The Book of Leon

by Leon Black

  SOMEBODY ALWAYS GOTTA GET FUCKED UP, LARRY

  I’m not one to promote violence in any shape or form, but in the end when there’s a conflict, there are only two scenarios, and in both somebody gets fucked up. It might be you, or it might be the other person. Just know that somebody’s gonna get fucked up; there’s no way around that shit. Even if it’s got nothing to do with you and you’re just watching shit go down, realize you are watching somebody get fucked up. It’s the circle of life.

  Remember when Larry wanted to look like a hero, so he asked me to snatch a purse from some lady and then he would swoop in and take it back from me? Well, I looked Larry in the eye and said:

  You can’t do that shit half-speed, you gotta get cued up to make it look real. I ain’t gonna look like a goddamn bitch. Larry, you can’t leave unscathed! Your glasses gotta be broke, your teeth gotta get chipped, gotta have one sneaker missing . . . bottom line, the more fucked up you look, the bigger the hero you’ll be!

  See, somebody’s gotta get fucked up! If you’re in a crazy brutal world, you can’t do shit half-speed, you can’t fake that I stole the purse and you wrestled that shit out of my hands. This ain’t some even-Steven shit. I’m not gonna let some weak ass white man wrestle some damn Fendi, Channel, or Coach bag outta my damn hands! How the fuck does that sound?!? Plus, those purses are expensive—do you know much I could get for a name-brand bag like that at a pawn shop? Not that I know, or would ever engage in any sort of criminal venture of that nature.

  Even in a relationship, someone is gonna get fucked up. Sometimes you are the fucker-upper, sometimes you are the one getting fucked.

  I recommend y’all become bedroom fucker-uppers. It’s a good reputation to have. You meet a lady, you don’t leave that room all nice and clean, you fuck that room up. Empty that big ficus plant on the floor, knock shit over, break a mirror, a lamp, tear a hole in a pillow with your teeth—and make sure you pick the down pillow, not the synthetic shit (down pillows make a great fucking mess). If you really wanna strive, go for being the quicker fucker-upper: That means you’re in and out of that muthafucka real quick, punching that clock in your mind. You hit it and quit it.

  82 IS MY SHIT

  My body works at a certain level. I’m optimized at 82. I can’t live in a cold climate, my body don’t adjust well. If I’m in someone’s home and it’s a white man’s house—Larry’s house is also set at fucking 70, his body works well in his temperature. I’m an 82 man myself. If your house is a 71, I’m getting goose bumps and shit. I’m in a bad mood. Nothing more punk ass than a fucking dude with chill bumps on his arms. How many times have I seen them stupid ass chill bumps on their stupid ass arms, I look at this muthafucka with disgust. You’re talking to me about some shit and you got chill bumps? That’s some disgusting shit. I don’t want to talk to you no more. ’Cause you got chill bumps. How can we talk about football with those chill bumps? What else can you talk about? Maybe the time your grandmother didn’t buy you that fucking doll when you were a kid?? When I go to someone’s house, they always have that shit set at 69. They walk around in fucking pajamas with that stupid hat and that stupid ass pajama top. Then you make sense, ’cause a nightcap is when you bring a lady, you get tipsy, and then you get fucking. How did they relate a nightcap to a fucking hat that you wear when you’re sleeping by yourself?

  I sleep naked. I just get in bed with my clothes on. I take them off under the covers. But if some bullshit is going down, or some crazy noises, I’ll pull my boxer briefs back on. You can’t fight a monster with your fucking Johnson dangling and shit. The monsters always go for the Johnson first—the first thing they’re gonna grab is your junk, and then swing you around the room by your junk. That happened to me a bunch of fucking times. Like you’re a fucking yo-yo.

  Believe me, I have fought people butt ass naked, and it’s not cool. Especially if they’re all in clothes and weaponized. That shit ain’t cool. If you ever feel threatened in someone’s house, if I’m in your house or spending the night, I’m wearing my fucking underwear and shoes. Tie ’em real tight. You can’t fight barefoot. It’s not easy, it only works if they are fucking barefoot too. But if not, that’s not a fair fight.

  That’s how I doozit.

  STEP OUT THAT ASS

  Well, that’s it! Everything that begins has to end, so this is the end of the book. Having to end this shit got me thinking about endings. When you say the word “ending” out loud, it sounds final. I mean, you hear on the news about a muthafucka driving at 100 MPH who hit a wall and met his end—now, that’s final. And to be honest, in that case, he did meet his end. When you think about his ass, it probably did slam into his head; that is the definition of a person meeting his damn end. But that is an example of a final end. To be honest, most ends lead to a beginning, if you let them. Take me, for instance. One day I got a call from my sister, inviting me to come live with her at some rich ass Jewish man’s place. Cut to years later, that rich Jewish man is even richer, he and my sister have broken up, she, my auntie, and the kids are gone, I’m living with him and he’s my rich ass Jewish friend. Actually, he became more than a friend: that man is family. Now I know you might think that I’m taking advantage of him, Larry might even think that sometimes, but every time he tries to bring up some bullshit like that, I remind him that we have an even steven relationship, tit for tat if you will. I give that man just as much as he gives me. We have shared a lot of shit. I taught him many things, like how to lamp or do the dizzle, and he got me eating shit like borscht, gefilte fish, and matzo ball soup. That’s some of the tastiest, nastiest shit I’ve ever eaten! I have had a lot of good times with that man and plan to have a lot more, but eventually this shit will have to end. Sometimes I get sad looking at him puttering around his house, doing things like looking for his glasses while they are sitting on top of his head, and I wonder to myself what shit he’s gonna leave me in his will. He’s got a lot of shit: white shit, like golf clubs, vases, deck shoes, et cetera.

  Look, life is like a long climb up a mountain. When it starts off, it’s not too scary, but eventually, the higher you go, the more dangerous it gets. As you climb, sometimes the moves are easy: You pick the right friend or the right job or the right partner . . . But sometimes the moves get tricky: You have bills, you get divorced, you get sick, things like that. Every now and then, though, you find a little ledge: tiny but kind of safe—not safe enough to live on, but safe enough to stay awhile, get your shit together, drink a little water, and plan your next move. I’ve been sitting on one of those ledges for a while now, and soon it will be time to leave, but I’ll never forget this ledge. It means everything for me to have it. As you know by now, the ledge I refer to is a metaphor—unless of course you are one of those crazy ass muthafuckas who actually climb mountains, in which case I have to ask you, “Why the fuck do you climb mountains? You’re probably one of those people who are able to parasail on a Tuesday workday. Must be fuckin’ nice.”

  Anyway, back to the rest of you: In the metaphor I just created, that little ledge can represent a lot of things: a rehab center, going back to school, finding a briefcase full of clean, unmarked bills, et cetera. In my case, though, that ledge was a white man with a bald head, long balls, and a huge heart. And one day, there will come an end to this chapter in my life, and I will have to move on and let all this fancy shit go.

  And on that day, I will look that lanky white man in the eyes, fist bump his lanky white hand, thank him for everything, and say, “I left you some Chinese food up in my room on that goddamn twin bed. LD, you take care. I’m out.”

  EPILOGUE

  Some of you are going to try to hold on to this book for dear life for fear that someone will find it and try to flip all this shit on you. Trust that you absorbed enough from this book to make sure that shit could never happen to you. Dog ear the pages that you felt most related to you for quick reference. Just know, though, like the goddamn feather that floats into the book at the beginning and out o
f that book at the end of Forrest Gump, there comes a time for a muthafucka to fly away.

  Look here, don’t be selfish with this book. Make sure you get this book to someone else in need. Leave this book at a bus stop: People who are fucked up enough to ride the bus are at a point in their life where they need a book like this. Better yet, bury this muthafucka in a time capsule so the future will know what Leon Black was all about!

  —LB

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Here are my acknowledgments to some people who and products that helped make all this shit possible:

  Longball Larry and a bunch of other people with basic white names like Cheryl, Susie, Richard L., Jeff G., Jeff S., Dave M., Alec B., Larry C., David S., and my man Funkhouser.

  Also Lorretta, Peanut Boy, Baby Girl, Auntie, and the entire Black family.

  All those Seinfeld peeps I met, Jerry, the tall lanky dude, the short stocky one, and that fine ass dark-haired lady—oh, and that damn Newman.

  My old landlord, whose place I dipped out of when I went to live with Larry.

  The makers of Prius—I drove one across the whole country to New York; that damn car had heart!

  Mr. Softee, Mopy Dick, Nick the Gerbil, Ant Bee, Clara, Joe Pepitone, and his lovely family.

  Danny Duberstein—hey, Danny, I hope one day they find a cure for the Groats.

  All the asses I’ve tapped, too many to mention. You know who you are. Thank you.

  And HBO—man, I love me some Game of Thrones! At least one set of medieval tits every episode.

  APOLOGIES

  Rosie O. and the Tonys—I still don’t know who the fuck a Tony is but I’m a big enough man to apologize.

  To Michael J. Fox—sorry about the whole “Michael J. fucked up” thing; I would never hit you. Big fan!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LEON BLACK is the modern day Ruckus-Damus, the Bringer of Ruckus, a word artist, a spitter of Leonisms, a possessor of a BBIF, and the POHTA.

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  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Leon-Black

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Four Square Miles, Inc.

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  First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2017

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  ISBN 978-1-5011-8071-2

  ISBN 978-1-5011-8072-9 (ebook)