OK, whatup with this whack Squid shit? He always talkin' 'bout the MC-this and the DJ-that. What the hell does a deep sea muthafucka know about hip-hop? I mean, shit, GS fronting like one a' those white boys that thinks he black.

What up with that?

---

Dearest Anonymous African-American (or presumably African-American) Person,

I hope that you are proud of yourself. You have indeed infuriated the most Venerable and Gigantic Squid. Superb. He now pouts most enthusiastically, haunting the backmost reaches of his vuluminous tank, like an incensed teenager refusing to leave her cloths-strewn bedroom.

I believe explaination is in order. During their epic cross-national journey , Our Fine Squid— at that time travelling within the back of a modified Cadillac Escalade and masquerading as Marlon Brando so that Thomas, of blessed memory, might convince paralegal Lisa Montgomery to conjugate his love— listened to a great deal of radio broadcasts. This acquainted him with a much larger slice of the American cultural set than he had previously come into contact with in his searches of the Internet and converstaions with lab staff, such as myself and Thomas. Specifically, it was African-American culture with which he became acquainted— and grew quite enamored of. I recall him once saying something to the effect of "It shames me, as a proto-American citizen, to view the cruelty, derision and neglect to which this race of athletic poets is subjugated by the populace Americanum. Perhaps it is time for the chemical squirtbomb, Sang?" This love affair with African-America, in fact, was the catalyst for our change of venue to Detroit which, at that time, the Squid— I believe owing to some misunderstanding of various headlines and census reports— believed to be a sort of African-American Seperatist Eutopia.

I have recently again set myself to sorting through the video and audio footage from Thomas' illconcieved American misadventure, and submit the following for your consideration. The first section, below, is an audio excerpt, transcript in todo:

SQUID: "Tom, where are we?"

THOMAS: "Watts."

SQUID: "Repeat: Where are we"

THOMAS: "I said— oh, cut that out . . ."

SQUID: "He he he."

THOMAS: "Marlon—"

SQUID: "Mr. Brando"

THOMAS: "— what have I said about the Abott and Costello shit?"

SQUID: "Not until we leave California."

THOMAS: "Yes. I hate Cali and I hate Bud Abbot and Lou Costello. I should only have to put up with one at a time. I can't believe we're fucking lost again, and in this bombed-out shithole."

The recording is then overtaken by static, with intersperesed argument— apperently concerning which rights should have been lefts— until it clears with the following audio track, taken from the Escalade's external speaker. Some individual video frams were captured, which indicate that Thomas was conversing with a group of African-American teens dressed in outsized basketball jerseys and extremly large pants. Weeks later, I recieved a postcard from Thomas, explaining that, while lost, he had finally succumbed to Lisa's nagging and left his vehicle to ask directions. An altercation ensued, in which a gun was presented, and an impolite, yet forceful, request made that he surrender his vehicle. Scrabbling, Thomas attempted to explain that hip-hop star "Notorious BIG," Christopher G. "Biggie Smalls" Wallace was in the vehicle, and would be unhappy at having to give it up, as he had a great affection for the "tricked out ride." This exchagne follows:

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Biggie Smalls dead, man."

THOMAS: "He was fine when I got outta the car— Maybe I should go take a look and see—"

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Shut up. Biggie been dead 2 years."

THOMAS: "Oh . . . Naw, that was, you know, like PR. To get outta paying taxes. He's in there."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Let's see him."

THOMAS: "Windows are tinted. Can't see him."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Roll 'em down."

THOMAS: "Can't! For, ah, for security, they don't go down. And they're bulletproof."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Get his black ass out here."

THOMAS: "Biggie's . . . he's real fat, fatter than since he was, um, 'alive.' That's why he's in hiding. He can't get out."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Shit. Stop fuckin' 'round, or Lil Doggs with the chrome gonna ventilate you and your lady. Gimme the muthafuckin keys."

THOMAS: "No. I mean, um . . . I mean . . . You wanna, you wanna hear him, hear him rap?"

At this time Thomas continued to backpeddle, verbally, but his voice is drowned out by our Giant Squid roaring over the external Public Address system, "TOM, STOP THE RUNNING OF YOUR MOUTH. I SHALL STEP TO THE MICROHPHONE AND BUST."

THOMAS: "wha . . .?"

SQUID:

I break freestyles
And rhyme upon the cue
When I grow greatly angered
My skin turns blue.
I'm a fifty-seven foot negro
With ten killer arms
Keep clear of my tank
Or your sure to be harmed
As the flip-mode squid flow,
Left-right and center
Sloshes from my confines
Like a boat untethered
By the strange constraints
Of a land-locked existence.
As the seas rise higher
Ponder the futility of your resistance.
Words.

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Don't sound like Biggie. Sounds like Puff Daddy."

THOMAS: "Ok, you got me— it's Puffy. He, um, he just likes for me to tell folks that he's the Notorious BIG, on account he misses him so much."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Damn."

THOMAS: "Yeah."

CHIEF GANGBANGER: "Can I get his autograph?"

THOMAS: "Ah . . . N-noo. No. Sorry."

Again, there are no conclusions I might draw. This is presented for Reader's consideration.

Wait, I relent. There is a further detail: despite all of this, Thomas continued to find rap music's popularity deeply puzzling.

Goodnight America,
Hsien Sang

P.S. The Squid maintains, at this time, that he can indeed turn black, provided the mood strikes him, although I have never seen him do so, and personally believe he is either lying or deluded.