275-26: Duckey’s Valentine Resurrection

Duckey face yullower than ever. I know she born high-yulluh but cheez-on man,  she face ain’t right at all.  I don’t know how after all these decades you can still love her like so.

Cuz the way I does see it, she shoulda dead years ago.  Her legacy crush wit she plastic bones in a toxic tomb in whatever  left of old Emerson Town.  Long gone.

But look she here now, Jesus be Christ. Fucking resurrection.  Face swell-up, reeking of ass, eyes bulging and bloody.  Disgusting.  And you have the audacity and sheer nerve to bring this nasty piece a-ting in the hotel bath with we? Nasty is what it is.

Is like you don’t know what romantic is.  You know how much hotel cost in Barbados?  I here at Seacrest Hotel,  paying exuberant tourist prices for towels and fucking strawberries from Miami, I must be di ass.

I said do not bring she in this bat ,woman!

Look, wunna fine as ass but I having regrets now. Hear me.

We promenading along New Orleans and you say you miss yuh old house. I watch you cry all typa ugly in front the new water plant, the ghost of your old village hissing, and I stand next to you like a proper gentleman.  My lips seal when by some miracle you find Duckey mash-up body, wing broken and get all typa feels.

Valentine’s Day now and we in this bath, wunna sweet bubbies covered in soap and I can’t get buddy hard cuz Duckey there staring at me. And I can’t tell if it she or the hotel water that making my skin itch so.

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275-11: The Recipe

I gone and write down all deh ingredients down on piece a paper so, fold it twice from corner to corner and stuff it in my arse right tight so when the Lord does call me home, me and my Ginger Beer recipe gonna walk up to the pearly gates together as one. Cheez on, what a day that will be, yuh! In my three piece suit prim and proper ready to kick deh bucket and leave this wretched place, and leave all yuhs ungrateful children that plotting to teef my recipe from me. Chuh! Fool me once, if yuh please!

On my tombstone, that big piece of fine rock, make sure to write ‘Official Creator, Founder and Royal Curator of the Original Ginger Beer’ in the Queen’s Calligraphy yuh hear? That’s the very least you and your lazy brothers can do for yuh father. The very least.

In fact, I fit to write the recipe nice-nice so in blood-red ink on the last page of my Royal Barbadian Passport, so if ever I does forget where I going after the coroner pucker me up in my ivory casket, I can reach in my inner pocket and show all the heavens and the earth that I, Harold S. W. Walcott am the one and only official Barbadian Ginger Beer Royal Head Master, if yuh please. And I will die with my secret lodged in my old black arse and three cloves clenched in my cold fist. Tink I gunna let these unruly pickney take my good recipe,wreck it and then share it with their friends and family to enjoy? Over my rasshole dead body! Wuh loss!