Mama passed away nearly ten years ago out here in Los Angeles. Oh, Papa, how she suffered before she died, and how wasted and unlike the lovely black maiden who became your bride in the Deep South and fled North sharing with you an impossible dream of everlasting love, bright opportunity and dignity as a human being in the Promised Land. But at the end, at least, she could be proud and happy that I had dropped the pimp life. Papa, I am so sorry that I still hated you the last time I saw you in that liquor store in Chicago almost twenty years ago. I am haunted now by the memory of how utterly beaten and pathetic you looked with your fragile frame slumped inside your threadbare clothing as you whiningly begged the store owner for just one more half gallon of suds on credit. Papa, I am ashamed to confess that I stood there behind you so sick with hatred I was exhilarated, thrilled at your torment. And, Papa, dear, I wish I could forget the goddamn stupid, cold-blooded joy I felt when you turned your face, that tortured replica of my own, toward me.
What do You think about The Naked Soul Of Iceberg Slim?
