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Horse


Cole Parker

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Horse

by Cole Parker

"You got bills?"

"Yeah, but I don’ wanna play for no money, dude. Just play Horse."

“Don’ work dat way. Wanna play, cost you. Not iff’n’ you win. You win, you take the green. What you got?”

“Got five, but my ma give it to me fo’ to buy dinner stuff. Can’t be playin’ for it.”

“No game then. Beat it.”

“You play fair?”

“You disrespectin’ me, boy?”

“No. No. I jus axing, we fixin’ to play for cash.”

“Don’ be disrespectin’ me, boy, you hear what I’m sayin?”

“I hear. I’m ’bout to go then.”

“No yer not. We ’bout to play. For dat five.”

“I needs to go.”

“After. Won’t take long. Put you five on the groun’ here. Lay it on mine, right here.”

“Well, alright. I’m smaller, I go first.”

“Bullshit on dat. My court. Make this.”

“Hey! I can’t dunk! You know dat. I’m 5-5, you what? 6-5?”

“Not my problem man. Make the shot or get an H.”

“I can’ do dat.”

“OK, H on you, den. Here’s my nex’.”

“Told you, I can’ do dat, man!”

“O then. HO. You a pussy, boy. This is takin’ candy from a baby. Make this one.”

“You just gunna dunk five times? You said you’d play fair. How fair is dat, doin’ sommit’ I can’t?”

“You ’bout to cry, boy? Crying ain’t ’bout to save yer five. I don’ mind, though, you wanna cry. You so pussy, wouldn’t surprise me none, you start bawlin’. What you gots now? HOR? Two mo’, then. Make this.”

“You pretty good at those slams, dude. ’Cept’n I see big dudes like you doin’ shit like over their head backwards, changin’ hands midair, throwin’ down wid their left hands, crazy shit, goin’ all LeBron, not just a one hand stuff wid their right hand. You good, dude, but not dat good, you know what I mean?”

“Hey, what’s this? You talkin’ or shootin’ here? No one axed for no lip from you, little boy. You makin’ dat shot? No? HORS then. Fives ’bout mine.”

“You fixin’ to dunk again then? Yer last shot, an’ you ’bout to do another milk toast white boy grandma’s dunk? I’m not even getting to see anythin’ worth five bucks here, know what I’m sayin’, dude? But dat the best you can do, you go ’head. Best you can do, you do it, man. Wanna see yer best, yer last shot. Even if it is dat cheap-ass little girl dunk you can only make wid yer right hand.”

“You lots of talk fo’ someone who not even shot yet, prolly don’ gots no hair no place either. You wanna see what I gots? OK, man, see this!”

“See what, dude? See you slam the ball off the rim and it bounce nice an’ high and never do go through nuttin? Yeah, I see dat. Also see it’s my shot now.”

“Yeah! Yer shot! Can you make a lay-up little boy?”

“Can make this.”

“Oh, you good, man! Fifteen foot set shot. They shoot those back in the day, man. Ain’t nobody shootin’ like dat no mo’. Maybe you not big ’nuff to shoot a jump shot. Not strong ’nuff neither. Here, watch how you do it. See dat?”

“I sees it, man, ’ceptin’ dat ain’t the shot. I got letters ’cause I not do what you do. You gots to do what I do now. You wanna shoot it right, or you wan’ a H?”

“But no one shoot dat way, cuz!”

“You gots to. Sum a us can’t dunk, neither.”

“Dinna say I can’t shoot dat, just dat no one does. OK, fuck. Give it ’ere.”

“Dat’s an H. Shoot this.”

“Hey! Dat’s crap, man. Shoot a jump shot at least.”

“This my shot, man. This it. Twenty feet away, feet on the ground. Do it man, or it’s a O.”

“Fuck!”

“Oh, don’ cry bro. Just a O. You start cryin’, you miss the next one too, too blurry to see the basket. Here, make this.”

“Dat’s the same shot!”

“Sorta like dem dunks, innit?”

“Gimme the damn ball. Fuck!”

“HOR. Getting tight, man. Pressure’s on. Try this one. Maybe you hit the rim this time.”

“Why don you shoot somethin’ else? Why always the same?”

“I like this shot. Like dat you can’t make it, too, dude.”

“Stop callin’ me dude, asshole.”

“Sure. No need get all agro. All you gots to do is make this.”

“Shit! Fuck!”

“Hey, you comin’ closer, man. You hit the rim dat time, you improving’! Guess we tied now, HORS each. ’Ceptin’ it’s my shot. Whoa, hard times, man. Too much pressure. I’m shakin’ here man. See me shakin’? Don’ know if I can make this. Oh oh oh oh. Hey, looka dat! Yer shot now man. You not ’bout to let some little kid beat you are ya, man?”

“Just shut the fuck up. Gimme the ball.”

“Here man, don’ be nervous. Only your pride and your five riding on this. No pressure man.”

“Shut the fuck up! I’m tryin’ to shoot here.”

“Lips’er sealed, man, sealed tight. Go ’head.”

“FUCK!”

“Good game man. No hard feelings. Hey! Dat’s my money.”

“Cost a playin’, man. You dinna play fair anyway, dat cheap-ass ol’-man shot. I take the cash, you best get lost for I do mor’n’ take the green. You gots some lip on you, you say some shit to me. Don’ like dat none.”

“Give ’im the money, man.”

“Hey, Mo, what you doin’ here?”

“I be watchin’, boy. You can’t do him dat way. He beat you fair ’n square. Take it like a man. You cheat little boys? No one livin’ in my house gonna be dat way. Don’ wan’ dat rep, do you? I don’ wan’ it bein’ said my little bro do dat neither. Look bad on me. Give it up.”

“Hey, I needs dat bread.”

“Then shouldn’t be riskin’ it. Give it.”

“Shit.”

“Thanks, mister.”

“Better get along, sonny.”

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First I must admit that I read your comment first Cole, about what you were trying to do. But I doubt I would have said "WTF?" even if I hadn't. This piece just works so well, nobody'd know you were trying on new clothes unless you told 'em.

I'm wondering where all your practice runs are, since almost every time you post you're trying on new clothes. There could be some perfectly good ensembles wasting away in a drawer, just needing a second opinon.

Well, that sounds greedy, dunnit? Far be it from me to be anything less than gratefull for your effort.

Nice work, and just good fun, too. A rather perfect vehicle for your sense of humor; how you know to talk like that with accuracy is anybody's guess--tv, neighbors over the fence, pay a kid five bucks? :raccoon:

OK, just thanks and i'm gone. :hug:

Tracy

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