It is a damn fine evening.

Hey, Chochachos.

It is maybe not even twice in every five years a man has a feeling like this. All our spent dudes who came out to congratulate us on the Great Outdoor Fight finally wobbled they' asses home, some like T havin' actually slept less than us, and all kinds of a mess. Me and Beef stayed at the low-key festivities 'til the end, both knowin' we kind of had to wrap up and rap on it before we hit the hay. Once Lyle had done his thing with the cops, and old Cornelius made fishin' plans with somebody, we sat real calm at that boss Smith & Hawken teak I got by the pool and lit up a few quiet ones. He took off his busted-up woodshop goggles and set them on the table. It was cold Epilogue.

Thing was, we neither could say the big-ass things you got to say at times like this. Ain't no eloquent-assed Ralph Fiennes gonna be playin' my part as I go, "dogg, that was a stone fuck." And ain't no war-weary Laurence Fishburne gonna be pullin' off some dusty goggles as he replies, "I ain't pooped in five days. Excuse a man."

But the thing is, we stuck out and dapped and he walked kind of shaky to the pool house, which is unusual 'cause he is always so steady, and I made my way upstairs for a real hot and thorough shower. Old dust flowed down the drain in long dark streams, and I the hell felt much rejuvenated. That kind of rejuvenated where you immediately want to fall into crisp white sheets, though. I just wanted to tap this down before the moment escapes me. Tomorrow I fully expect a well-rested us will hold court a little more fully. For now, no man in the world has earned his bedtime like I have, and I am going to SLEEP.