by Sa'id Salaam
“You missed a spot!” P.I.G. said with a laugh, and the crowd joined him.
Tears fell freely from Wanda’s eyes as she swept the room, in total pain and embarrassment.
After what seemed like an eternity, P.I.G. allowed her to stop. “Blast!” P.I.G. yelled as he stopped the camera. “Get yo’ ass out here.”
Blast came out and glared dangerously at her husband as Wanda pulled the broom out of her ass and slid her dress on.
“Give this lil bitch something for cleaning up,” P.I.G. said with a chuckle, eliciting more forced laughter from the spectators.
“Ain’t nothing left,” Blast announced firmly. “I told you to send for Earl.” The only drugs left were hers, and she wasn’t about to part with them for his bullshit. He ran through several ounces a day with his freaks, and she’d be damned if she gave up hers.
“Oh well.” P.I.G. shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’ll let ya sweep up again.”
The smokers all chuckled at the dis, glad it wasn’t directed at them.
That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Something snapped inside of Wanda as a lifetime of disappointment and bad memories flooded her brain.
As she reached in her purse, she could see her stepdad sneaking into her room at night, followed by her stepbrother. She recalled every lie told to her by Mike and others like him, the pathetic lies that turned her into a prostitute and a stripper, only to be chumped off for Tiffany. She remembered every trick and every dick.
The room fell silent as Wanda produced the little raggedy gun from her purse. Her hand shook wildly as she pointed the weapon at P.I.G.’s wide face. Wanda’s hand was shaking so hard that the clip fell out of the gun, causing the room to erupt in laughter.
The doorman, who had been easing up to disarm Wanda, fell back and joined the revelry.
Then an explosion from the small gun reverberated in the suddenly silent room. Everyone looked around at each other in shock.
P.I.G. had a confused look on his face, as if trying to figure out what had just happened. The small-caliber projectile had entered his nostril so cleanly it took a few seconds before he or anyone else knew he was hit. By the time he realized what happened, he was dead. His huge head slumped forward, causing blood to pour from his nose.
The junkies, along with the doorman, all ran out of the house.
Wanda smiled at the sight of her dead tormenter, then turned on her heels and left as well.
Blast simply walked to the back and continued smoking. When the police arrived an hour later, that was where they found her…still smoking. She was arrested for possession, but luckily, the police response time was so slow that she’d smoked her stash down to an ounce, thus avoiding a trafficking charge. That meant the difference between rehab versus twenty years.
Once she arrived at the jail, she used her one call to contact Earl. “It’s over, baby. The pig is dead,” she said, relieved. After explaining what happened, she told him to collect the money from the houses and shut everything down. She gave him her bond information and waited for him to come and get her.
Instead, Earl gathered up almost $300,000 from the houses and took flight—took a flight, to be exact. He paid cash for a one-way ticket to his birthplace on the small Caribbean island of Tobago, all courtesy of his former employers.
CHAPTER 27
As fate would have it, Blast and Tiffany ended up in the same rehabilitation center. The two women were cordial to each other when they met, but they generally tried to avoid each other. They shared a legacy of pain and degradation that they didn’t care to be reminded of. They wanted the past to stay where it belonged: in the past.
This came easier for Tiffany, who had mended her relationship with her parents. They were at the center every weekend for visitation. Their unwavering support and forgiveness was essential to Tiffany’s rehabilitation.
* * *
Blast, on the other hand, was all alone. When Earl ran off, she had no one to turn to. She had not spoken with her family in Mississippi in so long that she didn’t even know them anymore. She had millions of dollars but not one friend. She had trusted Earl, and that didn’t turn out well at all. She had plenty of money to replace the $300,000 he absconded with, but no amount of money could fix her broken heart.
* * *
Tiffany’s parents had told her they would not be coming to visit one weekend, so she was surprised to hear her name called over the loudspeaker for visitation. “Okaaay! I wonder who this could be,” Tiffany sang giddily as she dressed for her visit. Since there were no classes, group sessions, or mail on the weekends, they were dreadfully slow. Spending a couple of hours with loved ones was always a welcomed reprieve.
“Table Five,” the guard supervising the visitation area directed as Tiffany entered.
She stared at the familiar face, blinking to be sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. Every time she opened her eyes, she expected him to be gone, but there he was. “Oh my God! Is that you!?” she asked, embracing the man. “What’s that on your face…and on your head?” Tiffany asked when they separated from their hug.
“This is a beard, and this is a Kufi,” Carlos said, matter-of-factly.
“So you’re one of them Moslems now?” Tiffany asked as they took their seats.
“It’s Muslim, and yes. Ash hadoo anla illaha illallah!” he replied cheerfully.
“I have no idea what that means. It’s pretty though.” Tiffany laughed.
“I said, ‘There is no God but the one God, and Muhammad, peace be upon him, is His messenger’,” Carlos replied seriously. “Oh, and it’s Ali now.”
“So your girl a Muslim too?” Tiffany asked, turning up her lips.
“I’m not with her anymore. I’m taking some time to get myself in order before I find a wife,” he replied.
“I can relate,” Tiffany said, waving her hand around the room. “Tryina get right too.”
For the next few hours, the couple talked about everything under the sun. This was the most conversation they’d had in years. Tiffany had a million questions about religion, and Carlos answered them all as best he could.
When the guards announced that their time was up, Tiffany made Carlos promise to return the following week. He also gave her a small Qur’an that he kept with him.
During the week, Carlos and Tiffany enjoyed marathon phone conversations as they rebuilt their friendship. Tiffany was so enthralled with her Qur’an that they spent hours discussing it.
Tiffany’s parents were dismayed when she asked them not to come up for visitation, but they were fine with it when she told them Carlos was coming . They were very fond of him and knew he was a good young man.
“What’s wrong?” Carlos asked urgently when he saw Tiffany’s tears at their next visit.
“You think God—or Allah—can forgive me?” she asked, sobbing.
Carlos lifted her head with his hand to make eye contact before they spoke. “When you accept Islam, all your past sins are forgiven,” he assured her.
“Okay. So what I gotta do?” Tiffany asked eagerly.
“What do you mean?” Carlos asked, unsure of the question.
“To be a Muslim, to be forgiven, what I gotta do?” she replied.
“Just repeat after me…Ash-hadoo anla illah illallah, wa ash haddo anna Muhammadan rasoulullah,” he said.
When she was unable to repeat it verbatim, he broke it down into segments, and she got it.
“Now you gotta turn a back flip, and you in,” Carlos said seriously.
“You for real?” Tiffany asked, incredulous. “I can’t turn no flip!”
“Just kidding, Fatima,” Carlos laughed.
“What you call me?” Tiffany demanded with a frown.
“Fatima,” Carlos said seriously. “That’s the name of the prophet’s—peace be upon him—daughter, Ali’s wife.”
“Oh,” Tiffany said, calming down from thinking he’d called her some other gi
rl’s name. “Oh!” she exclaimed excitedly when she finally caught on. “So are you asking me…!” Tiffany yelled, unable to even get it out.
“Yes, sister, I’m asking you to marry me,” Carlos said sincerely.
“Yes, of course! Of course!” Tiffany said, still screaming. “I mean, insha-Allah!” She chuckled, embarrassed by her outburst.
* * *
Over the next eight months, Carlos and Tiffany grew closer. Besides his weekly visits, they spent hours on the phone.
Tiffany embraced her new way of life with zeal. She read everything she could get her hands on and ordered more books when she finished those. Carlos was both amazed and pleased at how much she learned; she was even teaching him things he didn’t know.
When the program ran its course, the residents were free to go. They had a van to take people with no rides to the train station. Since the majority of them had long since burned their bridges, most took the van.
In the end, only Tiffany and Blast remained. They were both hoping their rides showed up quickly to avoid conversation. Tiffany knew Carlos and her parents were en route, but Blast was looking for Earl. Even though she had not heard one word from him or even knew his whereabouts, she kept up hope. She knew what they shared was true love, and she held faith in that.
When Carlos’s truck pulled up, Tiffany ran down to meet it. Halfway down the steps, she stopped and went back. She gave Blast a hug that spoke volumes without uttering one word.
“Go. I’m all right,” Blast said, fighting the urge to cry.
“You sure? We can give you a ride,” Tiffany offered as they broke their embrace.
“No. Earl is coming. He’s just running late,” Blast said, believing it herself.
“Okay,” Tiffany said sadly. She knew no one was coming for Blast, even if Blast wouldn’t admit it. “Take care,” she said over her shoulder as she went to the truck.
* * *
After a tearful reunion with her family, Carlos steered the truck toward Atlanta.
“Where we going?” Tiffany asked curiously as they passed the exit that would have taken them home.
“To the masjid on Fourteenth Street…to get married,” Carlos said proudly.
“You asking or telling?” Tiffany shot back playfully.
“Telling!” her mother and father replied in unison from the backseat.
“Okay! Dang! Let’s go get married then.” Tiffany laughed.
After a short Islamic service, Carlos and Tiffany dropped her parents off at their house before heading to their own. Carlos had purchased a new home in a surrounding county several months earlier, but he’d waited for Tiffany’s release so they could move into it together.
* * *
Blast finally admitted to herself that no one was coming. She called a taxi to take her to her house. “Girl, you healthy and rich,” she told herself to combat the urge to cry. Still, she gave the driver the directions to the house that Earl had run for P.I.G. before he left.
She accepted the fact that Earl was gone, but she still hoped he wasn’t. Besides, there was no way she was going to step foot in the house of horror on Moreland Avenue ever again. She debated whether she should sell it or burn it to the ground.
Blast thanked the driver twice, once verbally and then again by allowing him to keep the change. She fished out the keys and entered the musty house. Her heart sank again when she saw it was indeed uninhabited.
“Oh well.” She shrugged. “Five hours, three cars, and two mill,” she said, counting her blessings. She then set about opening windows to air the dank house.
Blast got misty-eyed when she got to the master bedroom, the place she and Earl stole moments together when they could. An envelope taped to the mirror instantly caught her attention. She smiled at the familiar handwriting as she tore into the package. Blast disregarded what she thought were brochures that fell out, eager to get a letter. To her surprise, it wasn’t dated a year earlier, but only the day before. She fumbled to get it open and read it as quick as she could:
“Hey, baby. Wipe that smile off your face! I’m sorry I left the way I did, but it was for the best. Had I bailed you out that night, we would have both went back to the same life. We would have ended up in jail, dead, or worse...still junkies. I’m clean now. Have been since the day I left. I’m at home now—our home—waiting on you. Enclosed is a one-way ticket. I’ll see you tonight. Love, Earl.”
“I’m coming, baby!” Blast screamed, scrambling to pick up the fallen tickets.
CHAPTER 28
After pleading out to two life sentences in Atlanta, Marcus took his other murder charges to trial just for the hell of it. Dekalb County gave him two more life sentences without the possibility of parole.
At the age of twenty-one, he was facing living the next forty or fifty years in prison , until he died. They were never gonna let him out. He spent six months at a diagnostic prison undergoing a battery of physical and mental evaluations. Then he was sent to a Level Five prison to serve his time.
New arrivals came into the prison system every Tuesday and Thursday. This allowed the predators to develop a routine. When the new inmates were brought into the dorm, the robbing crew would duck off into a cell and see who was who.
If someone was a known snitch, they wouldn’t be allowed to stay. If they were bait, they were robbed. If they got robbed and didn’t get anyone back, they were getting fucked next. The Georgia prison system’s motto was “Fuck, fight, or wash clothes.” If you were fucking, then so be it. If you fought, you earned respect. If you opted to wash clothes, it was only a matter of time before you were fucking.
Marcus was spotted the moment he walked into the cell house. “I know dat ain’t the nigga dat kilt my daddy,” Red’s son, Lil Red, announced. He was serving a life sentence of his own for armed robbery and murder.
“Who?” his homeboy, Willie B, asked, crowding the small window in the door. Willie B earned his nickname by looking just like the legendary gorilla from the Atlanta Zoo, and just like his namesake, he was a gorilla.
Lil Red was about to rush out and attack until Willie B restrained him.
“Chill, shawty. Let’s wait till after count,” he reasoned.
“That’s what’s up,” Lil Red agreed.
The prison took a headcount every four hours. That was the only time the correction officers ever came in. The inmates had from count to count to do whatever they wanted to do.
“Yeah, Ima fuck dat lil nigga real good,” Willie B announced eagerly. He had been locked up since age ten and had never been with a woman, yet even though the only pussy he ever had was boy pussy, he didn’t think of himself as gay.
Lil Red hated the homosexual culture of the prison system, but he intended to let Willie B rape Marcus as part of the torture. They would have four hours with him, and he didn’t plan to kill Marcus until the last moment. They recruited another one of their homeboys to take part in the murder.
When the time came, Marcus’s cellmate was lured out before the trio rushed in. Marcus was busy arranging his locker box when he was attacked.
As Lil Red and Shakey pummeled Marcus, Willie B undressed. “Strip dat ho,” Willie B ordered, stroking his erection with vigilance.
Marcus soon found himself tied, face down, on the bunk. He screamed in vain through the gag as Willie B climbed on top of him. Marcus’s screams became shrill as Willie B pushed inside of him.
Lil Red turned away, disgusted, as Shakey watched curiously.
“Kill me! Jus’ kill me!” Marcus begged.
Meanwhile, Willie B was having the time of his life. He wished he was alone with his prey and wished he had more time with him. He wanted to make love to Marcus, to flip him over and fuck him face to face and kiss him in the mouth.
A strange thing happened as Marcus was being raped. He finally managed to work the gag free from his mouth, but instead of screaming, he laughed.
“That fuck nigga like dat shit!” Lil Red yelled, enraged that the dude they wer
e supposed to be torturing and killing was having fun. “I’m finna murk dis nigga,” he said, stepping forward.
Marcus had been diagnosed as HIV positive, and he loved the fact that he was at least going to be taking one of them with him.
Willie B knew his time was up and finished up with a quick thrust. He rolled of just as Lil Red and Shakey began beating Marcus with the padlocks tied to their belts.
After bludgeoning Marcus to death, they slid his body under the bed, where it wouldn’t be seen until the next count came up short two hours later. Willie B missed his new lover already and thought about him as he sucked on a cigarette.
On four life sentences, Marcus served just under four months, and finally, he was a free man.
EPILOGUE
“Yes, dear?” Fatima sang to her husband as they drove along the interstate.
“Yes what?” Ali asked, puzzled by the statement. “I ain’t call you.”
“I coulda sworn…never mind,” she replied, feeling a little silly. She was sure she had heard her name called.
“Tiffany!” the voice called again, louder this time.
“No! Leave me alone!” Tiffany screamed as she realized who was calling her.
“What’s wrong? Is it the baby?” Carlos asked, rubbing his free hand on her protruding belly.
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” Tiffany stammered, embarrassed by the outburst. She smiled and placed her hand on top of his as their son kicked inside of her.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” the demon said with a chuckle. “I’ll be waiting...”
the end
>
I
Five years ago, my world was turned upside down when my father, Lavelle Brown (a.k.a. “Lucifer”) escaped from prison, where he was supposed to be serving a life sentence. I was not overjoyed with this news, nor did I experience any of the overwhelming emotions that I, a diehard Daddy’s girl from the cold streets of Detroit, had always imagined I would for the years I had patiently awaited his return. Through an unlikely source, I found out that my father was no longer the man I thought I knew. I learned that he’d hired a hit man to kill my drug-addicted mother, Lena, whom he had married straight out of high school after what he thought was love at first sight. He later put a hit on my older sister Kierra, who had also become a crack-addicted dope fiend after the horrific experience of finding our mother’s dead body stuffed in a box and tossed out with the trash that was waiting to be collected on pick-up day. On one of Kierra’s binges, she had stolen some money from a guy that ran one of Lucifer’s trap houses with the help of her lowlife boyfriend Peanut to pay off another dealer for the debt she created with him by smoking up his shit.
