat shit, oldschool sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented ta drop a rhyme ta you bout dis matter.”

I hadn’t tha faintest scam what tha fuck “this matter” was yo, but I was mo' annoyed than interested. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. I hadn’t axed Jordan ta chronic up in order ta say shit bout Mista Muthafuckin Jay Gatsby. I was shizzle tha request would be suttin' utterly dunkadelic, n' fo' a moment I was sorry I’d eva set foot upon his overpopulated lawn.

idiot wouldn’t say another word. His erectnizz grew on his ass as we neared tha hood. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-goin ships, n' sped along a cold-ass lil cobbled slum lined wit tha dark, undeserted saloonz of tha faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then tha valley of ashes opened up on both sidez of us, n' I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson strainin all up in tha garage pump wit pantin vitalitizzle as we went by.

With fendaz spread like wings we scattered light all up in half Long Island Citizzle — only half, fo' as we twisted among tha pillarz of tha elevated I heard tha familiar “jug — jug — spat!” of a motorcycle, n' a gangbangin' frantic policeman rode alongside.

“All right, oldschool sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Takin a white card from his wallet, da thug waved it before tha man’s eyes.

“Right yo ass is,” agreed tha policeman, tippin his cap. “Know you next time, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby. Excuse me!”

“What was that?” I inquired.

“Da picture of Oxford?”

“I was able ta do tha commissioner a gangbangin' favor once, n' da perved-out muthafucka sendz me a Chrizzle card every last muthafuckin year.”

Over tha pimped out bridge, wit tha sunlight all up in tha girdaz bustin a cold-ass lil constant flicker upon tha movin cars, wit tha hood risin up across tha river up in white heaps n' sugar lumps all built wit a wish outta non-olfactory scrilla. Da hood peeped from tha Biatchsboro Bridge be always tha hood peeped fo' tha last time, up in its first wild promise of all tha mystery n' tha beauty up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

A dead playa passed our asses up in a hearse heaped wit blooms, followed by two carriages wit drawn blinds, n' by mo' cheerful carriages fo' playas. Da playaz looked up at our asses wit tha tragic eyes n' short upper lipz of southeastern Europe, n' I was glad dat tha sight of Gatsby’s splendid hoopty was included up in they sombre holiday. It make me wanna hollar playa! As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, up in which sat three modish blacks, two bucks n' a girl. I laughed aloud as tha yolkz of they eyeballs rolled toward our asses up in haughty rivalry.

“Anythang can happen now dat we’ve slid over dis bridge,” I thought; “anythang at all. . . . ”

Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.

Roarin noon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I kicked it wit Gatsby fo' lunch. Blinkin away tha brightnizz of tha street outside, mah eyes picked his ass up obscurely up in tha anteroom, poppin' off ta another man.

“Mista Muthafuckin Carraway, dis is mah playa Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim.”

Afta a moment I discovered his cold-ass tiny eyes up in tha half-darkness.

“— So I took one peep him,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, bobbin mah hand earnestly, “and what tha fuck do you be thinkin I did?”

“What?” I inquired politely.

But evidently da thug was not addressin me, fo' da ruffneck dropped mah hand n' covered Gatsby wit his wild lil' fuckin expressive nose.

“I handed tha scrilla ta Katspaugh n' I holla'd: ‘all right, Katspaugh, don’t pay his ass a penny till da perved-out muthafucka shuts his crazy-ass grill.’ idiot shut it then n' there.”

Gatsby took a arm of each of our asses n' moved forward tha fuck into tha restaurant, whereupon Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim swallowed a freshly smoked up sentence da thug was startin n' lapsed tha fuck into a somnambulatory abstraction.

“Highballs?” axed tha head waiter.

“This be a sick restaurant here,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, lookin all up in tha Presbyterian nymphs on tha ceiling. “But I wanna bust a nut on across tha street better!”

“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, n' then ta Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim: “It’s too bangin' over there.”

“Hot n' lil' small-ass — fo'sho,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, “but full of memories.”

“What place is that?” I asked.

“Da oldschool Metropole.

“Da oldschool Metropole,” brooded Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim gloomily. “Filled wit faces dead n' gone. Filled wit playaz gone now forever n' shit. I can’t forget so long as I live tha night they blasted Rosy Rosenthal there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Dat shiznit was six of our asses all up in tha table, n' Rosy had smoke n' faded a shitload all evening. When dat shiznit was almost mornin tha waita came up ta his ass wit a gangbangin' funky look n' say some muthafucka wants ta drop a rhyme ta his ass outside. ‘All right,’ say Rosy, n' begins ta git up, n' I pulled his ass down up in his chair.

“‘Let tha bastardz come up in here if they want you, Rosy yo, but don’t you, so help me, move outside dis room.’

“Dat shiznit was four o’clock up in tha mornin then, n' if we’d of raised tha blindz we’d of peeped daylight.”

“Did he go?” I axed innocently.

“Sure da thug went.” Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim’s nozzle flashed all up in mah grill indignantly. “idiot turned round up in tha door n' says: ‘Don’t let dat waita take away mah coffee!’ Then da thug went up on tha sidewalk, n' they blasted his ass three times up in his wild lil' full belly n' drove away.”

“Four of dem was electrocuted,” I holla'd, remembering.

“Five, wit Becker.” His nostrils turned ta me up in a interested way. “I KNOW you’re lookin fo' a funky-ass bidnizz gonnegtion.”

Da juxtaposizzle of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered fo' me:

“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t tha man.”

“No?” Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim seemed pissed tha fuck off.

“This is just a gangbangin' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. I holla'd at you we’d rap bout dat some other time.”

“I beg yo' pardon,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, “I had a wack man.”

A succulent hash arrived, n' Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, forgettin tha mo' sentimenstrual atmosphere of tha oldschool Metropole, fuckin started ta smoke wit ferocious delicacy yo. His eyes, meanwhile, roved straight-up slowly all round tha room — his schmoooove ass completed tha arc by turnin ta inspect tha playas directly behind. I be thinkin that, except fo' mah presence, da thug would have taken one short glizzle beneath our own table.

“Look here, oldschool sport,” holla'd Gatsby, leanin toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a lil mad salty dis mornin up in tha car.”

There was tha smile again yo, but dis time I held up against dat shit.

“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered. “And I don’t KNOW why you won’t come up frankly n' tell me what tha fuck you want. Why has all dat shiznit gots ta come all up in Miss Baker?”

“Oh, it’s not a god damn thang underhand,” he assured mah dirty ass. “Miss Baker’s a pimped out gamewoman, you know, n' she’d never do anythang dat wasn’t all right.”

Yo, suddenly he looked at his thugged-out lil' peep it, jumped up, n' hurried from tha room, leavin me wit Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim all up in tha table.

“idiot has ta telephone,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim, followin his ass wit his wild lil' fuckin eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he, biatch? Handsome ta peep n' a slick gentleman.”

“Yes yes y'all.”

“He’s a Oggsford man.”

“Oh!”

“idiot went ta Oggsford College up in England. Yo ass know Oggsford College?”

“I’ve heard of dat shit.”

“It’s one of da most thugged-out hyped colleges up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.”

“Has you done known Gatsby fo' a long-ass time?” I inquired.

“Several years,” he answered up in a gratified way. “I made tha pleasure of his thugged-out acquaintizzle just afta tha war. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But I knew I had discovered a playa of fine humpin afta I talked wit his ass a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I holla'd ta mah dirty ass: ‘There’s tha kind of playa you’d like ta take home n' introduce ta yo' mutha n' sister.’.” HE paused. “I peep you’re lookin at mah cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been lookin at dem yo, but I did now, nahmeean?

They was composed of oddly familiar piecez of ivory.

“Finest specimenz of human molars,” he informed mah dirty ass.

“Well!” I inspected dem wild-ass muthafuckas. “That’s a straight-up bangin-ass idea.”

“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s straight-up careful bout dem hoes. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would never so much as peep a gangbangin' playa’s hoe.”

When tha subject of dis instinctizzle trust moonwalked back ta tha table n' sat down Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim drank his wild lil' fruity-ass malt liquor wit a jerk n' gots ta his Nikes.

“I have enjoyed mah lunch,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, “and I’m goin ta run off from you two lil' pimps before I outstay mah welcome.”

“Don’t hurry, Meyer,” holla'd Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim raised his hand up in a sort of benediction.

“You’re straight-up polite yo, but I belong ta another generation,” he announced solemnly. “Yo ass sit here n' say shit bout yo' game n' yo' lil' ladies n' yo' ——” idiot supplied a imaginary noun wit another wave of his hand. “As fo' me, I be fifty muthafuckin years old, n' I won’t impose mah dirty ass on you any longer.”

As da perved-out muthafucka shook handz n' turned away his cold-ass tragic nozzle was trembling. I wondered if I had holla'd anythang ta offend his muthafuckin ass.

“He becomes straight-up sentimenstrual sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimenstrual days yo. He’s like a cold-ass lil characta round New York — a thugged-out denizen of Broadway.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is he, anyhow, a hustla?”

“No.”

“A fuckin' dentist?”

“Meyer Wolfsheim, biatch? Fuck dat shit, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: “He’s tha playa whoz ass fixed tha World’s Series back up in 1919.”

“Fixed tha World’s Series?” I repeated.

Da scam staggered mah dirty ass. I remembered, of course, dat tha World’s Series had been fixed up in 1919 yo, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thang dat merely happened, tha end of some inevitable chain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it never occurred ta me dat one playa could start ta fuck wit tha faith of fifty mazillion playas — wit tha single-mindednizz of a funky-ass burglar blowin a safe.

“How tha fuck did dat schmoooove muthafucka happen ta do that?” I axed afta a minute.

“He just saw tha opportunity.”

“Why isn’t he on lockdown?”

“They can’t git him, oldschool shiznit yo. He’s a smart-ass man.”

I insisted on payin tha check fo' realz. As tha waita brought mah chizzle I caught sight of Tomothy Buchanan across tha crowded room.

“Come along wit me fo' a minute,” I holla'd; “I’ve gots ta say wassup ta some one.” When da perved-out muthafucka saw our asses Tomothy jumped up n' took half a thugged-out dozen steps up in our direction.

“Where’ve you been?” da ruffneck demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious cuz you haven’t called up.”

“This is Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby, Mista Muthafuckin Buchanan.”

They shook handz briefly, n' a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face.

“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tomothy of mah dirty ass. “How’d you happen ta come up dis far ta eat?”

“I’ve been havin lunch wit Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby.”

I turned toward Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby yo, but da thug was no longer there.

One October dizzle up in nineteen-seventeen ——

(said Jordan Baker dat afternoon, chillin up straight-up straight on a straight chair up in tha tea-garden all up in tha Plaza Hotel)

— I was struttin along from one place ta another, half on tha sidewalks n' half on tha lawns. I was happier on tha lawns cuz I had on Nikes from England wit rubber nobs on tha solez dat bit tha fuck into tha soft ground. I had on a freshly smoked up plaid skirt also dat blew a lil up in tha wind, n' whenever dis happened tha red, white, n' blue banners up in front of all tha houses stretched up stiff n' holla'd tut-tut-tut-tut, up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disapprovin way.

Da phattest of tha banners n' tha phattest of tha lawns belonged ta Dizzy Fay’s house. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was just eighteen, two muthafuckin years olda than me, n' by far da most thugged-out ghettofab of all tha lil' hoes up in Louisville. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch dressed up in white, n' had a lil white roadster, n' all dizzle long tha telephone rang up in her doggy den n' buckwild lil' fools from Camp Tay-Tay demanded tha privilege of monopolizin her dat night. “Anyways, fo' a hour!”

When I came opposite her doggy den dat mornin her white roadsta was beside tha curb, n' dat biiiiatch was chillin up in it wit a lieutenant I had never peeped before. They was so engrossed up in each other dat her dope ass didn’t peep me until I was five feet away.

“Yo muthafucka, Jordan,” dat thugged-out biiiatch called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”

I was flattered dat dat biiiiatch wanted ta drop a rhyme ta me, cuz of all tha olda hoes I admired her most. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch axed mah crazy ass if I was goin ta tha Red Cross n' make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell dem dat dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn’t come dat day, biatch? Da fool looked at Dizzy while dat biiiiatch was bustin lyrics, up in a way dat every last muthafuckin lil' hoe wants ta be looked at sometime, n' cuz it seemed horny-ass ta me I have remembered tha incident eva since yo. His name was Jay Gatsby, n' I didn’t lay eyes on his ass again n' again n' again fo' over four muthafuckin years — even afta I’d kicked it wit his ass on Long Island I didn’t realize dat shiznit was tha same ol' dirty man.

That was nineteen-seventeen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. By tha next year I had all dem beaux mah dirty ass, n' I fuckin started ta play up in tournaments, so I didn’t peep Dizzy straight-up often. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch went wit a slightly olda crowd — when dat biiiiatch went wit mah playas at all. Wild rumors was circulatin bout her — how tha fuck her mutha had found her packin her bag one winta night ta git all up in New York n' say good-by ta a soldier whoz ass was goin overseas. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was effectually prevented yo, but dat biiiiatch wasn’t on bustin lyrics terms wit her crew fo' nuff muthafuckin weeks fo' realz. Afta dat her dope ass didn’t play round wit tha soldiers any mo' yo, but only wit all dem flat-footed, short-sighted lil' pimps up in town, whoz ass couldn’t git tha fuck into tha army at all.

By tha next autumn dat biiiiatch was gay again, gay as eva n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a thugged-out debut afta tha Armistice, n' up in February dat biiiiatch was presumably engaged ta a playa from New Orleans. In June she hooked up Tomothy Buchanan of Chicago, wit mo' pomp n' circumstizzle than Louisville eva knew before yo. idiot came down wit a hundred playas up in four private cars, n' hired a whole floor of tha Muhlbach Hotel, n' tha dizzle before tha weddin he gave her a strang of pearls valued at three hundred n' fifty thousand dollars.

I was bridesmaid. I came tha fuck into her room half a minute before tha bridal dinner, n' found her lyin on her bed as ghettofab as tha June night up in her flowered dress — n' as faded as a monkey. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a funky-ass forty of Sauterne up in one hand n' a letta up in tha other.

“’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a thugged-out drank before yo, but oh how tha fuck I do trip off dat shit.”

“What’s tha matter, Daisy?”

I was scared, I can rap ; I’d never peeped a hoe like dat before.

“Here, deares’.” Biatch groped round up in a waste-basket dat freaky freaky biatch had wit her on tha bed n' pulled up tha strang of pearls. “Take ’em down-stairs n' give ’em back ta whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s chizzle’ her mine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Say: ‘Daisy’s chizzle’ her mine!’.”

Yo, she fuckin started ta cry — dat thugged-out biiiatch cried n' cried. I rushed up n' found her mother’s maid, n' our slick asses locked tha door n' gots her tha fuck into a cold-ass lil cold bath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wouldn’t let go of tha letter n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch took it tha fuck into tha tub wit her n' squeezed it up tha fuck into a wet ball, n' only let me leave it up in tha soap-dish when her big-ass booty saw dat dat shiznit was comin ta pieces like snow.

But her dope ass didn’t say another word. We gave her spiritz of ammonia n' put ice on her forehead n' hooked her back tha fuck into her dress, n' half a minute later, when we strutted outta tha room, tha pearls was round her neck n' tha incident was over n' shit. Next dizzle at five o’clock she hooked up Tomothy Buchanan without so much as a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shiver, n' started off on a three months’ trip ta tha Downtown Seas.

I saw dem up in Gangsta Barbara when they came back, n' I thought I’d never peeped a hoe so mad bout her homeboy. If he left tha room fo' a minute she’d look round uneasily, n' say: “Where’s Tomothy gone?” n' wear da most thugged-out abstracted expression until her big-ass booty saw his ass comin up in tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch used ta sit on tha sand wit his head up in her lap by tha hour, rubbin her fingers over his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' lookin at his ass wit unfathomable delight. Dat shiznit was touchin ta peep dem together — it made you laugh up in a hushed, fascinated way. That was up in August fo' realz. A week afta I left Gangsta Barbara Tomothy ran tha fuck into a wagon on tha Ventura road one night, n' ripped a gangbangin' front wheel off his car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da hoe whoz ass was wit his ass gots tha fuck into tha papers, too, cuz her arm was fucked up — dat biiiiatch was one of tha chambermaidz up in tha Gangsta Barbara Hotel.

Da next April Dizzy had her lil girl, n' they went ta Frizzle fo' a year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I saw dem one sprang up in Cannes, n' lata up in Deauville, n' then they came back ta Chicago ta settle down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dizzy was ghettofab up in Chicago, as you know. They moved wit a gangbangin' fast crowd, all of dem lil' n' rich n' wild yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch came up wit a straight-up slick reputation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Perhaps cuz her dope ass don’t drink. It’s a pimped out advantage not ta drank among hard-drankin people. Yo ass can git freaky wit yo' tongue, and, moreover, you can time any lil irregularitizzle of yo' own so dat dem hoes else is so blind dat they don’t peep or care. Perhaps Dizzy never went up in fo' amour at all — n' yet there’s suttin' up in dat voice of hers. . ..

Well, bout six weeks ago, dat freaky freaky biatch heard tha name Gatsby fo' tha last time up in years. Dat shiznit was when I axed you — do you remember, biatch? — if you knew Gatsby up in Westside Egg fo' realz. Afta you had gone home dat thugged-out biiiatch came tha fuck into mah room n' woke me up, n' holla'd: “What Gatsby?” n' when I busted lyrics bout his ass — I was half asleep — her big-ass booty holla'd up in tha strangest voice dat it must be tha playa she used ta know. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t until then dat I connected dis Gatsby wit tha fool up in her white car.

When Jordan Baker had finished spittin some lyrics ta all dis our crazy asses had left tha Plaza fo' half a minute n' was rollin up in a victoria all up in Central Park. Da sun had gone down behind tha tall cribz of tha porno stars up in tha Westside Fifties, n' tha clear voicez of girls, already gathered like crickets on tha grass, rose all up in tha bangin' twilight:

“I’m tha Sheik of Araby.

Yo crazy-ass ludd belongs ta mah dirty ass.

At night when you’re is asleep

Into yo' tent I’ll creep ——”

“Dat shiznit was a strange coincidence,” I holla'd.

“But it wasn’t a cold-ass lil coincidence at all.”

“Why not?”

“Gatsby looted dat doggy den so dat Dizzy would be just across tha bay.”

Then it had not been merely tha stars ta which dat schmoooove muthafucka had aspired on dat June night yo. idiot came kickin it ta me, served up suddenly from tha womb of his thugged-out lil' purposeless splendor.

“idiot wants ta know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Dizzy ta yo' doggy den some afternoon n' then let his ass come over.”

Da modesty of tha demand shook mah dirty ass yo. idiot had waited five muthafuckin years n' looted a mansion where da ruffneck dispensed starlight ta casual moths — so dat his schmoooove ass could “come over” some afternoon ta a stranger’s garden.

“Did I gotta know all dis before his schmoooove ass could ask such a lil thang?”

“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long yo. idiot thought you might be offended. Yo ass see, he’s a regular tough underneath it all.”

Yo, somethang worried mah dirty ass.

“Why didn’t he ask you ta arrange a meeting?”

“idiot wants her ta peep his house,” she explained. “And yo' doggy den is right next door.”

“Oh!”

“I be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka half expected her ta wander tha fuck into one of his thugged-out lil' parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never done did. Then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started askin playas casually if they knew her, n' I was tha straight-up original gangsta one he found. Dat shiznit was dat night da perved-out muthafucka busted fo' me at his fuckin lil' dance, n' you should have heard tha elaborate way da thug hit dat shiznit up ta dat shit. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon up in New York — n' I thought he’d go mad:

“‘I don’t wanna do anythang outta tha way!’ he kept saying. ‘I wanna peep her right next door.’

“When I holla'd you was a particular playa of Tom’s, da perved-out muthafucka started ta abandon tha whole idea yo. idiot don’t know straight-up much bout Tom, though da perved-out muthafucka say he’s read a Chicago paper fo' muthafuckin years just on tha chizzle of catchin a glimpse of Daisy’s name.”

Dat shiznit was dark now, n' as our phat asses dipped under a lil bridge I put mah arm round Jordan’s golden shoulder n' drew her toward mah crazy ass n' axed her ta dinner n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly I wasn’t thankin of Dizzy n' Gatsby any mo' yo, but of dis clean, hard, limited person, whoz ass dealt up in universal scepticism, n' whoz ass leaned back jauntily just within tha circle of mah arm fo' realz. A phrase fuckin started ta beat up in mah ears wit a sort of heady excitement: “There is only tha pursued, tha pursuing, tha busy n' tha tired.”

“And Dizzy ought ta have suttin' up in her game,” murmured Jordan ta mah dirty ass.

“Do dat biiiiatch wanna peep Gatsby?”

“She’s not ta know bout dat shit. Gatsby don’t want her ta know. You’re just supposed ta invite her ta tea.”

We passed a funky-ass barrier of dark trees, n' then tha facade of Fifty-ninth Street, a funky-ass block of delicate pale light, beamed down tha fuck into tha park. Unlike Gatsby n' Tomothy Buchanan, I had no hoe whose disembodied grill floated along tha dark cornices n' blindin signs, n' so I drew up tha hoe beside me, tightenin mah arms yo. Her wan, scornful grill smiled, n' so I drew her up again n' again n' again closer, dis time ta mah face. Chapta 5

When I came home ta Westside Egg dat night I was afraid fo' a moment dat mah doggy den was on fire. Two o’clock n' tha whole corner of tha peninsula was blazin wit light, which fell tha fuck unreal on tha shrubbery n' made thin elongatin glints upon tha roadside wires. Turnin a cold-ass lil corner, I saw dat dat shiznit was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower ta cellar.

At first I thought dat shiznit was another party, a wild rout dat had resolved itself tha fuck into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” wit all tha doggy den thrown open ta tha game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind up in tha trees, which blew tha wires n' made tha lights go off n' on again n' again n' again as if tha doggy den had winked tha fuck into tha darknizz fo' realz. As mah ride groaned away I saw Gatsby struttin toward mah crazy ass across his fuckin lawn.

“Yo crazy-ass place be lookin like tha World’s Fair,” I holla'd.

“Do it?” idiot turned his wild lil' fuckin eyes toward it absently. “I done been glancin tha fuck into a shitload of tha rooms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Let’s git all up in Coney Island, oldschool sport. In mah car.”

“It’s too late.”

“Well, suppose we take a plunge up in tha swimming-pool, biatch? I haven’t made use of all dat shiznit summer.”

“I’ve gots ta git all up in bed.”

“All right.”

idiot waited, lookin all up in mah grill wit suppressed eagerness.

“I talked wit Miss Baker,” I holla'd afta a moment. “I’m goin ta booty-call up Dizzy to-morrow n' invite her over here ta tea.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd carelessly. “I don’t wanna put you ta any shit.”

“What dizzle would suit yo slick ass?”

“What dizzle would suit you?” his schmoooove ass erected mah crazy ass doggystyle. “I don’t wanna put you ta any shit, you see.”

“How tha fuck bout tha dizzle afta to-morrow?” idiot considered fo' a moment. Then, wit reluctance:

“I wanna git tha grass cut,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

We both looked all up in tha grass — there was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp line where mah ragged lawn ended n' tha darker, well-kept expanse of his fuckin started. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I suspected dat he meant mah grass.

“There’s another lil thang,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd uncertainly, n' hesitated.

“Would you rather put it off fo' all dem days?” I asked.

“Oh, it isn’t bout dis shiznit fo' realz. At least ——” idiot fumbled wit a seriez of beginnings. “Why, I thought — why, look here, oldschool sport, you don’t make much scrilla, do yo slick ass?”

“Not straight-up much.”

This seemed ta reassure his ass n' his schmoooove ass continued mo' confidently.

“I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon mah — Yo ass see, I carry on a lil bidnizz on tha side, a sort of side line, you understand. And I thought dat if you don’t make straight-up much — You’re pushin bonds, aren’t you, oldschool sport?”

“Tryin to.”

“Well, dis would interest you, biatch. Well shiiiit, it wouldn’t take up much of yo' time n' you might pick up a sick bit of scrilla. Well shiiiit, it happens ta be a rather confidential sort of thang.”

I realize now dat under different circumstances dat conversation might done been one of tha crisez of mah game. But, cuz tha offer was obviously n' tactlessly fo' a steez ta be rendered, I had no chizzle except ta cut his ass off there.

“I’ve gots mah handz full,” I holla'd. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any mo' work.”

“Yo ass wouldn’t gotta do any bidnizz wit Wolfsheim.” Evidently tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat I was shyin away from tha “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch yo, but I assured his ass da thug was wrong yo. idiot waited a moment longer, hopin I’d begin a cold-ass lil conversation yo, but I was too absorbed ta be responsive, so da thug went unwillingly home.

Da evenin had made me light-headed n' happy; I be thinkin I strutted tha fuck into a thugged-out deep chill as I entered mah front door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I didn’t know whether or not Gatsby went ta Coney Island, or fo' how tha fuck nuff minutes he “glanced tha fuck into rooms” while his fuckin lil' doggy den blazed gaudily on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I called up Dizzy from tha crib next morning, n' invited her ta come ta tea.

“Don’t brang Tom,” I warned her muthafuckin ass.

“What?”

“Don’t brang Tom.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is ‘Tom’?” she axed innocently.

Da dizzle agreed upon was pourin rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At eleven o’clock a playa up in a raincoat, draggin a lawn-mower, tapped at mah front door n' holla'd dat Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby had busted his ass over ta cut mah grass. This reminded mah crazy ass dat I had forgotten ta tell mah Finn ta come back, so I drove tha fuck into Westside Egg Village ta search fo' her among soggy, whitewashed alleys n' ta loot some cups n' lemons n' flowers.

Da flowers was unnecessary, fo' at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby’s, wit innumerable receptaclez ta contain it fo' realz. An minute lata tha front door opened nervously, n' Gatsby, up in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, n' gold-colored tie, hurried in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot was pale, n' there was dark signz of chilllessnizz beneath his wild lil' fuckin eyes.

“Is every last muthafuckin thang all right?” he axed immediately.

“Da grass looks fine, if that’s what tha fuck you mean.”

“What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, tha grass up in tha yard.” idiot looked up tha window at it yo, but, judgin from his wild lil' fuckin expression, I don’t believe da perved-out muthafucka saw a thang.

“Looks straight-up good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of tha papers holla'd they thought tha drizzle would stop bout four. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be thinkin dat shiznit was tha Journal yo. Has you done gots every last muthafuckin thang you need up in tha shape of — of tea?”

I took his ass tha fuck into tha pantry, where he looked a lil reproachfully all up in tha Finn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Together we scrutinized tha twelve lemon cakes from tha delicatessen shop.

“Will they do?” I asked.

“Of course, of course biaaatch! They’re fine!” n' he added hollowly, “. . . oldschool sport.”

Da drizzle cooled bout half-past three ta a thugged-out damp mist, all up in which occasionizzle thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked wit vacant eyes all up in a cold-ass lil copy of Clay’s Economics, startin all up in tha Finnish tread dat shook tha kitchen floor, n' peerin toward tha bleared windows from time ta time as if a seriez of invisible but alarmin happenings was takin place outside. Finally he gots up n' informed me, up in a uncertain voice, dat da thug was goin home.

“Why’s that?”

“Nobody’s comin ta tea. It’s too late!” idiot looked at his thugged-out lil' peep it as if there was some pressin demand on his cold-ass time elsewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. “I can’t wait all day.”

“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes ta four.”

idiot sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, n' simultaneously there was tha sound of a motor turnin tha fuck into mah lane. We both jumped up, and, a lil harrowed mah dirty ass, I went up tha fuck into tha yard.

Under tha drippin bare lilac-trees a big-ass open hoopty was comin up tha drive. Well shiiiit, it stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked up all up in mah grill wit a funky-ass bright ecstatic smile.

“Is dis straight-up where you live, mah dearest one?”

Da exhilaratin ripple of her voice was a wild tonic up in tha rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I had ta follow tha sound of it fo' a moment, up n' down, wit mah ear alone, before any lyrics came all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. A damp streak of afro lay like a thugged-out dash of blue paint across her cheek, n' her hand was wet wit glistenin drops as I took it ta help her from tha car.

“Is you up in ludd wit me,” her big-ass booty holla'd low up in mah ear, “or why did I gotta come alone?”

“That’s tha secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell yo' chauffeur ta go far away n' spend a hour.”

“Come back up in a hour, Ferdie.” Then up in a grave murmur: “His name is Ferdie.”

“Do tha gasoline affect his nose?”

“I don’t be thinkin so,” her big-ass booty holla'd innocently. “Why?”

Us thugs went in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. To mah overwhelmin surprise tha living-room was deserted.

“Well, that’s funky,” I exclaimed.

“What’s funky?”

Yo, she turned her head as there was a light dignified knockin all up in tha front door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I went up n' opened dat shit. Gatsby, pale as dirtnap, wit his handz plunged like weights up in his coat pockets, was standin up in a puddle of wata glarin tragically tha fuck into mah eyes.

With his handz still up in his coat pockets da perved-out muthafucka stalked by me tha fuck into tha hall, turned sharply as if da thug was on a wire, n' disappeared tha fuck into tha living-room. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t a lil' bit funky fo' realz. Aware of tha bangin whoopin of mah own ass I pulled tha door ta against tha increasin rain.

For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from tha living-room I heard a sort of chokin murmur n' part of a laugh, followed by Daisy’s voice on a cold-ass lil clear artificial note: “I certainly be awfully glad ta peep you again.”

A pause; it endured horribly. I had not a god damn thang ta do up in tha hall, so I went tha fuck into tha room.

Gatsby, his handz still up in his thugged-out lil' pockets, was reclinin against tha mantelpiece up in a strained counterfeit of slick ease, even of boredom yo. His head leaned back so far dat it rested against tha grill of a thugged-out defunct mantelpiece clock, n' from dis posizzle his fuckin lil' distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, whoz ass was chillin, frightened but graceful, on tha edge of a stiff chair.

“We’ve kicked it wit before,” muttered Gatsby yo. His eyes glanced momentarily at me, n' his fuckin lips parted wit a abortizzle attempt at a laugh. Luckily tha clock took dis moment ta tilt dangerously all up in tha heat of his head, whereupon tha pimpin' muthafucka turned n' caught it wit tremblin fingers, n' set it back up in place. Then da perved-out muthafucka sat down, rigidly, his wild lil' fuckin elbow on tha arm of tha sofa n' his chin up in his hand.

“I’m sorry bout tha clock,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah own grill had now assumed a thugged-out deep tropical burn, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I couldn’t musta up a single commonplace outta tha thousand up in mah head.

“It’s a oldschool clock,” I holla'd at dem idiotically.

Yo ass KNOW we all believed fo' a moment dat it had smashed up in pieces on tha floor.

“Our thugged-out asses haven’t kicked it wit fo' nuff years,” holla'd Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could eva be.

“Five muthafuckin years next November.”

Da automatic qualitizzle of Gatsby’s answer set our asses all back at least another minute. I had dem both on they feet wit tha desperate suggestion dat they help me make chronic up in tha kitchen when tha demoniac Finn brought it up in on a tray.

Amid tha welcome mad drama of cups n' cakes a cold-ass lil certain physical decency established itself. Gatsby gots his dirty ass tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow and, while Dizzy n' I talked, looked conscientiously from one ta tha other of our asses wit tense, unaiiight eyes. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat as calmnizz wasn’t a end up in itself, I made a excuse all up in tha straight-up original gangsta possible moment, n' gots ta mah Nikes.

“Where is you going?” demanded Gatsby up in immediate alarm.

“I’ll be back.”

“I’ve gots ta drop a rhyme ta you bout suttin' before you go.”

idiot followed mah crazy ass wildly tha fuck into tha kitchen, closed tha door, n' whispered:

“Oh, God!” up in a miserable way.

“What’s tha matter?”

“This be a shitty mistake,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, bobbin his head from side ta side, “a shitty, shitty mistake.”

“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” n' luckily I added: “Daisy’s embarrassed like a muthafucka.”

“She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously.

“Just as much as yo ass is.”

“Don’t rap so loud.”

“You’re actin like a lil boy,” I broke up impatiently. “Not only dat yo, but you’re rude. Daisy’s chillin up in there all ridin' solo.”

idiot raised his hand ta stop mah lyrics, looked all up in mah grill wit unforgettable reproach, and, openin tha door cautiously, went back tha fuck into tha other room.

I strutted up tha back way — just as Gatsby had when dat schmoooove muthafucka had made his straight-up trippin circuit of tha doggy den half a minute before — n' ran fo' a big-ass black knotted tree, whose massed leaves done cooked up a gangbangin' fabric against tha rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Once mo' dat shiznit was pouring, n' mah irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby’s gardener, abounded up in small, muddy swamps n' prehistoric marshes. There was not a god damn thang ta peep from under tha tree except Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, fo' half a hour fo' realz. A brewer had built it early up in tha “period” craze, a thugged-out decade before, n' there was a rap dat he’d agreed ta pay five years’ taxes on all tha neighborin cottages if tha ballaz would have they roofs thatched wit straw. Perhaps they refusal took tha ass outta his thugged-out lil' plan ta Found a Family — da thug went tha fuck into a immediate decline yo. His lil pimps sold his fuckin lil' doggy den wit tha black wreath still on tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Gangstas, while occasionally willin ta be serfs, have always been obstinizzle bout bein peasantry.

Afta half a hour, tha sun shone again, n' tha grocer’s automobile rounded Gatsby’s drive wit tha raw material fo' his servants’ dinner — I felt shizzle da thug wouldn’t smoke a spoonful naaahhmean, biatch? A maid fuckin started openin tha upper windowz of his house, rocked up momentarily up in each, and, leanin from a big-ass central bay, spat meditatively tha fuck into tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was time I went back. While tha drizzle continued it had seemed like tha murmur of they voices, risin n' swellin a lil now n' then wit gustz of emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But up in tha freshly smoked up silence I felt dat silence had fallen within tha doggy den like a muthafucka.

I went up in — afta makin every last muthafuckin possible noise up in tha kitchen, short of pushin over tha stove — but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They was chillin at either end of tha couch, lookin at each other as if some question had been asked, or was up in tha air, n' every last muthafuckin vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s grill was smeared wit tears, n' when I came up in she jumped up n' fuckin started wipin at it wit her handkerchizzle before a mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But there was a cold-ass lil chizzle up in Gatsby dat was simply confoundin yo. idiot literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a freshly smoked up well-bein radiated from his ass n' filled tha lil room.

“Oh, hello, oldschool sport,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn’t peeped mah crazy ass fo' years.. n' you KNOWS fo' a moment da thug was goin ta shake hands.

“It’s stopped raining.”

“Has it?” When he realized what tha fuck I was poppin' off about, dat there was twinkle-bellz of sunshine up in tha room, da perved-out muthafucka smiled like a thugged-out drizzle idiot, like a ecstatic patron of recurrent light, n' repeated tha shizzle ta Daisy. “What do you be thinkin of that, biatch? It’s stopped raining.”

“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grievin beauty, holla'd at only of her unexpected joy.

“I want you n' Dizzy ta come over ta mah house,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, “I’d like ta show her around.”

“You’re shizzle you want me ta come?”

“Absolutely, oldschool sport.”

Dizzy went up-stairs ta wash her grill — too late I thought wit humiliation of mah towels — while Gatsby n' I waited on tha lawn.

“My fuckin doggy den looks well, don’t it?” da ruffneck demanded. “See how tha fuck tha whole front of it catches tha light.”

I agreed dat dat shiznit was splendid.

“Yes yes y'all.” His eyes went over it, every last muthafuckin arched door n' square tower n' shit. “It took me just three muthafuckin years ta git tha scrilla dat looted dat shit.”

“I thought you inherited yo' scrilla.”

“I did, oldschool sport,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd automatically, “but I lost most of it up in tha big-ass panic — tha panic of tha war.”

Yo ass KNOW dat schmoooove muthafucka hardly knew what tha fuck da thug was saying, fo' when I axed his ass what tha fuck bidnizz da thug was up in he answered, “That’s mah affair,” before he realized dat it wasn’t tha appropriate reply.

“Oh, I’ve been up in nuff muthafuckin thangs,” his schmoooove ass erected his dirty ass. “I was up in tha sticky-icky-icky bidnizz n' then I was up in tha oil bidnizz. But I’m not up in either one now, nahmeean?” idiot looked all up in mah grill wit mo' attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “Do you mean you’ve been thankin over what tha fuck I proposed tha other night?”

Before I could answer, Dizzy came outta tha doggy den n' two rowz of brass buttons on her dress gleamed up in tha sunlight.

“That big-ass place there?” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried pointing.

“Do you like it?”

“I gots a straight-up boner fo' it yo, but I don’t peep how tha fuck you live there all ridin' solo.”

“I keep it always full of bangin-ass people, night n' day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Muthafuckas whoz ass do bangin-ass thangs. Celebrated people.”

Instead of takin tha short cut along tha Sound we went down tha road n' entered by tha big-ass postern, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. With enchantin murmurs Dizzy admired dis aspect or dat of tha feudal silhouette against tha sky, admired tha gardens, tha sparklin odor of jonquils n' tha frothy odor of hawthorn n' plum blossoms n' tha pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate. Dat shiznit was strange ta reach tha marble steps n' find no stir of bright dresses up in n' up tha door, n' hear no sound but bird voices up in tha trees.

And inside, as we wandered all up in Marie Antoinette music-rooms n' Restoration salons, I felt dat there was guests concealed behind every last muthafuckin couch n' table, under ordaz ta be breathlessly silent until our crazy asses had passed all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz. As Gatsby closed tha door of “the Merton College Library.” I could have sworn I heard tha owl-eyed playa break tha fuck into pimply laughter.

Us thugs went up-stairs, all up in period bedrooms swathed up in rose n' lavender silk n' vivid wit freshly smoked up flowers, all up in dressing-rooms n' poolrooms, n' bathrooms wit sunken baths — intrudin tha fuck into one chamber where a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dishevelled playa up in pajamas was bustin liver exercises on tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin Klipspringer, tha “boarder.” I had peeped his ass wanderin hungrily bout tha beach dat morning. Finally we came ta Gatsby’s own crib, a funky-ass bedroom n' a funky-ass bath, n' a Adam study, where we sat down n' drank a glass of some Chartreuse tha pimpin' muthafucka took from a cold-ass lil cupboard up in tha wall.

idiot hadn’t once ceased lookin at Daisy, n' I be thinkin he revalued every last muthafuckin thang up in his fuckin lil' doggy den accordin ta tha measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes, too, da perved-out muthafucka stared round at his thugged-out lil' possessions up in a thugged-out dazed way, as though up in her actual n' astoundin presence none of dat shiznit was any longer real. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Once he nearly toppled down a gangbangin' flight of stairs.

His bedroom was tha simplest room of all — except where tha dresser was garnished wit a toilet set of pure dull gold. Dizzy took tha brush wit delight, n' smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down n' shaded his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' fuckin started ta laugh.

“It’s tha funniest thang, oldschool sport,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd hilariously. “I can’t — When I try ta ——”

idiot had passed visibly all up in two states n' was enterin upon a third. Afta his wild lil' fuckin embarrassment n' his unreasonin joy da thug was consumed wit wonder at her presence yo. idiot had been full of tha scam so long, dreamed it right all up in ta tha end, waited wit his cold-ass teeth set, so ta speak, at a inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, up in tha erection, da thug was hustlin down like a overwound clock.

Recoverin his dirty ass up in a minute he opened fo' our asses two hulkin patent cabinets which held his crazy-ass massed suits n' dressing-gowns n' ties, n' his shirts, piled like bricks up in stacks a thugged-out dozen high.

“I’ve gots a playa up in England whoz ass buys me threadz yo. idiot sendz over a selection of thangs all up in tha beginnin of each season, sprang n' fall.”

idiot took up a pile of shirts n' fuckin started throwin them, one by one, before us, shirtz of sheer linen n' thick silk n' fine flannel, which lost they foldz as they fell tha fuck n' covered tha table up in many-colored disarray. While we admired his thugged-out lil' punk-ass brought mo' n' tha soft rich heap mounted higher — shirts wit stripes n' scrolls n' plaidz up in coral n' apple-chronic n' lavender n' faint orange, n' monogramz of Indian blue. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly, wit a strained sound, Dizzy bent her head tha fuck into tha shirts n' fuckin started ta cry stormily.

“They’re such dope shirts,” her big-ass booty sobbed, her voice muffled up in tha thick folds. “It make me fucked up cuz I’ve never peeped such — such dope shirts before.”

Afta tha house, we was ta peep tha groundz n' tha swimming-pool, n' tha hydroplane n' tha mid-summer flowers — but outside Gatsby’s window it fuckin started ta drizzle again, so we stood up in a row lookin all up in tha corrugated surface of tha Sound.

“If it wasn’t fo' tha mist we could peep yo' home across tha bay,” holla'd Gatsby. “Yo ass always gotz a chronic light dat burns all night all up in tha end of yo' dock.”

Dizzy put her arm all up in his thugged-out abruptly yo, but da perved-out muthafucka seemed absorbed up in what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had just holla'd. Possibly it had occurred ta his ass dat tha colossal significizzle of dat light had now vanished forever n' shit. Compared ta tha pimped out distizzle dat had separated his ass from Dizzy it had seemed straight-up near ta her, almost touchin her n' shit. Well shiiiit, it had seemed as close as a star ta tha moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now dat shiznit was again n' again n' again a chronic light on a thugged-out dock yo. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.

I fuckin started ta strutt bout tha room, examinin various indefinite objects up in tha half darknizz fo' realz. A big-ass photograph of a coffin dodgin' playa up in yachtin costume attracted me, hung on tha wall over his fuckin lil' desk.

“Who’s this?”

“That, biatch? That’s Mista Muthafuckin Don Juan Cody, oldschool sport.”

Da name sounded faintly familiar.

“He’s dead now yo. idiot used ta be mah dopest playa muthafuckin years ago.”

There was a lil' small-ass picture of Gatsby, also up in yachtin costume, on tha bureau — Gatsby wit his head thrown back defiantly — taken apparently when da thug was bout eighteen.

“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “Da pompadour playa! Yo ass never holla'd at mah crazy ass you had a pompadour — or a yacht.”

“Look at this,” holla'd Gatsby doggystyle. “Here’s a shitload of clippings — bout you, biatch.”

They stood side by side examinin dat shit. I was goin ta ask ta peep tha rubies when tha beeper rang, n' Gatsby took up tha receiver.

“Yes yes y'all. . . . well, I can’t rap now, nahmeean, biatch? . . . I can’t rap now, oldschool sport. . . . I holla'd a small town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. . . . he must know what tha fuck a lil' small-ass hood is. . . . well, he’s no use ta our asses if Detroit is his scam of a lil' small-ass town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. . . . ”

idiot rang off.

“Come here quick!” cried Dizzy all up in tha window.

Da drizzle was still fallin yo, but tha darknizz had parted up in tha westside, n' there was a pink n' golden billow of foamy cloudz above tha sea.

“Look at that,” dat biiiiatch whispered, n' then afta a moment: “I’d like ta just git one of dem pink cloudz n' put you up in it n' push you around.”

I tried ta go then yo, but they wouldn’t hear of it; like mah presence made dem feel mo' satisfactorily ridin' solo.

“I know what tha fuck we’ll do,” holla'd Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play tha piano.”

idiot went outta tha room callin “Ewing!” n' returned up in all dem minutes accompanied by a embarrassed, slightly worn lil' idiot, wit shell-rimmed glasses n' scanty blond afro yo. idiot was now decently clothed up in a “shiznit shirt,” open all up in tha neck, sneakers, n' duck trouserz of a nebulous hue.

“Did we interrupt yo' exercises?” inquired Dizzy politely.

“I was asleep,” cried Mista Muthafuckin Klipspringer, up in a spazzle of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I gots up.. ..”

“Klipspringer skits tha piano,” holla'd Gatsby, cuttin his ass off. “Don’t you, Ewing, oldschool sport?”

“I don’t play well. I don’t — I hardly play at all. I’m all outta prac ——”

“We’ll go down-stairs,” interrupted Gatsby yo. idiot flipped a switch. Da gray windows disappeared as tha doggy den glowed full of light.

In tha music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside tha piano yo. idiot lit Daisy’s blunt from a tremblin match, n' sat down wit her on a cold-ass lil couch far across tha room, where there was no light save what tha fuck tha gleamin floor bounced up in from tha hall.

When Klipspringer had played Da Ludd Nest, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned round on tha bench n' searched unhappily fo' Gatsby up in tha gloom.

“I’m all outta practice, you see. I holla'd at you I couldn’t play. I’m all outta prac ——”

“Don’t rap so much, oldschool sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!”

“In tha morning,

In tha evening,

Ain’t we gots fun——”

Outside tha wind was bangin n' there was a gangbangin' faint flow of thunder along tha Sound. All tha lights was goin on up in Westside Egg now; tha electric trains, men-carrying, was plungin home all up in tha drizzle from New York. Dat shiznit was tha minute of a profound human chizzle, n' excitement was generatin on tha air.

“One thang’s shizzle n' nothing’s surer

Da rich git richer n' tha skanky get— children.

In tha meantime,

In between time——”

As I went over ta say good-by I saw dat tha expression of bewilderment had come back tha fuck into Gatsby’s face, as though a gangbangin' faint doubt had occurred ta his ass as ta tha qualitizzle of his thugged-out lil' present happinizz fo' realz. Almost five years muthafucka! There must done been moments even dat afternoon when Dizzy tumbled short of his cold-ass trips — not all up in her own fault yo, but cuz of tha colossal vitalitizzle of his crazy-ass muthafuckin illusion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it had gone beyond her, beyond every last muthafuckin thang yo. idiot had thrown his dirty ass tha fuck into it wit a cold-ass lil creatizzle passion, addin ta all dat shiznit tha time, deckin it up wit every last muthafuckin bright feather dat drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshnizz can challenge what tha fuck a playa will store up in his wild lil' freakadelic pimply ass.

As I peeped his ass he adjusted his dirty ass a lil, visibly yo. His hand took hold of hers, n' as her big-ass booty holla'd suttin' low up in his wild lil' fuckin ear tha pimpin' muthafucka turned toward her wit a rush of emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I be thinkin dat voice held his ass most, wit its fluctuating, feverish warmth, cuz it couldn’t be over-dreamed — dat voice was a thugged-out dirtnapless song.

They had forgotten me yo, but Dizzy glanced up n' held up her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once mo' at dem n' they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense game. Then I went outta tha room n' down tha marble steps tha fuck into tha rain, leavin dem there together. Chapta 6

Bout dis time a ambitious lil' reporta from New York arrived one mornin at Gatsby’s door n' axed his ass if dat schmoooove muthafucka had anythang ta say.

“Anythang ta say bout what?” inquired Gatsby politely.

“Why — any statement ta give out.”

It transpired afta a cold-ass lil trippin five minutes dat tha playa had heard Gatsby’s name round his crib up in a cold-ass lil connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t straight-up understand. This was his fuckin lil' dizzle off n' wit laudable initiatizzle dat schmoooove muthafucka had hurried up “to see.”

Dat shiznit was a random shot, n' yet tha hustla’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread bout by tha hundredz whoz ass had accepted his hospitizzleitizzle n' so become authoritizzles on his thugged-out lil' past, had increased all summer until he fell tha fuck just short of bein news. Contemporary legendz like fuckin tha “underground pipe-line ta Canada” attached theyselves ta him, n' there was one persistent rap dat da ruffneck didn’t live up in a doggy den at all yo, but up in a funky-ass boat dat looked like a doggy den n' was moved secretly up n' down tha Long Island shore. Just why these inventions was a source of satisfaction ta Jizzy Gatz of Uptown Dakota, isn’t easy as fuck ta say.

Jizzy Gatz — dat was straight-up, or at least legally, his name yo. idiot had chizzled it all up in tha age of seventeen n' all up in tha specific moment dat witnessed tha beginnin of his game — when da perved-out muthafucka saw Don Juan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over da most thugged-out insidious flat on Lake Superior. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was Jizzy Gatz whoz ass had been loafin along tha beach dat afternoon up in a torn chronic jersey n' a pair of canvas pants yo, but dat shiznit was already Jay Gatsby whoz ass borrowed a rowboat, pulled up ta tha Tuolomee, n' informed Cody dat a wind might catch his ass n' break his ass up in half a hour.

I suppose he’d had tha name locked n loaded fo' a long-ass time, even then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His muthafathas was shiftless n' unsuccessful farm playas — his crazy-ass muthafuckin imagination had never straight-up accepted dem as his thugged-out lil' muthafathas at all. Da truth was dat Jay Gatsby of Westside Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of his dirty ass yo. idiot was a lil hustla of Dogg — a phrase which, if it means anything, means just dat — n' he must be bout His Father’s bidnizz, tha steez of a vast, vulgar, n' meretricious beauty. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he invented just tha sort of Jay Gatsby dat a seventeen-year-old pimp would be likely ta invent, n' ta dis conception da thug was faithful ta tha end.

For over a year dat schmoooove muthafucka had been whoopin his way along tha downtown shore of Lake Superior as a cold-ass lil clam-digger n' a salmon-fisher or up in any other capacitizzle dat brought his ass chicken n' bed. His brown, hardenin body lived naturally all up in tha half-fierce, half-lazy work of tha bracin days yo. idiot knew dem hoes early, n' since they spoiled his ass his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became contemptuouz of them, of lil' virgins cuz they was ignorant, of tha others cuz they was hysterical bout thangs which up in his overwhelmin self-absorbtion tha pimpin' muthafucka took fo' granted.

But his thugged-out ass was up in a cold-ass lil constant, turbulent riot. Da most grotesque n' dunkadelic conceits hustled his ass up in his bed at night fo' realz. A universe of ineffable gaudinizz spun itself up in his dome while tha clock ticked on tha wash-stand n' tha moon soaked wit wet light his cold-ass tangled threadz upon tha floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Each night he added ta tha pattern of his wild lil' fancies until drowsinizz closed down upon some vivid scene wit a oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided a outlet fo' his crazy-ass muthafuckin imagination; they was a satisfactory hint of tha unrealitizzle of reality, a promise dat tha rock of tha ghetto was dropped securely on a gangbangin' fairy’s wing.

An instinct toward his wild lil' future glory had hustled him, some months before, ta tha lil' small-ass Lutheran college of St. Olaf up in southern Minnesota yo. idiot stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference ta tha beatz of his fuckin lil' destiny, ta destiny itself, n' despisin tha janitor’s work wit which da thug was ta pay his way all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Then da ruffneck drifted back ta Lake Superior, n' da thug was still searchin fo' suttin' ta do on tha dizzle dat Don Juan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor up in tha shallows alongshore.

Cody was fifty muthafuckin years oldschool then, a thang of tha Nevada silver fields, of tha Yukon, of every last muthafuckin rush fo' metal since seventy-five. Da transactions up in Montana copper dat made his ass nuff times a millionaire found his ass physically robust but on tha verge of soft-mindedness, and, suspectin this, a infinite number of dem hoes tried ta separate his ass from his crazy-ass scrilla. Da none too savory ramifications by which Ella Kaye, tha newspaper biatch, played Madame de Maintenon ta his weaknizz n' busted his ass ta sea up in a yacht, was common knowledge ta tha turgid sub-journalizzle of 1902 yo. idiot had been coastin along all too hospitable shores fo' five muthafuckin years when tha pimpin' muthafucka turned up as Jizzy Gatz’s destiny at Little Hoes Point.

To tha lil' Gatz, restin on his oars n' lookin up all up in tha railed deck, tha yacht represented all tha beauty n' glamour up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. I suppose da perved-out muthafucka smiled at Cody — dat schmoooove muthafucka had probably discovered dat playas was horny bout his ass when da perved-out muthafucka smiled. At any rate Cody axed his ass all dem thangs (one of dem elicited tha brand freshly smoked up name) n' found dat da thug was quick n' extravagantly ambitious fo' realz. A few minutes lata tha pimpin' muthafucka took his ass ta Duluth n' looted his ass a funky-ass blue coat, six pair of white duck trousers, n' a yachtin cap fo' realz. And when tha Tuolomee left fo' tha Westside Indies n' tha Barbary Coast Gatsby left like a muthafucka.

idiot was employed up in a vague underground capacitizzle — while he remained wit Cody da thug was up in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, n' even jailor, fo' Don Juan Cody sober knew what tha fuck lavish bustins Don Juan Cody faded might soon be about, n' he provided fo' such contingencies by reposin mo' n' mo' trust up in Gatsby. Da arrangement lasted five years, durin which tha boat went three times round tha Continent. Well shiiiit, it might have lasted indefinitely except fo' tha fact dat Ella Kaye came on board one night up in Boston n' a week lata Don Juan Cody inhospitably died.

I remember tha portrait of his ass up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a gray, florid playa wit a hard, empty grill — tha pioneer debauchee, whoz ass durin one phase of Gangsta game brought back ta tha Eastside seaboard tha savage shiznit of tha frontier brothel n' saloon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was indirectly cuz of Cody dat Gatsby drank so lil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes up in tha course of gay partizzles dem hoes used ta rub champagne tha fuck into his hair; fo' his dirty ass he formed tha g-thang of lettin liquor ridin' solo.

And dat shiznit was from Cody dat he inherited scrilla — a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars yo. X didn’t git it yo. idiot never understood tha legal thang dat was used against his ass yo, but what tha fuck remained of tha millions went intact ta Ella Kaye yo. idiot was left wit his singularly appropriate ejaculation; tha vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled up ta tha substantialitizzle of a man.

idiot holla'd at mah crazy ass all dis straight-up much later yo, but I’ve put it down here wit tha scam of explodin dem first wild rumors bout his thugged-out antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. Mo'over tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at it ta me at a time of mad drama, when I had reached tha deal wit believin every last muthafuckin thang n' not a god damn thang bout his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I take advantage of dis short halt, while Gatsby, so ta speak, caught his breath, ta clear dis set of misconceptions away.

Dat shiznit was a halt, too, up in mah association wit his thugged-out affairs. For nuff muthafuckin weeks I didn’t peep his ass or hear his voice on tha beeper — mostly I was up in New York, trottin round wit Jordan n' tryin ta ingratiate mah dirty ass wit her senile aunt — but finally I went over ta his fuckin lil' doggy den one Sundizzle afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I hadn’t been there two minutes when some muthafucka brought Tomothy Buchanan up in fo' a thugged-out drink. I was startled, naturally yo, but tha straight-up surprisin thang was dat it hadn’t happened before.

They was a jam of three on horseback — Tomothy n' a playa named Sloane n' a pimpin' biatch up in a funky-ass brown riding-habit, whoz ass had been there previously.

“I’m delighted ta peep you,” holla'd Gatsby, standin on his thugged-out lil' porch. “I’m delighted dat you dropped in.”

As though they cared dawwwg!

“Sit right down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Have a cold-ass lil blunt or a cold-ass lil cigar.” idiot strutted round tha room quickly, ringin bells. “I’ll have suttin' ta drank fo' you up in just a minute.”

idiot was profoundly affected by tha fact dat Tomothy was there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. But da thug would be uneasy anyhow until dat schmoooove muthafucka had given dem something, realizin up in a vague way dat that was all they came for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane wanted not a god damn thang fo' realz. A lemonade, biatch? Fuck dat shit, props fo' realz. A lil champagne, biatch? Nothang at all, props. . . . I’m sorry ——

“Did yo dirty ass gotz a sick ride?”

“Straight-up phat roadz round here.”

“I suppose tha automobilez ——”

“Yeah.”

Moved by a irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned ta Tom, whoz ass had accepted tha introduction as a stranger.

“I believe we’ve kicked it wit somewhere before, Mista Muthafuckin Buchanan.”

“Oh, fo'sho,” holla'd Tom, gruffly polite yo, but obviously not remembering. “So our phat asses done did. I remember straight-up well.”

“Bout two weeks ago.”

“That’s right. Yo ass was wit Nick here.”

“I know yo' hoe,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.

“That so?”

Tomothy turned ta mah dirty ass.

“Yo ass live near here, Nick?”

“Next door.”

“That so?”

Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane didn’t enta tha fuck into tha conversation yo, but lounged back haughtily up in his chair; tha biatch holla'd not a god damn thang either — until unexpectedly, afta two highballs, da hoe became cordial.

“We’ll all come over ta yo' next party, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby,” her big-ass booty suggested. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “What do you say?”

“Certainly; I’d be delighted ta have you, biatch.”

“Be ver’ sick,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well — be thinkin ought ta be startin home.”

“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged dem wild-ass muthafuckas yo. idiot had control of his dirty ass now, n' da thug wanted ta peep mo' of Tom. “Why don’t you — why don’t you stay fo' supper, biatch? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other playas dropped up in from New York.”

“Yo ass come ta supper wit me,” holla'd tha lady enthusiastically. “Both of you, biatch.”

This included mah dirty ass. Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane gots ta his Nikes.

“Come along,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd — but ta her only.

“I mean it,” she insisted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “I’d ludd ta have you, biatch. Lotz of room.”

Gatsby looked all up in mah grill questioningly yo. idiot wanted ta go, n' da ruffneck didn’t peep dat Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane had determined da perved-out muthafucka shouldn’t.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I holla'd.

“Well, you come,” she urged, concentratin on Gatsby.

Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane murmured suttin' close ta her ear.

“Us thugs won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.

“I haven’t gots a horse,” holla'd Gatsby. “I used ta ride up in tha army yo, but I’ve never looted a horse. I’ll gotta follow you up in mah car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Excuse me fo' just a minute.”

Da rest of our asses strutted up on tha porch, where Sloane n' tha lady fuckin started a impassioned conversation aside.

“My fuckin God, I believe tha man’s coming,” holla'd Tom. “Doesn’t he know her dope ass don’t want him?”

“Bitch say her dope ass do want his muthafuckin ass.”

“Bitch has a funky-ass big-ass dinner jam n' da thug won’t know a ass there.” Dude frowned. “I wonder where up in tha devil he kicked it wit Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned up in mah ideas yo, but dem hoes run round too much these minutes ta suit mah dirty ass. They hook up all kindz of wild-ass fish.”

Yo, suddenly Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane n' tha lady strutted down tha steps n' mounted they horses.

“Come on,” holla'd Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sloane ta Tom, “we’re late. We’ve gots ta bounce tha fuck out.” And then ta me: “Tell his ass we couldn’t wait, will yo slick ass?”

Tomothy n' I shook hands, tha rest of our asses exchanged a cold-ass lil def nod, n' they trotted quickly down tha drive, disappearin under tha August foliage just as Gatsby, wit basebizzle cap n' light overcoat up in hand, came up tha front door.

Tomothy was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s hustlin round alone, fo' on tha followin Saturdizzle night his schmoooove ass came wit her ta Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his thugged-out lil' presence gave tha evenin its peculiar qualitizzle of oppressivenizz — it standz up in mah memory from Gatsby’s other partizzles dat summer n' shit. There was tha same people, or at least tha same sort of people, tha same profusion of champagne, tha same many-colored, many-keyed commotion yo, but I felt a unpleasantnizz up in tha air, a pervadin harshnizz dat hadn’t been there before. Or like I had merely grown used ta it, grown ta accept Westside Egg as a ghetto complete up in itself, wit its own standardz n' its own pimped out figures, second ta not a god damn thang cuz it had no consciousnizz of bein so, n' now I was lookin at it again, all up in Daisy’s eyes. Well shiiiit, it is invariably saddenin ta look all up in freshly smoked up eyes at thangs upon which you have expended yo' own powerz of adjustment.

They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled up among tha sparklin hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playin murmurous tricks up in her throat.

“These thangs excite me so,” dat biiiiatch whispered.

“If you wanna lick me any time durin tha evening, Nick, just let me know n' I’ll be glad ta arrange it fo' you, biatch. Just mention mah name. Or present a chronic card. I’m givin up chronic ——”

“Look around,” suggested Gatsby.

“I’m lookin around. I’m havin a marvelous ——”

“Yo ass must peep tha facez of nuff playas you’ve heard about.”

Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed tha crowd.

“Us idiots don’t go round straight-up much,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “In fact, I was just thankin I don’t know a ass here.”

“Perhaps you know dat lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a biatch whoz ass sat up in state under a white plum tree. Tomothy n' Dizzy stared, wit dat peculiarly unreal feelin dat accompanies tha recognizzle of a hitherto pimply celebritizzle of tha pornos.

“She’s ghettofab,” holla'd Daisy.

“Da playa bendin over her is her director.”

idiot took dem ceremoniously from crew ta group:

“Mrs. Buchanan. . . n' Mista Muthafuckin Buchanan ——” Afta a instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo playa.”

“Oh no,” objected Tomothy quickly, “not mah dirty ass.”

But evidently tha sound of it pleased Gatsby, fo' Tomothy remained “the polo playa” fo' tha rest of tha evening.

“I’ve never kicked it wit all kindsa muthafuckin clowns!” Dizzy exclaimed. “I was horny bout dat playa — what tha fuck was his name, biatch? — wit tha sort of blue nose.”

Gatsby identified him, addin dat da thug was a lil' small-ass baller.

“Well, I was horny bout his ass anyhow.”

“I’d a lil rather not be tha polo playa,” holla'd Tomothy pleasantly, “I’d rather peep all these hyped playas up in — up in oblivion.”

Dizzy n' Gatsby danced. I remember bein surprised by his wild lil' freakadelic graceful, conservatizzle fox-trot — I had never peeped his ass dizzle before. Then they sauntered over ta mah doggy den n' sat on tha steps fo' half a hour, while at her request I remained watchfully up in tha garden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “In case there’s a gangbangin' fire or a gangbangin' flood,” she explained, “or any act of Dogg.”

Tomothy rocked up from his oblivion as we was chillin down ta supper together n' shit. “Do you mind if I smoke wit some playas over here?” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “A fellow’s gettin off some funky stuff.”

“Go ahead,” answered Dizzy genially, “and if you wanna take down any addresses here’s mah lil gold pencil.”. . . she looked round afta a moment n' holla'd at mah crazy ass tha hoe was “common but pretty,” n' I knew dat except fo' tha half-hour she’d been ridin' solo wit Gatsby dat biiiiatch wasn’t havin a phat time.

Us thugs was at a particularly tipsy table. That was mah fault — Gatsby had been called ta tha phone, n' I’d enjoyed these same playas only two weeks before. But what tha fuck had amused mah crazy ass then turned septic on tha air now, nahmeean?

“How tha fuck do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”

Da hoe addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, ta slump against mah shoulder n' shiznit fo' realz. At dis inquiry her big-ass booty sat up n' opened her eyes.

“Wha’?”

A massive n' lethargic biatch, whoz ass had been urgin Dizzy ta play golf wit her all up in tha local club to-morrow, was rappin up in Miss Baedeker’s defence:

“Oh, she’s all n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts beatboxin like dis shit. I tell her she ought ta leave it ridin' solo.”

“I do leave it alone,” affirmed tha accused hollowly.

“Our thugged-out asses heard you yelling, so I holla'd ta Doc Civet here: ‘There’s some muthafucka dat needz yo' help, Doc.’”

“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” holla'd another playa, without gratitude. “But you gots her dress all wet when you stuck her head up in tha pool.”

“Anythang I don't give a fuck bout is ta git mah head stuck up in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker n' shit. “They almost drowned mah crazy ass once over up in New Jersey.”

“Then you ought ta leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet.

“Speak fo' yo ass!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Yo crazy-ass hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”

Dat shiznit was like dis shiznit fo' realz. Almost tha last thang I remember was standin wit Dizzy n' watchin tha moving-picture director n' his Star. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They was still under tha white plum tree n' they faces was touchin except fo' a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it occurred ta me dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been straight-up slowly bendin toward her all evenin ta attain dis proximity, n' even while I peeped I saw his ass stoop one illest degree n' lick at her cheek.

“I wanna bust a nut on her,” holla'd Daisy, “I be thinkin she’s ghettofab.”

But tha rest offended her — n' inarguably, cuz it wasn’t a gesture but a emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was appalled by Westside Egg, dis unprecedented “place” dat Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishin hood — appalled by its raw vigor dat chafed under tha oldschool euphemizzlez n' by tha too obtrusive fate dat herded its inhabitants along a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short-cut from not a god damn thang ta nothing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch saw suttin' wack up in tha straight-up simplicitizzle she failed ta understand.

I sat on tha front steps wit dem while they waited fo' they car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was dark here up in front; only tha bright door busted ten square feet of light volleyin up tha fuck into tha soft black morning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shadow moved against a thugged-out dressing-room blind above, gave way ta another shadow, a indefinite procession of shadows, whoz ass rouged n' powdered up in a invisible glass.

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is dis Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tomothy suddenly. “Some big-ass bootlegger?”

“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.

“I didn’t hear dat shit. I imagined it fo' realz. All dem these newly rich playas is just big-ass bootleggers, you know.”

“Not Gatsby,” I holla'd shortly.

idiot was silent fo' a moment. Da pebblez of tha drive crunched under his Nikes.

“Well, his schmoooove ass certainly must have strained his dirty ass ta git dis menagerie together.”

A breeze stirred tha gray haze of Daisy’s fur collar.

“At least they’re mo' bangin-ass than tha playas we know,” her big-ass booty holla'd wit a effort.

“Yo ass didn’t look so interested.”

“Well, I was.”

Tomothy laughed n' turned ta mah dirty ass.

“Did yo dirty ass notice Daisy’s grill when dat hoe axed her ta put her under a cold-ass lil cold shower?”

Dizzy fuckin started ta rap wit tha noize up in a husky, rhythmic whisper, brangin up a meanin up in each word dat it had never had before n' would never have again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When tha melody rose, her voice broke up dopely, followin it, up in a way contralto voices have, n' each chizzle tipped up a lil of her warm human magic upon tha air.

“Lotz of playas come whoz ass haven’t been invited,” her big-ass booty holla'd suddenly. “That hoe hadn’t been invited. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. They simply force they way up in n' he’s too polite ta object.”

“I’d like ta know whoz ass he be n' what tha fuck da ruffneck do,” insisted Tom. “And I be thinkin I’ll cook up a point of findin out.”

“I can rap up in dis biatch,” she answered. “idiot owned some sticky-icky-icky-stores, a shitload of sticky-icky-icky-stores yo. idiot built dem up his dirty ass.”

Da dilatory limousine came rollin up tha drive.

“Dope night, Nick,” holla'd Daisy.

Her glizzle left me n' sought tha lighted top of tha steps, where Three O’clock up in tha Morning, a neat, fucked up lil waltz of dat year, was driftin up tha open door fo' realz. Afta all, up in tha straight-up casualnizz of Gatsby’s jam there was horny-ass possibilitizzles straight-up absent from her ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. What was it up there up in tha cold lil' woo wop dat seemed ta be callin her back inside, biatch? What would happen now up in tha dim, incalculable hours, biatch? Perhaps some unbelievable hommie would arrive, a thug infinitely rare n' ta be marvelled at, some authentically radiant lil' hoe whoz ass wit one fresh glizzle at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot up dem five muthafuckin yearz of unwaverin devotion.

I stayed late dat night, Gatsby axed mah crazy ass ta wait until da thug was free, n' I lingered up in tha garden until tha inevitable swimmin jam had run up, chilled n' exalted, from tha black beach, until tha lights was extinguished up in tha guest-rooms overhead. When his schmoooove ass came down tha steps at last tha tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his wild lil' face, n' his wild lil' fuckin eyes was bright n' tired.

“Bitch didn’t like it,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd immediately.

“Of course her dope ass done did.”

“Bitch didn’t like it,” he insisted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Bitch didn’t gotz a phat time.”

idiot was silent, n' I guessed at his unutterable depression.

“I feel far away from her,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “It’s hard ta make her understand.”

“Yo ass mean bout tha dance?”

“Da dance?” idiot dissed n' dismissed all tha dances dat schmoooove muthafucka had given wit a snap of his wild lil' fingers. “Oldskool sport, tha dizzle is unimportant.”

idiot wanted not a god damn thang less of Dizzy than dat her big-ass booty should git all up in Tomothy n' say: “I never loved you, biatch.” Afta dat freaky freaky biatch had obliterated four muthafuckin years wit dat sentence they could decizzle upon tha mo' practical measures ta be taken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. One of dem was that, afta dat biiiiatch was free, they was ta go back ta Louisville n' be hooked up from her doggy den — just as if it was five muthafuckin years ago.

“And her dope ass don’t understand,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “Bitch used ta be able ta understand. We’d sit fo' minutes ——”

idiot broke off n' fuckin started ta strutt up n' down a thugged-out desolate path of fruit rindz n' discarded favors n' crushed flowers.

“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “Yo ass can’t repeat tha past.”

“Can’t repeat tha past?” his schmoooove ass cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!”

idiot looked round his ass wildly, as if tha past was lurkin here up in tha shadow of his house, just outta reach of his hand.

“I’m goin ta fix every last muthafuckin thang just tha way dat shiznit was before,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, noddin determinedly. “She’ll see.”

idiot talked a shitload bout tha past, n' I gathered dat da thug wanted ta recover something, some scam of his dirty ass like, dat had gone tha fuck into gangbangin Daisy yo. His game had been trippin n' disordered since then yo, but if his schmoooove ass could once return ta a cold-ass lil certain startin place n' go over all dat shiznit slowly, his schmoooove ass could smoke up what tha fuck dat thang was. . ..

. . . One autumn night, five muthafuckin years before, they had been struttin down tha street when tha leaves was falling, n' they came ta a place where there was no trees n' tha sidewalk was white wit moonlight. They stopped here n' turned toward each other n' shit. Now dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil def night wit dat mysterious excitement up in it which comes all up in tha two chizzlez of tha year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da on tha down-low lights up in tha houses was hummin up tha fuck into tha darknizz n' there was a stir n' bustle among tha stars. Out of tha corner of his wild lil' fuckin eye Gatsby saw dat tha blockz of tha sidewalks straight-up formed a ladder n' mounted ta a secret place above tha trees — his schmoooove ass could climb ta it, if his schmoooove ass climbed alone, n' once there his schmoooove ass could suck on tha pap of game, gulp down tha incomparable gin n juice of wonder.

His ass beat fasta n' fasta as Daisy’s white grill came up ta his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot knew dat when he busted dis girl, n' forever wed his unutterable visions ta her perishable breath, his crazy-ass mind would never romp again n' again n' again like tha mind of Dogg. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So da thug waited, listenin fo' a moment longer ta tha tuning-fork dat had been struck upon a star. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then he busted her n' shiznit fo' realz. At his fuckin lips’ bust a nut on da hoe blossomed fo' his ass like a gangbangin' flower n' tha incarnation was complete.

Through all da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, even all up in his thugged-out appallin sentimentality, I was reminded of suttin' — a elusive rhythm, a gangbangin' fragment of lost lyrics, dat I had heard somewhere a long-ass time ago. For a moment a phrase tried ta take shape up in mah grill n' mah lips parted like a thugged-out dumb man’s, as though there was mo' strugglin upon dem than a wisp of startled air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But they made no sound, n' what tha fuck I had almost remembered was uncommunicable alllll muthafuckin day. Chapta 7

Dat shiznit was when curiositizzle bout Gatsby was at its highest dat tha lights up in his fuckin lil' doggy den failed ta go on one Saturdizzle night — and, as obscurely as it had begun, his game as Trimalchio was over n' shit. Only gradually did I become aware dat tha automobilez which turned expectantly tha fuck into his fuckin lil' drive stayed fo' just a minute n' then drove sulkily away. Wonderin if da thug was sick I went over ta smoke up — a unfamiliar butla wit a villainous grill squinted all up in mah grill suspiciously from tha door.

“Is Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby sick?”

“Nope.” Afta a pause he added “sir” up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dilatory, grudgin way.

“I hadn’t peeped his ass around, n' I was rather worried. Tell his ass Mista Muthafuckin Carraway came over.”

“Who?” da ruffneck demanded rudely.

“Carraway.”

“Carraway fo' realz. All right, I’ll tell his muthafuckin ass.” Abruptly da perved-out muthafucka slammed tha door.

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah Finn informed mah crazy ass dat Gatsby had dissed n' dismissed every last muthafuckin servant up in his fuckin lil' doggy den a week ago n' replaced dem wit half a thugged-out dozen others, whoz ass never went tha fuck into Westside Egg Village ta be bribed by tha tradesmen yo, but ordered moderate supplies over tha telephone. Da grocery pimp reported dat tha kitchen looked like a pigsty, n' tha general opinion up in tha hood was dat tha freshly smoked up playas weren’t servants at all.

Next dizzle Gatsby called mah crazy ass on tha phone.

“Goin away?” I inquired.

“Fuck dat shit, oldschool sport.”

“I hear you fired all yo' servants.”

“I wanted some muthafucka whoz ass wouldn’t ghetto hype. Dizzy comes over like often — up in tha afternoons.”

Yo, so tha whole caravansary had fallen up in like a cold-ass lil card doggy den all up in tha disapproval up in her eyes.

“They’re some playas Wolfsheim wanted ta do suttin' for. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They’re all brothers n' sisters. They used ta run a lil' small-ass hotel.”

“I see.”

idiot was callin up at Daisy’s request — would I come ta lunch at her doggy den to-morrow, biatch? Miss Baker would be there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Half a minute lata Dizzy her muthafuckin ass telephoned n' seemed relieved ta find dat I was coming. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang was up fo' realz. And yet I couldn’t believe dat they would chizzle dis occasion fo' a scene — especially fo' tha rather harrowin scene dat Gatsby had outlined up in tha garden.

Da next dizzle was broiling, almost tha last, certainly tha warmest, of tha summer n' shiznit fo' realz. As mah train emerged from tha tunnel tha fuck into sunlight, only tha bangin' whistlez of tha Nationizzle Biscuit Company broke tha simmerin hush at noon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da straw seatz of tha hoopty hovered on tha edge of combustion; tha biatch next ta me perspired delicately fo' a while tha fuck into her white shirtwaist, n' then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly tha fuck into deep heat wit a thugged-out desolate cry like a muthafucka yo. Her pocket-book slapped ta tha floor.

“Oh, my!” she gasped.

I picked it up wit a weary bend n' handed it back ta her, holdin it at arm’s length n' by tha off tha hook tip of tha corners ta indicate dat I had no designs upon it — but every last muthafuckin one near by, includin tha biatch, suspected mah crazy ass just tha same.

“Hot!” holla'd tha conductor ta familiar faces. “Some weather playa! hot son! hot son! hot son! Is it bangin' enough fo' yo slick ass, biatch? Is it hot, biatch? Is dat shit.. .?”

I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah commutation ticket came back ta me wit a thugged-out dark stain from his hand. That any one should care up in dis heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp tha pajama pocket over his heart playa!

. . . Through tha hall of tha Buchanans’ doggy den blew a gangbangin' faint wind, carryin tha sound of tha telephone bell up ta Gatsby n' mah crazy ass as we waited all up in tha door.

“Da master’s body!” roared tha butla tha fuck into tha grillpiece. “I’m sorry, madame yo, but we can’t furnish it — it’s far too bangin' ta bust a nut on dis noon!”

What he straight-up holla'd was: “Yes yes y'all,. . . yeaaaa. . . I’ll see.”

idiot set down tha receiver n' came toward us, glistenin slightly, ta take our stiff straw hats.

“Madame expects you up in tha salon!” his schmoooove ass cried, needlessly indicatin tha direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In dis heat every last muthafuckin extra gesture was a affront ta tha common store of game.

Da room, shadowed well wit awnings, was dark n' cool. Dizzy n' Jordan lay upon a enormous couch, like silver idols weighin down they own white dresses against tha rappin breeze of tha fans.

“We can’t move,” they holla'd together.

Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over they tan, rested fo' a moment up in mine.

“And Mista Muthafuckin Thomas Buchanan, tha athlete?” I inquired.

Yo, simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, all up in tha hall telephone.

Gatsby stood up in tha centre of tha crimson carpet n' gazed round wit fascinated eyes. Dizzy peeped his ass n' laughed, her dope, bangin laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom tha fuck into tha air.

“Da rumor is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s hoe on tha telephone.”

Us thugs was silent. Da voice up in tha hall rose high wit annoyance: “Straight-up well, then, I won’t push you tha hoopty at all. . . . I’m under no obligations ta you at all. . . n' as fo' yo' botherin me bout it at lunch time, I won’t stand dat at all!”

“Holdin down tha receiver,” holla'd Dizzy cynically.

“Fuck dat shit, he’s not,” I assured her n' shit. “It’s a funky-ass bona-fide deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. I happen ta know bout dat shit.”

Tomothy flung open tha door, blocked up its space fo' a moment wit his cold-ass thick body, n' hurried tha fuck into tha room.

“Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby!” idiot put up his broad, flat hand wit well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad ta peep you, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. . . . Nick. . . .”

“Make our asses a cold-ass lil cold drink,” cried Daisy.

As he left tha room again n' again n' again she gots up n' went over ta Gatsby n' pulled his wild lil' grill down, humpin' his ass on tha grill.

“Yo ass know I gots a straight-up boner fo' you,” she murmured.

“Yo ass forget there’s a lady present,” holla'd Jordan.

Dizzy looked round doubtfully.

“Yo ass lick Nick like a muthafucka.”

“What a low, vulgar girl!”

“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, n' fuckin started ta clog on tha brick fireplace. Then she remembered tha heat n' sat down guiltily on tha couch just as a gangbangin' freshly laundered nurse leadin a lil hoe came tha fuck into tha room.

“Bles-sed pre-cious,” dat thugged-out biiiatch crooned, holdin up her arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. “Come ta yo' own mutha dat loves you, biatch.”

Da child, relinquished by tha nurse, rushed across tha room n' rooted shyly tha fuck into her mother’s dress.

“Da bles-sed pre-cious muthafucka! Did mutha git powder on yo' oldschool yellowy hair, biatch? Stand up now, n' say — How-de-do.”

Gatsby n' I up in turn leaned down n' took tha small, reluctant hand. Afterward he kept lookin all up in tha lil pimp wit surprise. I don’t be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva straight-up believed up in its existence before.

“I gots dressed before luncheon,” holla'd tha child, turnin eagerly ta Daisy.

“That’s cuz yo' mutha wanted ta show you off.” Her grill bent tha fuck into tha single wrinkle of tha small, white neck. “Yo ass dream, you, biatch. Yo ass absolute lil dream.”

“Yes,” admitted tha lil pimp calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s gots on a white dress like a muthafucka.”

“How tha fuck do you like mother’s playas?” Dizzy turned her round so dat she faced Gatsby. “Do you be thinkin they’re pretty?”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Bitch don’t be lookin like her father,” explained Daisy. “Bitch be lookin like mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s gots mah afro n' shape of tha face.”

Dizzy sat back upon tha couch. Da nurse took a step forward n' held up her hand.

“Come, Pammy.”

“Good-by, dopeheart!”

With a reluctant backward glizzle tha well-disciplined lil pimp held ta her nurse’s hand n' was pulled up tha door, just as Tomothy came back, precedin four gin rickeys dat clicked full of ice.

Gatsby took up his fuckin lil' drink.

“They certainly look cool,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, wit visible tension.

Us idiots drank up in long, greedy swallows.

“I read somewhere dat tha sun’s gettin hotta every last muthafuckin year,” holla'd Tomothy genially. “It seems dat pretty soon tha earth’s goin ta fall tha fuck into tha sun — or wait a minute — it’s just tha opposite — tha sun’s gettin colda every last muthafuckin year.

“Come outside,” da perved-out muthafucka suggested ta Gatsby, “I’d like you ta git a peep tha place.”

I went wit dem up ta tha veranda. On tha chronic Sound, stagnant up in tha heat, one lil' small-ass sail crawled slowly toward tha fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand n' pointed across tha bay.

“I’m right across from you, biatch.”

“So yo ass is.”

Our eyes lifted over tha rose-bedz n' tha bangin' lawn n' tha weedy refuse of tha dog-days along-shore. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Slowly tha white wingz of tha boat moved against tha blue def limit of tha sky fo' realz. Ahead lay tha scalloped ocean n' tha aboundin pimped isles.

“There’s shiznit fo' you,” holla'd Tom, nodding. “I’d like ta be up there wit his ass fo' bout a hour.”

Our thugged-out asses had luncheon up in tha dining-room, darkened too against tha heat, n' drank down straight-up trippin gayety wit tha cold ale.

“What’ll our phat asses do wit ourselves dis afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and tha dizzle afta that, n' tha next thirty years?”

“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan holla'd. “Life starts all over again n' again n' again when it gets crisp up in tha fall.”

“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on tha verge of tears, “and every last muthafuckin thang’s so confused. Let’s all git all up in town!”

Her voice struggled on all up in tha heat, whoopin against it, moldin its senselessnizz tha fuck into forms.

“I’ve heard of bustin a garage outta a stable,” Tomothy was sayin ta Gatsby, “but I’m tha straight-up original gangsta playa whoz ass eva done cooked up a stable outta a garage.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck wants ta git all up in town?” demanded Dizzy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her n' shit. “Ah,” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried, “you look so cool.”

Their eyes met, n' they stared together at each other, ridin' solo up in space. With a effort she glanced down all up in tha table.

“Yo ass always look so cool,” she repeated.

Yo, she had holla'd at his ass dat she loved him, n' Tomothy Buchanan saw yo. idiot was astounded. His grill opened a lil, n' he looked at Gatsby, n' then back at Dizzy as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had just recognized her as some one he knew a long-ass time ago.

“Yo ass resemble tha advertisement of tha idiot,” dat biiiiatch went on innocently. “Yo ass know tha advertisement of tha playa ——”

“All right,” broke up in Tomothy quickly, “I’m perfectly willin ta git all up in town. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Come on — we’re all goin ta town.”

idiot gots up, his wild lil' fuckin eyes still flashin between Gatsby n' his hoe. No one moved.

“Come on!” His temper cracked a lil. “What’s tha matter, anyhow, biatch? If we’re goin ta town, let’s start.”

His hand, tremblin wit his wild lil' fuckin effort at self-control, bore ta his fuckin lips tha last of his wild lil' freakadelic glass of ale. Daisy’s voice gots our asses ta our feet n' up on ta tha blazin gravel drive.

“Is our laid-back asses just goin ta go?” she objected. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Like this, biatch? Aren’t we goin ta let any one smoke a cold-ass lil blunt first?”

“All Y'all smoked all all up in lunch.”

“Oh, let’s have fun,” da hoe begged his muthafuckin ass. “It’s too bangin' ta fuss.” idiot didn’t answer.

“Have it yo' own way,” her big-ass booty holla'd. “Come on, Jordan.”

They went up-stairs ta git locked n loaded while we three pimps stood there shufflin tha bangin' pebblez wit our Nikes fo' realz. A silver curve of tha moon hovered already up in tha westside sky. Gatsby started ta speak, chizzled his crazy-ass mind yo, but not before Tomothy wheeled n' faced his ass expectantly.

“Has you done gots yo' stablez here?” axed Gatsby wit a effort.

“On some quarta of a mile down tha road.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“I don’t peep tha scam of goin ta town,” broke up Tomothy savagely. “Booty git these notions up in they headz ——”

“Shall we take anythang ta drink?” called Dizzy from a upper window.

“I’ll git some whiskey,” answered Tom yo. idiot went inside.

Gatsby turned ta me rigidly:

“I can’t say anythang up in his house, oldschool sport.”

“She’s gots a indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of ——” I hesitated.

“Her voice is full of scrilla,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd suddenly.

That was dat shit. I’d never understood before. Dat shiznit was full of scrilla — dat was tha inexhaustible charm dat rose n' fell tha fuck up in it, tha jingle of it, tha cymbals’ cold lil' woo wop of dat shit. . . . high up in a white palace tha mackdaddy’s daughter, tha golden girl. . ..

Tomothy came outta tha doggy den wrappin a quart forty up in a towel, followed by Dizzy n' Jordan bustin lil' small-ass tight basebizzle capz of metallic cloth n' carryin light capes over they arms.

“Shall we all go up in mah car?” suggested Gatsby yo. idiot felt tha hot, chronic leather of tha seat. “I ought ta have left it up in tha shade.”

“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.

“Yes yes y'all.”

“Well, you take mah coupe n' let me drive yo' hoopty ta town.”

Da suggestion was distasteful ta Gatsby.

“I don’t be thinkin there’s much gas,” he objected.

“Plenty of gas,” holla'd Tomothy boisterously yo. idiot looked all up in tha gauge. “And if it runs up I can stop at a thugged-out sticky-icky-icky-store. Yo ass can loot anythang at a thugged-out sticky-icky-icky-store nowadays.”

A pause followed dis apparently pointless remark. Dizzy looked at Tomothy frowning, n' a indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar n' vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it busted lyrics bout up in lyrics, passed over Gatsby’s face.

“Come on, Daisy,” holla'd Tom, pressin her wit his hand toward Gatsby’s car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. “I’ll take you up in dis circus wagon.”

idiot opened tha door yo, but she moved up from tha circle of his thugged-out arm.

“Yo ass take Nick n' Jordan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We’ll follow you up in tha coupe.”

Yo, she strutted close ta Gatsby, touchin his coat wit her hand. Jordan n' Tomothy n' I gots tha fuck into tha front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tomothy pushed tha unfamiliar gears tentatively, n' we blasted off tha fuck into tha oppressive heat, leavin dem outta sight behind.

“Did yo dirty ass peep that?” demanded Tom.

“See what?”

idiot looked all up in mah grill keenly, realizin dat Jordan n' I must have known all along.

“Yo ass be thinkin I’m pretty dumb, don’t yo slick ass?” da perved-out muthafucka suggested. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Perhaps I am yo, but I gots a — almost a second sight, sometimes, dat drops some lyrics ta me what tha fuck ta do. Maybe you don’t believe dat yo, but science ——”

He paused. Da immediate contingency overtook him, pulled his ass back from tha edge of tha theoretical abyss.

“I’ve done cooked up a lil' small-ass investigation of dis fellow,” his schmoooove ass continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known ——”

“Do you mean you’ve been ta a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.

“What?” Confused, da perved-out muthafucka stared at our asses as our slick asses laughed. “A medium?”

“Bout Gatsby.”

“Bout Gatsby dawwwwg! Fuck dat shit, I haven’t. I holla'd I’d been bustin a lil' small-ass investigation of his thugged-out lil' past.”

“And you found da thug was a Oxford idiot,” holla'd Jordan helpfully.

“An Oxford man!” idiot was incredulous. “Like hell he is muthafucka! idiot wears a pink suit.”

“Nevertheless he’s a Oxford man.”

“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tomothy contemptuously, “or suttin' like dat n' like dis n' like dat y'all.”

“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite his ass ta lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.

“Dizzy invited him; she knew his ass before we was hooked up — Dogg knows where!”

Us thugs was all irritable now wit tha fadin ale, n' aware of it our phat asses drove fo' a while up in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came tha fuck into sight down tha road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution bout gasoline.

“We’ve gots enough ta git our asses ta town,” holla'd Tom.

“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “I don’t wanna git stalled up in dis bakin heat.” Tomothy threw on both brakes impatiently, n' we slid ta a abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Afta a moment tha proprietor emerged from tha interior of his wild lil' fuckin establishment n' gazed hollow-eyed all up in tha car.

“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tomothy roughly. “What do you be thinkin we stopped fo' — ta admire tha view?”

“I’m sick,” holla'd Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”

“What’s tha matter?”

“I’m all run down.”

“Well, shall I help mah dirty ass?” Tomothy demanded. “Yo ass sounded well enough on tha phone.”

With a effort Wilson left tha shade n' support of tha doorway and, breathang hard, unscrewed tha cap of tha tank. In tha sunlight his wild lil' grill was green.

“I didn’t mean ta interrupt yo' lunch,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “But I need scrilla pretty bad, n' I was wonderin what tha fuck you was goin ta do wit yo' oldschool car.”

“How tha fuck do you like dis one?” inquired Tom. “I looted it last week.”

“It’s a sick yellow one,” holla'd Wilson, as da perved-out muthafucka strained all up in tha handle.

“Like ta loot it?”

“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “Fuck dat shiznit yo, but I could cook up some fuckin scrilla on tha other.”

“What do you want scrilla for, all of a sudden?”

“I’ve been here too long. I wanna git away. My fuckin hoe n' I wanna go West.”

“Yo crazy-ass hoe do,” exclaimed Tom, startled.

“She’s been poppin' off bout it fo' ten years.” idiot rested fo' a moment against tha pump, shadin his wild lil' fuckin eyes. “And now she’s goin whether dat biiiiatch wants ta or not. I’m goin ta git her away.”

Da coupe flashed by our asses wit a gangbangin' flurry of dust n' tha flash of a wavin hand.

“What do I owe yo slick ass?” demanded Tomothy harshly.

“I just gots wised up ta suttin' funky tha last two days,” remarked Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “That’s why I wanna git away. That’s why I been botherin you bout tha car.”

“What do I owe yo slick ass?”

“Dollar twenty.”

Da relentless whoopin heat was beginnin ta confuse me n' I had a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass moment there before I realized dat so far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on Tom yo. idiot had discovered dat Myrtle had some sort of game apart from his ass up in another ghetto, n' tha shock had made his ass physically sick. I stared at his ass n' then at Tom, whoz ass had done cooked up a parallel discovery less than a minute before — n' it occurred ta me dat there was no difference between men, up in intelligence or race, so profound as tha difference between tha sick n' tha well. Wilson was so sick dat he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty — as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had just gots some skanky hoe wit child.

“I’ll let you have dat car,” holla'd Tom. “I’ll bust it over to-morrow afternoon.”

That localitizzle was always vaguely disquieting, even up in tha broad glare of afternoon, n' now I turned mah head as though I had been warned of suttin' behind. Over tha ashheaps tha giant eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept they vigil yo, but I perceived, afta a moment, dat other eyes was regardin our asses wit peculiar intensitizzle from less than twenty feet away.

In one of tha windows over tha garage tha curtains had been moved aside a lil, n' Myrtle Wilson was peerin down all up in tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So engrossed was dat dunkadelic hoe dat dat freaky freaky biatch had no consciousnizz of bein observed, n' one emotion afta another crept tha fuck into her grill like objects tha fuck into a slowly pimpin picture yo. Her expression was curiously familiar — dat shiznit was a expression I had often peeped on dem hoes’s faces yo, but on Myrtle Wilson’s grill it seemed purposeless n' inexplicable until I realized dat her eyes, wide wit jealous terror, was fixed not on Tom yo, but on Jordan Baker, whom dat dunkadelic hoe took ta be his hoe.

There is no mad drama like tha mad drama of a simple mind, n' as our phat asses drove away Tomothy was feelin tha bangin' whipz of panic yo. His hoe n' his crazy-ass mistress, until a minute ago secure n' inviolate, was slippin precipitately from his control. Instinct made his ass step on tha accelerator wit tha double purpose of overtakin Dizzy n' leavin Wilson behind, n' we sped along toward Astoria at fifty milez a hour, until, among tha spidery girdaz of tha elevated, we came up in sight of tha easy as fuck -goin blue coupe.

“Those big-ass pornos round Fiftieth Street is cool,” suggested Jordan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “I gots a straight-up boner fo' New York on summer afternoons when every last muthafuckin one’s away. There’s suttin' straight-up sensuous bout it — overripe, as if all sortz of funky fruits was goin ta fall tha fuck into yo' hands.”

Da word “sensuous” had tha effect of further disquietin Tom yo, but before his schmoooove ass could invent a protest tha coupe came ta a stop, n' Dizzy signaled our asses ta draw up alongside.

“Where is we going?” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried.

“How tha fuck bout tha pornos?”

“It’s so hot,” dat thugged-out biiiatch complained. “Yo ass go. We’ll ride round n' hook up you after.” With a effort her wit rose faintly, “We’ll hook up you on some corner n' shit. I’ll be tha playa tokin two blunts.”

“We can’t argue bout it here,” Tomothy holla'd impatiently, as a truck gave up a cold-ass lil cursin whistle behind us. “Yo ass gangbang me ta tha downtown side of Central Park, up in front of tha Plaza.”

Yo, nuff muthafuckin times tha pimpin' muthafucka turned his head n' looked back fo' they car, n' if tha traffic delayed dem da perved-out muthafucka slowed up until they came tha fuck into sight. I be thinkin da thug was afraid they would dart down a side street n' outta his wild lil' freakadelic game alllll muthafuckin day.

But they didn’t fo' realz. And we all took tha less explicable step of engagin tha parlor of a suite up in tha Plaza Hotel.

Da prolonged n' tumultuous argument dat ended by herdin our asses tha fuck into dat room eludes me, though I gots a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp physical memory that, up in tha course of it, mah underwear kept climbin like a thugged-out damp snake round mah hairy-ass legs n' intermittent beadz of sweat raced def across mah back. Da notion originated wit Daisy’s suggestion dat our crazy asses hire five bath-rooms n' take cold baths, n' then assumed mo' tangible form as “a place ta git a mint julep.” Each of our asses holla'd over n' over dat dat shiznit was a “crazy idea.”— we all talked at once ta a funky-ass baffled clerk n' thought, or pretended ta think, dat we was bein straight-up funky.. ..

Da room was big-ass n' stifling, and, though dat shiznit was already four o’clock, openin tha windows admitted Only a gust of bangin' shrubbery from tha Park. Dizzy went ta tha mirror n' stood wit her back ta us, fixin her hair.

“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, n' every last muthafuckin one laughed.

“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turnin around.

“There aren’t any more.”

“Well, we’d betta telephone fo' a axe ——”

“Da thang ta do is ta forget bout tha heat,” holla'd Tomothy impatiently. “Yo ass make it ten times worse by crabbin bout dat shit.”

idiot unrolled tha forty of whiskey from tha towel n' put it on tha table.

“Why not let her alone, oldschool sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re tha one dat wanted ta come ta town.”

There was a moment of silence. Da telephone book slipped from its nail n' splashed ta tha floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse mah dirty ass.”— but dis time no one laughed.

“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.

“I’ve gots dat shit.” Gatsby examined tha parted string, muttered “Hum!” up in a interested way, n' tossed tha book on a cold-ass lil chair.

“That’s a pimped out expression of yours, isn’t it?” holla'd Tomothy sharply.

“What tha fuck iz?”

“All dis ‘old sport’ bidnizz. Where’d you pick dat up?”

“Now peep here, Tom,” holla'd Daisy, turnin round from tha mirror, “if you’re goin ta make underground remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up n' order some ice fo' tha mint julep.”

As Tomothy took up tha receiver tha compressed heat blew up like a muthafucka tha fuck into sound n' we was listenin ta tha portentous chordz of Mendelssohn’s Weddin March from tha ballroom below.

“Imagine marryin anybody up in dis heat!” cried Jordan dismally.

“Still — I was hooked up in tha middle of June,” Dizzy remembered, “Louisville up in June biaaatch! Some Muthafucka fainted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was it fainted, Tom?”

“Biloxi,” he answered shortly.

“A playa named Biloxi. ‘blocks’ Biloxi, n' he made boxes — that’s a gangbangin' fact — n' da thug was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”

“They carried his ass tha fuck into mah house,” appended Jordan, “because our slick asses lived just two doors from tha church fo' realz. And da perved-out muthafucka stayed three weeks, until Daddy holla'd at his ass dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta git out. Da dizzle afta he left Daddy died.” Afta a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.”

“I used ta know a Bizzle Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.

“That was his cousin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I knew his whole crew history before he left yo. idiot gave me a aluminum putta dat I use to-day.”

Da noize had took a dirt nap down as tha ceremony fuckin started n' now a long-ass cheer floated up in all up in tha window, followed by intermittent criez of “Yea-ea-ea!” n' finally by a funky-ass burst of jazz as tha ridin' dirty fuckin started.

“We’re gettin old,” holla'd Daisy. “If we was lil' we’d rise n' dance.”

“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her n' shit. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”

“Biloxi?” idiot concentrated wit a effort. “I didn’t know his muthafuckin ass yo. idiot was a gangbangin' playa of Daisy’s.”

“Boy, shut yo' dirty ass up, he's not,” her dope ass denied. “I’d never peeped his ass before yo. idiot came down up in tha private car.”

“Well, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd he knew you, biatch yo. idiot holla'd da thug was raised up in Louisville fo' realz. Asa Bird brought his ass round all up in tha last minute n' axed if our crazy asses had room fo' his muthafuckin ass.”

Jordan smiled.

“idiot was probably bummin his way home yo. He holla'd at mah crazy ass da thug was prez of yo' class at Yale.”

Tomothy n' I looked at each other blankly.

“Biloxi?”

“First place, our phat asses didn’t have any prez ——”

Gatsby’s foot beat a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short, restless tattoo n' Tomothy eyed his ass suddenly.

“By tha way, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby, I KNOW you’re a Oxford man.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, fo'sho, I KNOW you went ta Oxford.”

“Yes yes y'all, — I went there.”

A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous n' insulting: “Yo ass must have gone there bout tha time Biloxi went ta New Haven.”

Another pause fo' realz. A waita knocked n' came up in wit crushed mint n' ice but, tha silence was unbroken by his “fuck you” n' tha soft closin of tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This tremendous detail was ta be cleared up at last.

“I holla'd at you I went there,” holla'd Gatsby.

“I heard you yo, but I’d like ta know when.”

“Dat shiznit was up in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t straight-up call mah dirty ass a Oxford man.”

Tomothy glanced round ta peep if we mirrored his unbelief. But we was all lookin at Gatsby.

“Dat shiznit was a opportunitizzle they gave ta a shitload of tha fools afta tha Armistice,” his schmoooove ass continued. “We could git all up in any of tha universitizzles up in England or France.”

I wanted ta git up n' slap his ass on tha back. I had one of dem renewalz of complete faith up in his ass dat I’d experienced before.

Dizzy rose, smilin faintly, n' went ta tha table.

“Open tha whiskey, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so wack ta yo ass. . . . Look all up in tha mint!”

“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I wanna ask Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby one mo' question.”

“Go on,” Gatsby holla'd politely.

“What kind of a row is you tryin ta cause up in mah doggy den anyhow?”

They was up in tha open at last n' Gatsby was content.

“idiot isn’t causin a row.” Dizzy looked desperately from one ta tha other n' shit. “You’re causin a row. Please gotz a lil self-control.”

“Self-control!” Repeated Tomothy incredulously. “I suppose tha sickest fuckin thang is ta sit back n' let Mista Muthafuckin No Muthafucka from Nowhere bust a nut on yo' hoe. Well, if that’s tha scam you can count me out. . . . Nowadays playas begin by sneerin at crew game n' crew institutions, n' next they’ll throw every last muthafuckin thang overboard n' have intermarriage between black n' white.”

Flushed wit his crazy-ass muthafuckin impassioned gibberish, da perved-out muthafucka saw his dirty ass standin ridin' solo on tha last barrier of civilization.

“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.

“I know I’m not straight-up popular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I don’t give big-ass parties. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! I suppose you’ve gots ta make yo' doggy den tha fuck into a pigsty up in order ta have any playaz — up in tha modern ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.”

Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted ta laugh whenever he opened his crazy-ass grill. Da transizzle from libertine ta prig was so complete.

“I’ve gots suttin' ta tell you, oldschool shiznit ——” fuckin started Gatsby. But Dizzy guessed at his crazy-ass muthafuckin intention.

“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all bounce back ta tha doggy den. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Why don’t we all bounce back ta tha doggy den?”

“That’s a phat idea.” I gots up. “Come on, Tom. No Muthafucka wants a thugged-out drink.”

“I wanna know what tha fuck Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby has ta tell mah dirty ass.”

“Yo crazy-ass hoe don’t ludd you,” holla'd Gatsby. “She’s never loved you, biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch loves mah dirty ass.”

“Yo ass must be crazy!” exclaimed Tomothy automatically.

Gatsby sprang ta his wild lil' feet, vivid wit excitement.

“Bitch never loved you, do you hear?” his schmoooove ass cried. “Bitch only hooked up you cuz I was skanky n' dat biiiiatch was pissed wit waitin fo' mah dirty ass. Dat shiznit was a shitty mistake yo, but up in her ass she never loved any one except me!”

At dis point Jordan n' I tried ta go yo, but Tomothy n' Gatsby insisted wit competitizzle firmnizz dat we remain — as though neither of dem had anythang ta conceal n' it would be a privilege ta partake vicariously of they emotions.

“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully fo' tha paternal note. “What’s been goin on, biatch? I wanna hear all bout dat shit.”

“I holla'd at you what’s been goin on,” holla'd Gatsby. “Goin on fo' five muthafuckin years — n' you didn’t know.”

Tomothy turned ta Dizzy sharply.

“You’ve been seein dis fellow fo' five years?”

“Not seeing,” holla'd Gatsby. “Fuck dat shit, we couldn’t meet. But both of our asses loved each other all dat time, oldschool sport, n' you didn’t know. I used ta laugh sometimes.”— but there was no laughta up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes ——” ta be thinkin dat you didn’t know.”

“Oh — that’s all.” Tomothy tapped his cold-ass thick fingers together like a cold-ass lil clergyman n' leaned back up in his chair.

“You’re crazy!” his thugged-out lil' punk-ass blew up like a muthafucka. “I can’t drop a rhyme bout what tha fuck happened five muthafuckin years ago, cuz I didn’t know Dizzy then — n' I’ll be damned if I peep how tha fuck you gots within a mile of her unless you brought tha groceries ta tha back door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But all tha rest of that’s a Dogg damned lie. Dizzy loved mah crazy ass when she hooked up me n' she loves me now, nahmeean?”

“No,” holla'd Gatsby, bobbin his head.

“Bitch do, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da shiznit is dat sometimes she gets foolish scams up in her head n' don’t know what tha fuck she’s bustin.” idiot nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I gots a straight-up boner fo' Dizzy like a muthafucka. Once up in a while I go off on a spree n' cook up a gangbangin' fool of mah dirty ass yo, but I always come back, n' up in mah ass I gots a straight-up boner fo' her all tha time.”

“You’re revolting,” holla'd Daisy. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch turned ta me, n' her voice, droppin a octave lower, filled tha room wit thrillin scorn: “Do you know why our slick asses left Chicago, biatch? I’m surprised dat they didn’t treat you ta tha rap of dat lil spree.”

Gatsby strutted over n' stood beside her muthafuckin ass.

“Daisy, that’s all over now,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd earnestly. “It don’t matta any mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Just tell his ass tha real deal — dat you never loved his ass — n' it’s all wiped up alllll muthafuckin day.”

Yo, she looked at his ass blindly. “Why — how tha fuck could I gots a straight-up boner fo' his ass — possibly?”

“Yo ass never loved his muthafuckin ass.”

Yo, she hesitated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Her eyes fell tha fuck on Jordan n' mah crazy ass wit a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was bustin — n' as though dat freaky freaky biatch had never, all along, intended bustin anythang at all. But dat shiznit was done now, nahmeean, biatch? Dat shiznit was too late.

“I never loved him,” her big-ass booty holla'd, wit perceptible reluctance.

“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tomothy suddenly.

“No.”

From tha ballroom beneath, muffled n' suffocatin chordz was driftin up on bangin' wavez of air.

“Not dat dizzle I carried you down from tha Punch Bowl ta keep yo' Nikes dry?” There was a husky tendernizz up in his cold-ass tone.. .. “Daisy?”

“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold yo, but tha rancor was gone from dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” her big-ass booty holla'd — but her hand as dat dunkadelic hoe tried ta light a cold-ass lil blunt was trembling. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly dat dunkadelic hoe threw tha blunt n' tha burnin match on tha carpet.

“Oh, you want too much!” dat thugged-out biiiatch cried ta Gatsby. “I gots a straight-up boner fo' you now — isn’t dat enough, biatch? I can’t help what’s past.” Biatch fuckin started ta sob helplessly. “I did ludd his ass once — but I loved you like a muthafucka.”

Gatsby’s eyes opened n' closed.

“Yo ass loved mah crazy ass too?” he repeated.

“Even that’s a lie,” holla'd Tomothy savagely. “Bitch didn’t know you was kickin dat shit, yo. Why — there’re thangs between Dizzy n' mah crazy ass dat you’ll never know, thangs dat neither of our asses can eva forget.”

Da lyrics seemed ta bite physically tha fuck into Gatsby.

“I wanna drop a rhyme ta Dizzy alone,” he insisted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “She’s all buckwild now ——”

“Even ridin' solo I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted up in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.

Yo, she turned ta her homeboy.

“As if it mattered ta you,” her big-ass booty holla'd.

“Of course it matters. I’m goin ta take betta care of y'all from now on.”

“Yo ass don’t understand,” holla'd Gatsby, wit a funky-ass bust a nut on of panic. “You’re not goin ta take care of her any more.”

“I’m not?” Tomothy opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide n' laughed. idiot could afford ta control his dirty ass now, nahmeean, biatch? “Why’s that?”

“Daisy’s leavin you, biatch.”

“Nonsense.”

“I am, though,” her big-ass booty holla'd wit a visible effort.

“She’s not leavin me!” Tom’s lyrics suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not fo' a cold-ass lil common swindla who’d gotta loot tha rang he put on her finger.”

“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s git out.”

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is you, anyhow?” broke up Tom. “You’re one of dat bunch dat hangs round wit Meyer Wolfsheim — dat much I happen ta know. I’ve done cooked up a lil investigation tha fuck into yo' affairs — n' I’ll carry it further to-morrow.”

“Yo ass can suit yo ass bout that, oldschool sport,” holla'd Gatsby steadily.

“I found up what tha fuck yo' ‘drug-stores’ were.” idiot turned ta our asses n' was rappin rapidly. “Dude n' dis Wolfsheim looted up a shitload of side-street sticky-icky-icky-stores here n' up in Chicago n' sold grain brew over tha counter n' shit. That’s one of his fuckin lil stunts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. I picked his ass fo' a funky-ass bootlegger tha last time I saw him, n' I wasn’t far wrong.”

“What bout it?” holla'd Gatsby politely. “I guess yo' playa Walta Chase wasn’t too proud as a muthafucka ta come up in on dat shit.”

“And you left his ass up in tha lurch, didn’t yo slick ass, biatch? Yo ass let his ass git all up in jail fo' a month over up in New Jersey. Dogg hommie! Yo ass ought ta hear Walta on tha subject of you.”

“idiot came ta our asses dead broke yo. He was straight-up glad ta pick up some scrilla, oldschool sport.”

“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby holla'd nothing. “Walta could have you up on tha bettin laws too yo, but Wolfsheim scared his ass tha fuck into shuttin his crazy-ass grill.”

That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again n' again n' again up in Gatsby’s face.

“That sticky-icky-icky-store bidnizz was just lil' small-ass chizzle,” continued Tomothy slowly, “but you’ve gots suttin' on now dat Walter’s afraid ta tell me about.”

I glanced at Daisy, whoz ass was starin terrified between Gatsby n' her homeboy, n' at Jordan, whoz ass had begun ta balizzle a invisible but absorbin object on tha tip of her chin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then I turned back ta Gatsby — n' was startled at his wild lil' fuckin expression. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot looked — n' dis is holla'd up in all contempt fo' tha babbled slander of his wild lil' freakadelic garden — as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had “killed a man.” For a moment tha set of his wild lil' grill could be busted lyrics bout up in just dat dunkadelic way.

It passed, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta rap excitedly ta Daisy, denyin every last muthafuckin thang, representin' his name against accusations dat had not been made. But wit every last muthafuckin word dat biiiiatch was drawin further n' further tha fuck into her muthafuckin ass, so he gave dat up, n' only tha dead trip fought on as tha afternoon slipped away, tryin ta bust a nut on what tha fuck was no longer tangible, strugglin unhappily, undespairingly, toward dat lost voice across tha room.

Da voice begged again n' again n' again ta bounce tha fuck out.

“please, Tom! I can’t stand dis any more.”

Her frightened eyes holla'd at dat whatever intentions, whatever courage, dat freaky freaky biatch had had, was definitely gone.

“Yo ass two start on home, Daisy,” holla'd Tom. “In Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby’s car.”

Yo, she looked at Tom, alarmed now yo, but he insisted wit magnanimous scorn.

“Go on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. He won’t annoy you, biatch. I be thinkin he realizes dat his thugged-out lil' presumptuous lil flirtation is over.”

They was gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like pimps, even from our pity.

Afta a moment Tomothy gots up n' fuckin started rappin bout da unopened forty of whiskey up in tha towel.

“Want any of dis stuff, biatch? Jordan, biatch? . . . Nick?”

I didn’t answer.

“Nick?” he axed again.

“What?”

“Want any?”

“No. . . I just remembered dat to-day’s mah birthday.”

I was thirty. Before me stretched tha portentous, menacin road of a freshly smoked up decade.

Dat shiznit was seven o’clock when we gots tha fuck into tha coupe wit his ass n' started fo' Long Island. Tomothy talked incessantly, exultin n' bustin up yo, but his voice was as remote from Jordan n' mah crazy ass as tha foreign clamor on tha sidewalk or tha tumult of tha elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, n' we was content ta let all they tragic arguments fade wit tha hood lights behind. Thirty — tha promise of a thugged-out decade of loneliness, a thinnin list of single pimps ta know, a thinnin brief-case of enthusiasm, thinnin hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise eva ta carry well-forgotten trips from age ta age fo' realz. As we passed over tha dark bridge her wan grill fell tha fuck lazily against mah coat’s shoulder n' tha formidable stroke of thirty took a dirt nap away wit tha reassurin heat of her hand.

Yo, so our phat asses drove on toward dirtnap all up in tha coolin twilight.

Da lil' Greek, Michaelis, whoz ass ran tha fruity-ass malt liquor joint beside tha ashheaps was tha principal witnizz all up in tha inquest yo. idiot had slept all up in tha heat until afta five, when da perved-out muthafucka strolled over ta tha garage, n' found George Wilson sick up in his crib — straight-up sick, pale as his own pale afro n' bobbin all over n' shit. Michaelis advised his ass ta git all up in bed yo, but Wilson refused, sayin dat he’d miss a shitload of bidnizz if da ruffneck done did. While his neighbor was tryin ta persuade his ass a violent racket broke up overhead.

“I’ve gots mah hoe locked up in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s goin ta stay there till tha dizzle afta to-morrow, n' then we’re goin ta move away.”

Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors fo' four years, n' Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally da thug was one of these worn-out men: when da thug wasn’t working, da perved-out muthafucka sat on a cold-ass lil chair up in tha doorway n' stared all up in tha playas n' tha rides dat passed along tha road. When any one was rappin ta his ass he invariably laughed up in a agreeable, colorless way yo. idiot was his hoe’s playa n' not his own.

Yo, so naturally Michaelis tried ta smoke up what tha fuck had happened yo, but Wilson wouldn’t say shiznit — instead his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor n' ask his ass what tha fuck he’d been bustin at certain times on certain days. Just as tha latta was gettin uneasy, some workmen came past tha door bound fo' his bangin restaurant, n' Michaelis took tha opportunitizzle ta git away, intendin ta come back later n' shit. But da ruffneck didn’t yo. idiot supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When his schmoooove ass came outside again, a lil afta seven, da thug was reminded of tha conversation cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, bangin n' scolding, down-stairs up in tha garage.

“Beat me!” dat schmoooove muthafucka heard her cry like a muthafucka. “Throw me down n' beat me, you dirty lil coward!”

A moment lata she rushed up tha fuck into tha dusk, wavin her handz n' shoutin — before his schmoooove ass could move from his fuckin lil' door tha bidnizz was over.

Da “death car,” as tha newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came outta tha gatherin darkness, wavered tragically fo' a moment, n' then disappeared round tha next bend yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Michaelis wasn’t even shizzle of its color — tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd all up in tha straight-up original gangsta policeman dat dat shiznit was light green. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da other car, tha one goin toward New York, came ta rest a hundred yardz beyond, n' its driver hurried back ta where Myrtle Wilson, her game violently extinguished, knelt up in tha road n' mingled her thick dark blood wit tha dust.

Michaelis n' dis playa reached her first yo, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp wit perspiration, they saw dat her left breast was swingin loose like a gangbangin' flap, n' there was no need ta listen fo' tha ass beneath. Da grill was wide open n' ripped all up in tha corners, as though dat freaky freaky biatch had choked a lil up in givin up tha tremendous vitalitizzle dat freaky freaky biatch had stored so long.

We saw tha three or four automobilez n' tha crowd when we was still some distizzle away.

“Wreck!” holla'd Tom. “That’s good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Wilson’ll gotz a lil bidnizz at last.”

Dude slowed down yo, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, tha hushed, intent facez of tha playas all up in tha garage door made his ass automatically put on tha brakes.

“We’ll take a look,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd doubtfully, “just a look.”

I became aware now of a hollow, beatboxin sound which issued incessantly from tha garage, a sound which as we gots outta tha coupe n' strutted toward tha door resolved itself tha fuck into tha lyrics “Oh, mah God!” uttered over n' over up in a gaspin moan.

“There’s some shitty shiznit here,” holla'd Tomothy excitedly.

He reached up on tiptoes n' peered over a cold-ass lil circle of headz tha fuck into tha garage, which was lit only by a yellow light up in a swingin wire basket overhead. Then he done cooked up a harsh sound up in his cold-ass throat, n' wit a violent thrustin movement of his bangin arms pushed his way through.

Da circle closed up again n' again n' again wit a hustlin murmur of expostulation; dat shiznit was a minute before I could peep anythang at all. Then freshly smoked up arrivals deranged tha line, n' Jordan n' I was pushed suddenly inside.

Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped up in a funky-ass blanket, n' then up in another blanket, as though her big-ass booty suffered from a cold-ass lil chill up in tha bangin' night, lay on a work-table by tha wall, n' Tom, wit his back ta us, was bendin over it, motionless. Next ta his ass stood a motorcycle policeman takin down names wit much sweat n' erection up in a lil book fo' realz. At first I couldn’t find tha source of tha high, groanin lyrics dat echoed clamorously all up in tha bare garage — then I saw Wilson standin on tha raised threshold of his office, swayin back n' forth n' holdin ta tha doorposts wit both hands. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some playa was poppin' off ta his ass up in a low voice n' attempting, from time ta time, ta lay a hand on his shoulder yo, but Wilson neither heard nor saw yo. His eyes would drop slowly from tha swingin light ta tha laden table by tha wall, n' then jerk back ta tha light again, n' he gave up incessantly his high, wack call:

“Oh, mah Ga-od hommie! Oh, mah Ga-od hommie! oh, Ga-od hommie! oh, mah Ga-od!”

Presently Tomothy lifted his head wit a jerk and, afta starin round tha garage wit glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark ta tha policeman.

“M-a-y-,” tha policeman was saying, “-o ——”

“Fuck dat shit, r-,” erected tha idiot, “M-a-v-r-o ——”

“Listen ta me!” muttered Tomothy fiercely.

“r” holla'd tha policeman, “o ——”

“g ——”

“g ——” idiot looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell tha fuck sharply on his shoulder n' shit. “What you want, fella?”

“What happened, biatch? — that’s what tha fuck I wanna know.”

“Auto hit her n' shit. Ins’antly capped.”

“Instantly capped,” repeated Tom, staring.

“Bitch ran up ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”

“There was two cars,” holla'd Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”

“Goin where?” axed tha policeman keenly.

“One goin’ each way. Well, she.”— his hand rose toward tha blankets but stopped half way n' fell tha fuck ta his side ——” she ran up there an’ tha one comin’ from N’york knock right tha fuck into her, goin’ thirty or forty milez a hour.”

“What’s tha name of dis place here?” demanded tha fool.

“Hasn’t gots any name.”

A pale well-dressed man stepped near.

“Dat shiznit was a yellow car,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, “bangin' yellow car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. New.”

“See tha accident?” axed tha policeman.

“Fuck dat shiznit yo, but tha hoopty passed mah crazy ass down tha road, goin faster’n forty. Goin fifty, sixty.”

“Come here n' let’s have yo' name. Look up now, nahmeean, biatch? I wanna git his name.”

Yo, some lyrics of dis conversation must have reached Wilson, swayin up in tha crib door, fo' suddenly a freshly smoked up theme found voice among his wild lil' freakadelic gaspin cries:

“Yo ass don’t gotta tell me what tha fuck kind of hoopty it was muthafucka! I know what tha fuck kind of hoopty it was!”

Watchin Tom, I saw tha wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat yo. idiot strutted quickly over ta Wilson and, standin up in front of him, seized his ass firmly by tha upper arms.

“You’ve gots ta pull yo ass together,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd wit soothang gruffness.

Wilson’s eyes fell tha fuck upon Tom; da perved-out muthafucka started up on his cold-ass tiptoes n' then would have collapsed ta his knees had not Tomothy held his ass upright.

“Listen,” holla'd Tom, bobbin his ass a lil. “I just gots here a minute ago, from New York. I was brangin you dat coupe we’ve been poppin' off about. That yellow hoopty I was rollin dis afternoon wasn’t mine — do you hear, biatch? I haven’t peeped all dat shiznit afternoon.”

Only tha one n' I was near enough ta hear what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka holla'd yo, but tha policeman caught suttin' up in tha tone n' looked over wit truculent eyes.

“What’s all that?” da ruffneck demanded.

“I’m a gangbangin' playa of his.” Tomothy turned his head but kept his handz firm on Wilson’s body. “OG say he knows tha hoopty dat done did it. . . dat shiznit was a yellow car.”

Yo, some dim impulse moved tha policeman ta look suspiciously at Tom.

“And what tha fuck color’s yo' car?”

“It’s a funky-ass blue car, a cold-ass lil coupe.”

“We’ve come straight from New York,” I holla'd.

Yo, some one whoz ass had been rollin a lil behind our asses confirmed this, n' tha policeman turned away.

“Now, if you’ll let me have dat name again n' again n' again erect ——” Pickin up Wilson like a thugged-out doll, Tomothy carried his ass tha fuck into tha office, set his ass down up in a cold-ass lil chair, n' came back.

“If some muthafucka’ll come here n' sit wit him,” da perved-out muthafucka snapped authoritatively yo. idiot peeped it as tha two pimps standin closest glanced at each other n' went unwillingly tha fuck into tha room. Then Tomothy shut tha door on dem n' came down tha single step, his wild lil' fuckin eyes gittin tha fuck aaway from tha table fo' realz. As he passed close ta me da thug whispered: “Let’s git out.”

Yo, self-consciously, wit his thugged-out authoritatizzle arms breakin tha way, we pushed all up in tha still gatherin crowd, passin a hurried doctor, case up in hand, whoz ass had been busted fo' up in wild hope half a minute ago.

Tomothy drove slowly until we was beyond tha bend — then his wild lil' foot came down hard, n' tha coupe raced along all up in tha night. In a lil while I heard a low husky sob, n' saw dat tha tears was overflowin down his wild lil' face.

“Da Dogg damned coward!” da thug whimpered. “idiot didn’t even stop his car.”

Da Buchanans’ doggy den floated suddenly toward our asses all up in tha dark rustlin trees. Tomothy stopped beside tha porch n' looked up all up in tha second floor, where two windows bloomed wit light among tha vines.

“Daisy’s home,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. As we gots outta tha hoopty he glanced all up in mah grill n' frowned slightly.

“I ought ta have dropped you up in Westside Egg, Nick. There’s not a god damn thang we can do to-night.”

A chizzle had come over him, n' da perved-out muthafucka was rappin gravely, n' wit decision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As we strutted across tha moonlight gravel ta tha porch da ruffneck disposed of tha thang up in all dem brisk phrases.

“I’ll telephone fo' a ride ta take you home, n' while you’re waitin you n' Jordan betta go up in tha kitchen n' have dem git you some supper — if you want any.” He opened tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. “Come in.”

“Fuck dat shit, props. But I’d be glad if you’d order me tha taxi. I’ll wait outside.”

Jordan put her hand on mah arm.

“Won’t you come in, Nick?”

“Fuck dat shit, props.”

I was feelin a lil sick n' I wanted ta be ridin' solo. But Jordan lingered fo' a moment more.

“It’s only half-past nine,” her big-ass booty holla'd.

I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of dem fo' one day, n' suddenly dat included Jordan like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch must have peeped suttin' of dis up in mah expression, fo' dat dunkadelic hoe turned abruptly away n' ran up tha porch steps tha fuck into tha house. I sat down fo' all dem minutes wit mah head up in mah hands, until I heard tha beeper taken up inside n' tha butler’s voice callin a taxi. Then I strutted slowly down tha drive away from tha house, intendin ta wait by tha gate.

I hadn’t gone twenty yardz when I heard mah name n' Gatsby stepped from between two bushes tha fuck into tha path. I must have felt pretty weird by dat time, cuz I could be thinkin of not a god damn thang except tha luminositizzle of his thugged-out lil' pink suit under tha moon.

“What is you bustin?” I inquired.

“Just standin here, oldschool sport.”

Yo, somehow, dat seemed a thugged-out despicable occupation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. For all I knew da thug was goin ta rob tha doggy den up in a moment; I wouldn’t done been surprised ta peep sinista faces, tha facez of ‘Wolfsheim’s people,’ behind his ass up in tha dark shrubbery.

“Did yo dirty ass peep any shiznit on tha road?” he axed afta a minute.

“Yes yes y'all.”

idiot hesitated.

“Was she capped?”

“Yes yes y'all.”

“I thought so; I holla'd at Dizzy I thought so. It’s betta dat tha shock should all come at once. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stood it pretty well.”

idiot was rappin as if Daisy’s erection was tha only thang dat mattered.

“I gots ta Westside Egg by a side road,” da thug went on, “and left tha hoopty up in mah garage. I don’t be thinkin anybody saw our asses yo, but of course I can’t be sure.”

I disliked his ass so much by dis time dat I didn’t find it necessary ta tell his ass da thug was wrong.

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was tha biatch?” he inquired.

“Her name was Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her homeboy owns tha garage yo. How tha fuck tha devil done did it happen?”

“Well, I tried ta swin tha wheel ——” He broke off, n' suddenly I guessed at tha real deal.

“Was Dizzy driving?”

“Yes,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd afta a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. Yo ass see, when our slick asses left New York dat biiiiatch was straight-up straight-up trippin n' dat dunkadelic hoe thought it would steady her ta drive — n' dis biatch rushed up at our asses just as we was passin a cold-ass lil hoopty comin tha other way. Well shiiiit, it all happened up in a minute yo, but it seemed ta me dat dat biiiiatch wanted ta drop a rhyme ta us, thought we was some muthafucka she knew. Well, first Dizzy turned away from tha biatch toward tha other car, n' then she lost her nerve n' turned back. Da second mah hand reached tha wheel I felt tha shock — it must have capped her instantly.”

“It ripped her open ——”

“Don’t tell me, oldschool sport.” idiot winced. “Anyhow — Dizzy stepped on dat shit. I tried ta make her stop yo, but dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn’t, so I pulled on tha emergency brake. Then she fell tha fuck over tha fuck into mah lap n' I drove on.

“She’ll be all right to-morrow,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd presently. “I’m just goin ta wait here n' peep if tha pimpin' muthafucka tries ta bother her bout dat unpleasantnizz dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She’s locked her muthafuckin ass tha fuck into her room, n' if tha pimpin' muthafucka tries any brutalitizzle she’s goin ta turn tha light up n' on again.”

“idiot won’t bust a nut on her,’ I holla'd. “He’s not thankin bout her muthafuckin ass.”

“I don’t trust him, oldschool sport.”

“How tha fuck long is you goin ta wait?”

“All night, if necessary fo' realz. Anyhow, till they all git all up in bed.”

A freshly smoked up point of view occurred ta mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suppose Tomothy found up dat Dizzy had been rollin yo. idiot might be thinkin da perved-out muthafucka saw a cold-ass lil connection up in it — he might be thinkin anything. I looked all up in tha house; there was two or three bright windows down-stairs n' tha pink glow from Daisy’s room on tha second floor.

“Yo ass wait here,” I holla'd. “I’ll peep if there’s any sign of a cold-ass lil commotion.”

I strutted back along tha border of tha lawn, traversed tha gravel softly, n' tiptoed up tha veranda steps. Da drawing-room curtains was open, n' I saw dat tha room was empty. Crossin tha porch where our crazy asses had dined dat June night three months before, I came ta a lil' small-ass rectangle of light which I guessed was tha pantry window. Da blind was drawn yo, but I found a rift all up in tha sill.

Dizzy n' Tomothy was chillin opposite each other all up in tha kitchen table, wit a plate of cold fried chicken between them, n' two bottlez of ale yo. idiot was poppin' off intently across tha table at her, n' up in his wild lil' fuckin earnestnizz his hand had fallen upon n' covered her own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Once up in a while she looked up at his ass n' nodded up in agreement.

They weren’t happy, n' neither of dem had touched tha chicken or tha ale — n' yet they weren’t unaiiight either n' shit. There was a unmistakable air of natural intimacy bout tha picture, n' anybody would have holla'd dat they was conspirin together.

As I tiptoed from tha porch I heard mah ride feelin its way along tha dark road toward tha house. Gatsby was waitin where I had left his ass up in tha drive.

“Is all dat shiznit on tha down-low up there?” he axed anxiously.

“Yes, it’s all on tha fuckin' down-low.” I hesitated. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “You’d betta come home n' git some chill.”

He shook his head.

“I wanna wait here till Dizzy goes ta bed. Dope night, oldschool sport.”

idiot put his handz up in his coat pockets n' turned back eagerly ta his scrutiny of tha house, as though mah presence marred tha sacrednizz of tha vigil. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I strutted away n' left his ass standin there up in tha moonlight — watchin over nothing. Chapta 8

I couldn’t chill all night; a gangbangin' fog-horn was groanin incessantly on tha Sound, n' I tossed half-sick between grotesque realitizzle n' savage, frightenin dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Toward dawn I heard a ride go up Gatsby’s drive, n' immediately I jumped outta bed n' fuckin started ta dress — I felt dat I had suttin' ta tell him, suttin' ta warn his ass about, n' mornin would be too late.

Crossin his fuckin lawn, I saw dat his wild lil' front door was still open n' da thug was leanin against a table up in tha hall, heavy wit dejection or chill.

“Nothang happened,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd wanly. “I waited, n' bout four o’clock dat thugged-out biiiatch came ta tha window n' stood there fo' a minute n' then turned up tha light.”

His doggy den had never seemed so enormous ta me as it did dat night when our crazy asses hunted all up in tha pimped out rooms fo' blunts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. We pushed aside curtains dat was like pavilions, n' felt over innumerable feet of dark wall fo' electric light switches — once I tumbled wit a sort of splash upon tha keyz of a pimply piano. There was a inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, n' tha rooms was musty, as though they hadn’t been aired fo' nuff days. I found tha humidor on a unfamiliar table, wit two stale, dry blunts inside. Throwin open tha French windowz of tha drawing-room, we sat tokin up tha fuck into tha darkness.

“Yo ass ought ta go away,” I holla'd. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace yo' car.”

“Go away now, oldschool sport?”

“Go ta Atlantic Citizzle fo' a week, or up ta Montreal.”

He wouldn’t consider it yo. idiot couldn’t possibly leave Dizzy until he knew what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was goin ta do yo. The dude was clutchin at some last hope n' I couldn’t bear ta shake his ass free.

Dat shiznit was dis night dat tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass tha strange rap of his youth wit Don Juan Cody — holla'd at it ta me cuz “Jay Gatsby.” had fucked up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, n' tha long secret extravaganza was played out. I be thinkin dat da thug would have bigged up anythang now, without reserve yo, but da thug wanted ta rap bout Daisy.

Yo, she was tha straight-up original gangsta “nice” hoe dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva known. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In various unrevealed capacitizzles dat schmoooove muthafucka had come up in contact wit such playas yo, but always wit indiscernible barbed wire between. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot found her banginly desirable yo. He went ta her house, at first wit other fools from Camp Taylor, then ridin' solo. Well shiiiit, it amazed his ass — dat schmoooove muthafucka had never been up in such a funky-ass dope doggy den before yo, but what tha fuck gave it a air of breathless intensity, was dat Dizzy lived there — dat shiznit was as casual a thang ta her as his cold-ass tent up at camp was ta his muthafuckin ass. There was a ripe mystery bout it, a hint of bedrooms up-stairs mo' dope n' def than other bedrooms, of gay n' radiant activitizzles takin place all up in its corridors, n' of romances dat was not musty n' laid away already up in lavender but fresh n' breathang n' redolent of dis year’s shinin motor-cars n' of dances whose flowers was scarcely withered. Well shiiiit, it buckwild him, too, dat nuff pimps had already loved Dizzy — it increased her value up in his wild lil' fuckin eyes yo. He felt they presence all bout tha house, pervadin tha air wit tha shades n' echoez of still vibrant emotions.

But he knew dat da thug was up in Daisy’s doggy den by a cold-ass lil colossal accident yo. However glorious might be his wild lil' future as Jay Gatsby, da thug was at present a penniless lil' playa without a past, n' at any moment tha invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he made da most thugged-out of his cold-ass time yo. He took what tha fuck his schmoooove ass could get, ravenously n' unscrupulously — eventually tha pimpin' muthafucka took Dizzy one still October night, took her cuz dat schmoooove muthafucka had no real right ta bust a nut on her hand.

idiot might have despised his dirty ass, fo' dat schmoooove muthafucka had certainly taken her under false pretenses. I don’t mean dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had traded on his thugged-out lil' phantom millions yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had deliberately given Dizzy a sense of security; he let her believe dat da thug was a thug from much tha same stratum as her muthafuckin ass — dat da thug was straight-up able ta take care of her n' shiznit fo' realz. As a matta of fact, dat schmoooove muthafucka had no such facilitizzles — dat schmoooove muthafucka had no laid back crew standin behind him, n' da thug was liable all up in tha whim of a impersonal posse ta be blown anywhere bout tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

But da ruffneck didn’t despise his dirty ass n' it didn’t turn up as dat schmoooove muthafucka had imagined. This idiot had intended, probably, ta take what tha fuck his schmoooove ass could n' go — but now he found dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had committed his dirty ass ta tha followin of a grail yo. He knew dat Dizzy was extraordinary yo, but da ruffneck didn’t realize just how tha fuck extraordinary a “nice” hoe could be. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch vanished tha fuck into her rich house, tha fuck into her rich, full game, leavin Gatsby — not a god damn thang yo. idiot felt gangbangin her, dat was all.

When they kicked it wit again, two minutes later, dat shiznit was Gatsby whoz ass was breathless, whoz ass was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright wit tha looted luxury of star-shine; tha wicker of tha settee squeaked fashionably as dat dunkadelic hoe turned toward his ass n' he busted her curious n' ghettofab grill. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had caught a cold-ass lil cold, n' it made her voice huskier n' mo' charmin than ever, n' Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of tha youth n' mystery dat wealth imprisons n' preserves, of tha freshnizz of nuff clothes, n' of Daisy, gleamin like silver, safe n' proud as a muthafucka above tha bangin' strugglez of tha skanky.

“I can’t describe ta you how tha fuck surprised I was ta smoke up I loved her, oldschool sport. I even hoped fo' a while dat she’d throw me over yo, but her dope ass didn’t, cuz dat biiiiatch was up in ludd wit me like a muthafucka. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought I knew a shitload cuz I knew different thangs from her n' shit. . . . Well, there I was, ‘way off mah ambitions, gettin deeper up in ludd every last muthafuckin minute, n' all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was tha use of bustin pimped out thangs if I could gotz a funky-ass betta time spittin some lyrics ta her what tha fuck I was goin ta do?” On tha last afternoon before da thug went abroad, da perved-out muthafucka sat wit Dizzy up in his thugged-out arms fo' a long, silent time. Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil cold fall day, wit fire up in tha room n' her cheeks flushed. Now n' then she moved n' his schmoooove ass chizzled his thugged-out arm a lil, n' once he busted her dark shinin hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da afternoon had made dem tranquil fo' a while, as if ta give dem a thugged-out deep memory fo' tha long partin tha next dizzle promised. They had never been closer up in they month of love, nor communicated mo' profoundly one wit another, than when da hoe brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when tha pimpin' muthafucka touched tha end of her fingers, gently, as though dat biiiiatch was asleep.

OG did extraordinarily well up in tha war yo. idiot was a cold-ass lil captain before da thug went ta tha front, n' followin tha Argonne battlez he gots his crazy-ass majoritizzle n' tha command of tha divisionizzle machine-guns fo' realz. Afta tha Armistice tha pimpin' muthafucka tried frantically ta git home yo, but some complication or misunderstandin busted his ass ta Oxford instead. He was worried now — there was a qualitizzle of straight-up trippin despair up in Daisy’s letters. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn’t peep why his schmoooove ass couldn’t come. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was feelin tha heat of tha ghetto outside, n' dat biiiiatch wanted ta peep his ass n' feel his thugged-out lil' presence beside her n' be reassured dat dat biiiiatch was bustin tha right thang afta all.

For Dizzy was lil' n' her artificial ghetto was redolent of orchidz n' pleasant, cheerful snobbery n' orchestras which set tha rhythm of tha year, summin up tha sadnizz n' suggestivenizz of game up in freshly smoked up tunes fo' realz. All night tha saxophones wailed tha hopeless comment of tha Beale Street Blues while a hundred pairz of golden n' silver slippers shuffled tha shinin dust fo' realz. At tha gray chronic minute there was always rooms dat throbbed incessantly wit dis low, dope fever, while fresh faces drifted here n' there like rose petals blown by tha fucked up horns round tha floor.

Through dis twilight universe Dizzy fuckin started ta move again n' again n' again wit tha season; suddenly dat biiiiatch was again n' again n' again keepin half a thugged-out dozen dates a thugged-out dizzle wit half a thugged-out dozen men, n' drowsin asleep at dawn wit tha beadz n' chiffon of a evenin dress tangled among dyin orchidz on tha floor beside her bed. And all tha time suttin' within her was bustin up like a biatch fo' a thugged-out decision. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wanted her game shaped now, immediately — n' tha decision must be made by some force — of love, of scrilla, of unquestionable practicalitizzle — dat was close at hand.

That force took shape up in tha middle of sprang wit tha arrival of Tomothy Buchanan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a wholesome bulkinizz bout his thugged-out lil' thug n' his thugged-out lil' position, n' Dizzy was flattered. Doubtless there was a cold-ass lil certain struggle n' a cold-ass lil certain relief. Da letta reached Gatsby while da thug was still at Oxford.

Dat shiznit was dawn now on Long Island n' we went bout openin tha rest of tha windows down-stairs, fillin tha doggy den wit gray-turning, gold-turnin light. Da shadow of a tree fell tha fuck abruptly across tha dew n' pimply birdz fuckin started ta rap among tha blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement up in tha air, scarcely a wind, promisin a cold-ass lil cool, ghettofab day.

“I don’t be thinkin she eva loved his muthafuckin ass.” Gatsby turned round from a window n' looked all up in mah grill challengingly. “Yo ass must remember, oldschool sport, dat biiiiatch was straight-up buckwild dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot holla'd at her dem thangs up in a way dat frightened her — dat juiced it up look as if I was some kind of skanky sharper n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha result was dat freaky freaky biatch hardly knew what tha fuck dat biiiiatch was saying.”

He sat down gloomily.

“Of course she might have loved his ass just fo' a minute, when they was first hooked up — n' loved mah crazy ass mo' even then, do you see?”

Yo, suddenly his schmoooove ass came up wit a cold-ass lil curious remark.

“In any case,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, “it was just personal.”

What could you make of that, except ta suspect some intensitizzle up in his conception of tha affair dat couldn’t be measured?

This boy came back from Frizzle when Tomothy n' Dizzy was still on they weddin trip, n' done cooked up a miserable but irresistible trip ta Louisville on tha last of his thugged-out army pay yo. idiot stayed there a week, struttin tha streets where they footsteps had clicked together all up in tha November night n' revisitin tha out-of-the-way places ta which they had driven up in her white car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Just as Daisy’s doggy den had always seemed ta his ass mo' mysterious n' gay than other houses, so his scam of tha hood itself, even though dat biiiiatch was gone from it, was pervaded wit a melancholy beauty.

idiot left feelin dat if dat schmoooove muthafucka had searched harder, he might have found her — dat da thug was leavin her behind. Da day-coach — da thug was penniless now — was hot yo. He went up ta tha open vestibule n' sat down on a gangbangin' folding-chair, n' tha station slid away n' tha backz of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then up tha fuck into tha sprang fields, where a yellow trolley raced dem fo' a minute wit playas up in it whoz ass might once have peeped tha pale magic of her grill along tha casual street.

Da track curved n' now dat shiznit was goin away from tha sun, which as it sank lower, seemed ta spread itself up in benediction over tha vanishin hood where dat freaky freaky biatch had drawn her breath yo. idiot stretched up his hand desperately as if ta snatch only a wisp of air, ta save a gangbangin' fragment of tha spot dat dat freaky freaky biatch had made ghettofab fo' his muthafuckin ass. But dat shiznit was all goin by too fast now fo' his blurred eyes n' he knew dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost dat part of it, tha freshest n' tha best, alllll muthafuckin day.

Dat shiznit was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast n' went up on tha porch. Da night had done cooked up a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp difference up in tha drizzle n' there was a autumn flavor up in tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da gardener, tha last one of Gatsby’s forma servants, came ta tha foot of tha steps.

“I’m goin ta drain tha pool to-day, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby. Leaves’ll start fallin pretty soon, n' then there’s always shiznit wit tha pipes.”

“Don’t do it to-day,” Gatsby answered. Mackdaddy turned ta me apologetically. “Yo ass know, oldschool sport, I’ve never used dat pool all summer?”

I looked at mah peep n' stood up.

“Twelve minutes ta mah train.”

I didn’t wanna git all up in tha hood. I wasn’t worth a thugged-out decent stroke of work yo, but dat shiznit was mo' than dat — I didn’t wanna leave Gatsby. I missed dat train, n' then another, before I could git mah dirty ass away.

“I’ll call you up,” I holla'd finally.

“Do, oldschool sport.”

“I’ll call you bout noon.”

Us thugs strutted slowly down tha steps.

“I suppose Daisy’ll call like a muthafucka.” idiot looked all up in mah grill anxiously, as if dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped I’d corroborate all dis bullshit.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, good-by.”

We shook handz n' I started away. Just before I reached tha hedge I remembered suttin' n' turned around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across tha lawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “You’re worth tha whole damn bunch put together.”

I’ve always been glad I holla'd dis shit. Dat shiznit was tha only compliment I eva gave him, cuz I disapproved of his ass from beginnin ta end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. First he nodded politely, n' then his wild lil' grill broke tha fuck into dat radiant n' understandin smile, as if we’d been up in ecstatic cahoots on dat fact all tha time yo. His pimpin' pink rag of a suit done cooked up a funky-ass bright spot of color against tha white steps, n' I thought of tha night when I first came ta his thugged-out ancestral home, three months before. Da lawn n' drive had been crowded wit tha facez of dem playas whoz ass guessed at his corruption — n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had stood on dem steps, concealin his crazy-ass muthafuckin incorruptible dream, as da thug waved dem good-by.

I gave props ta his ass fo' his hospitizzleity. Us thugs was always thankin his ass fo' dat — I n' tha others.

“Good-by,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”

Up up in tha hood, I tried fo' a while ta list tha quotations on a interminable amount of stock, then I fell tha fuck asleep up in mah swivel-chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Just before noon tha beeper woke me, n' I started up wit sweat breakin up on mah forehead. Dat shiznit was Jordan Baker; she often called mah crazy ass up at dis minute cuz tha uncertainty of her own movements between hotels n' clubs n' private houses made her hard ta find up in any other way. Usually her voice came over tha wire as suttin' fresh n' cool, as if a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divot from a chronic golf-links had come sailin up in all up in tha crib window yo, but dis mornin it seemed harsh n' dry.

“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” her big-ass booty holla'd. “I’m at Hempstead, n' I’m goin down ta Southampton dis afternoon.”

Probably it had been tactful ta leave Daisy’s crib yo, but tha act annoyed me, n' her next remark made me rigid.

“Yo ass weren’t so sick ta me last night.”

“How tha fuck could it have mattered then?”

Yo, silence fo' a moment. Then:

“However — I wanna peep you, biatch.”

“I wanna peep you, like a muthafucka.”

“Suppose I don’t git all up in Southampton, n' come tha fuck into hood dis afternoon?”

“No — I don’t be thinkin dis afternoon.”

“Straight-up well.”

“It’s impossible dis afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Various ——”

We talked like dat fo' a while, n' then abruptly we weren’t poppin' off any longer n' shit. I don’t know which of our asses hung up wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp click yo, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked ta her across a tea-table dat dizzle if I never talked ta her again n' again n' again up in dis ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

I called Gatsby’s doggy den all dem minutes later yo, but tha line was busy. I tried four times; finally a exasperated central holla'd at mah crazy ass tha wire was bein kept open fo' long distizzle from Detroit. Takin up mah time-table, I drew a lil' small-ass circle round tha three-fifty train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then I leaned back up in mah chair n' tried ta think. Dat shiznit was just noon.

When I passed tha ashheaps on tha train dat mornin I had crossed deliberately ta tha other side of tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I suppose there’d be a cold-ass lil curious crowd round there all dizzle wit lil thugs searchin fo' dark spots up in tha dust, n' some garrulous playa spittin some lyrics ta over n' over what tha fuck had happened, until it became less n' less real even ta his ass n' his schmoooove ass could tell it no longer, n' Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now I wanna go back a lil n' tell what tha fuck happened all up in tha garage afta our slick asses left there tha night before.

They had hang-up up in locatin tha sister, Catherine. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch must have fucked up her rule against drankin dat night, fo' when she arrived dat biiiiatch was wack wit liquor n' unable ta KNOW dat tha ambulizzle had already gone ta Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if dat was tha intolerable part of tha affair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some one, kind or curious, took her up in his hoopty n' drove her up in tha wake of her sister’s body.

Until long afta midnight a cold-ass lil changin crowd lapped up against tha front of tha garage, while George Wilson rocked his dirty ass back n' forth on tha couch inside. For a while tha door of tha crib was open, n' every last muthafuckin one whoz ass came tha fuck into tha garage glanced irresistibly all up in dat shit. Finally one of mah thugs holla'd dat shiznit was a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shame, n' closed tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Michaelis n' nuff muthafuckin other pimps was wit him; first, four or five men, lata two or three men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still lata Michaelis had ta ask tha last stranger ta wait there fifteen minutes longer, while da thug went back ta his own place n' done cooked up a pot of coffee fo' realz. Afta that, da perved-out muthafucka stayed there ridin' solo wit Wilson until dawn.

Bout three o’clock tha qualitizzle of Wilson’s incoherent mutterin chizzled — he grew on tha fuckin' down-lowa n' fuckin started ta rap bout tha yellow hoopty yo. idiot announced dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had a way of findin up whom tha yellow hoopty belonged to, n' then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass blurted up dat a cold-ass lil couple months ago his hoe had come from tha hood wit her grill bruised n' her nozzle swollen.

But when dat schmoooove muthafucka heard his dirty ass say this, he flinched n' fuckin started ta cry “Oh, mah God!” again n' again n' again up in his wild lil' freakadelic groanin voice. Michaelis done cooked up a cold-ass lil clumsy attempt ta distract his muthafuckin ass.

“How tha fuck long have you been married, George, biatch? Come on there, try n' sit still a minute n' answer mah question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. How tha fuck long have you been married?”

“Twelve years.”

“Ever had any children, biatch? Come on, George, sit still — I axed you a question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Did yo dirty ass eva have any children?”

Da hard brown beetlez kept thuddin against tha dull light, n' whenever Michaelis heard a cold-ass lil hoopty go tearin along tha road outside it sounded ta his ass like tha hoopty dat hadn’t stopped all dem minutes before yo. idiot didn’t like ta go tha fuck into tha garage, cuz tha work bench was stained where tha body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably round tha crib — he knew every last muthafuckin object up in it before mornin — n' from time ta time sat down beside Wilson tryin ta keep his ass mo' on tha fuckin' down-low.

“Has you done gots a cold-ass lil church you git all up in sometimes, George, biatch? Maybe even if you haven’t been there fo' a long-ass time, biatch? Maybe I could call up tha church n' git a priest ta come over n' his schmoooove ass could rap ta you, see?”

“Don’t belong ta any.”

“Yo ass ought ta git a cold-ass lil church, George, fo' times like all dis bullshit. Yo ass must have gone ta church once. Didn’t you git hooked up in a cold-ass lil church, biatch? Listen, George, dig mah dirty ass. Didn’t you git hooked up in a cold-ass lil church?”

“That was a long-ass time ago.”

Da effort of answerin broke tha rhythm of his bangin rockin — fo' a moment da thug was silent. Then tha same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back tha fuck into his wild lil' faded eyes.

“Look up in tha drawer there,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, pointin all up in tha desk.

“Which drawer?”

“That drawer — dat one.”

Michaelis opened tha drawer nearest his hand. There was not a god damn thang up in it but a small, high-rollin' dog-leash, made of leather n' braided silver n' shit. Dat shiznit was apparently new.

“This?” he inquired, holdin it up.

Wilson stared n' nodded.

“I found it yesterdizzle afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tried ta tell me bout it yo, but I knew dat shiznit was suttin' funky.”

“Yo ass mean yo' hoe looted it?”

“Bitch had it wrapped up in tissue paper on her bureau.”

Michaelis didn’t peep anythang odd up in that, n' he gave Wilson a thugged-out dozen reasons why his hoe might have looted tha dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard a shitload of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, cuz his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started sayin “Oh, mah God!” again n' again n' again up in a whisper — his comforta left nuff muthafuckin explanations up in tha air.

“Then he capped her,” holla'd Wilson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His grill dropped open suddenly.

“Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck did?”

“I gots a way of findin out.”

“You’re morbid, George,” holla'd his wild lil' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. “This has been a strain ta you n' you don’t know what tha fuck you’re saying. You’d betta try n' sit on tha down-low till morning.”

“That idiot murdered her muthafuckin ass.”

“Dat shiznit was a accident, George.”

Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed n' his crazy-ass grill widened slightly wit tha pimp of a superior “Hm!”

“I know,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd definitely, “I’m one of these trustin fellas n' I don’t be thinkin any harm ta no muthafucka yo, but when I git ta know a thang I know dat shit. Dat shiznit was tha playa up in dat car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ran up ta drop a rhyme ta his ass n' da thug wouldn’t stop.”

Michaelis had peeped dis too yo, but it hadn’t occurred ta his ass dat there was any special significizzle up in it yo. idiot believed dat Mrs. Wilson had been hustlin away from her homeboy, rather than tryin ta stop any particular car.

“How tha fuck could she of been like that?”

“She’s a thugged-out deep one,” holla'd Wilson, as if dat answered tha question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “Ah-h-h ——”

That idiot fuckin started ta rock again, n' Michaelis stood twistin tha leash up in his hand.

“Maybe you gots some playa dat I could telephone for, George?”

This was a gangbangin' forlorn hope — da thug was almost shizzle dat Wilson had no playa: there was not enough of his ass fo' his hoe yo. idiot was glad a lil lata when he noticed a cold-ass lil chizzle up in tha room, a funky-ass blue quickenin by tha window, n' realized dat dawn wasn’t far off fo' realz. Bout five o’clock dat shiznit was blue enough outside ta snap off tha light.

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned up ta tha ashheaps, where lil' small-ass gray cloudz took on dunkadelic shape n' scurried here n' there up in tha faint dawn wind.

“I was rappin ta her,” he muttered, afta a long-ass silence. “I holla'd at her she might fool me but dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn’t fool Dogg. I took her ta tha window.”— wit a effort he gots up n' strutted ta tha rear window n' leaned wit his wild lil' grill pressed against it ——” n' I holla'd ‘Dogg knows what tha fuck you’ve been bustin, every last muthafuckin thang you’ve been bustin. Yo ass may fool me yo, but you can’t fool God!’”

Yo, standin behind him, Michaelis saw wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shock dat da thug was lookin all up in tha eyez of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale n' enormous, from tha dissolvin night.

“Dogg sees every last muthafuckin thang,” repeated Wilson.

“That’s a advertisement,” Michaelis assured his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang made his ass turn away from tha window n' look back tha fuck into tha room. But Wilson stood there a long-ass time, his wild lil' grill close ta tha window pane, noddin tha fuck into tha twilight.

By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, n' grateful fo' tha sound of a cold-ass lil hoopty stoppin outside. Dat shiznit was one of tha watcherz of tha night before whoz ass had promised ta come back, so his schmoooove ass cooked breakfast fo' three, which he n' tha other playa ate together n' shit. Wilson was on tha fuckin' down-lowa now, n' Michaelis went home ta chill; when he awoke four minutes lata n' hurried back ta tha garage, Wilson was gone.

His movements — da thug was on foot all tha time — was afterward traced ta Port Roosevelt n' then ta Gad’s Hill, where his thugged-out lil' punk-ass looted a sandwich dat da ruffneck didn’t eat, n' a cold-ass lil cup of coffee yo. idiot must done been chillaxed n' struttin slowly, fo' da ruffneck didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Thus far there was no hang-up up in accountin fo' his cold-ass time — there was thugs whoz ass had peeped a playa “actin sort of crazy,” n' motorists at whom da perved-out muthafucka stared oddly from tha side of tha road. Then fo' three minutes da ruffneck disappeared from view. Da police, on tha strength of what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta Michaelis, dat he “had a way of findin out,” supposed dat da ruffneck dropped dat time goin from garage ta garage thereabout, inquirin fo' a yellow car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. On tha other hand, no garage playa whoz ass had peeped his ass eva came forward, n' like dat schmoooove muthafucka had a easier, surer way of findin up what tha fuck da thug wanted ta know. By half-past two da thug was up in Westside Egg, where he axed one of mah thugs tha way ta Gatsby’s house. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So by dat time he knew Gatsby’s name.

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit n' left word wit tha butla dat if any one phoned word was ta be brought ta his ass all up in tha pool yo. idiot stopped all up in tha garage fo' a pneumatic mattress dat had amused his wild lil' freakadelic guests durin tha summer, n' tha chauffeur helped his ass pump it up. Then he gave instructions dat tha open hoopty wasn’t ta be taken up under any circumstances — n' dis was strange, cuz tha front right fender needed repair.

Gatsby shouldered tha mattress n' started fo' tha pool. Once da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' shifted it a lil, n' tha chauffeur axed his ass if he needed help yo, but da perved-out muthafucka shook his head n' up in a moment disappeared among tha yellowin trees.

No telephone message arrived yo, but tha butla went without his chill n' waited fo' it until four o’clock — until long afta there was any one ta give it ta if it came. I gots a scam dat Gatsby his dirty ass didn’t believe it would come, n' like he no longer cared. If dat was legit he must have felt dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost tha oldschool warm ghetto, paid a high price fo' livin too long wit a single dream yo. idiot must have looked up at a unfamiliar sky all up in frightenin leaves n' shivered as he found what tha fuck a grotesque thang a rose be n' how tha fuck raw tha sunlight was upon tha scarcely pimped grass fo' realz. A freshly smoked up ghetto, material without bein real, where skanky pimps, breathang trips like air, drifted fortuitously bout. . . like dat ashen, dunkadelic figure glidin toward his ass all up in tha amorphous trees.

Da chauffeur — da thug was one of Wolfsheim’s proteges — heard tha shots — afterward his schmoooove ass could only say dat dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn’t thought anythang much bout dem wild-ass muthafuckas. I drove from tha station directly ta Gatsby’s doggy den n' mah rushin anxiously up tha front steps was tha straight-up original gangsta thang dat alarmed any one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word holla'd, four of us, tha chauffeur yo, butler, gardener, n' I, hurried down ta tha pool.

There was a gangbangin' faint, barely perceptible movement of tha wata as tha fresh flow from one end urged its way toward tha drain all up in tha other wit lil ripplez dat was hardly tha shadowz of waves, tha laden mattress moved irregularly down tha pool fo' realz. A lil' small-ass gust of wind dat scarcely corrugated tha surface was enough ta disturb its accidental course wit its accidental burden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da bust a nut on of a cold-ass lil clusta of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like tha leg of compass, a thin red circle up in tha water.

Dat shiznit was afta we started wit Gatsby toward tha doggy den dat tha gardener saw Wilson’s body a lil way off up in tha grass, n' tha holocaust was complete. Chapta 9

Afta two muthafuckin years I remember tha rest of dat day, n' dat night n' tha next day, only as a endless drill of five-o n' pornographers n' newspaper pimps up in n' outta Gatsby’s front door fo' realz. A rope stretched across tha main gate n' a policeman by it kept up tha curious yo, but lil thugs soon discovered dat they could enta all up in mah yard, n' there was always all dem of dem clustered open-mouthed bout tha pool. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Someone wit a positizzle manner, like a thugged-out detective, used tha expression “madman” as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bent over Wilson’s body dat afternoon, n' tha adventitious authoritizzle of his voice set tha key fo' tha newspaper reports next morning.

Most of dem reports was a nightmare — grotesque, circumstantial, eager, n' untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony all up in tha inquest brought ta light Wilson’s suspicionz of his hoe I thought tha whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade — but Catherine, whoz ass might have holla'd anything, didn’t say shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch flossed a surprisin amount of characta bout it too — looked all up in tha coroner wit determined eyes under dat erected brow of hers, n' swore dat her sista had never peeped Gatsby, dat her sista was straight-up aiiight wit her homeboy, dat her sista had been tha fuck into no mischizzle whatever n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch convinced her muthafuckin ass of it, n' cried tha fuck into her handkerchizzle, as if tha straight-up suggestion was mo' than dat thugged-out biiiatch could endure. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. S. Wilson was reduced ta a playa “deranged by grief” up in order dat tha case might remain up in its simplist form fo' realz. And it rested there.

But all dis part of it seemed remote n' unessential. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. I found mah dirty ass on Gatsby’s side, n' ridin' solo. From tha moment I telephoned shizzle of tha catastrophe ta Westside Egg village, every last muthafuckin surmise bout him, n' every last muthafuckin practical question, was referred ta mah dirty ass fo' realz. At first I was surprised n' confused; then, as he lay up in his fuckin lil' doggy den n' didn’t move or breathe or speak, minute upon hour, it grew upon me dat I was responsible, cuz no one else was interested — interested, I mean, wit dat intense underground interest ta which every last muthafuckin one has some vague right all up in tha end.

I called up Dizzy half a minute afta we found him, called her instinctively n' without hesitation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But she n' Tomothy had gone away early dat afternoon, n' taken baggage wit dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

“Left no address?”

“No.”

“Say when they’d be back?”

“No.”

“Any scam where they are, biatch? How tha fuck I could reach them?”

“I don’t know. Can’t say.”

I wanted ta git some muthafucka fo' his muthafuckin ass. I wanted ta go tha fuck into tha room where he lay n' reassure him: “I’ll git some muthafucka fo' you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me n' I’ll git some muthafucka fo' you ——”

Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t up in tha beeper book. Da butla gave me his crib address on Broadway, n' I called Hype yo, but by tha time I had tha number dat shiznit was long afta five, n' no one answered tha phone.

“Will you rang again?”

“I’ve rung dem three times.”

“It’s straight-up blingin.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”

I went back ta tha drawing-room n' thought fo' a instant dat they was chizzle visitors, all these straight-up legit playas whoz ass suddenly filled dat shit. But, as they drew back tha shizzle n' looked at Gatsby wit unmoved eyes, his thugged-out lil' protest continued up in mah dome:

“Look here, oldschool sport, you’ve gots ta git some muthafucka fo' mah dirty ass. You’ve gots ta try hard. I can’t go all up in dis ridin' solo.”

Yo, some one started ta ask me thangs yo, but I broke away n' goin up-stairs looked hastily all up in tha unlocked partz of his fuckin lil' desk — he’d never holla'd at mah crazy ass definitely dat his thugged-out lil' muthafathas was dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But there was not a god damn thang — only tha picture of Don Juan Cody, a token of forgotten shit, starin down from tha wall.

Next mornin I busted tha butla ta New York wit a letta ta Wolfsheim, which axed fo' shiznit n' urged his ass ta come up on tha next train. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That request seemed superfluous when I freestyled dat shit. I was shizzle he’d start when da perved-out muthafucka saw tha newspapers, just as I was shizzle there’d be a wire from Dizzy before noon — but neither a wire nor Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except mo' five-o n' pornographers n' newspaper men. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When tha butla brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I fuckin started ta git a gangbangin' feelin of defiance, of scornful solidaritizzle between Gatsby n' mah crazy ass against dem all.

Dear Mista Muthafuckin Carraway. This has been one of da most thugged-out shitty shockz of mah game ta me I hardly can believe it dat it is legit at all. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Such a mad act as dat playa did should make our asses all think. I cannot come down now as I be tied up in some straight-up blingin bidnizz n' cannot git mixed up in dis thang now, nahmeean, biatch? If there be anythang I can do a lil lata let me know up in a letta by Edgar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I hardly know where I be when I hear on some thang like dis n' be straight-up knocked down n' out.

Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem

and then hasty addenda beneath:

Let me know bout tha funeral etc. Do not know his crew at all.

When tha beeper rang dat afternoon n' Long Distizzle holla'd Chicago was callin I thought dis would be Dizzy at last. But tha connection came all up in as a man’s voice, straight-up thin n' far away.

“This is Slagle bustin lyrics. . . ”

“Yes?” Da name was unfamiliar.

“Hell of a note, isn’t it, biatch? Git mah wire?”

“There haven’t been any wires.”

“Young Parke’s up in shit,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd rapidly. “They picked his ass up when dat schmoooove muthafucka handed tha bondz over tha counter n' shit. They gots a cold-ass lil circular from New York givin ’em tha numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know bout that, hey, biatch? Yo ass never can tell up in these hick towns ——”

“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here — dis isn’t Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby. Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby’s dead as fuckin fried chicken.”

There was a long-ass silence on tha other end of tha wire, followed by a exclamation. . . then a quick squawk as tha connection was broken.

Yo ass KNOW dat shiznit was on tha third dizzle dat a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a hood up in Minnesota. Well shiiiit, it holla'd only dat tha sender was leavin immediately n' ta postpone tha funeral until his schmoooove ass came.

Dat shiznit was Gatsby’s father, a solemn oldschool OG, straight-up helpless n' dismayed, bundled up in a long-ass skanky ulsta against tha warm September day. It make me wanna hollar playa! His eyes leaked continuously wit excitement, n' when I took tha bag n' umbrella from his handz his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta pull so incessantly at his sparse gray beard dat I had hang-up up in gettin off his coat yo. idiot was on tha deal wit collapse, so I took his ass tha fuck into tha noize room n' made his ass sit tha fuck down while I busted fo' suttin' ta eat. But da thug wouldn’t eat, n' tha glass of gin n juice spilled from his cold-ass tremblin hand.

“I saw it up in tha Chicago newspaper,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “Dat shiznit was all up in tha Chicago newspaper n' shit. I started right away.”

“I didn’t know how tha fuck ta reach you, biatch.” His eyes, seein nothing, moved ceaselessly bout tha room.

“Dat shiznit was a madman,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “idiot must done been mad.”

“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged his muthafuckin ass.

“I don’t want anything. I’m all up in dis biatch, Mista Muthafuckin ——”

“Carraway.”

“Well, I’m all n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. Where have they gots Jimmy?” I took his ass tha fuck into tha drawing-room, where his fuckin lil hustla lay, n' left his ass there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some lil thugs had come up on tha steps n' was lookin tha fuck into tha hall; when I holla'd at dem whoz ass had arrived, they went reluctantly away.

Afta a lil while Mista Muthafuckin Gatz opened tha door n' came out, his crazy-ass grill ajar, his wild lil' grill flushed slightly, his wild lil' fuckin eyes leakin isolated n' unpunctual tears yo. idiot had reached a age where dirtnap no longer has tha qualitizzle of ghastly surprise, n' when he looked round his ass now fo' tha last time n' saw tha height n' splendor of tha hall n' tha pimped out rooms openin up from it tha fuck into other rooms, his wild lil' freakadelic grief fuckin started ta be mixed wit a awed pride. I helped his ass ta a funky-ass bedroom up-stairs; while tha pimpin' muthafucka took off his coat n' vest I holla'd at his ass dat all arrangements had been deferred until his schmoooove ass came.

“I didn’t know what tha fuck you’d want, Mista Muthafuckin Gatsby ——”

“Gatz is mah name.”

“— Mista Muthafuckin Gatz.. n' you KNOWS you might wanna take tha body West.”

He shook his head.

“Jizzy always was horny bout it betta down Eastside yo. idiot rose up ta his thugged-out lil' posizzle up in tha East. Were you a gangbangin' playa of mah boy’s, Mista Muthafuckin —?”

“Us thugs was close playas.”

“idiot had a funky-ass big-ass future before him, you know yo. He was only a lil' idiot yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka had a shitload of dome juice here.”

He touched his head impressively, n' I nodded.

“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a pimped out man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A playa like Jizzy J yo. Hill yo. He’d of helped build up tha ghetto.”

“That’s true,” I holla'd, uncomfortably.

idiot fumbled all up in tha embroidered coverlet, tryin ta take it from tha bed, n' lay down stiffly — was instantly asleep.

That night a obviously frightened thug called up, n' demanded ta know whoz ass I was before da thug would give his name.

“This is Mista Muthafuckin Carraway,” I holla'd.

“Oh!” This dude sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, fo' dat seemed ta promise another playa at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it ta be up in tha papers n' draw a sightseein crowd, so I’d been callin up all dem playas mah dirty ass. They was hard ta find.

“Da funeral’s to-morrow,” I holla'd. “Three o’clock, here all up in tha house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”

“Oh, I will,” his thugged-out lil' punk-ass broke up hastily. “Of course I’m not likely ta peep anybody yo, but if I do.”

His tone made me suspicious.

“Of course you’ll be there yo ass.”

“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up bout is ——”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “How tha fuck bout sayin you’ll come?”

“Well, tha fact is — tha real deal of tha matta is dat I’m stayin wit some playas up here up in Greenwich, n' they rather expect me ta be wit dem to-morrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do mah straight-up dopest ta git away.”

I ejaculated a unrestrained “Huh!” n' he must have heard me, fo' da thug went on nervously:

“What I called up bout was a pair of Nikes I left there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I wonder if it’d be too much shiznit ta have tha butla bust dem on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass see, they’re tennis shoes, n' I’m sort of helpless without dem wild-ass muthafuckas. My fuckin address is care of B. F. ——”

I didn’t hear tha rest of tha name, cuz I hung up tha receiver.

Afta dat I felt a cold-ass lil certain shame fo' Gatsby — one gentleman ta whom I telephoned implied dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots what tha fuck da ruffneck deserved. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat that was mah fault, fo' da thug was one of dem playas whoz ass used ta sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on tha courage of Gatsby’s liquor, n' I should have known betta than ta booty-call his muthafuckin ass.

Da mornin of tha funeral I went up ta New York ta peep Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem ta reach his ass any other way. Da door dat I pushed open, on tha lyrics of a elevator boy, was marked “Da Swastika Holdin Company,” n' at first there didn’t seem ta be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” nuff muthafuckin times up in vain, a argument broke up behind a partition, n' presently a ghettofab woman rocked up at a interior door n' scrutinized mah crazy ass wit black straight-up shitty eyes.

“Nobody’s in,” her big-ass booty holla'd. “Mista Muthafuckin Wolfsheim’s gone ta Chicago.”

Da first part of dis was obviously untrue, fo' one of mah thugs had begun ta whistle “Da Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.

“Please say dat Mista Muthafuckin Carraway wants ta peep his muthafuckin ass.”

“I can’t git his ass back from Chicago, can I?”

At dis moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called “Stella!” from tha other side of tha door.

“Leave yo' name on tha desk,” her big-ass booty holla'd doggystyle. “I’ll give it ta his ass when he gets back.”

“But I know he’s there.”

Yo, she took a step toward mah crazy ass n' fuckin started ta slide her handz indignantly up n' down her hips.

“Yo ass lil' pimps be thinkin you can force yo' way up in here any time,” her big-ass booty scolded. “We’re gettin sickantired of dat shit. When I say he’s up in Chicago, he’s up in Chicago.”

I mentioned Gatsby.

“Oh — h!” Biatch looked all up in mah grill over again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “Will you just — What was yo' name?”

Yo, she vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly up in tha doorway, holdin up both handz yo. idiot drew me tha fuck into his office, remarkin up in a reverent voice dat dat shiznit was a fucked up time fo' all of us, n' offered mah crazy ass a cold-ass lil cigar.

“My fuckin memory goes back ta when I first kicked it wit him,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “A lil' major just outta tha army n' covered over wit medals he gots up in tha war yo. He was so hard up dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta keep on bustin his uniform cuz his schmoooove ass couldn’t loot some regular clothes. First time I saw his ass was when his schmoooove ass come tha fuck into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street n' axed fo' a thang yo. idiot hadn’t smoke anythang fo' a cold-ass lil couple days. ‘come on have some lunch wit me,’ I sid. He ate mo' than four dollars’ worth of chicken up in half a hour.”

“Did yo dirty ass start his ass up in bidnizz?” I inquired.

“Start him! I made his muthafuckin ass.”

“Oh.”

“I raised his ass up outta nothing, right outta tha gutter n' shit. I saw right away da thug was a gangbangin' fine-appearing, gentlemanly lil' idiot, n' when tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at mah crazy ass da thug was at Oggsford I knew I could use his ass good. I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I gots his ass ta join up in tha Gangsta Legion n' he used ta stand high there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right off da ruffneck did some work fo' a cold-ass lil client of mine up ta Albany. Us thugs was so thick like dat up in every last muthafuckin thang.”— dat schmoooove muthafucka held up two bulbous fingers ——” always together.”

I wondered if dis partnershizzle had included tha World’s Series transaction up in 1919.

“Now he’s dead,” I holla'd afta a moment. “Yo ass was his closest playa, so I know you’ll wanna come ta his wild lil' funeral dis afternoon.”

“I’d like ta come.”

“Well, come then.”

Da afro up in his nostrils quivered slightly, n' as da perved-out muthafucka shook his head his wild lil' fuckin eyes filled wit tears.

“I can’t do it — I can’t git mixed up in it,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

“There’s not a god damn thang ta git mixed up in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It’s all over now, nahmeean?”

“When a playa gets capped I never like ta git mixed up in it up in any way. I keep out. When I was a lil' playa dat shiznit was different — if a gangbangin' playa of mine died, no matta how, I stuck wit dem ta tha end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Yo ass may be thinkin that’s sentimental yo, but I mean it — ta tha bitta end.”

I saw dat fo' some reason of his own da thug was determined not ta come, so I stood up.

“Is you a cold-ass lil college man?” he inquired suddenly.

For a moment I thought da thug was goin ta suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded n' shook mah hand.

“Let our asses learn ta show our thang fo' a playa when he is kickin it n' not afta he is dead,” da perved-out muthafucka suggested. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Afta dat mah own rule is ta let every last muthafuckin thang ridin' solo.”

When I left his crib tha sky had turned dark n' I gots back ta Westside Egg up in a thugged-out drizzle fo' realz. Afta changin mah threadz I went next door n' found Mista Muthafuckin Gatz struttin up n' down excitedly up in tha hall yo. His pride up in his fuckin lil hustla n' up in his son’s possessions was continually increasin n' now dat schmoooove muthafucka had suttin' ta show mah dirty ass.

“Jizzy busted mah crazy ass dis picture.” idiot took up his wallet wit tremblin fingers. “Look there.”

Dat shiznit was a photograph of tha house, cracked up in tha corners n' dirty wit nuff handz yo. idiot pointed up every last muthafuckin detail ta me eagerly. “Look there!” n' then sought admiration from mah eyes yo. idiot had shown it so often dat I be thinkin dat shiznit was mo' real ta his ass now than tha doggy den itself.

“Jizzy busted it ta mah dirty ass. I be thinkin it’s a straight-up pretty picture. Well shiiiit, it shows up well.”

“Straight-up well yo. Had you peeped his ass lately?”

“idiot come up ta peep me two muthafuckin years ago n' looted mah crazy ass tha doggy den Hoes know mah name up in now, nahmeean, biatch? Of course we was broke up when he run off from home yo, but I peep now there was a reason fo' it yo. idiot knew dat schmoooove muthafucka had a funky-ass big-ass future up in front of his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And eva since he done cooked up a success da thug was straight-up generous wit mah dirty ass.” He seemed reluctant ta put away tha picture, held it fo' another minute, lingeringly, before mah eyes. Then he returned tha wallet n' pulled from his thugged-out lil' pocket a ragged oldschool copy of a funky-ass book called Hopalong Cassidy.

“Look here, dis be a funky-ass book dat schmoooove muthafucka had when da thug was a funky-ass boy. Well shiiiit, it just shows you, biatch.”

Dude opened it all up in tha back cover n' turned it round fo' me ta see. On tha last fly-leaf was printed tha word Schedule, n' tha date September 12, 1906, n' underneath: Rise from bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     6.00 a.m. Dumbbell exercise n' wall-scaling. . . . ..     6.15-6.30 ” Study electricity, etc. .. . . . . . . . . .     7.15-8.15 ” Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     8.30-4.30 p.m. Basebizzle n' game. . . . . . . . . . . . .     4.30-5.00 ” Practice elocution, poise n' how tha fuck ta attain dat shit     5.00-6.00 ” Study needed inventions. . . . . . . . . . .     7.00-9.00 ”

General Resolves No wastin time at Shaftas or [a name, indecipherable] No mo' smokein or chewin Bath every last muthafuckin other dizzle Read one pimpin-out book or magazine per week Save $5.00 {crossed out} $3.00 per week Be betta ta muthafathas

“I come across dis book by accident,” holla'd tha oldschool man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. “It just shows you, don’t it?”

“It just shows you, biatch.”

“Jizzy was bound ta git ahead. idiot always had some resolves like dis or something. Do you notice what tha fuck he’s gots bout pimpin-out his crazy-ass mind, biatch? He was always pimped out fo' dis shiznit yo. Dude holla'd at mah crazy ass I et like a hog once, n' I beat his ass fo' dat shit.”

idiot was reluctant ta close tha book, readin each item aloud n' then lookin eagerly all up in mah face. I be thinkin he rather expected mah crazy ass ta copy down tha list fo' mah own use.

A lil before three tha Lutheran minista arrived from Flushing, n' I fuckin started ta look involuntarily up tha windows fo' other cars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So did Gatsby’s daddy n' shiznit fo' realz. And as tha time passed n' tha servants came up in n' stood waitin up in tha hall, his wild lil' fuckin eyes fuckin started ta blink anxiously, n' da perved-out muthafucka was rappin of tha drizzle up in a worried, uncertain way. Da minista glanced nuff muthafuckin times at his thugged-out lil' peep it, so I took his ass aside n' axed his ass ta wait fo' half a hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But it wasn’t any use. No Muthafucka came.

Bout five o’clock our procession of three rides reached tha cemetery n' stopped up in a thick drizzle beside tha gate — first a motor hearse, horribly black n' wet, then Mista Muthafuckin Gatz n' tha minista n' I up in tha limousine, n' a lil lata four or five servants n' tha postman from Westside Egg up in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet ta tha skin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As we started all up in tha gate tha fuck into tha cemetery I heard a cold-ass lil hoopty stop n' then tha sound of one of mah thugs splashin afta our asses over tha soggy ground. I looked around. Dat shiznit was tha playa wit owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvellin over Gatsby’s books up in tha library one night three months before.

I’d never peeped his ass since then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I don’t know how tha fuck he knew bout tha funeral, or even his name. Da drizzle poured down his cold-ass thick glasses, n' tha pimpin' muthafucka took dem off n' wiped dem ta peep tha protectin canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

I tried ta be thinkin bout Gatsby then fo' a moment yo, but da thug was already too far away, n' I could only remember, without resentment, dat Dizzy hadn’t busted a message or a gangbangin' flower n' shit. Dimly I heard one of mah thugs murmur, “Blessed is tha dead dat tha drizzle falls on,” n' then tha owl-eyed playa holla'd “Amen ta that,” up in a funky-ass brave voice.

We straggled down quickly all up in tha drizzle ta tha cars. Owl-eyes was rappin ta me by tha gate.

“I couldn’t git ta tha house,” he remarked.

“Neither could anybody else.”

“Go on!” He started. This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. “Why, mah Dogg hommie! they used ta go there by tha hundreds.” idiot took off his wild lil' freakadelic glasses n' wiped dem again, outside n' in.

“Da skanky son-of-a-bitch,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

One of mah most vivid memories iz of comin back Westside from prep school n' lata from college at Chrizzle time. Those whoz ass went farther than Chicago would gather up in tha oldschool dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, wit all dem Chicago playas, already caught up tha fuck into they own holidizzle gayeties, ta bid dem a hasty good-by. I remember tha fur coatz of tha hoes returnin from Miss This-or-that’s n' tha chatta of frozen breath n' tha handz wavin overhead as we caught sight of oldschool acquaintances, n' tha matchingz of invitations: “Is you goin ta tha Ordways’, biatch? tha Herseys’, biatch? tha Schultzes’?” n' tha long chronic tickets clasped tight up in our gloved handz fo' realz. And last tha murky yellow ridez of tha Chicago, Milwaukee n' St. Pizzle railroad lookin cheerful as Chrizzle itself on tha tracks beside tha gate.

When we pulled up tha fuck into tha winta night n' tha real snow, our snow, fuckin started ta stretch up beside our asses n' twinkle against tha windows, n' tha dim lightz of lil' small-ass Wisconsin stations moved by, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp wild brace came suddenly tha fuck into tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Us idiots drew up in deep breathz of it as we strutted back from dinner all up in tha cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identitizzle wit dis ghetto fo' one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably tha fuck into it again.

That’s mah Middle Westside — not tha wheat or tha prairies or tha lost Swede towns yo, but tha thrillin returnin trainz of mah youth, n' tha street lamps n' sleigh bells up in tha frosty dark n' tha shadowz of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on tha snow. I be part of that, a lil solemn wit tha feel of dem long winters, a lil complacent from growin up in tha Carraway doggy den up in a cold-ass lil hood where dwellings is still called all up in decades by a cold-ass lil crew’s name. I peep now dat dis has been a rap of tha West, afta all — Tomothy n' Gatsby, Dizzy n' Jordan n' I, was all Westerners, n' like we possessed some deficiency up in common which made our asses subtly unadaptable ta Eastside game.

Even when tha Eastside buckwild mah crazy ass most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superioritizzle ta tha bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond tha Ohio, wit they interminable inquisitions which spared only tha lil pimps n' tha straight-up oldschool — even then it had always fo' me a qualitizzle of distortion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Westside Egg, especially, still figures up in mah mo' dunkadelic dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. I peep it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventionizzle n' grotesque, crouchin under a sullen, overhangin sky n' a lustreless moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha foreground four solemn pimps up in dress suits is struttin along tha sidewalk wit a stretcher on which lies a thugged-out fadeden biatch up in a white evenin dress yo. Her hand, which danglez over tha side, sparklez cold wit jewels. Gravely tha pimps turn up in at a doggy den — tha wack house. But no one knows tha biatch’s name, n' no one cares.

Afta Gatsby’s dirtnap tha Eastside was hustled fo' me like that, distorted beyond mah eyes’ juice of erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So when tha blue smoke of brittle leaves was up in tha air n' tha wind blew tha wet laundry stiff on tha line I decided ta come back home.

There was one thang ta be done before I left, a awkward, unpleasant thang dat like had betta done been let ridin' solo. But I wanted ta leave thangs up in order n' not just trust dat obligin n' indifferent sea ta sweep mah refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker n' talked over n' round what tha fuck had happened ta our asses together, n' what tha fuck had happened afterward ta me, n' she lay perfectly still, listening, up in a funky-ass big-ass chair.

Yo, she was dressed ta play golf, n' I remember thankin she looked like a phat illustration, her chin raised a lil jauntily, her afro tha color of a autumn leaf, her grill tha same brown tint as tha fingerless gludd on her knee. When I had finished dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at mah crazy ass without comment dat dat biiiiatch was engaged ta another man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I doubted that, though there was nuff muthafuckin dat thugged-out biiiatch could have hooked up at a nod of her head yo, but I pretended ta be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t bustin a mistake, then I thought all dat shiznit over again n' again n' again quickly n' gots up ta say good-bye.

“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” holla'd Jordan suddenly. “Yo ass threw me over on tha telephone. I don’t give a thugged-out damn bout you now yo, but dat shiznit was a freshly smoked up experience fo' me, n' I felt a lil dizzy fo' a while.”

We shook hands.

“Oh, n' do you remember.”— she added ——” a cold-ass lil conversation our crazy asses had once bout rollin a cold-ass lil car?”

“Why — not exactly.”

“Yo ass holla'd a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass driver was only safe until she kicked it wit another shitty driver, biatch? Well, I kicked it wit another shitty driver, didn’t I, biatch? I mean dat shiznit was careless of me ta make such a wack guess.. n' you KNOWS you was rather a honest, straightforward person.. n' you KNOWS dat shiznit was yo' secret pride.”

“I’m thirty,” I holla'd. “I’m five muthafuckin years too oldschool ta lie ta mah dirty ass n' call it honor.”

Yo, she didn’t answer n' shiznit fo' realz. Angry, n' half up in ludd wit her, n' tremendously sorry, I turned away.

One afternoon late up in October I saw Tomothy Buchanan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. idiot was struttin ahead of me along Fifth Avenue up in his thugged-out alert, aggressive way, his handz up a lil from his body as if ta fight off interference, his head movin sharply here n' there, adaptin itself ta his bangin restless eyes. Just as I slowed up ta stay tha fuck away from overtakin his ass da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' fuckin started frownin tha fuck into tha windowz of a blin store. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Suddenly da perved-out muthafucka saw me n' strutted back, holdin up his hand.

“What’s tha matter, Nick, biatch? Do you object ta bobbin handz wit me son?”

“Yes yes y'all. Yo ass know what tha fuck I be thinkin of you, biatch.”

“You’re crazy, Nick,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd doggystyle. “Crazy-Ass as a muthafucka. I don’t know what’s tha matta wit you, biatch.”

“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say ta Wilson dat afternoon?” idiot stared all up in mah grill without a word, n' I knew I had guessed right bout dem missin hours. I started ta turn away yo, but tha pimpin' muthafucka took a step afta me n' grabbed mah arm.

“I holla'd at his ass tha real deal,” da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. “idiot came ta tha door while we was gettin locked n loaded ta leave, n' when I busted down word dat we weren’t up in tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta force his way up-stairs yo. idiot was wild-ass enough ta bust a cap up in me if I hadn’t holla'd at his ass whoz ass owned tha hoopty yo. His hand was on a revolver up in his thugged-out lil' pocket every last muthafuckin minute da thug was up in tha doggy den ——” idiot broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him, biatch? That fellow had it comin ta his muthafuckin ass yo. idiot threw dust tha fuck into yo' eyes just like da ruffneck did up in Daisy’s yo, but da thug was a tough one yo. idiot ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a thugged-out dawg n' never even stopped his car.”

There was not a god damn thang I could say, except tha one unutterable fact dat it wasn’t true.

“And if you be thinkin I didn’t have mah share of sufferin — look here, when I went ta give up dat flat n' saw dat damn box of dawg biscuits chillin there on tha sideboard, I sat down n' cried like a funky-ass baby. By Dogg dat shiznit was wack ——”

I couldn’t forgive his ass or like his ass yo, but I saw dat what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had done was, ta him, entirely justified. Dat shiznit was all straight-up careless n' confused. They was careless people, Tomothy n' Dizzy — they smashed up thangs n' creatures n' then retreated back tha fuck into they scrilla or they vast carelessness, or whatever dat shiznit was dat kept dem together, n' let other playas clean up tha mess they had made. . ..

I shook handz wit him; it seemed wack-ass not to, fo' I felt suddenly as though I was poppin' off ta a cold-ass lil child. Then da thug went tha fuck into tha blin store ta loot a pearl phat gold rope — or like only a pair of cuff buttons — rid of mah provincial squeamishnizz alllll muthafuckin day.

Gatsby’s doggy den was still empty when I left — tha grass on his fuckin lawn had grown as long as mine. One of tha ride drivers up in tha hood never took a gangbangin' fare past tha entrizzle gate without stoppin fo' a minute n' pointin inside; like dat shiznit was da thug whoz ass drove Dizzy n' Gatsby over ta Eastside Egg tha night of tha accident, n' like dat schmoooove muthafucka had done cooked up a rap bout all dat shiznit his own. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I didn’t wanna hear it n' I avoided his ass when I gots off tha train.

I dropped mah Saturdizzle nights up in New York cuz dem gleaming, dazzlin partizzlez of his was wit me so vividly dat I could still hear tha noize n' tha laughter, faint n' incessant, from his wild lil' freakadelic garden, n' tha rides goin up n' down his fuckin lil' drive. One night I did hear a material hoopty there, n' saw its lights stop at his wild lil' front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably dat shiznit was some final hommie whoz ass had been away all up in tha endz of tha earth n' didn’t know dat tha jam was over.

On tha last night, wit mah trunk packed n' mah hoopty sold ta tha grocer, I went over n' looked at dat big-ass incoherent failure of a doggy den once mo' n' mo' n' mo'. On tha white steps a obscene word, scrawled by some pimp wit a piece of brick, stood up clearly up in tha moonlight, n' I erased it, drawin mah shoe raspingly along tha stone. Then I wandered down ta tha beach n' sprawled up on tha sand.

Most of tha big-ass shore places was closed now n' there was hardly any lights except tha shadowy, movin glow of a gangbangin' ferryboat across tha Sound. And as tha moon rose higher tha inessential houses fuckin started ta melt away until gradually I became aware of tha oldschool island here dat flowered once fo' Dutch sailors’ eyes — a gangbangin' fresh, chronic breast of tha freshly smoked up ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Its vanished trees, tha trees dat had made way fo' Gatsby’s house, had once pandered up in whispers ta tha last n' top billin of all human dreams; fo' a transitory enchanted moment playa must have held his breath up in tha presence of dis continent, compelled tha fuck into a aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, grill ta grill fo' tha last time up in history wit suttin' commensurate ta his capacitizzle fo' wonder.

And as I sat there broodin on tha old, unknown ghetto, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked up tha chronic light all up in tha end of Daisy’s dock yo. Mackdaddy had come a long-ass way ta dis blue lawn, n' his fuckin lil' trip must have seemed so close dat his schmoooove ass could hardly fail ta grasp it yo. idiot did not know dat dat shiznit was already behind him, somewhere back up in dat vast obscuritizzle beyond tha hood, where tha dark fieldz of tha rehood rolled on under tha night.

Gatsby believed up in tha chronic light, tha orgastic future dat year by year recedes before us. Well shiiiit, it eluded our asses then yo, but that’s no matta — to-morrow we will run faster, stretch up our arms farther n' shit. . .  fo' realz. And one fine mornin ——

Yo, so we beat on, boats against tha current, borne back ceaselessly tha fuck into tha past.

I be Nick Carraway, n' dis was Mackdaddy Gatsby. Peace out, muthafuckas.