by Erica Hilton
“You dumb fuckin’ bitch!” screamed Bacardi as she strongly clutched a handful of the mother’s hair and nearly dragged her around her own apartment like a ragdoll.
The daughter started punching Bacardi on her back, and Bacardi elbowed the young girl in her face, spewing blood. Keisha stood in the background in absolute shock. It was chaos. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. The two younger daughters were crying, and a few neighbors had gathered at the doorway to observe the violent fight inside the apartment.
Bacardi had lost it. She repeatedly punched the mother in her face and tossed her around the living room something serious. The daughter was no match for Bacardi either. They were giving it their all, but Bacardi was a beast, giving them both hell. Those bitches had pushed her buttons, and that violent street thug came out of her.
Finally, two uniformed cops arrived at the scene. They charged into the apartment and broke up the fight before they killed each other. The mother was highly upset and shaken. She screamed at Bacardi, “Yo, arrest that bitch! She came into my fuckin’ home and assaulted me!”
“You lying fuckin’ cunt! Fuck you, bitch!” Bacardi retorted.
The mother looked like she had gone some rounds with Floyd Mayweather—a bloody face, a torn weave, and a bruised eye. The daughter was in a similar condition. Bacardi was breathing heavily. The situation had turned into a disaster and a nightmare all in one. Seeing the police in the room taking statements from people, Bacardi knew she’d fucked up. She had lost her cool and reacted. She mouthed to herself, “Shit!”
She looked at Keisha, who stood in the apartment looking dumbfounded by everything. It happened so fast. Bacardi expected Keisha to have her back and say that the mother and oldest daughter had jumped on her and started the fight. Bacardi didn’t want to lose her job over the incident.
However, Keisha was on the fence as to whether she would lie for her friend. She’d warned Bacardi to follow protocol and wait for a police escort. Keisha needed her job and her pension.
Word spread of the violent incident in the Bronx, and Bacardi was immediately placed on suspension pending an investigation.
***
Bacardi was heated when she walked into her apartment. It was possibly the worst day of her life. Her believed best friend, Keisha, had hidden behind the supervisor and stayed at work to write up her paperwork, so Bacardi had to take the subway home.
The moment Bacardi walked through her front door, looking like she’d been to hell and back, Claire charged toward her and practically tried to rip the mink coat off her back.
“Why you wearing my new coat!”
Bacardi was in no mood to fuss with her daughter, but Claire was being an asshole. For a moment she forgot that Claire was her flesh and bone and she attacked. A scuffle ensued between them, but Butch immediately broke it up.
Bacardi screamed at Claire, “Try me, bitch! I’m not in the fuckin’ mood!”
Claire replied, “You look so fuckin’ stupid in my coat! It don’t even fit you! Damn, why would you ride the dirty train in my mink coat! I fuckin’ hate you!”
“Hate me then, you stupid, ungrateful bitch! I don’t care!”
Chanel sat in the background watching the brief melee with her family. Her mother was taking it easy on Claire after her sister damn near attacked her at the door. She couldn’t help herself. She mumbled, “Shit, if that had been me trying to snatch off the coat, I would have gotten my ass whooped.”
Bacardi heard the smart comment and pivoted in Chanel’s direction. She stampeded and raised her fists and started pounding on Chanel madly. Chanel cried out and tried her best to defend herself, but her mother had become a raging machine.
“Your mouth is too fuckin’ grown and you never know how to fuckin’ mind your fuckin’ business!” Bacardi exclaimed.
Chanel hollered while Claire stood there and egged it on. She even said, “You shoulda shut up, Chanel. Always instigating somethin’—so asinine and wildish!”
“I’m sorry!” Chanel hollered.
But it was too late for sorry. Bacardi beat her youngest daughter like she stole something. Butch didn’t intervene this time. He sat there and watched—almost proudly. After the beating, Chanel ran into her room with tears streaming down her face. She slammed the door and Bacardi warned, “Don’t be slamming no fuckin’ doors in this house, or I’ll give you worse than that, bitch!”
Bacardi marched into her bedroom and slammed her own door. She wanted to be alone. She had been in a fight, nearly arrested, and she was suspended from her job. The only thing she wanted to do was take a long hot bath, smoke some weed, and get some sleep—and she dared anyone to bother her again.
Meanwhile, Chanel was spread out across her bed crying her eyes out. It’s not fair! she thought. Claire could almost get away with attacking their mother, but she simply uttered one sly remark and havoc erupted inside the living room. Chanel wanted to run away and never come back. Why did her family hate her so much? She laid there on her stomach with her face pressed into the pillow, and her tears seemed never-ending. The room was dark and quiet, apart from her crying. Then suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Claire entered the room. She flicked on the lights, interrupting Chanel’s darkness and her emotional solitude.
Claire stared at her sister with apathy and then laughed. “You look so pathetic and insignificant,” she exclaimed. “If you picked up a book and read how to strategize like Tsu Zu or Greene’s 48 Laws of Power you’d know how to beat Bacardi at her own game. You too stupid to learn about cognitive dissonance and the philosophies of great thinkers. You’d know that your cognitive mind keeps you distant from your own mother.”
Chanel ignored her. She would bet her last dollar that Claire was using the definition of cognitive dissonance incorrectly, but she kept her face buried into her pillow and didn’t mumble a word.
“Anyway, I need the room to study,” said Claire.
She shook her head and went toward her bookshelf and pulled out a book. She loved being the smart one in the family and spoke to everyone like they were dumb. She had them believing that they were dumb too by using her big, fancy words.
Claire sat at the foot of her bed with a text book in her hand. But she didn’t start to read yet. She looked Chanel’s way and once again shook her head. She said, “So, you just gonna lie in bed all day looking obtuse?”
Chanel turned over and shouted, “Just leave me alone!”
“Yo, don’t be yelling at me. Who you think you are?”
Chanel glared at her sister—enough was enough. Claire was relentless with her insults, calling Chanel ugly and telling her that she was adopted and how she wished she would go live with her real family. Hearing enough of the verbal abuse, Chanel snatched her cell phone off the night stand and stormed out of the bedroom. Claire sat there and smirked. Getting under Chanel’s skin was fun for her.
Chanel stormed into the bathroom and closed the door. Right away she dialed her friend, Mecca, who lived in Harlem, hoping and praying that she could go there to escape the abuse and insanity at home—if only temporarily. Mecca used to live in the same building as Chanel, but she moved uptown last year when her mother found a better job and a more suitable place to live.
Mecca answered her phone, and Chanel was relieved.
“Hey, you busy?” she asked.
“No. I’m just home chilling,” said Mecca.
“Can I come over? I can’t take it over here anymore.”
“Yeah, sure. How long?”
“I’m leaving my place now,” said Chanel.
Chanel quietly and hurriedly gathered a few of her things and left the apartment to sneak onto the C train to Harlem.
Chapter Four
The two speakers in the corner of the living room were somewhat small, but they were loud and clear, and they boomed old school R&B jams from artists such as Prince, Cha
ka Khan, Mary J. Blige, Keith Sweat, D’Angelo, and many more. It was a full-blown New Year’s Eve party in the Browns’ three-bedroom project apartment. The apartment was packed with revelers, young and old. The guests were mostly men, all vying to get a look, glance, or a quick feel of a round ass or perky tit brushing up against them from one of Bacardi’s exotic looking daughters, Charlie and Claire. The girls were prime real estate, but the project guys were too broke to pay the mortgage. They could only fantasize and gawk at the Brooklyn bombshells.
“I’d give my left nut for a slice of Charlie’s red velvet cake. I’d eat that shit out ev’ry fuckin’ day. That’s my word, my nigga,” one goon stated.
“Nah, it’s Claire that got the goodies I want. She the smart one going places and will be able to take care of a nigga. I’d lick her strawberry shortcake from the rooter to the tooter,” another loser, who was five years older than Butch, remarked.
Another thug added, “Y’all buggin’. Both them ruby red bitches could get this dick. Why I gotta choose?”
The men all laughed.
Fried chicken, baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and fried fish were being sold for $7 per plate. BBQ ribs, potato salad, and collard greens were a bit more at $8 per plate. Hennessy and Patrón were being sold for $5 per cup and beer for $3. There was a pitty pat game going in the kitchen, and the house got a cut of all the winnings. All the cash was being stuffed into Bacardi’s big bra. She was making a small fortune from the party.
“Bacardi!” a woman named Candy hollered from across the room. “You need to come over here and get your damn husband! He messing wit’ the liquor, and I done told him a few times to get from over here.”
Bacardi turned and shot her eyes in Butch’s direction. He was lingering by the impromptu bar near the kitchen with a plastic cup in his hand. She hollered, “Butch, get the fuck away from my profits. I’ll be damned if you fuck up my money tonight!”
Butch smiled at Bacardi before he downed what was left in his cup and staggered toward her. He was in a cheery frame of mind and entertaining everyone at the party. He went up to Bacardi and did a few two-step dance moves to Mary J. Blige’s “You Remind Me.” He spun around with laughter and tried to take his wife by the hand. “C’mon, baby, let’s show these no-how’s how to really dance.”
Bacardi was in no mood to dance. “Butch, I ain’t got no time to be dancing wit’ you. Get out my face!”
She shoved him to the side and went into the kitchen to check on the food. She was about her business and making a quick buck. She had to keep an eye on things, knowing there were lots of thieves and cheats attending her party.
It was a lively affair; everyone was laughing, eating, and drinking. They were leaving the old year behind, partying like it was 1999, and bringing in the New Year with a bang. Every room had people inside of it, except for Bacardi’s bedroom. Chanel had her own company.
Charlie and God came through all smiles with more liquor to sell and nearly an ounce of weed to smoke. It was a time to celebrate. The entire apartment was ablaze with different varieties of marijuana—OG Kush, Silver Haze, Raspberry Cough, Zombie, Gelato, Hawaiian Punch, and more. It was a smorgasbord of pot inside the apartment. Everyone looked at God and Charlie like they were celebrities—like they were gods. Charlie pranced around the party dressed in a pair of tight jeans and an asymmetrical halter top under her new coat. Her jewelry was dazzling like her hazel eyes. God looked a thuggish goon wearing dark jeans with his matching construction Timberlands and a dark brown hoodie under his leather coat. His diamond watch peeked from his sleeve, and his diamond earrings gleamed.
Bacardi couldn’t stop smiling at Charlie. She was so proud of her for hooking up with a good man like God. He provided her and her family with whatever they needed, and he was highly respected and feared throughout the hood. Bacardi couldn’t imagine Charlie with a bitch-ass nigga—or some working-ass sucker who couldn’t afford to hold her daughter down. Charlie needed a real man—a fuckin’ goon to love, and God was it. Shit, most times Bacardi wished she had a man like God.
It was nearing midnight, and the party was in full throttle with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. Fingers came through dressed in his best to join in on the fun. He and God politicked in the hallway for a moment, smoking weed and discussing their next lick before heading back into the apartment. Fingers wanted to get down with a few ladies that caught his eye.
“Do your thang, my nigga,” said God.
Claire walked around the party with a book in her hand, but it was more for show than to learn. She figured a room full of folks was the perfect opportunity to boast her intelligence. She sat in a folding chair in the packed room and pretended to read.
Some of the young girls in the room started to whisper and snicker to themselves, even called her a wannabe bougie bitch. Claire heard their remarks and cut her eyes at the three young girls huddled in the corner and staring at her. She quickly stood up and marched their way, book still in her hand.
“Y’all bitches need to fuckin’ go!” she said.
“Bitch, who is you?” one of the girls responded.
“A modish bitch that’s gonna kick you out the door or throw y’all out the damn window. Y’all choose,” Claire exclaimed.
“I’d like to see you try it!”
The tension grew thick between them, but before things escalated, Charlie made her way over and intervened.
“Is there a problem here?” Charlie asked coolly.
The girls didn’t want any problems with Charlie, so they relented. “Nah, no problem, Charlie. We were just about to leave.”
The girls made their way toward the exit, and Charlie shot an angry look at her sister. “You fuckin’ up our money by kickin’ people out. You shouldn’t be reading a fuckin’ book at a party anyway! Why can’t you leave studying alone for one day?”
Claire sucked her teeth and simply walked away. She didn’t want to hear her sister’s rants. Charlie found God in the crowd and decided to do a little dirty dancing with her man.
The DJ got the crowd hyped when he played Childish Gambino’s “This is America.” It was like setting off a bomb. Everyone began doing the Wobble, Shmoney dance, Stanky Leg, and a host of others. Charlie backed her ass up against God, twerking and grinding her body against his. His hands were all over her like an octopus. They left nothing to the imagination—dirty dancing at almost a pornographic level.
Bacardi stood there and observed Charlie’s wild behavior with her man at the party and slightly grinned. A bitch should keep her man happy by any means necessary. She almost wished she could trade places with her daughter. God was a fine man.
The music continued to blare inside the project apartment like it was a nightclub, and Bacardi’s bra shrouded close to four hundred dollars in profits. It wasn’t a bad take for a New Year’s Eve party in Brooklyn. Bacardi had something to smile about.
Once again, a drunk Butch approached her for a dance, and this time she gave in. After seeing Charlie dance with her man, she decided to get her own groove on. Besides, it was a party. Butch pulled his wife into his arms and thrust his pelvis against her backside. Bacardi happily moved with her man to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September.”
Butch continued his dance and started singing in her ear—out of tune of course. His hand reached up to cup her right breast and she allowed the fondling. It was cute how he touched her in public, not caring who was watching them. In fact, the fondling kind of turned her on. It was a peculiar sight to see mother and daughter both dancing passionately with their men.
Keisha arrived a half-hour before the countdown to the New Year was to begin. Dressed fashionably in a red lace dress that hugged her thick frame and red shoes to match, Keisha had all the boys eyeing her goodies.
Bacardi saw her and gave her the cold shoulder and continued dancing with her husband. She felt ambivalent about K
eisha showing up. Her supposed best friend already had two strikes against her—owing her money and not having her back at the apartment when those bitches tried to jump her.
It took a moment for Bacardi to corner Keisha in a private area to finally ask her what she told their supervisors about the incident. Bacardi needed to know. She wanted to believe that Keisha had her back and her best interest at heart. She couldn’t afford to lose her job—not now.
“What’s good, Keisha? What did you tell them?” she asked seriously.
Keisha could only lock eyes with her friend and confess the truth. She knew that Bacardi would eventually read the deposition about the incident and find out.
“I told the truth, Bernice,” said Keisha.
Bacardi was baffled by the statement. “The truth? What you mean you told the truth? What the fuck does that mean? You had my back, right?”
“I just told them what happened.”
“You know what happened, them bitches tried to jump me—and that dumb bitch pulled out a knife on us.”
“Look, I couldn’t lie for you, Bernice. I told you to chill and just follow protocol. You did overreact somewhat,” Keisha said.
“Are you serious, bitch? That bitch pulled out a knife on us and you wanna fuckin’ blame me! You shoulda fucked that bitch up too!”
“I just can’t lose my job over some foolishness,” replied Keisha.
“Lose your job!” Bacardi shouted. “Bitch, you supposed to be my best friend! I thought you had my back on this!”
Bacardi stepped closer to Keisha. Her angry voice was starting to boom over the music.
“Bernice, get out my face like that,” Keisha warned.
“Or what, bitch? What the fuck you gonna do!” Bacardi replied.
“You know what, bitch? Fuck you!” Keisha shouted.
Those two words—“Fuck you”—were fighting words for Bacardi. Folks were watching, anticipating a fight. And that’s exactly what they got. Without warning, Bacardi swung first, striking Keisha in the face. As expected, Keisha reacted, and a full-scale fistfight ensued. Bacardi and Keisha thumped like animals in the wild, and for a split moment it was pound-for-pound. But that soon changed. Bacardi, who was drunk and short-winded, was having a hard time. Keisha had her backed into a corner and was hammering on her like a prize fighter going for the knockout and shouting, “Fuckin’ dumb bitch! I’m sick of your shit!”