Fo' Snizzle: A Love Story

Fifi Laboeuf entered the restaurant with a bag tucked under his arms.

"Hello!" he trilled, batting his fake eyelashes at the two men already sitting at the table. He pulled out the remaining chair and maneuvered his body so that he could sit down without his fake boobs knocking over the condiment containers.

Fifi was a practicing transsexual and his make-up was divine . His boob job, however, wasn't.

"'Sup, woman," responded the second man, a would-be gangsta pimp named Milton Fragglepuss. "You wanna make some money? I gots da hook-up."

"Oh!" Fifi giggled. "I'd love to make some money! What do I need to do?"

"Ain't what you need to do. It's what you got dat counts!" Saying this, Milton attempted to give Fifi a complicated gang hand gesture, but ended up spraining his pinky finger by accident.

The third man slumped over his plate of bagels and lox, clutching at his bald head. He didn't say anything, despite the prolific swearing Milton was doing right next to his ear. Even when Fifi swiped a bagel from beneath him, he didn't say a word.

On his forehead, a thick and angry vein pulsed and pulsed.

Fifi stopped his giggling and examined Milton critically from beneath his eyelashes. Milton's skin was creamy white, despite the obvious application of darkening self-tanner. His hair, while shaped into a resplendent 'fro, was a golden honey blond, despite the 'black power' fist-shaped pick he had stuck into his weave. His clothes were baggy and brand name, but he wore them with excellent posture. And to Fifi, he looked exceedingly familiar.

"Say," Fifi said, "didn't you do my taxes last year?"

"Yeah, you better recognize!" crowed Milton. "Hizzle the forsnizzle, I be multitaskin': tax accountant by day, pimp by night."

The bald man sunk his head lower towards the table. Fifi rescued the other bagel before the man's head landed with an audible thump on his now-empty plate. This was repeated with several more rhythmic whacks as the man banged his head, again and again, on the hard surface.

"You okay, sugardaddy?" asked Fifi as he munched the bagel. Lox wasn't his favorite spread, but, heck, it was free.

The man whispered something, but neither Fifi nor Milton could hear it. Together, they leaned closer to the man.

"What did you say?" Fifi yelled into his ear. "We can't hear you!"

The man raised his head with a sudden burst of speed, staring into Fifi's face with wild, bloodshot eyes.

"I said," he whispered hoarsely, "I have a horrible migraine headache."

"Fo' shizzle, my nizzle," said Milton, "those things be...um...be....well, rather unfortunate. I suffered tremendously from serious migraines for years before a solution could be reached to alleviate my ailments."

"Um, Mr. Accountant Pimp?" said Fifi. "I think you lost your ghetto-speak."

Milton sighed and stroked his honey blond hair. "I know. I know. It happens all the time. Sometimes I just can't help myself. I have to speak in the language of the white devil."

"Don't worry," said Fifi, reaching over to pat Milton's knee with her hand. "I think you sound very sexy no matter which way you talk."

"Really?" Milton's voice squeaked like a thirteen-year-old boy.

"Fo' snizzle," said Fifi.

The bald man blinked at them as his two table companions stared longingly into one another's eyes.

"Excuse me," he said to Milton. "You said you used to suffered from migraines? How did you cure them?"

"Don't be trippin', boy," said Milton, who then stopped and grinned to himself. He'd gotten his slang back! Hot dog! "That technique be easy as your momma...."

"What did you say about my mother?" glared the bald man.

"......'s homemade apple pie," amended Milton.

"Good save," hissed Fifi, clutching Milton's hand in support. Unfortunately, this was the hand with the sprained pinky finger, causing Milton to pull out of Fifi's grasp and clutch his injured digit, whimpering to himself.

The vein on the bald man's head visibly throbbed even harder.

"Look!" screamed the bald man. "I just want you to show me how you cured your migraines. That's all!"

Milton held his hands up in a calming gesture. "Sure, sure, my brother. Just stand yourself up and close your eyes."

The bald man blinked at him suspiciously. "Just stand up? That's all?"

"Exactamundo," said Milton.

"Um, honeybunny, you're losing your ghetto-speak again," whispered Fifi.

"Gosh darn it to hey!" swore Milton.

The bald man, heaving a sigh of exasperation, stood up and closed his eyes. "Okay, I'm standing up. Now what?"

Milton aimed, swung back his fist, and slammed a powerful punch into the bald man's stomach.

"Ow! Ow! What the –"

"There you go!" proclaimed Milton, his chest puffed out with pride. "Your migraines are cured!"

"But you punched me in the gut!" cried the bald man, clutching at his midsection in pain. "My stomach hurts so bad!"

"Yeah, but your migraine is gone, right?"

The bald man sat up and blinked a few times. Rubbing his head, he looked around the room, almost in a daze. The vein on his forehead had stopped throbbing. Instead, it merely bulged in a pleasant and pain-free manner.

"You know," said the bald man, "I think you're right. My stomach-lining is bleeding internally, but my migraine is gone!"

"You're welcome," said Milton. Holding his arm out to Fifi, together they marched towards the exit door, Fifi whispering proud exaltations in his ear.

As they reached the exit, Milton stopped and blinked in confusion as he stared at Fifi's neck for the first time that night.

"Say, honey," he said, "did you know that you have an Adam's apple?"

"Fo' snizzle," said Fifi.