Self-Fulfilling Prophesy

Wow, so "supremely worse" is an expression I used to hear in old-school roughneck reggae shit, the songs that made no real sense and generally had lots of elementary-school sound effects, lazer guns and whatnot. Just the other day I mentioned it, and then there I was, smack in the middle of a unpleasantly crowded evening rush hour. Everyone else looked cold and sleepy, quite, resigned after much platform waiting, and not yet roused by the man in the blue hat. So it was blue and silk, definitely silk, shiny as hell, and he wore it proudly, jauntily even. Looking smug beneath the silk sat a large 40-ish West Indian man, legs sprawled, knees agape, impeccably groomed as one would expect of blue silk from trimmed goatee to leather trenchcoat and pointy, aligator-esque shoes. His headphones, large like of old, crackled considerably, considerably loud, and he nodded perfection. Thirty-fourth, 23rd, 14th begin:

"---"

You know, I really wanted some quote to really give a sense of the whole thing but, to be perfectly frank, I hadn't the slightest idea wha the hell he was saying, singing, whatever. It was one of those gargle-glass-over-whiskey growls, impossilby deep and comically gravelly, indecipherable and exuberant, even over the crackle. Needless to say, the audience was on eggshells, half a-titter and terrified of the large and obviously insane black dude in the blue silk hat. At West Fourth he stood up with a flourish, twirling the drape of his trenchcoat around his legs, and stood at the opposite door, swaying. The doors closed; we kept on. Broadway-Lafayette and he was dancing, singing much louder than before , no more intelligably. Suddenly the grunts and growls started coalescing and a narrative emerged. Alright, not quite, but it became clear that it was of a sexual nature, somehow. Then the break: girl screaming, his falsetto, hollering, his very own sound effect. And what an effect it had: wide eyes and raised eyebrows all around. He was dancing against the door, quiet for Second Ave, then at it again. Delancey, straight screaming, high and passionate from this strange, strange man, all on beat, and he's gone. Hopefully to the motherfucking L-train.