“Look,” says Prof-SC, “I ain’t ashamed. I was a naughty boy, caught up in crime all my life. Blazing, shotting, marking, gettin’ in beef, repping me endz strapped, getting gripped by the feds, slipping through other ends, ripping and jacking for me P’s – but you gotta remember that was all we knew. We grow up on the street. That was our school.”
Whenever Hook encounters a black boy who speaks ghetto he find them essentially unpleasant; whenever he meets young black men with London accents they seem fine. Maybe it’s another racist sub-plot going on within his confused psyche, like his penchant for black women with straight hair.
He tries to write, but every time he looks down he sees his knuckles. In the end Hook closes his eyes and hopes for the best. His head throbs – the windows are closed, he’s put on a winter jacket that he doesn’t feel like removing in case he has to run away and he’s being both grilled and microwaved.
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