Cyclone: (to Popeye) What's your problem, man?
Popeye: Hey!

I got no problem... "brotha".
(turns to Bonafide) Órale, Bonafide!
Bonafide:
Popeye: That's a fukkin fine comb you got!

You should give it to one of my bytches!
Pockets: (steps forward) You better watch yo mouth, sucka!
Popeye: Put your spear down, Pockets!
Bonafide: Don't you know this comb has power, sucka?
BLACK power!
Black Guerilla Army: (solid fists) Yeah!

Right On!
Bonafide: Power to give a fool like you nightmares, but see, you wouldn't understand that.