by Sa'id Salaam
"Yeah, you momma, the black whore. Whoa!" He replied to delight his friends.
"My dear, sweet, deceased mother." The officer said softly. Her funeral was only days ago and the salt in the open wound stung. He was far more hurt than angry but still decided to get even.
Officer Black changed his security level from minimum to high. It meant the difference of baking bread in Bakersville and getting his salad tossed in Toledo. It would eventually get fixed but would it be in time to save his virginity is the question.
Casper was a big shot in the diagnostic center with his exaggerated mob ties. Since he really did live on the outskirts of that life, he was about to tell lies that sounded true. Word of the mobbed up Irish man spread far and wide. Spread all the way to Brooklyn.
****
"This must be some mistake." Casper said in near panic. The housing assignments of the next stage were passed out and he was not pleased.
While all his buddies were headed to various federal country clubs, Casper was headed to Passitville Penitentiary; more affectionately known as Ass-fuck-ville. Everyone familiar with the place clinched their butt cheeks at the very mention of the place.
"Shit, sucks to be you pizan. Don't drop the soap." One of his buddies laughed.
"He'll be aight. He's been around the cock...eeeh. I mean, block a few times." Another joked, showing the true friend they really were.
They all yucked it up real good except Casper who was terrified. His bung hole was in grave danger and he had to save it. He dug out his transcript and sentencing report to show there was some mistake.
"No problem" An officer relayed once he scanned the documents. "Simple fix. Just holler at Officer Black in the morning. He'll get you straight."
"Officer Black? The Black Guy?" Casper groaned as his disrespect circled around and slapped him. "Is there anyone else?"
"Nah, He's your man. Nicest guy you ever wanna meet. Poor fella. His mom just passed a few weeks ago"
The next morning Officer Black wore his throwback 'how you like me now' face as the contrite racist begged for his booty hole. Casper was so humble he barely recognized him from weeks earlier. Luckily for Casper, that same mother he so thoroughly disrespected raised her son right. He was compassionate, caring and did not hold grudges.
"I'll fix it in the computer but it'll take a few weeks to go through." The officer said as he typed the correction into the system.
"Weeks? What am I going to do for a couple of weeks?" Casper screamed.
"I can't tell you what you should do but I can tell you what not to do. Don't drop the soap; hold on tight to it, for dear life." Officer Black offered, fighting a smile and losing.
****
Casper was as scared as anyone who has been in any scary situation but he didn't let it show. He reverted back to his 'tough Italian mob guy' swagger as soon as he got off the bus.
He was from Brooklyn after all and he was connected. Add the fact that he didn't rat and that should count for something. The federal prosecutors offered him the world to turn snitch on the bosses but he refused. Instead he took his charges on the chin and accepted his fate.
He did his old ditty bop into the dorm as if it were the pizza shop back home. Casper nodded 'what's up' to his whites and scowled at the blacks. When he saw a group of obvious Italians, he made his way over to them to introduce himself before even going to his assigned cell.
"Say Pizan. Tell whoever one of you who runs the show, that Casper's here. Casper from Brooklyn. I'm a friend of you'se. Ask about me." He demanded as if in a position to make them. He swaggered away as arrogantly as he came, leaving the Italians confused.
"Casper from Brooklyn?" One asked. "What are we posed to do?"
"Shit, call Brooklyn, I guess." Came the reply complete with a shoulder shrug.
"Well, you'se guys better hurry. Look at whose cell he's in!" Another called out urgently.
B.B. was Casper's new bunk mate. He was six foot four inches of mass murderer from Mississippi. BB was an acronym for Black Bear because he looked like one. The only thing he liked about white people was killing them. Well, there was one thing more thing that he had developed in prison.
If there was a black people's equivalent to KKK, he would be its president. His baby sister was raped and killed by some racist back home and he killed every last one of them. It got good to him, so he killed a few more. That's what got him all the life sentences he was serving. He was warned he would get the death penalty if he killed one more white guy; so he stopped. Now he just fucks them. Makes love, have him tell it.
“Look it Moolie!" Casper announced as he barged into the cell. He had been in character so long; he actually started to believe it.
BB frowned at both the interruption as well as the slanderous remark. The word Moolie came from a dark purple eggplant. That's what black people were to him, eggplants; fucking vegetables.
"I'm Casper, from Brooklyn." He said, adding the Brooklyn part like it meant something. Now had he said the Bronx maybe. "I'm mobbed the fuck up, so don't fucking fuck with me!"
Poor BB didn't know what to think. On one hand, if he was truly a made man, he would be off limits. Prison had rules. If one wants to live, he must live by them. Then on the other hand, the way his lips moved during his rant had his dick hard. While he contemplated, an Italian stuck his head in the cell.
"Hey, we just spoke to Vito in Brooklyn." He huffed from running to relay the information.
“Tell this nigger who I'm with." Casper nodded, crossing his arms across his chest like a big shot.
"Well, you didn't check out, so I guess you're with him." The runner said, pointing at BB with his head. He shrugged his scrawny shoulders like 'oh well' and turned to leave.
BB's dick got so hard so quick, he was temporarily blinded. By the time his vision came back, Casper was gone. He spent the rest of his day on a call to Brooklyn, begging for protection. Because he violated the no drug policy, and. he wasn't a full member, he was on his own. He stayed away from the cell all day but when lockdown time came, he had no choice but to return. He decided to man up and apologize, forgive and forget.
"Lookit, I think we got off..." Casper began as he walked into the cell. The sight of the naked black man glistening from baby oil stole his train of thought.
“There's the pretty white girl I told you about." BB told his massive erection. If the man talking to his dick wasn't bad enough, it was worse when it seemed to nod at him; even winked its one eye.
What happened next was a classic example of the phrase 'from bad to worse.' When BB raped Casper that was bad but cuming in him was worse. The soft tender kisses and nibbles on the back of Casper's neck were bad but BB falling asleep on top and inside of him was worse.
Oh it was bad, lying there all night with a dick in your ass and its owner snoring loudly but feeling it grow hard inside of him that next morning was worse. And, oh, getting fucked again by a raging piss hard on was both bad and worse. He bust another nut with a loud grunt and more kisses and finally pulled out of the man's body.
"Come on, let's get some chow babe." BB suggested, as he washed his dick in the sink. "They got beef links!"
Casper felt like shit already but when a fart sent cum running down his leg, he just cried. Wouldn't you? Sure you would. He staggered down the hallway in a daze towards the chow hall. All eyes were on him when he walked in. His fellow Italians looked at him with scorn and disgust.
BB and his crew looked lustfully as he loudly recounted last night's events. He dubbed it a night in Casper and his buddies wanted in.
What's the head like?" One of his buddies asked, as Casper walked pass with his beef links.
Casper decided just then to hang himself. Fuck it. Dead would have to be better than gang rape. Being passed around like a whore. Passed around like a blunt or a forty ounce amongst the niggers. Niggers were bad in general but inside of you; bad to worse; way worse.
"Here you go sir." Casper croaked as he handed his breakfa
st to an inmate sitting at a table by himself.
The Baron, as he was called was usually the largest man in any room, any time he stepped in any room. He was nearing the end of a bid for manslaughter for literally pulling a man's head off. In his whole bid, he never spoke and never had a friend. The offer of extra food for a person who had never been given anything was a life changing event. Plus it was beef links. He didn't speak but the look of appreciation in his cold eyes spoke volumes.
“Yeah, yeah, you'se welcome." Casper replied to the non-verbal thanks and moved on.
His life flashed before his eyes as he headed towards his death.
A slow rage began to simmer as he walked. It reached a rolling boil as he recounted abuse, betrayal and disrespect. By the time he reached his cell, he wanted to kill more than die. He wanted to kill BB for raping him. He wanted to kill the Italians for betraying and abandoning him. A thought of starting his own crew lifted his spirits but the next words he heard crashed them against his rocky shore.
“Hey pretty lady. This is my buddy Gene." BB said as he returned to the cell with a friend. The look in their eyes killed his dreams of a dick-free day.
"Wow, she is pretty." Gene gushed lustfully as he rubbed a sizable bulge in his pants.
Casper knew he couldn't fight them both so he turned and ran right into big Man, who was just coming in. Big Man liked pretty white girls too and had a bag full of canteen items to spend a little time.
"Whoa lil momma." Big Man cooed softly as he wrapped Casper in his big arms. That was bad, the tender kiss he planted on his trembling lips was worse.
Casper's thoughts again turned to suicide as the men began to strip him and themselves. He felt like he was stuck in the middle of a petrified forest with all the big wood surrounding him. He was easily forced to his knees despite his valiant efforts. The men slapped his face and popped his head playfully with their penises: Prison foreplay.
"Open up." Gene ordered, as he steered his erection in his direction. It was an inch away before being snatched from view.
"What th...." was all Gene could get out before being tossed into a wall so hard it required a nap.
This ain't none of your concern Baron." Big Man barked. He made a foolish step toward the man and took a short brutal beating that left him snoring. B.B felt obligated to fight and got the same. It was nap time in that cell.
Chapter Nine
Killa grew antsy as months passed between jobs. Being couped up for so long made him restless. He needed to get out, move around, needed to murder something.
He didn't complain much since he had Kitty's pretty Kitty to entertain him. During vagina breaks, he researched all the pedophiles from the pastor's phone. He even traded text messages with a few. The disgusting pictures they shared, traded and sold only heightened Killa's desire to kill them all.
He planned to hunt them all down and murder them separately until he figured out a way to kill them all together. The next meeting of their secret society was coming up soon. In that next meeting they would meet their newest member, Xavier Forrest. Sure, it was dangerous using his real name, especially since the members included police, lawyers, judges and clergy. But, not one of the men would live past that next meeting to tell about it.
Finally, after watching and checking his work phone, it rang. Killa felt a mix of elation and loathing as he picked up the cellular device.
"You ready to get back to work?" The voice asked curtly when Killa took the call. He literally had to bite his tongue so he would be able to bite it figuratively. He loathed the sarcastic undertones always present in the voice.
"Sure, whatcha got?" Killa replied stoically.
"Oh, we got a couple of guys who desperately need dead; real pieces of shit. Please kill them. The client can't decide on a manner of death so you have free reign. Only, be creative because the client wishes to view."
"When and where?" Killa asked eagerly. He loved his job. Love to travel to new cities and meet new people and then kill them.
"As soon as possible and its local, Metro Atlanta. Not too far from you?" The voice offered.
"Nah, not too far." Killa replied, satisfied with the question mark at the end of the statement. It meant they still didn't know his exact whereabouts.
When Killa came aboard with the Black Mob, he was given a company car and a condo in downtown Atlanta. The car was a new luxury job with all the bells and whistles including a GPS tracker to keep track of his whereabouts. Likewise, the condo was loaded with cameras and recording devices. Killa drove Kitty to the condo and fucked the daylights out of her for the camera before abandoning them both. He came across his secluded hideaway and the couple set-up shop.
The place where Killa laid his head was an hour's drive north of Atlanta. It was modest, handsomely appointed but best of all, secluded. Set off the road kept it free from prying eyes and burying the real estate agent in the back meant his lips were sealed; casualty of war. Some people have to die so that others can live in peace.
At the termination of the call, a file was sent on the two future victims. By the time Killa reviewed it, he felt like calling back and offering his services for free. These two dudes definitely needed killing and it was going to be brutal.
****
“Your honor, we plan to appeal this verdict!" Public defender, David Queen boomed at the judge.
“Appeal all you want, the jury has spoken." Assistant District Attorney Bob Sheats taunted. The two court room adversaries faced each other and verbally attacked.
They put on another trial right there on the floor, arguing flaws and errors. All eyes and attention were turned to the two men.
"Order! Order in my court." The ancient judge barked, simultaneously banging his gavel. "You have thirty days to file an appeal. Now clear my courtroom!"
"Don't worry; we'll beat in on appeal." Queen said, turning to face his shocked client.
"But, I'm innocent. I didn't rob a store." The young black man said just above a whisper. His nightmare of being falsely accused of a liquor store robbery had just gotten worse when he was wrongly convicted. "What happened to all my witnesses? I was with all those people, at church."
"Uh.....well...we uh couldn't locate. Didn’t get a cha....we'll beat in on appeal." Queen stammered as the bailiff came to collect the prisoner.
Soft moans and low wails were heard from the defendant's family as he was shackled and led away. Queen again assured them that he could get the case overturned during the appeals' process. One-by-one the courtroom emptied until all that remained was the opposing lawyers.
The public defender and district attorney glared at each other as they loaded their briefs and paperwork back into attaché cases. They both stood erect and walked up on each other, mean mugging. Slowly their scowls became smiles.
"Dun dun dun, another one bites the dust." They laughed and sang together.
High fives and chest bumps were next to follow then a hug so tight, someone should have said 'no homo' but no one did.
"So, are we celebrating tonight?" The crooked D.A. asked the public pretender.
"But of course!" Queen cheered. It had been their ritual for the last twenty years to go out and celebrate each time they railroaded another black man.
Queen and Sheats had been sending innocent men to prison for twenty years. Even though Queen was black himself, he still had a hatred of black men. He felt they were an embarrassment. He would just lie down and not challenge anything the state presented.
In this case, his client was a college student home for the weekend. He was returning from a church social when pulled over by police and arrested. There were hundreds of people who could have confirmed his whereabouts; including pictures and video but they lawyer suppressed it all. It more than likely would be reversed somewhere down the line but he was going to prison for now.
The dastardly duo would leave their ugly, loveless wives at home for a romp with a stripper. For years, they had used the service of a pimp named Mitch to s
upply them with girls, drugs and a place to party.
Mitch had been selling pussy in Atlanta for as long as anyone could remember. He once had the market cornered with a stable of whores that resembled a U.N. meeting. Younger and more aggressive pimps rose to power and staked claims to what Mitch had built. They put their own girls on his tracks and disrespectfully recruited his girls. He was on his way out to pasture until joining the black mob. When he got the call to supply the party favors, he got everything in order: Champagne, weed and of course a woman. He sent a new girl but she was no hooker.
Killa pulled up to the rented villa and checked his gear. This job didn't require much of anything since he had carte blanch to do as he wanted. All the client requested was to be heard before the deed and to be able to witness the execution. He had one more thing in mind of his own.
Mitch had supplied a key to the villa which allowed the killer to enter easily and quietly. The front room was empty but a ruckus could be heard from the back. Killa raised a silencer-equipped nine millimeter and followed his ears.
“The fuck?" Killa exclaimed in curious disgust as he entered the bedroom.
The two men were both butt naked, engaged in a masturbation race while a sinister looking prostitute cheered them on. They were far more concerned with the race than the man with the gun.
"Um...excuse me." Killa said with a grimace. He hit the power button on the stereo and killed the music.
"Hey!" I was about to win! The public defender protested.
"No, I win!" The D.A. grunted as he crossed the finish line.
"You, out!" Killa demanded to the girl on the bed. She frowned in a manner that forced Killa to remember the instructions to let the girl go. Still, he didn't like the look she gave him.
The young woman shipped her dreadlocks onto her back and stood. Killa could not help but admire the firm body and pretty face. She stepped into a tiny dress then onto a pair of stilettos. She never broke off her glare until she left the room.
"Don't look so tough to me." Yolo huffed as she exited the villa.
