Fried Hard & Chopped Up #5

A 'Brooklyn Zoo' Story

Chinese Takeout

Ultimate Combination Plate

An "open" neon sign in the window of a neighborhood Chinese restaurant flickers as moths drawn to its glory quickly find themselves cornered and trapped. Ravenous, a colossal spider encroaches. Aware of the nearby danger, flies in search of their own meal cautiously maneuver away from the deathtrap, buzzing wildly. A tender breeze wharfs culinary fragrances all about the take-out spot. Positioned at various stations, multiple cooks execute an array of incoming orders. One yells out in their native tongue to another. They pass the star anise. Manning the counter, a petite woman organizes packets of soy and duck sauce. Malik steps in and up to the counter. "Aye yo miss, lemme get pork fried rice wit four chicken wings, fried hard and chopped up—ketchup, barbecue and hot sauce. Don't forget to put duck sauce in the bag! Last time you forgot!" An older woman carrying groceries steps up from the street into the Chinese take-out, sitting on a ledge that doubled as a bench. She greets the woman and gives her order. "Hey mami... lemme get wonton soup with an extra crispy noodles."

"Anything else—no spare rib tip, pork fried rice, barbecue and hot sauce, and dumplings?"

"No, I'm on a diet."

"Okay, okay. Maybe next time." The woman at the counter and patron laugh.

Wonton Soup

Ryshawn, Malik's homie pulls up, greeting the older woman. "Hey Mrs. Porter! How you doin'?", and dappin' up Malik before placing his order. Ryshawn bangs on the thick plexiglass. "Aye miss... lemme get small French fries wit barbecue sauce, hot sauce and ketchup, he payin'!", gesturing to Malik. Malik looks at Ryshawn sideways. "Nah boi, you buggin', I got you last time!" Ryshawn steps back, throwing up his hands, "So, what up then!" The two slap-box, prompting the woman manning the counter to bang on the plexiglass. They ignore her, continuing with their playful skirmish. She pounds on the reinforced plastic, pointing through a cutout. "This no zoo, take outside to the projects." Ryshawn diverts his attention to the petite woman.

"What chu mean miss? We just playin'."

"I no care—this no zoo!"

"Zoo? You callin' us animals?!"

"Uh-uh", Mrs. Porter exclaims, snatching up her bags. "Mami, you can keep the food; these kids was only playing." Waddling side to side, as to not upset her gout, Mrs. Porter steps gingerly onto the sidewalk and crosses the street into the Gowanus Houses. Driving her fists down on the counter, packets of soy and duck sauce splatter across the plexiglass. The petite woman, incensed. "You cost me money, see she leave! You pay four-fifty!" In vain the cooks attempt to calm the woman.

"Who you screamin' at miss, I'll slap the $&#% out chu!" Hysterical, the counter woman runs to the back of the Chinese restaurant. Silence. She emerges with a young delivery guy by the wrist. Eyes full of disdain, he grills both Ryshawn and Malik while listening to his co-worker's lament. Nostrils flaring, calmly the young delivery guy slips out from the kitchen, locking the iron gate behind him. "Come on, you two have to go." In protest, Ryshawn poses in the middle of the restaurant, arms crossed. "Nope! We want our food. We paid!" Pointing at Ryshawn, and looking at Malik, the delivery guy's face recoils like an accordion. "Get out—leave now! Your friend causes trouble every time he's here!"

"You must have yo' #*!%@$ confused, I don't be here like that! I be at China Hong!"

The delivery guy inches closer to Ryshawn, eyes locked onto his. Head down, Ryshawn lifts his eyes, cutting them over to Malik. A smile. Malik ties his sneakers quick—fast. A haymaker from Ryshawn connects with the jaw of the delivery guy, sending him stumbling into the iron gate. Irate, the counter woman and cooks rush to aid him. Two cooks give chase. Ryshawn and Malik book it, splitting up: Malik races up Hoyt Street, turning onto Wyckoff, and Ryshawn runs straight into the projects, taking shelter in a building. Ryshawn's pursuer gives up the chase. Hot on Malik's tail, the second cook, extending his reach, clasps onto Malik's collar, bringing him to a halt. Spiraling 'round, Malik hooks off on the cook—they begin fighting. Old heads hanging out in the corner of Nicholas Heyward Jr. Park gravitate to the melee. "Aye yo, that's Leek fighting! Go get his older brother!" Like a championship fight, people swarm around the fighters.

Above them, perched across a decaying concrete rooftop, something maleficent stirred. A fire drake, scales smoldering like embers caught in the wind. Uncoiling from its slumber, its forked tongue flickers out—quick as particles leaping from a collision of colliding rocks splitting into two slender ribbons of sensation. Each half of the tongue quivered independently, sifting through layers of meaning that ordinary beings could never perceive: the adrenaline, simmering blood right before the point of boiling. It knew of the fight before it ensued. The metallic tang of bloodlust, frustration and hopelessness; sparks of anger, the old familiar scent of brewing chaos rose into his nostrils. To the human eye, the rooftop was empty. But the drake existed half a breath outside of the natural world, visible only to the cracks in reality itself. Its wings unfurled silently, glowing faintly with molten seams. It tilted its head to listen. The fight escalated! Thrown punches. Knees to the stomach. Stomps landing on the head. Pupils narrowed to slits. Heat rippled off the fire drake's spine, distorting the air in a shimmer no one would ever notice. The dragon rose slowly, its claws tearing into the building's façade in soundless sparks, the way thunder prepares itself before being fully born. And though no one saw it—not the brawlers, not the bystanders, not the residents peering from dim windows, the creature watched with the patience of something that had witnessed a thousand human tempests. Aroused by the swelling bedlam, the fire drake's throat glows with the luminance of a precious metal pulled from its purification process. Suddenly, its gullet dims; the fight broken up before the first flame could ignite by officers responding to the altercation on foot and in squad cars. Onlookers flee. Malik takes off with a busted lip and bruised ribs into the Gowanus House through the park. Like a punctured balloon, the tension leaks away, settling the dragon to a rumbled sigh. The brilliance of its fire faded. Its wings folded closed. Reclaimed from the terrible serpent, night becomes tranquil once more. Only the rooftop remembered the heat. Only the shadows knew of the fire drake's presence.

Across the street in the window of a neighboring brownstone, a pair of eyes appear, sinister and suspended. A flame hotter than the drake's burned. Fire shrouded in pitch, swaddled in malice. A figure outlined by an aura of darkness stood, studying, waiting; waiting too to be summoned.