I shake my head.

--I'm Percy, asshole.

He bugs his eyes and wiggles his fingers at me.

--The craaaaazy one-ahmed neegro in the bazemint is yo contact.

He unbugs his eyes.

-- Now you got any questions?

--You got a smoke?

--Funny thing 'bout cigarettes.

Percy sticks a Pall Mall between his lips. He fishes a book of matches from his breast pocket, folds a match around 'til the head rests against the strip of rough paper on the back, and flicks it with his thumb. The match ignites and he offers me the flame. I lean forward and light my Pall Mall. Percy lights his, waves the match out, pinches it from the pack and drops it in the red-and-white tin ashtray between us.

I take a drag and exhale.

--What's that?

He smokes some.

--Funny thing 'bout cigarettes and the Vyrus. Vyrus attacks anythin' bad yo ass could care to stick in yo body. Booze, junk, rat poison, whatever it is, it can't hurt you none. Got no stayin' power whatsoever. No boozehound Vamps. Can't get hooked on shit. But cigarettes.

He blows a ring of smoke.

--They always good. Just as good as if I was still jonesed on the nicotine. Which I know I ain't. Still I crave 'em. And still they always good.

I take a drag.

--Never thought about it.

--Uh-huh?

I take another drag.

--But you're right.

--Yep. Funny, ain't it?

--Yeah, it is.

We smoke.

--So what you need up here?

I've smoked my cigarette down until the cherry burns my lips. I stub it out.

--That shit they stuck in the dogs and that enforcer.

--Yea-huh?

--What the fuck is up with that?

He puts out his own cigarette.

--That a good question.

The ceiling of the kitchen has a big, brown water stain above the sink. He stares at it.

--A good question. Lemme ask you somethin'.

--OK.

--See that man at the pool? Papa Doc?

--Yeah.

--What you make of him?

--Looked like the competition.

He gets up and walks to the refrigerator.

--Competition.

He opens the fridge, pulls out two cans of Schaefer and takes them to the sink.

--Let me tell you somethin' 'bout competition.

He takes a couple glasses from a cupboard.

--Digga, he Luther X's warlord. When the X got taken out, Digga, he step in, declare martial law, move his rhinos out on the street. Say, We in a state of siege. Coalition agents done assassinated our fearless leader. That two years back.

He snaps one of the cans of beer open and empties it into a glass.

--An' he prove it. Brings us the heads a two enforcer types he say was the ones stabbed Luther in the eyes. Good enough. All the peoples think it a good idea: Close the border and tighten the belt. Digga, he gets support from all over the Hood. Harlem, Washington Heights, Spanish Harlem, shit, even the Dominicans up Inwood come to the meetin' and stand with Digga. But, like the man say, that two years ago.

He pours the other beer.

--Time pass, people want to know, When martial law gonna end? When we have elections? When we get a new elected president? People agitatin'. Now these people agitatin', they mostly come in one flavor, they Papa's ton tons macoute. Them boys in the shades.

He brings the glasses to the table and sets one in front of me.

--So for 'bout a year now, they do this little dance, pokin' and proddin', seein' how far they push things, see if they break. Digga, he nobody's fool nohow. He see the pressure risin', he look for ways to let it off. So sometimes he think it a good idea ta get the dogs in the ring. Let the dogs bleed so the people ain't got to.

He sips his beer.

--But lately, that pressure keeps climbing. Heat stay on. Know why?

--Nope.

He wipes some foam from his lips, lights a fresh smoke and drops the pack on the table.

--On account that shit you askin' 'bout. On account that shit comin' in up here an fuckin' up some our young people. On account Digga say it comin' from across the border, from the Coalition as part a they plan to poison us and take the Hood back. He talkin' war. Papa, he preachin' we don't need no war. Everythin' cool, need diplomacy. Need elections and diplomacy. Need some normalized relations with the Coalition and everythin' be cool.

I drink some beer. He watches me.

--Well, boy, what you think 'bout that? What that all sound like to you?

I pick up the pack of Pall Malls and shake one out.

--Sounds like Digga killed Luther X himself and he's thrashing around trying to keep his office. Sounds like maybe he's the one behind that shit.

He lights another match and holds it out to me.

--Yeah, it do sound like that, don't it?

I light up.

He blows out the match.

--Let's fix up that haircut.

--See that picture up on the wall next to the phone?

I sit in a chair in the middle of the kitchen, a tablecloth draped over me, newspapers spread under the chair.

--I see it.

--What you see?

What I see is a black and white photo of a group of people at some kind of meeting in a school gym or someplace.

--Looks like Luther X and some other folks back in the day.

--That right.

He runs a wet comb through my hair.

--That man off to Luther's right, that his original warlord. Man gonna come to be known as Papa Doc. Gonna form his ton tons macoute an challenge Luther's leadership one day.

He starts to clip my hair.

--Holdin' Luther's hand, that his wife. Good woman. Long gone.

He pushes my head to the side and snips at my sideburns.

--That big nasty negro to the side, the badass with the shotgun? That me.

I look again. The man in the picture has two arms.

--Back before shit happened. Move yo head back.

I move my head back.

--An' that weedy thing with the glasses? That Craig Jefferson Wallace. Soon to be known as DJ Grave Digga.

I look again. He was a weedy kid.

--That boy born in Scarsdale. Come down here to do community work. A more Oreo negro you never met in yo life. Got hisself infected first month he here. Luther brought him in. Saw somethin', made him over. Spread stories how he a hardass De-troit niggah. Groomed him for warlord when he saw Papa sneakin' round tryin' to make some moves. Not many left know that story now. Just us old folk. You say natural in the back?

--Yeah.

He pushes my head forward.

--Yep, far as the man in the street know, Digga just what he seem: ex-gang-bangin' roughneck that muscled hisself into the throne. A wartime ruler. An' lots them folk like that just fine. Got a focus, got a reason to be. Got a cold war with the Coalition. Got a enemy. Life always easier with a enemy. But behind all that?

He walks around in front of me and tilts my head this way and that, inspecting the cut.

--Behind all that, he one sneaky mutha.

He snaps the tablecloth off of me.

--You done.