How I Survived Super 9/11 Tuesday... Part One

Oh, my god. I did it! I survived Super 9/11 Tuesday! I think it's time for some T-shirts. After midnight had passed, and the stores were fully stocked with Kanye and 50’s new albums, I made sure to contact all of my family in the New York Area to make sure they were okay. Only my sister, Tameka Mexico-Barclays, who had just come home from Rikers’ Island on Monday, was adversely affected by the disaster. By the way, she said Foxy doesn’t ever come out of her house. See that. She aint shit without her Blackberry. So, here's the story. Much like during the whole Y2K shitfest, I gave little effort toward pre-apocalyptic preparation. While Mama Mexico ravaged her nearest Associated Supermarket for bottled water and canned goods, her lazy ant of a son, Ronnie, scoffed. That's right. I neglected her heartfelt advice. Of course, her old ho-ass let me know it too. "While you're sitting on your black ass listening to all that Illmatic, some of us are preparing for 9/11 times 11! Kanye's only gotten stronger, you know." She said in relative panic as I left her for some jerk chicken. On my way home from the Jamaican spot I noticed those blue barricades up and down Seventh Avenue. Since I don't talk to polices, I did the next best thing. I asked a crackhead for the lowedwn. "Oh yeah... these niggas out here talkin' 'bout Orange Alert. They posted out front all the record stores and the mixtape spots and shit. They ain't fuckin with the coke right now, so we good. Say, bruh. You got like fitty cent I could get?" From the mouth of the fiend the epiphany came. I felt like that little nigga in Transformers. Shit was going down and I was ass out in front of St. Nicholas projects talking to Gator from "Jungle Fever." I was used to Africans denying niggas up in yellow cabs, but I couldn't even get a gypsy to stop. As the buses weren't running, I had to hoof it. I had to get home before Kanye and 50 Cent kissed. There were ominous signals abound. The sky had gone dark, revealing a Tampax-red moon. Amadou's 24-Hour Socks, T-Shirts, Bootlegs & Phone Cards was closed. I knew I was fucked. I dropped my jerk chicken and ran like Regan was still president. I was too late. The corner drunk I give Miller Lite to lay dead in front of my building. I wouldn't have let his ass in if I were home, but it was still pretty fuckin sad. (I'm sayin, you give a nigga a tallboy and he get a little too familiar.) "Holy shit!" I thought. "All that biblical shit moms was spitting is true! Two homothugs kissing on TV-14 primetime DID initiate the beginning of the Seven Negro Plagues !" Willie Bobo dead on my porch meant that we were already up to the fourth plague! The check cashing places closed early and the Department of Social Services was closed until futher notice. That's one and two right there. Increased, unrelenting police presence was the third. Now, the melanin assault was beginning to strike us down by demographic! Fiends were the first to go. My dry-heaving in my own bathroom as opposed to lying face down in front of Rusty's was evidence that potheads weren't included in the subdivision. Cell phones weren't working, so I dashed to my room to call my mother on the landline. "Oh, baby. I'm so glad you're alright. The fiends already dead. So I'm glad you--" "Yes, mom. I'm alive and I don't fuck with the rock." I interrupted. "I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. Hip-hop is dead. You were prepared. I am a smartass. What should we do?" "Well... Next to go are the snappers, then the single mothers, and finally the bastard children." "Damn. We never had a chance." "Nope." she interjected "But there is one way to reverse the plague... and I think you're the only one who can." "Jesus, Mama." I sighed. "Alright. I'm listening." (TBC)