Hey everybody! This is the LAST CHAPTER of "Ultimate Angst"
Do you feel the love?
I'm not feelin' the love!
Ok, I'll shut up now.
***
I swear I've been mistaken for almost every nationality there is. Except, naturally, my real one.
I'm mixed, and I admit it. But I've been called Irish, Italian, Cuban, Costa Rican, Mexican, Spanish, the list goes on and on.
Ironically enough, the ONLY countries I haven't been asked if I was from are the African ones. The black ones.
You wouldn't think it would be so hard to tell, would you? Apparently it is. Hell, I've been called a Jap before, and that was weird.
'Course, the guy was Chinese, so maybe he was just trying to insult me.
So you wanna know who I really am?
I'm the son of a half-British, half-Scots-Irish whore by a drunk, married half-Kenyan, half-African-American.
Isn't it just fabulous that we all know our roots?
I was "raised" – if you can call it that – by my frequently absentee mother. When I was nine, one of her "patrons" raped me. I'm sure you've heard this particular sob story before.
My dear sweet mother stood up straight, looked him right in the eye, and demanded that he pay "extra for fucking the little bastard."
Not all her johns wanted me as well, as a matter of fact, it was rare. In the next few years, it only happened two or three times annually.
Finally, after I turned twelve, my mother kicked me out on my ass, screaming for the whole Red Light District to hear about my "nigger" father.
Bitch.
I spent less than two days on the streets before I was picked up by a guy who introduced himself as Bumlets.
He became my selling partner, a nicer guy I've never met. All the guys say it's weird, our friendship – we're total opposites, me, thirteen, him, eighteen. Me, half-black half-white, him, pure-bred Spanish. Me, son of a whore, him, son of a Don. Me, the loudest little shit on the streets, him, the quietest guy you'll ever see.
But we don't care. I owe Bumlets my life six times over, and he owes me at least that much – it's this cute puss that sells the papes, after all.
I guess my "newsie nickname" isn't all that odd.
My mother always did tell me, "You're such a goddamn stupid Snipeshooter, Nicky!"
***
All right. That one was pretty bad.
But HA! IT'S OVER!
*Laughs maniacally and runs around in circles.*
Now then, back to the other fic.
Do you feel the love?
I'm not feelin' the love!
Ok, I'll shut up now.
***
I swear I've been mistaken for almost every nationality there is. Except, naturally, my real one.
I'm mixed, and I admit it. But I've been called Irish, Italian, Cuban, Costa Rican, Mexican, Spanish, the list goes on and on.
Ironically enough, the ONLY countries I haven't been asked if I was from are the African ones. The black ones.
You wouldn't think it would be so hard to tell, would you? Apparently it is. Hell, I've been called a Jap before, and that was weird.
'Course, the guy was Chinese, so maybe he was just trying to insult me.
So you wanna know who I really am?
I'm the son of a half-British, half-Scots-Irish whore by a drunk, married half-Kenyan, half-African-American.
Isn't it just fabulous that we all know our roots?
I was "raised" – if you can call it that – by my frequently absentee mother. When I was nine, one of her "patrons" raped me. I'm sure you've heard this particular sob story before.
My dear sweet mother stood up straight, looked him right in the eye, and demanded that he pay "extra for fucking the little bastard."
Not all her johns wanted me as well, as a matter of fact, it was rare. In the next few years, it only happened two or three times annually.
Finally, after I turned twelve, my mother kicked me out on my ass, screaming for the whole Red Light District to hear about my "nigger" father.
Bitch.
I spent less than two days on the streets before I was picked up by a guy who introduced himself as Bumlets.
He became my selling partner, a nicer guy I've never met. All the guys say it's weird, our friendship – we're total opposites, me, thirteen, him, eighteen. Me, half-black half-white, him, pure-bred Spanish. Me, son of a whore, him, son of a Don. Me, the loudest little shit on the streets, him, the quietest guy you'll ever see.
But we don't care. I owe Bumlets my life six times over, and he owes me at least that much – it's this cute puss that sells the papes, after all.
I guess my "newsie nickname" isn't all that odd.
My mother always did tell me, "You're such a goddamn stupid Snipeshooter, Nicky!"
***
All right. That one was pretty bad.
But HA! IT'S OVER!
*Laughs maniacally and runs around in circles.*
Now then, back to the other fic.