text: Shawty and Baby Mama Try to Kill Us By Seth Fox In in the glory days of my wild and reckless youth I redistributed discount construction equipment for the benefit of low-income immigrant workers. Which is to say, I stole power tools and sold them to the Mexicans. Often times I worked with an older cat named Mufasa. Like The Lion King, but not quite as regal. Mufasa had a baby mama who was less than thrilled with how he lived and with whom he spent his time. Mufasa was also in love with a crack whore I'll call Shawty. I can't remember her real name, but who cares? She was a crack whore. I don't like to think of her as a crack whore simply because she didn't look like a crack whore. Shawty looked quite healthy, I mean. She was however, technically a prostitute and she did spend a significant portion of her income-and anyone else’s income, for that matter-on crack, for which she smoked profusely and at any and all available points in time so if that doesn’t make one a crack whore I suppose nothing would. Mufasa was determined to win Shawty's heart with gentlemanly charm-and ample donations of crack-but refused to purchase her professional services outright with cash. Shawty did not particularly like Mufasa in the romantic sense but she loved crack. Hence their camaraderie. One bright summer morning after coffee and donuts I'm shooting speedballs under a bridge where I spent the previous night, when my breakfast is interrupted by a call from Mufasa saying it was time to go to work. I gave him directions to my bridge and exactly 12 minutes later he arrives with Shawty in tow. Shawty asks me if I have any crack and I say no. This is a lie. I have plenty of crack, of course. But never tell a crackhead you have crack. Besides, she wasn't sleeping with me and I wasn't in love with her. Plus, it was first thing in the morning so we were literally on our way to buy crack. She could wait ten goddamn minutes. It was not that serious. After we all cop and smoke some morning crack, Mufasa informed us that he had already promised his baby's mama-whom he was no longer “with,” he clarified-as part of some custody agreement/cocaine negotiation that he would allow her to ride shotgun and make some money with us today. At first, I was apprehensive, but came around after he assured me it wouldn’t affect my cut and bribed me with some free crack. Fuck it. Sign her up, let's go to work. We arrived at her apartment and Baby Mama-who is not a small woman-gets in the car and immediately asked if I have any crack. I say no. Mufasa gives her crack, I smoke crack, she smoke crack, we all smoke crack, Mufasa and Baby Mama in the front, me and Shawty in the back, crackity crack crack crack, Backstreet's back, alright. We arrived at a popular home improvement store and park off to the side so we can “gather recon” and “strategize” and “smoke crack.” After much debate over who has the most experience and who should take the lead we arrive at a plan. Which was exactly the same plan we always had: Shawty drives, Mufasa and I go in and grab as many drills and nail guns as possible, run out the door, jump in the car, Shawty hits the gas and Baby Mama- Sigh, -does nothing whatsoever. At this point it becomes relevant to say that I'm the only white person in the car. When Mufasa and I go in separate doors, loss prevention is immediately suspicious of him and corner the register. I am seemingly ignored. We load up everything we can carry and head back towards the bay doors. “Can we help you with that, sir?” A man in a red vest asks Mufasa. Mufasa keeps walking. Taking advantage of my anonymity, I slide on ahead and set off the alarm by going to the door with a big stack of merchandise. The alarm confuses the Vests, who turn to watch me exit the store and debate within their own minds whether or not they just got double-teamed by two separate and unrelated heists, or if the skinny white boy and older black dude are, in fact, accomplices. This happened every time. Their confusion caused hesitation, allowing us to run wild. Before they can act as a unit, Mufasa makes use of an impromptu battering ram of DeWalt boxes and tramples the distracted vest-wearing customer service drones, forcing his way out the door as well. The pair of us charge blinking into the daylight en route to the extraction point and notice, much to our dismay, that Shawty, Baby Mama and the car are gone. Alarms are blaring, customers are staring. Here come the vests. One is riding a forklift for some reason, which is a terrible decision in virtually any tactical scenario. But the Vests aren't tactically minded. They're mostly senior citizens. We hear the girls before we see them, screaming around the parking lot. They went to the wrong door. We charge toward them and the Vests give chase. I arrive first and dive headlong into the backseat. Mufasa close behind, begins throwing me nail guns. I load the nail guns as the Vets grab Mufasa. I also grab Mufasa. It’s me vs the Vests in a wacky tug-of-war over my partner in crime. Baby Mama screams and Shawty, in a moment of tactical clairvoyance, puts the car in reverse, stomps the gas and shatters Mufasa’s foot. Mufasa is not thrilled, but the Vests relinquish their hold on my comrade for fear of retaliation with furious lawsuits. Corporate America has trained them well, but victory goes to the scum-sucking crackhead larceny gang. Mufasa hurls the last box at our enemies punctuating our conquest and we flee in Phyrric Victory. We have our bounty, time to see the Mexicans. We took their riches and sped away on squealing tires. I felt like an American icon. An outlaw with a band of thieves. “Where the fuck was you?” Mufasa ask Shawty. “You said the other door!” Shawty says, incorrectly. "The fuck I did!” Mufasa explains. By now, the women in the car have united together in allegiance, presumably, to overthrow the patriarchy. Which was us now, I guess. Baby Mama informs Mufasa of the potential consequences of speaking to Shawty in such a manner, Mufasa suggests an alternate physical location for which she can place her criticisms. This doesn't help, but rather adds fuel to the fire of the feminist coup. At this point, Baby Mama seeks to plant the seeds of mistrust within the hearts of us men by implying my manhood is of superior quality because I was not overcome by the Vests like Mufasa was. A regular Sun Tzu, that Baby Mama. Mufasa looks at me confused and in noticeable agony over his shattered foot. To this, I got nothin'. Mufasa changes the subject. “My fuckin foot!” Should we go to the hospital? Of course not! We have a car full of stolen tools and we are literally fleeing a crime scene. Mufasa assures us that getting paid would make his foot feel good as new. Everyone else seems to agree, so off we go to meet our ‘migos. Tensions are running high amongst our merry band of thieves. Mufasa continues to cry out in agony and Baby Mama continues to insult his manhood. Shawty asks me if I have any crack. I say no. This is a lie. “I got some heroin, though.” Shawty stops the car. “You got heroin?” Asks Baby Mama. “Bitch, you don't do heroin.” Said Mufasa. Mufasa proceeded to explain to the women that he does not trust heroin addicts-except for me, of course, we’re homies-and that she should take no thought in what I just confessed. Baby Mama winks at me seductively and I am overcome with mortal terror. Mufasa secretly ask me for some heroin. You know, for his ailing foot. The pain it’s, unbearable. Can’t concentrate. So, I help a brother out and we continue our journey. Baby Mama decides she wants to drive and Shawty begins to question her solidarity, disrupting the male versus female dynamic. Shawty asks what is wrong with her driving and Baby Mama exhibits her Machiavellian authority by slapping Shawty up-side her head. Shawty retaliates and thus begins the first brawl at 75 miles an hour. Mufasa attempts to reason with the women but is nearly rendered unconscious from the heroin. I guess now's my time to take charge. “Yo, let's just get this money, okay?” The women stop fighting each other, focusing their wrath against me. Which was fine, because all they did was talk shit while I got high with Mufasa in the back seat. And so it was, all the way to the Mexican trailer park. Mufasa and the women stay in the car while I negotiate with the Mexicans. I sell the merchandise and keep a little extra for “emotional stress” but they don’t need to know that. Junkie is as junkie does, I guess. By now, everyone wants crack, so we re-up and stop by the QT for supplies. Mufasa man's the pump while I shoot up in the bathroom. The men get beer and they women get blue slushies. Baby Mama once again decides that she wants to drive and by now Shawty has crack so she doesn’t mind. Mufasa’s foot is still broken and I’m avoiding confrontation by smoking crack and hanging out in the back with Shawty's boobs. Baby Mama takes the wheel and drives the car directly into a phone pole. Rather than take responsibility for her vehicular inadequacies, Baby Mama makes it known that Mufasa should have never let her behind the wheel. What was he thinking? Clearly this demonstrates how he is not shit and is subsequently a terrible father. Don’t we all agree? We didn’t agree. We weren’t even paying attention, actually. I was at this point trying to negotiate with Shawty about how much crack I’d have to put in her pipe before she would let me put my pipe in her...uh...crack. Mufasa, despite his foot, switches seats and tears off down the highway, refusing to comment. He watches our negotiations through the rearview mirror. Baby Mama watches him watch our negotiations through the rearview mirror and thinks to herself, “Is he fuckin that ho, too?” Baby Mama rips off the rearview mirror and hits Mufasa with it. “Is you fuckin that ho?!” Ah, shit. I separate myself from the bosom of said ho because said ho ain't no ho, apparently. Mufasa is at a loss for words and the ho that ain't no ho removes her jewelry. At 85 miles an hour I’m convinced that Shawty and Baby Mama are trying to kill us. Shawty dives into the front seat and the women grapple like rabid marmosets at 90 miles an hour. A blue slushy explodes across the windshield and Mufasa passes back the rearview mirror from The fray. The car veers into the opposite lane. I notice a large truck barreling toward us through the blue ice and a certain peace comes over me. Here I am, smoking crack in the back of my homeboy's car watching two women fight over a man neither of them really wanted. The truck honks. “Yo, motherfucker! Do something!” Mufasa ordered. Shit. Right. I notice my rig and my dope and I have a plan. Mufasa jerks the wheel and the women jerk it back. Honk! Any junkie worth his salt can cook up in a moving car, but this was for the gold. Honk, honk! I pull out a tiny plastic bag and sprinkle some white powder in my spoon, then add water from a bottle. “Are you fucking getting high right now?!” Mufasa screamed. Slap. Bite. Scratch. Somebody’s weave lands in the seat beside me while the car swerves. “Trust me, I got this!” I said. In goes the cotton. Stir. HONK! HONK! “Fuck you, bitch!” “Fuck you, you stankin' ass ho!” I pull back the plunger. HOOOONK!!! “DO SOMETHING!” Mufasa yells. I shove the needle into Baby Mama’s massive shoulder and press the plunger. Mufasa was right, she did not do heroin. If your tolerance is low enough, you don’t technically need to find a vein to get off. She slumped to the side and lets go of the steering wheel. Mufasa jerks the car back into our lane as the truck rattles past beside us. We yet live. Shawty seems pleased and convinced Baby Mama would never call her a ho again. Baby Mama slurs something that rhymes with “snow” or “flow” and vomits all over Shawty's bouncy brown boobs. No more negotiations today, it seems. Back at the apartment Mufasa and I bump fists. “See you tomorrow?” “Hell yeah, brother be safe out there.” “You too. Here's your mirror.” Shawty and Baby Mama never worked with us again.