Scarred
Knuckles
Assa
Raymond
Baker
GOOD 2 GO PUBLISHING
SCARRED KNUCKLES
Written by Assa Raymond Baker
Cover Design: Davida Baldwin, Odd Ball Designs
Typesetter: Mychea
ISBN: 978-1-947340-51-0
Copyright © 2020 Good2Go Publishing
Published 2020 by Good2Go Publishing
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters, businesses, places, and events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Words from the Author
Dear Reader,
I’ve been told that I should take some time out to better introduce myself to you. I don’t know why, but I said I’d try. Even though I love writing and telling my stories, I don’t have many words when it comes to talking about myself. I’m just me. I really do love struggling with the madness to get as much of the movies playing in my head out onto paper for you to enjoy. When I’m in my writing mode, I don’t look at the TV, talk on the phone, or listen to the radio until I get my first draft out on paper.
I’m sure you know by now that I’m a member of my state prison’s populace, so with that said, I’m not allowed the use of computers for my craft. Yeah, I old-school it. That’s why I always thank my publishing team for the work that I know they have to do to get my stories out to you. Most of the time it takes about three black ink pens, four yellow legal pads, thirty-two typing ribbons in this old outdated thing that I use, five boxes of Wyler’s Iced Tea, about a pound of M&M’s that I use as a serving size for a reward for every twenty-five pages I complete, and ninety to one hundred twenty days to get my stories out. Then I’m right back to working on something new.
Most of the time it’s something I started in the middle of the last story. I don’t know how many stories I’ve written since I started back in 2007, because I send them out to family for safekeeping, and many are untitled. I lost a few when my dad was called to heaven, so I gotta make up new parts to some of my stories, like in Dream’s Life, which had four finished parts to it, but I can’t find the rest, so I’m rewriting them.
I’ve gotten asked a lot about how I come up with my stories. Well, you can believe it or not, but they’re based on times in my life that I dress for your enjoyment, and they’re dreams that won’t go away until I put them on paper. Let me see, what else I can tell you?
I was raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and besides being an author, I’m a loving father to some very beautiful but weird kids. I’m a son, a big brother, and the oldest of seven, an uncle, papa, and teacher. I was married, but my wife was not. One of these days I’ll tell you that story. I’m single, but I have a best friend that I love very much. I don’t think I could live very well without her, so she’s my life partner.
My three favorite books to read are, first, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. He has a girl named Estella that I like to quote: “I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.” I like that. I also enjoy reading The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown, and God’s word. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to find a reason to smile in this hell I live in. One day I’ll give you the story about how I ended up where I am, too, so look out for it.
Well, I don’t know what else I’ve got to say. Oh yeah, I enjoy reading your reviews of my work, so please keep leaving them. If I could, I’d respond to them all, especially the ones I get on social media for my poems. Now I gotta get back to work.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY - ONE
TWENTY - TWO
TWENTY - THREE
TWENTY - FOUR
TWENTY - FIVE
PREFACE
Approximately 128 hours had passed since Beysik came home from the hospital. He knew that in order to take the reins of his father’s operation, he needed to power through his pain. So with the aid of the flashy gold Leo-headed walking stick Nyte had picked out for him, Beysik slid into the passenger seat of Rich’s ruby-red Ford Mustang GT.
The young boss was curious to know who Rich had been going through to cop three kilos of soft white work needed just to keep his small part of Beysik’s drug operation going. Beysik could never have an issue with Rich using the money that was left with him to keep shop open. As a true hustler, that is exactly what he was supposed to have done. The girls could not have done it, nor could Noeekwol. They would not even know where to start. So now, Beysik’s issue was that the money Nyte had given him, from what Rich had been turning into the girls, did not add up; and now sitting in the soft leather seat of Rich’s new whip gave him a good idea why.
“B, you sure you’re up for this already? I can handle it by myself and reset it up for you to meet another time, when you’re 100 percent on your feet, bro.”
“Bro, let’s roll. I had enough downtime. Now it’s time for the boss to boss up and get back at it. If your connect is holding the way you say he is, then I’ma need him to double them three you copping just to see how it do down the way. Plus it’s showing me he can handle my flip. If he can, then I ain’t gotta put your bitch on the highway no time soon.”
“He got that shit, bro. And don’t think I missed that lil’ shot you sent at me about me copping three. Come on, now, you know how I get it up, bro. We going in to snatch up five of ‘em,” Rich boasted, lying about the actual number of bricks he had been getting.
Unknown to Rich, Beysik had reached out to a few of his loyal clients to get an understanding of how Rich had been handling business with them. They immediately asked Beysik when was he was bouncing back in the game. They all stated that Rick had been taxing them as well as giving out garbage dope. Three of Beysik’s clients informed him of the number of kilos they were buying; and collectively, just the three of them were purchasing the five bricks Rich had just claimed to be heading to pick up on the re-up. Beysik had to ask himself how Rich planned on hitting them with what they needed as well as keeping shop open for him.
“Aye, how long have you had this here?” Beysik asked about the car to change the subject.
He did not want to let on what was really on his mind.
“A lil’ more than a month. I just got it from having the rims slapped on that day I ran into you at the hospital and shit,” Rich answered. “Hey, did you holla at them bitches about not telling me what hospital you was in and shit? I would’ve came and checked on you. But they were being all funny acting and shit.”
“I handled that, but what size rims is these, 24s or 6s?”
“Both, I got 24s in front and 6s in the back, so it can sit the way it do and still ride good.”
When they arrived at the former furniture store, located on
the northeast side of the city on the corner of Palmer and North Avenue, Rich had taken him into the heart of the ESG’s hood.
The first thing that sparked Beysik’s attention was that there was not one of them out on the clock. The next was the setup of the meeting place. The parking lot was fenced in, which made for one way in and one way out. Beysik was not about to let himself be caught in a death trap.
“Bro, how many times have you met with these muthafuckas here?”
“This is the first time. We usually just bust moves in traffic. But Nut had us come down here because this is a new batch, and I thought you would wanna come in and check it out first.”
“Yeah, I don’t like being closed in, so don’t park in there. Park on the street. As a matter of fact, I’m not about all of that walking. My back’s fucking with me just sitting, so I’ma chill in the car and let you handle it. I’ve heard of P-Nut, so I’m sure he knows me, and I know you know what I like. So, yeah, I’ma chill out here,” Beysik said, staring out at the building.
“I told him you was coming with me so he wouldn’t trip about it, so you good?”
“But like you said earlier, I ain’t 100 percent, so I can’t take no chances down in this hood. Shit, you can see if fam will come out to the car and holla at me.”
When Rich got out of the car and went inside, Beysik scrambled over to the driver’s seat just in case he needed to make a prompt getaway. He sat and watched Rich disappear through the service door of the building with the money bag. He then took caution to really scan the area. There was nothing moving surround-ing the building, which was really strange for the east side of Milwaukee.
Beysik’s wait for Rich was not too long, but when he did return to the car, he was empty-handed. He explained that he did not like the product because the work was not flaky enough for him. When Beysik inquired about the money, Rich told him that he left it with P-Nut, so he could just drop it off to him once he had the product he was used to getting.
Beysik agreed just to play along, but the whole setup of this so-called meeting that Rich was supposed to have put together seemed fishy to him. So for that reason, Beysik would not be accompanying him whenever Rich decided to re-up again later. They traded seats before Rich pulled off. As they rounded the corner, Beysik peeped out several big, black, tinted-out police SUVs trying to look incon-spicuous in the ghetto. When Rich did not comment on them and acted like he did not see them, the seasoned thug wondered how long his partner had been working for the Feds. Right then, Mercy Bondz’s words popped into his son’s head. “If you can’t trust ‘em, bury ‘em. It’s always a better one to fill that one’s shoes.”
ONE
Bright boastful digital billboard signs lit up the warm desert evening. They all were advertising Fight Night. The Arizona sands heated up even more, as one of its cities hosted the National Mixed Martial Arts Amateur Division Championships. More digital signs hung inside above the caged ring of the packed assembly hall, showing teasing slideshows of the various fighters in action on the event card. Back in the locker rooms of the arena, males and females with the heart to step inside of the locked steel cage with another all shared the same thoughts of bringing on the pain, until one of them got knocked out or tapped out from the pressure of the better fighter trying to rip off one of their body parts. All that pain would be for a chance to earn a slot in the famous UFC’s octagon and the $500K cash prize. They all prayed and warmed up to do just that.
Noeekwol’s thoughts were no different than his opponent’s, as he lay flat on his hard six-pack abs on the floor of the makeshift locker room while getting massaged by one of his heavy-handed teammates.
Noeekwol’s five foot eleven, 205-pound frame was almost without an ounce of fat on it, thanks to his conditioning and training to get him ready for the event. For him, the battles he was about to enter into tonight were the first real steps toward what he had been working toward since he first discovered how to use his hands and vicious feet effectively. Noeekwol’s dream was to show his father what he was truly made of by winning and becoming the next UFC light heavyweight champion.
Noeekwol knew that in order to be that title belt holder, he would have to take it from a very well-trained animal of a man. So he trained harder than he ever had before. He was in the gym five to eight hours a day, five days a week. And when he wasn’t hard at work in the gym, he was at home shadowboxing to perfect his striking. Noeekwol was highly skilled in boxing, which was his first love, and grappling, which was his second. He always pushed himself harder so he would always be the monster in the cage when that bell rang.
A hard knock on the locker-room door by the security team informed him that the last match was about to be over and that he was up next. The monster got up on his feet, threw a few fast jabs into the air, and then gave his team the okay to have them key up his hype and walkout music. Once Noeekwol heard the pounding bass of Yo Gotti’s hit song “Act Right,” he began his bouncy dancing stroll out toward the ring.
I’m going going back back to the Bay,
Rest in peace Mac Dre.
All I do is talk yay,
In the club got them bottles on replay.
Tryna break a record like a DJ...
Noeekwol sung along while the official looked him over outside of the cage. His gloves and mouth guard were first cleared, and then the ring official applied pure petroleum jelly to Noeekwol’s face before allowing him to enter the ring with the awaiting challenger.
“Who’s ready for some light heavyweight knock-out action? If you’re ready, let me hear you say KO!” the announcer said, hyping an already hyped-up crowd. “Fighting! Out of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with a mixed martial arts record of fourteen wins and no loses. Introducing Nooeeeekwol Bondzzz!”
Noeekwol heard his name and then slowly and dramatically entered the center of the ring. He was dressed in his signature black and gold trunks with TEAM CHOSEN in bold white letters written across his butt. His opponent for the first three rounds of the night’s events was a big Latino brawler with a record of nineteen wins and two losses who called himself “La Drello” (“the Brick”), because of his enormous fists and block head. As soon as the announcer handed over control of the fighters to the referee to begin the action, Noeekwol went into his zone and blocked out the huge, excitedly roaring fans.
“Round one!”
The Brick raised his hands as he charged in on Noeekwol while looking to take him down to the mat for some of his signature ground-and-pound work. But Noeekwol was ready for him. He dodged the first advance and pushed him away and picked a sweet spot for when the Brick tried the move again. And after just a few testing jabs later, the brawler charged at him once again; only this time, Noeekwol did not push him away but introduced the Brick’s face to a vicious hard combination of fists. This slowed the Brick all the way down and bloodied his battle-scarred face. Without letting up, Noeekwol delivered three hard knees that crushed his nose and knocked his untamed opponent out cold. The shocked referee quickly dove in between him and the shattered, unconscious La Drello before Noeekwol could do any more damage.
Noeekwol snapped out of his kill zone and thrust his arms high above his head as the fans went wild with cheers and applause. There was no question as to who the winner of this first-round knockout was as the medics rushed in to tend to the Brick.
TWO
Two assassins with a very personal agenda on their hardened hearts posted up outside of the busy Milwaukee casino waiting for their target to show his face. Approximately an hour after they confirmed that the man they were looking for was indeed inside the building, he showed his predatory face.
“Look up! It’s game time,” Slim announced, perking up in the driver’s seat of their Buick while watching Mercy and his wife, Felisha, emerge arm in arm through the big shiny brass-and-glass exit doors.
“Yep, I see ‘em,” Fame responded, tightening his grip on his gun. He was also watching the target and his wife climb inside of a clean Cadillac Esc
alade that the casino’s eager valet had waiting idly at the curb.
When the couple was on the move, Slim took off after them, staying a few cars lengths behind as he stalked his prey. Mercy Bondz drove the scenic route through the boulevards of the city. He excitedly talked about the money he had won in bets on the amateur MMA fights that he watched on the large screens in the lounge area of the casino.
“Noe is moving up in the world. He just might be able to get to the UFC soon, especially if he keeps winning like he did tonight. Man, did you see how fast my boy punished that big Spanish muthafucka in that first fight?”
“I did. My fuckin’ heart almost stopped when that big ugly-ass dude ran at my baby.”
Felisha shook her head in disgust for the brutal sport their son loved so much.
“But when Noe-Noe kicked his ass, I felt sorry that boy.” She giggled. “How much did he get paid for that fight?”
“Nawl, baby girl, it don’t work like that with these fights that Noe is down there in. These fights are a last-man-standing type of deal.”
“Last man standing? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means he gotta beat all of the other fighters’ asses in his weight class who won their fights tonight to get paid,” Mercy Bondz explained as he loosened his grip on the polished wood of the steering wheel. “I believe he said he’s going to have to fight three or four fights altogether.”
“So after he beats all of their asses like he did the first guy’s, how much does he get?”
“Is that all you think about, woman?” Mercy Bondz exclaimed, not wanting to tell his wife about the large $500,000 purse or the $150,000 bonus Noeekwol had to split down the middle with him.
“No, but it helps keep me together every time my baby gets in them damn cage fights that you talked him into doing,” she said, pouting as she glared at him.
“See, there you go. I didn’t talk that boy into nothing. I just give him the guidance and push he needs from time to time. And, Lisha, you’re the one who put him in them self-defense classes in the first place. So don’t hate on a pimp, because I wanna see what I paid for all them damn years.” He chuckled.
Scarred Knuckles Page 1
