Part 3 of the Sacrificial Lambs Series

Sacrificial Lambs, part 3, as taken from chapter 12. Stories told from a Carib-Jamericanadian perspective. In richly blended language mix of; nonsense talk, sensational spelling, double entendre, and Jamaican Patois. Yeah man, a Jamaica yawd mi cum fram. Sorry, I meant to say; I’m Jamaican-born and bred, okay? Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here. So, here’s today’s excerpt.

Yes, go on and cuss, and spit out fears. If you want to curse and get vexed, mi dear. The very man who could have, and probably should have been an example, and a king’s kind of role modeling sample for all good and clean, not just mean and lean like a tram pulled lean, or straight. But wait, no. It’s more like. Like, better to be a teacher for good nests’ sake, a sauce sage too, to guide many of his kind away from their mistakes with me, and mimes, like you. Or even with your bad behavior…”

“Behave yourself, man, stop that.”

“Okay, I shall, from now on — my boss.” But, if not enough, we may be able to help him hang it up. Just by teaching them how to reach her, on the very first date as the preacher did when she was given the ape as the very best thing for her faith and him to reach her, at the time. As those times would so Dick taste, sorry, I meant to say, tates, like, dictates, and yes, to the benefit of your kind of people too. Even us, them, and the other crew.

Guiding the booboo balloons who are into all ma rooms, out. And into getting better for themselves, no doubt, and ours too. Even on pledges and oats, (porridge, of course.) If not as good as you and your tube do when they’re doing the roads. Like, pictures galore to show off in the hood and to the poor, whenever he meets up with the poor thing and you at the corn her store. I mean, at yours, of course, that’s good. You bought it like food, no? Not just you, but the ones who once knew Mister Flowers Wood, too.

But now, he builds roadblocks and all sorts of barriers nonstop, always erecting something before the man’s bus stop — Hingh. Thursday morning musical throwback of kings too, to serve as the road maps into how to go about having a good time, dumping something in on you and them as in the old times, again. Not even as good as a cornmeal dumpling with pork and dollar swine, on the road in, but. Just to disrupt things.

Like, this rope thing, your every attempt at progressing further on the tenth link up yet the more to the top pen town. While swinging by to go and swing the wide-open Bonny gate around you and yours, toeing the way down, but. If you want to carry Ann a little bit further along the road towards a sentence in St. Ann’s, you might as well Preston through all the way down to the Port where Maria used to court the girls and yes, the boys too.

“But, but why, why would she do a thing like that against you?”

“Why did you ask that — my guy? I’ll tell you why as if in a swap, listen up good. It’s because. She wanted to recruit those youths into the army barracks and boots, to teach them how to shoot same and inspire some real people-loving cops’ careers in truth, but. That did not connect with a lot of neglect because, some of those youths had some things to say about that on his ask, and they did a lot of those sorts of ‘say,’ saying things like: Some say that in the army the pay isn’t very fine.

They paid us fifty dollars and took back forty-nine, in tax and claw back that wasn’t mine. So, they did not go. Furthermore, since you’d asked about the rest of the axes that someone had chopped off the oak doors. I’ll tell you. It’s because…”

“Because of what again, tell me? Because I’d like to know.”

“Okay, here we go. It’s because the man has some very valuable stuff there sitting in the hut spheres, nearer than his rear to the chair. Like, gold end stuff, and a staff. Crisp and clear as his as –”

“What, you mean…”

“Yes, his Asthma attack. At the time of the attack, it was as clear as his assumed accessories in his hand, cuffs, links to wear on his calf stink and bare like Rastafar-I know — my star.”

“But why do you always cut in with something stink right in the middle of shuffling a sent tense with the inks, like, while I’m putting forth my arguments? You shouldn’t do those sorts of things without first getting my consent — okay?”

“Okay. How did such things get this far anyway, and when, you’d asked? I’ll tell you then,” it’s like. He was just invited to the uptown fair, to go on and in thoroughfare with the flower basket of the boss’ knit wit there, but. Tuff luck. They were stuffed away, there. Just as much as under his rocking rock band… “Chair?”

“Yes, that was the real hardware you know, like. Things he and your other friends have gotten you to hand over to them, for nothing more than a swinging sum thing, to tin can you in, or something.” Well, nothing new on this bluegrass Territory called Kingsland ore eh. Anywhere else under the sun, it would have caused a woolaballoo down your home, like, if they should ever do like they’ve done it to you and, um…

The outcome would have been vastly different from yours. But, over here, that’s what you get — my dear. Nothing but tough luck and finger-licking forklifts to work out your shut, sweating your shirts off your gut punched in by a fist from us, yes siree.

To be continued.

That’s it for this excerpt. Be sure to join us again tomorrow or any time thereafter, for more of the “Fire Sale” series, as we continue with chapter 12 of the story. Don’t forget to like, share, and comment. We sure would appreciate it if you’d subscribe and follow us somewhere too, thank you.

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Just an excerpt from my book called “Twisted Tales from the Big Fail.” A Novel: Real Inky Trails Series.

By writingelk, All Rights Reserved.