While listening, Uri’s eyes opened larger than the ambit of his imagination as Clive told him his everything plan to shape the face of America, to bring down the white man, to go to Harvard, to become someone, to launch his hip hop career. He told everything that had been percolating in his unspoken dreams, bursting with enthusiasm at the destiny he knew had brought Uri to him. His hands waved in fast, emphatic, jostling motions like a rabid squirrel looking to bite something before its own demise.
Uri looked for the swastika that always watched over Clive and was perplexed by its absence. Clive had removed it to reveal a large flatscreen television nestled comfortably into the wall.
“Yo, Uri. Yo Russian ass ain’t gonna believe this.”
“Russia is not even Europe.” Uri grumbled in heavily
