Steve "the king" LaCondasoo

I find that most of my time in life is spent trying to look cool to the outside world. I want to fit in and be a part of the trendy nation around me. I want to motivate that nation and bring a new aspect of ultra hip to the people around me.
One time when i was in New Orleans, I was riding the public bus from the city to the area where jazz festival was being put on. It's outside of the city in the suburbs somewhere in a very poor neighborhood. I remember that the kids living there were riding their bikes around the neighborhood. They were typical bmx style bikes, but these kids had tried really hard to make each of their bikes look unique by wither placing those small colored beads on their spokes and i mean all over each square inch of the spoke. but I saw this one kid who blew my mind with his craftiness. He used tin foil around the spokes to make it look like chrome rims. It was then that i new i wanted to own a company called "nigga riche". It sounds like "black licorice" but it rolls off a little better i believe. Plus, white people aren't aloud to say that word unless it's marketing something. right?
Three days after i shattered my heel, i realized i would be on crutches for a long time. I found some aluminum foil in the kitchen and I began to chrome out my crutches. I needed some flair on my new set of transportation and i was gonna hobble in style regardless of the crippling disability hampering my movements. I will find a positive and make it spark. I'm ill. Next, I decided that i would continue to think about drinking and not give up the sauce quite yet. I soon figured out that the hardest thing to do on crutches is feed or drink yourself to a new spot. Basically carrying plates, glasses or bottles is very difficult. hopping doesn't work because of spillage. And crutching doesn't work one handed. So i took the handle off of my crutch by unscrewing it and then i re-screwed it in with a coozy beer holder attached to it so it hung off the handle. This takes care if the drink. Now i can crutch with a beer attached. (insert pic CromeCrutch). I found this to be very useful living on 7th street and 2nd avenue especially having to get about 10 blocks to meet up with my friends on every friday night.
It so happened that I need to get to Broadway and Waverly pl. on friday night to have a few drinks with the boys. Now, it was a nice spring afternoon and i decided to leave a little early so i could take my time getting there on crutch. I got two blocks away and I began to tire out. I was in the middle of a small triangular park called cooper square and i decided to sit down and rest and read the village voice. Minding my own business, I sat quietly watching the people around me. Out of the corner of my eye I watched a long haired big Indian man wearing black pants and a long black leather jacket pester the cooper union kids for a buck. They shooed him away in my direction. and into my life, he is now. He saw my looking like a scared bunny on my park bench reading the paper. My foot was up on the bench but he didn't care. he sat down not noticing my crutches on the ground. I moved my foot quickly so he didn't sit on it which caused a tremendous amount of pain to shoot through my leg with the sudden change of blood and and gravity. He looked at me and stared into my eyes.
"Hey, I want to play a game with you he said.
"Ok" I replied knowing there was no way i could escape this situation.
"Put your hands out, palms facing down."
I did so. He placed his hands under mine and quickly slapped over top of my hand to check my speediness. I reacted just quick enough to escape the slap. He looked at me extremely drunkenly. Good, he said. Very good my son. you are a fighter from the south.... he mumbled. Now you do it to me.
I looked at this broken down half naked indian man with no tee shirt on under his long black leather jacket. He had a drunken pot belly and was sweating profusely and i thought to myself. If i hit this man, he might get mad. If he gets mad, i might get in trouble seeing that i cannot escape with my crutches and my balance not quite there. But if i don't play the game, then i risk him getting mad for me not enjoying his game. so i asked him, "what's your name?"
"Steve." he said. Steve, but my friends call me "the king". Steve "the King" LaCondasoo. he responded. "My father taught me that game. He taught it to me so that i may have a killer's instinct."
"Oh good. Why do you need that?" i asked hesitantly knowing that this conversation might be my last on this wonderful planet.
He raised his arm and extended his pointer at my face. He closed one eye and looked down his arm into my face like he was looking down the barrel of a shotgun. He closed both eyes and pulled the trigger. His mouth sounded the noise of a gunshot and he spit his drunken saliva all over me as he mimicked the bang of the gun and the bullet shooting through my face.
Gross. Drunken indian spit on me. I don't know if i've ever wanted a bullet to be real in my life, but this was the first time i wished it were. When he came out of his day dream he realized what he'd done. He looked at me and said this, "My name is steve "the king" lacondasoo and I live in New Jersey. I need a dollar to help get me home to my apartment and I don't have any bus fair. do you have a dollar?"
"I Do" i said. "But first you need to go over to those kids on the steps of cooper union and ask them for a napkin so that i may clean the spit off of my face. "
He looked at me and then at the kids on the stairs and back at me. I pulled the dollar out of my jeans and held it in front of him. He reached into his long black leather coats deep front pockets and he pulled out two dirty white socks. "I want you to have my socks." he said placing them in front of me and then into my arms. "thanks" i said. "that will do" and then I handed him his dollar.

I never saw Steve "the King" again, but I imagine he is ruling some sort of small inebriated country somewhere not to far from hobo ken, NJ.