“Look how good I fucking look.”
You look damn good, Mr. Davis.
What was that for!?
“Don’t put your eyes on me like I’m a bitch.”
You literally told me to look at you.
“In a masculine way. You was all sissy-looking.”
I apologize, I guess. When is this? Late 40’s?”
“Round there. I made this date and they called it Birth of the Cool. All the white people got to hear what we were playing in New York when they wasn’t around. Downbeat called it hard bop or some dumb shit like that.”
What did you call it?
Sure. Is that a joint?
“Shit, no. Pall Mall cigarette. Never enjoyed marijuana. Makes you dopey. I prefer dope.”
“People talk bad about heroin, but it makes a motherfucker feel good. Recorded some masterpieces when I was shooting dope. Also got my pants stolen a lot. Up and down time for me. Cocaine’s nice, too. Trick is that you just do a little bit. Small line every ten minutes. Do that all night and you’re good. Can’t be greedy.”
That sounds a bit greedy.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“The smokes, though. Can’t beat them. Three or four packs a day, then you sweat out the tar while you’re playing.”
I don’t know if that’s how it works.
“Obama right. Sweat out cigarette, no get cancer.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Smoke ’em if got ’em.”
“Who the fuck are you? I didn’t order no fucking Chinese food.”
“No be racist.”
“I’m gonna be fucking racist, motherfucker.”
“You change, Obama.”
INTENSE GLARING NOISE
“Stop looking Kim Jong-Un like that.”
“Or what, motherfucker?”
“I call you dotard.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Me. Uh, yes?
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Mr. Davis, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?
“FATHER INVENT SEMI-FICTIONALITY!”
“Motherfucker, I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you.”
Everyone says that.