I came tearing out of the liquor store and fell on the mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt ice a block away. My shoes were like pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin roller skates on the stuff. No one was in sight though, so I had a chance if I could get my messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo self up and keep going. Only three blocks to my razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin apartment and safety.

        My mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt heart was pounding so hard and my nerves so tight from the hit of coke before the job that I almost couldn’t feel the slow pain in the pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin knee I landed on. But the thing was sprained, maybe worse, and when a whitey ofay honky racist Herbert car pulled up beside me I had to smile in defeat. To think if I hadn’t screwed up my messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo knee I might have made it. I stood up and tried to limp off, but I was in no shape to offer up any resistance.

        ‘Do you need a lift?’

        It wasn’t a whitey ofay honky racist Herbert cop. Instead some pasty hick redneck cracker backstabbin Saxon in the wrong part of town, or maybe trying to find him some lowdown nightlife. I still had my knife so I smiled to match his smile and got in his corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey luxury car. ‘Appreciate it,’ I said, checking out the window for flashing lights or whitey ofay honky racist Herbert pursuers. Nothing yet. Maybe I would make it after all.

        ‘Did you fall?’ he said all corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey, looking at me.

        ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, rubbing my messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo knee and grimacing. My pants were torn at the mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt knee too but I didn’t seem to be bleeding. ‘Could you take me on down the street?’ I said all razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin.  

        I implied my knee would be better if he did that, and it worked like a pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin charm. He drove off right away.          

        ‘Where to?’ he said like a corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey taxi driver. ‘Are you staying down here?’

        ‘Yeah, it’s on down,’ I said. I was beginning to chill, my razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin heart not pumping the way it had been and the drug still in effect. I’d hop out in a messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo mile or two and hope by then I could stumble on alone.  

        ‘Man, that was some last set you played,’ this whitey ofay honky racist Herbert said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, the first set was incredible too. The way you blew on ‘Sweet Home Chicago’ and ‘My Home is in the Delta,’ I could hear the Howlin’ Wolf influence. But that version of ‘Key to the Highway’ in the last set, man, you did Little Walter proud and then some.’

        He turned to look at me and smiled again. ‘Bill Ross of the City Blues Society,’ he said. He shot his corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey hand at me and we shook. ‘I came down to catch the band at The Crater since I’d only heard you on CD before. Man, you guys were in great form tonight, Sugar.’

        I almost blew my pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin cover when he called me Sugar, but got it together in tempo. ‘Glad you liked us,’ I said to this. ‘I worked up a sweat playin’ for y’all.’ That was to excuse my mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt funkiness ’cause I had to be pouring it out. ‘Sugar’s just my stage name, you know. Call me Wynton.’

        ‘Wynton!’ he snorted. ‘How about that?’

        ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How about that?’

        ‘I never expected to run into Sugar Streak on the street all by himself. Thought you’d still be back there with the Bluetones, loading your stuff in your van for the next gig, the next stop on the long and winding road. Are you staying in the city overnight?’    

        He stopped at a corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey red light and shot me a glance, but it wasn’t no searching look and he didn’t turn on his ceiling light or nothing. No doubt the real razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo Sugar was still back at The Crater doing just like he said, but that didn’t seem to make any impression. Likely my man’d had a few too many overpriced corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey Bass Ales.

        ‘Got me a few friends in town to look up before me and the fellas head out later,’ I said.

        Where to from here?’ he asked, and I knew if it wasn’t too far, he might make the trip.

        ‘Boston,’ I picked at random. ‘Got us some good fan support in Beantown.’

        ‘I have to tell you. I think you’re one of the greatest stylists going on chromatic.’

        I had no idea what pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin chromatic was, but I was relaxed enough to enjoy myself now. My mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt knee wasn’t smarting too much, and this guy’s corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey mistake had really bailed me out. He kept on driving. I knew he expected some kind of razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin graciousness in return for his compliment, so I did my best.

        ‘You play?’

        ‘A little,’ he said.

        ‘Be glad to listen to you sometime.’

        ‘That would mean so much. Damn, I wish I’d stuck it in my pocket tonight. You could give me some tips. But who knew this would happen?’

        ‘Keep your legs straight and bend your elbows,’ I suggested all razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin.

        ‘Hey yeah, that’s good. But I don’t think I could ever feel the blues, you know, genuinely feel them, the way you do.’

        ‘I knows just what you mean. Ever so often, ya see, I get a sensation like I’m walking down the dirt road on the old cotton plantation, on the way to my sharecropper’s shack, with the moon full overhead and the crickets singin, and some old hand strummin’ a Sears guitar on his front porch, and I don’t know if a man like you can feel that way.’

        ‘Probably not,’ he admitted. The pasty hick redneck cracker backstabbin Saxon looked serious, but I don’t think he was considering that I was only 30 years old and couldn’t have lived with messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo sharecroppers. I don’t think he noticed my sudden pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin plantation accent, either. But there was something else on his corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey mind and it soon popped out.

        ‘Listen Sugar, I mean Wynton. I have a certain pull with festival organizers in town, and I would like to let you know I’ll be suggesting your band for our first blues festival this summer, if you’d be interested.’

        I suddenly felt a lot of pain from my pappy jonesin mutha whammer jammer slammin knee and for the first time I thought of taking advantage of the whitey ofay honky racist Herbert. My hit of coke was wearing off too, and I was starting to get edgy. I felt my mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt knife in my pocket, it wouldn’t have been hard to take him out, dump him in the road minus his corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey wallet, and keep on going. The look on his pasty hick redneck cracker backstabbin Saxon face was that of a child waiting for candy, almost begging for it.

        ‘This is good, pull over here,’ I said. He did, near where there was a messed up fo real yo mamma gangsta booty knock boots chile ziggedy boo bar that I liked.          

        I swung open the corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey car door and held onto it as I got out. The razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin knee was supporting me well enough, though it still hurt bad.

        ‘So if you have a business card,’ he went on rambling, ‘or I guess I could get your management’s number from The Crater.’

        I leaned a bit down and said through the open door, ‘I ain’t no razzle ma dazzle shaft ho diddly bo squat mamma rappa dappa mojo tommin bluesman, you pasty hick redneck cracker backstabbin Saxon. You should be more careful who you pick up. I might have killed you for ten mofo barbecue blink blink hot sauce gol dag fro nappy sorry-butt bucks, fool.’

        ‘You’re not Blue Streak, the Chicago harp player? Damn, you sure look like him!’

        I slammed the corn-fed hillbilly blue-eyed jive turkey door shut and hobbled off. It took him a minute to collect his whitey ofay honky racist Herbert wits and get lost.