He comes here every fuckin’ Tuesday, orders the same damn drink and tries to get with the same kind of woman, every fuckin’ Tuesday.

His game is weaker than the shit that they be slingin’ on the corner these days and he knows it but he keeps comin’ back every fuckin’ Tuesday and he keeps strikin’ out.

His moves on the dance floor, though…

Shit, he could be on Dancin’ With The Stars, I suppose, if he had a mind to.

He moves with grace ain’t nobody seen in a goddamn long time.

And the honies, they can see he’s got moves, but when he approaches them or they approach him, his rap goes limper than his dick.

And it’s just as well.

I follow him out to the parkin’ lot after his eighty-sixth strikeout, walking ten steps behind him as he presses the button to unlock his car.

My whistle is short and shrill and, when he turns, the noise my piece makes is violent.

The dancin’ motherfucker does a two-step, falls backwards and hits blacktop.

The kid had to go or so I was told.

Bitch be fuckin’ with the count, I was told.

Too bad.

The bitch had skills. Just not those math skills. Couldn’t put two and two together and figure out I was on his ass.