You want perfect? Read someone else’s fucking book. This book, if I’m doing it right, is anything but purrfect. I don’t want you to finish it and lean back in your expensive chaise lounge and sigh, reassured that all the stupid shit you’ve done in your life really all adds up to a fine and dandy ending, your fat ass retired and happy and laying out on a beach in Hawaii drinking cocktails and watching chicks you’d like to bone hula hula in front of you while you try to hide the hardon you wish were better than a half-limp slug of cottage cheese. I don’t want you to finish this novel and, if you’re the rich fuck I suspect you are (because unfortunately my people can’t read, and if they can they read something that matters to them like Sports Illustrated or Hustler), you think that the shit-for-life you’ve imposed on my people by your very existence is something that is not your fault and that everything works out in the end, your sins forgiven and your virtues rewarded in the great steakhouse in the sky, extra cheese and sour cream for the potatoes please, belch apres. Quite the opposite, good sir, ma’am. I want you to finish my book and be a little apprehensive, just a little, a bit concerned, ol’ boy, good lady, that maybe, just maybe, maybe we’re gunning for you. Maybe we’re just waiting for our chance to take you the fuck out.
— Eric Miles Williamson, Welcome to Oakland