by Askari
“Money?” Zaire questioned.
“Yeah, nigga, that almighty mutha’fuckin’ dollar,” Egypt shot back, raising his voice a couple of octaves.
Zaire looked at him skeptically, “Yo, Eyg, you trippin’, bro. Straight up.”
Egypt chuckled but deep inside he was steaming mad. “Oh, so now I’m the one that’s trippin’?”
“Yeah, bro, just a little bit.”
“Just a little bit?” Egypt retorted. “Nigga, look around,” he snapped at his brother, then held up his left hand and waved it from side to side. “This nigga’s livin’ in this big ass mansion wit’ all these mutha’fuckin’ cars and shit. I’m tellin’ you, Zai, that’s the only thing he cares about, money. He don’t give a fuck about me. He don’t give a fuck about you. And he damn sure don’t give a fuck about Mook.”
Zaire looked at the six-car garage. The doors were retracted, revealing the luxury automobiles that occupied the spaces. Aside from Daphney’s Benz truck and the red Rolls-Royce that Sonny had been driving for the past couple of months, he spotted a Porsche 918 Spyder, a Bentley Continental G.T., a Maserati Ghibli, and a Ferrari 458 Italia. Each vehicle was the color of burnt charcoal and had shiny chrome rims.
After taking an assessment of the luxury vehicles, Zaire shrugged his shoulders. “Come on, bro. Sonny was caked up from the jump, and just because he has a couple of whips that niggas ain’t never seen before, that doesn’t really mean shit.”
“What?” Egypt screwed up his face. “That doesn’t mean shit? A’ight, well what about this big ass house? How come he was hiding it from us?”
“I don’t know,” Zaire answered. “Maybe he wanted to keep Daph and the kids away from everybody. You know he still blames himself for what happened to Riri. He was probably just try’na keep his family safe.”
“That’s bullshit,” Egypt countered. “The only reason he was keepin’ niggas at bay is because he didn’t want us to know how large he was livin’.”
“Aye, yo, Eyg, cut it the fuck out,” Zaire chuckled. “You’re seriously buggin’ right now.”
“Naw, nigga, you’re the one whose buggin’. You see this big ass house?” He pointed towards the mansion behind him. “This nigga has an elevator up in this mutha’fucka. A real life muthafuckin’ elevator. And what we got? Two punk ass Panameras and a duplex in Chester County? Nizzaw, I’m not feelin’ this shit, Zai. We’re the ones movin’ all the fuckin’ work, and what we got? A couple of crumbs? A couple of crumbs for some crumb ass niggas.”
He took another pull on the Backwoods and quickly realized that cherry had burned out in the middle of his rant. Frustrated, he tossed the spliff on the ground and kicked it away from him. “Man, fuck that Backwoods.”
Zaire was flabbergasted. Where was all of this coming from? He and Egypt came a long way from scraping on the streets of North Philly, but Egypt was talking as if they were broke. Obviously, they didn’t have everything that Sonny had, but they were far from broke. Moreover, Sonny went out of his way to put them in a position to win. So, why was Egypt so mad?
“You’re my twin and I love you,” Zaire stated with sincerity, “But I’ve gotta keep it a hunnid witchu. You’re seriously outta pocket, bro. Sonny brought us up from puppy dog status. And if it wasn’t for him, we’d still be stuck in the hood, posted up on Marshal Street, bumping heads wit’ the roaches and rats. He took us under his wing when he didn’t have to, and on some G shit, where the fuck is all of this comin’ from?”
“From the heart,” Egypt shouted while pounding the left side of his chest. “Right mutha’fuckin’ here, I deserve more. We,” he pointed back and forth between him and his brother, “deserve more! And until I get what my hand calls for, I’m done!”
He stormed off in the direction of his Porsche Panamera and Zaire reached out to grab his arm. “Get the fuck off me,” he snapped while yanking his arm away. “If you wanna continue being his little errand boy, then that’s what the fuck you do. I’m doin’ my own thing. Fuck Sonny.”
Zaire sighed. He searched for the right words to calm Egypt down, but he couldn’t find any.
Unbeknownst to Egypt and Zaire, Daphney was standing outside on the balcony. She was sipping on a glass of wine and listening to their every word.
***
Club Spontaneous
Carmine pulled up to the club in his cranberry, 2015 Infinity Q50. Fat Petey was behind in a forest-green, 2015 Chevy Silverado, and simultaneously they pulled up on both sides of Alphonso’s white BMW. It was precisely ten minutes after 7 p.m., so the fact that Alphonso’s 745 was the only car in the parking lot didn’t raise any red flags. There was, however, another factor that instantly caught there attention. The club was dark, a little too dark.
“Why the fuck are the lights turned off?” Carmine asked while stepping out of his vehicle.
“I don’t know,” Fat Petey answered, shrugging his beefy shoulders. He closed the driver’s side door and walked up to Carmine.
“When Phons sent me the text message, he was already here,” Carmine said. “But, now the place is friggin’ empty. All of the lights are turned off.”
Again Fat Petey shrugged his shoulders. The brisk December wind was gliding off of the Delaware River and sending chills down his spine. “I say we go inside and check things out,” he suggested as he shuffled from side to side, doing his best to keep warm.
Carmine looked at him like he was stupid. “Dah... I thay we go inthide and check things out,” he mimicked the fat man in a goofy, retarded-like voice. He blew into the palms of his hands, and then reached into the front right pocket of his Gucci parka and pulled out his .10mm handgun. With his right hand wrapped around the rubber-grip handle, he looked Fat Petey square in the eyes. “You’re goddamned right we’re gonna check it.” He gestured towards the front door with the barrel of his gun. “You go first and I’ll follow.”
Feeling mistreated and slightly disrespected, Fat Petey shook his head in contempt, but followed Carmine’s orders nonetheless. After removing the nickel-plated .45 that was tucked under his rolls of fat, he cautiously glanced around the parking lot. A dark colored Lincoln Navigator cruised down the block at a calm 15 miles per hour. It slowed down at the behest of the yellow traffic light at the corner, then slowly made a right turn and cruised up Spring Garden Avenue. Fat Petey and Carmine looked at one another for a brief moment, and then returned their attention to the strip club. As they approached the door and peeked inside of the front glass window, the only thing they saw was an abysmal darkness.
Why the fuck are the lights turned off? Fat Petey wondered. Who in the hell does Alphonso think he is, Batman?
Gently, he tugged on the door handle. “Carmy,” he whispered over his right shoulder. “The door, it’s friggin’ open.”
“No shit,” Carmine snapped at him. “What am I, a friggin’ idiot? Obviously, I can see that the friggin’ thing’s not locked. And stop whisperin’, wouldja? You’re makin’ me feel like a goddamned cat-burglar.”
Again, Fat Petey shook his head in contempt. Fuckin’ jerk. He slowly pulled the door open and looked around the club’s interior. Initially, it was so dark that he couldn’t see anything. But after squinting his eyes for a couple of seconds, he was able to make out the silhouettes of the bar, the stage, and the V.I.P. area.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Carmine asked, and then nudged him in the back with the lips of his pistol. “We’ll be able to see better from the inside. Now, stop actin’ like a little bitch.”
Fat Petey sighed. As a result of him and Carmine growing up together, he was accustomed to his sarcasm and wise ass remarks, but now was not the time. “Where’s the light switch?” he asked, still hesitating to walk inside of the club.
“It’s on the wall, off to the left,” Carmine informed him. “But in order to reach it, you’ll have to step inside.”
Nervously, Fat Petey took a deep breath and sighed. All right, Petey, here goes nothin’, he pumped himself up before slowly stepping inside of the s
trip club. His head was on a swivel, and his .45 was ready to wreak havoc. His first step was firmly placed on the polished hardwood floor, but his second step was greeted by a slick oily substance. His chunky right leg shot up in the air and his flabby arms flailed wildly. He desperately tried to regain his balance, but when the bottom of his left shoe came in contact with the oily substance, he landed on his fat ass and accidentally fired a shot into the ceiling.
Boom.
The bright muzzle flash illuminated the club, allowing Carmine to get a quick glimpse of the carnage that lay ahead. Quickly, he stepped over Fat Petey and hit the light switch.
“Goddamnit,” Fat Petey complained, realizing he was lying in a pool of congealed blood. His black slacks and gray Ralph Lauren overcoat was covered in the slimy goop. He tried to stand up, but he slipped once again and crashed on his side.
Carmine struggled to help him back to his feet, but not once did he take his eyes off of his surroundings. The pool of blood was connected to a bloody trail that led down the hallway towards his office. At first glance, he instantly reached the conclusion that a violent confrontation had taken place where him and Fat Petey were standing, and that the person on the losing end of the confrontation was drug into his office. In the middle of the blood pool, he spotted a fist-sized piece of human anatomy that was attached to a long, gray rope. The fleshy rope was thick and lumpy, and it trailed the length of the hallway.
“What the fuck is that?” Fat Petey asked while leaning forward to grab his gun from the floor.
Carmine kicked the fleshy pouch with the tip of his Nike boot and flipped it over. “I’m not sure, Petey. It looks like a friggin’ organ.” As he stood there wondering what the bloody pouch could be, it suddenly hit him. “Get the fuck outta here,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What?” Fat Petey asked, looking to Carmine for an answer. As a war capo, he was accustomed to violence, but this was a little too much. “Carmy, what is it?”
With squinted eyes, Carmine evaluated the lumpy rope that was attached to the pouch. “It’s a friggin’ stomach,” he replied, and then gestured towards the lumpy rope with the tip of his boot. “And that’s a large fuckin’ intestine.”
Fat Petey, a seasoned killer in his own right, was horrified. Sweat covered his brow and the confused look on his face reminded Carmine of a constipated toddler. Fat Petey’s hands began to tremble and his bowls released a long sloppy-sounding fart.
Plrrrrrnnnnn.
“Goddamnit, Petey,” Carmine complained as he covered his nose.
Plrrrnnn.
“Come on, Petey. Really?”
Fat Petey just stood there looking stupid. “I’m sorry, Carmy. But this,” he pointed at the organs laying on the floor, “this shit is fuckin’ up my stomach.”
Plrrrrrnnnnn.
Disgusted, Carmine shook his head from side to side. He raised his .10mm in the air and slowly walked down the hallway, carefully avoiding the long rope of intestines. “Hey, yo, Phons,” he called out for his underboss. “You back here?”
Fat Petey was a couple of steps behind him. He was cautiously looking around the strip club, and his .45 was slightly aimed above Carmine’s left shoulder.
Plrn.
“Damnit, Petey. Wouldja knock it off?”
“Carmy, I’m sorry.”
When they approached the office, the door was slightly ajar. Carmine looked back at Fat Petey and whispered, “I’m gonna go low. You go high. Capisce?”
Carmine crouched down and Fat Petey hovered over him. “All right,” Carmine continued whispering. “In three... Two... One.” He pushed the door wide open with his left hand and aimed the .10mm with his right hand. Fat Petey was locked, loaded, and ready to blaze, but the office was empty.
“Carmy, there’s nobody here.”
Carmine stood erect and swung the .10mm from right to left. It was just like Fat Petey said, the office was empty. He looked at his desk and noticed that his leather swivel-chair was turned backwards. The lumpy, gray rope stretched across the floor and wrapped around the right side of his mahogany desk.
As they stepped inside of the office, the pungent odor of warm feces smacked them in the face. “Carmy, that ain’t me,” Fat Petey quickly pleaded his case. “The last time I fluted a toot was out in the hallway.”
Carmine looked at the fat Italian like he wanted to smack the shit out of him. Fat Petey could sense his anger, so he took a step backwards and held up his hands in a defenseless posture. “Carmy, I’m just sayin’.”
Slowly and apprehensively, the two mobsters approached the desk with their weapons aimed at the back of the swivel-chair. “Whoever’s sittin’ in that fuckin’ chair, you better turn around,” Carmine warned.
Silence.
Carmine motioned for Fat Petey to go around the left side of the desk as he walked around the right side. His .10 milli was ready to bark at the slightest movement, and he could actually feel his trigger finger itching. Slowly, he grabbed the arm of the chair with his left hand and spun it around.
“Oh my God,” Fat Petey blurted out, completely caught off guard.
Carmine jumped backwards and then doubled over, spewing out vomit. Nothing in the world could have prepared them for this. Alphonso was sitting in the swivel-chair with his torso ripped inside out. His rib-cage was cracked open and stretched wide, with his organs on full display. The long, fleshy rope that trailed in from the hallway ended up in the ball of intestines that covered his groin area. His lips and eyelids were stitched closed with black lace, and his head was cocked backwards, slightly facing the ceiling. A long gash covered the front of his neck, and where his Adam’s apple should have been, his fat tongue dangled like a pink necktie.
“Carmy, look,” Fat Petey said. He was pointing the barrel of his gun at the 50 inch plasma that hung on the wall adjacent to the desk.
Carmine wiped the vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand and then looked up at the television. A Mexican man was staring at him with a blank expression. His bald head and cleanly shaved face was covered in tattoos, and a pair of implants that resembled devil horns protruded from both sides of his forehead.
“Who the fuck are you?” Carmine asked, wondering how the man had managed to hack into his security system.
“Me?” The Mexican smiled at him. “I’m Diablo. The one who God sent to punish the world.”
“Is this motherfucker serious?” Carmine said with a screwed up face.
“I’m the punishment of God,” Diablo continued. “And had you not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you.”
Carmine spat on the floor. “Gimmie a fuckin’ break. A dead man, that’s what the fuck you are. A fuckin’ dead man.”
Diablo chuckled. “You know, Carmine, at one point in time, you Italians had a lot of heart. But now,” he picked up Alphonso’s heart and held it in front of the camera, “you motherfuckers are helpless and weak.” He crushed the heart in the palm of his hand and thick globs of blood oozed from in between his tattoo-covered fingers. “There’s a cell phone where your compadre’s heart used to be,” he stated with emphasis. “Use it!”
The screen went black and Carmine returned his gaze to Alphonso’s corpse. In the center of his rib-cage, slightly to the right, in the cavity where his heart had been eviscerated, his eyes locked on a blood-covered iPhone. Enraged, he looked at Fat Petey.
Plrrrrrnnnnn.
Chapter Three
Hidalgo County, Texas
Two miles north of the Mexican border, Chico Rivera was slipping in and out of consciousness. His 6’ 8”, 295 pound frame was dangling upside down from a wooden beam in the middle of a horse stable, and his legs were spread apart, just a tad bit wider than the width of his shoulders. The iron cuffs that locked around his ankles were connected to two thick chains, and each of the chains were attached to the railroad spikes that protruded from the wooden beam.
The horse stable was large and spacious. The twelve-foot
high walls were decorated with horseshoes, pitchforks, and a variety of gardening tools. The floor was covered in straw, and large bales of hay were scattered all around. There was a total of sixteen stables, eight to the left and eight to the right. They were ten feet high, five feet wide, and secured with a black iron gate. Each of the stables was occupied by a cinnamon-brown, Arabian horse. Their massive bodies were strong and stout, and their shiny brown coats were topped off with long tufts of silky black hair.
Dangling upside down and slowly swinging back and forth, Chico was dazed and disoriented. The last thing he remembered was being escorted to The Alverez Cattle Ranch in the Rio Grande Valley, where he was scheduled to meet Chatchi Alverez, the acting boss of the infamous Sinaloa Cartel. Unfortunately for Chico, things had gone drastically wrong.
Swoosh.
Whack.
“Ayyy,” The large Mexican screamed when the leather bull-whip ripped the flesh from his bare back.
Swoosh.
Whack.
“Ay yi yi.”
Chico should have known that things would end this way. A little over two months ago, he was given the task of accompanying Chatchi’s nephew, Roberto Alverez, to Philadelphia. Acting as Roberto’s bodyguard, he was instructed to keep the young boxer out of trouble. But more importantly, at all cost, he was responsible for keeping Roberto safe. He failed.
Their first month in the City of Brotherly Love went according to plan. Roberto was focused and training hard for his American debut in the Welterweight division. Every morning, just before 3 a.m., he would awaken to a light breakfast of wheat toast, egg whites, Greek yogurt, and fresh fruit. Then after filling his gas tank with the proper nutrients, he would throw on his Under Armor sweat suit and jog a total of ten miles to the Executioners Boxing Gym. There, he would spend the remainder of his day working out with Philadelphia boxing legends, Bernard Hopkins and Danny Garcia.
Chico was extremely proud of the young boxer, but then seemingly out of nowhere Roberto began to change. Instead of his daily workout regimen, he developed the habit of sleeping all day and partying all night. He rented a Pepsi-blue Lamborghini and began hanging out with Carmine Gervino, the boss of The Gervino Crime Family.
