by Teri Woods
“What the fuck? Ya’ll niggas lost?” said a tall, brown-skinned fellow, wearing a Phillies jacket and Phillies baseball cap.
At first he thought they might’ve been crackheads, but then he saw the shiny chrome and knew differently.
“Shut the fuck up, before I kill you in this motherfucker,” said Jeremy, as he quickly maneuvered his gun and pointed it straight at his victim’s head. “Come on, let’s go.”
Jeremy held the man on his left side, close to his body. He held his gun in his right hand up to the man’s head; they began walking back down the hallway as they heard another guy calling from the living room.
“Yo, Ponch, we need more vials. You gonna have to run down to the . . .”
His sentence was cut short as he saw his man, Poncho, being led by Jeremy and Lance through the doorway with a gun to his head.
“Don’t even think about it, shorty,” said Lance, as he pointed his gun at the guy sitting at the table stuffing tiny vials with two hits of crack.
“What the fuck?”
“Nigga, you know what it is. Bag that shit up, put it back in the duffel bag and don’t nobody got to get hurt.”
Nard quickly surveyed everything that was going on. These dudes ain’t wearing no masks. That can only mean one thing. And even though Jeremy and Lance’s intention wasn’t to kill, just rob, Nard felt otherwise, and being a true thoroughbred for Simon Shuller he’d rather die fighting than give them niggas a dime, even if the coke wasn’t his. Some things in life were just more important, and his reputation for being a “real nigga” was one of them. Nard was a young man, but for the dough, he had love. For the streets, he had respect, and for a principle about some bullshit, he would fight tooth and nail. He reached under the table he was sitting at and felt for his gun, which he always kept duct-taped to the bottom. Quickly, his fingers fondled it until his grasp was tight. Nard came from under the table so fast, no one saw it coming, not even Poncho. He shot Lance one time in the chest, the bullet piercing his heart. Lance dropped to the floor, holding his chest in one hand and his gun in the other. He looked up at Jeremy gasping for breath and collapsing in a red pool of blood.
“Let him go, motherfucker!” shouted Nard.
“Nard, take this nigga. Take him. I know you can, baby boy, take him,” Poncho yelled.
“Shut up, shut the fuck up,” said Jeremy, now nervous as his man was gasping for air, gurgling blood, and reaching for him to help him.
“Let him go, let him go. Let him go and I’ll let you live,” said Nard, meaning every word he spoke.
“Nigga, give me what the fuck I came for or both you motherfuckers is gonna die,” said Jeremy with lots of heart, as he used brute force and pushed the gun harder into the side of Poncho’s head. He looked down on the floor. Lance was dead.
“Motherfucker, I ain’t giving you shit. Let him go!” Nard yelled again.
“Take him, Nard. What the fuck is you waiting fo . . .”
The gunshot seemed unreal at first, a mistake, a misfortune, something that wasn’t suppose to be, a gap, a space, time that needed to rewind. Slow motion, so slow as Jeremy felt Poncho’s body slump to the floor as Nard watched Poncho, his main man, die right in front him. Poncho’s blood, and fragments of his head, landed on Nard all within a matter of seconds.
Instinct moved through Nard, like a thief in the night and like lightning. The strike of the bullet that hit Jeremy’s chest threw him back against the door. He dropped his gun and looked down at the blood pouring out his body. Jeremy didn’t even see it coming—it just happened so fast. Nard hit him with the strike of magic, and poof, just like that, Jeremy was gone.
“Fuck!” yelled Nard, as he held his head in his right hand, his gun still in his left. “Fuck, goddamn it. Fuck you come here for, stupid ass motherfuckers?” he yelled, as he angrily interrogated a dead Jeremy and a dead Lance. “Damn, what the fuck am I gonna do now?”
He surveyed the room, as he talked and cursed the dead bodies around him. “Motherfuckers!” he said as he kicked a lifeless Jeremy. He checked the three bodies laying on the floor for a pulse, starting with his man, Poncho.
“Damn, Ponch, man. I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry,” he said, as he felt Poncho’s wrist. “I love you, man. I love you. Fuck!” He started thinking about the consequences of what had just happened. “Fucking police, man. Fuck, what am I going to do?”
He just couldn’t think straight. His brain was overwhelmed to say the least. He threw the crack and vials and other paraphernalia in a red duffel bag, and left the other duffel bag, which was empty lying on the floor. He looked around the room, grabbed all the contents that belonged to him, tried to wipe off the table, doorknobs, and everything else he had touched in the crack spot and quickly ran out the door and down a flight of stairs.
“Hey Nard, be careful, they shooting in the building.”
He quickly turned around, his gun still in his hand, but tucked inside the front pocket of his hoodie.
“Hey, shorty,” he said, as he looked at a kid standing in the vestibule. He couldn’t have been more than nine maybe ten years old. He didn’t know the kid’s name, but this kid always knew his. “Yeah, you be careful too, kid.”
He quickly brushed past him, threw his hoodie over his head and made his way out the door as he quickly walked down the street to his car.
“DaShawn, get in here! Don’t you hear them shooting? Come on, boy!”
Nard looked up and saw a young black girl hanging out a window, hollering for the same young kid that Nard had just brushed past.
Please tell me this little young kid or the window chick ain’t no problem. Fuck, man, fuck! I need me an alibi. And where the fuck is Sticks? Simon is gonna be heated, but at least I got his coke. That’s all I need to do is get at Simon. I got to get rid of this gun, too. Yeah, that’s all I’ll need is an alibi and I’m good.
