Black Dynamite Page #3

What you want to eat, man?

Sister Betty made some hog maws

and, man, she put her ankle in it.

I ain't here for no food, Horn.

Oh, man.

I can dig it.

Sugar, give us a minute.

You know, man...

...I'm really sorry to hear

about what happened to Jimmy.

You know, me and you

been tight for a long time.

- So you know if you need anything...

- Thanks, Horn.

I need to know about the kind of cats

that Jimmy was running with.

You know, he came around here

about a week ago...

...with some cats

that I had never seen before.

Man, I mean,

these cats looked mean.

Meaner than two fat motherfuckers

wrestling over pork chops and greens.

Can you dig it?

Yeah. I can dig it.

That little old half-a-player,

Cream Corn, was with them.

You remember Cream Corn.

So where is Cream Corn

these days?

Yep, that's right.

I'm running things.

Cream Corn.

That's why they call me that.

Smooth.

I got my measure for your pleasure.

Stick with me, baby,

I'll have you farting through silk.

And let a nigga mess with me.

I'll jump on him,

all 93 pounds of pure dynamite...

Let me catch my breath,

Black Dynamite.

Shut up, sucker. I need answers.

I wanna know who the cats were

that Jimmy was hanging with.

Man, I don't know nothing

but nothing.

Okay, all right, all right.

Their leader's name

is Chicago Wind.

They hang out at a place

called the Hip Pocket on Crenshaw.

Now, get me up.

So you must be Black Dynamite.

Cream Corn, you jive mother.

Chicago Wind, I presume.

Your presumption is correct, nigga.

If you presume that I killed

your brother then you presume wrong.

Not that it means sh*t to me.

Either way, sh*t.

I wish I'd have killed

that nigga myself.

Somebody else beat me to it.

Is that so?

Well, Mr. Chicago Wind...

...what do you know about this?

Some heavy sh*t.

But dig.

Let me explain something to you,

supernigga.

I don't answer questions.

I ask them.

Even if I did know who killed

that brother of yours...

...what would make you think

I'm gonna tell you?

Get your black ass out of my joint...

...before we beat you

like a rented mule.

That's right, you jive-ass punk.

Don't be coming to the Hip Pocket

talking that sh*t, you dig?

That's right, nigga.

Don't ever, ever come ba...

Go catch Chicago Wind

before he disappears.

I'll take care

of this gorilla-eating goon here.

Oh, you's a corn-fed fool

with a lot of muscle mass.

But it's time for Bullhorn

to get up in that ass.

Motherf***er.

Let everybody know

and suckers be warned...

...that this is the outcome

when you mess with Bullhorn.

Try to catch me now, sucker.

Motherf***er.

Now you know why they call me

Chicago Wind, fool.

Because I left your ass

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