The ebony prince walks the streets with the purpose of Christ, 9 millimeter glock in his left hand, clove cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His trigger finger twitches, sliding up and down the gun’s steel finish as the sound of thunder rolls in like a hard laugh. Street lights burn against the brick passages of the hood, as he raises the glock above his head and pops three hollow-tips into the air.
A bolt of lightning flashes into the night, sending splinters of blue-violet into the heavens. His thugs and gangstas await on bended knee, their dark faces in black places. Their heads are bowed in shame as they stare at the ground. He walks by each one of them, waving his gun through the air like a judge about to pass sentence. He kisses the still-smoking barrel, passionately staring into their sad black eyes.
“Goons, thugs, my harlots, and ho’s,” he shouts. “The billowing clouds are the dust beneath my feet for I am the ebony prince, heavenly sent to pursue my foes into the darkness of night!”
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