On a balmy day in May, Betty Brown said to a joyous Black boy jiving around on Broadway, “Walk that walk, Boy. You know you sooo fine. You know I’m gonna make you mine. It’s just a matter of time.”
The Boy did a double-quick step, jump around touch the sky, look down and skip a heartbeat, stop on a dime move.
Betty said, “My, my, my. Ain’t you got some showboat in you. What else can you do? You need to come show mama.”
He cake-walked up face to face, stuck out his tongue, touched the tip of his nose and up to the bridge of his nose and on up to the middle of his forehead.
Betty said, “Un-huh. Oh yeah! You got a tool make a fool drool. But do you know how to use that teasing toy?”
He laughed so loud it rocked the buildings, broke windows, snapped telephone poles. On his phone, he showed her a picture of him using his Johnson to drive a nail into a 2×4.
Betty Brown wet her panties, wiped sweat from her brow, and said, “Oh, my, my, my! Looks like you got everything this good woman needs. Let’s break the speed limit to my flat. And do the deed.”
“Not so fast, fat ass Betty Brown. That’s my boy!” Said all four feet, eight inches of Tiny Tallahassee.
Betty ground her teeth, squinted her eyes, grabbed for her nine.
But Tiny was too fast and aimed her MAC-10 at Betty’s considerable chest.
Betty raised her hands in defeat. “Tiny, I didn’t know. If I knew he belonged to you—”
“You need to shut your fat mouth and move your lard ass on down the line. Nigger, you takin’ up too much of my time.”
Betty started to back away.
Tiny said, “Nigger, I want to see them titties floppin’, and them hips rockin’ before I lose my goddamn mind.”
Betty ground her teeth to dust. “Fuck you, Tiny. I ain’t runnin’ from God or Scratch. I’m sure not gonna run from a Minnie Mouse motherfucker like you.”
The Boy jumped between them, pleading. “Don’t need no bloodshed. It’s all on me. Tiny, I was showin’ off. I didn’t mean for nobody to die.”
Tiny sneered, “Your turn about to come. Move out the way.”
The Boy begged. “This is some wrong-ass, crazy, nigger shit. Chill, both of you.”
Tiny looked at Betty.
Betty shrugged.
They put fourteen bullet holes in the Boy.
As they were walking to the Nairobi Bar and Grill, Tiny said to Betty, “I see you put all four of your shots in the forehead—before he hit the ground. That ain’t wasted on me. But Betty, you more than most should know nobody likes a show-off.”
Image by Dieu vath MAYOMA from Pixabay
literally stories 
Fred–
So much to be said for this paradox. It’s funny yet not too far from the hard truth regarding the ease guns are acquired in the USA–thus the almost casual usage. But mostly it is a wickedly funny little work–of which you have been supplying us with for years.
Leila
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Hi Fred,
I didn’t think this could get any better and then I read the last line!
I was a bit pissed off that I had forgotten about the title and should have seen it coming!!
No-one can touch you on perception and you do this type of story with ease.
Brilliant!!
Hugh
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Excellent satire about the plague of gun violence and lawlessness in the US.
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Black Boy could have been the sex version of Bad, Bad Leroy Brown if he had survived. Potential legend RIP.
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Fred,
As usual, your words have prowess into the society we live in today. Now guns and shots have a reason for the placement of the bullets. It is necessary to know exactly where the bullets go and who is sending them. Guns are not the answer… Beautiful souls leave us way to early.
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