Da Wind up in tha Willows

I. THE RIVER BANK Da Mole had been hustlin straight-up hard all tha morning, spring-cleanin his fuckin lil home. First wit brooms, then wit dusters; then on laddaz n' steps n' chairs, wit a funky-ass brush n' a pail of whitewash; till dat schmoooove muthafucka had dust up in his cold-ass throat n' eyes, n' splashez of whitewash all over his black fur, n' a achin back n' weary arms. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sprin was movin up in tha air above n' up in tha earth below n' round him, penetratin even his fuckin lil' dark n' lowly lil doggy den wit its spirit of divine discontent n' longing. Dat shiznit was lil' small-ass wonder, then, dat da perved-out muthafucka suddenly flung down his brush on tha floor, holla'd ‘Bother!’ n' ‘O blow!’ n' also ‘Hang spring-cleaning!’ n' bolted outta tha doggy den without even waitin ta put on his coat. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang up above was callin his ass imperiously, n' he made fo' tha steep lil tunnel which answered up in his case ta tha gravelled carriage-drive owned by muthafuckas whose residences is nearer ta tha sun n' air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So da perved-out muthafucka scraped n' scratched n' scrabbled n' scrooged n' then da perved-out muthafucka scrooged again n' again n' again n' scrabbled n' scratched n' scraped, hustlin busily wit his fuckin lil paws n' mutterin ta his dirty ass, ‘Up we go! Up we go!’ till at last, pop! his snout came up tha fuck into tha sunlight, n' he found his dirty ass rollin up in tha warm grass of a pimped out meadow.

‘This is fine!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass. ‘This is betta than whitewashing!’ Da sunshine struck bangin' on his wild lil' fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, n' afta tha seclusion of tha cellarage dat schmoooove muthafucka had lived up in so long tha carol of aiiight birdz fell tha fuck on his fuckin lil' dulled hearin almost like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shout. Jumpin off all his wild lil' four hairy-ass legs at once, up in tha joy of livin n' tha delight of sprang without its cleaning, he pursued his way across tha meadow till he reached tha hedge on tha further side.

‘Hold up!’ holla'd a coffin dodgin' rabbit all up in tha gap. ‘Sixpence fo' tha privilege of passin by tha private road!’ Dude was bowled over up in a instant by tha impatient n' contemptuous Mole, whoz ass trotted along tha side of tha hedge chaffin tha other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from they holez ta peep what tha fuck tha row was about. ‘Onion-sauce biaaatch! Onion-sauce!’ he remarked jeeringly, n' was gone before they could be thinkin of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumblin at each other n' shit. ‘How tha fuck STUPID yo ass is biaaatch! Why didn’t you tell him--’ ‘Well, why didn’t YOU say--’ ‘Yo ass might have reminded him--’ n' so on, up in tha usual way; but, of course, dat shiznit was then much too late, as be always tha case.

It all seemed too phat ta be true yo. Hither n' thither all up in tha meadows he rambled busily, along tha hedgerows, across tha copses, findin everywhere birdz building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting-everythang happy, n' progressive, n' occupied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And instead of havin a uneasy conscience prickin his ass n' whisperin ‘whitewash!’ da perved-out muthafucka somehow could only feel how tha fuck jolly dat shiznit was ta be tha only idle dawg among all these busy playa hatas fo' realz. Afta all, tha dopest part of a holidizzle is like not so much ta be restin yo ass, as ta peep all tha other fellows busy working.

Dude thought his happinizz was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly da perved-out muthafucka stood by tha edge of a gangbangin' full-fed river n' shit. Never up in his wild lil' freakadelic game had da perved-out muthafucka peeped a river before-this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasin n' chuckling, grippin thangs wit a gurgle n' leavin dem wit a laugh, ta flin itself on fresh playmates dat shook theyselves free, n' was caught n' held again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All was a-shake n' a-shiver-glints n' gleams n' sparkles, rustle n' swirl, chatta n' bubble. Da Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. By tha side of tha river tha pimpin' muthafucka trotted as one trots, when straight-up small, by tha side of a playa whoz ass holdz one spell-bound by bangin stories; n' when chillaxed at last, da perved-out muthafucka sat on tha bank, while tha river still chattered on ta him, a funky-ass babblin procession of tha dopest stories up in tha ghetto, busted from tha ass of tha earth ta be holla'd at at last ta tha insatiable sea.

As da perved-out muthafucka sat on tha grass n' looked across tha river, a thugged-out dark hole up in tha bank opposite, just above tha water’s edge, caught his wild lil' fuckin eye, n' dreamily he fell tha fuck ta thankin bout what tha fuck a sick snug dwelling-place it would make fo' a animal wit few wants n' fond of a funky-ass bijou riverside residence, above flood level n' remote from noise n' dust fo' realz. As he gazed, suttin' bright n' lil' small-ass seemed ta twinkle down up in tha ass of it, vanished, then twinkled once mo' like a tiny star. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But it could hardly be a star up in such a unlikely thang; n' dat shiznit was too glitterin n' lil' small-ass fo' a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at him, n' so declared itself ta be a eye; n' a lil' small-ass grill fuckin started gradually ta grow up round it, like a gangbangin' frame round a picture.

A brown lil face, wit whiskers.

A grave round face, wit tha same twinkle up in its eye dat had first attracted his notice.

Lil Small-Ass neat ears n' thick silky hair.

Dat shiznit was tha Wata Rat!

Then tha two muthafuckas stood n' regarded each other cautiously.

‘Hullo, Mole!’ holla'd tha Wata Rat.

‘Hullo, Rat!’ holla'd tha Mole.

‘Would you like ta come over?’ enquired tha Rat presently.

‘Oh, its all straight-up well ta TALK,’ holla'd tha Mole, rather pettishly, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bein freshly smoked up ta a river n' riverside game n' its ways.

Da Rat holla'd not a god damn thang yo, but stooped n' unfastened a rope n' hauled on it; then lightly stepped tha fuck into a lil boat which tha Mole had not observed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was painted blue outside n' white within, n' was just tha size fo' two muthafuckas; n' tha Mole’s whole ass went up ta it at once, even though da ruffneck did not yet straight-up KNOW its uses.

Da Rat sculled smartly across n' made fast. Then dat schmoooove muthafucka held up his wild lil' forepaw as tha Mole stepped gingerly down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Lean on that!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Now then, step lively!’ n' tha Mole ta his surprise n' rapture found his dirty ass straight-up seated up in tha stern of a real boat.

‘This has been a straight-up dope day!’ holla'd he, as tha Rat shoved off n' took ta tha sculls again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Do you know, I’ve never been up in a funky-ass boat before up in all mah game.’

‘What?’ cried tha Rat, open-mouthed: ‘Never been up in a-you never-well I-what have you been bustin, then?’

‘Is it so sick as all that?’ axed tha Mole shyly, though da thug was like prepared ta believe it as he leant back up in his seat n' surveyed tha cushions, tha oars, tha rowlocks, n' all tha fascinatin fittings, n' felt tha boat sway lightly under his muthafuckin ass.

‘Nice, biatch? It’s tha ONLY thang,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat solemnly, as he leant forward fo' his stroke. ‘Believe me, mah lil' playa, there is NOTHING-absolute nothing-half so much worth bustin as simply messin bout up in boats, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Simply messing,’ da thug went on dreamily: ‘messing-about-in-boats; messing--’

‘Look ahead, Rat!’ cried tha Mole suddenly.

Dat shiznit was too late. Da boat struck tha bank full tilt. Da dreamer, tha joyous oarsman, lay on his back all up in tha bottom of tha boat, his heels up in tha air.

‘-about up in boats-or WITH boats,’ tha Rat went on composedly, pickin his dirty ass up wit a pleasant laugh. ‘In or outta ‘em, it don’t matter n' shit. Nothang seems straight-up ta matter, that’s tha charm of dat shit. Whether you git away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at yo' destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never git anywhere at all, you’re always busy, n' you never do anythang up in particular; n' when you’ve done it there’s always suttin' else ta do, n' you can do it if you like yo, but you’d much betta not. Look here biaaatch! If you’ve straight-up not a god damn thang else on hand dis morning, supposin our phat asses drop down tha river together, n' gotz a long-ass dizzle of it?’

Da Mole waggled his cold-ass toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest wit a funky-ass bust a funky-ass big-ass fart of full contentment, n' leaned back blissfully tha fuck into tha soft cushions. ‘WHAT a thugged-out dizzle I’m having!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Let our asses start at once!’

‘Hold hard a minute, then!’ holla'd tha Rat yo. Dude looped tha painta all up in a rang up in his fuckin landing-stage, climbed up tha fuck into his hole above, n' afta a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short interval reappeared staggerin under a gangbangin' fat, wicker luncheon-basket.

‘Shove dat under yo' feet,’ he observed ta tha Mole, as he passed it down tha fuck into tha boat. Then he untied tha painta n' took tha sculls again.

‘What’s inside it?’ axed tha Mole, wrigglin wit curiosity.

‘There’s cold chicken inside it,’ replied tha Rat briefly; ‘cold tongue cold ham cold beef pickled gherkins salad french rolls cress sandwiches potted meat ginger beer lemonade soda water--’

‘O stop, stop,’ cried tha Mole up in ecstacies: ‘This is too much!’

‘Do you straight-up be thinkin so?’ enquired tha Rat seriously. ‘It’s only what tha fuck I always take on these lil excursions; n' tha other muthafuckas is always spittin some lyrics ta me dat I’m a mean beast n' cut it VERY fine!’

Da Mole never heard a word da thug was sayin fo' realz. Absorbed up in tha freshly smoked up game da thug was enterin upon, high as fuck wit tha sparkle, tha ripple, tha scents n' tha soundz n' tha sunlight, tha pimpin' muthafucka trailed a paw up in tha wata n' dreamed long wakin dreams. Boy it's gettin hot, yes indeed it is. Da Wata Rat, like tha phat lil fellow da thug was, sculled steadily on n' forebore ta disturb his muthafuckin ass.

‘I wanna bust a nut on yo' threadz awfully, oldschool chap,’ he remarked afta some half a minute or so had passed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’m goin ta git a funky-ass black velvet tokin-suit mah dirty ass some day, as soon as I can afford dat shit.’

‘I beg yo' pardon,’ holla'd tha Mole, pullin his dirty ass together wit a effort. ‘Yo ass must be thinkin me straight-up rude; but all dis is so freshly smoked up ta mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So-this-is-a-River!’

‘THE River,’ erected tha Rat.

‘And you straight-up live by tha river, biatch? What a jolly game!’

‘By it n' wit it n' on it n' up in it,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘It’s brutha n' sista ta me, n' aunts, n' company, n' chicken n' drink, n' (naturally) washing. It’s mah ghetto, n' I don’t want any other n' shit. What it hasn’t gots aint worth having, n' what tha fuck it don’t know aint worth knowing. Lord hommie! tha times we’ve had together playa! Whether up in winta or summer, sprang or autumn, it’s always gots its funk n' its excitements, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. When tha floodz is on up in February, n' mah cellars n' basement is brimmin wit drank that’s no phat ta me, n' tha brown wata runs by mah dopest bedroom window; or again n' again n' again when all dat shiznit drops away and, shows patchez of mud dat smells like plum-cake, n' tha rushes n' chronic clog tha channels, n' I can potta bout dry shod over most of tha bed of it n' find fresh chicken ta eat, n' thangs careless playas have dropped outta boats!’

‘But aint it a lil' bit dull at times?’ tha Mole ventured ta ask. ‘Just you n' tha river, n' no one else ta pass a word with?’

‘No one else to-well, I mustn’t be hard on you,’ holla'd tha Rat wit forbearance. ‘You’re freshly smoked up ta it, n' of course you don’t know. Da bank is so crowded nowadays dat nuff playas is movin away altogether: O no, it aint what tha fuck it used ta be, at all. Otters, mackdaddyfishers, dabchicks, moorhens, all of dem bout all dizzle long n' always wantin you ta DO something-as if a gangbangin' fellow had no bidnizz of his own ta git all up in to!’

‘What lies over THERE’ axed tha Mole, wavin a paw towardz a funky-ass background of woodland dat darkly framed tha water-meadows on one side of tha river.

‘That, biatch? O, that’s just tha Wild Wood,’ holla'd tha Rat shortly. ‘Us dudes don’t go there straight-up much, we river-bankers.’

‘Aren’t they-aren’t they straight-up NICE playas up in there?’ holla'd tha Mole, a trifle nervously.

‘W-e-ll,’ replied tha Rat, ‘let me see. Da squirrels is all right fo' realz. AND tha rabbits-some of ‘em yo, but rabbits is a mixed lot fo' realz. And then there’s Badger, of course yo. Dude lives right up in tha ass of it; wouldn’t live anywhere else, either, if you paid his ass ta do dat shit. Dear oldschool Badger playa! No Muthafucka interferes wit HIM. They’d betta not,’ he added significantly.

‘Why, whoz ass SHOULD interfere wit him?’ axed tha Mole.

‘Well, of course-there-are others,’ explained tha Rat up in a hesitatin sort of way.

‘Weasels-and stoats-and foxes-and so on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They’re all right up in a way-I’m straight-up phat playaz wit them-pass tha time of dizzle when we meet, n' all that-but they break up sometimes, there’s no denyin it, n' then-well, you can’t straight-up trust them, n' that’s tha fact.’

Da Mole knew well dat it is like against animal-etiquette ta dwell on possible shiznit ahead, or even ta allude ta it; so da ruffneck dropped tha subject.

‘And beyond tha Wild Wood again?’ he asked: ‘Where it’s all blue n' dim, n' one sees what tha fuck may be hills or like they mayn’t, n' suttin' like tha smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?’

‘Beyond tha Wild Wood comes tha Wide World,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘And that’s suttin' dat don’t matter, either ta you or mah dirty ass. I’ve never been there, n' I’m never going, nor you either, if you’ve gots any sense at all. Don’t eva refer ta it again,. Biiiatch please.Now then! Here’s our backwata at last, where we’re goin ta lunch.’

Leavin tha main stream, they now passed tha fuck into what tha fuck seemed at first sight like a lil land-locked lake. Chronic turf sloped down ta either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below tha surface of tha on tha down-low water, while ahead of dem tha silvery shoulder n' foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm wit a restless drippin mill-wheel, dat held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled tha air wit a soothang murmur of sound, dull n' smothery, yet wit lil clear voices bustin lyrics up cheerfully outta it at intervals. Dat shiznit was so straight-up dope dat tha Mole could only hold up both forepaws n' gasp, ‘O mah dawwwwg! O mah dawwwwg! O my!’

Da Rat brought tha boat alongside tha bank, made her fast, helped tha still awkward Mole safely ashore, n' swung up tha luncheon-basket. Da Mole begged as a gangbangin' favour ta be allowed ta unpack all dat shiznit by his dirty ass; n' tha Rat was straight-up pleased ta indulge him, n' ta sprawl at full length on tha grass n' rest, while his wild lil' fuckin buckwild playa shook up tha table-cloth n' spread it, took up all tha mysterious packets one by one n' arranged they contents up in due order, still gasping, ‘O mah dawwwwg! O my!’ at each fresh revelation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When all was ready, tha Rat holla'd, ‘Now, pitch in, oldschool fellow!’ n' tha Mole was indeed straight-up glad ta obey, fo' dat schmoooove muthafucka had started his spring-cleanin at a straight-up early minute dat morning, as playas WILL do, n' had not paused fo' bite or sup; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been all up in a straight-up pimped out deal since dat distant time which now seemed all kindsa muthafuckin minutes ago.

‘What is you lookin at?’ holla'd tha Rat presently, when tha edge of they hunger was somewhat dulled, n' tha Mole’s eyes was able ta wander off tha table-cloth a lil.

‘I be looking,’ holla'd tha Mole, ‘at a streak of bubblez dat I peep pimpin' along tha surface of tha gin n juice n' shit. That be a thang dat strikes me as funky.’

‘Bubbles, biatch? Oho!’ holla'd tha Rat, n' chirruped cheerily up in a invitin sort of way.

A broad glistenin muzzle flossed itself above tha edge of tha bank, n' tha Otta hauled his dirty ass up n' shook tha wata from his coat.

‘Greedy beggars!’ he observed, makin fo' tha provender n' shit. ‘Why didn’t you invite me, Ratty?’

‘This was a impromptu affair,’ explained tha Rat. ‘By tha way-my playa Mista Muthafuckin Mole.’

‘Proud, I’m sure,’ holla'd tha Otter, n' tha two muthafuckas was playaz forthwith.

‘Such a rumpus everywhere!’ continued tha Otter n' shit. ‘All tha ghetto seems up on tha river to-day. It make me wanna hollar playa! I came up dis backwata ta try n' git a moment’s peace, n' then stumble upon you fellows!-At least-I beg pardon-I don’t exactly mean that, you know.’

There was a rustle behind them, proceedin from a hedge wherein last year’s leaves still clung thick, n' a stripy head, wit high shouldaz behind it, peered forth on dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

‘Come on, oldschool Badger!’ shouted tha Rat.

Da Badger trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted, ‘H’m! Company,’ n' turned his back n' disappeared from view.

‘That’s JUST tha sort of fellow he is!’ observed tha pissed tha fuck off Rat. ‘Simply hates Society dawwwwg! Now we shan’t peep any mo' of his ass to-day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Well, tell us, WHO’S up on tha river?’

‘Toad’s out, fo' one,’ replied tha Otter n' shit. ‘In his brand-new wager-boat; freshly smoked up togs, freshly smoked up every last muthafuckin thang!’

Da two muthafuckas looked at each other n' laughed.

‘Once, dat shiznit was not a god damn thang but sailing,’ holla'd tha Rat, ‘Then he pissed wit dat n' took ta punting. Nothang would please his ass but ta punt all dizzle n' every last muthafuckin day, n' a sick mess he made of dat shit. Last year dat shiznit was house-boating, n' we all had ta go n' stay wit his ass up in his house-boat, n' pretend our slick asses was horny bout it yo. Dude was goin ta spend tha rest of his wild lil' freakadelic game up in a house-boat. It’s all tha same, whatever tha pimpin' muthafucka takes up; he gets pissed wit it, n' starts on suttin' fresh.’

‘Such a phat fellow, too,’ remarked tha Otta reflectively: ‘But no stability-especially up in a funky-ass boat!’

From where they sat they could git a glimpse of tha main stream across tha island dat separated them; n' just then a wager-boat flashed tha fuck into view, tha rower-a short, stout figure-splashin badly n' rollin a phat deal yo, but hustlin his hardest. Da Rat stood up n' hailed his ass yo, but Toad-for dat shiznit was he-shook his head n' settled sternly ta his work.

‘He’ll be outta tha boat up in a minute if he rolls like that,’ holla'd tha Rat, chillin down again.

‘Of course da thug will,’ chuckled tha Otter n' shit. ‘Did I eva rap  dat phat rap bout Toad n' tha lock-keeper, biatch? It happened dis way. Toad....’

An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart tha current up in tha high as fuck fashizzle affected by lil' bloodz of May-flies seein game fo' realz. A swirl of wata n' a ‘cloop!’ n' tha May-fly was visible no more.

Neither was tha Otter.

Da Mole looked down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da voice was still up in his wild lil' fuckin ears yo, but tha turf whereon dat schmoooove muthafucka had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not a Otta ta be seen, as far as tha distant horizon.

But again n' again n' again there was a streak of bubblez on tha surface of tha river.

Da Rat hummed a tune, n' tha Mole recollected dat animal-etiquette forbade any sort of comment on tha sudden disappearizzle of one’s playaz at any moment, fo' any reason or no reason whatever.

‘Well, well,’ holla'd tha Rat, ‘I suppose we ought ta be moving. I wonder which of our asses had betta pack tha luncheon-basket?’ Dude did not drop a rhyme as if da thug was frightfully eager fo' tha treat.

‘O, please let me,’ holla'd tha Mole. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So, of course, tha Rat let his muthafuckin ass.

Packin tha basket was not like such pleasant work as unpacking’ tha basket. Well shiiiit, it never is. But tha Mole was bent on trippin' off every last muthafuckin thang, n' although just when dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots tha basket packed n' strapped up tightly da perved-out muthafucka saw a plate starin up at his ass from tha grass, n' when tha thang had been done again n' again n' again tha Rat pointed up a gangbangin' fork which anybody ought ta have seen, n' last of all, behold hommie! tha mustard pot, which dat schmoooove muthafucka had been chillin on without knowin it-still, somehow, tha thang gots finished at last, without much loss of temper.

Da afternoon sun was gettin low as tha Rat sculled gently homewardz up in a thugged-out dreamy vibe, murmurin poetry-things over ta his dirty ass, n' not payin much attention ta Mole. But tha Mole was straight-up full of lunch, n' self-satisfaction, n' pride, n' already like up in da crib up in a funky-ass boat (so tha pimpin' muthafucka thought) n' was gettin a lil' bit restless besides: n' presently da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘Ratty dawwwwg! Please, I wanna row, now!’

Da Rat shook his head wit a smile. ‘Not yet, mah lil' playa,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd-‘wait till you’ve had all dem lessons. It’s not so easy as fuck  as it looks.’

Da Mole was on tha down-low fo' a minute or two. But his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta feel mo' n' mo' jealouz of Rat, scullin so straight fuckin n' so easily along, n' his thugged-out lil' pride fuckin started ta whisper dat his schmoooove ass could do it every last muthafuckin bit as well yo. Dude jumped up n' seized tha sculls, so suddenly, dat tha Rat, whoz ass was gazin up over tha wata n' sayin mo' poetry-things ta his dirty ass, was taken by surprise n' fell tha fuck backwardz off his seat wit his hairy-ass legs up in tha air fo' tha second time, while tha triumphant Mole took his thugged-out lil' place n' grabbed tha sculls wit entire confidence.

‘Quit it, you SILLY ass!’ cried tha Rat, from tha bottom of tha boat. ‘Yo ass can’t do dat shiznit son! You’ll have our asses over!’

Da Mole flung his sculls back wit a gangbangin' flourish, n' done cooked up a pimped out dig all up in tha gin n juice n' shiznit yo. Dude missed tha surface altogether, his hairy-ass legs flew up above his head, n' he found his dirty ass lyin on tha top of tha prostrate Rat. Greatly alarmed, he done cooked up a grab all up in tha side of tha boat, n' tha next moment-Sploosh!

Over went tha boat, n' he found his dirty ass strugglin up in tha river.

O my, how tha fuck cold tha wata was, n' O, how tha fuck VERY wet it felt yo. How tha fuck it busted up in his wild lil' fuckin ears as da thug went down, down, down! How tha fuck bright n' welcome tha sun looked as he rose ta tha surface coughin n' spluttering! How tha fuck black was his fuckin lil' despair when he felt his dirty ass sinkin again! Then a gangbangin' firm paw gripped his ass by tha back of his neck. Dat shiznit was tha Rat, n' da thug was evidently laughing-the Mole could FEEL his ass laughing, right down his thugged-out arm n' all up in his thugged-out lil' paw, n' so tha fuck into his-the Mole’s-neck.

Da Rat gots hold of a scull n' shoved it under tha Mole’s arm; then da ruffneck did tha same by tha other side of his ass and, swimmin behind, propelled tha helpless animal ta shore, hauled his ass out, n' set his ass down on tha bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.

When tha Rat had rubbed his ass down a funky-ass bit, n' wrung a shitload of tha wet outta him, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘Now, then, oldschool fellow! Trot up n' down tha towing-path as hard as you can, till you’re warm n' dry again, while I dive fo' tha luncheon-basket.’

So tha dismal Mole, wet without n' ashamed within, trotted bout till da thug was fairly dry, while tha Rat plunged tha fuck into tha wata again, recovered tha boat, righted her n' made her fast, fetched his wild lil' floatin property ta shore by degrees, n' finally dived successfully fo' tha luncheon-basket n' struggled ta land wit dat shit.

When all was locked n loaded fo' a start once more, tha Mole, limp n' dejected, took his seat up in tha stern of tha boat; n' as they set off, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd up in a low voice, fucked up wit emotion, ‘Ratty, mah generous playa hommie! I be straight-up sorry indeed fo' mah foolish n' ungrateful conduct. My fuckin ass like fails me when I be thinkin how tha fuck I might have lost dat dope luncheon-basket. Git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit, I done been a cold-ass lil complete ass, n' I know dat shit. Will you overlook it dis once n' forgive me, n' let thangs go on as before?’

‘That’s all right, bless you, nahmean biiiatch?’ responded tha Rat cheerily. ‘What’s a lil wet ta a Wata Rat, biatch? I’m mo' up in tha wata than outta it most days. Don’t you be thinkin any mo' bout it; and, look here biaaatch! I straight-up be thinkin you had betta come n' stop wit me fo' a lil time. It’s straight-up plain n' rough, you know-not like Toad’s doggy den at all-but you haven’t peeped dat yet; still, I can make you comfortable fo' realz. And I’ll teach you ta row, n' ta swim, n' you’ll soon be as handy on tha wata as any of us.’

Da Mole was so touched by his kind manner of bustin lyrics dat his schmoooove ass could find no voice ta answer him; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta brush away a tear or two wit tha back of his thugged-out lil' paw. But tha Rat kindly looked up in another direction, n' presently tha Mole’s spirits revived again, n' da thug was even able ta give some straight back-talk ta a cold-ass lil couple moorhens whoz ass was sniggerin ta each other bout his bedraggled appearance.

When they gots home, tha Rat done cooked up a funky-ass bright fire up in tha parlour, n' planted tha Mole up in a arm-chair up in front of it, havin fetched down a thugged-out dressing-gown n' slippers fo' him, n' holla'd at his ass river stories till supper-time. Straight-up thrillin stories they were, too, ta a earth-dwellin animal like Mole. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Stories bout weirs, n' sudden floods, n' leapin pike, n' steamers dat flung hard bottles-at least bottlez was certainly flung, n' FROM steamers, so presumably BY them; n' bout herons, n' how tha fuck particular they was whom they was rappin to; n' bout adventures down drains, n' night-fishings wit Otter, or excursions far a-field wit Badger n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Supper was a most cheerful meal; but straight-up shortly afterwardz a terribly chilly Mole had ta be escorted upstairs by his considerate host, ta tha dopest bedroom, where da perved-out muthafucka soon laid his head on his thugged-out lil' pillow up in pimped out peace n' contentment, knowin dat his new-found playa tha River was lappin tha sill of his window.

This dizzle was only tha straight-up original gangsta of nuff similar ones fo' tha emancipated Mole, each of dem longer n' full of interest as tha ripenin summer moved onward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude learnt ta swim n' ta row, n' entered tha fuck into tha joy of hustlin water; n' wit his wild lil' fuckin ear ta tha reed-stems his schmoooove ass caught, at intervals, suttin' of what tha fuck tha wind went whisperin so constantly among dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

II. THE OPEN ROAD ‘Ratty,’ holla'd tha Mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, ‘if you please, I wanna ask you a gangbangin' favour.’

Da Rat was chillin on tha river bank, rappin a lil cold lil' woo wop yo. Dude had just composed it his dirty ass, so da thug was straight-up taken up wit it, n' would not pay proper attention ta Mole or anythang else. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Since early mornin dat schmoooove muthafucka had been swimmin up in tha river, up in company wit his wild lil' playaz tha ducks fo' realz. And when tha ducks stood on they headz suddenly, as ducks will, da thug would dive down n' tickle they necks, just under where they chins would be if ducks had chins, till they was forced ta come ta tha surface again n' again n' again up in a hurry, splutterin n' mad salty n' bobbin they feathers at him, fo' it is impossible ta say like ALL you feel when yo' head is under gin n juice n' shiznit fo' realz. At last they implored his ass ta go away n' git all up in ta his own affairs n' leave dem ta mind theirs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So tha Rat went away, n' sat on tha river bank up in tha sun, n' made up a cold lil' woo wop bout them, which his schmoooove ass called

‘DUCKS’ DITTY.’

All along tha backwater, Through tha rushes tall, Ducks is a-dabbling, Up tails all! Ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails, Yellow feet a-quiver, Yellow bills all outta sight Busy up in tha river!

Slushy chronic undergrowth Where tha roach swim- Here we keep our larder, Def n' full n' dim.

Everyone fo' what tha fuck he likes! We like ta be        Headz down, tails up, Dabblin free!

High up in tha blue above Swifts whirl n' call- We is down a-dabbling Uptails all! ‘I don’t know dat I be thinkin so VERY much of dat lil song, Rat,’ observed tha Mole cautiously yo. Dude was no poet his dirty ass n' didn’t care whoz ass knew it; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had a cold-ass lil candid nature.

‘Nor don’t tha ducks neither,’ replied tha Rat cheerfully. ‘They say, "WHY can’t fellows be allowed ta do what tha fuck they like WHEN they like n' AS they like, instead of other fellows chillin on banks n' watchin dem all tha time n' makin remarks n' poetry n' thangs bout them, biatch? What NONSENSE all dat shiznit is!" That’s what tha fuck tha ducks say.’

‘So it is, so it is,’ holla'd tha Mole, wit pimped out heartiness.

‘Fuck dat shit, it isn’t!’ cried tha Rat indignantly.

‘Well then, it isn’t, it isn’t,’ replied tha Mole soothingly. ‘But what tha fuck I wanted ta ask you was, won’t you take me ta booty-call on Mista Muthafuckin Toad, biatch? I’ve heard so much bout him, n' I do so wanna make his thugged-out acquaintance.’

‘Why, certainly,’ holla'd tha good-natured Rat, jumpin ta his wild lil' feet n' dismissin poetry from his crazy-ass mind fo' tha day. It make me wanna hollar playa! ‘Git tha boat out, n' we’ll paddle up there at once. It’s never tha wack time ta booty-call on Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Early or late he’s always tha same ol' dirty fellow fo' realz. Always good-tempered, always glad ta peep you, always sorry when you go!’

‘Dude must be a straight-up sick animal,’ observed tha Mole, as he gots tha fuck into tha boat n' took tha sculls, while tha Rat settled his dirty ass comfortably up in tha stern.

‘Dude is indeed tha dopest of muthafuckas,’ replied Rat. ‘So simple, so good-natured, n' so affectionate. Perhaps he’s not straight-up def-we can’t all be  smart-ass es; n' it may be dat he is both boastful n' conceited. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. But dat schmoooove muthafucka has gots some pimped out qualities, has Toady.’

Roundin a funky-ass bend up in tha river, they came up in sight of a thugged-out, dignified oldschool doggy den of mellowed red brick, wit well-kept lawns reachin down ta tha water’s edge.

‘There’s Toad Hall,’ holla'd tha Rat; ‘and dat creek on tha left, where tha notice-board says, "Private. No landin allowed," leadz ta his boat-house, where we’ll leave tha boat. Da stablez is over there ta tha right. That’s tha banqueting-hall you’re lookin at now-very old, dat is. Toad is rather rich, you know, n' dis is straight-up one of tha sickst houses up in these parts, though we never admit as much ta Toad.’

They glided up tha creek, n' tha Mole shipped his sculls as they passed tha fuck into tha shadow of a big-ass boat-house yo. Here they saw nuff thugged-out boats, slung from tha cross beams or hauled up on a slip yo, but none up in tha water; n' tha place had a unused n' a thugged-out deserted air.

Da Rat looked round his muthafuckin ass. ‘I understand,’ holla'd he. ‘Boatin is played up yo. He’s pissed wit it, n' done wit dat shit. I wonder what tha fuck freshly smoked up fad dat schmoooove muthafucka has taken up now, biatch? Come along n' let’s look his ass up. We shall hear all bout it like soon enough.’

They disembarked, n' strolled across tha gay flower-decked lawns up in search of Toad, whom they presently happened upon restin up in a wicker garden-chair, wit a pre-occupied expression of face, n' a big-ass map spread up on his knees.

‘Hooray!’ his schmoooove ass cried, jumpin up on seein them, ‘this is splendid!’ Dude shook tha pawz of both of dem warmly, never waitin fo' a introduction ta tha Mole. ‘How tha fuck KIND of you, nahmean biiiatch?’ da thug went on, ridin' dirty round dem wild-ass muthafuckas. ‘I was just goin ta bust a funky-ass boat down tha river fo' you, Ratty, wit strict ordaz dat you was ta be fetched up here at once, whatever you was bustin. I want you badly-both of you, biatch. Now what tha fuck will you take, biatch? Come inside n' have something! Yo ass don’t know how tha fuck dirty it is, yo' turnin up just now!’

‘Let’s sit on tha down-low a funky-ass bit, Toady!’ holla'd tha Rat, throwin his dirty ass tha fuck into a easy as fuck  chair, while tha Mole took another by tha side of his ass n' made some civil remark bout Toad’s ‘delightful residence.’

‘Finest doggy den on tha whole river,’ cried Toad boisterously. ‘Or anywhere else, fo' dat matter,’ his schmoooove ass could not help adding.

Here tha Rat nudged tha Mole. Unfortunately tha Toad saw his ass do it, n' turned straight-up red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! There was a moment’s fucked up silence. Then Toad burst up laughing. ‘All right, Ratty,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘It’s only mah way, you know fo' realz. And it’s not such a straight-up shitty house, is it, biatch? Yo ass know you rather like it yo ass. Now, look here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Let’s be sensible. Yo ass is tha straight-up muthafuckas I wanted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. You’ve gots ta help mah dirty ass. It’s most blingin!’

‘It’s bout yo' rowing, I suppose,’ holla'd tha Rat, wit a innocent air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘You’re gettin on fairly well, though you splash a phat bit still. With a pimped out deal of patience, n' any quantitizzle of pimping, you may--’

‘O, pooh! boating!’ interrupted tha Toad, up in pimped out disgust. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Silly boyish amusement. I’ve given dat up LONG ago. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sheer waste of time, that’s what tha fuck it is. Well shiiiit, it make me downright sorry ta peep you fellows, whoz ass ought ta know better, bustin all yo' energies up in dat aimless manner n' shit. Fuck dat shit, I’ve discovered tha real thang, tha only genuine occupation fo' a game time. I propose ta devote tha remainder of mine ta it, n' can only regret tha wasted muthafuckin years dat lie behind me, squandered up in trivialities. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Come wit me, dear Ratty, n' yo' amiable playa also, if da thug is ghon be all kindsa straight-up good, just as far as tha stable-yard, n' you shall peep what tha fuck you shall see!’

Dude hustled tha way ta tha stable-yard accordingly, tha Rat followin wit a most mistrustful expression; n' there, drawn outta tha pimp doggy den tha fuck into tha open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shinin wit newness, painted a cold-ass lil canary-yellow picked up wit green, n' red wheels.

‘There yo ass is!’ cried tha Toad, straddlin n' expandin his dirty ass. ‘There’s real game fo' you, embodied up in dat lil cart. Da open road, tha dusty highway, tha heath, tha common, tha hedgerows, tha rollin downs muthafucka! Camps, villages, towns, ghettos muthafucka! Here to-day, up n' off ta somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, chizzle, interest, excitement son! Da whole ghetto before you, n' a horizizzle that’s always changing! And mind hommie! dis is tha straight-up finest cart of its sort dat was eva built, without any exception. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Come inside n' peep tha arrangements, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Planned ‘em all mah dirty ass, I did!’

Da Mole was tremendously interested n' excited, n' followed his ass eagerly up tha steps n' tha fuck into tha interior of tha caravan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Rat only snorted n' thrust his handz deep tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' pockets, remainin where da thug was.

Dat shiznit was indeed straight-up compact n' comfortable. Little chillin bunks-a lil table dat folded up against tha wall-a cooking-stove, lockers, bookshelves, a funky-ass bird-cage wit a funky-ass bird up in it; n' pots, pans, jugs n' kettlez of every last muthafuckin size n' variety.

‘All complete!’ holla'd tha Toad triumphantly, pullin open a locker n' shit. ‘Yo ass see-biscuits, potted lobster, sardines-everythang you can possibly want. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Soda-wata here-baccy there-letter-paper, bacon, jam, cardz n' dominoes-you’ll find,’ his schmoooove ass continued, as they descended tha steps again, ‘you’ll find dat not a god damn thang what tha fuck eva has been forgotten, when we make our start dis afternoon.’

‘I beg yo' pardon,’ holla'd tha Rat slowly, as his schmoooove ass chewed a straw, ‘but did I overhear you say suttin' bout "WE," n' "START," n' "THIS AFTERNOON?"’

‘Now, you dear phat oldschool Ratty,’ holla'd Toad, imploringly, ‘don’t begin poppin' off up in dat stiff n' sniffy sort of way, cuz you know you’ve GOT ta come. I can’t possibly manage without you, so please consider it settled, n' don’t argue-it’s tha one thang I can’t stand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass surely don’t mean ta stick ta yo' dull fusty oldschool river all yo' game, n' just live up in a hole up in a funky-ass bank, n' BOAT, biatch? I wanna show you tha ghetto hommie! I’m goin ta cook up a ANIMAL of you, mah boy!’

‘I don’t give a fuck,’ holla'd tha Rat, doggedly. ‘I ain't coming, n' that’s flat fo' realz. And I AM goin ta stick ta mah oldschool river, AND live up in a hole, AND boat, as I’ve always done fo' realz. And what’s more, Mole’s goin ta stick ta me n' do as I do, aren’t you, Mole?’

‘Of course I am,’ holla'd tha Mole, loyally. ‘I’ll always stick ta you, Rat, n' what tha fuck you say is ta be-has gots ta be fo' realz. All tha same, it soundz as if it might have been-well, rather fun, you know!’ he added, wistfully. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skanky Mole biaaatch! Da Life Adventurous was so freshly smoked up a thang ta him, n' so thrilling; n' dis fresh aspect of dat shiznit was so tempting; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had fallen up in ludd at first sight wit tha canary-coloured cart n' all its lil fitments.

Da Rat saw what tha fuck was passin up in his crazy-ass mind, n' wavered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude hated disappointin people, n' da thug was fond of tha Mole, n' would do almost anythang ta oblige his muthafuckin ass. Toad was watchin both of dem closely.

‘Come along in, n' have some lunch,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, diplomatically, ‘and we’ll rap it over n' shit. We needn’t decizzle anythang up in a hurry. Of course, I don’t straight-up care. I only wanna give pleasure ta you fellows. "Live fo' others!" That’s mah motto up in tha game.’

Durin luncheon-which was pimpin, of course, as every last muthafuckin thang at Toad Hall always was-the Toad simply let his dirty ass go. Disregardin tha Rat, he proceeded ta play upon tha inexperienced Mole as on a harp. Naturally a voluble animal, n' always mastered by his crazy-ass muthafuckin imagination, he painted tha prospectz of tha trip n' tha joyz of tha open game n' tha roadside up in such glowin colours dat tha Mole could hardly sit up in his chair fo' excitement. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somehow, it soon seemed taken fo' granted by all three of dem dat tha trip was a settled thang; n' tha Rat, though still unconvinced up in his crazy-ass mind, allowed his wild lil' freakadelic good-nature ta over-ride his thugged-out lil' underground objections yo. Dude could not bear ta disappoint his cold-ass two playas, whoz ass was already deep up in schemes n' anticipations, plannin up each day’s separate occupation fo' nuff muthafuckin weeks ahead.

When they was like ready, tha now triumphant Toad hustled his companions ta tha paddock n' set dem ta capture tha oldschool grey horse, who, without havin been consulted, n' ta his own off tha hook annoyance, had been holla'd at off by Toad fo' tha dustiest thang up in dis dusty expedition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude frankly preferred tha paddock, n' took a thugged-out deal of catching. Meantime Toad packed tha lockers still tighta wit necessaries, n' hung nosebags, netz of onions, bundlez of hay, n' baskets from tha bottom of tha cart fo' realz. At last tha cow was caught n' harnessed, n' they set off, all poppin' off at once, each animal either trudgin by tha side of tha cart or chillin on tha shaft, as tha humour took his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was a golden afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da smell of tha dust they kicked up was rich n' satisfying; outta thick orchardz on either side tha road, birdz called n' whistled ta dem cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passin them, gave dem ‘Good-day,’ or stopped ta say sick thangs bout they dope cart; n' rabbits, chillin at they front doors up in tha hedgerows, held up they fore-paws, n' holla'd, ‘O mah dawwwwg! O mah dawwwwg! O my!’

Late up in tha evening, chillaxed n' aiiight n' milez from home, they drew up on a remote common far from habitations, turned tha cow loose ta graze, n' ate they simple supper chillin on tha grass by tha side of tha cart. Toad talked big-ass bout all da thug was goin ta do up in tha minutes ta come, while stars grew fulla n' larger all round them, n' a yellow moon, appearin suddenly n' silently from nowhere up in particular, came ta keep dem company n' dig they rap fo' realz. At last they turned up in ta they lil bunks up in tha cart; n' Toad, kickin up his fuckin legs, chillily holla'd, ‘Well, phat night, you fellows muthafucka! This is tha real game fo' a gentleman! Talk bout yo' oldschool river!’

‘I DON’T rap bout mah river,’ replied tha patient Rat. ‘Yo ass KNOW I don’t, Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But I THINK bout it,’ he added pathetically, up in a lower tone: ‘I be thinkin bout it-all tha time!’

Da Mole reached up from under his blanket, felt fo' tha Rat’s paw up in tha darkness, n' gave it a squeeze. ‘I’ll do whatever you like, Ratty,’ da thug whispered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Shall we run away to-morrow morning, like early-VERY early-and go back ta our dear oldschool hole on tha river?’

‘Fuck dat shit, no, we’ll peep it out,’ whispered back tha Rat. ‘Thanks awfully yo, but I ought ta stick by Toad till dis trip is ended. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it wouldn’t be safe fo' his ass ta be left ta his dirty ass. Well shiiiit, it won’t take straight-up long yo. His fadz never do. Dope night!’

Da end was indeed nearer than even tha Rat suspected.

Afta so much open air n' excitement tha Toad slept straight-up soundly, n' no amount of bobbin could rouse his ass outta bed next morning. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So tha Mole n' Rat turned to, on tha fuckin' down-lowly n' manfully, n' while tha Rat saw ta tha horse, n' lit a gangbangin' fire, n' cleaned last night’s cups n' platters, n' gots thangs locked n loaded fo' breakfast, tha Mole trudged off ta tha nearest village, a long-ass way off, fo' gin n juice n' eggs n' various necessaries tha Toad had, of course, forgotten ta provide. Da mad bullshit had all been done, n' tha two muthafuckas was resting, thoroughly exhausted, by tha time Toad rocked up on tha scene, fresh n' gay, remarkin what tha fuck a pleasant easy as fuck  game dat shiznit was they was all leadin now, afta tha cares n' worries n' fatiguez of housekeepin at home.

They had a pleasant ramble dat dizzle over grassy downs n' along narrow by-lanes, n' camped as before, on a cold-ass lil common, only dis time tha two guests took care dat Toad should do his wild lil' fair share of work. In consequence, when tha time came fo' startin next morning, Toad was by no means so rapturous bout tha simplicitizzle of tha primitizzle game, n' indeed attempted ta resume his thugged-out lil' place up in his bunk, whence da thug was hauled by force. Their way lay, as before, across ghetto by narrow lanes, n' dat shiznit was not till tha afternoon dat they came up on tha high-road, they first high-road; n' there fuck up, fleet n' unforeseen, sprang up on them-disasta momentous indeed ta they expedizzle yo, but simply overwhelmin up in its effect on tha after-career of Toad.

They was strollin along tha high-road easily, tha Mole by tha horse’s head, poppin' off ta him, since tha cow had complained dat da thug was bein frightfully left outta it, n' no muthafucka considered his ass up in tha least; tha Toad n' tha Wata Rat struttin behind tha cart poppin' off together-at least Toad was rappin', n' Rat was sayin at intervals, ‘Yes, precisely; n' what tha fuck did YOU say ta HIM?’-and thankin all tha time of suttin' straight-up different, when far behind dem they heard a gangbangin' faint warnin hum; like tha drone of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distant bee. Glancin back, they saw a lil' small-ass cloud of dust, wit a thugged-out dark centre of juice, advancin on dem at incredible speed, while from up tha dust a gangbangin' faint ‘Poop-poop!’ wailed like a uneasy animal up in pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Hardly regardin it, they turned ta resume they conversation, when up in a instant (as it seemed) tha laid back scene was chizzled, n' wit a funky-ass blast of wind n' a whirl of sound dat made dem jump fo' tha nearest ditch, Dat shiznit was on them! Da ‘Poop-poop’ rang wit a funky-ass brazen shout up in they ears, they had a moment’s glimpse of a interior of glitterin plate-glass n' rich morocco, n' tha magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, wit its pilot tense n' huggin his wheel, possessed all earth n' air fo' tha fraction of a second, flung a envelopin cloud of dust dat blinded n' enwrapped dem utterly, n' then dwindled ta a speck up in tha far distance, chizzled back tha fuck into a thugged-out dronin bee once more.

Da oldschool grey horse, trippin, as he plodded along, of his on tha down-low paddock, up in a freshly smoked up raw thang like fuckin dis simply abandoned his dirty ass ta his natural emotions. Rearing, plunging, backin steadily, up in spite of all tha Mole’s efforts at his head, n' all tha Mole’s lively language pimped up at his betta vibe, da ruffneck drove tha cart backwardz towardz tha deep ditch all up in tha side of tha road. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it wavered a instant-then there was a heartrendin crash-and tha canary-coloured cart, they pride n' they joy, lay on its side up in tha ditch, a irredeemable wreck.

Da Rat danced up n' down up in tha road, simply transported wit passion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Yo ass villains!’ da perved-out muthafucka shouted, bobbin both fists, ‘Yo ass scoundrels, you highwaymen, you-you-roadhogs!-I’ll have tha law of you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? I’ll report you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? I’ll take you all up in all tha Courts!’ His home-sicknizz had like slipped away from him, n' fo' tha moment da thug was tha skipper of tha canary-coloured vessel driven on a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shoal by tha reckless jockeyin of rival mariners, n' da thug was tryin ta recollect all tha fine n' bitin thangs he used ta say ta mastaz of steam-launches when they wash, as they drove too near tha bank, used ta flood his thugged-out lil' parlour-carpet at home.

Toad sat straight down up in tha middle of tha dusty road, his hairy-ass legs stretched up before him, n' stared fixedly up in tha direction of tha disappearin motor-car yo. Dude breathed short, his wild lil' grill wore a placid satisfied expression, n' at intervals he faintly murmured ‘Poop-poop!’

Da Mole was busy as a muthafucka tryin ta on tha down-low tha horse, which da perved-out muthafucka succeeded up in bustin afta a time. Then da thug went ta peep tha cart, on its side up in tha ditch. Dat shiznit was indeed a sorry sight. Panels n' windows smashed, axlez hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over tha wide ghetto, n' tha bird up in tha bird-cage sobbin pitifully n' callin ta be let out.

Da Rat came ta help his ass yo, but they united efforts was not sufficient ta right tha cart. ‘Hi! Toad!’ they cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Come n' bear a hand, can’t you, nahmean biiiatch?’

Da Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat up in tha road; so they went ta peep what tha fuck was tha matta wit his muthafuckin ass. They found his ass up in a sort of a trance, a aiiight smile on his wild lil' face, his wild lil' fuckin eyes still fixed on tha dusty wake of they destroyer n' shiznit fo' realz. At intervals da thug was still heard ta murmur ‘Poop-poop!’

Da Rat shook his ass by tha shoulder n' shit. ‘Is you comin ta help us, Toad?’ da ruffneck demanded sternly.

‘Glorious, stirrin sight!’ murmured Toad, never offerin ta move. ‘Da poetry of motion! Da REAL way ta travel! Da ONLY way ta travel! Here to-day-in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns n' ghettos jumped-always some muthafucka else’s horizon! O bliss muthafucka! O poop-poop! O mah dawwwwg! O my!’

‘O STOP bein a ass, Toad!’ cried tha Mole despairingly.

‘And ta be thinkin I never KNEW!’ went on tha Toad up in a thugged-out dreamy monotone. ‘All dem wasted muthafuckin years dat lie behind me, I never knew, never even DREAMT! But NOW-but now dat I know, now dat I straight-up realise biaaatch! O what tha fuck a gangbangin' flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! What dust-cloudz shall sprang up behind mah crazy ass as I speed on mah reckless way dawwwwg! What carts I shall flin carelessly tha fuck into tha ditch up in tha wake of mah magnificent onset son! Horrid lil carts-common carts-canary-coloured carts!’

‘What is we ta do wit him?’ axed tha Mole of tha Wata Rat.

‘Nothang at all,’ replied tha Rat firmly. ‘Because there is straight-up not a god damn thang ta be done. Yo ass see, I know his ass from of old. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude is now possessed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude has gots a freshly smoked up craze, n' it always takes his ass dat way, up in its first stage yo. He’ll continue like dat fo' minutes now, like a animal struttin up in a aiiight dream, like useless fo' all practical purposes. Never mind his muthafuckin ass. Let’s go n' peep what tha fuck there is ta be done bout tha cart.’

A careful inspection flossed dem that, even if they succeeded up in rightin it by theyselves, tha cart would travel no longer n' shit. Da axlez was up in a hopeless state, n' tha missin wheel was shattered tha fuck into pieces.

Da Rat knotted tha horse’s reins over his back n' took his ass by tha head, carryin tha bird cage n' its hysterical occupant up in tha other hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Come on!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd grimly ta tha Mole. ‘It’s five or six milez ta tha nearest town, n' we shall just gotta strutt dat shit. Da sooner we cook up a start tha better.’

‘But what tha fuck bout Toad?’ axed tha Mole anxiously, as they set off together n' shit. ‘We can’t leave his ass here, chillin up in tha middle of tha road by his dirty ass, up in tha distracted state he’s in! It’s not safe. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Supposin another Thin was ta come along?’

‘O, BOTHER Toad,’ holla'd tha Rat savagely; ‘I’ve done wit him!’

They had not proceeded straight-up far on they way, however, when there was a patterin of feet behind them, n' Toad caught dem up n' thrust a paw inside tha elbow of each of them; still breathang short n' starin tha fuck into vacancy.

‘Now, look here, Toad!’ holla'd tha Rat sharply: ‘as soon as we git ta tha town, you’ll gotta go straight ta tha police-station, n' peep if they know anythang bout dat motor-car n' whoz ass it belongs to, n' lodge a cold-ass lil complaint against it fo' realz. And then you’ll gotta git all up in a funky-ass blacksmith’s or a wheelwright’s n' arrange fo' tha cart ta be fetched n' mended n' put ta rights, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. It’ll take time yo, but it’s not like a hopeless smash. Meanwhile, tha Mole n' I'ma git all up in a inn n' find laid back rooms where we can stay till tha cart’s ready, n' till yo' nerves have recovered they shock.’

‘Police-station! Complaint!’ murmured Toad dreamily. ‘Me COMPLAIN of dat dope, dat heavenly vision dat has been vouchsafed mah crazy ass biaaatch! MEND THE CART! I’ve done wit carts fo' eva n' shit. I never wanna peep tha cart, or ta hear of it, again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. O, Ratty dawwwwg! Yo ass can’t be thinkin how tha fuck obliged I be ta you fo' consentin ta come on dis trip! I wouldn’t have gone without you, n' then I might never have peeped that-that swan, dat sunbeam, dat thunderbolt son! I might never have heard dat entrancin sound, or smelt dat bewitchin smell! I owe all dat shiznit ta you, mah dopest of playas!’

Da Rat turned from his ass up in despair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘Yo ass peep what tha fuck it is?’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta tha Mole, addressin his ass across Toad’s head: ‘He’s like hopeless. I give it up-when we git ta tha hood we’ll git all up in tha railway station, n' wit luck we may pick up a train there that’ll git our asses back ta riverbank to-night fo' realz. And if eva you catch me goin a-pleasurin wit dis provokin animal again!’-Dude snorted, n' durin tha rest of dat weary trudge addressed his bangin remarks exclusively ta Mole.

On reachin tha hood they went straight ta tha station n' deposited Toad up in tha second-class waiting-room, givin a porta twopence ta keep a strict eye on his muthafuckin ass. They then left tha cow at a inn stable, n' gave what tha fuck directions they could bout tha cart n' its contents, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Eventually, a slow train havin landed dem at a station not straight-up far from Toad Hall, they escorted tha spell-bound, chill-walkin Toad ta his fuckin lil' door, put his ass inside it, n' instructed his housekeeper ta feed him, undress him, n' put his ass ta bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then they gots up they boat from tha boat-house, sculled down tha river home, n' at a straight-up late minute sat down ta supper up in they own cosy riverside parlour, ta tha Rat’s pimped out joy n' contentment.

Da followin evenin tha Mole, whoz ass had risen late n' taken thangs straight-up easy as fuck  all day, was chillin on tha bank fishing, when tha Rat, whoz ass had been lookin up his wild lil' playaz n' ghetto hypeing, came strollin along ta find his muthafuckin ass. ‘Heard tha news?’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘There’s not a god damn thang else bein talked about, all along tha river bank. Toad went up ta Hood by a early train dis mornin fo' realz. And dat schmoooove muthafucka has ordered a big-ass n' straight-up high-rollin' motor-car.’

III. THE WILD WOOD Da Mole had long wanted ta make tha acquaintizzle of tha Badger n' shiznit yo. Dude seemed, by all accounts, ta be such a blingin personage and, though rarely visible, ta make his unseen influence felt by dem hoes bout tha place. But whenever tha Mole mentioned his wish ta tha Wata Rat he always found his dirty ass put off. ‘It’s all right,’ tha Rat would say. ‘Badger’ll turn up some dizzle or other-he’s always turnin up-and then I’ll introduce you, biatch. Da dopest of fellows muthafucka! But you must not only take his ass AS you find his ass yo, but WHEN you find his muthafuckin ass.’

‘Couldn’t you ask his ass here dinner or something?’ holla'd tha Mole.

‘Dude wouldn’t come,’ replied tha Rat simply. ‘Badger hates Society, n' invitations, n' dinner, n' all dat sort of thang.’

‘Well, then, supposin we go n' call on HIM?’ suggested tha Mole.

‘O, I’m shizzle da thug wouldn’t like dat at ALL,’ holla'd tha Rat, like alarmed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘He’s so straight-up shy, he’d be shizzle ta be offended. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’ve never even ventured ta booty-call on his ass at his own home mah dirty ass, though I know his ass so well. Besides, we can’t. It’s like outta tha question, cuz he lives up in tha straight-up middle of tha Wild Wood.’

‘Well, supposin da ruffneck do,’ holla'd tha Mole. ‘Yo ass holla'd at mah crazy ass tha Wild Wood was all right, you know.’

‘O, I know, I know, so it is,’ replied tha Rat evasively. ‘But I be thinkin we won’t go there just now, nahmeean, biatch? Not JUST yet. It’s a long-ass way, n' da thug wouldn’t be up in da crib at dis time of year anyhow, n' he’ll be comin along some day, if you’ll wait on tha fuckin' down-lowly.’

Da Mole had ta be content wit all dis bullshit. But tha Badger never came along, n' every last muthafuckin dizzle brought its amusements, n' dat shiznit was not till summer was long over, n' cold n' frost n' miry ways kept dem much indoors, n' tha swollen river raced past outside they windows wit a speed dat mocked at boatin of any sort or kind, dat he found his cold-ass thoughts dwellin again n' again n' again wit much persistence on tha solitary grey Badger, whoz ass lived his own game by his dirty ass, up in his hole up in tha middle of tha Wild Wood.

In tha winta time tha Rat slept a pimped out deal, retirin early n' risin late. Durin his short dizzle da perved-out muthafucka sometimes scribbled poetry or did other lil' small-ass domestic thangs bout tha house; and, of course, there was always muthafuckas droppin up in fo' a cold-ass lil chat, n' consequently there was a phat deal of story-tellin n' comparin notes on tha past summer n' all its bustins.

Such a rich chapta it had been, when one came ta look back on it all! With illustrations so a shitload of n' so straight-up highly coloured hommie! Da pageant of tha river bank had marched steadily along, unfoldin itself up in scene-pictures dat succeeded each other up in stately procession. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Purple loosestrife arrived early, bobbin luxuriant tangled locks along tha edge of tha mirror whence its own grill laughed back at dat shit. Willow-herb, tender n' wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow ta follow. Comfrey, tha purple hand-in-hand wit tha white, crept forth ta take its place up in tha line; n' at last one mornin tha diffident n' delayin dog-rose stepped delicately on tha stage, n' one knew, as if string-noize had announced it up in stately chordz dat strayed tha fuck into a gavotte, dat June at last was here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. One gangmember of tha company was still awaited; tha shepherd-boy fo' tha nymphs ta woo, tha knight fo' whom tha ladies waited all up in tha window, tha pimp dat was ta lick tha chillin summer back ta game n' love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair n' odorous up in amber jerkin, moved graciously ta his thugged-out lil' place up in tha group, then tha play was locked n loaded ta begin.

And what tha fuck a play it had been! Drowsy muthafuckas, snug up in they holez while wind n' drizzle was batterin at they doors, recalled still keen mornings, a minute before sunrise, when tha white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along tha surface of tha water; then tha shock of tha early plunge, tha scamper along tha bank, n' tha radiant transformation of earth, air, n' water, when suddenly tha sun was wit dem again, n' grey was gold n' colour started doin thangs n' sprang outta tha earth once mo' n' mo' n' mo'. They recalled tha languorous siesta of bangin' mid-day, deep up in chronic undergrowth, tha sun strikin all up in in tiny golden shafts n' spots; tha boatin n' bathang of tha afternoon, tha ramblez along dusty lanes n' all up in yellow cornfields; n' tha long, def evenin at last, when all kindsa muthafuckin threadz was gathered up, all kindsa muthafuckin thangs rounded, n' all kindsa muthafuckin adventures planned fo' tha morrow. There was fuckloadz ta rap bout on dem short winta minutes when tha muthafuckas found theyselves round tha fire; still, tha Mole had a phat deal of spare time on his hands, n' so one afternoon, when tha Rat up in his thugged-out arm-chair before tha blaze was alternately dozin n' tryin over rhymes dat wouldn’t fit, he formed tha resolution ta go up by his dirty ass n' explore tha Wild Wood, n' like strike up a acquaintizzle wit Mista Muthafuckin Badger.

Dat shiznit was a cold-ass lil cold still afternoon wit a hard steely sky overhead, when da perved-out muthafucka slipped outta tha warm parlour tha fuck into tha open air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da ghetto lay bare n' entirely leafless round him, n' tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had never peeped so far n' so intimately tha fuck into tha insidez of thangs as on dat winta dizzle when Nature was deep up in her annual slumber n' seemed ta have kicked tha threadz off. Copses, dells, quarries n' all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines fo' exploration up in leafy summer, now exposed theyselves n' they secrets pathetically, n' seemed ta ask his ass ta overlook they shabby poverty fo' a while, till they could riot up in rich masquerade as before, n' trick n' entice his ass wit tha oldschool deceptions. Dat shiznit was pitiful up in a way, n' yet cheering-even exhilaratin yo. Dude was glad dat he was horny bout tha ghetto undecorated, hard, n' stripped of its finery yo. Dude had gots down ta tha bare bonez of it, n' they was fine n' phat n' simple yo. Dude did not want tha warm clover n' tha play of seedin grasses; tha screenz of quickset, tha billowy drapery of beech n' elm seemed dopest away; n' wit pimped out cheerfulnizz of spirit he pushed on towardz tha Wild Wood, which lay before his ass low n' threatening, like a funky-ass black reef up in some still southern sea.

There was not a god damn thang ta alarm his ass at first entry. Twigs crackled under his wild lil' feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, n' startled his ass fo' tha moment by they likenizz ta suttin' familiar n' far away; but dat was all fun, n' bangin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it hustled his ass on, n' he penetrated ta where tha light was less, n' trees crouched nearer n' nearer, n' holez made skanky grills at his ass on either side.

Everythang was straight-up still now, nahmeean, biatch? Da dusk advanced on his ass steadily, rapidly, gatherin up in behind n' before; n' tha light seemed ta be drainin away like flood-water.

Then tha faces fuckin started.

Dat shiznit was over his shoulder, n' indistinctly, dat he first thought da perved-out muthafucka saw a gangbangin' face; a lil evil wedge-shaped face, lookin up at his ass from a hole. When tha pimpin' muthafucka turned n' confronted it, tha thang had vanished.

Dude quickened his thugged-out lil' pace, spittin some lyrics ta his dirty ass cheerfully not ta begin imaginin thangs, or there would be simply no end ta it yo. Dude passed another hole, n' another, n' another; n' then-yes!-no!-yes muthafucka! certainly a lil narrow face, wit hard eyes, had flashed up fo' a instant from a hole, n' was gone yo. Dude hesitated-braced his dirty ass up fo' a effort n' strode on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then suddenly, n' as if it had been so all tha time, every last muthafuckin hole, far n' near, n' there was hundredz of them, seemed ta possess its face, comin n' goin rapidly, all fixin on his ass glancez of malice n' hatred: all hard-eyed n' evil n' sharp.

If his schmoooove ass could only git away from tha holez up in tha banks, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, there would be no mo' faces yo. Dude swung off tha path n' plunged tha fuck into tha untrodden placez of tha wood.

Then tha whistlin fuckin started.

Straight-up faint n' shrill it was, n' far behind him, when first dat schmoooove muthafucka heard it; but somehow it made his ass hurry forward. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then, still straight-up faint n' shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, n' made his ass hesitate n' wanna go back fo' realz. As dat schmoooove muthafucka halted up in indecision it broke up on either side, n' seemed ta be caught up n' passed on all up in tha whole length of tha wood ta its farthest limit. They was up n' alert n' ready, evidently, whoever they was biaaatch! And he-he was alone, n' unarmed, n' far from any help; n' tha night was closin in.

Then tha patterin fuckin started.

Dude thought dat shiznit was only fallin leaves at first, so slight n' delicate was tha sound of dat shit. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, n' he knew it fo' not a god damn thang else but tha pat-pat-pat of lil feet still a straight-up long way off. Was it up in front or behind, biatch? It seemed ta be first one, n' then tha other, then both. Well shiiiit, it grew n' it multiplied, till from every last muthafuckin quarta as he listened anxiously, leanin dis way n' that, it seemed ta be closin up in on his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. As da perved-out muthafucka stood still ta hearken, a rabbit came hustlin hard towardz his ass all up in tha trees yo. Dude waited, expectin it ta slacken pace, or ta swerve from his ass tha fuck into a gangbangin' finger-lickin' different course. Instead, tha animal almost brushed his ass as it dashed past, his wild lil' grill set n' hard, his wild lil' fuckin eyes staring. ‘Git outta this, you fool, git out!’ tha Mole heard his ass mutta as da perved-out muthafucka swung round a stump n' disappeared down a gangbangin' thugged-out burrow.

Da patterin increased till it sounded like sudden hail on tha dry leaf-carpet spread round his muthafuckin ass. Da whole wood seemed hustlin now, hustlin hard, hunting, chasing, closin up in round suttin' or-somebody, biatch? In panic, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither n' shiznit yo. Dude ran up against thangs, he fell tha fuck over thangs n' tha fuck into thangs, da ruffneck darted under thangs n' dodged round thangs fo' realz. At last tha pimpin' muthafucka took refuge up in tha deep dark hollow of a oldschool beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment-like even safety yo, but whoz ass could tell, biatch? Anyhow, da thug was too chillaxed ta run any further, n' could only snuggle down tha fuck into tha dry leaves which had drifted tha fuck into tha hollow n' hope da thug was safe fo' a time fo' realz. And as he lay there pantin n' trembling, n' listened ta tha whistlings n' tha patterings outside, he knew it at last, up in all its fullness, dat dread thang which other lil dwellaz up in field n' hedgerow had encountered here, n' known as they darkest moment-that thang which tha Rat had vainly tried ta shield his ass from-the Terror of tha Wild Wood!

Meantime tha Rat, warm n' comfortable, dozed by his wild lil' fireside yo. His paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell tha fuck back, his crazy-ass grill opened, n' da thug wandered by tha verdant bankz of dream-rivers. Then a cold-ass lil coal slipped, tha fire crackled n' busted up a spurt of flame, n' da thug woke wit a start. Rememberin what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had been engaged upon, he reached down ta tha floor fo' his verses, pored over dem fo' a minute, n' then looked round fo' tha Mole ta ask his ass if he knew a phat rhyme fo' suttin' or other.

But tha Mole was not there.

Dude listened fo' a time. Da doggy den seemed straight-up on tha fuckin' down-low.

Then his schmoooove ass called ‘Moly!’ nuff muthafuckin times, and, receivin no answer, gots up n' went up tha fuck into tha hall.

Da Mole’s cap was missin from its accustomed peg yo. His goloshes, which always lay by tha umbrella-stand, was also gone.

Da Rat left tha house, n' carefully examined tha muddy surface of tha ground outside, hopin ta find tha Mole’s tracks. There they were, shizzle enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da goloshes was new, just looted fo' tha winter, n' tha pimplez on they solez was fresh n' sharp yo. Dude could peep tha imprintz of dem up in tha mud, hustlin along straight n' purposeful, leadin direct ta tha Wild Wood.

Da Rat looked straight-up grave, n' stood up in deep thought fo' a minute or two. Then he re-entered tha house, strapped a funky-ass belt round his waist, shoved a funky-ass brace of pistols tha fuck into it, took up a stout cudgel dat stood up in a cold-ass lil corner of tha hall, n' set off fo' tha Wild Wood at a smart-ass pace.

Dat shiznit was already gettin towardz dusk when he reached tha straight-up original gangsta fringe of trees n' plunged without hesitation tha fuck into tha wood, lookin anxiously on either side fo' any sign of his wild lil' playa yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin' yo. Here n' there wicked lil faces popped outta holez yo, but vanished immediately at sight of tha valorous animal, his thugged-out lil' pistols, n' tha pimped out skanky cudgel up in his wild lil' freakadelic grasp; n' tha whistlin n' pattering, which dat schmoooove muthafucka had heard like plainly on his wild lil' first entry, took a dirt nap away n' ceased, n' all was straight-up still yo. Dude made his way manfully all up in tha length of tha wood, ta its furthest edge; then, forsakin all paths, da perved-out muthafucka set his dirty ass ta traverse it, laboriously hustlin over tha whole ground, n' all tha time callin up cheerfully, ‘Moly, Moly, Moly dawwwwg! Where is yo slick ass, biatch? It’s me-it’s oldschool Rat!’

Dude had patiently hunted all up in tha wood fo' a minute or more, when at last ta his joy dat schmoooove muthafucka heard a lil answerin cry like a muthafucka. Guidin his dirty ass by tha sound, he made his way all up in tha gatherin darknizz ta tha foot of a oldschool beech tree, wit a hole up in it, n' from outta tha hole came a gangbangin' feeble voice, sayin ‘Ratty dawwwwg! Is dat straight-up yo slick ass?’

Da Rat crept tha fuck into tha hollow, n' there he found tha Mole, exhausted n' still trembling. ‘O Rat!’ his schmoooove ass cried, ‘I’ve been so frightened, you can’t think!’

‘O, I wanna bust a nut on understand,’ holla'd tha Rat soothingly. ‘Yo ass shouldn’t straight-up have gone n' done it, Mole. I did mah dopest ta keep you from dat shit. We river-bankers, our crazy asses hardly eva come here by ourselves. If we gotta come, we come up in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right. Besides, there be a hundred thangs one has ta know, which we KNOW all bout n' you don’t, as yet. I mean passwords, n' signs, n' sayings which have juice n' effect, n' plants you carry up in yo' pocket, n' verses you repeat, n' dodges n' tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know dem yo, but they’ve gots ta be known if you’re small, or you’ll find yo ass up in shit. Of course if you was Badger or Otter, it would be like another matter.’

‘Surely tha brave Mista Muthafuckin Toad wouldn’t mind comin here by his dirty ass, would he?’ inquired tha Mole.

‘Oldskool Toad?’ holla'd tha Rat, bustin up heartily. ‘Dude wouldn’t show his wild lil' grill here alone, not fo' a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn’t.’

Da Mole was pimped outly hollared by tha sound of tha Rat’s careless laughter, as well as by tha sight of his stick n' his wild lil' freakadelic gleamin pistols, n' da perved-out muthafucka stopped shiverin n' fuckin started ta feel bolda n' mo' his dirty ass again.

‘Now then,’ holla'd tha Rat presently, ‘we straight-up must pull ourselves together n' cook up a start fo' home while there’s still a lil light left. Well shiiiit, it aint NEVER gonna do ta spend tha night here, you understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Too cold, fo' one thang.’

‘Dear Ratty,’ holla'd tha skanky Mole, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry yo, but I’m simply dead beat n' that’s a solid fact. Yo ass MUST let me rest here a while longer, n' git mah strength back, if I’m ta git home at all.’

‘O, all right,’ holla'd tha good-natured Rat, ‘rest away. It’s pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; n' there ought ta be a lil' bit of a moon later.’

So tha Mole gots well tha fuck into tha dry leaves n' stretched his dirty ass out, n' presently dropped off tha fuck into chill, though of a gangbangin' fucked up n' shitd sort; while tha Rat covered his dirty ass up, too, as dopest he might, fo' warmth, n' lay patiently waiting, wit a pistol up in his thugged-out lil' paw.

When at last tha Mole woke up, much refreshed n' up in his usual spirits, tha Rat holla'd, ‘Now then! I’ll just take a look outside n' peep if every last muthafuckin thang’s on tha fuckin' down-low, n' then we straight-up must be off.’

Dude went ta tha entrizzle of they retreat n' put his head out. Then tha Mole heard his ass sayin on tha fuckin' down-lowly ta his dirty ass, ‘Hullo! hullo! here-is-a-go!’

‘What’s up, Ratty?’ axed tha Mole.

‘SNOW is up,’ replied tha Rat briefly; ‘or rather, DOWN. It’s snowin hard.’

Da Mole came n' crouched beside him, and, lookin out, saw tha wood dat had been so dreadful ta his ass up in like a cold-ass lil chizzled aspect yo. Holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, n' other black menaces ta tha wayfarer was vanishin fast, n' a gleamin carpet of faery was springin up everywhere, dat looked too delicate ta be trodden upon by rough Nikes fo' realz. A fine powder filled tha air n' caressed tha cheek wit a tingle up in its touch, n' tha black bolez of tha trees flossed up in a light dat seemed ta come from below.

‘Well, well, it can’t be helped,’ holla'd tha Rat, afta pondering. ‘We must cook up a start, n' take our chance, I suppose. Da most shitty of it is, I don’t exactly know where we is fo' realz. And now dis snow make every last muthafuckin thang look so straight-up different.’

It did indeed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da Mole would not have known dat dat shiznit was tha same ol' dirty wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat they set up bravely, n' took tha line dat seemed most promising, holdin on ta each other n' pretendin wit invincible cheerfulnizz dat they recognized a oldschool playa up in every last muthafuckin fresh tree dat grimly n' silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths wit a gangbangin' familiar turn up in them, up in tha monotony of white space n' black tree-trunks dat refused ta vary.

An minute or two later-they had lost all count of time-they pulled up, dispirited, weary, n' hopelessly at sea, n' sat down on a gangbangin' fallen tree-trunk ta recover they breath n' consider what tha fuck was ta be done. They was achin wit fatigue n' bruised wit tumbles; they had fallen tha fuck into nuff muthafuckin holez n' gots wet through; tha snow was gettin so deep dat they could hardly drag they lil hairy-ass legs all up in it, n' tha trees was thicker n' mo' like each other than eva n' shit. There seemed ta be no end ta dis wood, n' no beginning, n' no difference up in it, and, most shitty of all, no way out.

‘We can’t sit here straight-up long,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘We shall gotta make another push fo' it, n' do suttin' or other n' shit. Da cold is too wack fo' anything, n' tha snow will soon be too deep fo' our asses ta wade through.’ Dude peered bout his ass n' considered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Look here,’ da thug went on, ‘this is what tha fuck occurs ta mah dirty ass. There’s a sort of dell down here up in front of us, where tha ground seems all hilly n' humpy n' hummocky. We’ll make our way down tha fuck into that, n' try n' find some sort of shelter, a cold-ass lil cave or hole wit a thugged-out dry floor ta it, outta tha snow n' tha wind, n' there we’ll gotz a phat rest before we try again, fo' we’re both of our asses pretty dead beat. Besides, tha snow may leave off, or suttin' may turn up.’

So once mo' they gots on they feet, n' struggled down tha fuck into tha dell, where they hunted bout fo' a cold-ass lil cave or some corner dat was dry n' a protection from tha keen wind n' tha whirlin snow. They was investigatin one of tha hummocky bits tha Rat had spoken of, when suddenly tha Mole tripped up n' fell tha fuck forward on his wild lil' grill wit a squeal.

‘O mah leg!’ his schmoooove ass cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘O mah skanky shin!’ n' da perved-out muthafucka sat up on tha snow n' nursed his fuckin leg up in both his wild lil' front paws.

‘Skanky oldschool Mole!’ holla'd tha Rat kindly.

‘Yo ass don’t seem ta be havin much luck to-day, do yo slick ass, biatch? Let’s gotz a peep tha leg. Yes,’ da thug went on, goin down on his knees ta look, ‘you’ve cut yo' shin, shizzle enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Wait till I git at mah handkerchizzle, n' I’ll tie it up fo' you, biatch.’

‘I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,’ holla'd tha Mole miserably. ‘O, mah dawwwwg! O, my!’

‘It’s a straight-up clean cut,’ holla'd tha Rat, examinin it again n' again n' again attentively. ‘That was never done by a funky-ass branch or a stump. Looks as if dat shiznit was made by a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass sharp edge of suttin' up in metal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Funny!’ Dude pondered awhile, n' examined tha humps n' slopes dat surrounded dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

‘Well, never mind what tha fuck done it,’ holla'd tha Mole, forgettin his wild lil' freakadelic grammar up in his thugged-out lil' pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘It hurts just tha same, whatever done dat shit.’

But tha Rat, afta carefully tyin up tha leg wit his handkerchizzle, had left his ass n' was busy as a muthafucka scrapin up in tha snow yo. Dude scratched n' shovelled n' explored, all four hairy-ass legs hustlin busily, while tha Mole waited impatiently, remarkin at intervals, ‘O, COME on, Rat!’

Suddenly tha Rat cried ‘Hooray!’ n' then ‘Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!’ n' fell tha fuck ta executin a gangbangin' feeble jig up in tha snow.

‘What HAVE you found, Ratty?’ axed tha Mole, still nursin his fuckin leg.

‘Come n' see!’ holla'd tha delighted Rat, as he jigged on.

Da Mole hobbled up ta tha spot n' had a phat look.

‘Well,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd at last, slowly, ‘I SEE it right enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seen tha same sort of thang before, fuckin shitloadz of times. Familiar object, I call it fo' realz. A door-scraper playa! Well, what tha fuck of it, biatch? Why dizzle jigs round a thugged-out door-scraper?’

‘But don’t you peep what tha fuck it MEANS, you-you dull-witted animal?’ cried tha Rat impatiently.

‘Of course I peep what tha fuck it means,’ replied tha Mole. ‘It simply means dat some VERY careless n' forgetful thug has left his fuckin lil' door-scraper lyin bout up in tha middle of tha Wild Wood, JUST where it’s SURE ta trip EVERYBODY up. Straight-up thoughtless of him, I call dat shit. When I git home I shall go n' diss bout it to-to some muthafucka or other, peep if I don’t!’

‘O, dear playa! O, dear!’ cried tha Rat, up in despair at his obtuseness. ‘Here, stop jumpin off bout some shiznit n' come n' scrape!’ And da perved-out muthafucka set ta work again n' again n' again n' made tha snow fly up in all directions round his muthafuckin ass.

Afta some further toil his wild lil' fuckin efforts was rewarded, n' a straight-up shabby door-mat lay exposed ta view.

‘There, what tha fuck did I tell yo slick ass?’ exclaimed tha Rat up in pimped out triumph.

‘Absolutely not a god damn thang whatever,’ replied tha Mole, wit slick truthfulness. ‘Well now,’ da thug went on, ‘you seem ta have found another piece of domestic litter, done fo' n' thrown away, n' I suppose you’re perfectly horny. Betta go ahead n' dizzle yo' jig round dat if you’ve gots to, n' git it over, n' then like we can go on n' not waste any mo' time over rubbish-heaps. Can we EAT a thugged-out doormat, biatch? or chill under a thugged-out door-mat, biatch? Or sit on a thugged-out door-mat n' sledge home over tha snow on it, you exasperatin rodent?’

‘Do-you-mean-to-say,’ cried tha buckwild Rat, ‘that dis door-mat don’t TELL you anything?’

‘Really, Rat,’ holla'd tha Mole, like pettishly, ‘I be thinkin we’d had enough of dis folly. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck eva heard of a thugged-out door-mat TELLING mah playas anything, biatch? They simply don’t do dat shit. They aint dat sort at all. Door-mats know they place.’

‘Now look here, you-you thick-headed beast,’ replied tha Rat, straight-up mad salty, ‘this must stop. Not another word yo, but scrape-scrape n' scratch n' dig n' hunt round, especially on tha sidez of tha hummocks, if you wanna chill dry n' warm to-night, fo' it’s our last chance!’

Da Rat beat down a snow-bank beside dem wit ardour, probin wit his cudgel everywhere n' then diggin wit fury; n' tha Mole scraped busily too, mo' ta oblige tha Rat than fo' any other reason, fo' his opinion was dat his wild lil' playa was gettin light-headed.

Some ten minutes’ hard work, n' tha deal wit tha Rat’s cudgel struck suttin' dat sounded hollow yo. Dude hit dat shiznit till his schmoooove ass could git a paw all up in n' feel; then called tha Mole ta come n' help his muthafuckin ass yo. Hard at it went tha two muthafuckas, till at last tha result of they labours stood full up in view of tha astonished n' hitherto incredulous Mole.

In tha side of what tha fuck had seemed ta be a snow-bank stood a solid-lookin lil door, painted a thugged-out dark green. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. An iron bell-pull hung by tha side, n' below it, on a lil' small-ass brass plate, neatly engraved up in square capital letters, they could read by tha aid of moonlight MR. BADGER.

Da Mole fell tha fuck backwardz on tha snow from sheer surprise n' delight. ‘Rat!’ his schmoooove ass cried up in penitence, ‘you’re a wonder playa! A real wonder, that’s what tha fuck yo ass is. I peep all dat shiznit now! Yo ass broke off some disrespec it out, step by step, up in dat wise head of yours, from tha straight-up moment dat I fell tha fuck n' cut mah shin, n' you looked all up in tha cut, n' at once yo' majestic mind holla'd ta itself, "Door-scraper!" And then you turned ta n' found tha straight-up door-scraper dat done dat shiznit son! Did yo dirty ass stop there, biatch? No. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some playas would done been like satisfied; but not you, biatch. Yo crazy-ass intellect went on working. "Let me only just find a thugged-out door-mat," say you ta yo ass, "and mah theory is proved!" And of course you found yo' door-mat. You’re so def, I believe you could find anythang you liked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Now," say you, "that door exists, as plain as if I saw dat shit. There’s not a god damn thang else remains ta be done but ta find dat shiznit son!" Well, I’ve read bout dat sort of thang up in books yo, but I’ve never come across it before up in real game. Yo ass ought ta go where you’ll be properly appreciated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. You’re simply wasted here, among our asses fellows. If I only had yo' head, Ratty--’

‘But as you haven’t,’ interrupted tha Rat, rather unkindly, ‘I suppose you’re goin ta sit on tha snow all night n' TALK, biatch? Git up at once n' hang on ta dat bell-pull you peep there, n' rang hard, as hard as you can, while I hammer!’

While tha Rat beat down tha door wit his stick, tha Mole sprang up all up in tha bell-pull, clutched it n' swung there, both feet well off tha ground, n' from like a long-ass way off they could faintly hear a thugged-out deep-toned bell respond.

IV. MR. BADGER THEY waited patiently fo' what tha fuck seemed a straight-up long time, stampin up in tha snow ta keep they feet warm fo' realz. At last they heard tha sound of slow shufflin footsteps approachin tha door from tha inside. Well shiiiit, it seemed, as tha Mole remarked ta tha Rat, like some one struttin up in carpet slippers dat was too big-ass fo' his ass n' down at heel; which was intelligent of Mole, cuz dat was exactly what tha fuck it was.

There was tha noise of a funky-ass bolt blasted back, n' tha door opened all dem inches, enough ta show a long-ass snout n' a pair of chilly blinkin eyes.

‘Now, tha VERY next time dis happens,’ holla'd a gruff n' suspicious voice, ‘I shall be exceedingly mad salty. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck is it THIS time, disturbin playas on such a night, biatch? Speak up!’

‘Oh, Badger,’ cried tha Rat, ‘let our asses in,. Biiiatch please.It’s me, Rat, n' mah playa Mole, n' we’ve lost our way up in tha snow.’

‘What, Ratty, mah dear lil man!’ exclaimed tha Badger, up in like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' different voice. ‘Come along in, both of you, at once. Why, you must be perished. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well I never playa! Lost up in tha snow! And up in tha Wild Wood, too, n' at dis time of night son! But come up in wit you, biatch.’

Da two muthafuckas tumbled over each other up in they eagernizz ta git inside, n' heard tha door shut behind dem wit pimped out joy n' relief.

Da Badger, whoz ass wore a long-ass dressing-gown, n' whose slippers was indeed straight-up down at heel, carried a gangbangin' flat candlestick up in his thugged-out lil' paw n' had probably been on his way ta bed when they summons sounded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude looked kindly down on dem n' patted both they heads. ‘This aint tha sort of night fo' lil' small-ass muthafuckas ta be out,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd paternally. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been up ta a shitload of yo' pranks again, Ratty. But come along; come tha fuck into tha kitchen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There’s a gangbangin' first-rate fire there, n' supper n' every last muthafuckin thang.’

Dude shuffled on up in front of them, carryin tha light, n' they followed him, nudgin each other up in a anticipatin sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and, ta tell tha real deal, decidedly shabby passage, tha fuck into a sort of a cold-ass lil central hall; outta which they could dimly peep other long tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious n' without apparent end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. But there was doors up in tha hall as well-stout oaken comfortable-lookin doors. One of these tha Badger flung open, n' at once they found theyselves up in all tha glow n' warmth of a big-ass fire-lit kitchen.

Da floor was well-worn red brick, n' on tha wide hearth burnt a gangbangin' fire of logs, between two bangin chimney-corners tucked away up in tha wall, well outta any suspicion of draught fo' realz. A couple high-backed settles, facin each other on either side of tha fire, gave further chillin accommodations fo' tha sociably disposed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha middle of tha room stood a long-ass table of plain boardz placed on trestles, wit benches down each side fo' realz. At one end of it, where a arm-chair stood pushed back, was spread tha remainz of tha Badger’s plain but ample supper n' shit. Rowz of spotless plates winked from tha shelvez of tha dresser all up in tha far end of tha room, n' from tha raftas overhead hung hams, bundlez of dried herbs, netz of onions, n' basketz of eggs. Well shiiiit, it seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast afta victory, where weary harvestas could line up in scores along tha table n' keep they Harvest Home wit mirth n' song, or where two or three playaz of simple tastes could sit bout as they pleased n' smoke n' smoke n' rap up in comfort n' contentment. Da ruddy brick floor smiled up all up in tha smoky ceiling; tha oaken settles, shiny wit long wear, exchanged cheerful glances wit each other; plates on tha dresser grinned at pots on tha shelf, n' tha merry firelight flickered n' played over every last muthafuckin thang without distinction.

Da kindly Badger thrust dem down on a settle ta toast theyselves all up in tha fire, n' bade dem remove they wet coats n' boots, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Then he fetched dem dressing-gowns n' slippers, n' his dirty ass bathed tha Mole’s shin wit warm wata n' mended tha cut wit sticking-plasta till tha whole thang was just as phat as new, if not mo' betta n' shit. In tha embracin light n' warmth, warm n' dry at last, wit weary hairy-ass legs propped up in front of them, n' a suggestizzle clink of plates bein arranged on tha table behind, it seemed ta tha storm-driven muthafuckas, now up in safe anchorage, dat tha cold n' trackless Wild Wood just left outside was milez n' milez away, n' all dat they had suffered up in it a half-forgotten dream.

When at last they was thoroughly toasted, tha Badger summoned dem ta tha table, where dat schmoooove muthafucka had been gettin busy like a biiiatch layin a repast. They had felt pretty horny before yo, but when they straight-up saw at last tha supper dat was spread fo' them, straight-up it seemed only a question of what tha fuck they should battle first where all was so bangin, n' whether tha other thangs would obligingly wait fo' dem till they had time ta give dem attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Conversation was impossible fo' a long-ass time; n' when dat shiznit was slowly resumed, dat shiznit was dat regrettable sort of conversation dat thangs up in dis biatch from poppin' off wit yo' grill full. Da Badger did not mind dat sort of thang at all, nor did tha pimpin' muthafucka take any notice of elbows on tha table, or dem hoes bustin lyrics at once fo' realz. As da ruffneck did not go tha fuck into Posse his dirty ass, dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots a scam dat these thangs belonged ta tha thangs dat didn’t straight-up matter n' shit. (We know of course dat da thug was wrong, n' took too narrow a view; cuz they do matta straight-up much, though it would take too long ta explain why.) Dude sat up in his thugged-out arm-chair all up in tha head of tha table, n' nodded gravely at intervals as tha muthafuckas holla'd at they story; n' da ruffneck did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, n' he never holla'd, ‘I holla'd at you so,’ or, ‘Just what tha fuck I always holla'd,’ or remarked dat they ought ta have done so-and-so, or ought not ta have done suttin' else. Da Mole fuckin started ta feel straight-up thugged-out towardz his muthafuckin ass.

When supper was straight-up finished at last, n' each animal felt dat his skin was now as tight as was decently safe, n' dat by dis time da ruffneck didn’t care a hang fo' anybody or anything, they gathered round tha glowin emberz of tha pimped out wood fire, n' thought how tha fuck jolly dat shiznit was ta be chillin up SO late, n' SO independent, n' SO full; n' afta they had chatted fo' a time bout thangs up in general, tha Badger holla'd heartily, ‘Now then! tell our asses tha shizzle from yo' part of tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! How’s oldschool Toad goin on?’

‘Oh, from shitty ta worse,’ holla'd tha Rat gravely, while tha Mole, cocked up on a settle n' baskin up in tha firelight, his heels higher than his head, tried ta look properly mournful naaahhmean, biatch? ‘Another smash-up only last week, n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass one. Yo ass see, da thug will insist on rollin his dirty ass, n' he’s hopelessly incapable. If he’d only employ a thugged-out decent, steady, well-trained animal, pay his ass phat wages, n' leave every last muthafuckin thang ta him, he’d git on all right. But no; he’s convinced he’s a heaven-born driver, n' no muthafucka can teach his ass anything; n' all tha rest bigs up.’

‘How tha fuck nuff has dat schmoooove muthafucka had?’ inquired tha Badger gloomily.

‘Smashes, or machines?’ axed tha Rat. ‘Oh, well, afta all, it’s tha same ol' dirty thang-with Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This is tha seventh fo' realz. As fo' tha others-you know dat pimp-house of his, biatch? Well, it’s piled up-literally piled up ta tha roof-with fragmentz of motor-cars, none of dem bigger than yo' basebizzle cap son! That accounts fo' tha other six-so far as they can be accounted for.’

‘He’s been up in hospitizzle three times,’ put up in tha Mole; ‘and as fo' tha fines he’s had ta pay, it’s simply wack ta be thinkin of.’

‘Yes, n' that’s part of tha shit,’ continued tha Rat. ‘Toad’s rich, we all know; but he’s not a millionaire fo' realz. And he’s a hopelessly shitty driver, n' like regardless of law n' order n' shit. Capped or ruined-it’s gots ta be one of tha two thangs, sooner or later n' shit. Badger playa! we’re his wild lil' playas-oughtn’t we ta do something?’

Da Badger went all up in a lil' bit of hard thinking. ‘Now look here!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd at last, rather severely; ‘of course you know I can’t do anythang NOW?’

His two playaz assented, like understandin his thugged-out lil' point. No animal, accordin ta tha rulez of animal-etiquette, is eva sposed ta fuckin do anythang strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately actizzle durin tha off-season of winter n' shiznit fo' realz. All is chilly-some straight-up asleep fo' realz. All is weather-bound, mo' or less; n' all is restin from arduous minutes n' nights, durin which every last muthafuckin muscle up in dem has been severely tested, n' every last muthafuckin juice kept at full stretch.

‘Straight-up well then!’ continued tha Badger n' shit. ‘BUT, when once tha year has straight-up turned, n' tha nights is shorter, n' halfway all up in dem one rouses n' feels fidgety n' wantin ta be up n' bustin by sunrise, if not before-YOU know!--’

Both muthafuckas nodded gravely. THEY knew!

‘Well, THEN,’ went on tha Badger, ‘we-that is, you n' mah crazy ass n' our playa tha Mole here-we’ll take Toad seriously up in hand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We’ll stand no nonsense whatever n' shit. We’ll brang his ass back ta reason, by force if need be. We’ll MAKE his ass be a sensible Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We’ll-you’re asleep, Rat!’

‘Not me!’ holla'd tha Rat, wakin up wit a jerk.

‘He’s been asleep two or three times since supper,’ holla'd tha Mole, bustin up yo. Dude his dirty ass was feelin like wakeful n' even lively, though da ruffneck didn’t know why. Da reason was, of course, dat his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bein naturally a underground animal by birth n' breeding, tha thang of Badger’s doggy den exactly suited his ass n' made his ass feel at home; while tha Rat, whoz ass slept every last muthafuckin night up in a funky-ass bedroom tha windowz of which opened on a funky-ass breezy river, naturally felt tha atmosphere still n' oppressive.

‘Well, it’s time we was all up in bed,’ holla'd tha Badger, gettin up n' fetchin flat candlesticks. ‘Come along, you two, n' I’ll show you yo' quartas fo' realz. And take yo' time tomorrow morning-breakfast at any minute you please!’

Dude conducted tha two muthafuckas ta a long-ass room dat seemed half bedchamber n' half loft. Da Badger’s winta stores, which indeed was visible everywhere, took up half tha room-pilez of apples, turnips, n' potatoes, baskets full of nuts, n' jarz of honey; but tha two lil white bedz on tha remainder of tha floor looked soft n' inviting, n' tha linen on them, though coarse, was clean n' smelt dopely of lavender; n' tha Mole n' tha Wata Rat, bobbin off they garments up in some thirty seconds, tumbled up in between tha sheets up in pimped out joy n' contentment.

In accordizzle wit tha kindly Badger’s injunctions, tha two chillaxed muthafuckas came down ta breakfast straight-up late next morning, n' found a funky-ass bright fire burnin up in tha kitchen, n' two lil' hedgehogs chillin on a funky-ass bench all up in tha table, smokin oatmeal porridge outta wooden bowls. Da hedgehogs dropped they spoons, rose ta they feet, n' ducked they headz respectfully as tha two entered.

‘There, sit tha fuck down, sit tha fuck down,’ holla'd tha Rat pleasantly, ‘and go on wit yo' porridge. Where have you youngstas come from, biatch? Lost yo' way up in tha snow, I suppose?’

‘Yes, please, sir,’ holla'd tha elder of tha two hedgehogs respectfully. ‘Me n' lil Bizzley here, we was tryin ta find our way ta school-mutha WOULD have our asses go, was tha drizzle eva so-and of course our slick asses lost ourselves, sir, n' Bizzley he gots frightened n' took n' cried, bein lil' n' faint-hearted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. And at last our crazy asses happened up against Mista Muthafuckin Badger’s back door, n' made so bold as ta knock, sir, fo' Mista Muthafuckin Badger he’s a kind-hearted gentleman, as mah playas knows--’

‘I understand,’ holla'd tha Rat, cuttin his dirty ass some rashers from a side of bacon, while tha Mole dropped some eggs tha fuck into a saucepan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘And what’s tha drizzle like outside, biatch? Yo ass needn’t "sir" me like so much?’ he added.

‘O, shitty bad, sir, shitty deep tha snow is,’ holla'd tha hedgehog. ‘No gettin up fo' tha likez of y'all gentlemen to-day.’

‘Where’s Mista Muthafuckin Badger?’ inquired tha Mole, as da thug warmed tha coffee-pot before tha fire.

‘Da master’s gone tha fuck into his study, sir,’ replied tha hedgehog, ‘and da perved-out muthafucka holla'd as how tha fuck da thug was goin ta be particular busy dis morning, n' on no account was tha pimpin' muthafucka ta be disturbed.’

This explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every last muthafuckin one present. Da fact is, as already set forth, when you live a game of intense activitizzle fo' six months up in tha year, n' of comparatizzle or actual somnolence fo' tha other six, durin tha latta period you cannot be continually pleadin chillinizz when there be playas bout or thangs ta be done. Da excuse gets monotonous. Da muthafuckas well knew dat Badger, havin smoked a hearty breakfast, had retired ta his study n' settled his dirty ass up in a arm-chair wit his hairy-ass legs up on another n' a red cotton handkerchizzle over his wild lil' face, n' was bein ‘busy’ up in tha usual way at dis time of tha year.

Da front-door bell clanged loudly, n' tha Rat, whoz ass was straight-up greasy wit buttered toast, busted Bizzley, tha smalla hedgehog, ta peep whoz ass it might be. There was a sound of much stampin up in tha hall, n' presently Bizzley returned up in front of tha Otter, whoz ass threw his dirty ass on tha Rat wit a embrace n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shout of affectionate greeting.

‘Git off!’ spluttered tha Rat, wit his crazy-ass grill full.

‘Thought I should find you here all right,’ holla'd tha Otta cheerfully. ‘They was all up in a pimped out state of alarm along River Bank when I arrived dis morning. Rat never been home all night-nor Mole either-suttin' dreadful must have happened, they holla'd; n' tha snow had covered up all yo' tracks, of course. But I knew dat when playas was up in any fix they mostly went ta Badger, or else Badger gots ta know of it somehow, so I came straight off here, all up in tha Wild Wood n' tha snow! My fuckin dawwwwg! dat shiznit was fine, comin all up in tha snow as tha red sun was risin n' showin against tha black tree-trunks muthafucka! As you went along up in tha stillness, every last muthafuckin now n' then massez of snow slid off tha branches suddenly wit a gangbangin' flop! makin you jump n' run fo' cover n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Snow-castlez n' snow-caverns had sprung up outta nowhere up in tha night-and snow bridges, terraces, ramparts-I could have stayed n' played wit dem fo' hours yo. Here n' there pimped out branches had been torn away by tha sheer weight of tha snow, n' robins perched n' hopped on dem up in they perky conceited way, just as if they had done it theyselves fo' realz. A ragged strang of wild geese passed overhead, high on tha grey sky, n' all dem rooks whirled over tha trees, inspected, n' flapped off homewardz wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disgusted expression; but I kicked it wit no sensible bein ta ask tha shizzle of fo' realz. Bout halfway across I came on a rabbit chillin on a stump, cleanin his wack-ass grill wit his thugged-out lil' paws yo. Dude was a pimpin' scared animal when I crept up behind his ass n' placed a heavy forepaw on his shoulder n' shit. I had ta cuff his head once or twice ta git any sense outta it at all fo' realz. At last I managed ta extract from his ass dat Mole had been peeped up in tha Wild Wood last night by one of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Dat shiznit was tha rap of tha burrows, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, how tha fuck Mole, Mista Muthafuckin Rat’s particular playa, was up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass fix; how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost his way, n' "They" was up n' up hunting, n' was chivvyin his ass round n' round. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Then why didn’t any of y'all DO something?" I asked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Yo ass mayn’t be blest wit domes yo, but there be hundredz n' hundredz of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, n' yo' burrows hustlin up in all directions, n' you could have taken his ass up in n' made his ass safe n' comfortable, or tried to, at all events." "What, US?" he merely holla'd: "DO something, biatch? our asses rabbits?" So I cuffed his ass again n' again n' again n' left his muthafuckin ass. There was not a god damn thang else ta be done fo' realz. At any rate, I had learnt something; n' if I had had tha luck ta hook up any of "Them" I’d have learnt suttin' more-or THEY would.’

‘Weren’t you at all-er-nervous?’ axed tha Mole, a shitload of yesterday’s terror comin back ta his ass all up in tha mention of tha Wild Wood.

‘Nervous?’ Da Otta flossed a gleamin set of phat white teeth as he laughed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’d give ‘em nerves if any of dem tried anythang on wit mah dirty ass yo. Here, Mole, fry me some slicez of ham, like tha phat lil chap yo ass is. I’m frightfully hungry, n' I’ve gots any amount ta say ta Ratty here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho yo. Haven’t peeped his ass fo' a age.’

So tha good-natured Mole, havin cut some slicez of ham, set tha hedgehogs ta fry it, n' moonwalked back ta his own breakfast, while tha Otta n' tha Rat, they headz together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is long shop n' rap dat is endless, hustlin on like tha babblin river itself.

A plate of fried ham had just been cleared n' busted back fo' more, when tha Badger entered, yawnin n' rubbin his wild lil' fuckin eyes, n' greeted dem all up in his on tha fuckin' down-low, simple way, wit kind enquiries fo' every last muthafuckin one. ‘It must be gettin on fo' luncheon time,’ he remarked ta tha Otter n' shit. ‘Betta stop n' have it wit us. Yo ass must be hungry, dis cold morning.’

‘Rather!’ replied tha Otter, winkin all up in tha Mole. ‘Da sight of these greedy lil' hedgehogs stuffin theyselves wit fried ham make me feel positively famished.’

Da hedgehogs, whoz ass was just beginnin ta feel horny again n' again n' again afta they porridge, n' afta hustlin so hard at they frying, looked timidly up at Mista Muthafuckin Badger yo, but was too shy ta say anything.

‘Here, you two youngstas be off home ta yo' mother,’ holla'd tha Badger kindly. ‘I’ll bust some one wit you ta show you tha way. Yo ass won’t want any dinner to-day, I’ll be bound.’

Dude gave dem sixpence apiece n' a pat on tha head, n' they went off wit much respectful swingin of caps n' touchin of forelocks.

Presently they all sat down ta luncheon together n' shit. Da Mole found his dirty ass placed next ta Mista Muthafuckin Badger, and, as tha other two was still deep up in river-bullshit from which not a god damn thang could divert them, tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha opportunitizzle ta tell Badger how tha fuck laid back n' home-like all dat shiznit felt ta his muthafuckin ass. ‘Once well underground,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘you know exactly where yo ass is. Nothang can happen ta you, n' not a god damn thang can git at you, biatch. You’re entirely yo' own master, n' you don’t gotta consult anybody or mind what tha fuck they say. Things go on all tha same overhead, n' you let ‘em, n' don’t bother bout ‘em. When you want to, up you go, n' there tha thangs are, waitin fo' you, biatch.’

Da Badger simply beamed on his muthafuckin ass. ‘That’s exactly what tha fuck I say,’ he replied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘There’s no security, or peace n' tranquillity, except underground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And then, if yo' scams git larger n' you wanna expand-why, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dig n' a scrape, n' there yo ass is biaaatch! If you feel yo' doggy den be a lil' bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, n' there yo ass be again! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows lookin over yo' wall, and, above all, no WEATHER. Look at Rat, now fo' realz. A couple feet of flood water, n' he’s gots ta move tha fuck into hired lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, n' horribly expensive. Take Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I say not a god damn thang against Toad Hall; like tha dopest doggy den up in these parts, AS a house. But supposin a gangbangin' fire breaks out-where’s Toad, biatch? Supposin tilez is blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows git broken-where’s Toad, biatch? Supposin tha rooms is draughty-I HATE a thugged-out draught mah dirty ass-where’s Toad, biatch? Fuck dat shit, up n' outta doors is phat enough ta roam bout n' git one’s livin in; but underground ta come back ta at last-that’s mah scam of HOME.’

Da Mole assented heartily; n' tha Badger up in consequence gots straight-up thugged-out wit his muthafuckin ass. ‘When lunch is over,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘I’ll take you all round dis lil place of mine. I can peep you’ll appreciate dat shit. Yo ass KNOW what tha fuck domestic architecture ought ta be, you do.’

Afta luncheon, accordingly, when tha other two had settled theyselves tha fuck into tha chimney-corner n' had started a heated argument on tha subject of EELS, tha Badger lighted a lantern n' bade tha Mole follow his muthafuckin ass. Crossin tha hall, they passed down one of tha principal tunnels, n' tha waverin light of tha lantern gave glimpses on either side of rooms both big-ass n' small, some mere cupboards, others nearly as broad n' imposin as Toad’s dining-hall fo' realz. A narrow passage at right anglez hustled dem tha fuck into another corridor, n' here tha same thang was repeated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da Mole was staggered all up in tha size, tha extent, tha ramificationz of it all; all up in tha length of tha dim passages, tha solid vaultingz of tha crammed store-chambers, tha masonry everywhere, tha pillars, tha arches, tha pavements, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. ‘How tha fuck on earth, Badger,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd at last, ‘did you eva find time n' strength ta do all this, biatch? It’s astonishing!’

‘It WOULD be astonishin indeed,’ holla'd tha Badger simply, ‘if I HAD done dat shit. But as a matta of fact I did none of it-only cleaned up tha passages n' chambers, as far as I had need of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. There’s fuckin shitloadz mo' of it, all round about. I peep you don’t understand, n' I must explain it ta you, biatch. Well, straight-up long ago, on tha spot where tha Wild Wood waves now, before eva it had planted itself n' grown up ta what tha fuck it now is, there was a cold-ass lil hood-a hood of people, you know yo. Here, where we is standing, they lived, n' strutted, n' talked, n' slept, n' carried on they bidnizz yo. Here they stabled they horses n' feasted, from here they rode up ta fight or drove up ta trade. They was a bangin people, n' rich, n' pimped out builders. They built ta last, fo' they thought they hood would last fo' eva.’

‘But what tha fuck has become of dem all?’ axed tha Mole.

‘Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck can tell?’ holla'd tha Badger n' shit. ‘Muthafuckas come-they stay fo' a while, they flourish, they build-and they go. Well shiiiit, it is they way. But we remain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was badgers here, I’ve been holla'd at, long before dat same hood eva came ta be fo' realz. And now there be badgers here again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We is a endurin lot, n' we may move up fo' a time yo, but we wait, n' is patient, n' back we come fo' realz. And so it will eva be.’

‘Well, n' when they went at last, dem people?’ holla'd tha Mole.

‘When they went,’ continued tha Badger, ‘the phat windz n' persistent rains took tha matta up in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year afta year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Perhaps we badgers too, up in our lil' small-ass way, helped a lil-who knows, biatch? Dat shiznit was all down, down, down, gradually-ruin n' levellin n' disappearance. Then dat shiznit was all up, up, up, gradually, as seedz grew ta saplings, n' saplings ta forest trees, n' bramble n' fern came creepin up in ta help. Leaf-mould rose n' obliterated, streams up in they winta freshets brought sand n' soil ta clog n' ta cover, n' up in course of time our home was locked n loaded fo' our asses again, n' we moved in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Up above us, on tha surface, tha same thang happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Animals arrived, was horny bout tha look of tha place, took up they quarters, settled down, spread, n' flourished. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They didn’t bother theyselves bout tha past-they never do; they’re too busy. Da place was a lil' bit humpy n' hillocky, naturally, n' full of holes; but dat was rather a advantage fo' realz. And they don’t bother bout tha future, either-the future when like tha playas will move up in again-for a time-as may straight-up well be. Da Wild Wood is pretty well populated by now; wit all tha usual lot, good, bad, n' indifferent-I name no names. Well shiiiit, it takes all sorts ta cook up a ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But I fancy you know suttin' bout dem yo ass by dis time.’

‘I do indeed,’ holla'd tha Mole, wit a slight shiver.

‘Well, well,’ holla'd tha Badger, pattin his ass on tha shoulder, ‘it was yo' first experience of them, you see. They’re not so shitty straight-up; n' we must all live n' let live. But I’ll pass tha word round to-morrow, n' I be thinkin you’ll have no further shiznit fo' realz. Any playa of MINE strutts where he likes up in dis ghetto, or I’ll know tha reason why!’

When they gots back ta tha kitchen again, they found tha Rat struttin up n' down, straight-up restless. Da underground atmosphere was oppressin his ass n' gettin on his nerves, n' da perved-out muthafucka seemed straight-up ta be afraid dat tha river would run away if da thug wasn’t there ta look afta dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So dat schmoooove muthafucka had his overcoat on, n' his thugged-out lil' pistols thrust tha fuck into his belt again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Come along, Mole,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd anxiously, as soon as his schmoooove ass caught sight of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. ‘We must git off while it’s daylight. Don’t wanna spend another night up in tha Wild Wood again.’

‘It’ll be all right, mah fine fellow,’ holla'd tha Otter n' shit. ‘I’m comin along wit you, n' I know every last muthafuckin path blindfold; n' if there’s a head dat need ta be socked, you can confidently rely upon me ta punch dat shit.’

‘Yo ass straight-up needn’t fret, Ratty,’ added tha Badger placidly. ‘My fuckin passages run further than you think, n' I’ve bolt-holez ta tha edge of tha wood up in nuff muthafuckin directions, though I don’t care fo' dem hoes ta know bout dem wild-ass muthafuckas. When you straight-up gotta go, you shall leave by one of mah short cuts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Meantime, make yo ass easy as fuck, n' sit tha fuck down again.’

Da Rat was nevertheless still anxious ta be off n' git all up in ta his bangin river, so tha Badger, takin up his fuckin lantern again, hustled tha way along a thugged-out damp n' airless tunnel dat wound n' dipped, part vaulted, part hewn all up in solid rock, fo' a weary distizzle dat seemed ta be milez fo' realz. At last daylight fuckin started ta show itself confusedly all up in tangled growth overhangin tha grill of tha passage; n' tha Badger, biddin dem a hasty good-bye, pushed dem hurriedly all up in tha opening, made every last muthafuckin thang look as natural as possible again, wit creepers, brushwood, n' dead leaves, n' retreated.

They found theyselves standin on tha straight-up edge of tha Wild Wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Rocks n' bramblez n' tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped n' tangled; up in front, a pimped out space of on tha down-low fields, hemmed by linez of hedges black on tha snow, and, far ahead, a glint of tha familiar oldschool river, while tha wintry sun hung red n' low on tha horizon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da Otter, as knowin all tha paths, took charge of tha party, n' they trailed up on a funky-ass bee-line fo' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distant stile. Pausin there a moment n' lookin back, they saw tha whole mass of tha Wild Wood, dense, menacing, compact, grimly set up in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they turned n' made swiftly fo' home, fo' firelight n' tha familiar thangs it played on, fo' tha voice, soundin cheerily outside they window, of tha river dat they knew n' trusted up in all its vibes, dat never made dem afraid wit any amazement.

As dat schmoooove muthafucka hurried along, eagerly anticipatin tha moment when da thug would be up in da crib again n' again n' again among tha thangs he knew n' liked, tha Mole saw clearly dat da thug was a animal of tilled field n' hedge-row, linked ta tha ploughed furrow, tha frequented pasture, tha lane of evenin lingerings, tha cultivated garden-plot. For others tha asperities, tha stubborn endurance, or tha clash of actual conflict, dat went wit Nature up in tha rough; he must be wise, must keep ta tha pleasant places up in which his fuckin lines was laid n' which held adventure enough, up in they way, ta last fo' a gametime.

V. DULCE DOMUM Da sheep ran huddlin together against tha hurdles, blowin up thin nostrils n' stampin wit delicate fore-feet, they headz thrown back n' a light steam risin from tha crowded sheep-pen tha fuck into tha frosty air, as tha two muthafuckas hastened by up in high spirits, wit much chatta n' laughter n' shit. They was returnin across ghetto afta a long-ass day’s outin wit Otter, hustlin n' explorin on tha wide uplandz where certain streams tributary ta they own River had they first lil' small-ass beginnings; n' tha shadez of tha short winta dizzle was closin up in on them, n' they had still some distizzle ta bounce tha fuck out. Ploddin at random across tha plough, they had heard tha sheep n' had made fo' them; n' now, leadin from tha sheep-pen, they found a funky-ass beaten track dat made struttin a lighta bidnizz, n' responded, moreover, ta dat lil' small-ass inquirin suttin' which all muthafuckas carry inside them, sayin unmistakably, ‘Yes, like right; THIS leadz home!’

‘It looks as if we was comin ta a village,’ holla'd tha Mole somewhat dubiously, slackenin his thugged-out lil' pace, as tha track, dat had up in time become a path n' then had pimped tha fuck into a lane, now handed dem over ta tha charge of a well-metalled road. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da muthafuckas did not hold wit villages, n' they own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took a independent course, regardless of church, post office, or public-house.

‘Oh, never mind!’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘At dis season of tha year they’re all safe indoors by dis time, chillin round tha fire; men, dem hoes, n' children, dawgs n' pussies n' all. We shall slip all up in all right, without any bother or unpleasantness, n' we can gotz a peep dem all up in they windows if you like, n' peep what tha fuck they’re bustin.’

Da rapid nightfall of mid-December had like beset tha lil hood as they approached it on soft feet over a gangbangin' first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squarez of a thugged-out dusky orange-red on either side of tha street, where tha firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed all up in tha casements tha fuck into tha dark ghetto without. Most of tha low latticed windows was innocent of blinds, n' ta tha lookers-in from outside, tha inmates, gathered round tha tea-table, absorbed up in handiwork, or poppin' off wit laughta n' gesture, had each dat aiiight grace which is tha last thang tha skilled hustla shall capture-the natural grace which goes wit slick unconsciousnizz of observation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Movin at will from one theatre ta another, tha two spectators, so far from home theyselves, had suttin' of wistfulnizz up in they eyes as they peeped a cold-ass lil pussaaaaay bein stroked, a chilly lil pimp picked up n' huddled off ta bed, or a chillaxed playa stretch n' knock up his thugged-out lil' pipe on tha end of a smoulderin log.

But dat shiznit was from one lil window, wit its blind drawn down, a mere blank transparency on tha night, dat tha sense of home n' tha lil curtained ghetto within walls-the larger stressful ghetto of outside Nature shut up n' forgotten-most pulsated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Close against tha white blind hung a funky-ass bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every last muthafuckin wire, perch, n' appurtenizzle distinct n' recognisable, even ta yesterday’s dull-edged lump of sugar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. On tha middle perch tha fluffy occupant, head tucked well tha fuck into feathers, seemed so near ta dem as ta be easily stroked, had they tried; even tha delicate tipz of his thugged-out lil' plumped-out plumage pencilled plainly on tha illuminated screen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As they looked, tha chilly lil fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook his dirty ass, n' raised his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They could peep tha gape of his cold-ass tiny beak as he yawned up in a funky-ass bugged out sort of way, looked round, n' then settled his head tha fuck into his back again, while tha ruffled feathers gradually subsided tha fuck into slick stillness. Then a gust of bitta wind took dem up in tha back of tha neck, a lil' small-ass stin of frozen sleet on tha skin woke dem as from a thugged-out dream, n' they knew they toes ta be cold n' they hairy-ass legs tired, n' they own home distant a weary way.

Once beyond tha village, where tha cottages ceased abruptly, on either side of tha road they could smell all up in tha darknizz tha thugged-out fieldz again; n' they braced theyselves fo' tha last long stretch, tha home stretch, tha stretch dat we know is bound ta end, some time, up in tha rattle of tha door-latch, tha sudden firelight, n' tha sight of familiar thangs greetin our asses as long-absent travellaz from far over-sea. They plodded along steadily n' silently, each of dem thankin his own thoughts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Da Mole’s ran a phat deal on supper, as dat shiznit was pitch-dark, n' dat shiznit was all a strange ghetto fo' his ass as far as he knew, n' da thug was followin obediently up in tha wake of tha Rat, leavin tha guidizzle entirely ta his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. As fo' tha Rat, da thug was struttin a lil way ahead, as his g-thang was, his shouldaz humped, his wild lil' fuckin eyes fixed on tha straight grey road up in front of him; so da ruffneck did not notice skanky Mole when suddenly tha summons reached him, n' took his ass like a electric shock.

We others, whoz ass have long lost tha mo' subtle of tha physical senses, aint even proper terms ta express a animal’s inter-communications wit his surroundings, livin or otherwise, n' have only tha word ‘smell,’ fo' instance, ta include tha whole range of delicate thrills which murmur up in tha nozzle of tha animal night n' day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling. Dat shiznit was one of these mysterious fairy calls from up tha void dat suddenly reached Mole up in tha darkness, makin his ass tingle all up in n' all up in wit its straight-up familiar appeal, even while yet his schmoooove ass could not clearly remember what tha fuck it was yo. Dude stopped dead up in his cold-ass tracks, his nozzle searchin hither n' thither up in its efforts ta recapture tha fine filament, tha telegraphic current, dat had so straight fuckin moved his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. A moment, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught it again; n' wit it dis time came recollection up in fullest flood.

Home biaaatch! That was what tha fuck they meant, dem caressin appeals, dem soft touches wafted all up in tha air, dem invisible lil handz pullin n' tugging, all one way dawwwwg! Why, it must be like close by his ass at dat moment, his oldschool home dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had hurriedly forsaken n' never sought again, dat dizzle when he first found tha river playa! And now dat shiznit was bustin  up its scouts n' its messengers ta capture his ass n' brang his ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Since his wild lil' fuckin escape on dat bright mornin dat schmoooove muthafucka had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been up in his freshly smoked up game, up in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh n' captivatin experiences. Now, wit a rush of oldschool memories, how tha fuck clearly it stood up before him, up in tha darkness muthafucka! Shabby indeed, n' lil' small-ass n' skankyly furnished, n' yet his, tha home dat schmoooove muthafucka had made fo' his dirty ass, tha home dat schmoooove muthafucka had been so aiiight ta git back ta afta his fuckin lil' day’s work fo' realz. And tha home had been aiiight wit him, too, evidently, n' was missin him, n' wanted his ass back, n' was spittin some lyrics ta his ass so, all up in his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully yo, but wit no bitternizz or anger; only wit plaintizzle reminder dat dat shiznit was there, n' wanted his muthafuckin ass.

Da call was clear, tha summons was plain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude must obey it instantly, n' go. ‘Ratty!’ his schmoooove ass called, full of joyful excitement, ‘hold on! Come back! I want you, quick!’

‘Oh, COME along, Mole, do!’ replied tha Rat cheerfully, still ploddin along.

‘PLEASE stop, Ratty!’ pleaded tha skanky Mole, up in anguish of ass. ‘Yo ass don’t understand hommie! It’s mah home, mah oldschool home biaaatch! I’ve just come across tha smell of it, n' it’s close by here, straight-up like close fo' realz. And I MUST git all up in it, I must, I must son! Oh, come back, Ratty dawwwwg! Please, please come back!’

Da Rat was by dis time straight-up far ahead, too far ta hear clearly what tha fuck tha Mole was calling, too far ta catch tha sharp note of fucked up appeal up in his voice fo' realz. And da thug was much taken up wit tha weather, fo' tha pimpin' muthafucka too could smell something-suttin' suspiciously like approachin snow.

‘Mole, we mustn’t stop now, straight-up!’ his schmoooove ass called back. ‘We’ll come fo' it to-morrow, whatever it is you’ve found. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But I daren’t stop now-it’s late, n' tha snow’s comin on again, n' I’m not shizzle of tha way dawwwwg! And I want yo' nose, Mole, so come on quick, there’s a phat fellow!’ And tha Rat pressed forward on his way without waitin fo' a answer.

Skanky Mole stood ridin' solo up in tha road, his thugged-out ass torn asunder, n' a funky-ass big-ass sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, ta leap up ta tha surface presently, he knew, up in horny escape. But even under such a test as dis his fuckin loyalty ta his wild lil' playa stood firm. Never fo' a moment did da ruffneck trip of abandonin his muthafuckin ass. Meanwhile, tha wafts from his oldschool home pleaded, whispered, conjured, n' finally fronted his ass imperiously yo. Dude dared not tarry longer within they magic circle. With a wrench dat tore his straight-up heartstrings da perved-out muthafucka set his wild lil' grill down tha road n' followed submissively up in tha track of tha Rat, while faint, thin lil smells, still doggin his bangin retreatin nose, reproached his ass fo' his freshly smoked up thang n' his callous forgetfulness.

With a effort his schmoooove ass caught up ta tha unsuspectin Rat, whoz ass fuckin started chatterin cheerfully bout what tha fuck they would do when they gots back, n' how tha fuck jolly a gangbangin' fire of logs up in tha parlour would be, n' what tha fuck a supper he meant ta eat; never noticin his companion’s silence n' distressful state of mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! At last, however, when they had gone some considerable way further, n' was passin some tree-stumps all up in tha edge of a cold-ass lil copse dat bordered tha road, da perved-out muthafucka stopped n' holla'd kindly, ‘Look here, Mole oldschool chap, you seem dead tired. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! No rap left up in you, n' yo' feet draggin like lead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We’ll sit tha fuck down here fo' a minute n' rest. Da snow has held off so far, n' tha dopest part of our trip is over.’

Da Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump n' tried ta control his dirty ass, fo' he felt it surely coming. Da sob dat schmoooove muthafucka had fought wit so long refused ta be beaten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Up n' up, it forced its way ta tha air, n' then another, n' another, n' others thick n' fast; till skanky Mole at last gave up tha struggle, n' cried freely n' helplessly n' openly, now dat he knew dat shiznit was all over n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had lost what tha fuck his schmoooove ass could hardly be holla'd ta have found.

Da Rat, astonished n' dismayed all up in tha shiznit of Mole’s paroxysm of grief, did not dare ta drop a rhyme fo' a while fo' realz. At last da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, straight-up on tha fuckin' down-lowly n' sympathetically, ‘What tha fuck iz it, oldschool fellow, biatch? Whatever can be tha matter, biatch? Tell our asses yo' shit, n' let me peep what tha fuck I can do.’

Skanky Mole found it hard as fuck ta git any lyrics up between tha upheavalz of his chest dat followed one upon another so quickly n' held back rap n' choked it as it came. ‘I know it’s a-shabby, dingy lil place,’ da perved-out muthafucka sobbed forth at last, brokenly: ‘not like-your cosy quarters-or Toad’s dope hall-or Badger’s pimped out house-but dat shiznit was mah own lil home-and I was fond of it-and I went away n' forgot all bout it-and then I smelt it suddenly-on tha road, when I called n' you wouldn’t listen, Rat-and every last muthafuckin thang came back ta me wit a rush-and I WANTED dat shiznit son!-O dear, O dear!-and when you WOULDN’T turn back, Ratty-and I had ta leave it, though I was smellin all dat shiznit tha time-I thought mah ass would break.-We might have just gone n' had one peep it, Ratty-only one look-it was close by-but you wouldn’t turn back, Ratty, you wouldn’t turn back! O dear, O dear!’

Recollection brought fresh wavez of sorrow, n' sobs again n' again n' again took full charge of him, preventin further speech.

Da Rat stared straight up in front of him, sayin nothing, only pattin Mole gently on tha shoulder n' shiznit fo' realz. Afta a time he muttered gloomily, ‘I peep all dat shiznit now! What a PIG I have been! A pig-that’s me biaaatch! Just a pig-a plain pig!’

Dude waited till Mole’s sobs became gradually less stormy n' mo' rhythmical; da thug waited till at last sniffs was frequent n' sobs only intermittent. Then he rose from his seat, and, remarkin carelessly, ‘Well, now we’d straight-up betta be gettin on, oldschool chap!’ set off up tha road again, over tha toilsome way they had come.

‘Wherever is you (hic) goin ta (hic), Ratty?’ cried tha tearful Mole, lookin up in alarm.

‘We’re goin ta find dat home of yours, oldschool fellow,’ replied tha Rat pleasantly; ‘so you had betta come along, fo' it will take some finding, n' we shall want yo' nose.’

‘Oh, come back, Ratty, do!’ cried tha Mole, gettin up n' hurryin afta his muthafuckin ass. ‘It’s no good, I rap, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? It’s too late, n' too dark, n' tha place is too far off, n' tha snow’s coming! And-and I never meant ta let you know I was feelin dat way bout it-it was all a accident n' a mistake biaaatch! And be thinkin of River Bank, n' yo' supper!’

‘Hang River Bank, n' supper too!’ holla'd tha Rat heartily. ‘I rap, I’m goin ta find dis place now, if I stay up all night. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So cheer up, oldschool chap, n' take mah arm, n' we’ll straight-up soon be back there again.’

Still snuffling, pleading, n' reluctant, Mole suffered his dirty ass ta be dragged back along tha road by his crazy-ass muthafuckin imperious companion, whoz ass by a gangbangin' flow of cheerful rap n' anecdote endeavoured ta beguile his spirits back n' make tha weary way seem shorter n' shit. When at last it seemed ta tha Rat dat they must be nearin dat part of tha road where tha Mole had been ‘held up,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘Now, no mo' rappin'. Business muthafucka! Use yo' nose, n' give yo' mind ta dat shit.’

They moved on up in silence fo' some lil way, when suddenly tha Rat was conscious, all up in his thugged-out arm dat was linked up in Mole’s, of a gangbangin' faint sort of electric thrill dat was passin down dat animal’s body. Instantly da ruffneck disengaged his dirty ass, fell tha fuck back a pace, n' waited, all attention.

Da signals was comin through!

Mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quiverin slightly, felt tha air.

Then a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short, quick run forward-a fault-a check-a try back; n' then a slow, steady, Kool & Tha Gang advance.

Da Rat, much excited, kept close ta his heels as tha Mole, wit suttin' of tha air of a chill-walker, crossed a thugged-out dry ditch, scrambled all up in a hedge, n' nosed his way over a gangbangin' field open n' trackless n' bare up in tha faint starlight.

Suddenly, without givin warning, da ruffneck dived; but tha Rat was on tha alert, n' promptly followed his ass down tha tunnel ta which his unerrin nozzle had faithfully hustled his muthafuckin ass.

Dat shiznit was close n' airless, n' tha earthy smell was strong, n' it seemed a long-ass time ta Rat ere tha passage ended n' his schmoooove ass could stand erect n' stretch n' shake his dirty ass. Da Mole struck a match, n' by its light tha Rat saw dat they was standin up in a open space, neatly swept n' sanded underfoot, n' directly facin dem was Mole’s lil front door, wit ‘Mole End’ painted, up in Gothic lettering, over tha bell-pull all up in tha side.

Mole reached down a lantern from a nail on tha wall n' lit dat shit... n' tha Rat, lookin round him, saw dat they was up in a sort of fore-court fo' realz. A garden-seat stood on one side of tha door, n' on tha other a roller; fo' tha Mole, whoz ass was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand havin his wild lil' freakadelic ground kicked up by other muthafuckas tha fuck into lil runs dat ended up in earth-heaps. On tha walls hung wire baskets wit ferns up in them, alternatin wit brackets carryin plasta statuary-Garibaldi, n' tha infant Samuel, n' Biatch Victoria, n' other heroez of modern Italy. Down on one side of tha forecourt ran a skittle-alley, wit benches along it n' lil wooden tablez marked wit rings dat hinted at brew-mugs. In tha middle was a lil' small-ass round pond containin gold-fish n' surrounded by a cold-ass lil cockle-shell border n' shit. Out of tha centre of tha pond rose a gangbangin' fanciful erection clothed up in mo' cockle-shells n' topped by a big-ass silvered glass bizzle dat reflected every last muthafuckin thang all wack n' had a straight-up pleasin effect.

Mole’s face-beamed all up in tha sight of all these objects so dear ta him, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka hurried Rat all up in tha door, lit a lamp up in tha hall, n' took one glizzle round his oldschool home yo. Dude saw tha dust lyin thick on every last muthafuckin thang, saw tha cheerless, deserted look of tha long-neglected house, n' its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn n' shabby contents-and collapsed again n' again n' again on a hall-chair, his nozzle ta his thugged-out lil' paws. ‘O Ratty!’ his schmoooove ass cried dismally, ‘why eva did I do it, biatch? Why did I brang you ta dis skanky, cold lil place, on a night like this, when you might done been at River Bank by dis time, toastin yo' toes before a funky-ass blazin fire, wit all yo' own sick thangs bout you, nahmean biiiatch?’

Da Rat paid no heed ta his fuckin lil' doleful self-reproaches yo. Dude was hustlin here n' there, openin doors, inspectin rooms n' cupboards, n' lightin lamps n' candlez n' stickin them, up everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. ‘What a cold-ass lil capital lil doggy den dis is!’ his schmoooove ass called up cheerily. ‘So compact son! So well planned hommie! Everythang here n' every last muthafuckin thang up in its place biaaatch! We’ll cook up a jolly night of dat shit. Da first thang we want be a phat fire; I’ll peep ta that-I always know where ta find thangs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So dis is tha parlour, biatch? Splendid hommie! Yo crazy-ass own idea, dem lil chillin-bunks up in tha wall, biatch? Capital! Now, I’ll fetch tha wood n' tha coals, n' you git a thugged-out duster, Mole-you’ll find one up in tha drawer of tha kitchen table-and try n' smarten thangs up a funky-ass bit. Bustle about, oldschool chap!’

Encouraged by his crazy-ass muthafuckin inspiritin companion, tha Mole roused his dirty ass n' dusted n' polished wit juice n' heartiness, while tha Rat, hustlin ta n' fro wit armfulz of fuel, soon had a cold-ass lil cheerful blaze roarin up tha chimney yo. Dude hailed tha Mole ta come n' warm his dirty ass; but Mole promptly had another fit of tha blues, droppin down on a cold-ass lil couch up in dark despair n' buryin his wild lil' grill up in his fuckin lil' dusta n' shit. ‘Rat,’ he moaned, ‘how bout yo' supper, you skanky, cold, hungry, weary animal, biatch? I’ve not a god damn thang ta give you-nothing-not a cold-ass lil crumb!’

‘What a gangbangin' fellow yo ass is fo' givin in!’ holla'd tha Rat reproachfully. ‘Why, only just now I saw a sardine-opener on tha kitchen dresser, like distinctly; n' dem hoes knows dat means there be sardines bout somewhere up in tha neighbourhood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Rouse yo ass muthafucka! pull yo ass together, n' come wit me n' forage.’

They went n' foraged accordingly, hustlin all up in every last muthafuckin cupboard n' turnin up every last muthafuckin drawer n' shit. Da result was not so straight-up wack afta all, though of course it might done been better; a tin of sardines-a box of captain’s biscuits, nearly full-and a German sausage encased up in silver paper.

‘There’s a funky-ass banquet fo' you, nahmean biiiatch?’ observed tha Rat, as he arranged tha table. ‘I know some muthafuckas whoz ass would give they ears ta be chillin down ta supper wit our asses to-night!’

‘No bread!’ groaned tha Mole dolorously; ‘no butter, no--’

‘No pate de foie gras, no champagne!’ continued tha Rat, grinning. ‘And dat remindz me-what’s dat lil door all up in tha end of tha passage, biatch? Yo crazy-ass cellar, of course biaaatch! Every luxury up in dis doggy den biaaatch! Just you wait a minute.’

Dude made fo' tha cellar-door, n' presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, wit a funky-ass forty of brew up in each paw n' another under each arm, ‘Self-indulgent beggar you seem ta be, Mole,’ he observed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Deny yo ass nothing. This is straight-up tha jolliest lil place I eva was in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now, wherever did you pick up dem prints, biatch? Make tha place look so home-like, they do. No wonder you’re so fond of it, Mole. Tell our asses all bout it, n' how tha fuck you came ta make it what tha fuck it is.’

Then, while tha Rat busied his dirty ass fetchin plates, n' knives n' forks, n' mustard which he mixed up in a egg-cup, tha Mole, his bosom still heavin wit tha stress of his bangin recent emotion, related-somewhat shyly at first yo, but wit mo' freedom as da thug warmed ta his subject-how dis was planned, n' how tha fuck dat was thought out, n' how tha fuck dis was gots all up in a windfall from a aunt, n' dat was a straight-up dope find n' a funky-ass bargain, n' dis other thang was looted outta laborious savings n' a cold-ass lil certain amount of ‘goin without.’ His spirits finally like restored, he must needz go n' caress his thugged-out lil' possessions, n' take a lamp n' show off they points ta his visitor n' expatiate on them, like forgetful of tha supper they both so much needed; Rat, whoz ass was desperately horny but strove ta conceal it, noddin seriously, examinin wit a puckered brow, n' saying, ‘wonderful,’ n' ‘most remarkable,’ at intervals, when tha chizzle fo' a observation was given his muthafuckin ass.

At last tha Rat succeeded up in decoyin his ass ta tha table, n' had just gots seriously ta work wit tha sardine-opener when soundz was heard from tha fore-court without-soundz like tha scufflin of lil' small-ass feet up in tha gravel n' a cold-ass lil trippin murmur of tiny voices, while fucked up sentences reached them-‘Now, all up in a line-hold tha lantern up a funky-ass bit, Tommy-clear yo' throats first-no coughin afta I say one, two, three.-Where’s lil' Bizzle?-Here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting--’

‘What’s up?’ inquired tha Rat, pausin up in his fuckin labours.

‘I be thinkin it must be tha field-mice,’ replied tha Mole, wit a funky-ass bust a nut on of pride up in his crazy-ass manner n' shit. ‘They go round carol-rappin regularly at dis time of tha year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They’re like a institution up in these parts fo' realz. And they never pass me over-they come ta Mole End last of all; n' I used ta give dem bangin' drinks, n' supper too sometimes, when I could afford dat shit. Well shiiiit, it is ghon be like oldschool times ta hear dem again.’

‘Let’s gotz a peep them!’ cried tha Rat, jumpin up n' hustlin ta tha door.

Dat shiznit was a pimpin' sight, n' a seasonable one, dat kicked it wit they eyes when they flung tha door open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha fore-court, lit by tha dim rayz of a horn lantern, some eight or ten lil fieldmice stood up in a semicircle, red worsted comfortas round they throats, they fore-paws thrust deep tha fuck into they pockets, they feet jiggin fo' warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggerin a lil, sniffin n' applyin coat-sleeves a phat deal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. As tha door opened, one of tha elder ones dat carried tha lantern was just saying, ‘Now then, one, two, three!’ n' forthwith they shrill lil voices uprose on tha air, rappin one of tha old-time carols dat they forefathers composed up in fieldz dat was fallow n' held by frost, or when snow-bound up in chimney corners, n' handed down ta be sung up in tha miry street ta lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.

CAROL

Villagers all, dis frosty tide, Let yo' doors swin open wide, Though wind may follow, n' snow beside, Yet draw our asses up in by yo' fire ta bide; Joy shall be yours up in tha morning!

Here we stand up in tha cold n' tha sleet, Blowin fingers n' stampin feet, Come from far away you ta greet- Yo ass by tha fire n' we up in tha street- Biddin you joy up in tha morning!

For ere one half of tha night was gone, Sudden a star has hustled our asses on, Rainin bliss n' benison- Bliss to-morrow n' mo' anon, Joy fo' every last muthafuckin morning!

Goodman Joseph toiled all up in tha snow- Saw tha star o’er a stable low; Mary she might not further go- Welcome thatch, n' litta below! Joy was hers up in tha morning!

And then they heard tha angels tell ‘Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was tha straight-up original gangsta ta cry NOWELL? Animals all, as it befell, In tha stable where they did dwell! Joy shall be theirs up in tha morning!’

Da voices ceased, tha thugs, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, n' silence succeeded-but fo' a moment only. Then, from up above n' far away, down tha tunnel they had so lately travelled was borne ta they ears up in a gangbangin' faint musical hum tha sound of distant bells ringin a joyful n' clangorous peal.

‘Straight-up well sung, thugs!’ cried tha Rat heartily. ‘And now come along in, all of you, n' warm yourselves by tha fire, n' have suttin' hot!’

‘Yes, come along, field-mice,’ cried tha Mole eagerly. ‘This is like like oldschool times muthafucka! Shut tha door afta you, biatch. Pull up dat settle ta tha fire. Now, you just wait a minute, while we-O, Ratty!’ his schmoooove ass cried up in despair, plumpin down on a seat, wit tears impending. ‘Whatever is our phat asses bustin, biatch? We’ve not a god damn thang ta give them!’

‘Yo ass leave all dat ta me,’ holla'd tha masterful Rat. ‘Here, you wit tha lantern! Come over dis way. I wanna rap ta you, biatch. Now, tell me, is there any shops open at dis minute of tha night?’

‘Why, certainly, sir,’ replied tha field-mouse respectfully. ‘At dis time of tha year our shops keep open ta all sortz of hours.’

‘Then look here!’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘Yo ass go off at once, you n' yo' lantern, n' you git me--’

Here much muttered conversation ensued, n' tha Mole only heard bitz of it, such as-‘Fresh, mind!-no, a pound of dat will do-see you git Buggins’s, fo' I won’t have any other-no, only tha best-if you can’t git it there, try somewhere else-yes, of course, home-made, no tinned stuff-well then, do tha dopest you can!’ Finally, there was a cold-ass lil chink of coin passin from paw ta paw, tha field-mouse was provided wit a ample basket fo' his thugged-out lil' purchases, n' off dat schmoooove muthafucka hurried, he n' his fuckin lantern.

Da rest of tha field-mice, perched up in a row on tha settle, they lil' small-ass hairy-ass legs swinging, gave theyselves up ta enjoyment of tha fire, n' toasted they chilblains till they tingled; while tha Mole, failin ta draw dem tha fuck into easy as fuck  conversation, plunged tha fuck into crew history n' made each of dem recite tha namez of his a shitload of brothers, whoz ass was too young, it rocked up, ta be allowed ta go up a-carollin dis year yo, but looked forward straight-up shortly ta ballin tha parental consent.

Da Rat, meanwhile, was busy as a muthafucka examinin tha label on one of tha brew-bottles. ‘I perceive dis ta be Oldskool Burton,’ he remarked approvingly. ‘SENSIBLE Mole biaaatch! Da straight-up thang! Now we shall be able ta mull some ale biaaatch! Git tha thangs ready, Mole, while I draw tha corks.’

It did not take long ta prepare tha brew n' thrust tha tin heata well tha fuck into tha red ass of tha fire; n' soon every last muthafuckin field-mouse was sippin n' coughin n' chokin (for a lil mulled ale goes a long-ass way) n' wipin his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' bustin up n' forgettin dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva been cold up in all his wild lil' freakadelic game.

‘They act skits too, these fellows,’ tha Mole explained ta tha Rat. ‘Make dem up all by theyselves, n' act dem afterwardz fo' realz. And straight-up well they do it, too! They gave our asses a cold-ass lil capital one last year, on some gangbangin' field-mouse whoz ass was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, n' made ta row up in a galley; n' when he escaped n' gots home again, his fuckin lady-ludd had gone tha fuck into a cold-ass lil convent yo. Here, YOU! Yo ass was up in it, I remember n' shit. Git up n' recite a funky-ass bit.’

Da field-mouse addressed gots up on his fuckin legs, giggled shyly, looked round tha room, n' remained straight-up tongue-tied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His comrades hollared his ass on, Mole coaxed n' encouraged him, n' tha Rat went so far as ta take his ass by tha shouldaz n' shake him; but not a god damn thang could overcome his stage-fright. They was all busily engaged on his ass like watermen applyin tha Royal Humane Society’s regulations ta a cold-ass lil case of long submersion, when tha latch clicked, tha door opened, n' tha field-mouse wit tha lantern reappeared, staggerin under tha weight of his basket.

There was no mo' rap of play-actin once tha straight-up real n' solid contentz of tha basket had been tumbled up on tha table. Under tha generalshizzle of Rat, dem hoes was set ta do suttin' or ta fetch something. In a straight-up few minutes supper was ready, n' Mole, as tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha head of tha table up in a sort of a thugged-out dream, saw a lately barren board set thick wit savoury comforts; saw his fuckin lil playas’ faces brighten n' beam as they fell tha fuck ta without delay; n' then let his dirty ass loose-for da thug was famished indeed-on tha provender so magically provided, thankin what tha fuck a aiiight home-comin dis had turned out, afta all fo' realz. As they ate, they talked of oldschool times, n' tha field-mice gave his ass tha local ghetto hype up ta date, n' answered as well as they could tha hundred thangs dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta ask dem wild-ass muthafuckas. Da Rat holla'd lil or nothing, only takin care dat each hommie had what tha fuck da thug wanted, n' nuff it, n' dat Mole had no shiznit or anxiety bout anything.

They clattered off at last, straight-up grateful n' showerin wishez of tha season, wit they jacket pockets stuffed wit remembrances fo' tha lil' small-ass brothers n' sistas at home. When tha door had closed on tha last of dem n' tha chink of tha lanterns had took a dirt nap away, Mole n' Rat kicked tha fire up, drew they chairs in, brewed theyselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, n' discussed tha eventz of tha long day. It make me wanna hollar playa! At last tha Rat, wit a tremendous yawn, holla'd, ‘Mole, oldschool chap, I’m locked n loaded ta drop. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sleepy is simply not tha word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! That yo' own bunk over on dat side, biatch? Straight-up well, then, I’ll take all dis bullshit. What a rippin lil doggy den dis is muthafucka! Everythang so handy!’

Dude clambered tha fuck into his bunk n' rolled his dirty ass well up in tha blankets, n' slumber gathered his ass forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded tha fuck into tha armz of tha reapin machine.

Da weary Mole also was glad ta turn up in without delay, n' soon had his head on his thugged-out lil' pillow, up in pimped out joy n' contentment. But ere his schmoooove ass closed his wild lil' fuckin eyes he let dem wander round his oldschool room, mellow up in tha glow of tha firelight dat played or rested on familiar n' thugged-out thangs which had long been unconsciously a part of him, n' now smilingly received his ass back, without rancour yo. Dude was now up in just tha frame of mind dat tha tactful Rat had on tha fuckin' down-lowly hit dat shiznit ta brang bout up in his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude saw clearly how tha fuck plain n' simple-how narrow, even-it all was; but clearly, too, how tha fuck much all dat shiznit meant ta him, n' tha special value of some such anchorage up in one’s existence yo. Dude did not at all wanna abandon tha freshly smoked up game n' its splendid spaces, ta turn his back on sun n' air n' all they offered his ass n' creep home n' stay there; tha upper ghetto was all too strong, it called ta his ass still, even down there, n' he knew he must return ta tha larger stage. But dat shiznit was phat ta be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka had dis ta come back to; dis place which was all his own, these thangs which was so glad ta peep his ass again n' again n' again n' could always be counted upon fo' tha same simple welcome.

VI. MR. TOAD Dat shiznit was a funky-ass bright mornin up in tha early part of summer; tha river had resumed its wonted banks n' its accustomed pace, n' a funky-ass bangin' sun seemed ta be pullin every last muthafuckin thang chronic n' bushy n' spiky up outta tha earth towardz him, as if by strings. Da Mole n' tha Wata Rat had been up since dawn, straight-up busy on mattas connected wit boats n' tha openin of tha boatin season; paintin n' varnishing, mendin paddles, repairin cushions, hustlin fo' missin boat-hooks, n' so on; n' was finishin breakfast up in they lil parlour n' eagerly discussin they plans fo' tha day, when a heavy knock sounded all up in tha door.

‘Bother!’ holla'd tha Rat, all over egg. ‘See whoz ass it is, Mole, like a phat chap, since you’ve finished.’

Da Mole went ta git all up in tha summons, n' tha Rat heard his ass utta a cold-ass lil cry of surprise. Then he flung tha parlour door open, n' announced wit much importance, ‘Mista Muthafuckin Badger!’

This was a straight-up dope thang, indeed, dat tha Badger should pay a gangbangin' formal call on them, or indeed on anybody yo. Dude generally had ta be caught, if you wanted his ass badly, as da perved-out muthafucka slipped on tha fuckin' down-lowly along a hedgerow of a early mornin or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own doggy den up in tha middle of tha Wood, which was a straight-up undertaking.

Da Badger strode heavily tha fuck into tha room, n' stood lookin all up in tha two muthafuckas wit a expression full of seriousness. Da Rat let his wild lil' fuckin egg-spoon fall on tha table-cloth, n' sat open-mouthed.

‘Da minute has come!’ holla'd tha Badger at last wit pimped out solemnity.

‘What hour?’ axed tha Rat uneasily, glancin all up in tha clock on tha mantelpiece.

‘WHOSE hour, you should rather say,’ replied tha Badger n' shit. ‘Why, Toad’s hour playa! Da minute of Toad hommie! I holla'd I would take his ass up in hand as soon as tha winta was well over, n' I’m goin ta take his ass up in hand to-day!’

‘Toad’s hour, of course!’ cried tha Mole delightedly. ‘Hooray dawwwwg! I remember now! WE’LL teach his ass ta be a sensible Toad!’

‘This straight-up morning,’ continued tha Badger, takin a arm-chair, ‘as I learnt last night from a trustworthy source, another freshly smoked up n' exceptionally bangin motor-car will arrive at Toad Hall on approval or return, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At dis straight-up moment, like, Toad be jumpin' off tha hook arrayin his dirty ass up in dem singularly hideous habiliments so dear ta him, which transform his ass from a (comparatively) good-lookin Toad tha fuck into a Object which throws any decent-minded animal dat comes across it tha fuck into a violent fit. We must be up n' bustin, ere it is too late. Yo ass two muthafuckas will accompany me instantly ta Toad Hall, n' tha work of rescue shall be accomplished.’

‘Right yo ass is!’ cried tha Rat, startin up. ‘We’ll rescue tha skanky unaiiight animal! We’ll convert him! He’ll be da most thugged-out converted Toad dat eva was before we’ve done wit him!’

They set off up tha road on they mission of mercy, Badger leadin tha way fo' realz. Animals when up in company strutt up in a proper n' sensible manner, up in single file, instead of sprawlin all across tha road n' bein of no use or support ta each other up in case of sudden shiznit or danger.

They reached tha carriage-drive of Toad Hall ta find, as tha Badger had anticipated, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shiny freshly smoked up motor-car, of pimped out size, painted a funky-ass bright red (Toad’s most straight-up bangin colour), standin up in front of tha crib fo' realz. As they neared tha door dat shiznit was flung open, n' Mista Muthafuckin Toad, arrayed up in goggles, cap, gaiters, n' enormous overcoat, came swaggerin down tha steps, drawin on his wild lil' freakadelic gauntleted gloves.

‘Hullo! come on, you fellows!’ his schmoooove ass cried cheerfully on catchin sight of dem wild-ass muthafuckas. ‘You’re just up in time ta come wit me fo' a jolly-to come fo' a jolly-for a-er-jolly--’

His hearty accents faltered n' fell tha fuck away as he noticed tha stern unbendin look on tha countenancez of his silent playas, n' his crazy-ass muthafuckin invitation remained unfinished.

Da Badger strode up tha steps. ‘Take his ass inside,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd sternly ta his companions. Then, as Toad was hustled all up in tha door, strugglin n' protesting, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned ta tha chauffeur up in charge of tha freshly smoked up motor-car.

‘I’m afraid you won’t be wanted to-day,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Mista Muthafuckin Toad has chizzled his crazy-ass mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude aint gonna require tha car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Please KNOW dat dis is final. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Yo ass needn’t wait.’ Then he followed tha others inside n' shut tha door.

‘Now then!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta tha Toad, when tha four of dem stood together up in tha Hall, ‘first of all, take dem wack thangs off!’

‘Shan’t!’ replied Toad, wit pimped out spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘What tha fuck iz tha meanin of dis gross outrage, biatch? I demand a instant explanation.’

‘Take dem off him, then, you two,’ ordered tha Badger briefly.

They had ta lay Toad up on tha floor, kickin n' callin all sortz of names, before they could git ta work properly. Then tha Rat sat on him, n' tha Mole gots his crazy-ass motor-threadz off his ass bit by bit, n' they stood his ass up on his hairy-ass legs again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A phat deal of his blusterin spirit seemed ta have evaporated wit tha removal of his wild lil' fine panoply. Now dat da thug was merely Toad, n' no longer tha Terror of tha Highway, he giggled feebly n' looked from one ta tha other appealingly, seemin like ta KNOW tha thang.

‘Yo ass knew it must come ta this, sooner or later, Toad,’ tha Badger explained severely.

You’ve disregarded all tha warnings we’ve given you, you’ve gone on squanderin tha scrilla yo' daddy left you, n' you’re gettin our asses muthafuckas a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass name up in tha district by yo' furious rollin n' yo' smashes n' yo' rows wit tha police. Independence be all straight-up well yo, but we muthafuckas never allow our playaz ta make foolz of theyselves beyond a cold-ass lil certain limit; n' dat limit you’ve reached. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Now, you’re a phat fellow up in nuff respects, n' I don’t wanna be too hard on you, biatch. I’ll make one mo' effort ta brang you ta reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass will come wit me tha fuck into tha tokin-room, n' there yo big-ass booty is ghon hear some facts bout yo ass; n' we’ll peep whether you come outta dat room tha same Toad dat you went in.’

Dude took Toad firmly by tha arm, hustled his ass tha fuck into tha tokin-room, n' closed tha door behind dem wild-ass muthafuckas.

‘THAT’S no good!’ holla'd tha Rat contemptuously. ‘TALKING ta Toad’ll never cure his muthafuckin ass yo. He’ll SAY anything.’

They made theyselves laid back up in armchairs n' waited patiently. Through tha closed door they could just hear tha long continuous drone of tha Badger’s voice, risin n' fallin up in wavez of oratory; n' presently they noticed dat tha sermon fuckin started ta be punctuated at intervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceedin from tha bosom of Toad, whoz ass was a soft-hearted n' affectionate fellow, straight-up easily converted-for tha time being-to any point of view.

Afta some three-quartaz of a minute tha door opened, n' tha Badger reappeared, solemnly leadin by tha paw a straight-up limp n' dejected Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His skin hung baggily bout him, his hairy-ass legs wobbled, n' his cheeks was furrowed by tha tears so plentifully called forth by tha Badger’s movin discourse.

‘Sit down there, Toad,’ holla'd tha Badger kindly, pointin ta a cold-ass lil chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘My fuckin playas,’ da thug went on, ‘I be pleased ta inform you dat Toad has at last peeped tha error of his ways yo. Dude is truly sorry fo' his crazy-ass misguided conduct up in tha past, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka has undertaken ta give up motor-cars entirely n' fo' eva n' shit. I have his solemn promise ta dat effect.’

‘That is straight-up phat hype,’ holla'd tha Mole gravely.

‘Straight-up phat shizzle indeed,’ observed tha Rat dubiously, ‘if only-IF only--’

Dude was lookin straight-up hard at Toad as da perved-out muthafucka holla'd this, n' could not help thankin he perceived suttin' vaguely resemblin a twinkle up in dat animal’s still sorrowful eye.

‘There’s only one thang mo' ta be done,’ continued tha gratified Badger n' shit. ‘Toad, I want you solemnly ta repeat, before yo' playaz here, what tha fuck you straight-up admitted ta me up in tha tokin-room just now, nahmeean, biatch? First, yo ass is sorry fo' what tha fuck you’ve done, n' you peep tha folly of it all?’

There was a long, long pause. Toad looked desperately dis way n' that, while tha other muthafuckas waited up in grave silence fo' realz. At last da perved-out muthafucka spoke.

‘No!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, a lil sullenly yo, but stoutly; ‘I’m NOT sorry bout dat bullshit fo' realz. And it wasn’t folly at all! Dat shiznit was simply glorious!’

‘What?’ cried tha Badger, pimped outly scandalised. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Yo ass backslidin animal, didn’t you tell me just now, up in there--’

‘Oh, fo'sho, fo'sho, up in THERE,’ holla'd Toad impatiently. ‘I’d have holla'd anythang up in THERE. You’re so eloquent, dear Badger, n' so moving, n' so convincing, n' put all yo' points so frightfully well-you can do what tha fuck you like wit me up in THERE, n' you know dat shit. But I’ve been searchin mah mind since, n' goin over thangs up in it, n' I find dat I’m not a lil' bit sorry or repentant straight-up, so it’s no earthly phat sayin I am; now, is it?’

‘Then you don’t promise,’ holla'd tha Badger, ‘never ta bust a nut on a motor-car again?’

‘Certainly not!’ replied Toad emphatically. ‘On tha contrary, I faithfully promise dat tha straight-up first motor-car I see, poop-poop! off I go up in dat shiznit son!’

‘Told you so, didn’t I?’ observed tha Rat ta tha Mole.

‘Straight-up well, then,’ holla'd tha Badger firmly, risin ta his Nikes. ‘Since you won’t yield ta persuasion, we’ll try what tha fuck force can do. I feared it would come ta dis all along. You’ve often axed our asses three ta come n' stay wit you, Toad, up in dis thugged-out doggy den of yours; well, now we’re goin to. When we’ve converted you ta a proper point of view we may quit yo, but not before. Take his ass upstairs, you two, n' lock his ass up in his bedroom, while we arrange mattas between ourselves.’

‘It’s fo' yo' own good, Toady, you know,’ holla'd tha Rat kindly, as Toad, kickin n' struggling, was hauled up tha stairs by his cold-ass two faithful playas. ‘Think what tha fuck funk we shall all have together, just as we used to, when you’ve like gots over this-this fucked up battle of yours!’

‘We’ll take pimped out care of every last muthafuckin thang fo' you till you’re well, Toad,’ holla'd tha Mole; ‘and we’ll peep yo' scrilla aint wasted, as it has been.’

‘No mo' of dem regrettable incidents wit tha police, Toad,’ holla'd tha Rat, as they thrust his ass tha fuck into his bedroom.

‘And no mo' weeks up in hospitizzle, bein ordered bout by biatch nurses, Toad,’ added tha Mole, turnin tha key on his muthafuckin ass.

They descended tha stair, Toad shoutin abuse at dem all up in tha keyhole; n' tha three playaz then kicked it wit up in conference on tha thang.

‘It’s goin ta be a tedious bidnizz,’ holla'd tha Badger, sighing. ‘I’ve never peeped Toad so determined. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat we will peep it up yo. Dude must never be left a instant unguarded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We shall gotta take it up in turns ta be wit him, till tha poison has hit dat shiznit itself outta his system.’

They arranged watches accordingly. Each animal took it up in turns ta chill up in Toad’s room at night, n' they divided tha dizzle up between dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. At first Toad was undoubtedly straight-up tryin ta his careful guardians. When his violent paroxysms possessed his ass da thug would arrange bedroom chairs up in rude resemblizzle of a motor-car n' would crouch on tha foremost of them, bent forward n' starin fixedly ahead, makin uncouth n' ghastly noises, till tha climax was reached, when, turnin a cold-ass lil complete somersault, da thug would lie prostrate amidst tha ruinz of tha chairs, apparently straight-up satisfied fo' tha moment fo' realz. As time passed, however, these fucked up seizures grew gradually less frequent, n' his wild lil' playaz strove ta divert his crazy-ass mind tha fuck into fresh channels. But his crazy-ass muthafuckin interest up in other mattas did not seem ta revive, n' he grew apparently languid n' pissed off.

One fine mornin tha Rat, whose turn dat shiznit was ta go on duty, went upstairs ta relieve Badger, whom he found fidgetin ta be off n' stretch his hairy-ass legs up in a long-ass ramble round his wood n' down his wild lil' fuckin earths n' burrows. ‘Toad’s still up in bed,’ tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd all up in tha Rat, outside tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘Can’t git much outta him, except, "O leave his ass alone, da thug wants nothing, like he’ll be betta presently, it may pass off up in time, don’t be unduly anxious," n' so on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now, you look out, Rat son! When Toad’s on tha down-low n' submissive n' playin at bein tha pimp of a Sunday-school prize, then he’s at his thugged-out artfullest. There’s shizzle ta be suttin' up. I know his muthafuckin ass. Well, now, I must be off.’

‘How tha fuck is you to-day, oldschool chap?’ inquired tha Rat cheerfully, as he approached Toad’s bedside.

Dude had ta wait some minutes fo' a answer n' shiznit fo' realz. At last a gangbangin' feeble voice replied, ‘Nuff props so much, dear Ratty dawwwwg! So phat of y'all ta inquire biaaatch! But first tell me how tha fuck yo ass is yo ass, n' tha pimpin Mole?’

‘O, WE’RE all right,’ replied tha Rat. ‘Mole,’ he added incautiously, ‘is goin up fo' a run round wit Badger n' shit. They’ll be up till luncheon time, so you n' I'ma spend a pleasant mornin together, n' I’ll do mah dopest ta amuse you, biatch. Now jump up, there’s a phat fellow, n' don’t lie mopin there on a gangbangin' fine mornin like this!’

‘Dear, kind Rat,’ murmured Toad, ‘how lil you realise mah condition, n' how tha fuck straight-up far I be from "jumpin up" now-if eva playa! But do not shiznit bout mah dirty ass. I don't give a fuck bout bein a funky-ass burden ta mah playas, n' I do not expect ta be one much longer n' shit. Git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit, I almost hope not.’

‘Well, I hope not, too,’ holla'd tha Rat heartily. ‘You’ve been a gangbangin' fine bother ta our asses all dis time, n' I’m glad ta hear it’s goin ta stop fo' realz. And up in drizzle like this, n' tha boatin season just beginning! It’s too shitty of you, Toad hommie! It aint tha shiznit we mind yo, but you’re makin our asses miss such a wack lot.’

‘I’m afraid it IS tha shiznit you mind, though,’ replied tha Toad languidly. ‘I can like KNOW dat shit. It’s natural enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. You’re pissed wit botherin bout mah dirty ass. I mustn’t ask you ta do anythang further n' shit. I’m a nuisance, I know.’

‘Yo ass are, indeed,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘But I rap, I’d take any shiznit on earth fo' you, if only you’d be a sensible animal.’

‘If I thought that, Ratty,’ murmured Toad, mo' feebly than ever, ‘then I would beg you-for tha last time, probably-to step round ta tha hood as quickly as possible-even now it may be too late-and fetch tha doctor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But don’t you bother n' shit. It’s only a shit, n' like we may as well let thangs take they course.’

‘Why, what tha fuck do you want a thugged-out doctor for?’ inquired tha Rat, comin closer n' examinin his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude certainly lay straight-up still n' flat, n' his voice was weaker n' his crazy-ass manner much chizzled.

‘Surely you have noticed of late--’ murmured Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘But, no-why should yo slick ass, biatch? Noticin thangs is only a shit. To-morrow, indeed, you may be sayin ta yo ass, "O, if only I had noticed sooner playa! If only I had done something!" But no; it’s a shit. Never mind-forget dat I asked.’

‘Look here, oldschool dude,’ holla'd tha Rat, beginnin ta git rather alarmed, ‘of course I’ll fetch a thugged-out doctor ta you, if you straight-up be thinkin you want his muthafuckin ass. But you can hardly be shitty enough fo' dat yet. Let’s rap bout suttin' else.’

‘I fear, dear playa,’ holla'd Toad, wit a fucked up smile, ‘that "talk" can do lil up in a cold-ass lil case like this-or doctors either, fo' dat matter; still, one must grasp all up in tha slightest straw fo' realz. And, by tha way-while yo ass be bout it-I HATE ta hit you wit additionizzle shiznit yo, but I happen ta remember dat yo big-ass booty is ghon pass tha door-would you mind all up in tha same time askin tha lawyer ta step up, biatch? It would be a cold-ass lil convenience ta me, n' there be moments-like I should say there is A moment-when one must grill disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost ta exhausted nature!’

‘A lawyer playa! O, he must be straight-up bad!’ tha affrighted Rat holla'd ta his dirty ass, as dat schmoooove muthafucka hurried from tha room, not forgetting, however, ta lock tha door carefully behind his muthafuckin ass.

Outside, da perved-out muthafucka stopped ta consider n' shit. Da other two was far away, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had no one ta consult.

‘It’s dopest ta be on tha safe side,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, on reflection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘I’ve known Toad fancy his dirty ass frightfully shitty before, without tha slightest reason; but I’ve never heard his ass ask fo' a lawyer playa! If there’s not a god damn thang straight-up tha matter, tha doctor will tell his ass he’s a oldschool ass, n' cheer his ass up; n' dat is ghon be suttin' gained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’d betta humour his ass n' go; it won’t take straight-up long.’ So he ran off ta tha hood on his wild lil' fuckin errand of mercy.

Da Toad, whoz ass had hopped lightly outta bed as soon as dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha key turned up in tha lock, peeped his ass eagerly from tha window till da ruffneck disappeared down tha carriage-drive. Then, bustin up heartily, da ruffneck dressed as quickly as possible up in tha smartest suit his schmoooove ass could lay handz on all up in tha moment, filled his thugged-out lil' pockets wit chedda which tha pimpin' muthafucka took from a lil' small-ass drawer up in tha dressing-table, n' next, knottin tha sheets from his bed together n' tyin one end of tha improvised rope round tha central mullion of tha thugged-out Tudor window which formed such a gangbangin' feature of his bedroom, da perved-out muthafucka scrambled out, slid lightly ta tha ground, and, takin tha opposite direction ta tha Rat, marched off lightheartedly, whistlin a merry tune.

Dat shiznit was a gloomy luncheon fo' Rat when tha Badger n' tha Mole at length returned, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta grill dem at table wit his thugged-out lil' pitiful n' unconvincin story. Da Badger’s caustic, not ta say brutal, remarks may be imagined, n' therefore passed over; but dat shiznit was fucked up ta tha Rat dat even tha Mole, though tha pimpin' muthafucka took his wild lil' playa’s side as far as possible, could not help saying, ‘You’ve been a lil' bit of a thugged-out duffer dis time, Ratty dawwwwg! Toad, too, of all muthafuckas!’

‘Dude done did it awfully well,’ holla'd tha crestfallen Rat.

‘Dude did YOU awfully well!’ rejoined tha Badger hotly. ‘But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat poppin' off won’t mend mattas yo. He’s gots clear away fo' tha time, that’s certain; n' da most thugged-out shitty of it is, he’ll be all kindsa conceited wit what tha fuck he’ll be thinkin is his defnizz dat he may commit any folly. One comfort is, we’re free now, n' needn’t waste any mo' of our precious time bustin sentry-go. But we’d betta continue ta chill at Toad Hall fo' a while longer n' shit. Toad may be brought back at any moment-on a stretcher, or between two policemen.’

So was rappin tha Badger, not knowin what tha fuck tha future held up in store, or how tha fuck much water, n' of how tha fuck turbid a cold-ass lil character, was ta run under bridges before Toad should sit at ease again n' again n' again up in his thugged-out ancestral Hall.

Meanwhile, Toad, gay n' irresponsible, was struttin briskly along tha high road, some milez from home fo' realz. At first dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken by-paths, n' crossed nuff fields, n' chizzled his course nuff muthafuckin times, up in case of pursuit; but now, feelin by dis time safe from recapture, n' tha sun smilin brightly on him, n' all Nature joinin up in a cold-ass lil choruz of approval ta tha cold lil' woo wop of self-praise dat his own ass was rappin ta him, he almost danced along tha road up in his satisfaction n' conceit.

‘Smart piece of work that!’ he remarked ta his dirty ass chuckling. ‘Dome against brute force-and dome came up on tha top-as it’s bound ta do. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skanky oldschool Ratty dawwwwg! My fuckin dawwwwg! won’t his schmoooove ass catch it when tha Badger gets back! A worthy fellow, Ratty, wit nuff phat qualitizzles yo, but straight-up lil intelligence n' straight-up no ejaculation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I must take his ass up in hand some day, n' peep if I can make suttin' of his muthafuckin ass.’

Filled full of conceited thoughts like fuckin these da perved-out muthafucka strode along, his head up in tha air, till he reached a lil town, where tha sign of ‘Da Red Lion,’ swingin across tha road halfway down tha main street, reminded his ass dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had not breakfasted dat day, n' dat da thug was exceedingly horny afta his fuckin long strutt yo. Dude marched tha fuck into tha Inn, ordered tha dopest luncheon dat could be provided at so short a notice, n' sat down ta smoke it up in tha coffee-room.

Dude was bout half-way all up in his crazy-ass meal when a only too familiar sound, approachin down tha street, made his ass start n' fall a-tremblin all over n' shit. Da poop-poop! drew nearer n' nearer, tha hoopty could be heard ta turn tha fuck into tha inn-yard n' come ta a stop, n' Toad had ta hold on ta tha leg of tha table ta conceal his over-masterin emotion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Presently tha jam entered tha coffee-room, hungry, talkative, n' gay, voluble on they experiencez of tha mornin n' tha meritz of tha chariot dat had brought dem along so well. Toad listened eagerly, all ears, fo' a time; at last his schmoooove ass could stand it no longer n' shiznit yo. Dude slipped outta tha room on tha fuckin' down-lowly, paid his bill all up in tha bar, n' as soon as he gots outside sauntered round on tha fuckin' down-lowly ta tha inn-yard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘There cannot be any harm,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass, ‘in mah only just LOOKING at dat shiznit son!’

Da hoopty stood up in tha middle of tha yard, like unattended, tha stable-helps n' other hangers-on bein all at they dinner n' shit. Toad strutted slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musin deeply.

‘I wonder,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass presently, ‘I wonder if dis sort of hoopty STARTS easily?’

Next moment, hardly knowin how tha fuck it came about, he found dat schmoooove muthafucka had hold of tha handle n' was turnin it fo' realz. As tha familiar sound broke forth, tha oldschool boner seized on Toad n' straight-up mastered him, body n' ass fo' realz. As if up in a thugged-out trip he found his dirty ass, somehow, seated up in tha driver’s seat; as if up in a thugged-out dream, he pulled tha lever n' swung tha hoopty round tha yard n' up all up in tha archway; and, as if up in a thugged-out dream, all sense of right n' wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily suspended. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude increased his thugged-out lil' pace, n' as tha hoopty devoured tha street n' leapt forth on tha high road all up in tha open ghetto, da thug was only conscious dat da thug was Toad once more, Toad at his dopest n' highest, Toad tha terror, tha traffic-queller, tha Lord of tha lone trail, before whom all must give way or be smitten tha fuck into nothingnizz n' everlastin night yo. Dude chanted as he flew, n' tha hoopty responded wit sonorous drone; tha milez was smoked up under his ass as da perved-out muthafucka sped he knew not whither, fulfillin his crazy-ass muthafuckin instincts, livin his hour, reckless of what tha fuck might come ta his muthafuckin ass.



‘To mah mind,’ observed tha Chairman of tha Bench of Magistrates cheerfully, ‘the ONLY hang-up dat presents itself up in dis otherwise straight-up clear case is, how tha fuck we can possibly make it sufficiently bangin' fo' tha incorrigible rogue n' hardened ruffian whom we peep cowerin up in tha dock before us. Let me see: dat schmoooove muthafucka has been found guilty, on tha clearest evidence, first, of jackin a valuable motor-car; secondly, of rollin ta tha hood danger; and, thirdly, of gross impertinence ta tha rural police. Mista Muthafuckin Clerk, will you tell us, please, what tha fuck is tha straight-up stiffest penalty we can impose fo' each of these offences, biatch? Without, of course, givin tha prisoner tha benefit of any doubt, cuz there aint any.’

Da Clerk scratched his nozzle wit his thugged-out lil' pen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Some playas would consider,’ he observed, ‘that jackin tha motor-car was da most thugged-out shitty offence; n' so it is. But cheekin tha five-o undoubtedly carries tha severest penalty; n' so it ought. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Supposin you was ta say twelve months fo' tha theft, which is mild; n' three muthafuckin years fo' tha furious driving, which is lenient; n' fifteen muthafuckin years fo' tha cheek, which was pretty shitty sort of cheek, judgin by what tha fuck we’ve heard from tha witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what tha fuck you heard, n' I never believe mo' mah dirty ass-those figures, if added together erectly, tot up ta nineteen years--’

‘First-rate!’ holla'd tha Chairman.

‘-So you had betta make it a round twenty muthafuckin years n' be on tha safe side,’ concluded tha Clerk.

‘An pimpin suggestion!’ holla'd tha Chairman approvingly. ‘Prisoner playa! Pull yo ass together n' try n' stand up straight. It’s goin ta be twenty muthafuckin years fo' you dis time fo' realz. And mind, if you step tha fuck up before our asses again, upon any charge whatever, we shall gotta deal wit you straight-up seriously!’

Then tha brutal minionz of tha law fell tha fuck upon tha hapless Toad; loaded his ass wit chains, n' dragged his ass from tha Court House, shrieking, praying, protesting; across tha marketplace, where tha playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they is sympathetic n' helpful when one is merely ‘wanted,’ assailed his ass wit jeers, carrots, n' ghettofab catch-words; past hootin school children, they innocent faces lit up wit tha pleasure they eva derive from tha sight of a gentleman up in difficulties; across tha hollow-soundin drawbridge, below tha spiky portcullis, under tha frownin archway of tha grim oldschool castle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full of grinnin soldiery off duty, past sentries whoz ass coughed up in a horrid, sarcastic way, cuz dat be as much as a sentry on his thugged-out lil' post dare do ta show his contempt n' abhorrence of crime; up time-worn windin stairs, past men-at-arms up in casquet n' corselet of steel, dartin threatenin looks all up in they vizards; across courtyards, where mastiffs strained at they leash n' pawed tha air ta git at him; past ancient warders, they halberdz leant against tha wall, dozin over a pasty n' a gangbangin' flagon of brown ale; on n' on, past tha rack-chamber n' tha thumbscrew-room, past tha turnin dat hustled ta tha private scaffold, till they reached tha door of tha grimmest dungeon dat lay up in tha ass of tha innermost keep. There at last they paused, where a ancient gaola sat fingerin a funky-ass bunch of mighty keys.

‘Oddsbodikins!’ holla'd tha sergeant of police, takin off his helmet n' wipin his wild lil' forehead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Rouse thee, oldschool loon, n' take over from our asses dis vile Toad, a cold-ass lil criminal of deepest guilt n' matchless artfulnizz n' resource. Watch n' ward his ass wit all thy skill; n' mark thee well, greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy oldschool head shall answer fo' his-and a murrain on both of them!’

Da gaola nodded grimly, layin his withered hand on tha shoulder of tha miserable Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da rusty key creaked up in tha lock, tha pimped out door clanged behind them; n' Toad was a helpless prisoner up in tha remotest dungeon of tha best-guarded keep of tha stoutest castle up in all tha length n' breadth of Merry England.

VII. THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN Da Willow-Wren was twitterin his cold-ass thin lil song, hidden his dirty ass up in tha dark selvedge of tha river bank. Though dat shiznit was past ten o’clock at night, tha sky still clung ta n' retained some lingerin skirtz of light from tha departed day; n' tha sullen heatz of tha torrid afternoon broke up n' rolled away all up in tha dispersin bust a nut on of tha def fingerz of tha short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on tha bank, still pantin from tha stress of tha fierce dizzle dat had been cloudless from dawn ta late sunset, n' waited fo' his wild lil' playa ta return, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude had been on tha river wit some companions, leavin tha Wata Rat free ta keep a engagement of long standin wit Otter; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had come back ta find tha doggy den dark n' deserted, n' no sign of Rat, whoz ass was doubtless keepin it up late wit his oldschool comrade. Dat shiznit was still too bangin' ta be thinkin of stayin indoors, so he lay on some def dock-leaves, n' thought over tha past dizzle n' its bustins, n' how tha fuck straight-up phat they all had been.

Da Rat’s light footfall was presently heard approachin over tha parched grass. ‘O, tha pimped coolness!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, n' sat down, gazin thoughtfully tha fuck into tha river, silent n' pre-occupied.

‘Yo ass stayed ta supper, of course?’ holla'd tha Mole presently.

‘Simply had to,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘They wouldn’t hear of mah goin before. Yo ass know how tha fuck kind they always is fo' realz. And they made thangs as jolly fo' me as eva they could, right up ta tha moment I left. But I felt a funky-ass brute all tha time, as dat shiznit was clear ta me they was straight-up bugged out, though they tried ta hide dat shit. Mole, I’m afraid they’re up in shit. Little Portly is missin again; n' you know what tha fuck a shitload his wild lil' daddy be thinkin of him, though he never say much bout dat shit.’

‘What, dat child?’ holla'd tha Mole lightly. ‘Well, suppose he is; why worry bout it, biatch? He’s always strayin off n' gettin lost, n' turnin up again; he’s so adventurous. But no harm eva happens ta his muthafuckin ass. All Y'all hereabouts knows his ass n' likes him, just as they do oldschool Otter, n' you may be shizzle some animal or other will come across his ass n' brang his ass back again n' again n' again all right. Why, we’ve found his ass ourselves, milez from home, n' like self-possessed n' cheerful!’

‘Yes; but dis time it’s mo' serious,’ holla'd tha Rat gravely. ‘He’s been missin fo' some minutes now, n' tha Ottas have hunted everywhere, high n' low, without findin tha slightest trace fo' realz. And they’ve axed every last muthafuckin animal, too, fo' milez around, n' no one knows anythang bout his muthafuckin ass. Otter’s evidently mo' anxious than he’ll admit. I gots outta his ass dat lil' Portly hasn’t learnt ta swim straight-up well yet, n' I can peep he’s thankin of tha weir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There’s a shitload of wata comin down still, thankin bout tha time of tha year, n' tha place always had a gangbangin' fascination fo' tha child. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And then there are-well, traps n' thangs-YOU know. Otter’s not tha fellow ta be straight-up trippin bout any lil hustla of his before it’s time fo' realz. And now he IS nervous. When I left, his schmoooove ass came up wit me-said da thug wanted some air, n' talked bout stretchin his fuckin legs. But I could peep it wasn’t that, so I drew his ass up n' pumped him, n' gots all dat shiznit from his ass at last yo. Dude was goin ta spend tha night watchin by tha ford. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass know tha place where tha oldschool ford used ta be, up in by-gone minutes before they built tha bridge?’

‘I know it well,’ holla'd tha Mole. ‘But why should Otta chizzle ta peep there?’

‘Well, it seems dat dat shiznit was there he gave Portly his wild lil' first swimming-lesson,’ continued tha Rat. ‘From dat shallow, gravelly spit near tha bank fo' realz. And dat shiznit was there he used ta teach his ass fishing, n' there lil' Portly caught his wild lil' first fish, of which da thug was so straight-up proud as a muthafucka as a muthafucka.Da lil pimp loved tha spot, n' Otta be thinkin dat if his schmoooove ass came wanderin back from wherever he is-if he IS anywhere by dis time, skanky lil chap-he might make fo' tha ford da thug was so fond of; or if his schmoooove ass came across it he’d remember it well, n' stop there n' play, like. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So Otta goes there every last muthafuckin night n' watches-on tha chance, you know, just on tha chance!’

They was silent fo' a time, both thankin of tha same thang-the lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by tha ford, watchin n' waiting, tha long night through-on tha chance.

‘Well, well,’ holla'd tha Rat presently, ‘I suppose we ought ta be thankin bout turnin in.’ But he never offered ta move.

‘Rat,’ holla'd tha Mole, ‘I simply can’t go n' turn in, n' chill like a pimp, n' DO nothing, even though there don’t seem ta be anythang ta be done. We’ll git tha boat out, n' paddle up stream. Da moon is ghon be up in a minute or so, n' then we will search as well as we can-anyhow, it is ghon be betta than goin ta bed n' bustin NOTHING.’

‘Just what tha fuck I was thankin mah dirty ass,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘It’s not tha sort of night fo' bed anyhow; n' daybreak aint so straight-up far off, n' then we may pick up some shizzle of his ass from early risers as we go along.’

They gots tha boat out, n' tha Rat took tha sculls, paddlin wit caution. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Out up in midstream, there was a cold-ass lil clear, narrow track dat faintly reflected tha sky; but wherever shadows fell tha fuck on tha wata from bank, bush, or tree, they was as solid ta all appearizzle as tha banks theyselves, n' tha Mole had ta steer wit judgment accordingly. Dark n' deserted as it was, tha night was full of lil' small-ass noises, cold lil' woo wop n' chatta n' rustling, spittin some lyrics ta of tha busy lil population whoz ass was up n' about, plyin they trades n' vocations all up in tha night till sunshine should fall on dem at last n' bust dem off ta they well-earned repose. Da water’s own noises, too, was mo' apparent than by day, its gurglings n' ‘cloops’ mo' unexpected n' near at hand; n' constantly they started at what tha fuck seemed a sudden clear call from a actual articulate voice.

Da line of tha horizizzle was clear n' hard against tha sky, n' up in one particular quarta it flossed black against a silvery climbin phosphorescence dat grew n' grew fo' realz. At last, over tha rim of tha waitin earth tha moon lifted wit slow majesty till it swung clear of tha horizizzle n' rode off, free of moorings; n' once mo' they fuckin started ta peep surfaces-meadows wide-spread, n' on tha down-low gardens, n' tha river itself from bank ta bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery n' terror, all radiant again n' again n' again as by dizzle yo, but wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' difference dat was tremendous. Their oldschool haunts greeted dem again n' again n' again up in other raiment, as if they had slipped away n' put on dis pure freshly smoked up apparel n' come on tha fuckin' down-lowly back, smilin as they shyly waited ta peep if they would be recognised again n' again n' again under dat shit.

Fastenin they boat ta a willow, tha playaz landed up in dis silent, silver mackdaddydom, n' patiently explored tha hedges, tha hollow trees, tha runnels n' they lil culverts, tha ditches n' dry water-ways. Embarkin again n' again n' again n' crossin over, they hit dat shiznit they way up tha stream up in dis manner, while tha moon, serene n' detached up in a cold-ass lil cloudless sky, did what tha fuck dat thugged-out biiiatch could, though so far off, ta help dem up in they quest; till her minute came n' her big-ass booty sank earthwardz reluctantly, n' left them, n' mystery once mo' held field n' river.

Then a cold-ass lil chizzle fuckin started slowly ta declare itself. Da horizizzle became clearer, field n' tree came mo' tha fuck into sight, n' somehow wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' different look; tha mystery fuckin started ta drop away from dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. A bird piped suddenly, n' was still; n' a light breeze sprang up n' set tha reedz n' bulrushes rustling. Rat, whoz ass was up in tha stern of tha boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly n' listened wit a horny intentness. Mole, whoz ass wit gentle strokes was just keepin tha boat movin while da perved-out muthafucka scanned tha banks wit care, looked at his ass wit curiosity.

‘It’s gone!’ sighed tha Rat, sinkin back up in his seat again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘So dope n' strange n' new. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Since dat shiznit was ta end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard dat shit. For it has roused a longin up in me dat is pain, n' not a god damn thang seems worth while but just ta hear dat sound once mo' n' go on listenin ta it fo' eva n' shit. No! There it be again!’ his schmoooove ass cried, alert once mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Entranced, da thug was silent fo' a long-ass space, spellbound.

‘Now it passes on n' I begin ta lose it,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd presently. ‘O Mole biaaatch! tha beauty of dat shiznit son! Da merry bubble n' joy, tha thin, clear, aiiight call of tha distant piping! Such noize I never dreamed of, n' tha call up in it is stronger even than tha noize is dope biaaatch! Row on, Mole, row! For tha noize n' tha call must be fo' us.’

Da Mole, pimped outly wondering, obeyed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I hear not a god damn thang mah dirty ass,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘but tha wind playin up in tha reedz n' rushes n' osiers.’

Da Rat never answered, if indeed dat schmoooove muthafucka heard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Rapt, transported, trembling, da thug was possessed up in all his senses by dis freshly smoked up divine thang dat caught up his helpless ass n' swung n' dandled it, a powerless but aiiight infant up in a phat sustainin grasp.

In silence Mole rowed steadily, n' soon they came ta a point where tha river divided, a long-ass backwata branchin off ta one side. With a slight movement of his head Rat, whoz ass had long dropped tha rudder-lines, pimped up tha rower ta take tha backwater n' shit. Da creepin tide of light gained n' gained, n' now they could peep tha colour of tha flowers dat gemmed tha water’s edge.

‘Clearer n' nearer still,’ cried tha Rat joyously. ‘Now you must surely hear dat shiznit son! Ah-at last-I peep you do!’

Breathless n' transfixed tha Mole stopped rowin as tha liquid run of dat glad pipin broke on his ass like a wave, caught his ass up, n' possessed his ass utterly yo. Dude saw tha tears on his comrade’s cheeks, n' bowed his head n' understood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! For a space they hung there, brushed by tha purple loose-strife dat fringed tha bank; then tha clear imperious summons dat marched hand-in-hand wit tha intoxicatin melody imposed its will on Mole, n' mechanically his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bent ta his oars again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And tha light grew steadily stronger yo, but no birdz busted as they was aint gonna ta do all up in tha approach of dawn; n' but fo' tha heavenly noize all was marvellously still.

On either side of them, as they glided onwards, tha rich meadow-grass seemed dat mornin of a gangbangin' freshnizz n' a greennizz unsurpassable. Never had they noticed tha roses so vivid, tha willow-herb so riotous, tha meadow-sweet so odorous n' pervading. Then tha murmur of tha approachin weir fuckin started ta hold tha air, n' they felt a cold-ass lil consciousnizz dat they was nearin tha end, whatever it might be, dat surely awaited they expedition.

A wide half-circle of foam n' glintin lights n' shinin shouldaz of chronic water, tha pimped out weir closed tha backwata from bank ta bank, shitd all tha on tha down-low surface wit twirlin eddies n' floatin foam-streaks, n' deadened all other soundz wit its solemn n' soothang rumble. In midmost of tha stream, embraced up in tha weir’s shimmerin arm-spread, a lil' small-ass island lay anchored, fringed close wit willow n' silver birch n' alder n' shit. Reserved, shy yo, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keepin it till tha minute should come, and, wit tha hour, dem playas whoz ass was called n' chosen.

Slowly yo, but wit no diggity or hesitation whatever, n' up in suttin' of a solemn expectancy, tha two muthafuckas passed all up in tha fucked up tumultuous wata n' moored they boat all up in tha flowery margin of tha island. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In silence they landed, n' pushed all up in tha blossom n' scented herbage n' undergrowth dat hustled up ta tha level ground, till they stood on a lil lawn of a marvellous green, set round wit Nature’s own orchard-trees-crab-apple, wild cherry, n' sloe.

‘This is tha place of mah song-dream, tha place tha noize played ta me,’ whispered tha Rat, as if up in a trance. ‘Here, up in dis holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!’

Then suddenly tha Mole felt a pimped out Awe fall upon him, a awe dat turned his crazy-ass musclez ta water, bowed his head, n' rooted his wild lil' feet ta tha ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was no panic terror-indeed he felt wonderfully at peace n' happy-but dat shiznit was a awe dat smote n' held his ass and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean dat some august Presence was hella, straight-up near. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. With hang-up tha pimpin' muthafucka turned ta look fo' his wild lil' playa n' saw his ass at his side cowed, stricken, n' tremblin violently fo' realz. And still there was utta silence up in tha populous bird-hustled branches round them; n' still tha light grew n' grew.

Perhaps da thug would never have dared ta raise his wild lil' fuckin eyes yo, but that, though tha pipin was now hushed, tha call n' tha summons seemed still dominant n' imperious yo. Dude might not refuse, was Dirtnap his dirty ass waitin ta strike his ass instantly, once dat schmoooove muthafucka had looked wit mortal eye on thangs rightly kept hidden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Tremblin he obeyed, n' raised his humble head; n' then, up in dat utta clearnizz of tha imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed wit fullnizz of incredible colour, seemed ta hold her breath fo' tha event, he looked up in tha straight-up eyez of tha Hommie n' Helper; saw tha backward sweep of tha curved horns, gleamin up in tha growin daylight; saw tha stern, hooked nozzle between tha kindly eyes dat was lookin down on dem humourously, while tha bearded grill broke tha fuck into a half-smile all up in tha corners; saw tha ripplin musclez on tha arm dat lay across tha broad chest, tha long supple hand still holdin tha pan-pipes only just fallen away from tha parted lips; saw tha splendid curvez of tha shaggy limbs disposed up in majestic ease on tha sward; saw, last of all, nestlin between his straight-up hooves, chillin soundly up in entire peace n' contentment, tha lil, round, podgy, childish form of tha baby otter n' shiznit fo' realz. All dis da perved-out muthafucka saw, fo' one moment breathless n' intense, vivid on tha mornin sky; n' still, as he looked, he lived; n' still, as he lived, da thug wondered.

‘Rat!’ he found breath ta whisper, bobbin. ‘Is you afraid?’

‘Afraid?’ murmured tha Rat, his wild lil' fuckin eyes shinin wit unutterable love. ‘Afraid hommie! Of HIM, biatch? O, never, never playa! And yet-and yet-O, Mole, I be afraid!’

Then tha two muthafuckas, crouchin ta tha earth, bowed they headz n' did worship.

Sudden n' magnificent, tha sun’s broad golden disc flossed itself over tha horizizzle facin them; n' tha straight-up original gangsta rays, blastin across tha level water-meadows, took tha muthafuckas full up in tha eyes n' dazzled dem wild-ass muthafuckas. When they was able ta look once more, tha Vision had vanished, n' tha air was full of tha carol of birdz dat hailed tha dawn.

As they stared blankly up in dumb misery deepenin as they slowly realised all they had peeped n' all they had lost, a cold-ass lil capricious lil breeze, ridin' dirty up from tha surface of tha water, tossed tha aspens, shook tha dewy roses n' blew lightly n' caressingly up in they faces; n' wit its soft bust a nut on came instant oblivion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. For dis is tha last dopest gift dat tha kindly demi-god is careful ta bestow on dem ta whom dat schmoooove muthafucka has revealed his dirty ass up in they helping: tha gift of forgetfulness. Lest tha wack remembrizzle should remain n' grow, n' overshadow mirth n' pleasure, n' tha pimped out hustlin memory should spoil all tha after-livez of lil muthafuckas helped outta difficulties, up in order dat they should be aiiight n' lighthearted as before.

Mole rubbed his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' stared at Rat, whoz ass was lookin bout his ass up in a puzzled sort of way. ‘I beg yo' pardon; what tha fuck did you say, Rat?’ he asked.

‘I be thinkin I was only remarking,’ holla'd Rat slowly, ‘that dis was tha right sort of place, n' dat here, if anywhere, we should find his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. And look! Why, there he is, tha lil fellow!’ And wit a cold-ass lil cry of delight he ran towardz tha slumberin Portly.

But Mole stood still a moment, held up in thought fo' realz. As one wakened suddenly from a funky-ass dope dream, whoz ass strugglez ta recall it, n' can re-capture not a god damn thang but a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dim sense of tha beauty of it, tha beauty dawwwwg! Till that, too, fades away up in its turn, n' tha dreamer bitterly accepts tha hard, cold wakin n' all its penalties; so Mole, afta strugglin wit his crazy-ass memory fo' a funky-ass brief space, shook his head sadly n' followed tha Rat.

Portly raised up wit a joyous squeak, n' wriggled wit pleasure all up in tha sight of his wild lil' father’s playas, whoz ass had played wit his ass so often up in past days. In a moment, however, his wild lil' grill grew blank, n' he fell tha fuck ta hustlin round up in a cold-ass lil circle wit pleadin whine fo' realz. As a cold-ass lil lil pimp dat has fallen happily asleep up in its nurse’s arms, n' wakes ta find itself ridin' solo n' laid up in a strange place, n' searches corners n' cupboards, n' runs from room ta room, despair growin silently up in its ass, even so Portly searched tha island n' searched, dogged n' unwearying, till at last tha black moment came fo' givin it up, n' chillin down n' bustin up like a biatch bitterly.

Da Mole ran quickly ta comfort tha lil animal; but Rat, lingering, looked long n' doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep up in tha sward.

‘Some-great-animal-has been here,’ he murmured slowly n' thoughtfully; n' stood musing, musing; his crazy-ass mind strangely stirred.

‘Come along, Rat!’ called tha Mole. ‘Think of skanky Otter, waitin up there by tha ford!’

Portly had soon been comforted by tha promise of a treat-a jaunt on tha river up in Mista Muthafuckin Rat’s real boat; n' tha two muthafuckas conducted his ass ta tha water’s side, placed his ass securely between dem up in tha bottom of tha boat, n' paddled off down tha backwater n' shit. Da sun was straight-up up by now, n' bangin' on them, birdz busted lustily n' without restraint, n' flowers smiled n' nodded from either bank yo, but somehow-so thought tha muthafuckas-with less of richnizz n' blaze of colour than they seemed ta remember seein like recently somewhere-they wondered where.

Da main river reached again, they turned tha boat’s head upstream, towardz tha point where they knew they playa was keepin his fuckin lonely vigil fo' realz. As they drew near tha familiar ford, tha Mole took tha boat up in ta tha bank, n' they lifted Portly up n' set his ass on his hairy-ass legs on tha tow-path, gave his ass his crazy-ass marchin ordaz n' a gangbangin' thugged-out farewell pat on tha back, n' shoved up tha fuck into mid-stream. They peeped tha lil animal as da thug waddled along tha path contentedly n' wit importance; peeped his ass till they saw his crazy-ass muzzle suddenly lift n' his waddle break tha fuck into a cold-ass lil clumsy amble as he quickened his thugged-out lil' pace wit shrill whines n' wrigglez of recognition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Lookin up tha river, they could peep Otta start up, tense n' rigid, from outta tha shallows where his schmoooove ass crouched up in dumb patience, n' could hear his thugged-out amazed n' joyous bark as his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bounded up all up in tha osiers on ta tha path. Then tha Mole, wit a phat pull on one oar, swung tha boat round n' let tha full stream bear dem down again n' again n' again whither it would, they quest now happily ended.

‘I feel strangely tired, Rat,’ holla'd tha Mole, leanin wearily over his oars as tha boat drifted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. ‘It’s bein up all night, you’ll say, like; but that’s nothing. Us dudes do as much half tha nightz of tha week, at dis time of tha year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. No; I feel as if I had been all up in suttin' straight-up bangin n' rather shitty, n' dat shiznit was just over; n' yet not a god damn thang particular has happened.’

‘Or suttin' straight-up surprisin n' splendid n' dope,’ murmured tha Rat, leanin back n' closin his wild lil' fuckin eyes. ‘I feel just as you do, Mole; simply dead tired, though not body tired. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It’s dirty we’ve gots tha stream wit us, ta take our asses home. Isn’t it jolly ta feel tha sun again, soakin tha fuck into one’s bones muthafucka! And hark ta tha wind playin up in tha reeds!’

‘It’s like music-far away music,’ holla'd tha Mole noddin drowsily.

‘So I was thinking,’ murmured tha Rat, dreamful n' languid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Dance-music-the liltin sort dat runs on without a stop-but wit lyrics up in it, too-it passes tha fuck into lyrics n' outta dem again-I catch dem at intervals-then it is dance-noize once more, n' then not a god damn thang but tha reeds’ soft thin whispering.’

‘Yo ass hear betta than I,’ holla'd tha Mole sadly. ‘I cannot catch tha lyrics.’

‘Let me try n' hit you wit them,’ holla'd tha Rat softly, his wild lil' fuckin eyes still closed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Now it is turnin tha fuck into lyrics again-faint but clear-Lest tha awe should dwell-And turn yo' frolic ta fret-Yo ass shall look on mah juice all up in tha helpin hour-But then you shall forget son! Now tha reedz take it up-forget, forget, they sigh, n' it takes a thugged-out dirt nap away up in a rustle n' a whisper n' shit. Then tha voice returns-

‘Lest limbs be reddened n' rent-I sprang tha trap dat is set-As I loose tha snare you may glimpse me there-For surely you shall forget son! Row nearer, Mole, nearer ta tha reedz muthafucka! It be hard ta catch, n' grows each minute fainter.

‘Helper n' healer, I cheer-Lil Small-Ass waifs up in tha woodland wet-Strays I find up in it, woundz I bind up in it-Biddin dem all forget son! Nearer, Mole, nearer playa! Fuck dat shit, it is no good; tha cold lil' woo wop has took a dirt nap away tha fuck into reed-talk.’

‘But what tha fuck do tha lyrics mean?’ axed tha wonderin Mole.

‘That I do not know,’ holla'd tha Rat simply. ‘I passed dem on ta you as they reached mah dirty ass fo' realz. Ah! now they return again, n' dis time full n' clear playa! This time, at last, it is tha real, tha unmistakable thang, simple-passionate-perfect--’

‘Well, let’s have it, then,’ holla'd tha Mole, afta dat schmoooove muthafucka had waited patiently fo' all dem minutes, half-dozin up in tha bangin' sun.

But no answer came yo. Dude looked, n' understood tha silence. With a smile of much happinizz on his wild lil' face, n' suttin' of a listenin look still lingerin there, tha weary Rat was fast asleep.

VIII. TOAD’S ADVENTURES When Toad found his dirty ass immured up in a thugged-out dank n' noisome dungeon, n' knew dat all tha grim darknizz of a medieval fortress lay between his ass n' tha outa ghetto of sunshine n' well-metalled high roadz where dat schmoooove muthafucka had lately been so happy, disportin his dirty ass as if dat schmoooove muthafucka had looted up every last muthafuckin road up in England, he flung his dirty ass at full length on tha floor, n' shed bitta tears, n' abandoned his dirty ass ta dark despair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘This is tha end of every last muthafuckin thang’ (he holla'd), ‘at least it is tha end of tha game of Toad, which is tha same ol' dirty thang; tha ghettofab n' thugged-out Toad, tha rich n' hospitable Toad, tha Toad so free n' careless n' debonair playa! How tha fuck can I hope ta be eva set at big-ass again’ (he holla'd), ‘who done been imprisoned so justly fo' jackin so thugged-out a motor-car up in such a audacious manner, n' fo' such lurid n' imaginatizzle cheek, bestowed upon such a fuckin shitload of fat, red-faced policemen!’ (Here his sobs choked his muthafuckin ass.) ‘Stupid animal dat I was’ (he holla'd), ‘now I must languish up in dis dungeon, till playas whoz ass was proud as a muthafucka ta say they knew me, have forgotten tha straight-up name of Toad hommie! O wise oldschool Badger!’ (he holla'd), ‘O def, intelligent Rat n' sensible Mole biaaatch! What sound judgments, what tha fuck a knowledge of pimps n' mattas you possess muthafucka! O unaiiight n' forsaken Toad!’ With lamentations like fuckin these he passed his crazy-ass minutes n' nights fo' nuff muthafuckin weeks, refusin his crazy-ass meals or intermediate light refreshments, though tha grim n' ancient gaoler, knowin dat Toad’s pockets was well lined, frequently pointed up dat nuff comforts, n' indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be busted in-at a price-from outside.

Now tha gaola had a thugged-out daughter, a pleasant wench n' good-hearted, whoz ass assisted her daddy up in tha lighta dutizzlez of his thugged-out lil' post. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was particularly fond of muthafuckas, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung on a nail up in tha massive wall of tha keep by day, ta tha pimped out annoyizzle of tha slammaers whoz ass relished a after-dinner nap, n' was shrouded up in a antimacassar on tha parlour table at night, she kept nuff muthafuckin piebald mice n' a restless revolvin squirrel. This kind-hearted girl, pityin tha misery of Toad, holla'd ta her daddy one day, ‘Father playa! I can’t bear ta peep dat skanky beast so bugged out, n' gettin so thin! Yo ass let me have tha managin of his muthafuckin ass. Yo ass know how tha fuck fond of muthafuckas I am. I’ll make his ass smoke from mah hand, n' sit up, n' do all sortz of thangs.’

Her daddy replied dat dat thugged-out biiiatch could do what tha fuck she was horny bout wit his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude was pissed wit Toad, n' his sulks n' his thugged-out airs n' his crazy-ass meanness. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So dat dizzle dat biiiiatch went on her errand of mercy, n' knocked all up in tha door of Toad’s cell.

‘Now, cheer up, Toad,’ her big-ass booty holla'd, coaxingly, on entering, ‘and sit up n' dry yo' eyes n' be a sensible animal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. And do try n' smoke a lil' bit of dinner n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See, I’ve brought you a shitload of mine, bangin' from tha oven!’

Dat shiznit was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, n' its fragrizzle filled tha narrow cell. Da penetratin smell of cabbage reached tha nozzle of Toad as he lay prostrate up in his crazy-ass misery on tha floor, n' gave his ass tha scam fo' a moment dat like game was not such a funky-ass blank n' desperate thang as dat schmoooove muthafucka had imagined. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But still da thug wailed, n' kicked wit his fuckin legs, n' refused ta be comforted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So tha wise hoe retired fo' tha time yo, but, of course, a phat deal of tha smell of bangin' cabbage remained behind, as it will do, n' Toad, between his sobs, sniffed n' reflected, n' gradually fuckin started ta be thinkin freshly smoked up n' inspirin thoughts: of chivalry, n' poetry, n' deedz still ta be done; of broad meadows, n' cattle browsin up in them, raked by sun n' wind; of kitchen-gardens, n' straight herb-borders, n' warm snap-dragon beset by bees; n' of tha comfortin clink of dishes set down on tha table at Toad Hall, n' tha scrape of chair-legs on tha floor as every last muthafuckin one pulled his dirty ass close up ta his work. Da air of tha narrow cell took a rosy tinge; his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta be thinkin of his wild lil' playas, n' how tha fuck they would surely be able ta do something; of lawyers, n' how tha fuck they would have enjoyed his case, n' what tha fuck a ass dat schmoooove muthafucka had been not ta git up in a gangbangin' few; n' lastly, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of his own pimped out defnizz n' resource, n' all dat da thug was capable of if he only gave his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out mind ta it; n' tha cure was almost complete.

When tha hoe returned, some minutes later, dat thugged-out biiiatch carried a tray, wit a cold-ass lil cup of fragrant chronic steamin on it; n' a plate piled up wit straight-up bangin' buttered toast, cut thick, straight-up brown on both sides, wit tha butta hustlin all up in tha holez up in it up in pimped out golden drops, like honey from tha honeycomb. Da smell of dat buttered toast simply talked ta Toad, n' wit no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winta evenings, when one’s ramble was over n' slippered feet was propped on tha fender; of tha purrin of contented cats, n' tha twitta of chilly canaries. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Toad sat up on end once more, dried his wild lil' fuckin eyes, sipped his chronic n' munched his cold-ass toast, n' soon fuckin started poppin' off freely bout his dirty ass, n' tha doggy den he lived in, n' his fuckin lil' bustins there, n' how tha fuck blingin da thug was, n' what tha fuck a shitload his wild lil' playaz thought of his muthafuckin ass.

Da gaoler’s daughta saw dat tha topic was bustin his ass as much phat as tha tea, as indeed it was, n' encouraged his ass ta go on.

‘Tell me bout Toad Hall,’ holla'd she. ‘It soundz dope.’

‘Toad Hall,’ holla'd tha Toad proudly, ‘is a eligible self-contained gentleman’s residence straight-up unique; pimpin up in part from tha fourteenth century yo, but replete wit every last muthafuckin modern convenience. Up-to-date sanitation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Five minutes from church, post-office, n' golf-links, Suitable for--’

‘Bless tha animal,’ holla'd tha girl, laughing, ‘I don’t wanna TAKE dat shit. Tell me suttin' REAL bout dat shit. But first wait till I fetch you some mo' chronic n' toast.’

Bitch tripped away, n' presently returned wit a gangbangin' fresh trayful; n' Toad, pitchin tha fuck into tha toast wit avidity, his spirits like restored ta they usual level, holla'd at her bout tha boathouse, n' tha fish-pond, n' tha oldschool walled kitchen-garden; n' bout tha pig-styes, n' tha stables, n' tha pigeon-house, n' tha hen-house; n' bout tha dairy, n' tha wash-house, n' tha china-cupboards, n' tha linen-presses (she was horny bout dat bit especially); n' bout tha banqueting-hall, n' tha funk they had there when tha other muthafuckas was gathered round tha table n' Toad was at his best, rappin joints, spittin some lyrics ta stories, carryin on generally. Then dat biiiiatch wanted ta know bout his thugged-out animal-friends, n' was straight-up horny bout all dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta tell her bout dem n' how tha fuck they lived, n' what tha fuck they did ta pass they time. Of course, her dope ass did not say dat biiiiatch was fond of muthafuckas as PETS, cuz dat freaky freaky biatch had tha sense ta peep dat Toad would be mad offended. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When her big-ass booty holla'd phat night, havin filled his water-jug n' shaken up his straw fo' him, Toad was straight-up much tha same sanguine, self-satisfied animal dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been of old. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude busted a lil cold lil' woo wop or two, of tha sort he used ta rap at his fuckin lil' dinner-parties, curled his dirty ass up in tha straw, n' had a pimpin night’s rest n' tha pleasantest of dreams.

They had nuff bangin-ass talks together, afta that, as tha dreary minutes went on; n' tha gaoler’s daughta grew straight-up sorry fo' Toad, n' thought it a pimped out shame dat a skanky lil animal should be locked up on lockdown fo' what tha fuck seemed ta her a straight-up trivial offence. Toad, of course, up in his vanity, thought dat her interest up in his ass proceeded from a growin tenderness; n' his schmoooove ass could not help half-regrettin dat tha hood gulf between dem was so straight-up wide, fo' dat biiiiatch was a cold-ass lil comely lass, n' evidently admired his ass straight-up much.

One mornin tha hoe was straight-up thoughtful, n' answered at random, n' did not seem ta Toad ta be payin proper attention ta his witty sayings n' sparklin comments.

‘Toad,’ her big-ass booty holla'd presently, ‘just listen,. Biiiatch please.I gots a aunt whoz ass be a washerwoman.’

‘There, there,’ holla'd Toad, graciously n' affably, ‘never mind; be thinkin no mo' bout dat shit. I have nuff muthafuckin aunts whoz ass OUGHT ta be washerwomen.’

‘Do be on tha down-low a minute, Toad,’ holla'd tha girl. ‘Yo ass rap too much, that’s yo' chizzle fault, n' I’m tryin ta think, n' you hurt mah head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! As I holla'd, I gots a aunt whoz ass be a washerwoman; her dope ass do tha washin fo' all tha prisoners up in dis castle-we try ta keep any payin bidnizz of dat sort up in tha crew, you understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch takes up tha washin on Mondizzle morning, n' brangs it up in on Fridizzle evening. This be a Thursday. It make me wanna hollar playa! Now, dis is what tha fuck occurs ta me: you’re straight-up rich-at least you’re always spittin some lyrics ta me so-and she’s straight-up skanky fo' realz. A few poundz wouldn’t make any difference ta you, n' it would mean a shitload ta her n' shit. Now, I be thinkin if dat biiiiatch was properly approached-squared, I believe is tha word you muthafuckas use-you could come ta some arrangement by which dat biiiiatch would let you have her dress n' bonnet n' so on, n' you could escape from tha castle as tha straight-up legit washerwoman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. You’re straight-up alike up in nuff respects-particularly bout tha figure.’

‘We’re NOT,’ holla'd tha Toad up in a huff. ‘I gots a straight-up elegant figure-for what tha fuck I am.’

‘So has mah aunt,’ replied tha girl, ‘for what tha fuck SHE is. But have it yo' own way. Yo ass horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I’m sorry fo' you, n' tryin ta help you, nahmean biiiatch?’

‘Yes, fo'sho, that’s all right; fuck you straight-up much indeed,’ holla'd tha Toad hurriedly. ‘But look here biaaatch! you wouldn’t surely have Mista Muthafuckin Toad of Toad Hall, goin bout tha ghetto disguised as a washerwoman!’

‘Then you can stop here as a Toad,’ replied tha hoe wit much spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘I suppose you wanna go off up in a pimp-and-four!’

Honest Toad was always locked n loaded ta admit his dirty ass up in tha wrong. ‘Yo ass be a good, kind, smart-ass girl,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘and I be indeed a proud as a muthafucka n' a wack toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Introduce me ta yo' worthy aunt, if yo big-ass booty is ghon be all kindsa kind, n' I have no diggity dat tha pimpin lady n' I'ma be able ta arrange terms satisfactory ta both parties.’

Next evenin tha hoe ushered her aunt tha fuck into Toad’s cell, bearin his week’s washin pinned up in a towel. Da oldschool lady had been prepared beforehand fo' tha rap battle, n' tha sight of certain gold sovereigns dat Toad had thoughtfully placed on tha table up in full view practically completed tha matta n' left lil further ta discuss. In return fo' his chedda, Toad received a cold-ass lil cotton print gown, a apron, a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shawl, n' a rusty black bonnet; tha only stipulation tha oldschool lady made bein dat her big-ass booty should be gagged n' bound n' dumped down up in a cold-ass lil corner n' shit. By dis not straight-up convincin artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction which dat thugged-out biiiatch could supply her muthafuckin ass, dat freaky freaky biatch hoped ta retain her thang, up in spite of tha suspicious appearizzle of thangs.

Toad was delighted wit tha suggestion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it would enable his ass ta leave tha prison up in some style, n' wit his hype fo' bein a thugged-out desperate n' fucked up fellow untarnished; n' he readily helped tha gaoler’s daughta ta make her aunt step tha fuck up as much as possible tha sucka of circumstances over which dat freaky freaky biatch had no control.

‘Now it’s yo' turn, Toad,’ holla'd tha girl. ‘Take off dat coat n' waistcoat of yours; you’re fat enough as it is.’

Shakin wit laughter, she proceeded ta ‘hook-and-eye’ his ass tha fuck into tha cotton print gown, arranged tha shawl wit a professionizzle fold, n' tied tha stringz of tha rusty bonnet under his chin.

‘You’re tha straight-up image of her,’ she giggled, ‘only I’m shizzle you never looked half so respectable up in all yo' game before. Now, good-bye, Toad, n' phat luck. Go straight down tha way you came up; n' if any one say anythang ta you, as they probably will, bein but men, you can chaff back a funky-ass bit, of course yo, but remember you’re a widow biatch, like ridin' solo up in tha ghetto, wit a cold-ass lil characta ta lose.’

With a quakin ass yo, but as firm a gangbangin' footstep as his schmoooove ass could command, Toad set forth cautiously on what tha fuck seemed ta be a most hare-domeed n' hazardous undertaking; but da thug was soon agreeably surprised ta find how tha fuck easy as fuck  every last muthafuckin thang was made fo' him, n' a lil humbled all up in tha thought dat both his thugged-out lil' popularity, n' tha sex dat seemed ta inspire it, was straight-up another’s. Da washerwoman’s squat git into in its familiar cotton print seemed a passhiznit fo' every last muthafuckin barred door n' grim gateway; even when dat schmoooove muthafucka hesitated, uncertain as ta tha right turnin ta take, he found his dirty ass helped outta his fuckin lil' hang-up by tha warder all up in tha next gate, anxious ta be off ta his cold-ass tea, summonin his ass ta come along sharp n' not keep his ass waitin there all night. Da chaff n' tha humourous sallies ta which da thug was subjected, n' ta which, of course, dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta provide prompt n' effectizzle reply, formed, indeed, his chizzle danger; fo' Toad was a animal wit a phat sense of his own dignity, n' tha chaff was mostly (he thought) skanky n' clumsy, n' tha humour of tha sallies entirely lacking. But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat he kept his cold-ass temper, though wit pimped out difficulty, suited his bangin retorts ta his company n' his supposed character, n' did his dopest not ta overstep tha limitz of phat taste.

It seemed minutes before his schmoooove ass crossed tha last courtyard, rejected tha pressin invitations from tha last guardroom, n' dodged tha outspread armz of tha last warder, pleadin wit simulated boner fo' just one farewell embrace. But at last dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha wicket-gate up in tha pimped out outa door click behind him, felt tha fresh air of tha outa ghetto upon his thugged-out anxious brow, n' knew dat da thug was free!

Dizzy wit tha easy as fuck  success of his fuckin lil' darin exploit, da thug strutted quickly towardz tha lightz of tha town, not knowin up in tha least what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka should do next, only like certain of one thang, dat he must remove his dirty ass as quickly as possible from tha neighbourhood where tha lady da thug was forced ta represent was so well-known n' so ghettofab a cold-ass lil character.

As da thug strutted along, thankin bout, his thugged-out attention was caught by some red n' chronic lights a lil way off, ta one side of tha town, n' tha sound of tha puffin n' snortin of engines n' tha bangin of shunted trucks fell tha fuck on his wild lil' fuckin ear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘Aha!’ tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, ‘this be a piece of luck! A railway station is tha thang I want most up in tha whole ghetto at dis moment; n' what’s more, I needn’t go all up in tha hood ta git it, n' shan’t gotta support dis humiliatin characta by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one’s sense of self-respect.’

Dude made his way ta tha station accordingly, consulted a time-table, n' found dat a train, bound mo' or less up in tha direction of his home, was cuz of start up in half-an-hour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. ‘Mo' luck!’ holla'd Toad, his spirits risin rapidly, n' went off ta tha booking-office ta loot his cold-ass ticket.

Dude gave tha name of tha station dat he knew ta be nearest ta tha hood of which Toad Hall was tha principal feature, n' mechanically put his wild lil' fingers, up in search of tha necessary scrilla, where his waistcoat pocket should have been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But here tha cotton gown, which had nobly stood by his ass so far, n' which dat schmoooove muthafucka had basely forgotten, intervened, n' frustrated his wild lil' fuckin efforts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. In a sort of nightmare da perved-out muthafucka struggled wit tha strange uncanny thang dat seemed ta hold his hands, turn all muscular strivings ta water, n' laugh at his ass all tha time; while other travellers, formin up in a line behind, waited wit impatience, makin suggestionz of mo' or less value n' commentz of mo' or less stringency n' point fo' realz. At last-somehow-he never rightly understood how-he burst tha barriers, attained tha goal, arrived at where all waistcoat pockets is eternally situated, n' found-not only no scrilla yo, but no pocket ta hold it, n' no waistcoat ta hold tha pocket!

To his horror he recollected dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had left both coat n' waistcoat behind his ass up in his cell, n' wit dem his thugged-out lil' pocket-book, scrilla, keys, peep it, matches, pencil-case-all dat make game worth living, all dat distinguishes tha many-pocketed animal, tha lord of creation, from tha inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed thangs dat hop or trip bout permissively, unequipped fo' tha real contest.

In his crazy-ass misery he made one desperate effort ta carry tha thang off, and, wit a return ta his wild lil' fine oldschool manner-a blend of tha Squire n' tha College Don-he holla'd, ‘Look here biaaatch! I find I’ve left mah purse behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Just give me dat ticket, will you, n' I’ll bust tha scrilla on to-morrow, biatch? I’m well-known up in these parts.’

Da clerk stared at his ass n' tha rusty black bonnet a moment, n' then laughed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I should be thinkin you was pretty well known up in these parts,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘if you’ve tried dis game on often. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Here, stand away from tha window, please, madam; you’re obstructin tha other passengers!’

An oldschool gentleman whoz ass had been proddin his ass up in tha back fo' some moments here thrust his ass away, and, what tha fuck was worse, addressed his ass as his wild lil' freakadelic phat biatch, which angered Toad mo' than anythang dat had occurred dat evening.

Baffled n' full of despair, da thug wandered blindly down tha platform where tha train was standing, n' tears trickled down each side of his nose. Dat shiznit was hard, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, ta be within sight of safety n' almost of home, n' ta be baulked by tha want of all dem wretched shillings n' by tha pettifoggin mistrustfulnizz of paid officials. Straight-up soon his wild lil' fuckin escape would be discovered, tha hunt would be up, da thug would be caught, reviled, loaded wit chains, dragged back again n' again n' again ta prison n' bread-and-wata n' straw; his wild lil' freakadelic guardz n' penaltizzles would be doubled; n' O, what tha fuck sarcastic remarks tha hoe would make biaaatch! What was ta be done, biatch? Dude was not swift of foot; his wild lil' figure was unfortunately recognisable. Could he not squeeze under tha seat of a cold-ass lil carriage, biatch? Dude had peeped dis method adopted by schoolboys, when tha journey-money provided by thoughtful muthafathas had been diverted ta other n' betta endz fo' realz. As he pondered, he found his dirty ass opposite tha engine, which was bein oiled, wiped, n' generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a funky-ass burly playa wit a oil-can up in one hand n' a lump of cotton-waste up in tha other.

‘Hullo, mother!’ holla'd tha engine-driver, ‘what’s tha shit, biatch? Yo ass don’t look particularly cheerful.’

‘O, sir!’ holla'd Toad, bustin up like a biatch afresh, ‘I be a skanky unaiiight washerwoman, n' I’ve lost all mah scrilla, n' can’t pay fo' a ticket, n' I must git home to-night somehow, n' whatever I be ta do I don’t know. O dear, O dear!’

‘That’s a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass bidnizz, indeed,’ holla'd tha engine-driver reflectively. ‘Lost yo' scrilla-and can’t git home-and gots some kids, too, waitin fo' you, I dare say?’

‘Any amount of ‘em,’ sobbed Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘And they’ll be hungry-and playin wit matches-and upsettin lamps, tha lil innocents!-and quarrelling, n' goin on generally. O dear, O dear!’

‘Well, I’ll rap  what tha fuck I’ll do,’ holla'd tha phat engine-driver n' shit. ‘You’re a washerwoman ta yo' trade, say you, biatch. Straight-up well, that’s dis shiznit fo' realz. And I’m a engine-driver, as you well may see, n' there’s no denyin it’s terribly dirty work. Uses up a juice of shirts, it do, till mah missus is fair pissed wit washin of ‘em. If you’ll wash all dem shirts fo' me when you git home, n' bust ‘em along, I’ll hit you wit a ride on mah engine. It’s against tha Company’s regulations yo, but we’re not so straight-up particular up in these out-of-the-way parts.’

Da Toad’s misery turned tha fuck into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up tha fuck into tha cab of tha engine. Of course, dat schmoooove muthafucka had never washed a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass hoodie up in his wild lil' freakadelic game, n' couldn’t if tha pimpin' muthafucka tried and, anyhow, da thug wasn’t goin ta begin; but tha pimpin' muthafucka thought: ‘When I git safely home ta Toad Hall, n' have scrilla again, n' pockets ta put it in, I'ma bust tha engine-driver enough ta pay fo' like a quantitizzle of washing, n' dat is ghon be tha same thang, or better.’

Da guard waved his welcome flag, tha engine-driver whistled up in cheerful response, n' tha train moved outta tha station. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As tha speed increased, n' tha Toad could peep on either side of his ass real fields, n' trees, n' hedges, n' cows, n' horses, all flyin past him, n' as tha pimpin' muthafucka thought how tha fuck every last muthafuckin minute was brangin his ass nearer ta Toad Hall, n' sympathetic playas, n' scrilla ta chink up in his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' a soft bed ta chill in, n' phat thangs ta eat, n' praise n' admiration all up in tha recital of his thugged-out adventures n' his surpassin defness, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta skip up n' down n' shout n' rap snatchez of song, ta tha pimped out astonishment of tha engine-driver, whoz ass had come across washerwomen before, at long intervals yo, but never one at all like dis y'all.

They had covered nuff n' nuff a mile, n' Toad was already thankin bout what tha fuck da thug would have fo' supper as soon as he gots home, when he noticed dat tha engine-driver, wit a puzzled expression on his wild lil' face, was leanin over tha side of tha engine n' listenin hard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then da perved-out muthafucka saw his ass climb on ta tha coals n' gaze up over tha top of tha train; then he returned n' holla'd ta Toad: ‘It’s straight-up strange; we’re tha last train hustlin up in dis direction to-night, yet I could be sworn dat I heard another followin us!’

Toad ceased his wild lil' frivolous antics at once yo. Dude became grave n' pissed off, n' a thugged-out dull pain up in tha lower part of his spine, communicatin itself ta his fuckin legs, made his ass wanna sit tha fuck down n' try desperately not ta be thinkin of all tha possibilities.

By dis time tha moon was shinin brightly, n' tha engine-driver, steadyin his dirty ass on tha coal, could command a view of tha line behind dem fo' a long-ass distance.

Presently his schmoooove ass called out, ‘I can peep it clearly now! It be a engine, on our rails, comin along at a pimped out pace biaaatch! It looks as if we was bein pursued!’

Da miserable Toad, crouchin up in tha coal-dust, tried hard ta be thinkin of suttin' ta do, wit dismal want of success.

‘They is bustin on our asses fast!’ cried tha engine-driver n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha engine is crowded wit tha queerest lot of playas biaaatch! Men like ancient warders, wavin halberds; policemen up in they helmets, wavin truncheons; n' shabbily dressed pimps up in pot-hats, obvious n' unmistakable plain-threadz detectives even at dis distance, wavin revolvers n' strutting-sticks; all waving, n' all shoutin tha same thang-"Stop, stop, stop!"’

Then Toad fell tha fuck on his knees among tha coals and, raisin his clasped paws up in supplication, cried, ‘Save me, only save me, dear kind Mista Muthafuckin Engine-driver, n' I'ma confess every last muthafuckin thang! I aint tha simple washerwoman I seem ta be biaaatch! I have no lil pimps waitin fo' me, innocent or otherwise biaaatch! I be a toad-the well-known n' ghettofab Mista Muthafuckin Toad, a landed proprietor; I have just escaped, by mah pimped out darin n' defness, from a loathsome dungeon tha fuck into which mah enemies had flung me; n' if dem fellows on dat engine recapture me, it is ghon be chains n' bread-and-wata n' straw n' misery once mo' fo' skanky, bugged out, innocent Toad!’

Da engine-driver looked down upon his ass straight-up sternly, n' holla'd, ‘Now tell tha real deal; what tha fuck was you put on lockdown for?’

‘Dat shiznit was not a god damn thang straight-up much,’ holla'd skanky Toad, colourin deeply. ‘I only borrowed a motorcar while tha ballaz was at lunch; they had no need of it all up in tha time. I didn’t mean ta loot it, straight-up; but people-especially magistrates-take such harsh viewz of thoughtless n' high-spirited actions.’

Da engine-driver looked straight-up grave n' holla'd, ‘I fear dat you done been indeed a wicked toad, n' by muthafuckin rights I ought ta hit you wit up ta offended justice. But yo ass is evidently up in sore shiznit n' distress, so I'ma not desert you, biatch. I don’t hold wit motor-cars, fo' one thang; n' I don’t hold wit bein ordered bout by policemen when I’m on mah own engine, fo' another n' shiznit fo' realz. And tha sight of a animal up in tears always make me feel queer n' softhearted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So cheer up, Toad hommie! I’ll do mah best, n' we may beat dem yet!’

They piled on mo' coals, shovellin furiously; tha furnace roared, tha sparks flew, tha engine leapt n' swung but still they pursuers slowly gained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da engine-driver, wit a sigh, wiped his brow wit a handful of cotton-waste, n' holla'd, ‘I’m afraid it’s no good, Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass see, they is hustlin light, n' they have tha betta engine. There’s just one thang left fo' our asses ta do, n' it’s yo' only chance, so git all up in straight-up carefully ta what tha fuck I rap, biatch fo' realz. A short way ahead of our asses be a long-ass tunnel, n' on tha other side of dat tha line passes all up in a thick wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Now, I'ma put on all tha speed I can while we is hustlin all up in tha tunnel yo, but tha other fellows will slow down a funky-ass bit, naturally, fo' fear of a accident. When we is through, I'ma shut off steam n' put on brakes as hard as I can, n' tha moment it’s safe ta do so you must jump n' hide up in tha wood, before they git all up in tha tunnel n' peep you, biatch. Then I'ma go full speed ahead again, n' they can chase me if they like, fo' as long as they like, n' as far as they like. Now mind n' be locked n loaded ta jump when I rap, nahmean biiiatch?’

They piled on mo' coals, n' tha train blasted tha fuck into tha tunnel, n' tha engine rushed n' roared n' rattled, till at last they blasted up all up in tha other end tha fuck into fresh air n' tha laid back moonlight, n' saw tha wood lyin dark n' helpful upon either side of tha line. Da driver shut off steam n' put on brakes, tha Toad gots down on tha step, n' as tha train slowed down ta almost a struttin pace dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha driver call out, ‘Now, jump!’

Toad jumped, rolled down a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass short embankment, picked his dirty ass up unhurt, scrambled tha fuck into tha wood n' hid.

Peepin out, da perved-out muthafucka saw his cold-ass train git up speed again n' again n' again n' disappear at a pimped out pace. Then outta tha tunnel burst tha pursuin engine, roarin n' whistling, her motley crew wavin they various weapons n' shouting, ‘Stop! stop! stop!’ When they was past, tha Toad had a hearty laugh-for tha last time since da thug was thrown tha fuck into prison.

But da perved-out muthafucka soon stopped bustin up when his schmoooove ass came ta consider dat dat shiznit was now straight-up late n' dark n' cold, n' da thug was up in a unknown wood, wit no scrilla n' no chizzle of supper, n' still far from playaz n' home; n' tha dead silence of every last muthafuckin thang, afta tha roar n' rattle of tha train, was suttin' of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shock yo. Dude dared not leave tha shelta of tha trees, so da perved-out muthafucka struck tha fuck into tha wood, wit tha scam of leavin tha railway as far as possible behind his muthafuckin ass.

Afta all kindsa muthafuckin weeks within walls, he found tha wood strange n' unfriendly n' inclined, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, ta make funk of his muthafuckin ass. Night-jars, soundin they mechanical rattle, made his ass be thinkin dat tha wood was full of searchin warders, closin up in on his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. An owl, swoopin noiselessly towardz him, brushed his shoulder wit its wing, makin his ass jump wit tha horrid certainty dat dat shiznit was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like, bustin up its low ho! ho! ho; which Toad thought up in straight-up skanky taste. Once he kicked it wit a gangbangin' fox, whoz ass stopped, looked his ass up n' down up in a sarcastic sort of way, n' holla'd, ‘Hullo, washerwoman! Half a pair of socks n' a pillow-case short dis week! Mind it don’t occur again!’ n' swaggered off, sniggering. Toad looked bout fo' a stone ta throw at his ass yo, but could not succeed up in findin one, which vexed his ass mo' than anythang fo' realz. At last, cold, hungry, n' chillaxed out, da perved-out muthafucka sought tha shelta of a hollow tree, where wit branches n' dead leaves he made his dirty ass as laid back a funky-ass bed as his schmoooove ass could, n' slept soundly till tha morning.

IX. WAYFARERS ALL Da Wata Rat was restless, n' da ruffneck did not exactly know why. To all appearizzle tha summer’s pomp was still at fullest height, n' although up in tha tilled acres chronic had given way ta gold, though rowans was reddening, n' tha woodz was dashed here n' there wit a tawny fierceness, yet light n' warmth n' colour was still present up in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitionz of tha passin year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. But tha constant choruz of tha orchardz n' hedges had shrunk ta a cold-ass lil casual evencold lil' woo wop from all dem yet unwearied muthafuckas; tha robin was beginnin ta assert his dirty ass once more; n' there was a gangbangin' feelin up in tha air of chizzle n' departure. Da cuckoo, of course, had long been silent; but nuff another feathered playa, fo' months a part of tha familiar landscape n' its lil' small-ass society, was missin too n' it seemed dat tha ranks thinned steadily dizzle by day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Rat, eva observant of all winged movement, saw dat dat shiznit was takin everyday a southang tendency; n' even as he lay up in bed at night tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could make out, passin up in tha darknizz overhead, tha beat n' quiver of impatient pinions, obedient ta tha peremptory call.

Nature’s Grand Hotel has its Season, like tha others fo' realz. As tha guests one by one pack, pay, n' depart, n' tha seats all up in tha table-d’hote shrink pitifully at each succeedin meal; as suitez of rooms is closed, carpets taken up, n' waitas busted away; dem boardaz whoz ass is stayin on, en pension, until tha next year’s full re-opening, cannot help bein somewhat affected by all these flittings n' farewells, dis eager rap of plans, routes, n' fresh quarters, dis everyday shrinkage up in tha stream of comradeship. One gets unsettled, pissed off, n' inclined ta be querulous. Why dis cravin fo' chizzle, biatch? Why not stay on on tha fuckin' down-lowly here, like us, n' be jolly, biatch? Yo ass don’t know dis hotel outta tha season, n' what tha fuck funk our crazy asses have among ourselves, we fellows whoz ass remain n' peep tha whole bangin-ass year up fo' realz. All straight-up true, no diggity tha others always reply; we like envy you-and some other year like-but just now our crazy asses have engagements-and there’s tha bus all up in tha door-our time is up! So they depart, wit a smile n' a nod, n' we miss them, n' feel resentful naaahhmean, biatch? Da Rat was a self-sufficin sort of animal, rooted ta tha land, and, whoever went, da perved-out muthafucka stayed; still, his schmoooove ass could not help noticin what tha fuck was up in tha air, n' feelin a shitload of its influence up in his bones.

Dat shiznit was hard as fuck ta settle down ta anythang seriously, wit all dis flittin goin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Leavin tha water-side, where rushes stood thick n' tall up in a stream dat was becomin sluggish n' low, da thug wandered ghetto-wards, crossed a gangbangin' field or two of pasturage already lookin dusty n' parched, n' thrust tha fuck into tha pimped out sea of wheat, yellow, wavy, n' murmurous, full of on tha down-low motion n' lil' small-ass whisperings yo. Here he often loved ta wander, all up in tha forest of stiff phat stalks dat carried they own golden sky away over his head-a sky dat was always ridin' dirty, shimmering, softly rappin'; or swayin straight fuckin ta tha passin wind n' recoverin itself wit a toss n' a merry laugh yo. Here, too, dat schmoooove muthafucka had nuff lil' small-ass playas, a society complete up in itself, leadin full n' busy lives yo, but always wit a spare moment ta ghetto hype, n' exchange shizzle wit a visitor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Today, however, though they was civil enough, tha field-mice n' harvest-mice seemed preoccupied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Many was diggin n' tunnellin busily; others, gathered together up in lil' small-ass groups, examined plans n' drawingz of lil' small-ass flats, stated ta be desirable n' compact, n' situated conveniently near tha Stores. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some was haulin up dusty trunks n' dress-baskets, others was already elbow-deep packin they belongings; while everywhere pilez n' bundlez of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast n' nuts, lay bout locked n loaded fo' transport.

‘Here’s oldschool Ratty!’ they cried as soon as they saw his muthafuckin ass. ‘Come n' bear a hand, Rat, n' don’t stand bout idle!’

‘What sort of game is you up to?’ holla'd tha Wata Rat severely. ‘Yo ass know it aint time ta be thankin of winta quartas yet, by a long-ass way!’

‘O fo'sho, we know that,’ explained a gangbangin' field-mouse rather shamefacedly; ‘but it’s always as well ta be up in phat time, aint it, biatch? We straight-up MUST git all tha furniture n' baggage n' stores moved outta dis before dem horrid machines begin clickin round tha fields; n' then, you know, tha dopest flats git picked up so quickly nowadays, n' if you’re late you gotta put up wit ANYTHING; n' they want such a shitload of bustin up, too, before they’re fit ta move into. Of course, we’re early, we know that; but we’re only just bustin a start.’

‘O, bother STARTS,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘It’s a splendid day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Come fo' a row, or a stroll along tha hedges, or a picnic up in tha woods, or something.’

‘Well, I THINK not TO-DAY, fuck you,’ replied tha field-mouse hurriedly. ‘Perhaps some OTHER day-when we’ve mo' TIME--’

Da Rat, wit a snort of contempt, swung round ta go, tripped over a hat-box, n' fell, wit undignified remarks.

‘If playas would be mo' careful,’ holla'd a gangbangin' field-mouse rather stiffly, ‘and look where they’re going, playas wouldn’t hurt theyselves-and forget theyselves. Mind dat hold-all, Rat son! You’d betta sit tha fuck down somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. In a minute or two we may be mo' free ta git all up in ta you, biatch.’

‘Yo ass won’t be "free" as you call it much dis side of Chrizzle, I can peep that,’ retorted tha Rat grumpily, as he picked his way outta tha field.

Dude returned somewhat despondently ta his bangin river again-his faithful, steady-goin oldschool river, which never packed up, flitted, or went tha fuck into winta quarters.

In tha osiers which fringed tha bank da perved-out muthafucka spied a swallow chillin. Presently dat shiznit was joined by another, n' then by a third; n' tha birds, fidgetin restlessly on they bough, talked together earnestly n' low.

‘What, ALREADY,’ holla'd tha Rat, strollin up ta dem wild-ass muthafuckas. ‘What’s tha hurry, biatch? I call it simply ridiculous.’

‘O, we’re not off yet, if that’s what tha fuck you mean,’ replied tha straight-up original gangsta swallow. ‘We’re only makin plans n' arrangin thangs. Talkin it over, you know-what route we’re takin dis year, n' where we’ll stop, n' so on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That’s half tha fun!’

‘Fun?’ holla'd tha Rat; ‘now that’s just what tha fuck I don’t understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! If you’ve GOT ta leave dis pleasant place, n' yo' playaz whoz ass will miss you, n' yo' snug cribs dat you’ve just settled into, why, when tha minute strikes I’ve no diggity you’ll go bravely, n' grill all tha shiznit n' discomfort n' chizzle n' newness, n' make believe dat you’re not straight-up bugged out. But ta wanna rap bout it, or even be thinkin bout it, till you straight-up need--’

‘Fuck dat shit, you don’t understand, naturally,’ holla'd tha second swallow. ‘First, we feel it stirrin within us, a thugged-out dope unrest; then back come tha recollections one by one, like homin pigeons. They flutta all up in our trips at night, they fly wit our asses up in our wheelings n' circlings by day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Our thugged-out asses hunger ta inquire of each other, ta compare notes n' assure ourselves dat dat shiznit was all straight-up true, as one by one tha scents n' soundz n' namez of long-forgotten places come gradually back n' beckon ta us.’

‘Couldn’t you stop on fo' just dis year?’ suggested tha Wata Rat, wistfully. ‘We’ll all do our dopest ta make you feel at home. You’ve no clue what tha fuck phat times our crazy asses have here, while yo ass is far away.’

‘I tried "stoppin on" one year,’ holla'd tha third swallow. ‘I had grown so fond of tha place dat when tha time came I hung back n' let tha others go on without mah dirty ass. For all dem weeks dat shiznit was all well enough yo, but afterwards, O tha weary length of tha nights muthafucka! Da shivering, sunless days muthafucka! Da air so clammy n' chill, n' not a insect up in a acre of dat shiznit son! Fuck dat shit, dat shiznit was no good; mah courage broke down, n' one cold, stormy night I took wing, flyin well inland on account of tha phat eastsideerly gales. Dat shiznit was snowin hard as I beat all up in tha passez of tha pimped out mountains, n' I had a stiff fight ta win through; but never shall I forget tha blissful feelin of tha bangin' sun again n' again n' again on mah back as I sped down ta tha lakes dat lay so blue n' placid below me, n' tha taste of mah first fat insect son! Da past was like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitty-ass dream; tha future was all aiiight holidizzle as I moved southwardz week by week, easily, lazily, lingerin as long as I dared yo, but always heedin tha call! Fuck dat shit, I had had mah warning; never again n' again n' again did I be thinkin of disobedience.’

‘Ah, fo'sho, tha call of tha South, of tha South!’ twittered tha other two dreamily. ‘Its joints its hues, its radiant air playa! O, do you remember--’ and, forgettin tha Rat, they slid tha fuck into horny reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, n' his thugged-out ass burned within his muthafuckin ass. In his dirty ass, too, he knew dat dat shiznit was vibratin at last, dat chord hitherto dormant n' unsuspected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da mere chatta of these southern-bound birds, they pale n' second-hand reports, had yet juice ta awaken dis wild freshly smoked up sensation n' thrill his ass all up in n' all up in wit it; what tha fuck would one moment of tha real thang work up in him-one horny bust a nut on of tha real southern sun, one waft of tha authentic odor, biatch? With closed eyes da ruffneck dared ta trip a moment up in full abandonment, n' when he looked again n' again n' again tha river seemed steely n' chill, tha chronic fieldz grey n' lightless. Then his fuckin loyal ass seemed ta cry up on his weaker self fo' its treachery.

‘Why do you eva come back, then, at all?’ da ruffneck demanded of tha swallows jealously. ‘What do you find ta attract you up in dis skanky drab lil ghetto?’

‘And do you think,’ holla'd tha straight-up original gangsta swallow, ‘that tha other call aint fo' our asses too, up in its due season, biatch? Da call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-hustled ponds, of browsin cattle, of haymaking, n' all tha farm-buildings clusterin round tha Doggy Den of tha slick Eaves?’

‘Do you suppose,’ axed tha second one, dat yo ass is tha only livin thang dat craves wit a horny longin ta hear tha cuckoo’s note again?’

‘In due time,’ holla'd tha third, ‘we shall be home-sick once mo' fo' on tha down-low water-lilies swayin on tha surface of a Gangsta stream. But to-dizzle all dat seems pale n' thin n' straight-up far away. Just now our blood dances ta other music.’

They fell tha fuck a-twitterin among theyselves once more, n' dis time they intoxicatin babble waz of violet seas, tawny sands, n' lizard-hustled walls.

Restlessly tha Rat wandered off once more, climbed tha slope dat rose gently from tha uptown bank of tha river, n' lay lookin up towardz tha pimped out rang of Downs dat barred his vision further southwards-his simple horizizzle hitherto, his Mountainz of tha Moon, his fuckin limit behind which lay not a god damn thang dat schmoooove muthafucka had cared ta peep or ta know. To-day, ta his ass gazin Downtown wit a new-born need stirrin up in his thugged-out ass, tha clear sky over they long low outline seemed ta pulsate wit promise; to-day, tha unseen was every last muthafuckin thang, tha unknown tha only real fact of game. On dis side of tha hills was now tha real blank, on tha other lay tha crowded n' coloured panorama dat his crazy-ass muthafuckin inner eye was seein so clearly. What seas lay beyond, green, leaping, n' crested hommie! What sun-bathed coasts, along which tha white villas glittered against tha olive woodz muthafucka! What on tha down-low harbours, thronged wit gallant shippin bound fo' purple islandz of Cristal n' spice, islandz set low up in languorous waters!

Dude rose n' descended river-wardz once more; then chizzled his crazy-ass mind n' sought tha side of tha dusty lane. There, lyin half-buried up in tha thick, def under-hedge tangle dat bordered it, his schmoooove ass could muse on tha metalled road n' all tha wondrous ghetto dat it hustled to; on all tha wayfarers, too, dat might have trodden it, n' tha fortunes n' adventures they had gone ta seek or found unseeking-out there, beyond-beyond!

Footsteps fell tha fuck on his wild lil' fuckin ear, n' tha figure of one dat strutted somewhat wearily came tha fuck into view; n' da perved-out muthafucka saw dat dat shiznit was a Rat, n' a straight-up dusty one. Da wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted wit a gesture of courtesy dat had suttin' foreign bout it-hesitated a moment-then wit a pleasant smile turned from tha track n' sat down by his side up in tha def herbage yo. Dude seemed tired, n' tha Rat let his ass rest unquestioned, understandin suttin' of what tha fuck was up in his cold-ass thoughts; knowing, too, tha value all muthafuckas attach at times ta mere silent companionship, when tha weary musclez slacken n' tha mind marks time.

Da wayfarer was lean n' keen-featured, n' somewhat bowed all up in tha shoulders; his thugged-out lil' paws was thin n' long, his wild lil' fuckin eyes much wrinkled all up in tha corners, n' da thug wore lil' small-ass gold ear rings up in his neatly-set well-shaped ears yo. His knitted jersey waz of a gangbangin' faded blue, his breeches, patched n' stained, was based on a funky-ass blue foundation, n' his fuckin lil' small-ass belongings dat his schmoooove ass carried was tied up in a funky-ass blue cotton handkerchizzle.

When dat schmoooove muthafucka had rested awhile tha stranger sighed, snuffed tha air, n' looked bout his muthafuckin ass.

‘That was clover, dat warm whiff on tha breeze,’ he remarked; ‘and dem is cows our crazy asses hear croppin tha grass behind our asses n' blowin softly between grillfuls. There be a sound of distant reapers, n' yonder rises a funky-ass blue line of cottage smoke against tha woodland. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da river runs somewhere close by, fo' I hear tha call of a moorhen, n' I peep by yo' build dat you’re a gangbangin' freshwata mariner n' shit. Everythang seems asleep, n' yet goin on all tha time. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a goodly game dat you lead, playa; no diggity tha dopest up in tha ghetto, if only yo ass is phat enough ta lead dat shiznit son!’

‘Yes, it’s THE game, tha only game, ta live,’ responded tha Wata Rat dreamily, n' without his usual whole-hearted conviction.

‘I did not say exactly that,’ replied tha stranger cautiously; ‘but no diggity it’s da bomb. I’ve tried it, n' I know fo' realz. And cuz I’ve just tried it-six monthz of it-and know it’s tha best, here be I, footsore n' hungry, trampin away from it, trampin southward, followin tha oldschool call, back ta tha oldschool game, THE game which is mine n' which aint gonna let me go.’

‘Is this, then, yet another of them?’ mused tha Rat. ‘And where have you just come from?’ he asked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude hardly dared ta ask where da thug was bound for; da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta know tha answer only too well.

‘Sick lil farm,’ replied tha wayfarer, briefly. ‘Upalong up in dat direction’-he nodded northwards. ‘Never mind bout dat shit. I had every last muthafuckin thang I could want-everythang I had any right ta expect of game, n' more; n' here I am! Glad ta be here all tha same, though, glad ta be here biaaatch! So nuff milez further on tha road, all kindsa muthafuckin minutes nearer ta mah heart’s desire!’

His shinin eyes held fast ta tha horizon, n' da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta be listenin fo' some sound dat was wantin from dat inland acreage, vocal as dat shiznit was wit tha cheerful noize of pasturage n' farmyard.

‘Yo ass aint one of US,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat, ‘nor yet a gangbangin' farmer; nor even, I should judge, of dis ghetto.’

‘Right,’ replied tha stranger n' shit. ‘I’m a seafarin rat, I am, n' tha port I originally hail from is Constantinople, though I’m a sort of a gangbangin' foreigner there too, up in a manner of bustin lyrics. Yo ass gonna git heard of Constantinople, playa, biatch? A fair hood, n' a ancient n' glorious one fo' realz. And you may have heard, too, of Sigurd, Mackdaddy of Norway, n' how tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka sailed thither wit sixty ships, n' how tha fuck he n' his crazy-ass pimps rode up all up in streets all canopied up in they honour wit purple n' gold; n' how tha fuck tha Emperor n' Empress came down n' banqueted wit his ass on board his ship. When Sigurd returned home, nuff of his Northmen remained behind n' entered tha Emperor’s body-guard, n' mah ancestor, a Norwegian born, stayed behind too, wit tha ships dat Sigurd gave tha Emperor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Seafarers our crazy asses have eva been, n' no wonder; as fo' me, tha hood of mah birth is no mo' mah home than any pleasant port between there n' tha London River n' shit. I know dem all, n' they know mah dirty ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Set me down on any of they quays or foreshores, n' I be home again.’

‘I suppose you go pimped out voyages,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat wit growin interest. ‘Months n' months outta sight of land, n' provisions hustlin short, n' allowanced as ta water, n' yo' mind communin wit tha mighty ocean, n' all dat sort of thang?’

‘By no means,’ holla'd tha Sea Rat frankly. ‘Such a game as you describe would not suit me at all. I’m up in tha coastin trade, n' rarely outta sight of land. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It’s tha jolly times on shore dat appeal ta me, as much as any seafaring. O, dem southern seaports muthafucka! Da smell of them, tha riding-lights at night, tha glamour!’

‘Well, like you have chosen tha betta way,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat yo, but rather doubtfully. ‘Tell me suttin' of yo' coasting, then, if you gotz a mind to, n' what tha fuck sort of harvest a animal of spirit might hope ta brang home from it ta warm his fuckin latta minutes wit gallant memories by tha fireside; fo' mah game, I confess ta you, feels ta me to-dizzle somewhat narrow n' circumscribed.’

‘My fuckin last voyage,’ fuckin started tha Sea Rat, ‘that landed mah crazy ass eventually up in dis ghetto, bound wit high hopes fo' mah inland farm, will serve as a phat example of any of them, and, indeed, as a epitome of mah highly-coloured game. Family shits, as usual, fuckin started dat shit. Da domestic storm-cone was hoisted, n' I shipped mah dirty ass on board a lil' small-ass tradin vessel bound from Constantinople, by funky-ass seas whose every last muthafuckin wave throbs wit a thugged-out dirtnapless memory, ta tha Grecian Islandz n' tha Levant. Those was golden minutes n' balmy nights muthafucka! In n' outta harbour all tha time-old playaz everywhere-chillin up in some def temple or fucked up cistern durin tha heat of tha day-feastin n' cold lil' woo wop afta sundown, under pimped out stars set up in a velvet sky dawwwwg! Thence we turned n' coasted up tha Adriatic, its shores swimmin up in a atmosphere of amber, rose, n' aquamarine; our slick asses lay up in wide land-locked harbours, we roamed all up in ancient n' noble ghettos, until at last one morning, as tha sun rose royally behind us, we rode tha fuck into Venice down a path of gold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! O, Venice be a gangbangin' fine hood, wherein a rat can wander at his wild lil' fuckin ease n' take his thugged-out lil' pleasure biaaatch! Or, when weary of wandering, can sit all up in tha edge of tha Grand Canal at night, feastin wit his wild lil' playas, when tha air is full of noize n' tha sky full of stars, n' tha lights flash n' shimmer on tha polished steel prowz of tha swayin gondolas, packed so dat you could strutt across tha canal on dem from side ta side biaaatch! And then tha chicken-do you like shellfish, biatch? Well, well, we won’t linger over dat now, nahmeean?’

Dude was silent fo' a time; n' tha Wata Rat, silent too n' enthralled, floated on dream-canals n' heard a phantom cold lil' woo wop pealin high between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.

‘Southwardz we sailed again n' again n' again at last,’ continued tha Sea Rat, ‘coastin down tha Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, n' there I quitted fo' a long, aiiight spell on shore. I never stick too long ta one ship; one gets narrow-minded n' prejudiced. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Besides, Sicily is one of mah aiiight hunting-grounds. I know dem hoes there, n' they ways just suit mah dirty ass. I dropped nuff jolly weeks up in tha island, stayin wit playaz up ghetto. When I grew restless again n' again n' again I took advantage of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shizzle dat was tradin ta Sardinia n' Corsica; n' straight-up glad I was ta feel tha fresh breeze n' tha sea-spray up in mah grill once more.’

‘But aint it straight-up bangin' n' stuffy, down up in the-hold, I be thinkin you call it?’ axed tha Wata Rat.

Da seafarer looked at his ass wit tha suspicion of a wink. ‘I’m a oldschool hand,’ he remarked wit much simplicity. ‘Da captain’s cabin’s phat enough fo' mah dirty ass.’

‘It’s a hard game, by all accounts,’ murmured tha Rat, sunk up in deep thought.

‘For tha crew it is,’ replied tha seafarer gravely, again n' again n' again wit tha pimp of a wink.

‘From Corsica,’ da thug went on, ‘I made use of a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shizzle dat was takin Cristal ta tha mainland. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We made Alassio up in tha evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-casks, n' hove dem overboard, tied one ta tha other by a long-ass line. Then tha crew took ta tha boats n' rowed shorewards, rappin as they went, n' drawin afta dem tha long bobbin procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. On tha sandz they had horses waiting, which dragged tha casks up tha steep street of tha lil hood wit a gangbangin' fine rush n' clatta n' scramble. When tha last cask was in, we went n' refreshed n' rested, n' sat late tha fuck into tha night, drankin wit our playas, n' next mornin I took ta tha pimped out olive-woodz fo' a spell n' a rest. For now I had done wit islandz fo' tha time, n' ports n' shippin was plentiful; so I hustled a lazy game among tha peasants, lyin n' watchin dem work, or stretched high on tha hillside wit tha blue Mediterranean far below mah dirty ass fo' realz. And so at length, by easy as fuck  stages, n' kinda on foot, kinda by sea, ta Marseilles, n' tha meetin of oldschool shipmates, n' tha hittin' up of pimped out ocean-bound vessels, n' feastin once mo' n' mo' n' mo'. Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I trip of tha shell-fish of Marseilles, n' raise up crying!’

‘That remindz me,’ holla'd tha polite Wata Rat; ‘you happened ta mention dat you was hungry, n' I ought ta have spoken earlier n' shit. Of course, yo big-ass booty is ghon stop n' take yo' middizzle meal wit me son, biatch? My fuckin hole is close by; it is some time past noon, n' yo ass is straight-up welcome ta whatever there is.’

‘Now I call dat kind n' brotherly of you,’ holla'd tha Sea Rat. ‘I was indeed horny when I sat down, n' eva since I inadvertently happened ta mention shell-fish, mah pangs done been off tha hook. But couldn’t you fetch it along up here, biatch? I be none too fond of goin under hatches, unless I’m obliged to; n' then, while we eat, I could rap  mo' concernin mah voyages n' tha pleasant game I lead-at least, it is straight-up pleasant ta me, n' by yo' attention I judge it commendz itself ta you; whereas if we go indoors it aint nuthin but a hundred ta one dat I shall presently fall asleep.’

‘That is indeed a pimpin suggestion,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat, n' hurried off home. There he gots up tha luncheon-basket n' packed a simple meal, up in which, rememberin tha stranger’s origin n' preferences, tha pimpin' muthafucka took care ta include a yard of long French bread, a sausage outta which tha garlic sang, some cheese which lay down n' cried, n' a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed n' garnered on far Downtown slopes. Thus laden, he returned wit all speed, n' blushed fo' pleasure all up in tha oldschool seaman’s commendationz of his cold-ass taste n' judgment, as together they unpacked tha basket n' laid up tha contents on tha grass by tha roadside.

Da Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued tha history of his sickest fuckin voyage, conductin his simple hearer from port ta port of Spain, landin his ass at Lisbon, Oporto, n' Bordeaux, introducin his ass ta tha pleasant harbourz of Cornwall n' Devon, n' so up tha Channel ta dat final quayside, where, landin afta windz long contrary, storm-driven n' weather-beaten, dat schmoooove muthafucka had caught tha straight-up original gangsta magical hints n' heraldingz of another Spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long-ass tramp inland, horny fo' tha experiment of game on some on tha down-low farmstead, straight-up far from tha weary whoopin of any sea.

Spell-bound n' quiverin wit excitement, tha Wata Rat followed tha Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, all up in crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racin tide, up windin rivers dat hid they busy lil towns round a sudden turn; n' left his ass wit a regretful bust a funky-ass big-ass fart planted at his fuckin lil' dull inland farm, bout which da ruffneck desired ta hear nothing.

By dis time they meal was over, n' tha Seafarer, refreshed n' strengthened, his voice mo' vibrant, his wild lil' fuckin eye lit wit a funky-ass brightnizz dat seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his wild lil' freakadelic glass wit tha red n' glowin vintage of tha South, and, leanin towardz tha Wata Rat, compelled his wild lil' freakadelic gaze n' held him, body n' soul, while tha pimpin' muthafucka talked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Those eyes waz of tha changin foam-streaked grey-chronic of leapin Uptown seas; up in tha glass shone a funky-ass bangin' ruby dat seemed tha straight-up ass of tha South, whoopin fo' his ass whoz ass had courage ta respond ta its pulsation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da twin lights, tha shiftin grey n' tha steadfast red, mastered tha Wata Rat n' held his ass bound, fascinated, powerless. Da on tha down-low ghetto outside they rays receded far away n' ceased ta be fo' realz. And tha talk, tha straight-up dope rap flowed on-or was it rap entirely, or done did it pass at times tha fuck into song-chanty of tha sailors weighin tha drippin anchor, sonorous hum of tha shroudz up in a tearin North-Easter, ballad of tha fisherman haulin his nets at sundown against a apricot sky, chordz of boombox n' mandoline from gondola or caique, biatch? Did it chizzle tha fuck into tha cry of tha wind, plaintizzle at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, risin ta a tearin whistle, sinkin ta a musical trickle of air from tha leech of tha bellyin sail, biatch? All these soundz tha spell-bound listener seemed ta hear, n' wit dem tha horny complaint of tha gulls n' tha sea-mews, tha soft thunder of tha breakin wave, tha cry of tha protestin shingle. Back tha fuck into rap again n' again n' again it passed, n' wit whoopin ass da thug was followin tha adventurez of a thugged-out dozen seaports, tha fights, tha escapes, tha rallies, tha comradeships, tha gallant undertakings; or da perved-out muthafucka searched islandz fo' treasure, fished up in still lagoons n' dozed day-long on warm white sand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Of deep-sea fishings dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tell, n' mighty silver gatheringz of tha mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or tha tall bowz of tha pimped out liner takin shape overhead all up in tha fog; of tha merry home-coming, tha headland rounded, tha harbour lights opened out; tha crews peeped dimly on tha quay, tha cheery hail, tha splash of tha hawser; tha trudge up tha steep lil street towardz tha comfortin glow of red-curtained windows.

Lastly, up in his wakin trip it seemed ta his ass dat tha Adventurer had risen ta his wild lil' feet yo, but was still bustin lyrics, still holdin his ass fast wit his sea-grey eyes.

‘And now,’ da thug was softly saying, ‘I take ta tha road again, holdin on southwestwardz fo' nuff a long-ass n' dusty day; till at last I reach tha lil grey sea hood I know so well, dat clings along one steep side of tha harbour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. There all up in dark doorways you look down flightz of stone steps, overhung by pimped out pink tuftz of valerian n' endin up in a patch of sparklin blue gin n juice n' shit. Da lil boats dat lie tethered ta tha rings n' stanchionz of tha oldschool sea-wall is gaily painted as dem I clambered up in n' outta up in mah own childhood; tha salmon leap on tha flood tide, schoolz of mackerel flash n' play past quay-sides n' foreshores, n' by tha windows tha pimped out vessels glide, night n' day, up ta they moorings or forth ta tha open sea. There, sooner or later, tha shipz of all seafarin nations arrive; n' there, at its destined hour, tha shizzle of mah chizzle will let go its anchor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I shall take mah time, I shall tarry n' bide, till at last tha right one lies waitin fo' me, warped up tha fuck into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointin down harbour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; n' then one mornin I shall wake ta tha cold lil' woo wop n' tramp of tha sailors, tha clink of tha capstan, n' tha rattle of tha anchor-chain comin merrily in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. We shall break up tha jib n' tha foresail, tha white houses on tha harbour side will glide slowly past our asses as she gathers steering-way, n' tha voyage gonna git begun! As she forges towardz tha headland dat biiiiatch will clothe her muthafuckin ass wit canvas; n' then, once outside, tha soundin slap of pimped out chronic seas as dat freaky freaky biatch heels ta tha wind, pointin South!

‘And you, yo big-ass booty is ghon come too, lil' brother; fo' tha minutes pass, n' never return, n' tha Downtown still waits fo' you, biatch. Take tha Adventure, heed tha call, now ere tha irrevocable moment passes!’ ‘Tis but a funky-ass bangin of tha door behind you, a funky-ass blithesome step forward, n' yo ass is outta tha oldschool game n' tha fuck into tha new! Then some day, some dizzle long hence, jog home here if you will, when tha cup has been drained n' tha play has been played, n' sit tha fuck down by yo' on tha down-low river wit a store of goodly memories fo' company. Yo ass can easily overtake me on tha road, fo' yo ass is young, n' I be agein n' go softly. I'ma linger, n' look back; n' at last I'ma surely peep you coming, eager n' light-hearted, wit all tha Downtown up in yo' face!’

Da voice took a dirt nap away n' ceased as a insect’s tiny trumpet dwindlez swiftly tha fuck into silence; n' tha Wata Rat, paralysed n' staring, saw at last but a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distant speck on tha white surface of tha road.

Mechanically he rose n' proceeded ta repack tha luncheon-basket, carefully n' without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered together all dem lil' small-ass necessaries n' special treasures da thug was fond of, n' put dem up in a satchel; actin wit slow deliberation, movin bout tha room like a chill-walker; listenin eva wit parted lips yo. Dude swung tha satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick fo' his wayfaring, n' wit no haste yo, but wit no hesitation at all, da perved-out muthafucka stepped across tha threshold just as tha Mole rocked up all up in tha door.

‘Why, where is you off to, Ratty?’ axed tha Mole up in pimped out surprise, graspin his ass by tha arm.

‘Goin South, wit tha rest of them,’ murmured tha Rat up in a thugged-out dreamy monotone, never lookin at his muthafuckin ass. ‘Seawardz first n' then on shipboard, n' so ta tha shores dat is callin me!’

Dude pressed resolutely forward, still without haste yo, but wit dogged fixitizzle of purpose; but tha Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed his dirty ass up in front of him, n' lookin tha fuck into his wild lil' fuckin eyes saw dat they was glazed n' set n' turned a streaked n' shiftin grey-not his wild lil' playa’s eyes yo, but tha eyez of some other animal! Grapplin wit his ass straight fuckin da ruffneck dragged his ass inside, threw his ass down, n' held his muthafuckin ass.

Da Rat struggled desperately fo' all dem moments, n' then his strength seemed suddenly ta leave him, n' he lay still n' exhausted, wit closed eyes, trembling. Presently tha Mole assisted his ass ta rise n' placed his ass up in a cold-ass lil chair, where da perved-out muthafucka sat collapsed n' shrunken tha fuck into his dirty ass, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passin up in time tha fuck into a hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made tha door fast, threw tha satchel tha fuck into a thugged-out drawer n' locked it, n' sat down on tha fuckin' down-lowly on tha table by his wild lil' playa, waitin fo' tha strange seizure ta pass. Gradually tha Rat sank tha fuck into a shitd doze, fucked up by starts n' trippin murmuringz of thangs strange n' wild n' foreign ta tha unenlightened Mole; n' from dat he passed tha fuck into a thugged-out deep slumber.

Straight-up anxious up in mind, tha Mole left his ass fo' a time n' busied his dirty ass wit household matters; n' dat shiznit was gettin dark when he moonwalked back ta tha parlour n' found tha Rat where dat schmoooove muthafucka had left him, wide awake indeed yo, but listless, silent, n' dejected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude took one hasty glizzle at his wild lil' fuckin eyes; found them, ta his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out gratification, clear n' dark n' brown again n' again n' again as before; n' then sat down n' tried ta cheer his ass up n' help his ass ta relate what tha fuck had happened ta his muthafuckin ass.

Skanky Ratty did his best, by degrees, ta explain thangs; but how tha fuck could he put tha fuck into cold lyrics what tha fuck had mostly been suggestion, biatch? How tha fuck recall, fo' another’s benefit, tha hustlin sea voices dat had sung ta him, how tha fuck reproduce at second-hand tha magic of tha Seafarer’s hundred reminiscences, biatch? Even ta his dirty ass, now tha spell was fucked up n' tha glamour gone, he found it hard as fuck ta account fo' what tha fuck had seemed, some minutes ago, tha inevitable n' only thang. Well shiiiit, it aint surprising, then, dat he failed ta convey ta tha Mole any clear scam of what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had been all up in dat day.

To tha Mole dis much was plain: tha fit, or attack, had took a dirt nap, n' had left his ass sane again, though shaken n' cast down by tha erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But da perved-out muthafucka seemed ta have lost all interest fo' tha time up in tha thangs dat went ta make up his fuckin lil' everyday game, as well as up in all pleasant forecastingz of tha altered minutes n' bustins dat tha changin season was surely branging.

Casually, then, n' wit seemin indifference, tha Mole turned his cold-ass rap ta tha harvest dat was bein gathered in, tha towerin wagons n' they strainin crews, tha growin ricks, n' tha big-ass moon risin over bare acres dotted wit sheaves yo. Dude talked of tha reddenin applez around, of tha brownin nuts, of jams n' preserves n' tha distillin of cordials; till by easy as fuck  stages like fuckin these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys n' its snug home game, n' then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became simply lyrical.

By degrees tha Rat fuckin started ta sit up n' ta join in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. His dull eye brightened, n' he lost a shitload of his fuckin listenin air.

Presently tha tactful Mole slipped away n' returned wit a pencil n' all dem half-sheetz of paper, which he placed on tha table at his wild lil' playa’s elbow.

‘It’s like a long-ass time since you did any poetry,’ he remarked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Yo ass might gotz a try at it dis evening, instead of-well, broodin over thangs all muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! I’ve a scam dat you’ll feel a shitload betta when you’ve gots suttin' jotted down-if it’s only just tha rhymes.’

Da Rat pushed tha paper away from his ass wearily yo, but tha discreet Mole took occasion ta leave tha room, n' when he peeped up in again n' again n' again some time later, tha Rat was absorbed n' deaf ta tha ghetto; alternately scribblin n' suckin tha top of his thugged-out lil' pencil. Well shiiiit, it is legit dat da perved-out muthafucka sucked a phat deal mo' than da perved-out muthafucka scribbled; but dat shiznit was joy ta tha Mole ta know dat tha cure had at least begun.

X. THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD Da front door of tha hollow tree faced eastsidewards, so Toad was called at a early hour; kinda by tha bright sunlight streamin up in on him, kinda by tha exceedin coldnizz of his cold-ass toes, which made his ass trip dat da thug was up in da crib up in bed up in his own thugged-out room wit tha Tudor window, on a cold-ass lil cold winter’s night, n' his bedthreadz had gots up, grumblin n' protestin they couldn’t stand tha cold any longer, n' had run downstairs ta tha kitchen fire ta warm theyselves; n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had followed, on bare feet, along milez n' milez of icy stone-paved passages, jumpin off bout some shiznit n' beseechin dem ta be reasonable yo. Dude would probably done been aroused much earlier, had he not slept fo' some weeks on straw over stone flags, n' almost forgotten tha thugged-out feelin of thick blankets pulled well up round tha chin.

Sittin up, he rubbed his wild lil' fuckin eyes first n' his complainin toes next, wondered fo' a moment where da thug was, lookin round fo' familiar stone wall n' lil barred window; then, wit a leap of tha ass, remembered every last muthafuckin thang-his escape, his wild lil' flight, his thugged-out lil' pursuit; remembered, first n' dopest thang of all, dat da thug was free!

Jacked biaaatch! Da word n' tha thought ridin' solo was worth fifty blankets yo. Dude was warm from end ta end as tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of tha jolly ghetto outside, waitin eagerly fo' his ass ta make his cold-ass triumphal entrance, locked n loaded ta serve his ass n' play up ta him, anxious ta help his ass n' ta keep his ass company, as it always had been up in minutez of oldschool before misfortune fell tha fuck upon his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude shook his dirty ass n' combed tha dry leaves outta his afro wit his wild lil' fingers; and, his cold-ass toilet complete, marched forth tha fuck into tha laid back mornin sun, cold but confident, horny but hopeful, all straight-up trippin terrorz of yesterdizzle dispelled by rest n' chill n' frank n' heartenin sunshine.

Dude had tha ghetto all ta his dirty ass, dat early summer morning. Da dewy woodland, as tha pimpin' muthafucka threaded it, was solitary n' still: tha chronic fieldz dat succeeded tha trees was his own ta do as he was horny bout with; tha road itself, when he reached it, up in dat lonelinizz dat was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, ta be lookin anxiously fo' company. Toad, however, was lookin fo' suttin' dat could talk, n' tell his ass clearly which way he ought ta bounce tha fuck out. Well shiiiit, it be all straight-up well, when you gotz a light ass, n' a cold-ass lil clear conscience, n' scrilla up in yo' pocket, n' no muthafucka scourin tha ghetto fo' you ta drag you off ta prison again, ta follow where tha road beckons n' points, not carin whither n' shit. Da practical Toad cared straight-up much indeed, n' his schmoooove ass could have kicked tha road fo' its helpless silence when every last muthafuckin minute waz of importizzle ta his muthafuckin ass.

Da reserved rustic road was presently joined by a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shy lil brutha up in tha shape of a cold-ass lil canal, which took its hand n' ambled along by its side up in slick confidence yo, but wit tha same tongue-tied, uncommunicatizzle attitude towardz strangers. ‘Bother them!’ holla'd Toad ta his dirty ass. ‘But, anyhow, one thang’s clear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. They must both be comin FROM somewhere, n' goin TO somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Yo ass can’t git over dis shit. Toad, mah boy!’ So he marched on patiently by tha water’s edge.

Round a funky-ass bend up in tha canal came ploddin a solitary horse, stoopin forward as if up in anxious thought. From rope traces attached ta his collar stretched a long-ass line, taut yo, but dippin wit his stride, tha further part of it drippin pearly drops. Toad let tha cow pass, n' stood waitin fo' what tha fuck tha fates was bustin  his muthafuckin ass.

With a pleasant swirl of on tha down-low wata at its blunt bow tha barge slid up alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level wit tha towing-path, its sole occupant a funky-ass big-ass stout biatch bustin a linen sun-bonnet, one brawny arm laid along tha tiller.

‘A sick morning, ma’am!’ she remarked ta Toad, as her dope ass drew up level wit his muthafuckin ass.

‘I dare say it is, ma’am!’ responded Toad politely, as da thug strutted along tha tow-path abreast of her n' shit. ‘I dare it IS a sick mornin ta dem that’s not up in sore shit, like what tha fuck I am yo. Here’s mah hooked up daughter, her big-ass booty sendz off ta me post-haste ta come ta her at once; so off I comes, not knowin what tha fuck may be goin' down or goin ta happen yo, but fearin tha worst, as yo big-ass booty is ghon understand, ma’am, if you’re a mother, like a muthafucka fo' realz. And I’ve left mah bidnizz ta look afta itself-I’m up in tha washin n' launderin line, you must know, ma’am-and I’ve left mah lil' lil pimps ta look afta theyselves, n' a mo' mischievous n' shitsome set of lil' imps don’t exist, ma’am; n' I’ve lost all mah scrilla, n' lost mah way, n' as fo' what tha fuck may be goin' down ta mah hooked up daughter, why, I don’t like ta be thinkin of it, ma’am!’

‘Where might yo' hooked up daughta be living, ma’am?’ axed tha barge-woman.

‘Bitch lives near ta tha river, ma’am,’ replied Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Close ta a gangbangin' fine doggy den called Toad Hall, that’s somewheres hereabouts up in these parts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Perhaps you may have heard of dat shit.’

‘Toad Hall, biatch? Why, I’m goin dat way mah dirty ass,’ replied tha barge-woman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘This canal joins tha river some milez further on, a lil above Toad Hall; n' then it’s a easy as fuck  strutt. Yo ass come along up in tha barge wit me, n' I’ll hit you wit a lift.’

Bitch steered tha barge close ta tha bank, n' Toad, wit nuff humble n' grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board n' sat down wit pimped out satisfaction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Toad’s luck again!’ thought he. ‘I always come up on top!’

‘So you’re up in tha washin bidnizz, ma’am?’ holla'd tha barge-woman politely, as they glided along. ‘And a straight-up phat bidnizz you’ve gots too, I dare say, if I’m not makin too free up in sayin so.’

‘Finest bidnizz up in tha whole ghetto,’ holla'd Toad airily. ‘All tha gentry come ta me-wouldn’t git all up in any one else if they was paid, they know me so well. Yo ass see, I KNOW mah work thoroughly, n' git all up in ta all dat shiznit mah dirty ass. Washing, ironing, clear-starching, makin up gents’ fine shirts fo' evenin wear-everything’s done under mah own eye!’

‘But surely you don’t DO all dat work yo ass, ma’am?’ axed tha barge-woman respectfully.

‘O, I have girls,’ holla'd Toad lightly: ‘twenty hoes or thereabouts, always at work. But you know what tha fuck GIRLS are, ma’am! Nasty lil hussies, that’s what I call ‘em!’

‘So do I, too,’ holla'd tha barge-woman wit pimped out heartiness. ‘But I dare say you set yours ta rights, tha idle trollops muthafucka! And is you straight-up fond of washing?’

‘I gots a straight-up boner fo' it,’ holla'd Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I simply dote on dat shit. Never so aiiight as when I’ve gots both arms up in tha wash-tub. But, then, it comes so easy as fuck  ta me biaaatch! No shiznit at all! A real pleasure, I assure you, ma’am!’

‘What a lil' bit of luck, meetin you, nahmean biiiatch?’ observed tha barge-woman, thoughtfully. ‘A regular piece of phat fortune fo' both of us!’

‘Why, what tha fuck do you mean?’ axed Toad, nervously.

‘Well, peep me, now,’ replied tha barge-woman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘I like washing, too, just tha same as you do; n' fo' dat matter, whether I wanna bust a nut on it or not I have gots ta do all mah own, naturally, movin bout as I do. Now mah homeboy, he’s such a gangbangin' fellow fo' shirkin his work n' leavin tha barge ta me, dat never a moment do I git fo' seein ta mah own affairs. By muthafuckin rights he ought ta be here now, either steerin or attendin ta tha horse, though luckily tha cow has sense enough ta git all up in ta his dirty ass. Instead of which, he’s gone off wit tha dog, ta peep if they can’t pick up a rabbit fo' dinner somewhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Says he’ll catch me up all up in tha next lock. Well, that’s as may be-I don’t trust him, once he gets off wit dat dog, who’s worse than he is. But meantime, how tha fuck is I ta git on wit mah washing?’

‘O, never mind bout tha washing,’ holla'd Toad, not likin tha subject. ‘Try n' fix yo' mind on dat rabbit fo' realz. A sick fat lil' rabbit, I’ll be bound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Got any onions?’

‘I can’t fix mah mind on anythang but mah washing,’ holla'd tha barge-woman, ‘and I wonder you can be poppin' off of rabbits, wit such a joyful prospect before you, biatch. There’s a heap of thangz of mine dat you’ll find up in a cold-ass lil corner of tha cabin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If you’ll just take one or two of da most thugged-out necessary sort-I won’t venture ta describe dem ta a lady like you yo, but you’ll recognise dem at a glance-and put dem all up in tha wash-tub as we go along, why, it’ll be a pleasure ta you, as you rightly say, n' a real help ta mah dirty ass. You’ll find a tub handy, n' soap, n' a kettle on tha stove, n' a funky-ass bucket ta haul up wata from tha canal with. Then I shall know you’re trippin' off yo ass, instead of chillin here idle, lookin all up in tha scenery n' yawnin yo' head off.’

‘Here, you let me steer!’ holla'd Toad, now thoroughly frightened, ‘and then you can git on wit yo' washin yo' own way. I might spoil yo' thangs, or not do ‘em as you like. I’m mo' used ta gentlemen’s thangs mah dirty ass. It’s mah special line.’

‘Let you steer?’ replied tha barge-woman, laughing. ‘It takes some practice ta steer a funky-ass barge properly. Besides, it’s dull work, n' I want you ta be horny. Fuck dat shit, you shall do tha washin yo ass is so fond of, n' I’ll stick ta tha steerin dat I understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Don’t try n' deprive me of tha pleasure of givin you a treat!’

Toad was fairly cornered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude looked fo' escape dis way n' that, saw dat da thug was too far from tha bank fo' a gangbangin' flyin leap, n' sullenly resigned his dirty ass ta his wild lil' fate. ‘If it comes ta that,’ tha pimpin' muthafucka thought up in desperation, ‘I suppose any fool can WASH!’

Dude fetched tub, soap, n' other necessaries from tha cabin, selected all dem garments at random, tried ta recollect what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped up in casual glances all up in laundry windows, n' set to.

A long half-hour passed, n' every last muthafuckin minute of it saw Toad gettin crosser n' crosser n' shit. Nothang dat his schmoooove ass could do ta tha thangs seemed ta please dem or do dem good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Dude tried coaxing, tha pimpin' muthafucka tried slapping, tha pimpin' muthafucka tried punching; they smiled back at his ass outta tha tub unconverted, aiiight up in they original gangsta sin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Once or twice he looked nervously over his shoulder all up in tha barge-woman yo, but she rocked up ta be gazin up in front of her, absorbed up in her steerin yo. His back ached badly, n' he noticed wit dismay dat his thugged-out lil' paws was beginnin ta git all crinkly. Now Toad was straight-up proud as a muthafucka of his thugged-out lil' paws yo. Dude muttered under his breath lyrics dat should never pass tha lipz of either washerwomen or Toads; n' lost tha soap, fo' tha fiftieth time.

A burst of laughta made his ass straighten his dirty ass n' look round. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da barge-woman was leanin back n' bustin up unrestrainedly, till tha tears ran down her cheeks.

‘I’ve been watchin you all tha time,’ she gasped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I thought you must be a humbug all along, from tha conceited way you talked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Pretty washerwoman yo ass is biaaatch! Never washed so much as a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dish-clout up in yo' game, I’ll lay!’

Toad’s temper which had been simmerin viciously fo' some time, now fairly boiled over, n' he lost all control of his dirty ass.

‘Yo ass common, low, FAT barge-woman!’ da perved-out muthafucka shouted; ‘don’t you dare ta rap ta yo' bettas like dat son! Washerwoman indeed hommie! I would have you ta know dat I be a Toad, a straight-up well-known, bigged up, distinguished Toad hommie! I may be under a lil' bit of a cold-ass lil cloud at present yo, but I'ma NOT be laughed at by a funky-ass bargewoman!’

Da biatch moved nearer ta his ass n' peered under his bonnet keenly n' closely. ‘Why, so yo ass is!’ dat thugged-out biiiatch cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Well, I never playa! A horrid, nasty, crawly Toad hommie! And up in mah sick clean barge, too! Now dat be a thang dat I'ma NOT have.’

Bitch relinquished tha tilla fo' a moment. One big-ass mottled arm blasted up n' caught Toad by a gangbangin' fore-leg, while tha other-gripped his ass fast by a hind-leg. Then tha ghetto turned suddenly upside down, tha barge seemed ta flit lightly across tha sky, tha wind whistled up in his wild lil' fuckin ears, n' Toad found his dirty ass flyin all up in tha air, revolvin rapidly as da thug went.

Da water, when he eventually reached it wit a funky-ass bangin splash, proved like cold enough fo' his cold-ass taste, though its chill was not sufficient ta quell his thugged-out lil' proud as a muthafucka spirit, or slake tha heat of his wild lil' furious temper n' shiznit yo. Dude rose ta tha surface spluttering, n' when dat schmoooove muthafucka had wiped tha duck-weed outta his wild lil' fuckin eyes tha straight-up original gangsta thang da perved-out muthafucka saw was tha fat barge-woman lookin back at his ass over tha stern of tha retreatin barge n' laughing; n' he vowed, as his schmoooove ass coughed n' choked, ta be even wit her muthafuckin ass.

Dude struck up fo' tha shore yo, but tha cotton gown pimped outly impeded his wild lil' fuckin efforts, n' when at length tha pimpin' muthafucka touched land he found it hard ta climb up tha steep bank unassisted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude had ta take a minute or two’s rest ta recover his breath; then, gatherin his wet skirts well over his thugged-out arms, da perved-out muthafucka started ta run afta tha barge as fast as his hairy-ass legs would carry him, wild wit indignation, thirstin fo' revenge.

Da barge-woman was still bustin up when da ruffneck drew up level wit her n' shit. ‘Put yo ass all up in yo' mangle, washerwoman,’ dat thugged-out biiiatch called out, ‘and iron yo' grill n' crimp it, n' you’ll pass fo' like a thugged-out decent-lookin Toad!’

Toad never paused ta reply. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Solid revenge was what tha fuck da thug wanted, not skanky, windy, verbal triumphs, though dat schmoooove muthafucka had a thang or two up in his crazy-ass mind dat da thug would have was horny bout ta say yo. Dude saw what tha fuck da thug wanted ahead of his muthafuckin ass. Hustlin swiftly on he overtook tha horse, unfastened tha towrope n' cast off, jumped lightly on tha horse’s back, n' urged it ta a gallop by kickin it vigorously up in tha sides yo. Dude steered fo' tha open ghetto, abandonin tha tow-path, n' swingin his steed down a rutty lane. Once he looked back, n' saw dat tha barge had run aground on tha other side of tha canal, n' tha barge-woman was gesticulatin wildly n' shouting, ‘Stop, stop, stop!’ ‘I’ve heard dat cold lil' woo wop before,’ holla'd Toad, laughing, as his schmoooove ass continued ta spur his steed onward up in its wild game.

Da barge-horse was not capable of any straight-up sustained effort, n' its gallop soon subsided tha fuck into a trot, n' its trot tha fuck into a easy as fuck  strutt; but Toad was like contented wit this, knowin dat he, at any rate, was moving, n' tha barge was not yo. Dude had like recovered his cold-ass temper, now dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had done suttin' tha pimpin' muthafucka thought straight-up def; n' da thug was satisfied ta jog along on tha fuckin' down-lowly up in tha sun, steerin his cow along by-ways n' bridle-paths, n' tryin ta forget how tha fuck straight-up long dat shiznit was since dat schmoooove muthafucka had had a square meal, till tha canal had been left straight-up far behind his muthafuckin ass.

Dude had travelled some miles, his cow n' he, n' da thug was feelin drowsy up in tha bangin' sunshine, when tha cow stopped, lowered his head, n' fuckin started ta nibble tha grass; n' Toad, wakin up, just saved his dirty ass from fallin off by a effort yo. Dude looked bout his ass n' found da thug was on a wide common, dotted wit patchez of gorse n' bramble as far as his schmoooove ass could see. Near his ass stood a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dingy gipsy caravan, n' beside it a playa was chillin on a funky-ass bucket turned upside down, straight-up busy tokin n' starin tha fuck into tha wide ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A fire of sticks was burnin near by, n' over tha fire hung a iron pot, n' outta dat pot came forth bubblings n' gurglings, n' a vague suggestizzle steaminizz fo' realz. Also smells-warm, rich, n' varied smells-that twined n' twisted n' wreathed theyselves at last tha fuck into one complete, voluptuous, slick smell dat seemed like tha straight-up ass of Nature takin form n' appearin ta her children, a legit Goddess, a mutha of solace n' comfort. Toad now knew well dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had not been straight-up horny before. What dat schmoooove muthafucka had felt earlier up in tha dizzle had been a mere triflin qualm. This was tha real thang at last, n' no mistake; n' it would gotta be dealt wit speedily, too, or there would be shiznit fo' some muthafucka or somethang yo. Dude looked tha gipsy over carefully, wonderin vaguely whether it would be easier ta fight his ass or cajole his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So there da perved-out muthafucka sat, n' sniffed n' sniffed, n' looked all up in tha gipsy; n' tha gipsy sat n' smoked, n' looked at his muthafuckin ass.

Presently tha gipsy took his thugged-out lil' pipe outta his crazy-ass grill n' remarked up in a cold-ass lil careless way, ‘Want ta push dat there cow of yours?’

Toad was straight-up taken aback yo. Dude did not know dat gipsies was straight-up fond of horse-dealing, n' never missed a opportunity, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had not reflected dat caravans was always on tha move n' took a thugged-out deal of drawing. Well shiiiit, it had not occurred ta his ass ta turn tha cow tha fuck into chedda yo, but tha gipsy’s suggestion seemed ta smooth tha way towardz tha two thangs da thug wanted so badly-ready scrilla, n' a solid breakfast.

‘What?’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘me push dis dope lil' cow of mine, biatch? O, no; it’s outta tha question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Who’s goin ta take tha washin home ta mah hustlas every last muthafuckin week, biatch? Besides, I’m too fond of him, n' da perved-out muthafucka simply dotes on mah dirty ass.’

‘Try n' ludd a thugged-out donkey,’ suggested tha gipsy. ‘Some playas do.’

‘Yo ass don’t seem ta see,’ continued Toad, ‘that dis fine cow of mine be a cold-ass lil cut above you altogether n' shiznit yo. He’s a funky-ass blood horse, he is, kinda; not tha part you see, of course-another part fo' realz. And he’s been a Prize Hackney, too, up in his cold-ass time-that was tha time before you knew his ass yo, but you can still tell it on his ass at a glance, if you KNOW anythang bout horses. Fuck dat shit, it’s not ta be thought of fo' a moment fo' realz. All tha same, how tha fuck much might you be disposed ta offer me fo' dis dope lil' cow of mine?’

Da gipsy looked tha cow over, n' then he looked Toad over wit equal care, n' looked all up in tha cow again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Shillin’ a leg,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd briefly, n' turned away, continuin ta smoke n' try ta stare tha wide ghetto outta countenance.

‘A shillin a leg?’ cried Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘If you please, I must take a lil time ta work dat out, n' peep just what tha fuck it comes to.’

Dude climbed down off his horse, n' left it ta graze, n' sat down by tha gipsy, n' did sums on his wild lil' fingers, n' at last da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘A shillin a leg, biatch? Why, dat comes ta exactly four shillings, n' no mo' n' mo' n' mo'. O, no; I could not be thinkin of acceptin four shillings fo' dis dope lil' cow of mine.’

‘Well,’ holla'd tha gipsy, ‘I’ll rap  what tha fuck I'ma do. I’ll make it five shillings, n' that’s three-and-sixpence mo' than tha animal’s worth fo' realz. And that’s mah last word.’

Then Toad sat n' pondered long n' deeply. For da thug was horny n' like penniless, n' still some way-he knew not how tha fuck far-from home, n' enemies might still be lookin fo' his muthafuckin ass. To one up in such a thang, five shillings may straight-up well step tha fuck up a big-ass sum of scrilla. On tha other hand, it did not seem straight-up much ta git fo' a horse. But then, again, tha cow hadn’t cost his ass anything; so whatever he gots was all clear profit fo' realz. At last da perved-out muthafucka holla'd firmly, ‘Look here, gipsy dawwwwg! I rap  what tha fuck we will do; n' dis is MY last word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass shall hand mah crazy ass over six shillings n' sixpence, chedda down; n' further, up in addizzle thereto, you shall give me as much breakfast as I can possibly eat, at one chillin of course, outta dat iron pot of yours dat keeps bustin  forth such delicious n' bangin smells. In return, I'ma make over ta you mah spirited lil' horse, wit all tha dope harnizz n' trappings dat is on him, freely thrown in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. If that’s not phat enough fo' you, say so, n' I’ll be gettin on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I know a playa near here who’s wanted dis cow of mine fo' years.’

Da gipsy grumbled frightfully, n' declared if da ruffneck did all dem mo' dealz of dat sort he’d be ruined. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But up in tha end he lugged a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty canvas bag outta tha depthz of his cold-ass trouser pocket, n' counted up six shillings n' sixpence tha fuck into Toad’s paw. Then da ruffneck disappeared tha fuck into tha caravan fo' a instant, n' returned wit a big-ass iron plate n' a knife, fork, n' spoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude tilted up tha pot, n' a glorious stream of bangin' rich stew gurgled tha fuck into tha plate. Well shiiiit, it was, indeed, da most thugged-out dope stew up in tha ghetto, bein made of partridges, n' pheasants, n' chickens, n' hares, n' rabbits, n' pea-hens, n' guinea-fowls, n' one or two other thangs. Toad took tha plate on his fuckin lap, almost crying, n' stuffed, n' stuffed, n' stuffed, n' kept askin fo' more, n' tha gipsy never grudged it his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude thought dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had never smoked so phat a funky-ass breakfast up in all his wild lil' freakadelic game.

When Toad had taken as much stew on board as tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could possibly hold, he gots up n' holla'd good-bye ta tha gipsy, n' took a affectionate farewell of tha horse; n' tha gipsy, whoz ass knew tha riverside well, gave his ass directions which way ta go, n' da perved-out muthafucka set forth on his cold-ass travels again n' again n' again up in tha dopest possible spirits yo. Dude was, indeed, a straight-up different Toad from tha animal of a minute ago. Da sun was shinin brightly, his wet threadz was like dry again, dat schmoooove muthafucka had scrilla up in his thugged-out lil' pocket once more, da thug was nearin home n' playaz n' safety, and, most n' dopest of all, dat schmoooove muthafucka had had a substantial meal, bangin' n' nourishing, n' felt big, n' strong, n' careless, n' self-confident.

As tha pimpin' muthafucka tramped along gaily, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought of his thugged-out adventures n' escapes, n' how tha fuck when thangs seemed at they most shitty dat schmoooove muthafucka had always managed ta find a way out; n' his thugged-out lil' pride n' conceit fuckin started ta swell within his muthafuckin ass. ‘Ho, ho!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass as he marched along wit his chin up in tha air, ‘what a cold-ass lil smart-ass Toad I am! There is surely no animal equal ta me fo' defnizz up in tha whole ghetto hommie! My fuckin enemies shut me up on lockdown, encircled by sentries, peeped night n' dizzle by warders; I strutt up all up in dem all, by sheer mobilitizzle coupled wit courage. They pursue me wit engines, n' policemen, n' revolvers; I snap mah fingers at them, n' vanish, laughing, tha fuck into space. I am, unfortunately, thrown tha fuck into a cold-ass lil canal by a biatch fat of body n' straight-up evil-minded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! What of it, biatch? I swim ashore, I seize her horse, I ride off up in triumph, n' I push tha cow fo' a whole pocketful of scrilla n' a pimpin breakfast son! Ho, ho! I be Da Toad, tha thugged-out, tha popular, tha successful Toad!’ Dude gots so puffed up wit conceit dat he made up a cold lil' woo wop as da thug strutted up in praise of his dirty ass, n' busted it all up in tha top of his voice, though there was no one ta hear it but his muthafuckin ass. Dat shiznit was like da most thugged-out conceited cold lil' woo wop dat any animal eva composed.

‘Da ghetto has held pimped out Heroes, As history-books have flossed; But never a name ta go down ta fame Compared wit dat of Toad!

‘Da smart-ass pimps at Oxford Know all dat there is ta be knowed. But they none of dem know one half as much As intelligent Mista Muthafuckin Toad!

‘Da muthafuckas sat up in tha Ark n' cried, Their tears up in torrents flowed. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was it holla'd, "There’s land ahead?" Encouragin Mista Muthafuckin Toad!

‘Da army all saluted As they marched along tha road. Was it tha Mackdaddy, biatch? Or Kitchener? No. Dat shiznit was Mista Muthafuckin Toad.

‘Da Biatch n' her Ladies-in-waiting Sat all up in tha window n' sewed. Biatch cried, "Look! who’s dat thugged-out man?" They answered, "Mista Muthafuckin Toad."’ There was a pimped out deal mo' of tha same sort yo, but too dreadfully conceited ta be freestyled down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. These is a shitload of tha milder verses.

Dude busted as da thug strutted, n' da thug strutted as da perved-out muthafucka sang, n' gots mo' inflated every last muthafuckin minute. But his thugged-out lil' pride was shortly ta git a severe fall.

Afta some milez of ghetto lanes he reached tha high road, n' as tha pimpin' muthafucka turned tha fuck into it n' glanced along its white length, da perved-out muthafucka saw approachin his ass a speck dat turned tha fuck into a thugged-out dot n' then tha fuck into a funky-ass blob, n' then tha fuck into suttin' straight-up familiar; n' a thugged-out double note of warning, only too well known, fell tha fuck on his fuckin lil' delighted ear.

‘This is suttin' like!’ holla'd tha buckwild Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘This is real game again, dis is once mo' tha pimped out ghetto from which I done been missed so long! I'ma hail them, mah brotherz of tha wheel, n' pitch dem a yarn, of tha sort dat has been so successful hitherto; n' they will break me off a lift, of course, n' then I'ma rap ta dem some more; and, like, wit luck, it may even end up in mah rollin up ta Toad Hall up in a motor-car playa! That is ghon be one up in tha eye fo' Badger!’

Dude stepped confidently up tha fuck into tha road ta hail tha motor-car, which came along at a easy as fuck  pace, slowin down as it neared tha lane; when suddenly his thugged-out lil' punk-ass became straight-up pale, his thugged-out ass turned ta water, his knees shook n' yielded under him, n' da ruffneck doubled up n' collapsed wit a sickenin pain up in his crazy-ass muthafuckin interior fo' realz. And well he might, tha unaiiight animal; fo' tha approachin hoopty was tha straight-up one dat schmoooove muthafucka had jacked outta tha yard of tha Red Lion Hotel on dat fatal dizzle when all his shits fuckin started! And tha playas up in it was tha straight-up same playas dat schmoooove muthafucka had sat n' peeped at luncheon up in tha coffee-room!

Dude sank down up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shabby, miserable heap up in tha road, murmurin ta his dirty ass up in his fuckin lil' despair, ‘It’s all up! It’s all over now! Chains n' policemen again! Prison again! Dry bread n' wata again! O, what tha fuck a gangbangin' fool I have been! What did I wanna go struttin bout tha ghetto for, rappin conceited joints, n' hailin playas up in broad dizzle on tha high road, instead of hidin till nightfall n' slippin home on tha fuckin' down-lowly by back ways muthafucka! O hapless Toad hommie! O ill-fated animal!’

Da shitty motor-car drew slowly nearer n' nearer, till at last dat schmoooove muthafucka heard it stop just short of his muthafuckin ass. Two gentlemen gots up n' strutted round tha tremblin heap of crumpled misery lyin up in tha road, n' one of dem holla'd, ‘O dear playa! dis is straight-up fucked up hommie! Here be a skanky oldschool thang-a washerwoman apparently-who has fainted up in tha road hommie! Perhaps her ass is overcome by tha heat, skanky creature; or possibly dat freaky freaky biatch has not had any chicken to-day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Let our asses lift her tha fuck into tha hoopty n' take her ta tha nearest village, where doubtless dat freaky freaky biatch has playas.’

They tenderly lifted Toad tha fuck into tha motor-car n' propped his ass up wit soft cushions, n' proceeded on they way.

When Toad heard dem rap up in so kind n' sympathetic a way, n' knew dat da thug was not recognised, his courage fuckin started ta revive, n' his schmoooove ass cautiously opened first one eye n' then tha other.

‘Look!’ holla'd one of tha gentlemen, ‘she is betta already. Da fresh air is bustin her good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! How tha fuck do you feel now, ma’am?’

‘Nuff props kindly, Sir,’ holla'd Toad up in a gangbangin' feeble voice, ‘I’m feelin a pimped out deal better!’ ‘That’s right,’ holla'd tha gentleman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Now keep like still, and, above all, don’t try ta talk.’

‘I won’t,’ holla'd Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I was only thinking, if I might sit on tha front seat there, beside tha driver, where I could git tha fresh air full up in mah face, I should soon be all right again.’

‘What a straight-up sensible biatch!’ holla'd tha gentleman. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Of course you shall.’ So they carefully helped Toad tha fuck into tha front seat beside tha driver, n' on they went again.

Toad was almost his dirty ass again n' again n' again by now yo. Dude sat up, looked bout him, n' tried ta beat down tha tremors, tha yearnings, tha oldschool cravings dat rose up n' beset his ass n' took possession of his ass entirely.

‘It be fate!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass. ‘Why strive, biatch? why struggle?’ n' tha pimpin' muthafucka turned ta tha driver at his side.

‘Please, Sir,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘I wish you would kindly let me try n' drive tha hoopty fo' a lil. I’ve been watchin you carefully, n' it looks so easy as fuck  n' so interesting, n' I should like ta be able ta tell mah playaz dat once I had driven a motor-car!’

Da driver laughed all up in tha proposal, so heartily dat tha gentleman inquired what tha fuck tha matta was. When dat schmoooove muthafucka heard, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ta Toad’s delight, ‘Bravo, ma’am! I wanna bust a nut on yo' spirit, n' I aint talkin bout no muthafuckin Jack Daniels neither. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Let her gotz a try, n' look afta her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch won’t do any harm.’

Toad eagerly scrambled tha fuck into tha seat vacated by tha driver, took tha steering-wheel up in his hands, listened wit affected humilitizzle ta tha instructions given him, n' set tha hoopty up in motion yo, but straight-up slowly n' carefully at first, fo' da thug was determined ta be prudent.

Da gentlemen behind clapped they handz n' applauded, n' Toad heard dem saying, ‘How tha fuck well her dope ass do dat shiznit son! Fancy a washerwoman rollin a cold-ass lil hoopty as well as that, tha last time!’

Toad went a lil faster; then fasta still, n' faster.

Dude heard tha gentlemen call up warningly, ‘Be careful, washerwoman!’ And dis annoyed him, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta lose his head.

Da driver tried ta interfere yo, but he pinned his ass down up in his seat wit one elbow, n' put on full speed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da rush of air up in his wild lil' face, tha hum of tha engines, n' tha light jump of tha hoopty beneath his ass high as fuck his weak dome. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘Washerwoman, indeed!’ da perved-out muthafucka shouted recklessly. ‘Ho! ho! I be tha Toad, tha motor-car snatcher, tha prison-breaker, tha Toad whoz ass always escapes muthafucka! Sit still, n' you shall know what tha fuck rollin straight-up is, fo' yo ass is up in tha handz of tha famous, tha skilful, tha entirely fearless Toad!’

With a cold-ass lil cry of horror tha whole jam rose n' flung theyselves on his muthafuckin ass. ‘Seize him!’ they cried, ‘seize tha Toad, tha wicked animal whoz ass stole our motor-car playa! Bind him, chain him, drag his ass ta tha nearest police-station! Down wit tha desperate n' fucked up Toad!’

Alas muthafucka! they should have thought, they ought ta done been mo' prudent, they should have remembered ta stop tha motor-car somehow before playin any prankz of dat sort. With a half-turn of tha wheel tha Toad busted tha hoopty crashin all up in tha low hedge dat ran along tha roadside. One mighty bound, a violent shock, n' tha wheelz of tha hoopty was churnin up tha thick mud of a horse-pond.

Toad found his dirty ass flyin all up in tha air wit tha phat upward rush n' delicate curve of a swallow yo. Dude was horny bout tha motion, n' was just beginnin ta wonder whether it would go on until da ruffneck pimped wings n' turned tha fuck into a Toad-bird, when he landed on his back wit a thump, up in tha soft rich grass of a meadow. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sittin up, his schmoooove ass could just peep tha motor-car up in tha pond, nearly submerged; tha gentlemen n' tha driver, encumbered by they long coats, was flounderin helplessly up in tha water.

Dude picked his dirty ass up rapidly, n' set off hustlin across ghetto as hard as his schmoooove ass could, scramblin all up in hedges, jumpin ditches, poundin across fields, till da thug was breathless n' weary, n' had ta settle down tha fuck into a easy as fuck  strutt. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had recovered his breath somewhat, n' was able ta be thinkin calmly, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta giggle, n' from gigglin tha pimpin' muthafucka took ta laughing, n' he laughed till dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta sit tha fuck down under a hedge. ‘Ho, ho!’ his schmoooove ass cried, up in ecstasiez of self-admiration, ‘Toad again! Toad, as usual, comes up on tha top! Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was it gots dem ta give his ass a lift, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck managed ta git on tha front seat fo' tha sake of fresh air, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck persuaded dem tha fuck into lettin his ass peep if his schmoooove ass could drive, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck landed dem all up in a horse-pond, biatch? Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck escaped, flyin gaily n' unscathed all up in tha air, leavin tha narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists up in tha mud where they should rightly be, biatch? Why, Toad, of course; smart-ass Toad, pimped out Toad, GOOD Toad!’

Then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass burst tha fuck into cold lil' woo wop again, n' chanted wit uplifted voice-

‘Da motor-car went Poop-poop-poop, As it raced along tha road. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck was it steered it tha fuck into a pond? Ingenious Mista Muthafuckin Toad!

O, how tha fuck smart-ass I am! How tha fuck def, how tha fuck def, how tha fuck straight-up clev--’

A slight noise at a gangbangin' finger-lickin' distizzle behind his ass made his ass turn his head n' look. O horror playa! O misery dawwwwg! O despair!

Bout two fieldz off, a cold-ass lil chauffeur up in his fuckin leather gaitas n' two big-ass rural policemen was visible, hustlin towardz his ass as hard as they could go!

Skanky Toad sprang ta his wild lil' feet n' pelted away again, his thugged-out ass up in his crazy-ass grill. O, my!’ he gasped, as he panted along, ‘what a ASS I am! What a CONCEITED n' heedless ass muthafucka! Swaggerin again! Shoutin n' rappin joints again! Sittin still n' gassin again! O mah dawwwwg! O mah dawwwwg! O my!’

Dude glanced back, n' saw ta his fuckin lil' dismay dat they was bustin on his muthafuckin ass. On he ran desperately yo, but kept lookin back, n' saw dat they still gained steadily yo. Dude did his dopest yo, but da thug was a gangbangin' fat animal, n' his hairy-ass legs was short, n' still they gained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude could hear dem close behind his ass now, nahmeean, biatch? Ceasin ta heed where da thug was going, da perved-out muthafucka struggled on blindly n' wildly, lookin back over his shoulder all up in tha now triumphant enemy, when suddenly tha earth failed under his wild lil' feet, he grasped all up in tha air, and, splash! he found his dirty ass head over ears up in deep water, rapid water, wata dat bore his ass along wit a gangbangin' force his schmoooove ass could not contend with; n' he knew dat up in his blind panic dat schmoooove muthafucka had run straight tha fuck into tha river!

Dude rose ta tha surface n' tried ta grasp tha reedz n' tha rushes dat grew along tha water’s edge close under tha bank yo, but tha stream was so phat dat it tore dem outta his hands. ‘O my!’ gasped skanky Toad, ‘if eva I loot a motor-car again! If eva I rap another conceited song’-then down da thug went, n' came up breathless n' spluttering. Presently da perved-out muthafucka saw dat da thug was approachin a funky-ass big-ass dark hole up in tha bank, just above his head, n' as tha stream bore his ass past he reached up wit a paw n' caught hold of tha edge n' held on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then slowly n' wit hang-up da ruffneck drew his dirty ass up outta tha water, till at last da thug was able ta rest his wild lil' fuckin elbows on tha edge of tha hole. There he remained fo' some minutes, puffin n' panting, fo' da thug was like exhausted.

As da perved-out muthafucka sighed n' blew n' stared before his ass tha fuck into tha dark hole, some bright lil' small-ass thang shone n' twinkled up in its depths, movin towardz his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. As it approached, a gangbangin' grill grew up gradually round it, n' dat shiznit was a gangbangin' familiar face!

Brown n' small, wit whiskers.

Grave n' round, wit neat ears n' silky hair.

Dat shiznit was tha Wata Rat!

XI. ‘LIKE SUMMER TEMPESTS CAME HIS TEARS’ Da Rat put up a neat lil brown paw, gripped Toad firmly by tha scruff of tha neck, n' gave a pimped out hoist n' a pull; n' tha water-logged Toad came up slowly but surely over tha edge of tha hole, till at last da perved-out muthafucka stood safe n' sound up in tha hall, streaked wit mud n' chronic ta be sure, n' wit tha wata streamin off his ass yo, but aiiight n' high-spirited az of old, now dat he found his dirty ass once mo' up in tha doggy den of a gangbangin' playa, n' dodgings n' evasions was over, n' his schmoooove ass could lay aside a gangbangin' finger-lickin' disguise dat was unworthy of his thugged-out lil' posizzle n' wanted such a shitload of livin up to.

‘O, Ratty!’ his schmoooove ass cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’ve been all up in such times since I saw you last, you can’t think! Such trials, such sufferings, n' all so nobly borne biaaatch! Then such escapes, such disguises such subterfuges, n' all so defly planned n' carried up son! Been on lockdown-got outta it, of course biaaatch! Been thrown tha fuck into a cold-ass lil canal-swam ashore biaaatch! Taxed a horse-sold his ass fo' a big-ass sum of scrilla dawwwwg! Humbugged everybody-made ‘em all do exactly what tha fuck I wanted hommie! Oh, I AM a smart-ass Toad, n' no mistake biaaatch! What do you be thinkin mah last exploit was, biatch? Just hold on till I rap --’

‘Toad,’ holla'd tha Wata Rat, gravely n' firmly, ‘you go off upstairs at once, n' take off dat oldschool cotton rag dat looks as if it might formerly have belonged ta some washerwoman, n' clean yo ass thoroughly, n' put on a shitload of mah clothes, n' try n' come down lookin like a gentleman if you CAN; fo' a mo' shabby, bedraggled, disreputable-lookin object than yo ass is I never set eyes on up in mah whole game biaaatch! Now, stop swaggerin n' jumpin off bout some shit, n' be off! I’ll have suttin' ta say ta you later!’

Toad was at first inclined ta stop n' do some poppin' off back at his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude had had enough of bein ordered bout when da thug was on lockdown, n' here was tha thang bein begun all over again, apparently; n' by a Rat, too! But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat his schmoooove ass caught sight of his dirty ass up in tha looking-glass over tha hat-stand, wit tha rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye, n' his schmoooove ass chizzled his crazy-ass mind n' went straight-up quickly n' humbly upstairs ta tha Rat’s dressing-room. There dat schmoooove muthafucka had a thorough wash n' brush-up, chizzled his clothes, n' stood fo' a long-ass time before tha glass, contemplatin his dirty ass wit pride n' pleasure, n' thankin what tha fuck utta idiots all tha playas must done been ta have eva mistaken his ass fo' one moment fo' a washerwoman.

By tha time his schmoooove ass came down again n' again n' again luncheon was on tha table, n' straight-up glad Toad was ta peep it, fo' dat schmoooove muthafucka had been all up in some tryin experiences n' had taken much hard exercise since tha pimpin breakfast provided fo' his ass by tha gipsy. While they ate Toad holla'd all up in tha Rat all his thugged-out adventures, dwellin chizzlely on his own defness, n' presence of mind up in emergencies, n' cunnin up in tight places; n' rather makin up dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had been havin a gay n' highly-coloured experience. But tha mo' tha pimpin' muthafucka talked n' boasted, tha mo' grave n' silent tha Rat became.

When at last Toad had talked his dirty ass ta a standstill, there was silence fo' a while; n' then tha Rat holla'd, ‘Now, Toady, I don’t wanna hit you wit pain, afta all you’ve been all up in already; but, seriously, don’t you peep what tha fuck a wack ass you’ve been makin of yo ass, biatch? On yo' own admission you done been handcuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased, terrified outta yo' game, insulted, jeered at, n' ignominiously flung tha fuck into tha water-by a biatch, too! Where’s tha amusement up in that, biatch? Where do tha funk come in, biatch? And all cuz you must needz go n' loot a motor-car. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Yo ass know dat you’ve never had anythang but shiznit from motor-cars from tha moment you first set eyes on one. But if you WILL be mixed up wit them-as you generally are, five minutes afta you’ve started-why STEAL them, biatch? Be a cold-ass lil cripple, if you be thinkin it’s bangin; be a funky-ass bankrupt, fo' a cold-ass lil chizzle, if you’ve set yo' mind on it: but why chizzle ta be a cold-ass lil convict, biatch? When is you goin ta be sensible, n' be thinkin of yo' playas, n' try n' be a cold-ass lil credit ta them, biatch? Do you suppose it’s any pleasure ta me, fo' instance, ta hear muthafuckas saying, as I go about, dat I’m tha chap dat keeps company wit gaol-birds?’

Now, dat shiznit was a straight-up comfortin point up in Toad’s characta dat da thug was a thoroughly good-hearted animal n' never minded bein jawed by dem playas whoz ass was his bangin real playaz fo' realz. And even when most set upon a thang, da thug was always able ta peep tha other side of tha question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So although, while tha Rat was poppin' off so seriously, he kept sayin ta his dirty ass mutinously, ‘But it WAS fun, though! Awful fun!’ n' makin strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, n' poop-p-p, n' other soundz resemblin stifled snorts, or tha openin of soda-wata bottles, yet when tha Rat had like finished, dat schmoooove muthafucka heaved a thugged-out deep bust a funky-ass big-ass fart n' holla'd, straight-up sickly n' humbly, ‘Quite right, Ratty dawwwwg! How tha fuck SOUND you always is biaaatch! Yes, I’ve been a cold-ass lil conceited oldschool ass, I can like peep that; but now I’m goin ta be a phat Toad, n' not do it any mo' n' mo' n' mo' fo' realz. As fo' motor-cars, I’ve not been at all so keen bout dem since mah last duckin up in dat river of yours. Da fact is, while I was hangin on ta tha edge of yo' hole n' gettin mah breath, I had a sudden idea-a straight-up solid idea-connected wit motor-boats-there, there biaaatch! don’t take on so, oldschool chap, n' stamp, n' upset thangs; dat shiznit was only a idea, n' we won’t rap any mo' bout it now, nahmeean, biatch? We’ll have our coffee, AND a smoke, n' a on tha down-low chat, n' then I’m goin ta stroll on tha fuckin' down-lowly down ta Toad Hall, n' git tha fuck into threadz of mah own, n' set thangs goin again n' again n' again on tha oldschool lines. I’ve had enough of adventures. I shall lead a on tha fuckin' down-low, steady, respectable game, potterin bout mah property, n' pimpin-out it, n' bustin a lil landscape gardenin at times. There will always be a lil' bit of dinner fo' mah playaz when they come ta peep me; n' I shall keep a pony-chaise ta jog bout tha ghetto in, just as I used ta up in tha phat oldschool days, before I gots restless, n' wanted ta DO thangs.’

‘Stroll on tha fuckin' down-lowly down ta Toad Hall?’ cried tha Rat, pimped outly excited. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. ‘What is you poppin' off about, biatch? Do you mean ta say you haven’t HEARD?’

‘Heard what?’ holla'd Toad, turnin rather pale. ‘Go on, Ratty dawwwwg! Quick! Don’t spare me biaaatch! What haven’t I heard?’

‘Do you mean ta tell me,’ shouted tha Rat, thumpin wit his fuckin lil fist upon tha table, ‘that you’ve heard not a god damn thang bout tha Stoats n' Weasels?’

What, tha Wild Wooders?’ cried Toad, tremblin up in every last muthafuckin limb. ‘Fuck dat shit, not a word hommie! What have they been bustin?’

‘-And how tha fuck they’ve been n' taken Toad Hall?’ continued tha Rat.

Toad leaned his wild lil' fuckin elbows on tha table, n' his chin on his thugged-out lil' paws; n' a big-ass tear welled up in each of his wild lil' fuckin eyes, overflowed n' splashed on tha table, plop! plop!

‘Go on, Ratty,’ he murmured presently; ‘tell me all. Da most shitty is over n' shit. I be a animal again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I can bear dat shit.’

‘When you-got-into that-that-shiznit of yours,’ holla'd tha Rat, slowly n' impressively; ‘I mean, when you-disappeared from society fo' a time, over dat misunderstandin bout a-a machine, you know-’

Toad merely nodded.

‘Well, dat shiznit was a phat deal talked bout down here, naturally,’ continued tha Rat, ‘not only along tha river-side yo, but even up in tha Wild Wood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Animals took sides, as always happens. Da River-bankers stuck up fo' you, n' holla'd you had been infamously treated, n' there was no justice ta be had up in tha land nowadays. But tha Wild Wood muthafuckas holla'd hard thangs, n' served you right, n' dat shiznit was time dis sort of thang was stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And they gots straight-up cocky, n' went bout sayin you was done fo' dis time biaaatch! Yo ass would never come back again, never, never!’

Toad nodded once more, keepin silence.

‘That’s tha sort of lil beasts they are,’ tha Rat went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘But Mole n' Badger, they stuck out, all up in thick n' thin, dat you would come back again n' again n' again soon, somehow. They didn’t know exactly how tha fuck yo, but somehow!’

Toad fuckin started ta sit up in his chair again, n' ta smirk a lil.

‘They broke off some disrespec from history,’ continued tha Rat. ‘They holla'd dat no criminal laws had eva been known ta prevail against cheek n' plausibilitizzle like fuckin yours, combined wit tha juice of a long-ass purse. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So they arranged ta move they thangs up in ta Toad Hall, n' chill there, n' keep it aired, n' have all dat shiznit locked n loaded fo' you when you turned up. They didn’t guess what tha fuck was goin ta happen, of course; still, they had they suspicionz of tha Wild Wood muthafuckas. Now I come ta da most thugged-out fucked up n' tragic part of mah story. One dark night-it was a VERY dark night, n' blowin hard, too, n' drizzlin simply pussies n' dawgs-a crew of weasels, armed ta tha teeth, crept silently up tha carriage-drive ta tha front entrance. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Simultaneously, a funky-ass body of desperate ferrets, advancin all up in tha kitchen-garden, possessed theyselvez of tha backyard n' offices; while a cold-ass lil company of skirmishin stoats whoz ass stuck at not a god damn thang occupied tha conservatory n' tha billiard-room, n' held tha French windows openin on ta tha lawn.

‘Da Mole n' tha Badger was chillin by tha fire up in tha tokin-room, spittin some lyrics ta stories n' suspectin nothing, fo' it wasn’t a night fo' any muthafuckas ta be up in, when dem bloodthirsty villains broke down tha doors n' rushed up in upon dem from every last muthafuckin side. They made tha dopest fight they could yo, but what tha fuck was tha good, biatch? They was unarmed, n' taken by surprise, n' what tha fuck can two muthafuckas do against hundreds, biatch? They took n' beat dem severely wit sticks, dem two skanky faithful creatures, n' turned dem up tha fuck into tha cold n' tha wet, wit nuff insultin n' uncalled-for remarks!’

Here tha unfeelin Toad broke tha fuck into a snigger, n' then pulled his dirty ass together n' tried ta look particularly solemn.

‘And tha Wild Woodaz done been livin up in Toad Hall eva since,’ continued tha Rat; ‘and goin on simply anyhow! Lyin up in bed half tha day, n' breakfast at all hours, n' tha place up in such a mess (I’m holla'd at) it’s not fit ta be seen! Eatin yo' grub, n' drankin yo' drink, n' makin shitty jokes bout you, n' rappin vulgar joints, about-well, bout prisons n' magistrates, n' policemen; horrid underground joints, wit no humour up in dem wild-ass muthafuckas fo' realz. And they’re spittin some lyrics ta tha tradespeople n' dem hoes dat they’ve come ta stay fo' good.’

‘O, have they!’ holla'd Toad gettin up n' seizin a stick. ‘I’ll jolly soon peep bout that!’

‘It’s no good, Toad!’ called tha Rat afta his muthafuckin ass. ‘You’d betta come back n' sit tha fuck down; you’ll only git tha fuck into shit.’

But tha Toad was off, n' there was no holdin his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude marched rapidly down tha road, his stick over his shoulder, fumin n' mutterin ta his dirty ass up in his thugged-out anger, till he gots near his wild lil' front gate, when suddenly there popped up from behind tha palings a long-ass yellow ferret wit a gun.

‘Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck comes there?’ holla'd tha ferret sharply.

‘Stuff n' nonsense!’ holla'd Toad, straight-up angrily. ‘What do you mean by poppin' off like dat ta me son, biatch? Come outta dat at once, or I’ll--’

Da ferret holla'd never a word yo, but his thugged-out lil' punk-ass brought his wild lil' freakadelic glock up ta his shoulder n' shit. Toad prudently dropped flat up in tha road, n' BANG! a funky-ass cap whistled over his head.

Da startled Toad scrambled ta his wild lil' feet n' scampered off down tha road as hard as his schmoooove ass could; n' as he ran dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha ferret bustin up n' other horrid thin lil laughs takin it up n' carryin on tha sound.

Dude went back, straight-up crestfallen, n' holla'd all up in tha Wata Rat.

‘What did I tell yo slick ass?’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘It’s no good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! They’ve gots sentries posted, n' they is all armed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Yo ass must just wait.’

Still, Toad was not inclined ta give up in all at once. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So he gots up tha boat, n' set off rowin up tha river ta where tha garden front of Toad Hall came down ta tha waterside.

Arrivin within sight of his oldschool home, he rested on his oars n' surveyed tha land cautiously fo' realz. All seemed straight-up laid back n' deserted n' on tha fuckin' down-low yo. Dude could peep tha whole front of Toad Hall, glowin up in tha evenin sunshine, tha pigeons settlin by twos n' threes along tha straight line of tha roof; tha garden, a funky-ass blaze of flowers; tha creek dat hustled up ta tha boat-house, tha lil wooden bridge dat crossed it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waitin fo' his bangin return, so check it before ya wreck it. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude would try tha boat-house first, tha pimpin' muthafucka thought. Straight-up warily he paddled up ta tha grill of tha creek, n' was just passin under tha bridge, when ... CRASH!

A pimped out stone, dropped from above, smashed all up in tha bottom of tha boat. Well shiiiit, it filled n' sank, n' Toad found his dirty ass strugglin up in deep gin n juice n' shit. Lookin up, da perved-out muthafucka saw two stoats leanin over tha parapet of tha bridge n' watchin his ass wit pimped out glee. ‘It is ghon be yo' head next time, Toady!’ they called up ta his muthafuckin ass. Da indignant Toad swam ta shore, while tha stoats laughed n' laughed, supportin each other, n' laughed again, till they nearly had two fits-that is, one fit each, of course.

Da Toad retraced his weary way on foot, n' related his fuckin lil' disappointin experiences ta tha Wata Rat once more.

‘Well, WHAT did I tell yo slick ass?’ holla'd tha Rat straight-up crossly. ‘And, now, look here biaaatch! See what tha fuck you’ve been n' done biaaatch! Lost me mah boat dat I was so fond of, that’s what tha fuck you’ve done biaaatch! And simply fucked up dat sick suit of threadz dat I lent you, nahmean biiiatch, biatch? Really, Toad, of all tha tryin muthafuckas-I wonder you manage ta keep any playaz at all!’

Da Toad saw at once how tha fuck wrongly n' foolishly dat schmoooove muthafucka had acted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time yo. Dude admitted his wild lil' fuckin errors n' wrong-headednizz n' done cooked up a gangbangin' full apologizzle ta Rat fo' losin his boat n' spoilin his threadz fo' realz. And da thug wound up by saying, wit dat frank self-surrender which always disarmed his wild lil' playa’s jive-ass shiznit n' won dem back ta his side, ‘Ratty dawwwwg! I peep dat I done been a headstrong n' a wilful Toad hommie! Henceforth, believe me, I'ma be humble n' submissive, n' will take no action without yo' kind lyrics n' full approval!’

‘If dat is straight-up so,’ holla'd tha good-natured Rat, already appeased, ‘then mah lyrics ta you is, thankin bout tha latenizz of tha hour, ta sit tha fuck down n' have yo' supper, which is ghon be on tha table up in a minute, n' be straight-up patient. For I be convinced dat we can do not a god damn thang until our crazy asses have peeped tha Mole n' tha Badger, n' heard they sickest fuckin hype, n' held conference n' taken they lyrics up in dis hard as fuck matter.’

‘Oh, ah, fo'sho, of course, tha Mole n' tha Badger,’ holla'd Toad, lightly. ‘What’s become of them, tha dear fellows, biatch? I had forgotten all bout dem wild-ass muthafuckas.’

‘Well may you ask!’ holla'd tha Rat reproachfully. ‘While you was ridin bout tha ghetto up in high-rollin' motor-cars, n' gallopin proudly on blood-horses, n' breakfastin on tha fat of tha land, dem two skanky devoted muthafuckas done been campin up in tha open, up in every last muthafuckin sort of weather, livin straight-up rough by dizzle n' lyin straight-up hard by night; watchin over yo' house, patrollin yo' boundaries, keepin a cold-ass lil constant eye on tha stoats n' tha weasels, schemin n' plannin n' contrivin how tha fuck ta git yo' property back fo' you, biatch. Yo ass don’t deserve ta have such legit n' loyal playas, Toad, you don’t, straight-up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some day, when it’s too late, you’ll be sorry you didn’t value dem mo' while you had them!’

‘I’m a ungrateful beast, I know,’ sobbed Toad, sheddin bitta tears. ‘Let me go up n' find them, up tha fuck into tha cold, dark night, n' share they bullshits, n' try n' prove by--Hold on a funky-ass bit son! Surely I heard tha chink of dishes on a tray dawwwwg! Supper’s here at last, hooray dawwwwg! Come on, Ratty!’

Da Rat remembered dat skanky Toad had been on prison fare fo' a cold-ass lil considerable time, n' dat big-ass allowances had therefore ta be made yo. Dude followed his ass ta tha table accordingly, n' hospitably encouraged his ass up in his wild lil' freakadelic gallant efforts ta make up fo' past privations.

They had just finished they meal n' resumed they arm-chairs, when there came a heavy knock all up in tha door.

Toad was nervous yo, but tha Rat, noddin mysteriously at him, went straight up ta tha door n' opened it, n' up in strutted Mista Muthafuckin Badger.

Dude had all tha appearizzle of one whoz ass fo' some nights had been kept away from home n' all its lil comforts n' conveniences yo. His Nikes was covered wit mud, n' da thug was lookin straight-up rough n' touzled; but then dat schmoooove muthafucka had never been a straight-up smart-ass dude, tha Badger, all up in tha dopest of times yo. Dude came solemnly up ta Toad, shook his ass by tha paw, n' holla'd, ‘Welcome home, Toad hommie! Alas muthafucka! what tha fuck is I saying, biatch? Home, indeed hommie! This be a skanky home-coming. Unaiiight Toad!’ Then tha pimpin' muthafucka turned his back on him, sat down ta tha table, drew his chair up, n' helped his dirty ass ta a big-ass slice of cold pie.

Toad was like alarmed at dis straight-up straight-up n' portentous steez of greeting; but tha Rat whispered ta him, ‘Never mind; don’t take any notice; n' don’t say anythang ta his ass just yet yo. He’s always rather low n' despondent when he’s wantin his victuals. In half a hour’s time he’ll be like a gangbangin' finger-lickin' different animal.’

So they waited up in silence, n' presently there came another n' a lighta knock. Da Rat, wit a nod ta Toad, went ta tha door n' ushered up in tha Mole, straight-up shabby n' unwashed, wit bitz of hay n' straw stickin up in his wild lil' fur.

‘Hooray dawwwwg! Here’s oldschool Toad!’ cried tha Mole, his wild lil' grill beaming. ‘Fancy havin you back again!’ And his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta ride dirty round his muthafuckin ass. ‘We never dreamt you would turn up so soon! Why, you must have managed ta escape, you def, ingenious, intelligent Toad!’

Da Rat, alarmed, pulled his ass by tha elbow; but dat shiznit was too late. Toad was puffin n' swellin already.

‘Clever, biatch? O, no!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’m not straight-up def, accordin ta mah playas. I’ve only fucked up outta tha strongest prison up in England, that’s all! And captured a railway train n' escaped on it, that’s all! And disguised mah dirty ass n' gone bout tha ghetto humbuggin everybody, that’s all! O, no! I’m a wack ass, I am! I’ll rap  one or two of mah lil adventures, Mole, n' you shall judge fo' yo ass!’

‘Well, well,’ holla'd tha Mole, movin towardz tha supper-table; ‘supposin you rap while I eat. Not a funky-ass bite since breakfast son! O mah dawwwwg! O my!’ And da perved-out muthafucka sat down n' helped his dirty ass liberally ta cold beef n' pickles.

Toad straddled on tha hearth-rug, thrust his thugged-out lil' paw tha fuck into his cold-ass trouser-pocket n' pulled up a handful of silver n' shit. ‘Look at that!’ his schmoooove ass cried, displayin dat shit. ‘That’s not so bad, is it, fo' all dem minutes’ work, biatch? And how tha fuck do you be thinkin I done it, Mole, biatch? Horse-dealing! That’s how tha fuck I done dat shiznit son!’

‘Go on, Toad,’ holla'd tha Mole, immensely interested.

‘Toad, do be on tha fuckin' down-low, please!’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘And don’t you egg his ass on, Mole, when you know what tha fuck he is; but please tell our asses quicker than a muthafucka what tha fuck tha posizzle is, n' what’s dopest ta be done, now dat Toad is back at last.’

‘Da position’s bout as shitty as it can be,’ replied tha Mole grumpily; ‘and as fo' what’s ta be done, why, blest if I know! Da Badger n' I done been round n' round tha place, by night n' by day; always tha same ol' dirty thang. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sentries posted everywhere, glocks poked up at us, stones thrown at us; always a animal on tha look-out, n' when they peep us, mah dawwwwg! how tha fuck they do laugh! That’s what tha fuck annoys me most!’

‘It’s a straight-up hard as fuck thang,’ holla'd tha Rat, reflectin deeply. ‘But I be thinkin I peep now, up in tha depthz of mah mind, what tha fuck Toad straight-up ought ta do. I'ma rap, biatch yo. Dude ought to--’

‘Fuck dat shit, he oughtn’t!’ shouted tha Mole, wit his crazy-ass grill full. ‘Nothang of tha sort son! Yo ass don’t understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! What he ought ta do is, he ought to--’

‘Well, I shan’t do it, anyway!’ cried Toad, gettin excited. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. ‘I’m not goin ta be ordered bout by you fellows muthafucka! It’s mah doggy den we’re poppin' off about, n' I know exactly what tha fuck ta do, n' I’ll rap, biatch. I’m goin to--’

By dis time they was all three poppin' off at once, all up in tha top of they voices, n' tha noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made itself heard, saying, ‘Be on tha down-low at once, all of you, nahmean biiiatch?’ n' instantly every last muthafuckin one was silent.

Dat shiznit was tha Badger, who, havin finished his thugged-out lil' pie, had turned round up in his chair n' was lookin at dem severely. When da perved-out muthafucka saw dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had secured they attention, n' dat they was evidently waitin fo' his ass ta address them, tha pimpin' muthafucka turned back ta tha table again n' again n' again n' reached up fo' tha cheese n' you can put dat on yo' toast fo' realz. And so pimped out was tha respect commanded by tha solid qualitizzlez of dat admirable animal, dat not another word was uttered until dat schmoooove muthafucka had like finished his bangin repast n' brushed tha crumbs from his knees. Da Toad fidgeted a phat deal yo, but tha Rat held his ass firmly down.

When tha Badger had like done, he gots up from his seat n' stood before tha fireplace, reflectin deeply fo' realz. At last da perved-out muthafucka spoke.

‘Toad!’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd severely. ‘Yo ass bad, shitsome lil animal! Aren’t you ashamed of yo ass, biatch? What do you be thinkin yo' father, mah oldschool playa, would have holla'd if dat schmoooove muthafucka had been here to-night, n' had known of all yo' goings on?’

Toad, whoz ass was on tha sofa by dis time, wit his hairy-ass legs up, rolled over on his wild lil' face, shaken by sobz of contrition.

‘There, there!’ went on tha Badger, mo' kindly. ‘Never mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Quit crying. We’re goin ta let bygones be bygones, n' try n' turn over a freshly smoked up leaf. But what tha fuck tha Mole say is like true. Da stoats is on guard, at every last muthafuckin point, n' they make tha dopest sentinels up in tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It’s like useless ta be thinkin of comin' all up in tha place. They’re too phat fo' us.’

‘Then it’s all over,’ sobbed tha Toad, bustin up like a biatch tha fuck into tha sofa cushions. ‘I shall go n' enlist fo' a soldier, n' never peep mah dear Toad Hall any more!’

‘Come, cheer up, Toady!’ holla'd tha Badger n' shit. ‘There is mo' wayz of gettin back a place than takin it by storm. I haven’t holla'd mah last word yet. Now I’m goin ta rap  a pimped out secret.’

Toad sat up slowly n' dried his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Secrets had a immense attraction fo' him, cuz he never could keep one, n' he enjoyed tha sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when da thug went n' holla'd at another animal, afta havin faithfully promised not to.

‘There-is-an-underground-passage,’ holla'd tha Badger, impressively, ‘that leadz from tha river-bank, like near here, right up tha fuck into tha middle of Toad Hall.’

‘O, nonsense biaaatch! Badger,’ holla'd Toad, rather airily. ‘You’ve been listenin ta a shitload of tha yarns they spin up in tha public-houses bout here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. I know every last muthafuckin inch of Toad Hall, inside n' out. Nothang of tha sort, I do assure you, nahmean biiiatch?’

‘My fuckin lil' playa,’ holla'd tha Badger, wit pimped out severity, ‘your father, whoz ass was a worthy animal-a shitload worthier than some others I know-was a particular playa of mine, n' holla'd at mah crazy ass a pimped out deal da thug wouldn’t have dreamt of spittin some lyrics ta you, biatch yo. Dude discovered dat passage-he didn’t make it, of course; dat was done hundredz of muthafuckin years before he eva came ta live there-and he repaired it n' cleaned it out, cuz tha pimpin' muthafucka thought it might come up in useful some day, up in case of shiznit or danger; n' da perved-out muthafucka flossed it ta mah dirty ass. "Don’t let mah lil hustla know bout it," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "He’s a phat pimp yo, but straight-up light n' volatile up in character, n' simply cannot hold his cold-ass tongue. If he’s eva up in a real fix, n' it would be of use ta him, you may tell his ass bout tha secret passage; but not before."’

Da other muthafuckas looked hard at Toad ta peep how tha fuck da thug would take dat shit. Toad was inclined ta be sulky at first; but his thugged-out lil' punk-ass brightened up immediately, like tha phat fellow da thug was.

‘Well, well,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd; ‘like I be a lil' bit of a talker n' shiznit fo' realz. A ghettofab fellow like fuckin I am-my playaz git round me-we chaff, we sparkle, we tell witty stories-and somehow mah tongue gets wagging. I have tha gift of conversation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I’ve been holla'd at I ought ta git a salon, whatever dat may be. Never mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Go on, Badger n' shiznit yo. How’s dis passage of yours goin ta help us?’

‘I’ve found up a thang or two lately,’ continued tha Badger n' shit. ‘I gots Otta ta disguise his dirty ass as a sweep n' call all up in tha back-door wit brushes over his shoulder, askin fo' a thang. There’s goin ta be a funky-ass big-ass banquet to-morrow night. It’s some muthafucka’s birthday-the Chief Weasel’s, I believe-and all tha weasels is ghon be gathered together up in tha dining-hall, smokin n' drankin n' bustin up n' carryin on, suspectin nothing. No guns, no swords, no sticks, no armz of any sort whatever!’

‘But tha sentinels is ghon be posted as usual,’ remarked tha Rat.

‘Exactly,’ holla'd tha Badger; ‘that is mah point. Da weasels will trust entirely ta they pimpin sentinels fo' realz. And dat is where tha passage comes in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. That straight-up useful tunnel leadz right up under tha butler’s pantry, next ta tha dining-hall!’

‘Aha! dat squeaky board up in tha butler’s pantry!’ holla'd Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Now I KNOW dat shiznit son!’

‘We shall creep up on tha fuckin' down-lowly tha fuck into tha butler’s pantry-’ cried tha Mole.

‘-with our pistols n' swordz n' sticks-’ shouted tha Rat.

‘-and rush up in upon them,’ holla'd tha Badger.

‘-and whack ‘em, n' whack ‘em, n' whack ‘em!’ cried tha Toad up in ecstasy, hustlin round n' round tha room, n' jumpin over tha chairs.

‘Straight-up well, then,’ holla'd tha Badger, resumin his usual dry manner, ‘our plan is settled, n' there’s not a god damn thang mo' fo' you ta argue n' squabble about. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So, as it’s gettin straight-up late, all of y'all go right off ta bed at once. Us thugs will make all tha necessary arrangements up in tha course of tha mornin to-morrow.’

Toad, of course, went off ta bed dutifully wit tha rest-he knew betta than ta refuse-though da thug was feelin much too buckwild ta chill. But dat schmoooove muthafucka had had a long-ass day, wit nuff events crowded tha fuck into it; n' sheets n' blankets was straight-up thugged-out n' comfortin thangs, afta plain straw, n' not too much of it, spread on tha stone floor of a thugged-out draughty cell; n' his head had not been nuff secondz on his thugged-out lil' pillow before da thug was snorin happily. Naturally, da ruffneck dreamt a phat deal; bout roadz dat ran away from his ass just when da thug wanted them, n' canals dat chased his ass n' caught him, n' a funky-ass barge dat sailed tha fuck into tha banqueting-hall wit his week’s washing, just as da thug was givin a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dinner-party; n' da thug was ridin' solo up in tha secret passage, pushin onwardz yo, but it twisted n' turned round n' shook itself, n' sat up on its end; yet somehow, all up in tha last, he found his dirty ass back up in Toad Hall, safe n' triumphant, wit all his wild lil' playaz gathered round bout him, earnestly assurin his ass dat he straight-up was a cold-ass lil smart-ass Toad.

Dude slept till a late minute next morning, n' by tha time he gots down he found dat tha other muthafuckas had finished they breakfast some time before. Da Mole had slipped off somewhere by his dirty ass, without spittin some lyrics ta any one where da thug was goin to. Da Badger sat up in tha arm-chair, readin tha paper, n' not concernin his dirty ass up in tha slightest bout what tha fuck was goin ta happen dat straight-up evening. Da Rat, on tha other hand, was hustlin round tha room busily, wit his thugged-out arms full of weaponz of every last muthafuckin kind, distributin dem up in four lil heaps on tha floor, n' sayin excitedly under his breath, as he ran, ‘Here’s-a-sword-for-the-Rat, here’s-a-sword-for-the Mole, here’s-a-sword-for-the-Toad, here’s-a-sword-for-the-Badger playa! Here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Rat, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Mole, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Toad, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-Badger!’ And so on, up in a regular, rhythmical way, while tha four lil heaps gradually grew n' grew.

‘That’s all straight-up well, Rat,’ holla'd tha Badger presently, lookin all up in tha busy lil animal over tha edge of his newspaper; ‘I’m not blamin you, biatch. But just let our asses once git past tha stoats, wit dem detestable glockz of theirs, n' I assure you we shan’t want any swordz or pistols. We four, wit our sticks, once we’re inside tha dining-hall, why, we shall clear tha floor of all tha lot of dem up in five minutes. I’d have done tha whole thang by mah dirty ass, only I didn’t wanna deprive you fellowz of tha fun!’

‘It’s as well ta be on tha safe side,’ holla'd tha Rat reflectively, polishin a pistol-barrel on his sleeve n' lookin along dat shit.

Da Toad, havin finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick n' swung it vigorously, belabourin imaginary muthafuckas. ‘I’ll learn ‘em ta loot mah house!’ his schmoooove ass cried. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’ll learn ‘em, I’ll learn ‘em!’

‘Don’t say "learn ‘em," Toad,’ holla'd tha Rat, pimped outly shocked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘It’s not phat Gangsta.’

‘What is you always naggin at Toad for?’ inquired tha Badger, rather peevishly. ‘What’s tha matta wit his Gangsta, biatch? It’s tha same ol' dirty what tha fuck I use mah dirty ass, n' if it’s phat enough fo' me, it ought ta be phat enough fo' you, nahmean biiiatch?’

‘I’m straight-up sorry,’ holla'd tha Rat humbly. ‘Only I THINK it ought ta be "teach ‘em," not "learn ‘em."’

‘But our phat asses don’t WANT ta teach ‘em,’ replied tha Badger n' shit. ‘Us thugs wanna LEARN ‘em-learn ‘em, learn ‘em! And what’s more, we’re goin ta DO it, too!’

‘Oh, straight-up well, have it yo' own way,’ holla'd tha Rat yo. Dude was gettin rather muddled bout it his dirty ass, n' presently he retired tha fuck into a cold-ass lil corner, where his schmoooove ass could be heard muttering, ‘Peep ‘em, teach ‘em, teach ‘em, learn ‘em!’ till tha Badger holla'd at his ass rather sharply ta leave off.

Presently tha Mole came tumblin tha fuck into tha room, evidently straight-up pleased wit his dirty ass. ‘I’ve been havin such fun!’ his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started at once; ‘I’ve been gettin a rise outta tha stoats!’

‘I hope you’ve been straight-up careful, Mole?’ holla'd tha Rat anxiously.

‘I should hope so, too,’ holla'd tha Mole confidently. ‘I gots tha scam when I went tha fuck into tha kitchen, ta peep bout Toad’s breakfast bein kept bangin' fo' his muthafuckin ass. I found dat oldschool washerwoman-dress dat his schmoooove ass came home up in yesterday, hangin on a towel-horse before tha fire. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I put it on, n' tha bonnet as well, n' tha shawl, n' off I went ta Toad Hall, as bold as yo thugged-out ass. Biiiatch please.Da sentries was on tha look-out, of course, wit they glocks n' they "Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck comes there?" n' all tha rest of they nonsense. "Dope morning, gentlemen!" say I, straight-up respectful naaahhmean, biatch? "Want any washin done to-day?"

‘They looked all up in mah grill straight-up proud as a muthafucka n' stiff n' haughty, n' holla'd, "Go away, washerwoman! Us dudes don’t do any washin on duty." "Or any other time?" say I yo. Ho, ho, ho! Wasn’t I FUNNY, Toad?’

‘Poor, frivolous animal!’ holla'd Toad, straight-up loftily. Da fact is, he felt exceedingly jealouz of Mole fo' what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had just done. Dat shiznit was exactly what tha fuck da thug would have was horny bout ta have done his dirty ass, if only dat schmoooove muthafucka had thought of it first, n' hadn’t gone n' overslept his dirty ass.

‘Some of tha stoats turned like pink,’ continued tha Mole, ‘and tha Sergeant up in charge, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta me, straight-up short, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "Now run away, mah phat biatch, run away dawwwwg! Don’t keep mah pimps idlin n' poppin' off on they posts." "Run away?" say I; "it won’t be me that’ll be hustlin away, up in a straight-up short time from now!"’

‘O MOLY, how tha fuck could yo slick ass?’ holla'd tha Rat, dismayed.

Da Badger laid down his thugged-out lil' paper.

‘I could peep dem prickin up they ears n' lookin at each other,’ went on tha Mole; ‘and tha Sergeant holla'd ta them, "Never mind HER; her dope ass don’t know what tha fuck she’s poppin' off about."’

‘"O! don’t I?"’ holla'd I. ‘"Well, let me rap  all dis bullshit. My fuckin daughter, dat biiiiatch washes fo' Mista Muthafuckin Badger, n' that’ll show you whether I know what tha fuck I’m poppin' off about; n' YOU’LL know pretty soon, too! A hundred bloodthirsty badgers, armed wit rifles, is goin ta battle Toad Hall dis straight-up night, by way of tha paddock. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Six boatloadz of Rats, wit pistols n' cutlasses, will come up tha river n' effect a landin up in tha garden; while a picked body of Toads, known all up in tha Die-hards, or tha Dirtnap-or-Glory Toads, will storm tha orchard n' carry every last muthafuckin thang before them, yellin fo' vengeance. There won’t be much left of y'all ta wash, by tha time they’ve done wit you, unless you clear up while you have tha chance!" Then I ran away, n' when I was outta sight I hid; n' presently I came creepin back along tha ditch n' took a peep at dem all up in tha hedge. They was all as straight-up trippin n' flustered as could be, hustlin all ways at once, n' fallin over each other, n' every last muthafuckin one givin ordaz ta dem hoes else n' not listening; n' tha Sergeant kept bustin  off partizzlez of stoats ta distant partz of tha grounds, n' then bustin  other fellows ta fetch ‘em back again; n' I heard dem sayin ta each other, "That’s just like tha weasels; they’re ta stop comfortably up in tha banqueting-hall, n' have feastin n' toasts n' joints n' all sortz of fun, while we must stay on guard up in tha cold n' tha dark, n' up in tha end be cut ta pieces by bloodthirsty Badgers!’"

‘Oh, you wack-ass ass, Mole!’ cried Toad, ‘You’ve been n' spoilt every last muthafuckin thang!’

‘Mole,’ holla'd tha Badger, up in his fuckin lil' dry, on tha down-low way, ‘I perceive you have mo' sense up in yo' lil finger than some other muthafuckas have up in tha whole of they fat bodies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Yo ass have managed pimpinly, n' I begin ta have pimped out hopez of you, biatch. Dope Mole biaaatch! Clever Mole!’

Da Toad was simply wild wit jealousy, mo' especially as his schmoooove ass couldn’t make up fo' tha game of his ass what tha fuck tha Mole had done dat was so particularly def; but, fortunately fo' him, before his schmoooove ass could show temper or expose his dirty ass ta tha Badger’s sarcasm, tha bell rang fo' luncheon.

Dat shiznit was a simple but sustainin meal-bacon n' broad beans, n' a macaroni pudding; n' when they had like done, tha Badger settled his dirty ass tha fuck into a arm-chair, n' holla'd, ‘Well, we’ve gots our work cut up fo' our asses to-night, n' it will probably be pretty late before we’re like all up in wit it; so I’m just goin ta take forty winks, while I can.’ And da ruffneck drew a handkerchizzle over his wild lil' grill n' was soon snoring.

Da anxious n' laborious Rat at once resumed his thugged-out lil' preparations, n' started hustlin between his wild lil' four lil heaps, muttering, ‘Here’s-a-belt-for-the-Rat, here’s-a-belt-for-the-Mole, here’s-a-belt-for-the-Toad, here’s-a-belt-for-the-Badger!’ n' so on, wit every last muthafuckin fresh accoutrement he produced, ta which there seemed straight-up no end; so tha Mole drew his thugged-out arm all up in Toad’s, hustled his ass up tha fuck into tha open air, shoved his ass tha fuck into a wicker chair, n' made his ass tell his ass all his thugged-out adventures from beginnin ta end, which Toad was only too willin ta do. Da Mole was a phat listener, n' Toad, wit no one ta check his statements or ta criticise up in a unfriendly spirit, rather let his dirty ass go. Git tha fuck outta mah grill wit dat bullshit, much dat he related belonged mo' properly ta tha category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of ten-minutes-afterwards. Those is always tha dopest n' tha raciest adventures; n' why should they not be truly ours, as much as tha somewhat inadequate thangs dat straight-up come off?

XII. THE RETURN OF ULYSSES When it fuckin started ta grow dark, tha Rat, wit a air of excitement n' mystery, summoned dem back tha fuck into tha parlour, stood each of dem up alongside of his fuckin lil heap, n' proceeded ta dress dem up fo' tha comin expedition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was straight-up earnest n' thoroughgoin bout it, n' tha affair took like a long-ass time. First, there was a funky-ass belt ta go round each animal, n' then a sword ta be stuck tha fuck into each belt, n' then a cold-ass lil cutlass on tha other side ta balizzle dat shit. Then a pair of pistols, a policeman’s truncheon, nuff muthafuckin setz of handcuffs, some bandages n' sticking-plaster, n' a gangbangin' flask n' a sandwich-case. Da Badger laughed good-humouredly n' holla'd, ‘All right, Ratty dawwwwg! It amuses you n' it don’t hurt mah dirty ass. I’m goin ta do all I’ve gots ta do wit dis here stick.’ But tha Rat only holla'd, ‘PLEASE, Badger n' shit. Yo ass know I shouldn’t like you ta blame me afterwardz n' say I had forgotten ANYTHING!’

When all was like ready, tha Badger took a thugged-out dark lantern up in one paw, grasped his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out stick wit tha other, n' holla'd, ‘Now then, gangbang me biaaatch! Mole first, ‘cos I’m straight-up pleased wit him; Rat next; Toad last fo' realz. And look here, Toady dawwwwg! Don’t you chatta so much as usual, or you’ll be busted back, as shizzle as fate!’

Da Toad was so anxious not ta be left up dat tha pimpin' muthafucka took up tha inferior posizzle assigned ta his ass without a murmur, n' tha muthafuckas set off. Da Badger hustled dem along by tha river fo' a lil way, n' then suddenly swung his dirty ass over tha edge tha fuck into a hole up in tha river-bank, a lil above tha gin n juice n' shit. Da Mole n' tha Rat followed silently, swingin theyselves successfully tha fuck into tha hole as they had peeped tha Badger do; but when it came ta Toad’s turn, of course he managed ta slip n' fall tha fuck into tha wata wit a funky-ass bangin splash n' a squeal of alarm yo. Dude was hauled up by his wild lil' playas, rubbed down n' wrung up hastily, comforted, n' set on his fuckin legs; but tha Badger was seriously mad salty, n' holla'd at his ass dat tha straight-up next time he done cooked up a gangbangin' fool of his dirty ass da thug would most certainly be left behind.

So at last they was up in tha secret passage, n' tha cutting-out expedizzle had straight-up begun!

Dat shiznit was cold, n' dark, n' damp, n' low, n' narrow, n' skanky Toad fuckin started ta shiver, kinda from dread of what tha fuck might be before him, kinda cuz da thug was wet all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Da lantern was far ahead, n' his schmoooove ass could not help laggin behind a lil up in tha darkness. Then dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha Rat call up warningly, ‘COME on, Toad!’ n' a terror seized his ass of bein left behind, ridin' solo up in tha darkness, n' he ‘came on’ wit such a rush dat he upset tha Rat tha fuck into tha Mole n' tha Mole tha fuck into tha Badger, n' fo' a moment all was mad drama. Da Badger thought they was bein beat down from behind, and, as there was no room ta bust a stick or a cold-ass lil cutlass, drew a pistol, n' was on tha deal wit puttin a funky-ass cap tha fuck into Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! When he found up what tha fuck had straight-up happened da thug was straight-up mad salty indeed, n' holla'd, ‘Now dis time dat tiresome Toad SHALL be left behind!’

But Toad whimpered, n' tha other two promised dat they would be answerable fo' his wild lil' freakadelic phat conduct, n' at last tha Badger was pacified, n' tha procession moved on; only dis time tha Rat brought up tha rear, wit a gangbangin' firm grip on tha shoulder of Toad.

So they groped n' shuffled along, wit they ears pricked up n' they paws on they pistols, till at last tha Badger holla'd, ‘We ought by now ta be pretty nearly under tha Hall.’

Then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, n' yet apparently nearly over they heads, a cold-ass lil trippin murmur of sound, as if playas was shoutin n' cheerin n' stampin on tha floor n' hammerin on tables. Da Toad’s straight-up trippin terrors all returned yo, but tha Badger only remarked placidly, ‘They ARE goin it, tha Weasels!’

Da passage now fuckin started ta slope upwards; they groped onward a lil further, n' then tha noise broke up again, like distinct dis time, n' straight-up close above dem wild-ass muthafuckas. ‘Ooo-ray-ooray-oo-ray-ooray!’ they heard, n' tha stampin of lil feet on tha floor, n' tha clinkin of glasses as lil fists pounded on tha table. ‘WHAT a time they’re having!’ holla'd tha Badger n' shit. ‘Come on!’ They hurried along tha passage till it came ta a gangbangin' full stop, n' they found theyselves standin under tha trap-door dat hustled up tha fuck into tha butler’s pantry.

Such a tremendous noise was goin on up in tha banqueting-hall dat there was lil dark shiznit of they bein overheard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da Badger holla'd, ‘Now, thugs, all together!’ n' tha four of dem put they shouldaz ta tha trap-door n' heaved it back yo. Hoistin each other up, they found theyselves standin up in tha pantry, wit only a thugged-out door between dem n' tha banqueting-hall, where they unconscious enemies was carousing.

Da noise, as they emerged from tha passage, was simply deafenin fo' realz. At last, as tha cheerin n' hammerin slowly subsided, a voice could be made up saying, ‘Well, I do not propose ta detain you much longer’-(great applause)-‘but before I resume mah seat’-(renewed cheering)-‘I should like ta say one word bout our kind host, Mista Muthafuckin Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! We all know Toad!’-(great laughter)-‘GOOD Toad, MODEST Toad, HONEST Toad!’ (shriekz of merriment).

‘Only just let me git at him!’ muttered Toad, grindin his cold-ass teeth.

‘Hold hard a minute!’ holla'd tha Badger, restrainin his ass wit difficulty. ‘Git ready, all of you, nahmean biiiatch?’

‘-Let me rap you a lil song,’ went on tha voice, ‘which I have composed on tha subject of Toad’-(prolonged applause).

Then tha Chief Weasel-for dat shiznit was he-fuckin started up in a high, squeaky voice-

‘Toad da thug went a-pleasuring Gaily down tha street-’

Da Badger drew his dirty ass up, took a gangbangin' firm grip of his stick wit both paws, glanced round at his comrades, n' cried-

‘Da minute is come biaaatch! Big up me!’

And flung tha door open wide.

My!

What a squealin n' a squeakin n' a screechin filled tha air!

Well might tha terrified weasels dive under tha tablez n' sprang madly up all up in tha windows muthafucka! Well might tha ferrets rush wildly fo' tha fireplace n' git hopelessly jammed up in tha chimney dawwwwg! Well might tablez n' chairs be upset, n' glass n' china be busted crashin on tha floor, up in tha panic of dat shitty moment when tha four Heroes strode wrathfully tha fuck into tha room! Da mighty Badger, his whiskers bristling, his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out cudgel whistlin all up in tha air; Mole, black n' grim, brandishin his stick n' shoutin his wack war-cry, ‘A Mole biaaatch! A Mole!’ Rat; desperate n' determined, his belt bulgin wit weaponz of every last muthafuckin age n' every last muthafuckin variety; Toad, frenzied wit excitement n' fucked up pride, swollen ta twice his ordinary size, leapin tha fuck into tha air n' emittin Toad-whoops dat chilled dem ta tha marrow! ‘Toad da thug went a-pleasuring!’ he yelled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I’LL pleasure ‘em!’ n' da thug went straight fo' tha Chief Weasel. They was but four up in all yo, but ta tha panic-stricken weasels tha hall seemed full of monstrous muthafuckas, grey, black, brown n' yellow, whoopin n' flourishin enormous cudgels; n' they broke n' fled wit squealz of terror n' dismay, dis way n' that, all up in tha windows, up tha chimney, anywhere ta git outta reach of dem shitty sticks.

Da affair was soon over n' shit. Up n' down, tha whole length of tha hall, strode tha four Friends, whackin wit they sticks at every last muthafuckin head dat flossed itself; n' up in five minutes tha room was cleared. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Through tha fucked up windows tha shriekz of terrified weasels escapin across tha lawn was borne faintly ta they ears; on tha floor lay prostrate some dozen or so of tha enemy, on whom tha Mole was busily engaged up in fittin handcuffs. Da Badger, restin from his fuckin labours, leant on his stick n' wiped his bangin real brow.

‘Mole,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd,’ ‘you’re tha dopest of fellows muthafucka! Just cut along outside n' look afta dem stoat-sentriez of yours, n' peep what tha fuck they’re bustin. I’ve a scam that, props ta you, we shan’t have much shiznit from dem to-night!’

Da Mole vanished promptly all up in a window; n' tha Badger bade tha other two set a table on its hairy-ass legs again, pick up knives n' forks n' plates n' glasses from tha debris on tha floor, n' peep if they could find shiznit fo' a supper n' shit. ‘I want some grub, I do,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, up in dat rather common way dat schmoooove muthafucka had of bustin lyrics. ‘Stir yo' stumps, Toad, n' look lively dawwwwg! We’ve gots yo' doggy den back fo' you, n' you don’t offer our asses so much as a sandwich.’ Toad felt rather hurt dat tha Badger didn’t say pleasant thangs ta him, as dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta tha Mole, n' tell his ass what tha fuck a gangbangin' fine fellow da thug was, n' how tha fuck splendidly dat schmoooove muthafucka had fought; fo' da thug was rather particularly pleased wit his dirty ass n' tha way dat schmoooove muthafucka had gone fo' tha Chief Weasel n' busted his ass flyin across tha table wit one blow of his stick. But his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bustled about, n' so did tha Rat, n' soon they found some guava jelly up in a glass dish, n' a cold-ass lil cold chicken, a tongue dat had hardly been touched, some trifle, n' like a shitload of lobsta salad; n' up in tha pantry they came upon a funky-ass basketful of French rolls n' any quantitizzle of cheese yo, butter, n' celery. They was just bout ta sit tha fuck down when tha Mole clambered up in all up in tha window, chuckling, wit a armful of rifles.

‘It’s all over,’ he reported. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. ‘From what tha fuck I can make out, as soon as tha stoats, whoz ass was straight-up straight-up trippin n' jumpy already, heard tha shrieks n' tha yells n' tha uproar inside tha hall, a shitload of dem threw down they riflez n' fled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da others stood fast fo' a funky-ass bit yo, but when tha weasels came rushin up upon dem they thought they was betrayed; n' tha stoats grappled wit tha weasels, n' tha weasels fought ta git away, n' they wrestled n' wriggled n' socked each other, n' rolled over n' over, till most of ‘em rolled tha fuck into tha river playa! They’ve all disappeared by now, one way or another; n' I’ve gots they rifles. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So that’s all right!’

‘Excellent n' deservin animal!’ holla'd tha Badger, his crazy-ass grill full of chicken n' trifle. ‘Now, there’s just one mo' thang I want you ta do, Mole, before you sit tha fuck down ta yo' supper along of us; n' I wouldn’t shiznit you only I know I can trust you ta peep a thang done, n' I wish I could say tha same of every last muthafuckin one I know. I’d bust Rat, if da thug wasn’t a poet. I want you ta take dem fellows on tha floor there upstairs wit you, n' have some bedrooms cleaned up n' tidied up n' made straight-up comfortable. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See dat they sweep UNDER tha beds, n' put clean sheets n' pillow-cases on, n' turn down one corner of tha bed-clothes, just as you know it ought ta be done; n' gotz a cold-ass lil can of bangin' water, n' clean towels, n' fresh cakez of soap, put up in each room fo' realz. And then you can give dem a lickin a-piece, if it’s any satisfaction ta you, n' put dem up by tha back-door, n' we shan’t peep any mo' of THEM, I fancy fo' realz. And then come along n' gotz a shitload of dis cold tongue. It’s first rate. I’m straight-up pleased wit you, Mole!’

Da goodnatured Mole picked up a stick, formed his thugged-out lil' prisoners up in a line on tha floor, gave dem tha order ‘Quick march!’ n' hustled his squad off ta tha upper floor fo' realz. Afta a time, he rocked up again, smiling, n' holla'd dat every last muthafuckin room was ready, n' as clean as a freshly smoked up pin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘And I didn’t gotta lick them, either,’ he added. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘I thought, on tha whole, they had had lickin enough fo' one night, n' tha weasels, when I put tha point ta them, like agreed wit me, n' holla'd they wouldn’t be thinkin of troublin mah dirty ass. They was straight-up penitent, n' holla'd they was mad sorry fo' what tha fuck they had done yo, but dat shiznit was all tha fault of tha Chief Weasel n' tha stoats, n' if eva they could do anythang fo' our asses at any time ta make up, our crazy asses had only gots ta mention dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I gave dem a roll a-piece, n' let dem up all up in tha back, n' off they ran, as hard as they could!’

Then tha Mole pulled his chair up ta tha table, n' pitched tha fuck into tha cold tongue; n' Toad, like tha gentleman da thug was, put all his jealousy from him, n' holla'd heartily, ‘Nuff props kindly, dear Mole, fo' all yo' pains n' shiznit tonight, n' especially fo' yo' defnizz dis morning!’ Da Badger was pleased at that, n' holla'd, ‘There was rappin mah brave Toad!’ So they finished they supper up in pimped out joy n' contentment, n' presently retired ta rest between clean sheets, safe up in Toad’s ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate game, n' a proper handlin of sticks.

Da followin morning, Toad, whoz ass had overslept his dirty ass as usual, came down ta breakfast disgracefully late, n' found on tha table a cold-ass lil certain quantitizzle of egg-shells, some fragmentz of cold n' leathery toast, a cold-ass lil coffee-pot three-fourths empty, n' straight-up straight-up lil else; which did not tend ta improve his cold-ass temper, thankin bout that, afta all, dat shiznit was his own house. Through tha French windowz of tha breakfast-room his schmoooove ass could peep tha Mole n' tha Wata Rat chillin up in wicker-chairs up on tha lawn, evidently spittin some lyrics ta each other stories; roarin wit laughta n' kickin they short hairy-ass legs up in tha air. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da Badger, whoz ass was up in a arm-chair n' deep up in tha mornin paper, merely looked up n' nodded when Toad entered tha room. But Toad knew his fuckin lil' dude, so da perved-out muthafucka sat down n' made tha dopest breakfast his schmoooove ass could, merely observin ta his dirty ass dat da thug would git square wit tha others sooner or later n' shit. When dat schmoooove muthafucka had nearly finished, tha Badger looked up n' remarked rather shortly: ‘I’m sorry, Toad yo, but I’m afraid there’s a heavy morning’s work up in front of you, biatch. Yo ass see, we straight-up ought ta git a Banquet at once, ta big-up dis affair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. It’s expected of you-in fact, it’s tha rule.’

‘O, all right!’ holla'd tha Toad, readily. ‘Anythang ta oblige. Though why on earth you should want ta git a Banquet up in tha mornin I cannot understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But you know I do not live ta please mah dirty ass yo, but merely ta smoke up what tha fuck mah playaz want, n' then try n' arrange it fo' ‘em, you dear oldschool Badger!’

‘Don’t pretend ta be stupider than you straight-up are,’ replied tha Badger, crossly; ‘and don’t chuckle n' splutta up in yo' fruity-ass malt liquor while you’re rappin'; it’s not manners. What I mean is, tha Banquet is ghon be at night, of course yo, but tha invitations will gotta be freestyled n' gots off at once, n' you’ve gots ta write ‘em. Now, sit tha fuck down at dat table-there’s stackz of letter-paper on it, wit "Toad Hall" all up in tha top up in blue n' gold-and write invitations ta all our playas, n' if you stick ta it we shall git dem up before luncheon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And I’LL bear a hand, too; n' take mah share of tha burden. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I’LL order tha Banquet.’

‘What!’ cried Toad, dismayed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘Me stop indoors n' write a shitload of rotten lettas on a jolly mornin like this, when I wanna go round mah property, n' set every last muthafuckin thang n' dem hoes ta rights, n' swagger bout n' trip off mah dirty ass muthafucka! Certainly not son! I’ll be-I’ll peep you--Quit a minute, though! Why, of course, dear Badger playa! What tha fuck iz mah pleasure or convenience compared wit dat of others muthafucka! Yo ass wish it done, n' it shall be done. Go, Badger, order tha Banquet, order what tha fuck you like; then join our lil' playaz outside up in they innocent mirth, obliviouz of me n' mah cares n' toils. I sacrifice dis fair mornin on tha altar of duty n' thang!’

Da Badger looked at his ass straight-up suspiciously yo, but Toad’s frank, open countenizzle juiced it up hard as fuck ta suggest any unworthy motizzle up in dis chizzle of attitude yo. Dude quitted tha room, accordingly, up in tha direction of tha kitchen, n' as soon as tha door had closed behind him, Toad hurried ta tha writing-table fo' realz. A fine scam had occurred ta his ass while da thug was rappin' yo. Dude WOULD write tha invitations; n' da thug would take care ta mention tha leadin part dat schmoooove muthafucka had taken up in tha fight, n' how tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka had laid tha Chief Weasel flat; n' da thug would hint at his thugged-out adventures, n' what tha fuck a cold-ass lil game of triumph dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta tell about; n' on tha fly-leaf da thug would set up a sort of a programme of entertainment fo' tha evening-suttin' like this, as da perved-out muthafucka sketched it up in his head:-

SPEECH. . . . BY TOAD.

(There is ghon be other speeches by TOAD durin tha evening.)

ADDRESS. . . BY TOAD

SYNOPSIS-Our Prison System-the Waterwayz of Oldskool England-Horse-dealing, n' how tha fuck ta deal-Property, its muthafuckin rights n' its duties-Back ta tha Land-A Typical Gangsta Squire.

SONG. . . . BY TOAD. (Composed by his dirty ass.) OTHER COMPOSITIONS. BY TOAD

will be sung up in tha course of tha evenin by the. . . COMPOSER.

Da scam pleased his ass mightily, n' da thug hit dat shiznit straight-up hard n' gots all tha lettas finished by noon, at which minute dat shiznit was reported ta his ass dat there was a lil' small-ass n' rather bedraggled weasel all up in tha door, inquirin timidly whether his schmoooove ass could be of any steez ta tha gentlemen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Toad swaggered up n' found dat shiznit was one of tha prisonerz of tha previous evening, straight-up respectful n' anxious to. Biiiatch please.Dude patted his ass on tha head, shoved tha bundle of invitations tha fuck into his thugged-out lil' paw, n' holla'd at his ass ta cut along quick n' serve up dem as fast as his schmoooove ass could, n' if he was horny bout ta come back again n' again n' again up in tha evening, like there might be a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shillin fo' him, or, again, like there mightn’t; n' tha skanky weasel seemed straight-up like grateful, n' hurried off eagerly ta do his crazy-ass mission.

When tha other muthafuckas came back ta luncheon, straight-up boisterous n' breezy afta a mornin on tha river, tha Mole, whose conscience had been prickin him, looked doubtfully at Toad, expectin ta find his ass sulky or pissed off. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Instead, da thug was so uppish n' inflated dat tha Mole fuckin started ta suspect something; while tha Rat n' tha Badger exchanged dope glances.

As soon as tha meal was over, Toad thrust his thugged-out lil' paws deep tha fuck into his cold-ass trouser-pockets, remarked casually, ‘Well, look afta yourselves, you fellows muthafucka! Ask fo' anythang you want!’ n' was swaggerin off up in tha direction of tha garden, where da thug wanted ta be thinkin up a scam or two fo' his comin speeches, when tha Rat caught his ass by tha arm.

Toad rather suspected what tha fuck da thug was after, n' did his dopest ta git away; but when tha Badger took his ass firmly by tha other arm his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta peep dat tha game was up. Da two muthafuckas conducted his ass between dem tha fuck into tha lil' small-ass tokin-room dat opened outta tha entrance-hall, shut tha door, n' put his ass tha fuck into a cold-ass lil chair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then they both stood up in front of him, while Toad sat silent n' regarded dem wit much suspicion n' ill-humour.

‘Now, look here, Toad,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘It’s bout dis Banquet, n' straight-up sorry I be ta gotta drop a rhyme ta you like all dis bullshit. But we want you ta KNOW clearly, once n' fo' all, dat there be goin ta be no speeches n' no joints, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Try n' grasp tha fact dat on dis occasion we’re not jumpin off bout some shiznit wit you; we’re just spittin some lyrics ta you, biatch.’

Toad saw dat da thug was trapped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They understood him, they saw all up in him, they had gots ahead of his muthafuckin ass yo. His pleasant trip was shattered.

‘Mayn’t I rap dem just one LITTLE song?’ he pleaded piteously.

‘Fuck dat shit, not ONE lil song,’ replied tha Rat firmly, though his thugged-out ass bled as he noticed tha tremblin lip of tha skanky pissed tha fuck off Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘It’s no good, Toady; you know well dat yo' joints is all conceit n' boastin n' vanity; n' yo' speeches is all self-praise and-and-well, n' gross exaggeration and-and--’

‘And gas,’ put up in tha Badger, up in his common way.

‘It’s fo' yo' own good, Toady,’ went on tha Rat. ‘Yo ass know you MUST turn over a freshly smoked up leaf sooner or later, n' now seems a splendid time ta begin; a sort of turning-point up in yo' game n' shit. Please don’t be thinkin dat sayin all dis don’t hurt me mo' than it hurts you, biatch.’

Toad remained a long-ass while plunged up in thought fo' realz. At last he raised his head, n' tha tracez of phat emotion was visible on his wild lil' features. ‘Yo ass have conquered, mah playas,’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd up in fucked up accents, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. ‘It was, ta be shizzle yo, but a lil' small-ass thang dat I asked-merely leave ta blossom n' expand fo' yet one mo' evening, ta let mah dirty ass go n' hear tha tumultuous applause dat always seems ta me-somehow-to brang up mah dopest qualities. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! But fuck dat shiznit yo, tha word on tha street is dat yo ass is right, I know, n' I be wrong yo. Hence forth I'ma be a straight-up different Toad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! My fuckin playas, you shall never have occasion ta blush fo' me again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But, O dear, O dear, dis be a hard ghetto!’

And, pressin his handkerchizzle ta his wild lil' face, he left tha room, wit falterin footsteps.

‘Badger,’ holla'd tha Rat, ‘I feel like a funky-ass brute; I wonder what tha fuck YOU feel like?’

‘O, I know, I know,’ holla'd tha Badger gloomily. ‘But tha thang had ta be done. This phat fellow has gots ta live here, n' hold his own, n' be bigged up. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Would you have his ass a cold-ass lil common laughing-stock, mocked n' jeered at by stoats n' weasels?’

‘Of course not,’ holla'd tha Rat. ‘And, poppin' off of weasels, it’s dirty we came upon dat lil weasel, just as da thug was settin up wit Toad’s invitations. I suspected suttin' from what tha fuck you holla'd at me, n' had a peep one or two; they was simply disgraceful naaahhmean, biatch? I confiscated tha lot, n' tha phat Mole is now chillin up in tha blue boudoir, fillin up plain, simple invitation cards.’

At last tha minute fo' tha banquet fuckin started ta draw near, n' Toad, whoz ass on leavin tha others had retired ta his bedroom, was still chillin there, melancholy n' thoughtful naaahhmean, biatch? His brow restin on his thugged-out lil' paw, he pondered long n' deeply. Gradually his countenizzle cleared, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta smile long, slow smiles. Then tha pimpin' muthafucka took ta gigglin up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shy, self-conscious manner n' shiznit fo' realz. At last he gots up, locked tha door, drew tha curtains across tha windows, collected all tha chairs up in tha room n' arranged dem up in a semicircle, n' took up his thugged-out lil' posizzle up in front of them, swellin visibly. Then his thugged-out lil' punk-ass bowed, coughed twice, and, lettin his dirty ass go, wit uplifted voice da perved-out muthafucka sang, ta tha enraptured crew dat his crazy-ass muthafuckin imagination so clearly saw.

TOAD’S LAST LITTLE SONG!

Da Toad-came-home! There was panic up in tha parlours n' howlin up in tha halls, There was bustin up like a biatch up in tha cow-shedz n' shriekin up in tha stalls, When tha Toad-came-home!

When tha Toad-came-home! There was smashin up in of window n' crashin up in of door, There was chivvyin of weasels dat fainted on tha floor, When tha Toad-came-home!

Bang! go tha drums! Da trumpetas is tootin n' tha soldiers is saluting, And tha cannon they is blastin n' tha motor-cars is hooting, As the-Hero-comes!

Shout-Hoo-ray! And let each one of tha crowd try n' shout it straight-up loud, In honour of a animal of whom you’re justly proud, For it’s Toad’s-great-day!

Dude busted dis straight-up loud, wit pimped out unction n' expression; n' when dat schmoooove muthafucka had done, da perved-out muthafucka busted all dat shiznit over again.

Then dat schmoooove muthafucka heaved a thugged-out deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.

Then da ruffneck dipped his hairbrush up in tha water-jug, parted his afro up in tha middle, n' plastered it down straight-up straight n' sleek on each side of his wild lil' face; and, unlockin tha door, went on tha fuckin' down-lowly down tha stairs ta greet his wild lil' freakadelic guests, whoz ass he knew must be assemblin up in tha drawing-room.

All tha muthafuckas hollared when he entered, n' crowded round ta congratulate his ass n' say sick thangs bout his courage, n' his defness, n' his wild lil' fightin qualities; but Toad only smiled faintly, n' murmured, ‘Not at all!’ Or, sometimes, fo' a cold-ass lil chizzle, ‘On tha contrary!’ Otter, whoz ass was standin on tha hearthrug, describin ta a admirin circle of playaz exactly how tha fuck da thug would have managed thangs had his thugged-out lil' punk-ass been there, came forward wit a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shout, threw his thugged-out arm round Toad’s neck, n' tried ta take his ass round tha room up in triumphal progress; but Toad, up in a mild way, was rather snubby ta him, remarkin gently, as da ruffneck disengaged his dirty ass, ‘Badger’s was tha mastermind; tha Mole n' tha Wata Rat bore tha brunt of tha fighting; I merely served up in tha ranks n' did lil or nothing.’ Da muthafuckas was evidently puzzled n' taken aback by dis unexpected attitude of his; n' Toad felt, as he moved from one hommie ta tha other, makin his crazy-ass modest responses, dat da thug was a object of absorbin interest ta every last muthafuckin one.

Da Badger had ordered every last muthafuckin thang of tha best, n' tha banquet was a pimped out success. There was much poppin' off n' laughta n' chaff among tha muthafuckas yo, but all up in all dat shiznit Toad, whoz ass of course was up in tha chair, looked down his nozzle n' murmured pleasant nothings ta tha muthafuckas on either side of his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. At intervals da perved-out muthafucka stole a glizzle all up in tha Badger n' tha Rat, n' always when he looked they was starin at each other wit they grills open; n' dis gave his ass tha top billin satisfaction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of tha younger n' livelier muthafuckas, as tha evenin wore on, gots whisperin ta each other dat thangs was not so amusin as they used ta be up in tha phat oldschool days; n' there was some knockings on tha table n' criez of ‘Toad hommie! Speech! Rap from Toad hommie! Song! Mista Muthafuckin Toad’s song!’ But Toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw up in mild protest, and, by pressin delicacies on his wild lil' freakadelic guests, by topical small-talk, n' by earnest inquiries afta thugz of they crews not yet oldschool enough ta step tha fuck up at hood functions, managed ta convey ta dem dat dis dinner was bein run on strictly conventionizzle lines.

Dude was indeed a altered Toad!

Afta dis climax, tha four muthafuckas continued ta lead they lives, so rudely fucked up in upon by civil war, up in pimped out joy n' contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions. Toad, afta due consultation wit his wild lil' playas, selected a thugged-out gold chain n' locket set wit pearls, which da ruffneck dispatched ta tha gaoler’s daughta wit a letta dat even tha Badger admitted ta be modest, grateful, n' appreciative; n' tha engine-driver, up in his cold-ass turn, was properly gave props ta n' compensated fo' all his thugged-out lil' pains n' shit. Under severe compulsion from tha Badger, even tha barge-woman was, wit some shit, sought up n' tha value of her cow discreetly made phat ta her; though Toad kicked terribly at this, holdin his dirty ass ta be a instrument of Fate, busted ta punish fat dem hoes wit mottled arms whoz ass couldn’t tell a real gentleman when they saw one. Da amount involved, dat shiznit was true, was not straight-up burdensome, tha gipsy’s valuation bein admitted by local assessors ta be approximately erect.

Sometimes, up in tha course of long summer evenings, tha playaz would take a stroll together up in tha Wild Wood, now successfully tamed so far as they was concerned; n' dat shiznit was pleasin ta peep how tha fuck respectfully they was greeted by tha inhabitants, n' how tha fuck tha mother-weasels would brang they lil' ones ta tha grillz of they holes, n' say, pointing, ‘Look, baby dawwwwg! There goes tha pimped out Mista Muthafuckin Toad hommie! And that’s tha gallant Wata Rat, a shitty fighter, struttin along o’ him! And yonder comes tha hyped Mista Muthafuckin Mole, of whom you so often have heard yo' daddy tell!’ But when they infants was fractious n' like beyond control, they would on tha down-low dem by spittin some lyrics ta how, if they didn’t hush dem n' not fret them, tha shitty grey Badger would up n' git dem wild-ass muthafuckas. This was a funky-ass base libel on Badger, who, though his schmoooove ass cared lil bout Society, was rather fond of lil playaz; but it never failed ta have its full effect. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!