Pactoria Weinos' Diary.

Twenty-fourth of December.
Dis is always a hard time for d niggaz. Wit all de sheit goin' down earlier, I didn't have time to get anyone presents. I's goin' downtown inta d white bread area to thieve some. I be knowin' it ain't right, but wit dat Grinch sheit movie playin' I might get me a nickname, and I wudn't like dat. Only white bread gets nicknames.

Fuckit, doze whitebread basterds sho' are angry dis time of year. I thieved some white bread for ma little cousins - dey got no idea of dey heritage, so maybe on de 26th I cud go over and show 'em how to burn it into black bread - like de bread of dey ancestors. For ev'ryone else, I got framed pictures of some niggaz in Kenya wit big spear thangs and red sheets draped around demselves. Hopefully, dis will help dem realize dey true heritage. I'm goin' to deliver dem now - jeezus, a nigga shouldn't have to do dis phukin' custom - it's a white bread custom

I's too tired to write. I got a lot o' gifts but I gave dem to African charitys. De people of ma ancestral home need dem more dan I do. I'm goin't to bed now.

Twenty-fifth of December.
I got up in de freezin' cold. Dat white-bread electricity basterd musta cut off ma electricity. Why de hell should I havta pay fo' electricy so some white bread asshole cud be buyin' a bigger boat? I don't see no point in dat. I got a call from ma little cousins too. Dey ain't got no idea of dey heritage. Dey told me to "fuck off and stop givin' us shit like white sliced pans as gifts". Dey wuz pretty mad, but when I teach 'em how to burn it to be like de black bread of dey ancestors, dey'll be glad. Missas Coltrane next door wuzn't too pleased wit her paintin' of de Kenyans either. She nerly beat me over de head wit dat iron stick o' hers, before I popped a .45 in her ass. When de police came I told 'em it wuz just some no-beat punk tryin' to rob her. She's in intensive care now, but hell, I had to shoot her. For ma ancestors. And fo' Timbo - ma right hand man.

Twenty-sixth of December.
I went over to ma uncle's house to see ma little cousins and to show 'em how to burn d white bread into black bread. Uncle Dikupazz [das' a African name] shoved me back out of de building wit 2 shotgun barrels shoved up ma ass. He said if I don't cut out dis ancestral shit, he'd personally shoot up me. I don't know what be up wit him. You'd be thinkin' wit a name like dat he'd be for d cause, but no. He threw de 2 sliced loafs o' white bread at ma feet and told me to "fuck off and do it yo'self". Sometimes, I be tinkin' dat de white bread be easier to understand dan some niggaz. He told me to get a job too, but sheit, I don't want to be workin' for some white bread establishment, and dey ain't no nigga dat'd hire me. Besides, wit all de pimpin' I be doin' on de docks, de work would be a real bitch. I be havin' to get up in de daytime - de white bread time. De night is de time of de nigga. Which reminds me - I betta be goin' back to de docks tomorrow night in case some white bread bitches be undercuttin' ma nigga girls.

Twenty-seventh of December.
Ma landlord iz ridin' ma ass over de electricity cut. He's sayin' dat some other tenants got cut off 'cuz deys on de same network. He's still knockin' on de door now. He's threatenin' to tell de police 'bout ma pimpin' on de docks if I don't pay de bill. I guess, I'll pay it cuz of de other niggaz wittout electricity. I'll get dat white-ass nigga landlord off ma ass by sendin' over a few of ma nigga girls to pleasure him fo' a few hours. A nigga can't even get a break at Christmas - from anudder nigga. Still, I suppose to keep de white bread in de oven I gotta do it. For ma ancestors. And fo' Timbo - ma right hand man.

Twenty-eighth of December.
Nuttin' mutch - Timbo wuz tellin' me 'bout some knackaz movin' into ma girls' patch on de docks. I'm gonna havta be goin' over dere to personally pop a few .45's in dey's unwashed asses. Den I's gonna throw dey's asses inta d sea - dat oughta wash 'em - heheh. I's goin' out now. Doze knackaz betta be gone...

Phukin' knackaz wuz waitin' fo' me. Good ting I had timbo coverin' ma ebony behind. He's only four feet two, but jeezus - he sho' can aim dat handgun o' his. De cops got wind of de fight so we had to burn de bodies in fish oil dat we stole off a ship. Ma clothes stink and I's covered in slimy sheit. If I didn't know betta, I'd be sayin' dat sumone tipped 'em off. At least ma girls be on de docks witout competition now - which is de main ting.

Twenty-ninth of December.
De store manager of Coltrane's bakery wudn't let me in. Dey said dey got wind of ma bread - burnin' scheme. Damn white-bread nigga, got no idea of hiz ancestors. But I do. Went down to de market. Bought 20 loaves of white bread. Burnt 'em into de blackbread of ma ancestors. Felt damn good.

Thirtieth of December.
I had to tie up a few loose ends today. Turns out dat Timbo's landlord wuz tappin' his phone through de exchange in de lobby of de building. We's goin' round now wit a few tough niggaz to sort him out.

He wuz screamin' fo' mercy de moment we set eyes on him. Just like a piece o white bread, to beg fo' mercy before anyting happened. He's keepin' an ear open fo' de other tenants now and iz on ma payroll. Ma pimpin' empire - it's expandin' ev'ry day. In a couple of years I's gonna be able to buy ma own kingdom in Afro-ca. Just like ma ancestors. And eat black bread.