Animal 2

by K'wan

  “Are we just gonna stand around and watch him drink that bottle, or is he going to say something?” a young goon called Ty asked. Ty was a chubby Haitian kid from out of Brooklyn who served as one of Swann’s street soldiers. Ty made good money working the streets for the Clarks, but he knew his profits would be doubled if he could get promoted to the rank of lieutenant. In order to do that, he had to put in the work, which was why Ty was always the first to volunteer when someone needed to be made to bleed. When Swann had called the meeting, Ty couldn’t get to Harlem fast enough to see what it was about.

  “Why don’t you relax?” Holiday said. He, too, was getting annoyed just standing around, but he was smart enough to keep his annoyance to himself.

  “I don’t mean no disrespect, fam, I’m just anxious, same as everybody else here,” Ty explained. “The OG calls an emergency meeting, I know it’s something big, and I’m just trying to see what’s popping.”

  “Cool out, and keep your mouth closed. Swann will speak when he’s ready and not a minute before. If you don’t feel like waiting around, take a fucking walk,” Angelo snapped. He had seen Swann in dark moods before, and someone almost always died immediately after he snapped out of it.

  “Fifty thousand,” Swann said just above a whisper. Everyone was shocked, because he hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten there.

  “What’d you say?” Angelo asked.

  “I said fifty thousand,” Swann repeated. “That’s the price for that little nigga Ashanti’s life.”

  “Swann, Ashanti is just a foot soldier, so maybe—” Angelo began, but Swann cut him off.

  “You heard what I said.” Swann turned to address the goons. “Spread the word, my niggaz. I got fifty stacks for the man who puts that juvenile delinquent Ashanti in a fucking bag and an extra ten stacks for each additional person who goes along for the ride.”

  “What if his pretty little girlfriend is with him? Should we stall her out because she’s a civilian?” Ty asked.

  “Fuck him and his bitch. If she’s there, she dies, too.”

  Swann had barely finished his sentence before the goons took off in all directions. Fifty thousand dollars was more money than most of them had ever seen, and they were beyond eager to accept.

  Angelo waited until the goons had gone and it was just him, Holiday, and Swann left in the park, before speaking. “Swann, that’s a lot of money to put on a foot soldier. King James is the real problem. Cut the head off, and the body dies.”

  “Fuck that. When Ashanti touched my people, he moved into the number one slot on my shit list.” Swann stood up.

  “So what about the nigga King, we supposed to put him on the back burner while everyone else is off chasing Ashanti?” Holiday asked.

  “Nah, I didn’t forget about him. I’m baking a special cake for King James.” Swann looked down at his watch. “And it should be just about done cooking.”

  TWELVE

  “WELCOME TO NEWARK,” THE SIGN read as King James exited 21 North onto Broad Street. He rarely ventured out of the hood unless he absolutely had to, but the way things had been going lately, he needed a change of scenery to get his thoughts together.

  When he’d been released from state prison a few years before, he felt displaced in time. He had been born and raised in Harlem, but the Harlem he had come home to after his bid wasn’t the one he remembered. Gone was his beautiful slum, replaced by a trendy tourist attraction with overpriced housing, leaving very few corners for a crook to make an honest dollar on. Still, for as much as the landscape had changed, the game remained the same, and that was his main concern. King James was a man with a plan, and that plan was to be the next king of New York.

  The plan was simple: fly under the radar and gobble up as much territory as he could before any of the heavy hitters realized what was going on. By the time they woke up to the usurper in their midst, it’d be too late to do much about it except roll with the movement or get wiped out. King James had the right people backing his play, shooters who would kill or die for him, and a bomb-ass product. It was the perfect plan, but even the best-laid plans were subject to unforeseen complications. In King James’s case, the complication was named Shai Clark.

  Shai was the boss of bosses in New York City, and nothing moved unless he told it to or got a piece. The hood respected Shai, but King James did not. To him, Shai was a spoon-fed rich kid who had inherited the title instead of earning it. From the moment King James had met Shai in Brick City, he knew he didn’t like him. Shai was arrogant, and his people were disrespectful. When King had tried to reach out to show Shai the proper respect, he was dismissed like he was little more than a common thug. The slight at the strip club had been the incident that planted the seeds of contempt, and they had been growing in King James for months. All he needed was a reason to strike, and it had been two of his young shooters, Ashanti and Zo-Pound, who had given him that reason.

  When Ashanti and Zo-Pound had joined in Animal’s personal war against the Clarks, that pulled King James into it by association. King was aware of neither Animal’s resurrection nor Ashanti’s and Zo’s roles in his mission, and by the time he found out, it was already out of his hands. Ashanti and Zo were soldiers in his army, so they were his responsibility. At least, that was the excuse he used when he was called to answer for deviating from the plan. King’s partners frowned on the heat he was bringing to the organization from his street wars, but King didn’t care. He was the one taking all the risks, so he would run the show however he saw fit. King James had never been big on diplomacy; he was a gladiator.

  For a change of scenery, he shot out to Newark to see this young broad he fucked with named Drea, who lived off South Orange Avenue. Her crib was smack in the middle of the hood, but it was the last place anyone would think to look for King. He pulled up in front of the three-family house where her apartment was and parked at the curb. He never pulled into the driveway. Before getting out of the car, King checked himself in the rearview mirror. His waves were spinning like high tide, and his thick beard was freshly trimmed. He moved to brush a speck of imaginary debris from his pecan-colored, butter-soft leather jacket he was wearing. Last, he adjusted the huge rope chain that hung around his neck. The medallion on the end of it was about the size of a bread plate. Carved into the gold was the number seven resting in a crescent moon, with a star hanging from its tip. It was the Universal Flag of the Five-Percent Nation, his calling card. From between the seats, King pulled out his .32, checking to make sure it was loaded before stuffing it into his jacket pocket and hopping out.

  The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. Drea lived two doors down from a liquor store, so her block was always busy. That day, it seemed calm. Standing in his yard, where he usually was, was Drea’s next-door neighbor. He was a slightly older cat, with long dreads that could stand a good washing. He was sitting on a lawn chair, drinking a forty-ounce and smoking something that smelled like he had plucked it out of a random backyard. King had seen him a few times when he’d come through but never communicated with him beyond the cordial nod.

  King could feel the neighbor’s eyes on him as he passed, so he turned and met his gaze. The neighbor turned away. King jogged up the stairs to the apartment and knocked on Drea’s door. A few seconds later, he was greeted by a pretty brown-skinned girl draped in only a bathrobe and house shoes. She was dressed like she had just been lying around, but her hair was flawless, and you could still smell the spray in her weave.

  “About time you made it,” Drea said with a fake attitude.

  “You know I keep a hectic schedule.” King invited himself in. Drea was a hood chick, but her apartment was nicely furnished and always spotless. King took his jacket off and laid it on the arm of the sofa before plopping down and grabbing the remote to the big-screen television. The .32 was sticking him in the hip, so he took it out of his pants pocket and slipped it into his coat.

  “Arrogant-ass Harlem nigga.” Drea shook her head. She climbed ont
o King’s lap, straddling him. “And how you gonna come into my house and not show me no love?” She tried to kiss him on the lips, but he gave her his cheek. “What’s the matter, baby?”

  “Nothing, but you know I’m not really into all that,” King said. “So what’s good with you, though?” King slipped his hand inside her bathrobe to throw her off the subject. His fingers traced over her soft skin.

  “Waiting on you to come give me what I need.” Drea slipped her hand between her legs and squeezed King’s dick through his jeans. She leaned in so close that her breath brushed his neck when she whispered in his ear. “You got something to get me in the mood, baby?”

  King knew what time it was. “You know I do.” He reached over to his coat and pulled a rolled-up brown paper bag from the inside pocket. “Get right, and get me right.” He tossed the bag to Drea.

  Drea squealed like a schoolgirl when she emptied the contents of the bag onto the coffee table. The bag contained the three Bs: beans, blunts, and blow. Drea was a party girl, and King knew what turned her on. He sat back like a proud father and watched as she began her dance with the dark side.

  Drea did a few lines, washing them down with a blunt filled with high-grade weed, and was feeling no pain. She got up from the couch and started dancing to the song playing on the television’s music station. With a blunt pinched between her lips, she started doing a striptease. Her weed-slanted eyes looked down at King hungrily as she pushed her robe off one shoulder, then the other. She was naked except for a pair of purple lace panties. Drea licked her fingertips and began playing with her nipples, daring King James to conquer her.

  He rose to the challenge.

  King got up from the couch. He felt a bit light-headed, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the weed he’d smoked or the beating of his heart. So much blood was flowing to his dick that he thought it would explode in his pants. She scooped her hands under her armpits. She knew what it was, so she wrapped her legs around his waist. The pill had Drea’s skin on fire, and the blow had her swerving. King held her up with one hand and undid his pants with the other. When his dick was finally free of the restrictive jeans, he guided it to her love cave.

  Drea gasped when King entered her. His thickness threatened to tear her open, but it hurt too good for her to tell him to stop. She wanted him to go deeper. He did. King stroked Drea slow and deep, making her a little wetter every time he speared her. She tried to bite his neck, but he pushed her face away. Out of spite, she slammed herself harder on his cock. Drea locked eyes with King, and no words were necessary. He knew what she wanted and was happy to give it to her.

  King pulled out of Drea and turned her around. He entered her from the back and found her box to be just as inviting as it had been from the front. He wrapped his massive hands around her waist and pulled her to him while stabbing deep inside her. He felt Drea release herself down his legs and smiled before he plunged deeper into her. It was like magic.

  The next forty minutes were a blur. All King could remember were flashes of pleasure and pain as he and Drea ravaged each other. When he was about to blow his load, Drea jumped off him and took his dick in both hands. She jerked it fast and furiously, spitting on it and talking to it. King grunted, letting her know that he was about to cum, and she opened her mouth as wide as she could. A spray of white jizz coated Drea’s face and lips. For good measure, she took him in her mouth and squeezed his dick until it was empty. King collapsed on the couch, breathing heavy and waiting for his leg to stop shaking. He looked over at Drea, who was propped on one elbow, playing with the excess cum on her lips.

  “Damn, you are one freaky muthafucka,” King said breathlessly.

  “And you love this freak bitch.” She tugged his dick and gave it a little lick.

  King heard his phone go off in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the text message that flashed across the screen. His face immediately soured. It was Fatima hitting him to let him know Ashanti got popped. Ashanti was one of King’s best, and losing him would hurt. “Damn,” he said, replying to the text. He dropped his phone back into his pants pocket and got off the couch. “Yo, I gotta dip back to the city right quick,” he told Drea.

  She looked at him as if he had lost it. “Oh, hell nah, nigga, how you just gonna come through, blow in my mouth, and keep it moving like I’m some bird?” She was upset.

  “Drea, it ain’t even like that. Some shit popped off on the block with my lil’ mans, and I gotta go see about them,” he told her before disappearing into the bathroom. He took a quick shower, then came back into the living room to jump into his clothes. Drea sat at the dining-room table, with her arms folded, staring daggers at King the whole time he dressed. He thought about just breaking down to her everything that was going on, but he figured why bother? Family business wasn’t Drea’s business. She would either understand or she wouldn’t. He didn’t have time to care.

  After slipping his Timberlands on, King looked to the arm of the chair where he had laid his jacket and didn’t see it.

  “Here.” Drea handed him his jacket off the back of one of the dining-room chairs. At some point, she must’ve moved it.

  “Thanks, ma. I’m gonna call you later, OK?” King told her.

  “Whatever.” Drea got up and walked into her bedroom, slamming the door.

  King decided to leave it be, so he just slipped his jacket on and headed out. When he was coming out of Drea’s apartment, he spotted the guy from next door. Instead of sitting in his driveway, he had moved his lawn chair to the front of Drea’s spot. Two of his friends had joined him, and they were shooting dice at the bottom of the stairs, directly in King’s path.

  “Pardon self,” King said, coming down the stairs. The three moved to the side and let King pass. One of them was staring at his chain like it was the Last Supper.

  “What you claiming?” one of the dudes asked King. King’s face said that he was puzzled, so the kid explained. “You got a seven and a star on your chain. What gang is that?”

  King looked from his chain to the dude. “It ain’t a gang, brother. It’s a way of life.”

  The other dude spoke up. “You know we ride that five over here, so some might take you flagging as a sign of disrespect.”

  King could smell bullshit a mile away. “I hear you talking, shorty.” He turned to leave, but two guys blocked his exit.

  “Yo, my dude, you been coming around here for a minute, and I been racking my brain trying to think where I know you from, and it didn’t hit me until today,” the dread from next door said.

  “Fam, whoever you think I am, I’m not that nigga,” King told him, and kept walking. His hand was already jammed into his pocket and clutching the .32.

  “Yeah, I think you that nigga,” the dread continued. He had fallen into step behind King, with his friends in tow. “Word is one of the homies put a red light on you. You know OG Swann, don’t you?”

  King’s jaw tightened at the mention of Swann’s name. He disliked him more than he disliked Shai. “Listen, shorty, what’s between me and Swann is between me and Swann. Don’t make the next man’s problems your problems. Shit like that never ends well.”

  “This is all business, big brah.” The largest of the goons stepped forward. He had a hard black face and yellow teeth that were on the verge of falling out. “Swann got some paper on your face, and we aim to collect. But I’m a sporting man, so I’ll tell you what, give up that chain, and I’ll give you a five-minute head start before me and my homies eat your food.”

  King James laughed. “Check this out, son. I spent years in prison and ain’t never been robbed, so it sure as hell ain’t gonna happen on the streets.” He pulled his .32 and, without hesitation, pointed it at the kid and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

  • • •

  Drea listened for King to go out the door before she retrieved her cell phone from the dresser and dialed the dread from next door. He and Drea were more than neighbors; they were occasional fuck buddies. Th
e dread was hardly her speed as far as the men she seriously dated, but he had a decent dick game. More important, he was pussy-whipped off Drea’s goodies and would do anything she asked, including kill.

  “Yeah, he on his way down,” Drea said once he’d answered the phone.

  “He strapped?” the dread asked.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think it’ll do him much good,” she said sinisterly, juggling the bullets in her hand that she’d removed from King’s gun while he showered. What she was doing was filthy, but she figured the bounty on King James’s head could buy her enough soap to wash away the sin.

  • • •

  “Shit,” King said, looking at his gun in disbelief.

  Using his moment of confusion to their advantage, the Jersey cats moved on him. The big dude, who had asked for his chain, struck first, catching King on the chin with a solid punch. King retaliated by slamming the empty gun into the side of his head. That hurt him, but it was the left King followed with that knocked him out.

  King took a boxer’s stance and addressed the last two. “You niggaz wanna dance? Let’s get it!”

  They had planned on stomping him out and snatching his chain before turning him over to Swann’s people, but seeing their friend sleeping on the curb gave them pause. Any ideas they had about seeing King James in combat went out the window, so the weapons came out. One produced a bat and the other a gun.

  King was by no means a punk, but he knew that a good run beat a bad stand any day, so he threw the empty gun at them and bolted for the truck. A shot whistled past his ear and shattered the rear window. He got low and dipped around to the driver’s-side door, hitting the automatic locks. He had just made it inside the truck when the driver’s-side window shattered. Glass sprayed him in the face, cutting his cheek and forehead. Before he could fully recover, the guy with the bat proceeded to bust out his windows. Frantically, he threw the truck into gear and tried to make his escape.