Fren' fi life, truss mi

You have to pity these lonely girls.

They probably never even heard of the term "rent-a-dread", at least not until it was too late. They could be reading this story right this very moment and still not realize what had happened to them. Or continues to happen to them. Or will soon happen to them.

Because it isn't about them.

It's all about the the dunza. The corn. The Nanny or the Benjamins. It is about the PAY-puh.

Jah know.

But the attention these lonely girls receive from these genkle-men clouds their judgment. They aren't used to getting much attention at all. A white bwoy at a seedy bar in Rochester or New Haven or Kansas City couldn't get away with some of these lackluster lines. But when you slather that same stale cake with the smooth, creamy icing of Jamaican patois......

Well. It goes down easy.

Too easy.

And there is a fly hovering over that piece of stale cake. These ladies feel that fly circling them, sniffing for their precious honeypot and it warms them. They don't swat that fly away. No, they are quickly enchanted by it. Their honey begins to pool and melt. They smile and flirt, they are outwardly coy but inwardly desperate. Someone has noticed them, seen what they always secretly hoped was true about themselves. That they are sweet. That they are desirable.

In truth, they are likely neither. At least not to him.

Because the honeypot that fly is sniffing after is not between her sweet lips. And certainly not in the void between her ears. Yuh a jokah, mon. It is not even between her legs, tho' he will scoop out that honey without a second thought. Or, as the bwoys like to say, he will stamp 'im passport, fi true, if it will lead to the real honeypot. Exchange is no robbery, seen?

Jah know.

These lonely ladies need to smarten up and hang a fly-strip over that piece of stale cake with the sweet creamy icing. They need fi study the renta-dread runnings, just to level the playing field {kiss-teeeeeth}. Cho.

Because the honeypot that fly seeks lives not in the deep folds of her punanny, no, not a'tall. The sex is laughably easy to obtain. That fly seeks the honeypot that lives in the deep folds of her wallet. That is where the real honey lives.

And it is sweeter than a julie mango.

He'll wait for it to ripen and pluck it at its peak. He will perfect his lines, his lyrics, tailoring them as needed to suit his quarry. What works for the mampey-size school-teacher from St. Louis might not work for the stoner-chick-with-a-trust-fund from Miami. The party-girl-divorcee from Boston wants to hear something different than the jewelry-heiress-from-Milan. "A study 'im a study," his friends will confirm.

A true anthropologist.

You think he can't tell the difference between a Canadian and an American and a Brit, just from watching how they walk or the clothes they wear? He can. They don't even have to speak. A German versus an Italian? Yuh a jokah, mon, dat nuh nuttin. He knows how to say "Everything cool, you need weed?" in 6 languages. Alles klar, prego, bitte, arigato, seen?

The younger ladies are easiest to fool, so gullible and naive they believe every word, but they rarely have money to spare. The older women, on the other hand, have more cash but tend to be more skeptical of his motives. He really haffi werk dem. If he happens upon a young lady with mommy and daddy's credit card, he knows he just might strike honeypot gold.

Eureka, mon.

Add the hazy fog of a half-dozen spliffs of ganja and things will invariably get a likkle bit easier. Taking candy from the quintessential baby. Direct her in the ways of Western Union and, well, he gets the gift that keeps on giving.

Jah know.

So when it comes to the lonely ladies, young or old, tall or short, fat or slim - he's got game. He's practiced his lyrics on every type or watched their effect on others as his bredren succeed or fail. They swap tek-neeks. After all, this is bizness , a werk dem a werk. There is a yard full of pickney to feed or a demanding wifey or a craving for some criss new footwear.

Or maybe he just has a crack habit.

One way or the other, he will get his new pair of Clarks and new khaki pants. Or fresh marina and sparkling white Adidas. Or, if he is truly focused, a car or a house. And when the honeypot begins to wonder if she has been duped, he is ready to reassure her.

Because he knew she was slipping away before she knew it herself.

It was bound to happen, because the lyrics only go so far. He may have to bully her a little, inflict some guilt, shame her for her Babylon affluence to keep the faucet of cash or material goods running. And then it becomes clear that the so-called depth of his affection is alarmingly shallow. Or, more aptly, his love and affection truly lie with someone else.

But he will catch himself and tell her, "Nah worry yuhself. We a fren'. We a FREN' FI LIFE, truss mi," and grip her hand tightly, as if she is something special. Like no other.

And certainly not like the other dozens a fren' fi life before her. Or after her. Or at the same time as her.

No. She is special, seen?

Jah know.

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