The System Has Failed

by Ms. Michel Moore

  Cree covered NayNay with a towel that was on the arm of the couch. “Like I said, we ain’t mean for things to turn out like this. And Moe Mack always been all right with me! That’s real talk!” Trying to convince her of his sincerity, Cree then told her he was about to give her sniffling nephews something to drink and untie them so they could get out of those wet clothes and at least go in the room where her baby was sleeping. Bumping into Justice coming out of the kitchen, Cree noticed an expression on his face that was stranger than usual, but he attributed it to the bottle of Grey Goose that obviously still had a tight grip on his emotions. “You good?”

  “Yeah, dude.” Justice grinned, sitting at the table across from the horrified kids. They dared not mutter a single sound as they saw the hideous vision of his disfigured chest and the various demonic jailhouse tattoos that covered his arms. “I’m more than good! And what y’all little niggas looking at? Y’all ain’t never seen a true hood warrior?”

  Shortly thereafter, Cree returned with a big glass of cherry Kool-Aid, holding it up to each child’s dry lips. As they happily gulped it down, Justice watched like a hawk. Suddenly, like a ticking time bomb destined to explode, each child started suspiciously coughing, gagging, and throwing up, followed by some sort of weird convulsions. Seeing the look of enjoyment grace Justice’s face as their bodies grew increasingly limp, Cree immediately concluded his best friend and road dawg had done something sinister.

  Hurrying in an attempt to save each child’s life, Cree bolted into the kitchen, grabbing a huge butcher knife to cut the duct tape shackles off NayNay’s small nephews. Awww, hell naw! He didn’t! Realizing what Justice had callously done, Cree couldn’t believe his eyes. In a rush to pour the cold drink for the once-playful boys, he’d failed to notice an open bag of green pellets on the stove next to a spoon that was clearly used to crush them up. The label read: DANGER RAT POISON.

  “No, the fuck you didn’t, nigga,” Cree belted out, running back in the room just in time to bear witness to each little boy shake and jerk once more before taking their final breaths. As they lay slumped over, still taped to the chair, totally unresponsive, Cree finally decided he’d had enough. The street thug was sick to his stomach. “You done messed around and killed some kids! Hell naw! That shit is fucked up! Some fucking little kids!”

  NayNay struggled, kicking her feet the best she could, trying to break loose and somehow miraculously save her sister’s kids’ lives, but it was too late. No more summer days running through the sprinkler on the front grass or swinging at the playground. No more arguing over what cartoon to watch or who won the video game they constantly played. Old Last Chance would never have to worry about them knocking over his buggy again. The young boys were gone. Justice had murdered them just like that.

  “Fuck them li’l bad-ass motherfuckers!”

  “Naw, fuck you, Justice! I’m ’bout to bounce, guy!” Cree was in shock, not believing his own eyes. “I ain’t gonna be a part of killing no kids! You gonna catch that case yourself! I ain’t nothing like you!”

  “Oh, it’s like that? Now you wanna break out?” Justice jumped to his feet, turning the radio up louder. Stepping across NayNay, who was still fighting to break free, he zoned out. Running his tongue across the front of his teeth, he spat before snatching a throw pillow off the couch. “You think that shit is that easy?” He held the multicolored pillow down on Moe Mack’s head, whipping out his 9 mm. “I don’t give a fuck about nobody!” Unemotional and cold, he pulled the trigger, putting two hot slugs in his unconscious supplier. Justice’s adrenaline rose. “You all up in this bullshit, and who the hell you think you talking to? You just like me!” He pounded his clenched fist to his chest.

  Cree, seeing his road dawg had officially snapped, losing his damn mind, had no other choice but to bum-rush Justice if he wanted to get out of the house alive himself. So bracing for the fight of his life, he made his move, knocking the gun out of his boy’s hand. Instantly he started delivering blow after blow to his midsection. As the two locked up, they fell to the ground, landing on top of Moe Mack’s dead body. They then rolled toward NayNay, who was sweating buckets of perspiration still bucking to get free and out of the madhouse she was trapped in.

  With the radio continuing to blast out the sounds of Jay-Z, no words were passed between the two as they battled relentlessly. A few punches later, Cree finally got the ups on a shirtless Justice. Wrapping his hands around his throat, he started strangling him, causing Justice’s lazy eye to open wide. In an effort to get Cree off of him, Justice stretched his arm out. Finally searching for anything he could use as a weapon, he found what he needed to win the battle and took the opportunity. Grabbing the bronze fireplace poker, the crazed corner boy tightened his grip. NayNay watched in dismay as Justice raised the metal poker, stabbing the young father-to-be repeatedly in his skull, killing him almost instantaneously.

  Pushing Cree’s heavy corpse off him, a victorious, out-of-breath Justice stumbled to his feet, nursing a bloody, possibly broken nose and a chipped tooth. Look at what you made me do, he thought, looking down at Cree, who was flat on his back with his eyes wide open. Why couldn’t you just stick with the game plan and ride it out with a nigga? We would’ve both been on easy street.

  Things had gone all the way to the south in her once-perfect, sack-chasing life. At this point, NayNay could only pray for Justice to spare her and her baby’s life, but she knew the odds weren’t good. Horror-struck, seeing her sister’s kids, her son’s father, and the only man who could’ve stopped Justice and his murderous rampage all lying in their own bodily fluids, which were released when they took their last breaths, NayNay prepared herself for the worst.

  Justice wiped the thick, mucus-filled blood from his nose, smearing it against the living room wall, and he laughed. Slowly he raised his foot up then slammed it down into the young mother’s chest. “Ho, you done ruined everything!” Watching NayNay fall back, striking her head on the imitation marble floor surrounding the fireplace, Justice’s manhood started to rise. Wanting to hear her last words before she left earth, he ruthlessly snatched the duct tape off her mouth, allowing her to speak.

  “Why! Why! Why!” she questioned as she cried, squirming around on the floor with blood pouring from the rear of her skull.

  Not having an inch of remorse for the murders he’d just committed, even his best friend Cree’s, he unzipped his pants. Still zoned out, he took out his hard dick and started beating his meat to the rhythm of NayNay’s petrified, erratic body movements. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he busted a thick, hot stream of cum all over her face. Then without a second thought, he once again raised his foot, stomping the life out of NayNay, taking her out of the game for good. Oh, well, fuck all they asses!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Not caring about who was looking or who might’ve heard the two fatal gunshots that’d claimed Moe Mack’s existence, Justice brashly loaded all his stolen goods into the trunk of his newly obtained Beemer. Excited, he found the small duffle bag containing the work that must’ve been for him and Cree. For him, things couldn’t get any better.

  Justice now had cash, dope, expensive clothes, a new iPhone, a pocketful of NayNay’s jewelry, three guns (counting Cree’s and Moe Mack’s), and a new ride. Best of all, he didn’t have to share it with anyone. What could be fucking better? He thought he was finally about to live the black American Dream. But I still need to handle one more thing before I’m ghost! Strolling back into the house one last time, heading to the room where NayNay’s small, innocent son was still sleeping, he focused in on the child. Trying to prove the point to no one but himself that he wasn’t a total animal, completely out of character, the maniac took a couple of dollars from his pocket and placed it in the playpen next to the boy.

  “Stay up. You might need this shit later on because Detroit definitely ain’t got no type of love for a broke motherfucker, let alone a li’l dude with no parents!” He thought about his own disastrous child
hood before turning the loud radio off and going back out to the car. He peeled out of the driveway.

  “Who in the world is that child driving Maurice’s car all fast and carrying on?” Nosy Mrs. Perkins asked her ex-husband, who was standing in the front yard begging from her as usual. “I just told him about all the noise and traffic that girlfriend of his has coming in and out.”

  “I dunno for sure. I’ll ask him when I go over there to get the bottles he promised me.” Last Chance looked across the street at NayNay’s house. “But it sure looked like one of them corner boys!”

  * * *

  Damn, it’s crowded at this motherfucker! Justice, now wearing one of the many outfits once belonging to Moe Mack that he’d stolen out of NayNay’s house, proudly swerved the Beemer, with its custom license plates and chrome rims, up to the downtown club’s front entrance. Stepping out stuntin’, throwing the valet an extra twenty dollars outta Moe Mack’s bank roll to park his shit up front, he went inside to get his party on, broken nose, chipped tooth, and all.

  Flossing up in VIP, surrounded by two bad bitches and not once caring about the deadly deeds he’d committed, Justice popped at least three bottles, getting his big shot on. Flicking up, taking seven or eight pictures of himself with various females, he felt he was a motherfucking boss to the tenth degree. With one of the huge plasma televisions mounted throughout the club broadcasting breaking news of several different homicide scenes in a range of locations within the city of Detroit, the ruthless killer seemed he couldn’t care less. He was deep off into his zone.

  Without warning, a gang of police came bursting through the front door of the crowded club, asking the bouncer several questions while showing him what Justice thought was possibly a snapshot. Checking out every inch of the club’s interior with his eyes, he quickly realized Detroit’s finest were blocking all visible exits to the street.

  Shit! I swear on everything I love, I damn straight hope these busters ain’t here for my black ass, ’cause a nigga like me ain’t in the mood to go back to jail! Not tonight! That ain’t part of the plan! Pouring himself another drink from the bottle, the intoxicated murderer watched the police like a hawk while the females he was sitting with got scared, never being in a raid before. As the police made their way up the stairs in his direction, Justice ran his tongue across his chipped tooth then smiled. Calmly he sat back in the booth, listening to the beat of the loud music vibrate in the club, waiting for what would fucking happen after what fucking came next. In the meantime, the once-petty street hustler turned murder made a toast to his childhood friend he was forced to body, Cree.

  No hard feelings, my nigga. You how the game go! If you hadn’t been such a straight pussy, you’d be here with me getting your drink on and not stretched out in the city morgue!

  * * *

  Last Chance, desperate for the returnable bottles promised to him for being spit on, made his way across the street full of potholes. After watching one of the corner boys from earlier speed off in his car, Last Chance knew for certain that Moe Mack was still indeed posted inside of NayNay’s house. Hopefully, he was still in a generous mood. With every step he took, the alcoholic copper hustler kept looking over his shoulder, ensuring no one was messing with his raggedy buggy, which was now stuffed with nothing of any true value to anyone other than himself.

  “Maurice! Maurice!” Having been barred from ever stepping foot on NayNay’s front porch, he shouted out Moe Mack’s government name at the side window located near the rear of the driveway. “It’s me! I came for those bottles you said I could have!” Even with his ex-wife standing on her porch, spying on his every move at the home that was always packed with commotion, Last Chance refused to give up his plight to get those much-needed bottles, even as he heard the blaring sounds of a baby’s cries come from the house. “Maurice! It’s me! Maurice!” he yelled louder, trying to drown out the baby’s piecing screams.

  “Are you crazy, old man?” Mrs. Perkins hissed with contempt at his over-the-top actions. “Hush!”

  “Yo, Moe Mack.” He switched up names, seeing if his son’s friend answered to that. “I hear the baby crying, so I know you probably busy tending to him,” he reasoned. “So whenever you get a chance I’ll be out here waiting!”

  “You need to stop all that hollering and carrying on!” Mrs. Perkins insisted loudly enough for Last Chance to hear as he marched from the back toward the front of NayNay’s. “It’s a sin and a shame how you out here behaving for some plastic! There oughta be a law!”

  The one-time love of his life was 100 percent correct. Last Chance knew he was definitely out of order in his behavior and had been for some time. Nevertheless, at this point in his pitiful life, he had no pride left when it could possibly come between him and a drink or a blow. He had no limits.

  “Well, do you think you can you do me a favor, honey?” He tried pouring on the charm in the hope that she would show some mercy on him. “Maybe just a dollar or two?”

  “I tell you what,” she bargained, trying to shut him up. “You take these bags of top soil around to the backyard and spread it evenly on the lawn, and when you finish, I’ll give that few dollars to you.”

  Knowing he didn’t want to run the risk of Moe Mack leaving and missing out on the bottles, he opted to help his ex-wife out so he could stay close to NayNay’s without hearing her nagging him to death.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Yo, Bama Bob, What up doe?” Keith nervously questioned as he checked his watch.

  “You got it, playa, what’s the deal?” Bama Bob answered in his down-deep country dirty-South accent, which was his trademark with the city boys and females who were easy to impress. “What it do? What you need pimping?”

  “Yeah, listen. I’ve been trying like a motherfucker to get in touch with that nigga Moe, but he ain’t picking up.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Bama Bob repeatedly rubbed down on his unshaven beard. “He was by here a couple of hours ago tightening us all up.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Keith’s voice was noticeably nervous as he spoke. “When that guy left me we was both dirty as a fuck. That’s why I’m trying to track his ass down. Ya feel me?”

  “No doubt, no doubt.” Blazing up a blunt, Bama Bob then remembered Cree calling him about an hour or so ago, and from the conversation he knew that he and Justice still hadn’t been blessed yet with the new package. “I’ll make a trip back to the hood in a few, but in the meantime, call that nigga Cree or Justice. I think they still haven’t hollered at dawg!”

  “All right, that’ll work,” Keith agreed. “And, real rap, hit me once you get over around the way. He probably just laid up with that no-good baby mama of his and she done turned off his phone.”

  “That’s a bet. One.”

  “One.”

  * * *

  Getting finished as quickly as possible, Last Chance snatched the three one-dollar bills out his ex-wife’s hand, stuffing them deep into the front pocket of his filthy pants. Not once forgetting about the bottles promised to him, he wasted no time heading back across the street as a proud, holier-than-thou Mrs. Perkins watched on in embarrassment. Even though Last Chance stayed drunk and high, after the half hour he spent slaving for his former better half, his entire buzz was totally killed. So he knew it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him when he heard crying sounds still coming from the rear bedroom window of NayNay’s house.

  It’s been over a good hour or so and they still letting that baby cry? Last Chance stood silent, listening to the child seem to walk from the front of the house to the back of the house, never once letting up on screaming out for his mommy. I know this child’s mother ain’t no good, but Maurice wouldn’t let his son just cry this long.

  Sarcastically Mrs. Perkins taunted, “Why you over there begging and carrying on? What’s wrong? Are you too exhausted from doing some real work?” Not receiving an answer, suddenly she felt a strange feeling come over her that caused her to come off her porch and onto her front perfect
ly kept grass. “I said what’s wrong? Why on God’s green earth are you just standing over there like that?”

  Walking toward the front of the house and NayNay’s stairs, Last Chance was then joined by his nosy ex-wife, who soon heard the sobbing as well. “You know I ain’t supposed to go on this girl porch, but I think something is wrong in there. That baby been crying since earlier. Why don’t you go up there and ring the bell or knock on the door?”

  Hearing the deafening sounds of the baby boy crying coming from her young, irresponsible neighbor’s house was nothing new to Mrs. Perkins. She’d had it out with NayNay on more than several occasions about just that very subject, not to mention that of her two nephews’ rude, obnoxious behavior. However, being a mother, as well as a grandmother, Mrs. Perkin’s maternal instinct kicked in, realizing these cries she and Last Chance were hearing were like those of a child in agony and pain, not a baby needing a mere diaper change or a bottle. With her ex-husband leaning on the handrail, now truly in desperate need of a drink, Mrs. Perkins bravely made her way up the stairs, knocking on the black steel gate.

  “Hello, hello.” Her voice rang out as the baby’s cries got louder. “Maurice, do you hear me? It’s Mrs. Perkins! NayNay, I know y’all hear that baby of y’all’s!” Hearing nothing but the child, she glanced over her shoulder at Last Chance as if to say, “Watch my back.” She then eased over to the other side of the porch. Slowly crouching down with her hand on the concrete windowpane, she tried with no success to see through the sheets. This girl needs some serious home training. Sheets for curtains. Hmph! Hmph! Hmph! It just don’t make no kind of sense.