"Johhny?, Where are we?". My mother's voice was always amplified, somehow justified by her own faulty hearing.
I don't even remember. I know I met Veronica in an alley but somehow we were standing beside a phone. Transition has never been one of my stronger points. In my 1000+ years, I'd never held down a job as an editor.
"I'm not sure, Ma", and I wasn't. In this weird world I had discovered, outside my mother's bathroom, transition was a bizarre thing. I know there was a phone and a desk, it was the middle of the afternoon, on a Thursday, and any other detail just seemed irrelevant. Veronica was busy furiously texting someone on her cell. Perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me, but over her shoulder, I saw that she had typed "marcwojo". There was no way that could have happened. marcwojo was the one person I knew no one else knew anything about. There was only one marcwojo, and he had personally sworn to me that he had the trademark.
For the record, I do not whine, I am not lame, and I think Veronica/Veruca is nuts.
Ma wiggled a little in her seat and replied "Ain't no thang". If it was one thing that she held dear to heart, it was what she called ghetto thangs. She wore a Kangol beret style hat, like her hero Samel L. Jackson. Carved into her magical bow was the inscription, "“You got to cool that s**t out. "
"Johnny, what the hail time you got?"
"Why don't you look at your flava flav clock, Ma?"
"Don't you punka**, jive me, Turkey!", Ma exclaimed twisting her torso to start beating me upon the ears.
"Jeez, ma, it's 5:30!"
I covered my ears but to no avail.
"Get your white a** to BINGO."
"Ma, we have to get to the Island of the Gifted so we can break the curse..."
"That damn curse can wait till yo mama done gone and played her BINGO. Damned fool."