by Tranay Adams
“Man, fuck this shit, I’m gone!” Wayne called out, taking off running. “Haa! Haa! Haa! Haa!” he trekked hurriedly across the lawn, slinging the choppa over his shoulder.
Brolic kept his eyes on Franklin as he harped up phlegm and spat it on the car. He then hopped off the hood and ran off. He and his young nigga scaled the tall gates, jumped into the whip they’d come in and sped off into the night.
Franklin stood where he was fuming, chest leaping up and down as his face turned red. He looked to his palm and the gashes were long and deep. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to calm himself before stepping back inside of his home to call up the doctor on his payroll to take care of his hand. When word reached Mufasa about what Brolic and Wayne did to Franklin’s luxury cars, he had it in his mind to give the order to have them executed but he knew doing so would break Zonyai’s heart being that he and the thug were like blood brothers. With this in mind he decided to give the hoods a pass. Instead he paid the mob figure for his vehicles and they agreed to let bygones be bygones.
Chapter Three
Four years later
Zonyai tossed and turned in bed, with his pillow over his head, trying to ignore the knocks at the door that threatened to pull him out of dream world. Calling it quits, he sat up in bed stretching and yawning, hearing his bones crack and adjust. He wiped the scum from the corners of his eyes, and rubbed the stump, where his left leg used to be. Every morning he woke up he expected his leg to be there and it was every morning that he was sadly disappointed. As depressing as it was sometimes he realized that it was what he deserved for fucking around with a married woman, especially one that belong to a ruthless mobster like Franklin Trombone. Even now though, he wouldn’t take back the time he spent with Marbella in exchange for his leg. As far as he was concerned a lifetime with her was worth a limb on his body. He’d gladly put one of his arms or legs up on the chopping block. He felt that he was just that special.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Yai, I know you hear me in there! Open the fucking door, nigga!” Brolic’s voice boomed from the other side of the door as he continued to knock.
“I’m up, mothafuckas! Gimmie a second, shit!” He yelled back and hopped up on his good leg, bouncing up and down on it. He grabbed his cane which was propped up against the nightstand and headed for the door, the best as he could.
Zonyai opened the door and stood to the side as Brolic and Wayne crossed the threshold. He dapped them up as they crossed his path and then closed the door shut behind them. They plopped down on the couch. After doing the locks on the door, Zonyai turned around and was damn near blinded by the diamond necklaces that hung from his homies necks.
“I see you cats went to Sergio’s without me, huh?” Zonyai cracked a billion dollar smile, all of his teeth were pearly white.
“Yeahhh, just a lil’ something light.” Brolic looked down at the necklace adorning his neck and smiled. He was being modest as shit though because he’d dropped quite a few stacks on the piece. “I hadda look out for my son, too.” Wayne pulled up his sleeve, twisting his wrist back and forth showing off his icy platinum presidential Rolex. He then boasted his diamond studded necklace and smiled like he was about to take a picture, showing off the gold and diamonds in his grill. The young thug looked like a rapper that had signed to Cash Money records back in the early 2000s.
“My niggaz out here stunting, huh? Showing off all this money we getting in the streets.” Zonyai sat down on the arm of the love seat, resting his palms on the handle on his cane.
“You mothafucking right, cousin, you can’t take the shit witchu when you gon’ so you may as well live it up ‘til Almighty calls us real niggaz home, you feeling me?” Brolic looked to Wayne and dapped him up, smiling proudly about the small fortune he and his crew had turned over. They were buying up any and everything that they could with all of the trap that they were pulling in. They were doing the damn thang, like that Juvenile cut from back in the day said Actin’ like a nigga that ain’t never had shit.
“Hell yeah.” The youngster agreed.
“Anyway, I heard you copped a motorcycle, nigga.”
“Awww, man,” Brolic began, shaking his head. “I wrecked that mothafucka earlier yesterday.”
“For real?” Zonyai frowned, sitting up where he was perched. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. His best friend could have been killed. See, he believed motorcycles were dangerous which is why he didn’t fuck with them. “What happened?”
Brolic went on to tell his lie and while he was doing so he thought about the real reason why he had to discard his bike.
Spree was a goon ass nigga that got it in his head to stickup one of Mufasa’s shipments of coke. He hit the self proclaimed King of the Streets for one hundred of them thangz. As soon as the word got back to the kingpin that he had been taken for his product, he put in a call to his young killers. A couple of days later Brolic and Wayne were able to recover the drugs once they tortured one of Spree’s partners in crime for the info of where they had them stashed. From there they went after the rest of Spree’s crew, whacking out them bitch ass niggaz out until their leaders was only left. Now here they were on a Friday night at 10 o’clock blowing through stop signs and breaking traffic laws like it was something to do.
Vroom!
A black blur flew passed a yellow light that had just turned red, coming up behind a white 2011 Chevy Tahoe truck on them chromed out thangz. The SUV pulled inside of a Valero gas station and the blur slowed down, appearing as just what it was a Kawasaki Ninja with two occupants. The bike pulled into the opposite side of the enormous truck, the rider who was shorter, hopped off the back of it. He headed toward the entrance of the gas station. The driver removed his helmet exposing his identity, it was Brolic. He dismounted the Ninja and hung the helmet on the end of the vehicle’s handle.
“Aye, Cuz,” He called out with one gloved hand cuffed around his mouth. The shorter man turned around, walking backwards slowly, listening. “Get twenty on pump six.”
The little guy nodded and turned around, flipping up his black tinted visor. When he crossed the threshold inside of the establishment, a ding sounded off and he brushed shoulders with a tall light skinned nigga. This was Spree. He was wearing an NY fitted cap backwards, propped up and cocked to the side. A gold cross lay against his white T-shirt and his wrists were icy and gold. He sported a five o’clock shadow and four green tattoo tears was at the corner of his left eye, signifying a fraction of the niggaz he’d put to sleep. His face was fixed with a permanent scowl and there was a bulge on the right side of his waistline.
“Watch where the fuck you goin’, nigga!”Spree whipped around scowling harder and reaching for that act-right on his hip. Seeing this, the little guy lifted his hands in the air like he didn’t want any trouble, fear present in his eyes. “Thought so pussy, keep that shit movin’.” He turned around and walked off toward his SUV, spitting off to the side as the nigga he’d just punked out went to pay for the gas. By the time homeboy had reached his truck and was pumping gas, so was Brolic. The buff thug had stuck a half smoked blunt into his mouth and was trying to light it up, but his lighter wouldn’t produce a flame. Spree’s forehead crinkled watching him continue trying to spark up the L.
“Can’t chu see we in a gas station? What chu tryna do? Blow us all up?” he spat heatedly in his direction, spit leaping off of his lips.
“Oh, my bad, homie, sorry about that.” Brolic replied, looking up and recognizing where he was.
Homeboy shook his head and sighed. “That was stupid.”
“So was taking Mufasa’s shipment.” Brolic twisted his lips and spoke with menacing eyes.
Spree gasps and his eyes widened with fear. He snatched his jeweled hand off of the handle of the gas nozzle and went for his banger but it was already too late. Bloc! Bloc! Two burgundy dots quickly expanded at the center of his shirt. Confusion spread across his face and he looked down at his wounds. He touched them and his hand
came away with blood, dropping down to his knees. The other patrons that had pulled inside of the gas station to fuel up were frozen in fear so they didn’t run. All they could do was watch and the third bullet went through fitted cap’s forehead, knocking his cap off to the side. The shorter man he was talking shit to earlier, stood over him as he went face first to the oil and anti-freeze stained ground, limbs flailing. He pointed his compact .9mm handgun down at him and popped that ass four times in the back of his knot, sealing his fate. He then looked around at everyone who was wearing shocked expressions having seen him put in that work. He spoke through the microphone in his helmet.
“Now I know y’all ain’t seen my face but chu seen my pop’s.” he pointed to Brolic with his thang thang. “So if y’all think about running yo’ mouths about what ya’ll seen here, remember I got this.” He pulled a video tape out of his leather motorcycle jacket and held it high in the air so that everyone could see it. “This is the video camera footage and it has the license plate of every whip on it. If you talk, then me and my bitch Nina are coming to see, straight up.” He referred to his head bussa, lower it to his side and he stashed the tape back inside of his jacket. Seeing Brolic revved up the engine of the motorcycle, he retreated over to him and hopped on the back of it. They sped off, passing the entrance door of the gas station. They passed the attendant that the shorter man had gagged and zip-cuffed with his wrists behind his back.
****
Present
“Yeah, man, I damn near got crushed underneath a semi.” Brolic finished his lie. He had spun his line of bullshit so well that he was convinced that the shit had really happened.
“I’m glad you alright, fam, wouldn’t be the same without you around here.” Zonyai smacked his leg. That was his brother from another and he’d be sick as a dog if something had happened to him.
“You ain’t ever gotta worry about the Loc. I’m made of steel,” he pounded his fist against his chest.
“True that.” He nodded, knowing that his man was just as hard as he claimed. He’d been through a lot of shit in life and he was still alive. That itself was a testament that he was one of the toughest niggaz alive.
“Say no more.” He picked up the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. Wayne sat beside him, going about the task of rolling up a blunt and occasionally glancing up at the flat-screen.
Zonyai eyed the Kush and lifted an eyebrow when he recalled something. He snapped his fingers.
“That reminds me, fool,” he addressed Brolic again. “Where were you yesterday? I was blowing yo’ line up tryna get a number on yo’ weed man. I needed to get my mind right last night and I needed that, for real.”
“I hadda handle something for Fasa...you know how that go.” he focused his attention back on the screen. Landing on an episode of Martin, he gave the show his undivided attention.
****
Boom!
The door of the trap house went flying open and startled everyone inside. They tried to go for their tools but the short nigga with twin .9mms in his gloved hands gave them a stern warning.
“Hands where I can see them, bitches and bitch ass niggaz!” Wayne spoke from behind a black bandana which was covering the lower half of his mouth. He waved his toys all around, wishing one of them fools would test his gangsta so his babies could make good on his threats. With the order given, everyone up in that bitch lifted their hands into the air. Wayne took the center of the living room, keeping his weapons and eyes on every last soul, just in case someone got brave and decided to try him. He whistled and Brolic came waltzing in with a brown Ralph’s shopping bag, looking to be holding something pretty heavy. He was wearing a navy blue Dickie suit and his entire face was covered in a black ski-mask. His eyes took a tour of the room as he committed all of the faces present to his memory. Whipping out his gun, he used it to quietly push the front door shut. Afterwards, he strolled inside of the kitchen whistling Dixie in the silence that plagued the house. The tune he was creating was the sound track to his audiences raging heartbeats. Them mothafuckas didn’t know what the hell to expect from those two wild ass niggaz that was up in the spot.
Brolic sat down at the kitchen table and sat he bag down at his feet. He opened it as he continued to whistle, pulling out something bloody and wrapped up in Saran Wrap. Every one’s eyes were focused on him as he took his sweet time, pulling the wrapping off of whatever he had. Once every one could see what it was in his possession, shock spread across their faces and some of them even threw up on the carpet.
“Yeah, this y’all boss, Macho, nigga had four traps around the way getting it popping. Homie wouldn’t let them go so my boss sent me to holla at him, which I did.” Brolic informed them all, mad dogging them and daring them to buck after what he’d told them. No one did though. “Them traps belong to my boss now, Mufasa. And if you wanna make more money than this fuck-head was paying you, then come fuck with my nigga. Alright then, whose tryna get down?” He looked around the room and every one had their hands up, hoping that they’d be pick to get down on a winning team. A smile stretched across his lips when he saw this. “Good, good...very good.” he nodded approvingly, showcasing his chipped front tooth.
****
Present
“Man, Fasa, keep y’all two niggaz in the field.” Zonyai said like He be working the shit out of you niggaz.
“It’s cool, Yai.” He claimed. “Long as me and my son can keep eating like kings, I’m good. Besides, Cuz, I’m good at what I do and I love doing it.”
Wayne looked at his Rolex and said, “Yo’ it’s about that time.”
“Alright then, let me gon’ and get ready.” Zonyai got on his feet with the cane and hopped along.
“Gon’ and get dressed so we take care of this business, Kunta Kinte.” Brolic busted up laughing.
“Pop, you know you ain’t right.” Wayne gave him a disapproving look, wearing a smirk on his lips.
Zonyai grinned and threw up the middle finger.
Brolic and Wayne busted up laughing.
After taking a shower and getting dressed, Zonyai rummaged through his dresser drawer for his Movado watch. Coming across it, he also found Marbella’s knot of hair and a photo strip they’d taken one night at a carnival. He admired the images in each of the boxes of the strip, smiling as he thought of all the fun they’d had that night. He remembered it like it was the night before because it was the night he realized he was in love and they’d made love for the first time.
Zonyai had been with a lot of women in his short twenty-seven years on earth, but they all paled in comparison to the Italian beauty, when he’d first courted her he had no intentions of falling for her. He was a player and she was just supposed to be another notch under his belt. A piece of ass he could brag about to his homies, but once he’d gotten to know her he was smitten. He didn’t know what it was but he had it bad for her. Four years had passed since he’d heard her voice, felt her touch, or the sweet scent of her perfume. At that moment, he wondered where she was, what she was doing, and if she was thinking of him.
Zonyai sat the picture back down in his drawer and picked up the knot of hair. He held it to his nose and inhaled, drawing in the alluring scent of the shampoo and conditioner she last used. He closed his eyes and smiled, imagining her right there with him wrapped in his arms.
“Fuck are you doing?” Brolic’s voice came from the doorway, startling Zonyai and snapping him back to reality.
“Nothing,” He replied tossing the hair back in the drawer and closing it. “Come on, let’s go.”
Chapter Four
Crack!
Marbella flipped over the bed and hit the floor with a thud. Wincing, she crawled into the corner and sat up, holding her throbbing eye. Her body was beginning to bruise and she was aching all over. She looked around for an escape and found the window cracked open. She was about to make a dash for it when the burly shadow of her attacker eclipsed her. The mob wife looked like a scared mouse cor
nered by a cat as Franklin closed in, his large hands clenched into fists. He was clad in his boxer briefs, his gut hanging over them and hairy chest rising and falling as he stared down at her. There was malice in his eyes and larceny in his heart. After how he’d finished punching on her she thought for sure he was going to kill her. And she couldn’t blame him after the violation she’d committed.
“You utter another man’s name while I make love to you, on. My. Fuckin. Birthday?” He bellowed, peeling his lips apart breathing like a bear that had just gotten into a fight. “I should fuckin’ kill ya, literally fuckin’ kill yaaaaa!” Spittle flew from his lips and his head slightly shook from his screaming so loud. In a rage, he pulled Marbella up by her hair and forced her against the wall, with her holding tightly to his wrists wincing in pain. He’d nearly torn her fucking her from out of her scalp. Franklin grabbed his wife by her bottom jaw so tight that her lips pouted. He then cocked back his fist and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the assault.
Boom!
Franklin’s fist went straight through the wall by her ear, leaving a large hole. Marbella slithered to the floor, holding her hands to her face and crying. With two strong tugs and a couple of grunts, he snatched his fist free from out of the wall, dropping plaster residue at his feet. He then stared down at her with disgust, contemplating on beating her ass again. Figuring he’d better leave her alone before he’d have to call up his guys to help him dispose of her body, he threw on clothes and left the bedroom.
