by Ws Greer
The moment comes to me in a rush of raw energy. My veins feel like the blood flowing through them is too much and they might explode any minute. My heart begins to race as I tighten my grip on the box cutter, and in one quick, strong motion, I slash it across Davon’s throat. I lay on top of his back with my hand over his mouth, watching as his blood pours out of the long, deep wound and his body convulses to get free. The sight of it brings that urge to laugh roaring back to me, and I can’t help it anymore. I hear myself chuckling as the blood pools under us both, and Davon slowly stops moving. His legs stop kicking and his arms go limp as life leaves his body. Just like that, he’s gone. I just killed a man. It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. Will it be the last?
Once everything stops, my laughing fades away as well, but a smile lingers on my face. I stand up, careful not to step in the still-increasing puddle of blood on the floor, and make my way over to the front door. As I walk, thoughts flash in my mind like a movie montage. I see an image of Whitney—first she’s screaming at me, then she’s sticking a needle into her arm and collapsing onto the floor. Then there’s Moe, Nix’s father, hitting Justine, Nix’s mother. Next is Reina being beaten up in the alley next to Aaron’s, followed by her getting on a train and being whisked away, leaving me all alone in the black and gray smoke of her departure. I see the house I grew up in, the same house I still have to go back to now and call home. I see misery, suffering, and complete sadness. It’s all I’ve ever known for all eighteen years of my life. I have loved little, and even that has been taken away from me.
As I step out into the hallway and close Davon’s door behind me, I allow myself one last thought of Whitney and Reina. They’re the final straws. They’re the last pieces that came together to complete the horrible puzzle that is my life. I’m not sad that they’re gone. I will embrace it, and use it as fuel for everything I do in the future. Cash N Check and Julia’s Jewels were nothing in comparison to what I have planned. Reina’s departure, Whitney’s and Davon’s deaths—these are the final actions to my birth. I am being reborn today. I am ascending, and as I take the fire escape down to the ground floor—making sure not to leave the building the same way I came in—I know nothing will ever be the same. This is only the beginning.
Watch out world! Here comes Solomon King!
BLUE SKIES. IT’S a beautiful Philly day, and the sky is as blue as it’s ever been. A few birds fly by and catch my attention for a second before my eyes shift back to the cloudless sky. I can even see the moon from this angle, with my head tilted back, looking up at the vastness above me. It really is beautiful. Majestic, even. I feel calmed by it. Soothed. Like a shot of tequila sloshing down my throat and exploding in my belly, setting my insides on fire all the way down. Yeah, all that just from looking up at the fucking sky.
Smooth, beautiful chrome, ready for action.
The alley is narrow. Just wide enough to fit the moving truck I’m sitting in. Directly in front of me is a busy street with cars speeding by in both directions, and to my right is the red brick backside of Philadelphia First National Bank. As a kid, I used to drive by it every now and then. I’d glance out the window of whatever shitty car we were driving in as we passed, and I knew why we never stopped or went inside. We didn’t have any money, that’s why. My mother never needed a bank because she never kept money long enough to ever consider saving it in a place like this.
Thirty seconds. Rounds chambered.
You see, when you’re as poor as we were, you have to hold on to every cent you have. Those pennies are worth everything, and losing them could be the difference between eating dinner and going to bed hungry. So, my mother hoarded her money. Oh yeah, she hoarded it until she had enough to buy her next hit, and I usually went to bed hungry any way.
Ten seconds.
As I sit outside First National Bank now, I feel a sense of pride for my poor old mom. Maybe she had it all figured out after all. Maybe she knew all along. She never put her money in this bank, and she never had any of it stolen from her. Not too shabby for a junkie whore.
Mask on. Let’s play!
I pop open my door and climb out of the white truck with a shiny chrome nine millimeter in each hand. The rush of adrenaline surges through my body, from the top of my black hair to the soles of my tattooed feet, and I don’t bother to suppress the laugh that escapes me. I can’t help it. I love this.
Securing the goalie mask on my face as I round the corner, the few pedestrians on the gray sidewalk look confused for a second, but that confusion spins into fear when they see my shiny chrome babies in my hands, and they turn to run the other direction.
Yes, run! Scatter like the terrified little insects you are.
A few quick steps and I’m right at the entrance of the bank. I open the glass door to find one of the security guards lying on the floor. He’s a middle-aged white guy and he’s reaching for his little radio only a few feet out of his grasp. This is exactly why we do it this way. Someone’s always trying to be the hero.
What is it about these kinds of people? Do they think they’ll get a medal from the mayor or something? Their picture on the front page of the newspaper, with a headline that reads
“Chubby cop stops armed robbers by using his radio as a weapon. Receives key to the city!” I mean seriously, why would you try to be brave with all these loaded weapons being flailed about and pointed at people’s faces? Some people are just too stupid. He’s trying so hard to reach the radio he never hears me coming. Ah, but he’ll feel me.
Without breaking stride, I walk over to the chubby guard and place my black, size eleven combat boot on his wrist, and I use the bone in his arm to balance all of my one-hundred-ninety pounds. The chubby, smooth-faced guard lets out a scream, but it’s a little premature. He doesn’t have a reason to scream yet.
“Hi there,” I greet him, looking down. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, Officer Chubbs, but when my associates came in with their loaded guns about thirty seconds ago, did they or did they not tell you to get on the floor and stay still?”
The guard nods his head as sweat starts to form little beads on his wrinkled forehead.
“Ah, I thought so. Thank you for your honesty!”
The sound of the gunshot blares through the building and blood splatters onto my boot. A woman in the corner screams a little before being silenced by one of my associates, who shoves his gun in her face, and the chubby guard yells at the top of his lungs as he looks at his hand and realizes he can see through the hole I just put in it. Now he has a reason to scream.
I let the beauty of his shriek linger for a moment—just long enough for everyone in the room to know how ugly things can turn at the drop of a hat. I even take a second to move my arms around like a music conductor inspired by his yelling. But then it becomes annoying, and I bend over and shove the hot barrel of my nine into his mouth.
“Sshhhh,” I whisper as he chokes down his scream. “Before you think of screaming or moving again, imagine what it’d be like to have another hole in the back of your throat.”
The security guard can’t see my face because of the hockey mask and balaclava underneath it, but he knows I’m serious. He can feel it lifting off of me like the smell of cologne, and I see it in his eyes as he starts to shiver from the fear of actually thinking about it. He won’t be a problem anymore, so I stand up and make my way to the center of the small bank, stepping over a couple of customers as I go.
“Thank you all so very much!” I exclaim as I climb on top of the black marble counter and address the entire room with my arms outstretched to my sides, my voice echoing and bouncing off the white walls. “Ladies and gentlemen, my associates and I will be making a large withdrawal, and I’d appreciate it if none of you did anything stupid. If you do anything that I even consider to be making a move, you will end up with lots of extra holes in your body. Holes that’ll make it impossible for your body to sustain life. You’ve been warned.”
I drop down from the counter and
nod to my associate standing at the start of the hall in front of us. Nix is now six-five with shoulders as broad as ever, and he snatches up an old, gray-haired man with a gray mustache resting over his nose.
“How ironic,” I say behind a chuckle as the man puts his hands up like we’re the police. “We’re here to rob a bank and we end up with Mr. Monopoly as the manager. It really is a beautiful day. Now go open the vault!”
The Monopoly guy jumps at the sound of my voice, but he does a great job of moving his ass, escorting us to the back of the bank and getting the gray, thick vault door open by swiping his key card. The big door swings open and my eyes take in the sight of all the money just sitting there on a metal table . . . waiting to screw me over.
“Wait a minute, Mr. Monopoly,” I say as Nix pulls out a plastic trash bag and waits for my orders. “We both know those stacks of cash have those devices that spray paint all over the bills once I start to play with them. It’d be a really bad idea to give me those, because then I’d have to track you down and rape your little old asshole with the barrel of this gun. So if you’re smart at all, Mr. Monopoly, you’ll be careful with your next choice.”
Just like I knew he would, Mr. Monopoly goes over to a silver drawer on the bottom left side of the vault and swipes his key card again. The drawer slides open and the old man starts tossing stacks of cash into Nix’s plastic bag. These stacks haven’t had the anti-theft devices put in them yet, so there won’t be any surprises waiting for us once we leave.
There’s enough cash to fill up an entire trash bag, and after a quick glance at my watch, I know I don’t have time to get greedy.
“That’s it,” I say to Nix, who promptly wraps the top of the plastic bag around his hand and forces Mr. Monopoly onto the floor without saying a word. The two of us leave him lying there as we make our way out.
I step with pace as we leave the vault and walk back into the lobby where the customers and employees of the bank are still sprawled across the floor with their fingers interlocked behind their heads.
“Thank you all for your cooperation,” I announce as I walk towards the door I came in only sixty seconds ago, and everyone in my crew starts to follow me out.
With a loud chuckle tickling my throat, I push the door open and make my way onto the sidewalk. More pedestrians jump and run to get out of my way as I shove one of my gorgeous chrome weapons into the front of my waistband and the other into the back. My six associates—all dressed in black sweat suits, black boots, black balaclavas and white hockey masks—pick up the pace and jog to the truck in the alley to start it up and get ready to make our getaway, but before I reach the back of the white truck, I’m stopped by a voice.
“Stop right there!” the voice commands, followed by a groan and the obvious sound of a round being chambered. I stop and slowly spin on my heel in the narrow alley to find another security guard holding one of my associates by the neck and pointing a gun at me over his shoulder. This guard, a young hotshot white kid with bravery running through his veins, obviously likes to lift heavy things from the size of his arms, and he has a look of pure determination on his face. I feel my heart start to race at the excitement of the unexpected event and I laugh out loud.
“Well, well, well! This, I did not expect!” I exclaim as I start to clap. This type of idiocy deserves an applause. “Bravo, Mr. Security Guard! Bravo!”
“Shut up!” the guard shouts, still pointing the weapon. My associate clutches the burly guard’s arm like a damsel in distress, and the sight of it sickens me. “You’re not gonna get away with this,” the guard shouts, but I can hear the tremble in his voice. “Don’t move or I will shoot you dead.”
“Oh I’m not moving, sir,” I reply, grinning at him.
“Good. Now get on your knees and put your hands behind your back,” the guard demands.
I exhale and roll my head back and forth to stretch my neck before locking my eyes on the guard. “Let me make sure I’ve got it right. You want me down on my knees, and my hands behind my back?”
The guard swallows hard before shouting again. “Drop that weapon you’ve got in your waistband. I see it. Drop it! Do it slowly!”
Rookies.
I smile at the guard even though I know he can’t see my face behind the masks. While he watches me nervously, I slowly remove my gun from my waistband and dangle it in front of me by the trigger guard, teasing the young, muscle-bound, officer.
“Drop it, asshole!” he shouts, apparently not appreciative of my good mood.
“As you wish,” I reply, letting the gun fall off of my finger. As it falls towards the ground, I drop to one knee at near light speed and remove my other gun from the back of my waistband. I fire a single shot just as the gun I dropped smacks the concrete, and watch the guard’s head snap back as the bullet enters his forehead just below his hairline. He crumbles into a heap beneath the feet of my associate.
“Holy shit!” my associate exclaims as I pick up my gun, dust it off, and turn on my heel to walk towards the truck behind me.
My driver starts up the engine just as I reach the back door and start to climb in.
“That was a crazy shot!” my associate chirps as he starts to climb into the truck behind me and removes his masks. “Thanks for handling that, Solomon.”
I sit down on the metal bench in the back of the moving truck and remove my masks, exposing my messy black hair and tattoos of demonic hands that reach up for my neck from under my shirt, as if they’re trying to escape hell. I want this guy to see my face. I want him to see my eyes.
“Thanks for handling it?” I repeat, just as I look up at the skinny man trying to climb into the truck. “You think I did that for you? I did that because it felt good. I did that because I hate security guards just as much as I hate regular cops. I did that because it brought me joy. But this—I’m doing this because you couldn’t handle it yourself. And I don’t let pussies on my team.”
Without a hint of hesitation, I aim one of my loaded chrome beauties at his face, just as terror takes over every inch of his pale skin.
“No, Solomon wait!” are his last words as I pull the trigger. The gun lets out a quick, sharp pop and sends my ex-associate’s body falling backwards onto the dark pavement. The second he lands and I see the dark red blood pooling around his head, I signal my driver and close the doors to the compartment we’re seated in. I sit down with a comfortable smile on my face as the moving truck quickly heads out of the alley and into the flow of traffic.
I LOVE THE dark. The night. Not the stars in the sky, shining their ridiculous light all over the place, keeping things from being as black as they can be. No, it’s the darkness I love. I find comfort in it. Solace. The night is when I come to life. At night, all the people in the world reveal who they really are. You want to know if the woman you love is a whore? Just wait until the darkness spreads over the earth and she thinks you’re not watching. What she does in the darkness will tell you all you need to know. Ah, the things people do in the comfort of the night! At night, the strong take over and the weak hide, quivering in their little boots somewhere. At night, all the fun begins.
My favorite place in the world is my home away from home, Club Asylum. A two-story night club in the heart of Philadelphia owned by yours truly. The king himself! There’s nothing like a Friday night in Club Asylum—all the flesh being flaunted and used to tease anyone willing to look, the alcohol being consumed like it’s the last on earth, the blaring music, the sex in the air, all mixed with the feeling of invincibility. You can see it emanating off of the group of thuggish guys that waltz in together, flashing their jewelry as if it makes them who they are. You can see the feeling of power floating off of the group of white guys as they strut in wearing their button-ups and slacks, glaring at the rest of the club goers like they’re above them in every way. And of course, you can sense the power all the women in the place hold as they flirt with these guys, controlling them completely. These women, in their tight dresses and sho
rt skirts, could take whatever they want from the idiot men who think they run something. It’s the women who are really in control. They could bring these men to their knees—with a flash of one tit, they can get anything they want from these idiots without ever having to go all the way. Ah, Club Asylum, how I love thee! It’s addicting, really, and I enjoy the view of it all from my little box on the second floor.
Contrary to what the mongrels who spend their money in my club think, the Box on the second floor of Club Asylum is not VIP. No, the Box is my personal safe haven. It’s literally a bullet-proof, sound-proof glass cube in the center of the second floor, surrounded by the large VIP section. The Box is fit for a king—plush white couches running around the perimeter, humongous speakers in every corner to play the club’s music or music of my choosing if the club DJ plays something stupid that I don’t feel like hearing, six security monitors mounted to the top of one wall, and a large glass table in the center, big enough to seat ten people in the red leather chairs that surround it, but there’s usually only two of us. Tonight is no exception. The outside of the Box is surrounded by women eyeballing us as we enter, just waiting for their chance to spend the night with a known criminal. Women are crazy.
“Good evening Mr. King,” Lenny, the large bouncer at the entrance of the Box, says as I approach. I don’t verbally respond to him, I only look at him as he leans over and pushes the thick glass door open with light from the club shining off of his bald head.
The only person in the world who I’d call my friend, Nix Malone, enters first, and I step in after him. In the past seven years, Nix has grown into the six-foot-five, two-hundred-forty-pound behemoth seated next to me now, and as I came up in Philadelphia’s underworld, he came up with me. Nix always had my back, and he’s been ready to die right alongside me for fifteen years now. He’s been there for every robbery and scheme my ingenious brain has cooked up. If I snap my fingers, Nix will pull your head off your shoulders. I like to think that if I wasn’t around, Nix would run this city. But I am around, so Philly belongs to me. Me! Solomon King.
