by De'Kari
“Understand what?” Dok looked lost and perplexed.
With the speed of a cheetah, both 45’s were out of his waistband and aimed. One was pointed directly in Dok’s face. The one in the other hand was pointed at Mtambo.
“You got a choice to make right here, right mothafucking now!” His hand gripped the butt of the four nickels tighter. “You’re either B.G.F. or you’re Neva Die. Ain’t no in between.”
Scooter’s hands began slowly creeping toward his waist. The Oakland Cadre would no doubt rock, however, Gunz decided to rock. Gunz was a founder of Neva Die too. It was natural for him to rock with Voorheeze. The movement and ideology Gunz had picked up over the year from Dok had his mind thinking differently. As his hand rested on the handle of his Desert Eagle, he knew he would rock with Dok.
“Lil Scooter, I guarantee if you pull dat banger you’ll be dead before you raise it. That goes for you too, Rell.” Voorheeze neva took his eyes off Dok. “What that Oakland shit look like?”
Instantly, little red lights crisscrossed the room. The infrared beams only marked Dok’s Cadre.
“East Oakland in the house.” Mike Vegas sung out as he came strolling in the room with a big ass 357 in his hand.
When Big Rocc heard his name mentioned earlier, it brought back memories. To see him come strolling into the room sent chills down Big Rocc’s back. Magic’s son was a more cold-blooded son of a bitch then the devil. Them long ass dreadlocks made him look like the devil.
It got under Dok’s skin that he’d allowed himself to get distracted. He had to smile inwardly at how Voorheeze used the same method he had used.
“Peace be still bredren. There’s no need for bloodshed. We’re all Afrikans and we are still family.” Dok attempted to calm things, but Voorheeze wasn’t hearing that shit. “Dok what’s it gone be? Are you with us or against us?”
“Brah, I’ll always be Neva Die. But I’ma Black Guerilla till the death.” Those words split the most powerful organization the Bay Area ever witnessed the moment they were spoken.
“Well, I’ma Neva Die Dragon and all I bang is Dragon Gang! If you ain’t Dragon Gang, get the fuck out!” Voorheeze shouted.
Mtambo was the first to move. Afterwards Dok’s entire Cadre stood up. Gunz stood up as well shocking Voorheeze but fuck it! AJ and DeeDee followed suit. Though they stood, they were all waiting for Dok to make a move. The red lights on their chests didn’t mean shit to any of them. They were all killers and not afraid of death.
DeeDee looked at DJ, who was still seated. The look said, “Nigga what’s up.”
D.J. stood up slowly pulling out a big ass 45 magnum, the automatic was bigger then the Desert Eagle.
“Y’all heard my father. Get the fuck out before I pop off in this bitch!” Everybody looked at D.J. shocked.
Cantelope and French Tip were the only ones that knew D.J. was Voorheeze son. That was why he’d watched him at the hospital.
“Take care, brotha.” Those were the last words Dok would ever speak to Voorheeze, or so he thought.
When Dok walked out of the War Room that day, more than half of Neva Die left with him.
**** N. D. ****
East Palo Alto
“Man, I’m telling you, that broad had an ass so gawd damn phat, shawty, I literally had to bend my knees and angle my shit in order to get up in it!” Banga bent his open legs then dipped down trynna illustrate what he was talking bout.
They were sitting around at O.G. Peppi Hanks ‘house discussing the women they’d took home from the fashion show the other night.
“Naw, shawty, her donkey probably wasn’t even phat, yo soldia probably just a toy soldia.” Everyone burst out laughing as Man-Man made a visual by holding his thumb and forefinger two inches apart.
“Ain’t no gardner snakes here, shawty. All python.” Banga grabbed the crotch of his Sean John jeans and shaking it at Man-Man.
Everyone was deeply engrossed in the conversation except for JuJu. His attention was glued to Peppi’s sixty-five-inch flat screen. Peppi had the new Samsung Smart T.V. JuJu was currently fucking wit social media. A live station on Facebook had caught his attention.
On the screen some white chick was asshole butt naked, strapped down to some type of execution chair. The white broad had a bull shit body so that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was her eyes.
At first JuJu thought it was some bull-ass-shit. But he’d witnessed real life fear in people’s eyes up close and personal too many times. He knew the fear he saw in her eyes was real.
When JuJu saw the nigga that’s been all over the T.V. and shit, he knew shit was about to get real.
“Oh shit! Y’all check this shit out! He called getting everyone’s attention.
“JuJu, what kinda sick shit you watching?” Banga called out, after seeing the naked white chick and the nigga.
Before JuJu could answer Sam said, “Rogue, ain’t that the nigga dats been murking all them cops!”
“Yeah, dat’s, blood.” JuJu answered
Batman was looking the woman up and down, all over. He was bending down low enough to smell the fear coming out of her pores with perspiration. Every time he would get in her face, she would shiver under the restraints from the terror she felt.
Suddenly he began to talk. “For the next thirty seconds we will unfortunately relive what happened to Sandra Bland that day in Waller County, Texas on July 13th. Then you will see justice. You will watch while San Joaquin Deputy Sheriff Purtle and I remind the Government and their law enforcement attack dogs that this shit is not a game.”
The screen went black. Then the famous clip of Sandra Bland being forcefully restrained and drug from her car by trooper Bria Encina whom to this date was neva held accountable, was played
After the clip of Sandra played, the film of Deputy Purtle being abducted by Batman the same way played.
“Deputy Purtle here hasn’t had the misfortune of being with the Sheriff’s Department long enough to become corrupted by the fascist bourgeois puppet masters that sign her paychecks. She just happens to be collateral damage. She’s on the wrong fucking side of a wall!
“She must now pay the price for her superiors. We must teach them that ‘Black Lives Matter!’ I must teach them!” He removed the rag out of Deputy Purtle’s mouth.
“Aarrghh! Aarrghh! Somebody please help me!” Through the pain of her shattered and swollen jaw, she screamed as loud as she could.
The entire left side of her face was freakishly swollen and had turned a blackish purple. Her once cute, pudgy face was hideously disfigured.
Without warning he back handed the shit out of her. The pain was unbearable. Her scream was bone chilling.
“If I ain’t tell you to talk, you best shut the fuck up!” He was inches away from her face when he yelled his directive. Spittle flew out his mouth onto her face.
He stood erect and adjusted some knobs on the sound board. Then he walked over to his work station behind her. If the big black plastic apron that he had on didn’t tell you this shit was about to get fucked up, the scalpel with the pristine blade that he picked up did.
“Naaw, shawty, he ain’t gone slice up the snow like that.” Man-Man just knew this shit was fake.
“Nigga, it’s bout to get real!” JuJu excitedly called out.
“Dat nigga there ,boi, now dat’s a lil nigga I can fuck with.” Peppi called out.
Peppi was an old head. He’d done it all from shit to shine, smoke to ball. There are so many different rumors about his body count ,the shit was crazy. Now he had found a chef and was eating with the crystal meth and fentanyl.
On the T.V. screen Batman stood behind Purtle whose head was held in place by stainless steele clamps. He checked the angle of the camera, Deputy Purtle was trying her best to see what was going on, but she couldn’t move her head a smidge.
Batman took the scalpel and proceeded to scalp her like the Indians used to. He focused on the cut making sure it was as precise as possible. He wasn’t
worried about her loud screams. They were miles away from anyone.
“We don’t know what happened to Sandra Bland, but we know what’s gone happen to officer Purtle.” During the next five minutes he cut and sliced off various parts of her body, from her ears to her fingers.
The Facebook Live Blackkk Lives Matter page had twenty thousand people watching.
He took the scalpel and removed all of the skin from around her left breast, on down past her navel. She passed out when he removed the skin from the right side. Batman woke her back up by slapping her swollen jaw.
Deputy Purtle couldn’t prevent the tears from rolling down her face. In her mind she hated God for not answering her prayers. Where was He now that she needed Him? She didn’t know why she’d wasted so much time trying to live the way she was told a good Christian should live. She should have done more fun shit. Sucked more cocks. God was a joke.
The pain of the scalpel slicing into her flesh brought her out of her thoughts. Blackkk Lives Matter was carved across her chest.
By the time he finally killed her, there were two hundred and fifteen million people watching. It was a Facebook record.
“That nigga there ain’t no joke rogue.” Everyone agreed with Clark, hands down.
Clark stood up off the sofa. “Y’all niggaz make sure this shit goes off with no problems. I gotta take care of some family shit. When I’m done we gone deal with them niggaz once and for all.” What he had in mind for Dok and Gunz was no doubt going to show mothafucka’s what dat Smack Mobb was like.
It was Friday and Clark was on his way to meet his brother and sister for their weekly dinner. Due to all the shit wit Young Nigga Mafia and then Voorheeze getting shot. They hadn’t had their dinner in over a year.
Voorheeze picked a little spot in Berkely called Skates On The Bay. Clark really didn’t like fuckin' with it like that. Being so far away from his comfort zone. But he figured fuck it! They were three killas if shit popped off they could handle it.
Voorheeze and French Tip were already seated at the table when he walked in. The restaurant was small but nice. It resembled the kind of spot you would go to and have a home cooked meal.
Uncharacteristically, Voorheeze was dressed in all black. He had on a pair of black Cavali jeans, Black button-down Gucci shirt with a pair of black Gucci shoes. French Tip was dressed in a casual black Fendi dinner dress. A three-quarter length black Fendi jacket set on the back of her chair.
“I see you fuckin' wit the Cavali now.” Clark pointed out as the two brothers embrace. “Nigga woke outta the coma feeling like O’Dawg.”
“Naaw brah, a nigga just relaxing a lil bit.” Voorheeze took his seat. “Shit, still kinda feels weird you know? Like a nigga woke up to a foggy dream, or in this case, a foggy nightmare.”
“Shit, speakin' on it, yo niggaz gotta go rogue. I done been far to lenient wit mothafuckas as it is out of respect for you. But that shit they pulled wit Tut, Rogue mothafuckas gotta answer for that shit.” The conversation stopped as the waitress came to take their orders.
When she left, Voorheeze picked up the conversation.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s like this plain and simple, you’re my big brother nigga and I’ll neva side with an outsider over you. I don’t care who was wrong or who was right. You my brother, that’s all that matters.” Voorheeze told him before taking a sip of his drank.
Nigga, I thought you was all about yo banner and shit? Neva Die over everything!” Clark looked at his little brother suspiciously.
“Don’t get shit fucked up. It’ll always be Neva Die.” He finished his glass then told his brotha what was what.
French Tip sat and watched as her two brothers talked. Voorheeze filled Clark in on everything that transpired at the War Room the other day. Leaving out nothing.
Liking what he was hearing, Clark shared with Voorheeze what he had planned for Dok and Gunz over dinner they all discussed ways to go about doing what Clark had in mind. An hour later they had knocked down two big bottles of Hennessy Privilege, finished their meals and devised the perfect plan to knock down Dok and Gunz.
Out in the parking lot the night air was cool and crisp. Both Voorheeze and Clark had on thick leather Gucci jackets. Clark had on a three-quarter length, Voorheeze had on a full length.
Sliding on his leather gloves, Voorheeze looks over at French Tip.
“What you about to do brother?” She asks as she slid on her on gloves.
“I got a bottle of Privy in the car. I was thinking about driving over to the Marina, kicking it out by the water for a minute.” He answered her question while lighting a New Port 100.
“You want some company? It’s too young to be trynna call it night. And since you got da Henny, I’m like what it do?” She tried to emulate a thug nigga as she talked.
“What it do, is what it don’t do. You know you good.” He playfully gave her a hug. “You ain’t neva gotta ask.
Clark was already feeling tipsy from the Hennessy they’d drank in the restaurant. Yet he wasn’t about to be left out of the fun.
“Shyyt, nigga I know I ain’t gotta ask either. Lead the way, I’m right behind you.” He was already heading towards his new Champagne BMW 750I without waiting for a response.
Voorheeze was still in the Chrysler so following him was no problem. French Tip was pulling up the rear in her Challenger.
The light on his screen light up drawing Clark’s attention to his cell phone. He picked it up and noticed he had a few missed calls. He tapped the screen, bringing it up and notifications menu. Man-Man was two of the missed calls. He tapped Man-Man’s number and hit him back.
“Shawty, for a minute I thought I was gone have to bring da cavalry.” Man-Man joked into the phone when he picked up.
“Naw Rogue, it’s good. Shit wit the fam just running a little longer then I though.” He switched lanes following behind his brother. J-Stalins “10 Feet Deep” played in the background. “What’s up wit dat other thang though, we Gucci?” He was referring to the play he left them and Peppi Hank’s to run.
“Right as rain Shawty.” Man-Man responded. Peppi Hanks had come thru for them with twenty pounds of Meth as a tester. If everything was everything, they were about to do some big shit!
“Aight, well look, I’ma be wit my folks for a little longer. I’ll hit you up at the spot first thing in the morning.” They were pulling up to the marina as he was getting off the phone.
The night was cold and pitch black.
“I don’t know how I let y’all talk me into this.” Clark complained as he came walking up buttoning up his jacket.
“Talk you into it? Nigga you invited you mothafuck’n self. Fuck you mean, talked you into it.” Voorheeze jokingly responded. “Come on o’le cry baby ass nigga, let’s go.” The three siblings made their way out to the long pier that goes out three miles into the ocean.
The wind factor out on the pier was something to respect. French Tip had traded her Fendi coat for an all black mink that she had in her car.
The three kicked it smoking blunt after blunt and hitting the bottle of Hennessy. The alcohol doing wonders warming them up. They laughed and joked about a lot of shit. Each one taking turns telling stories about when they were kids.
Voorheeze wasn’t as big a smoker as his brother was. Neither was French Tip. So most of the weed that was consumed was done so by Clark. As was the alcohol. Two hours later Clark was really fucked up.
“Nigga, m-member when we use watch Naw Yak City?” He was slurring so bad it was hard to make out New Jack City.
“Am I my brotha’s keeper!” Both men shouted out loud.
When they were kids, New Jack City was the most gangsta movie out. They used to love it. Being that they were brothers, the line that Nino and G-Money used to say to one another became their little saying.
“God damn, rogue, I gotta piss hella bad.” Clark suddenly spun towards the outter edge of the pier.
“Yeah, it’s bout t
ime to get the fuck up outta here.” Voorheeze agreed as he looked over at French Tip.
She’d been enjoying memory lane with her brothers, but her heart was heavy. She understood Voorheeze better than anybody, so she understood his thought process. It didn’t make things any easier.
Clark was too worried about taking a piss than to think about his little sister standing right there behind him. If he wasn’t so drunk he would have walked down the pier some.
The wind started to pick up some as it rolled across the water. Whistling against the pillars in the heavy pier.
Voorheeze looked over to French Tip. Tears were in her eyes as she looked him dead in his soulless eyes. “I love you” he mouthed the words to her just as the tears escaped her eyes and made a course down her face.
The time was now. It was do or die. Now or neva! Voorheeze slowly pulled one of his Dragons off his hip. A tear escaped his eye as well. He loved his big brother! Clark was his idol. But rules where rules and they were put in place for a reason.
He screwed the silencer on. Clark was oblivious. His body slightly swayed with the breeze.
Drunkenly he shouted, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Voorheeze raised the Black Dragon pointing it at the back of his brother’s head.
“Yes, I am.” He recited Nino’s words to G-Money before he killed him.
Closing his eyes for one second. He opened them and pulled the trigger. The Dragon spit fire.
Clark’s body moved forward. The entire front of his face blew off. Time stood still for Voorheeze and French Tip as the body collapsed in slow motion.
Voorheeze hung his head low.
“If I lie to you, I will lie on you. If I lie on you, I will tell on you!
If I threaten you, I will turn on you. If I turn on you, I will kill you.”
They were raised by and lived by this mantra. If somebody broke it, kill them. That was the rule. Clark knew the rule!
Next, he went into Clarks pockets and pulled out his bag of weed. “You ain’t gone need this, rogue.” He stated and then threw the headless body of his big brother off the pier like a sack of potatoes.