by Sa'id Salaam
He wasn’t the only one making appeals to the hitman for hire via the website. There were several other members of the congregation who were also voicing their complaints about the perfidious pastor on the site as well. There were so many complaints that they couldn’t be ignored.
“Damn!” Killa concluded after reading the many post. “I just may have to pay this Reverend Cash a visit.”
Chapter 52
So many people attended Greater First Baptist Church that no one even noticed the new face amongst them. Well, actually a couple single sisters smiled and batted their lashes at the handsome newcomer, but he didn’t see them. He was on a mission and therefore he had his eyes locked firmly on his target.
Killa was a wise man and as such he was well versed in all of God’s books. He knew The Gospel, The Torah, and the Qur’an better than some of the so-called best learned men. He knew more than enough to know dude at the pulpit was making shit up.
Reverend Cash knew the bible backwards and frontwards so it was easy to twist it to fit his desires. Just like the devil he would tell one truth and then add ninety-nine lies to it. The human soul accepts the truth but it also takes in the lies that accompany it.
“This dude is high,” Killa mumbled to himself. He knew the difference between the Holy Ghost and good coke. He was already here to kill the man but grew to hate him more and more with every syllable that came out of his mouth. This was going to be ugly.
Reverend Cash wrapped up his second performance with the announcement that the church would begin charging admission as well as parking fees. He figured why not since he’d heard that they were doing it at Al Green’s church in Memphis. Good thing that this was his farewell sermon, because he wouldn’t be back next week.
****
Reverend Cash rolled around town in his Bentley with death following close on his tail. It was there when he pulled into the trap to cop more weed and coke for a night on the town. Had the opportunity arose it would’ve gotten him as he sat at a stop light. However, the calm killer was patient and decided to wait for the right moment. A quick head shot seemed too quick and too easy. The man who’d caused so much pain, suffering, and destruction deserved to die a slow and painful death.
“Bad timing, sucks to be you,” Killa said aloud when Cash swung by a mid-town condo and picked up Kenyatta. A wise man once said, “You are like your friends,” so for Kenyatta to be with Cash he had to be just as bad, and by the end of the night he would be just as dead.
Killa followed the dead men to a downtown strip club. Once he watched the valet take the Bentley away he found a spot to park and joined the two inside. He found a table and paid for a couple of table dances that he paid no attention to. His focus was on the men in VIP popping bottles.
“I’ma make an extra forty or fifty grand charging admission and parking fees!” Cash laughed to his partner.
“You a fucking genius!” Kenyatta cheered like a good hype-man does. They clinked their champagne flutes together in a celebratory toast.
Two strippers came over and began dancing for the men. Cash played in one’s box until his fingers were wet and slippery. It came as no surprise when he stood up and took her into one of the private rooms. He paid the admission and paid the dancer.
“You gotta use a condom!” the girl protested as he tried to enter her raw. Not out of fear of disease or pregnancy, but because she didn’t want cum running out of her while she was dancing. It wasn’t good for business.
“I got another hundred that says I don’t,” he said holding the colorful new bill in the air.
“Okay!” she agreed and snatched it from his hand. She bent over the table and moaned as he pushed inside of her.
“Grrr,” the preacher growled as he pounded the girl’s hot box. Men tended to abuse rental pussy just like they did rental cars. The girl winced in pain as he savagely slammed in and out of her. He was numb from the cognac and coke so he felt nothing as he punished her young ass. Staying in school would have been a lot easier and less painful than this.
It came as an uncomfortable relief when she finally felt him begin to skeet inside of her. He pushed in to the hilt one last time and pumped her full of semen. She’d still be up ninety-nine dollars even after she purchased a dollar store douche so she stayed still.
“I may have to go again,” Cash stated as he caught his breath.
“I cain’t, I gotta… um… we…” the stripper stumble for excuses. The vile man had the ability to make even a hoe feel low.
“You lucky I got a meeting in the morning. Otherwise I’d spend the night in that pussy!” he warned. “I’ll see you next weekend.”
“I won’t be here. I’m going back to school!”
****
“Whew! I’m fucking wasted,” Reverend Cash announced as he drove.
“Shit, just head home. I’ll crash in one of the guest rooms,” Kenyatta offered to save him the extra trip of dropping him off. Cash agreed by hitting his blinker and switching lanes. He jumped on the highway with death right on his ass.
Killa still hadn’t decided on a manner of death by the time he’d reached Cash’s house. However, he had a bag of tricks in the trunk that would make Felix the Cat jealous. He cut his lights and pulled into the driveway behind his prey. Once they were both out of the car Killa hopped out with a cannon.
“Evening gentlemen,” Killa greeted from behind a huge desert eagle. The triangular shaped barrel looked like it was throwing up the Roc sign while the huge black hole it formed looked like the Holland Tunnel.
“You know who the fuck I am?” Cash asked hoping to intimidate the stranger. But it was he who had no idea who he was fucking with.
“Of course, you’re Reverend Cash. Your congregation sent me,” Killa replied. “Now, pop the trunk and you, get in.”
“Who?” Kenyatta asked when Killa pointed to him. “I ain’t getting in no damn trunk. Fuck that! Shoot me, nigga!”
Killa shrugged like okay and shot him. His head exploded like a water balloon filled with blood and brain matter. Reverend Cash was instantly sober and ready to comply with any demands made.
“Now put that mess in the trunk!” Killa demanded. Cash quickly complied while Killa grabbed a duffle bag out of his own trunk. “Let’s go down to the basement. To the stripper pole.”
“You been in my house?” Cash asked since he knew the layout.
“Yeah, a couple of times,” Killa shrugged and followed his prey downstairs. Once they arrived he pulled out some leg irons and made Cash cuff his ankle to the pole. He then took his keys and two cell phones.
“I ain’t with no freaky shit!” the pastor protested and cracked Killa up. Tears streamed down the killer’s face as he rolled on the floor laughing out loud. It took at least five minutes for him to regain his composure.
“Okay, look. I need to know if you have any children,” Killa said.
“Not a one!” Cash replied lifting his chin proudly. It wasn’t true but it technically wasn’t a lie either since he didn’t know that he did. By the time a woman found out that she was pregnant she’d already seen how foul he was and never bothered telling him.
“That’s good because I would have had to kill them too, and I don’t usually kill kids. Whatever you got could be hereditary though and I can’t take any chances that your kids might end up around mine.”
“So what, you here to kill me? Somebody paid you to kill me? I got a quarter mil in the safe upstairs and another quarter mil in jewelry. Plus I got a Bentley, a Range, a Benz, and a Porsche. You can have it all. Take all that shit and let me go,” Cash offered.
“Dude, they haven’t printed enough money to save you! You’re dying. The only issue is how.”
“Do what you do then. Shit, I’ll take one to the dome like you did my partna,” Reverend Cash said triumphantly. “I had a good run.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. That’s why you ain’t getting off that easy! Your death is going to be slow, painful, and ugly,” Killa smirked.<
br />
“What’s in the bag?” Cash’s nosey ass asked of the black duffle bag.
“Oh this?” Killa asked giddily like a child opening a toy box. “I got all kinds of shit in here. Guns, knives, brass knuckles…”
“What the hell is that?” Cash asked as Killa emptied the bag. The shiny hoop device always got a lot of attention.
“This… oh, it’s the DC 2000. You put it over the head and…” Killa finished by hitting the switch.
“Damn!” Cash replied rubbing his neck.
“Too quick for you. This however might work,” he said pulling out a small twenty-two caliber pistol. “Let’s see how many shots you can take before you die. I’ll start at yo’ feet and work my way up. Yolo, my baby mama, has the record with eighty-seven.”
Killa’s phone vibrated and he held up a finger as if to say one second and took the call. He started off eagerly but it was clear that he’d received disappointing news.
“Okay, keep me informed,” he said with a frustrated sigh. He saw Cash looking curiously at him and explained, “My kids are missing.”
“Good! I hope you never find them!” the preacher cackled. Killa laughed too because he didn’t buy it.
“Dude, you’re not getting a quick death. You deserve to die every day!”
“So, how about a last meal? Ain’t I ‘posed to get a last meal?”
“That’s it!” Killa exclaimed snapping his fingers as he figured out a fitting death. “Sure you do. What would you like?”
“Well, since it’s my last I may as well do it up! Steak, lobster, scrimp, a bake potato…”
“Un uh. Okay, okay,” Killa said jotting down the laundry list of food. “I’ll be back.”
****
“Told you I was coming back,” Killa laughed upon seeing Cash’s bloody ankle. He’d been pulling and kicking to get free since Killa had left.
“Whatever, just give me my food,” he spat in defeat. “Probably put poison in it.”
“Nope, too easy,” he reminded as he handed the food over. He sat back on the plush leather sofa and watched the man eat his last meal. A small jar of white cream caught Killa’s attention so he picked it up. He opened the lid and sniffed to examine its contents. “Crisco?”
“Mm hm,” Reverend Cash mumbled around a mouthful of surf and turf. Killa sat back again and lit a blunt of Pastor’s weed as he scarfed down his food. Once he was done he asked,” Now what?”
“Now you die. Slow. That was your last meal.”
****
It took several days for it to set in that Killa intended to starve him to death. To add insult to injury Killa would pop in daily to eat in front of the man.
Every day the killer received the same disappointing news about his missing children.
Every day the preacher lost a few more pounds from his once solid frame. Soon he was nothing more than a pile of skin and bones that couldn’t shit, pee, or even sweat because there was nothing left in his frail body to expel. To the arrogant man’s credit he never once bitched up or begged for his life. He just slowly died a little more each day. Oddly the man who lived in ignominy died with dignity.
“Damn, you still hanging around, huh?” Killa asked when he entered the house on the thirtieth day. The preacher was too weak to speak or even blink and his vital organs had started to shut down. It would only be a matter of time before the preacher passed on. The only signs of life in him were the slight up and down movements of his frail chest. Killa let out a sigh when his phone rang.
“Here we go again,” he muttered as he took the call. “Yo.”
“Daddy?” a little girl asked eagerly. He could hear her brother demanding, “Let me talk!”
“Shyne?” Killa asked in disbelief, but got no reply since his twins were wrestling over the phone.
“Hello!” Christi yelled happily as she got on the phone. “They’re home! They’re home! Sun and Shyne are home!”
“I’m on my way!” the relieved father shouted back happily and clicked off.
Reverend Cash released his last breath with a soft rattle indicating that his rotten soul had left his body.
The End
Epilogue
A Memphis grandmother sat sipping her tea while watching the national news. Donald Trump had just converted to Islam and closed down all of his casinos. That was astonishing news but the next story topped it.
“We have a bizarre story from an Atlanta suburb. The body of missing preacher Reverend William Cash suddenly turned up at his former church today. The preacher’s emaciated body was found earlier today behind the wheel of his 2015 Bentley parked in the spot reserved for the pastor of Greater First Baptist Church. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in both cash and jewelry were found along with the body inside the car.
“Oh my!” AnJanay shouted and spilled her tea at the story. Her son Carl heard her distress and came rushing into the family room to check on her. The familiar face on the screen froze him in his tracks. The face was so familiar because it looked just like his.
It was abundantly clear from the shriveled state of his body that the preacher did not drive himself to the location. The coroner placed the approximate time of death at about twelve hours prior to the body’s discovery.
To add to this bizarre and disturbing story, another corpse was found inside of the trunk. Police have identified the decomposing body as that belonging to one Reverend Kenyatta…
“Mama, who was that man?” Carl demanded of his mother.
“Nobody,” she spat since she had long lied to her son about his father being dead. “Good for him, with his nasty ass!”
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