A Clockwork Yellow 1

that's me, chillin'. i imagine myself sitting in a chair, a royal chair that makes eyes google into numbers too high for you to breathe. i'm lookin' at you, kid. here are my droogies. one of them names himself il-yi-wa, yeah that's his name and i don't give a fuck if you can't pronounce it. that's me, sitting here and lookin' at you.

we're eating ramen noodles with kim-chi when she, kuh-juh kim asks me, "what are you goin' to do today?"

i say, "An apple dropped for newton. we shall eat all the fruits of the tree."

that's us, drivin' that ferrari, lookin' mightily black and we hate this society with a passion. they treat us like dirt. i tell you, koreans are treated like the niggers of the asian race and that's the god buggin' truth. we enter a nightclub called, Blackbird. kuh-juh is dancing all crazy and shit and i'm left wonderin' what that bitch is doing, shamin' asians and all but i keep my mouth shut. i'm off in a corner, wonderin' what weez goin to do tonight when the pure lightbulb of an idea hits me.

"you want her," i ask the tied up caucasian.

"yes."

"then why can't you pronounce her fuckin' name?"

he starts to apologize profusely and i just watch him calmly. his tears fall on the floor. i use his tears to wipe the hardwood floor with.

"why do you want her?'

"cause she's hot."

I light his hair on fire. i must say hair doesn't light on fire readily. you have to take a chunk of it and then light it on fire.

"stop it. he's just a young kid."

that's my muse, my love, my blonde obsession, Dolores.

kuh-juh dumps water on the young kid's head.

"what's your name, kid?"

the kids heart is hardenin' and he just doesn't speak.

"do you want to get out of here alive?" she asks. she's a beautiful blonde, a real deneuve, edged with a coolness.

"fuck you all." he says cooly.

i take out an ax and chop off his finger.

"oh my fucking God."

"he's profane. absolutely profane."

the blonde goes over to the medical cabinet and takes out the first aid kit. she takes the hose from the sink and washes the kid's hand as blood pours out, she covers the wound with tape then gauzes it. she gives a kiss to his cheek.

"really, stop it."

"i'm sorry. i'm really sorry for thinkin' she's hot." his tears burn him. he's being kind of sincere. with americans, you can never tell if they are actin' or bein' real.

"cigarette?"

he takes a cigarette with his wounded hand as if to prove how tough he is.

the blonde kisses me and then runs her hand over my hair.

"how old are you, kid?"

"22."

"you just graduated from college and you were out to have some fun?"

"how did you know?"

"where you going to college?"

"berkley?"

"school of music or the liberal college?"

"the one in California."