Monotype

I's workin this cafe over on... Devonshire street. Right? Place get about 15 customahs in 8 hours. Manager walks in. "Yo Mr. big man what up?"

Man had the nerve to say to me, "Who told ya ta sit down mate?"

I stayed seated I said, " Forget that. I ain't seen nary a customer up in here for over an hour, punk. I ain't gonna be runnin my little ass around up in here, ain't nobody up in here. You know what I'm sayin?"

You shoulda seen his big ol' Australian jaw just about like drop, Right? Hit the flo'. I seen we was gonna have ta duke it out. But ol' boy change his tune. He come out wid "Mate listen, I'm drya than a dead dingo's donga. Why donya get behoin the couna and make me a flat woite. And cut me a piecea mudcake whal ya back theya."

Well, I ain't stupid, You Know? I mean I am gettin paid. So I do what ol’ boss man say.

I get up. Get me one a dem aaahh... butcha knives. You know the kinds we use to cut cakes wid. An’ I dish him out a piece. An I dish me one out too. I sit back down wid my cake an say “Yo mama made you a flat white Ain’t nuthin I can do about dat.” I look up. He steady clockin’ me. I say, "what you lookin at niggah?”

He pick up dat knife. He start to shakin like. Kinda tremblin. Dat bottom lip start ta quiverin. He break out wid “Ya cawl that a knoif!? Ya cawl that a knoif!? That’s naught a knoif! This a knoif! That’s naught a knoif! This is a knoif!” An he keep repeatin it. Steady walkin toward me, all slow an stiff like; like one a dem robots when dey got too much power surgin trew dey circuits. (Exterminate! Exterminate! Danger! Danger!) Makin little jabbin motions at the air an shit. I mean I knew ol aucka mug were crazy but he ain’t never pulled no Crocodile Dundee shit on me befow. My lips start ta pokin out,... how you say,... involuntarily. Like I’s fixin ta say “ Whachewtalkinbout’ Willis?”

Ol’ swag wearin, outback, red dirt, red neck, larrikin ass bout ta jump me when one a dem Uh...Aboriginal mugs walks in da do. Lookin like he been out partyin las night. He don see no knife, naw. He walk in like he own the place. Jus’ like he own the place. Walk right up to whitey’s cake layin on the table. An while he helpin his self, while he eating it up, boss man turn aroun knife in dem pudgy hands an he come out like a gotdamn freight train. He come out wid, “Ya black beast!! Ya black beast!! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT NOW! ” Like some rhino on the frontlines of a hallucination he say, "Abo go home! Hey Abo! Get oudda moy cafe.”

Somethin bout seein a black man stabbed through the hand by a white man shocked me outta my chair. I get up, grab that raving ass boss by the back a his head. Put my boot up his ass. KICK HIM OUT! KICK HIM OUT!, the cafe. Jus in time fuh dat 378 bus ta - ding! ding! ding! - cut him down.

Wipe that hair grease off my hands. Turn around brutha man Aboriginal fella ain’t layin on the flo’ like a victim. Aw naw he out da back do’. Whole mudcake in da good hand; bottle a coca cola in da bleedin hand an all that cash register money jus spillin outta his pockets. An he runnin down the alleyway laughin. Like everything in this country belongs to him. Or...he belongs to everything in this country. 

I don know what ta do. I'm just a stereotype, right? 

I just some go to the fridge get some fried chicken, pick up my basketball, pick up a chair, tro it trew da window, start a riot, say “It's one crazy country ya'll living in bro” and write the next rap hit.