“The deed is done,” I said.
“Now that’s a statement that needs to be celebrated. What will you have? What will you have?...” Lyor Cohen asked me
snapping his fingers after each rhetorical question he had posed.
“I don’t drink,” I said simply, with nothing to read in my voice or my face.
“You don’t drink? Is
that a fucking joke or some shit?
Everybody, fucking drinks. ” Lyor said to me.
I didn’t respond.
That’s how I am; a man of very few words. He should have known from my references or
maybe they didn’t know either. Or maybe
he was such a dick they didn’t inform him of one of my little idiosyncratic
ways that I possess.
And based on the
short time I had spent with him I could see why, anyone with any sentient
behavior would recognize this guy was a straight dick.
But I’s don’t really give a fuck. Where is my fuckin money Jew Boy!? But I didn’t say that to him either. Hell no!
What I said is what I had been saying most of the conversation, nothing.
If my money was not produced in the next five minutes, this
niggah would kill this fuckin entitled Jew, walk out and get ghost; then kill
every single possible referral whom could have referred me to this still
titty-nippled sucking mother fucker...
(...to be continued...)
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