by Sa'id Salaam
“Now you gon’ take yo’ ass down to that clinic and get that abortion! I should make yo’ ass sleep out on the sidewalk so you can be first in line,” G-Money shouted down at the cowering girl. "Just like I did when the new Jordans came out."
“They said I ain’t gon’ be able to never have a baby if I keep having all these abortions,” Krystol whined from behind her arms that were raised to block his blows. “That’s why they gave me all those condoms last time!”
“Bitch, I ain’t wearing no damn condoms! Who the fuck you think I am?” he growled raising a hand to hit her again. "You just need to stop fucking getting pregnant!"
“Ok, ok, I’ll have the abortion. Just please stop beating me,” Krystol said giving up on yet another unborn child.
Killa had heard enough. For the man who just lost a child it was actually more than enough. Plus, he really, really wanted to kill someone to take the edge off. Some random somebody would have died if G-Money hadn’t stepped up and volunteered. Killa grabbed his gun and headed outside.
Krystol climbed to her feet and fell in step behind her so-called boyfriend. He was a boy, but what kind of friend was that? She walked two steps behind him with her head lowered in submission. She stepped lightly as if actually walking on eggshells. Ironically, a Muslim couple walked by hand in hand laughing at another of her jokes. So much for that stereotype…
Killa followed casually at a distance as they walked along. G-Money thought it was cute to throw fake punches at the girl and giggled when she flinched. He was going to pay for that. When his prey slipped into the weed spot, the predator followed him inside. A gas pack always goes well with a murder.
A few blocks later, they reached a rundown row house. G-Money sent his woman inside with a swift kick in her ass. “Bitch, have me a sandwich ready when I get back. You know I can’t blow no gas ‘round Ma Dukes ‘cause that bitch gon’ be begging to hit the blunt! Free loading ass always want a pull or begging for some help with the bills. Fuck I look like paying bills in my own home?” he rambled and walked away with his murderer close behind. When they reached a nearby park, Killa introduced himself.
“Sup yo, match one?” Killa offered, showing the neatly rolled blunt he’d prepared as they walked.
“That’s what’s up! Only I um…left my sack at the crib. We can blaze yours and I’ll run and get mine once we’re done,” G-Money greedily agreed.
“Cool and I’ll just wait here for you,” Killa said with faked wide-eyed nativity.
“Won’t be but a sec,” he replied, trying not to laugh at the sucker he lucked up on. “Fire that up!”
Killa leaned in and accepted the long flame from his lighter. He took a deep drag off the fruity herbs and felt his problems postpone till later. Some people use drugs as an escape when really, it’s just a pause. All of your problems will still be waiting when you get back. He took one more and passed it off. He should have taken another because it wasn’t coming back.
“Saw you putting the smack down earlier,” Killa offered casually, leading him on.
“Yeah…my girl…keep…getting pregnant on me,” he explained between pulls on the blunt and sips of air. “Plus she be talkin’ stupid shit, talkin’ about she wanna go to school and I need a job and…”
Killa let him ramble on and on, digging his own grave deeper with every syllable. The world may or may not be a better place without G-Money, but it was about to find out. Just when he figuratively reached six feet deep, he got a pass.
“Really, I believe she likes me to whoop that ass. If not, she would have left me right?” G-Money asked.
Of course, Killa had no reply to that. He hated that it almost sounded reasonable. Why would a woman stay with a man who abuses her mentally, verbally, or physically? Killa couldn’t figure it out either so he gave him a pass on his life. It didn’t last long though because G-Money opened his mouth again and the pass was snatched out of his hand.
“My moms too! Oh, I be having to smack her ass too. Stealing my weed clips out of the ashtray. Beggin’ for help with the bills. Shit, she works, I don’t! Pay your own bills bitch; I just stay there. See I’m from the smack-a-ho tribe. I’ll smack a ho, any ho,” he said tearing the pass into tiny pieces.
Killa just shook his head as the man smoked and dug. He dug his grave and smoked Killa’s weed until it burned his fingertips. Only then, did he attempt to pass it back.
“Nah, I’m good,” Killa said to the wet roach between his weed stained fingertips.
“A’ight, I’ma run and get my weed. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
“Nah, you won’t,” Killa growled and pulled a gun.
G-Money turned to run but a slug spun him back around. The next shot dropped him and the one after that killed him. The next four were just because they felt good.
“Men are the protectors and maintainers of women!” Killa growled down at the corpse. Waste of breath really, because dead people are notoriously bad listeners.
Chapter 3
The weed and murder managed to get Killa’s mind off his son, but only for a moment. They both provided a high, but once he came down, his issues still waited impatiently. To make matters worse, he had no idea where to even begin to look for the girl. And what the fuck was that pregnant talk? On a futile whim, he used the business line and tried to reach her. He wasn’t able to track them through the phone before, and nothing had changed. The call went straight to voicemail where the goofy girl had left him a message.
“Hey babe, sorry I can’t take your call right now,” Yolo sang. She tried to sound professional, but broke into a giggle. “Don’t worry honey, this will all be over soon, and we can live happily ever after. The three of us, just the three of us.”
“Fuckin’ lunatic,” Killa growled and hung up without leaving a message. What was there to say anyway? Come meet me somewhere so I can murder you?
Killa flipped on the TV hoping to quell the growing rage. Watching black people make buffoons out of themselves on reality shows only made him angrier. The violent movies amused the violent man so he turned to the news. Talk about violence!
First was ISIS and their bullshit. As noble as creating an Islamic state might be, terrorism contradicts the tenants of faith and defeats the purpose. Then there was the usual black on black crime that black people love so much. The next story was even more violent and only served to infuriate the angry man.
A verdict had been reached in a Georgia murder trial. The case had polarized the nation and everyone awaited the outcome. Black people waited to see if it was still open season on young black men and white men hoped that it was. Slavery had long been abolished so this was all they had.
Black people often say, “I wish a nigga would,” but not as much as some racist whites. They wished and prayed that a nigger would. George Zeigler was one of them and he just got his wish. Ever since the day his home was burglarized, he had been waiting for the day to kill a black boy. That’s despite the fact that it was a couple of white kids in the neighborhood who broke in.
They received slaps on their wrist and their parents were required to pay restitution. Besides, who kills little white kids except other white kids? He was too old to shoot up a high school, so instead he loaded up on guns and waited and wishing a nigger would. To that end, he would drive away; park his car, and sneak back to his house, hoping for a burglar.
“Huh?” George asked as he watched a baseball sail over his fence into his backyard. He assumed, correctly, that it belonged to the black kids who played baseball one street over. He had dubbed them the Negro league, and they were not getting their ball back.
“Hello? Anyone home? Hello, we lost our ball!” 16-year-old Randall Martin called out as he popped his head over the wooden security fence. He scanned the yard looking for the ball and spotted it near the back door. Randall called out a few more times before hoisting himself over the fence.
“Yes!” Zeigler cheered pumping his racist fist. He cocked his gun and ran to greet his gue
st.
Just as the child bent to pick up the ball, the back door flew open. The startled teen stood up right into the line of fire, as George fired. The round from the .357 made a large hole in Randall’s forehead and an even larger one in the back where it exited. The adult stood over the child and put another round through his stopped heart.
“Fuck you looking at nigger?” he asked the boy whose eyes were opened wide from the shock of being murdered. George chuckled proudly as he looked down at his handy work. He casually took a few pictures for souvenirs then calmly called the cops. As soon as the operator picked up, he put on a show.
“Yes, send help right away! I’m white and a black man tried to break into my home. I got off a couple of shots but there might be more of them!” he said convincingly.
“A black man,” the operator gasped, “Stay put! Help is on the way!”
The 911 tape was played several times in the jury room, but it was just for show. The whole trial was just a farce to shut up the hollers of the black community. The powers that be could give a fuck about a dead black boy. If not for the uproar of blacks, George would have gotten a medal. In fact, he did get a plaque from the secret society he belonged to.
K.A.N.A.S. was an acronym for Kill All Niggers and Spics. Their hatred extended to Jews, Arabs, and normal white people who didn’t share their racist attitudes. In their twisted view, if you didn’t hate niggers, you had to be a nigger lover. The sick fucks.
Killa frowned knowingly at the screen as he watched the jury return. The foreman twisted his ring then smoothed his hair. The judge nodded ever so slightly and the DA did the same. The defense counsel stifled a smile at the good news.
“Y’all better not,” Killa growled. He, like the rest of the country, followed the case enough to know the homeowner was a piece of shit who murdered a good kid. This was by all accounts, an open and shut case. A slam-dunk as they say.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge boomed down sounding all official and shit, with his corrupt ass.
“We have,” the foreman replied smugly and handed the verdict sheet to the bailiff.
The bailiff shuffled it over to the judge. He frowned at it and passed it back. The process was reversed, and they were ready to publish the verdict for the world.
“As to count one, malice murder, how do you find?” the judge asked sucking all the air from the courtroom.
“Not guilty!” Michael O’Connor announced standing proudly as if the National Anthem was playing. The verdict set off an uproar in the packed court. Even still, the woeful moan of a grieving mother broke through.
“My baby,” Mrs. Martin sobbed breaking Killa’s heart. Her pain and anguish mixed with his own, and flushed a lone tear from his eye.
George and his attorney hugged triumphantly as the jury acquitted him on the rest of the felony charges as well. He was found guilty of a misdemeanor for not putting his garbage cans close enough to the curb. It was a subliminal snub that had the killer seeing red. The post-trial interview only made it worse
“Yes I’m just relieved this whole ordeal is behind me,” George said with a sigh. “I’m ready to get some rest and back to my life.”
“Poor George. Don’t worry, Killa’s coming to help you get some rest,” Killa said soothingly. “I’m going to kill you, your lawyer, the crooked ass judge, and every last one of those jurors. You’re all dead!”
Chapter 4
Killa spent a restless night in the rented room. Every time he closed his eyes he relived his child’s murder. A blunt of the gas put him in a coma too deep for dreams. He was awakened just before the crack of dawn by the Muslims’ call to prayer. Again, a tranquil peace descended upon his heart as he listened.
Prayer is better than sleep. God is the greatest; God is the greatest. There is nothing worthy of worship except God!
Again, he watched from his window as Muslims flocked from every direction to answer the call. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Killa got up, and got dressed so he could go kill some people who really, really needed killing.
A flight from Philly to Atlanta would have been both quicker and cheaper than driving, but Killa wanted to stay off the radar. One thing he did know was that the Black Mob was everywhere. He had no way of knowing if or how much of the structure remained in that after he killed the head.
His first stop in Georgia was to his new/old friend Big Shawn. He had fifteen people to kill and planned to have fun doing it. Sure, he could just shoot them all, but where’s the fun in that? No, he planned to get creative. Speaking of fun, he waited until the wee hours of the night and broke in for old time’s sake.
“What the…” Big Shawn asked as the aroma of cooking food snatched him awake. He shot a glance at his guest and saw she was still sleeping peacefully from the good pipe he had just laid.
Hell, even if she had been awake, she wouldn’t be in the kitchen. The twenty something year old woman was too busy ‘turning up’ to learn to cook. She knew every new dance and the words to every new song, but ask her to fry an egg. Sex was the only thing she had to offer and Big Shawn took her up on it. He brought her home from the club and dicked her down.
Big Shawn slid from the bed as quietly as his creaking bones would allow. He reached between the mattress and box spring and grabbed a hammer. Not the kind of hammer people use to nail stuff with, but the kind people get nailed with. He slowly cocked the gun and followed his nose.
“I hope you like your eggs hard because that’s how I scrambled them,” Killa called out, letting Big Shawn know he heard his big toes tiptoeing towards him. That way, he wouldn’t get shot.
“A-yo, what the fuck are you doing in here?” Big Shawn asked letting the gun fall to his side.
“Just came to make breakfast,” he replied nodding to the pile of turkey bacon, biscuits, and cheese eggs. “Don’t worry, I made enough for little Miss Oh! Oh! Get it daddy, in there. I hope you used a condom ‘cause I went through her phone and ma had more dick pics than the law allows.”
“A condom? Shit, I used two! I just met shawty at the club. I don’t think she eats anything but pills though,” he said thoughtfully.
“And dick from what I saw when I came in. She’s like a circus performer,” Killa laughed. He then fixed the plates while his host poured orange juice. They sat down at the glass dinette table and dug in.
“So, what brings you to town?” Big Shawn inquired midway through the meal.
“The usual, gon’ kill a few people,” Killa said between bites.
“Anyone I know?” he asked offhandedly, since he could give a damn. He knew his guns killed people and never concerned himself with the why. Minding your own business was a part of the curriculum in New York schools. It should be a law.
“Actually, yes. You seen the Zeigler trial?”
“Yeah I saw that bullshit! A straight A, good kid, made out to be a thug. How did the jury even go for that lame ass shit? That’s what I wanna know!” Shawn spit hotly.
“I’ll ask them before I kill them. Judge too, the whole shit was fixed. How the fuck you get an all-white jury in a 60% black county? Add another 10% for Hispanics and 8% other and it adds up to some fuck shit,” Killa said doing the math.
“Damn son! You’re going to kill all of them? All 12, 13, um 16 people?” he asked, cocking his head dubiously.
“Yup, and whoever is with them, and whoever don’t like it. You got a problem with that?”
“Problem? Shit no! I want in!” he shot back enthusiastically.
“You know I work alone. Well, for the most part,” he said recalling letting his niece Cameisha ride along once. That was fun.
“Dude, 16 people! Let me get at least…three,” Big Shawn asked making sure to leave a little room for negotiation.
“One,” Killa relented seeing the eagerness in his eyes.
The rest of the country was holding rallies, making speeches, and other useless bullshit, but what America needed was a good purge, and it was about to
get one. It’s not like the racists would just get so tired of protests that they would stop killing black boys.
On the contrary, they would eventually kill every last one if all that would happen is people holding hands and chanting old Negro spirituals. Fuck that, an eye for an eye, funeral for funeral. We’ll stop when you stop. I guess black men will have to stop killing each other first though…
“Well let’s go shop. I got some new and exciting stuff,” Big Shawn said and stuffed his last biscuit in his mouth.
Killa took two last forkfuls that emptied his plate and stood up behind him. He followed his host into the showroom and had the same reaction he always did. “Damn!” Killa exclaimed feeling lightheaded as all the blood rushed from his brain to his dick. The sight of all the guns and killing devices always gave him a hard on.
“You ok? I can send you in there with Mandy…uh, Miranda? Shit, I have no idea what that girl’s name is. Something with an M? Anyway, just say ‘turn up’ and her legs spread quicker than a rumor,” Shawn offered shaking his head. All that’s going on and all the youth want to do is turn up.
“Nah, I’d rather make a few people turn up dead,” he declined and picked up a sniper rifle.
He sat the long-range murder weapon on an empty table that wouldn’t be empty for long. Big Shawn immediately added the silencer that went with it like the salesman that he was. Instead of fries with that shake, this was bullets for that gun? By the end of the excursion, the table was loaded with death. They were done until one last item caught Killa’s eye.
“What…the…heck…is…that?” he had to know.
“That my friend is the D.C. 2000,” Big Shawn proudly proclaimed. “A knock off actually, but works just the same.”
“What does it do?” Killa inquired and once it was demonstrated, he said, “Damn!”