Who Shot Ya Box Set

by Renta

  “Bitch, fuck you sweating for—it’s forty degrees and windy!” I spazzed on Marcella.

  Her eyes shot to me at the same time that a sharp pain hit my side. “Get the fuck out the way, bitch nigga!” A gruff voice spat as a group of young boys in white and baby blue North Carolina units passed by.

  The cat that spoke was the one that elbowed me—he spun around and tossed up his set. “Fo’Tray on mines, cuz!” He did a backward crip walk and continued to twist his fingers into gang signs.

  Even though I knew they had the ups on me, my next reaction was the only justification for disrespect. I reached under my hoodie and pulled the tool.

  “Pacman, what it wuz, homie, who dat nigga?” A loud voice came from my right.

  I turned my attention that way and I knew it was do or die for me. It was ‘bout twelve more of those pussy boys approachin’ fast. I made up in my mind when the second group was about ten feet away. I had to draw first blood and use the bitch Marcella for a shield. Without much more thought, I aimed at the nigga that had elbowed me and let that led speak. As I fired, I backpedaled toward the parade—in an instant it was pandemonium.

  After the first few shots shit got crazy—the parade turned into a stampede and I could hear someone screaming. “Police—police!”

  That wasn’t enough to stop the showdown that was taking place. I counted each shot I took, but the painful feeling of my stomach exploding made me double over. I don’t know where the shot came from until I fell to my knee and glanced around. I clutched my stomach in agony as the bitch nigga that elbowed me headed in my direction. He must have thought he was bulletproof, but I gave him the answer when I fired his bitch ass up. The slug parted his high-top fade and I watched as his noodles painted the baby blue jacket he wore. I had no idea where the punk hoe Marcella had disappeared to, but I knew I had to get to one of those police officers. It was either hell or the cell for me and though neither was a choice I’d make under usual circumstances, shid, it was a choice I needed to make. I tried my best to slow the bleeding as I stumbled to my feet and through the panic mob of paraders.

  “I see him, homie, there he is! Get that fuck nigga for the big homie!” I heard someone scream from behind.

  I glanced back and spotted the fuck boy Lil Ben hot on my trail—I turned slightly, aimed and hit him up. A red stain appeared where his left shoulder used to be.

  “Say, homie, you need to get help—you’re hit!” A familiar voice stole my attention.

  I was losing blood fast, but I spun to match the face with the voice. The bum that was just digging in the trash stood before me, but rather than leftover food—he aimed a big pistol at me. Twisted smiled at me from behind the dirt he’d smudged on his face.

  “So, the hoe wasn’t lyin’, huh?” he asked.

  I was confused as to what the fuck he meant, but there was no time for guessing games. I wasn’t ‘bout to die in a city I’d neva shed blood in.

  I aimed at that boy the same time that someone yelled, “Fort Worth PD, drop your weapons—drop your weapons!”

  Both of our eyes flew to the pudgy white cop but Twisted was a man with nothin’ to lose. He smiled wickedly before doing what any madman would do—the power from whateva it was that he was firing at the officer had so much kick that his arm vibrated as he squeezed the trigger. I began to feel faint as I took aim and opened Twisted’s chest up. Surprise registered on his face as he swung the burna on me and squeezed at the same time I blew his mu’fuckin’ brains out!

  Part Three

  ~I’m Dying~

  I heard somewhere that real didn’t exist no more—I laugh every time I hear that shit. Yea, homie, real still exist, it’s just that fake people had duplicated a real mu’fuckas images so perfectly that one can’t tell them apart until the fire melts the façade and exposes what’s hidden behind the mask. No man wants to be viewed as a fuck boy, just as no woman want to be viewed as a fake bitch, but reality is—pressure makes diamonds and bust pipes with the exact amount of pressure. It’s easy to profess loyalty to something you neva been placed in the position to betray.

  Shit crazy—everybody wanna go to heaven, but nobody wanna die! Everybody wanna be solid, but don’t wanna face off with the shit that is required of the life. That shit is as much of a contradiction as black people repping for the motherland—walking ‘round in Africa’s colors, wearing African beads with a big ass pendant in the shape of Africa, but failing to understand that ‘most’ Africans don’t like or give a damn ‘bout us. So much tumbles through my head, but the most powerful thought is—I’m dying!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Loose Ends

  ~Harrison~

  ~Two Weeks Later~

  I’d just gotten off the phone with the Tarrant County Police Department. There had been a massacre out that way, and some casualties were some of Denton Underworlds Finest. ‘The Christmas Parade Massacre,’ as the news was calling it had gotten coverage on over sixty major news stations. The White House had even flown some of their people up to the Dallas and Fort. Worth area. The area had once been the murder capital, and the mayor of the city wanted the culprits responsible standing trial like yesterday.

  Earl ‘Twisted’ Goldsmith, Dunte ‘Pain’ Jackson, and a few pedestrians were killed in the shootout that was said to have sparked over gang involvement. I was just finishing up a few notes on the file I’d been given on Jackson when something in one of the photos caused me to pause. One of the photos—a photo of him and six guys set off something in my head. The man in the center was roughly five-eleven in height, dark-skinned, and had a distinctiveness in his posture. It was his eyes that rocketed my mind back to the video of the bank heist. As they say—the eyes never lie!

  What gave credence to my hunch was the sixth man in the photo—he was a short lean man dressed in all black. His youthful features were dimmed by the cold stare of a young man that had lost his innocence way too early. His name was ‘Tomorrow Kennedy’ and he was one of the two slain men that we’d found at the Armor truck scene. My pulse quickened—impulsively, my eyes flew back to the man in the middle.

  ‘Who was he?’ My thoughts were loud as I picked up the phone and rung my new secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Harrison, what can I do for you?” Sarah Jane inquired.

  I could hardly contain my excitement, I was sure I was on to something. “I need you to call down to evidence and get me the video footage on the bank robbery case; I think it’s under ‘exhibit x’!”

  “Will do—anything else?” she responded.

  I thought about it for a second or two. “Yes, if you see Agent Louding, send him to my office. I think I just solved the Denton County Bank Heist!”

  ****

  ~Detective Winslet~

  “Girl, where your restroom at? Those drinks are working on my bladder!” Tonya stood and squeezed her legs together like a little girl.

  We laughed at her antics, and once I gave her directions—I turned my attention back to the Scrabble board. We were having a girl’s night at my house, and the only three women that knew where I lived were all in attendance. Tonya, my sister Jacqueline, and her girlfriend Jada.

  “Pneumatology—” I spelt out the word with the little square pieces.

  “Now, you know that’s not a word, Kamicka. I think I’m gonna challenge it,” Jacqueline stated as she reached out for the Scrabble Dictionary.

  I gave her a challenging smirk—I’d played the game so much that I knew words that a lot of people wouldn’t. I watched my sisters face change as she read the definition aloud.

  “Doctrine or study of spiritual beings and phenomena. Ain’t that a bitch!” she exclaimed as she slammed the book shut and slouched back in her seat. “I quit—you’re too smart, Kamicka.”

  I laughed at her silliness. My sister had always been a poor sport. Ten minutes later I glanced at my watch, my eyes wandered to my dark hallway.

  ‘What was taking Tonya so long—had she found the restroom? Was she taking number
two in my shit!’ I thought at the same time my sister verbalized my sentiments.

  “You think she’s okay—she’s been gone a while?”

  ****

  ~Detective Tonya Johnson~

  I had just finished the unthinkable. I had to calm my nerves before turning to head back to the others.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room!” a shrill voice demanded.

  My eyes shot to Kamicka Winslet—I’m sure I looked like a deer trapped in a speeding car’s headlights, but I was a born actor.

  In spite of my original reaction, I plastered a confused look on my face. “Wha—what?” I stammered in feigned ignorance. “I used the restroom! You have all the doors in the hall closed except this one, and I didn’t want to be snooping around your place.” I shrugged my shoulders as if my decision was harmless. “I figured there was a little girl’s room in here—so I used it.” I smiled at her. “Are you angry with me or something?” The look on my face was innocent. I could tell I’d disarmed her by the way her stance relaxed, but her eyes still held a hint of suspicion. I knew the sneaky bitch was on high alert—being a detective, I’d learned that when people did so much dirt, they were always suspicious of others.

  ‘I guess that’s what happens when you’ve fucked over so many people, it was just common sense that karma was near,’ I thought as Winslet’s body stiffened again.

  Her eyes shot to my hands. “Why would you need gloves to use the restroom, Tonya?”

  Her question made me smile brightly before reaching in my pocket and pulling out a pink and purple wrapper that I’d balled up. It was already torn open, so after reaching in and pulling out the soiled tampon, I held it up to show her the blood smears which were actually red dye. “It’s that time of the month—” I revealed as I watched Winslet's facial expression melt into shame. “Am I missing something here, Kamicka, what were you think—” my voice trailed off as a wounded expression blossomed on my face. Kamicka dropped her head—embarrassed. I used that as my escape route. “Oh—you assumed I was up to something foul!” I shook my head—artificial disappointment radiated from my stare as she lifted her eyes to me.

  “I’m sorry, T, I just—”

  I stopped her midsentence with a raised palm. “Don’t—just—don’t. I don’t know what you were thinking, and quite frankly—I don’t give a damn. I’ve lived a long time, Kamicka, and I’m old enough to know when I’m not trusted,” that was my last words to the bitch before I stormed passed her and her sister that had been standing in the hallway being nosey.

  I gathered my things and left that house like it was on fire. The entire time I was thinking—the crazy thing a woman does for some good dick and a little tender love and care.

  ****

  ~Ice Berg~

  I was escorted into a pure white room that was bare except for two chairs and a black table. I was chained when the door opened and a smooth—polished brotha strode in like he had the power to free me from my chains personally. I kept my eyes on him as he walked to the otha seat and laid his briefcase on the table.

  He smiled at me before stretching his hand. “Mr. Swanson, my name is K. Sharp and I was hired to represent you in this case.”

  I stared up at the fool—it took him a second or two before his eyes fell to my shackled hands. His hand fell away as he took his seat. “My apologies—I wasn’t expecting them to—”

  “Who hired you, homie, I have a lawyer retained already,” I interrupted him and got straight to the business.

  He gave me a resigned smile—opened the briefcase and pulled out some papers as he spoke, “Your relative, Earl Goldsmith, retained me because he felt that you needed—how can I phrase this—” He laid the papers on the table before looking up. “—a man of color, that’s a little more experienced in these kinds of cases,” he said.

  My chest filled with pride, my homie wanted me free. Most times greed was so thick in the circle that as soon as the head got bammed, the next hungriest soldier plotted against him rather than holding him down.

  I nodded. “That’s what’s up, make sho’ you tell Cuz I owe him one,” I acknowledged.

  The attorney gave me a look that was a mixture of surprises and fear. I was ‘bout to inquire when he pulled a newspaper out of his briefcase and tossed it face up on the table. “I think you need to see this!”

  We stared at each other before my eyes dropped to the paper. There—on the front page wore a collage of photos with the caption: ‘Christmas Parade Massacre’ boldly printed across the top of them. Without moving, I allowed my eyes to digest what my heart refused to accept. The first row of pictures began with a few smiling white people, but the second set is what took my breath away—Pacman, Pain, Twisted’s faces stared back at me. My eyes seemed frozen on Twisted’s image—forever frozen in a moment past. Thoughts of him, Nutz and me zoomed through my mind like a movie played in fast forward.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Swanson, Mr. Goldsmith was slain in a gun battle right after I was hired.”

  ****

  ~Assata~

  I was still in shock as I sat outside the church house blowin’ my brains out with the sour I was filling my lungs with. I sat slouched in the SS—blowin’ and downin’ an eighth of that purple shit out of a big gulp cup. The fam was burying my flesh, and the going away party was packed. My chest was empty—stomach filled with shit that had the potential to rock me to sleep foreva—but my head was somewhere dark. After each inhale of the blunt, a different piece of my soul fell from my eyes. First—Moose let that bitch nigga kill her—then Shy got whacked by the same nigga we came out the mud with. Lovey may as well have died by my own hands and I had to live wit’ that shit till the dark angel came to get me.

  Now—before the blood could dry off my heart for that loss—here Pain go! Through clouded vision, I rested my head against the headrest and allowed my mind to carry me back to that day a few weeks ago.

  I’d arrived at the parade and parked the big body before hittin’ Pain to see where he was at. Bro answered on the second ring.

  “What’s brackin’, Bleed?” I turned down the knock in the whip.

  I knew bro hated when I tried to talk over music. “What’s toppin’, Rusta, where the fuck that hoe got you—I’m just pullin’ up, but it’s too many mu’fuckas out here,” I finally replied.

  I could hear him flippin’ out on Marcella’s trick ass before the phone fell. I screamed his name ova and ova again as I bolted through the crowd in search of him. I could hear the crip nigga talk that talk and knowin’ my brotha—I could already picture the scene as it unfolded. We were bred to shoot first to prevent from dying first, and Pain was the quickest to the draw out of our circle. Gunshots are unmistakable, and as they rung off—I dropped my phone and ran towards the direction people fled from. I was momentarily lost in the mob of people running for their lives and cradling crying children.

  It was a madhouse of hysterical people searching for a safe haven from the devil’s playground. By the time I made it free of the stampede, I ran straight into a wounded dude. He wore baby blue and white head to toe and the only contrast was the trail of blood spilling from his right shoulder. I didn’t recognize the sucka, but the colors he wore was the reason I knocked his thoughts all over the street.

  “Say—where all the shootin’ coming from, Bleed?” I made my presence known.

  Being that he was wounded and glancing behind for his attacker, he was surprised as he turned his head to come face to face with the Boogyman. I moved with the speed of light as I yanked him close to me as if I was embracing long lost family—homie was stunned. His shock prevented him from reacting the way a ‘real’ killa would in that moment of self-preservation. By the time he attempted to push me off him, I had the tool planted in his stomach and played with the trigga as if it was my bitches clit and I was determined to make her cum. The first shot stunned him—his face froze in a silent scream. His eyes pled with me as the second shot rocketed through his intestines and shattered hi
s spinal column.

  I released him and watched as he crumbled to the dirty street as shots rung off in the distance—through bloodthirsty eyes. I smiled at homie before painting the asphalt with his scalp. I took off in hot pursuit of my brotha.

  Just as the crowd of people thinned out, I heard, “Police—Tarrant County PD; drop your weapons—drop your weapons!”

  There—in the middle of the street stood Pain and some dirty man in raggedy clothes. I watched in horror as the bum took aim at the law and fired at the same time that Pain squeezed the trigga. My brotha clutched his stomach as he fired and the blood that leaked into his hands told its own tale. Led opened the bum’s chest, but the bitch nigga wasn’t leaving this earth without company—he swung the tool around and hit Pain up with two to the chest before his face was blown into a bloody mess. As my brotha fell to his death, the boys in blue were on their way. I took one more look at Pain’s still form, to retain the pain in my chest. As I fled the scene, the only thing that was for sure was the thought of how the death toll was ‘bout to rise in the metroplex.

  ****

  ~The Russian~

  Russia and Agent Forrest sat down to eat in the suite of the luxury hotel. It was a beautiful day on the majestic island of Dubai. The sun reflected off the Azure waters—the curtains were open and allowed the sun to pour in through the tinted window.

  “Brunch is served!” the personal waiter announced as he placed the last dish on the table.

  Forrest smiled at Russia dotingly. Russia returned the gesture before taking a demure sip from his orange juice. He set his glass down before picking up a soft cloth to dab at the corners of his mouth.