by Tranay Adams
“Big fucking deal, so what! It takes two to tango! He didn’t rape her, which he means she had to have opened her legs,” Zeus grumbled. He was a big ass white man with thunderbolts cut into his hair. He was Mufasa’s bodyguard and chauffer. “They gotta die for touching one of ours.” He tightened his embrace on his 223 assault rifle and mad dogged Franklin and his men. The wise guys stared him down. They weren’t afraid to die, they laughed in the face of the danger.
“Hold on! Everybody, hold the hell on!” Mufasa barked, lifting his jeweled hand. “Now I’m the one in charge here! I give the orders! And I say, nobody makes a move ‘til I say so,” he paused to let what he had said marinate inside of their heads. “Frank, I’m sorry for what may have transpired between my boy and your wife. I truly am. Judging by the looks of him, I’m sure you’ve showed him the error of his ways. I think the best thing for you to do now is let my men take junior there, so you and I can go somewhere to discuss how I can make amends; reparations of some sort. How does that sound?”
Franklin sucked his teeth and shook his head, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Nahhh, sorry, but I’m the judge, jury and executioner of this trial, and I sentence this little nappy head to the death penalty.” His mouth formed a tight line as he grasped him by the back of his neck, causing him to grimace as he shook his head.
“Don’t touch him, don’t chu dare fucking touch him!” Marbella sobbed and cried.
“Fuckin’ cunt.” He harped up phlegm and spat in her face. She closed her eyes and held up her arm to block it. The mafia don gripped the handle of his axe firmly and drew it back high above his head. “As far as those reparations...they start here.” He set his sights on Zonyai’s left leg, squaring his jaws.
“Franklin Marcellus Trombone, you bring that axe down on my son and they’ll be carting you off in a meat wagon! You’re a gambling man, right? Own a big casino? You know a good bet when you see one. You can tell these odds aren’t in your favor. Now, your boys there might get me, but not before I get you, and my men tear into them. I don’t want this, Franky. I wanna make some money. How about you? Cali’s been good to us...we’ve made a lotta scratch in these streets. We’ve sustained a pretty good relationship business wise so far. You supply the product and I flip it. My exploits have made us both wealthy men, very wealthy men. Let’s not throw all of that away in one night. What do ya say, Skipper?”
Franklin thought on it for a while. He and Mufasa had a business relationship that spanned over twenty years and they’d both profited greatly from it. The money was coming in by the dump truck loads and it was more than enough to go around. He’d hate to sour his relationship with Mufasa and miss out on all of the cash to come, especially over a piece of ass. It wasn’t his fault that his wife had fucked around. Why should he have to suffer? Why should he be the one being punished for her infidelity?
All Franklin could see were dollar signs before his eyes if he and Mufasa were to continue doing business.
“Alright,” he submitted, lowering the axe to his side. Everyone in the basement relaxed and lowered their guns. “If I let this go...you and I can go on with our thing?” he motioned his finger between the two of them. Mufasa nodded yes. “Okay. He can go...” Mufasa gave a nod to Zeus and he moved to release Zonyai from his restraints. “But not without a warning,” Franklin added, lifting his bladed weapon and swinging it downward. It looked like a blur en route to Zonyai’s limb.
Snikttttt!
Everyone’s eyes bulged and their breaths caught in their throats seeing the bloody leg came loose, flopping to the floor, bleeding. Zonyai’s eyes zeroed in on his severed limb. His mouth animatedly and his pupils seemed to shrink, too choked up to even say a word. His eyes rolled to their whites and he passed out, fading to darkness. The last thing he heard before passing out was Marbella’s screams and the sound of the fire going froooosh as his severed leg was tossed inside of the furnace.
****
Zonyai was hooked up to medical machinery to monitor his stability. No later than an hour ago, he’d been rolled into his room from surgery. It would be a while before he awoke from his anesthesia, and when he did he was sure to be horrified by the absence of his limb.
Mufasa stood over his wife, Eleanor, with his hands on her shoulders as she gently caressed Zonyai’s limp hand. Three senior members of Mufasa’s organization, all of whom were aging gangsters with salt and pepper hair, surrounded them. They all wore tailor made suits and shoulder holsters that held large caliber weapons. The men were O.Gs in their own right; they’d seen it all and they’d done it all.
Marbella walked into the room with Joey-T and Jackie Needles bringing up the rear. Her hair was a mess and her mascara had run from her crying. The O.Gs moved to remove them from the room, but a motion of Mufasa’s hand halted them. He was the self-proclaimed King of the Streets and his aura was powerful. Some say that it was one of a God of Olympus.
“Speak your piece,” Mufasa told her.
“I just came to tell him goodbye.” she sniffled, wiping her eyes with a balled up Kleenex.
“Alright, but your watchdogs will have to wait out in the hall.” His stern eyes cut to Franklin’s men.
With that said, Jackie Needles smiled sinisterly and tipped his hat to Mufasa and his wife before walking out into the hall, with Joey-T in tow.
“Cock sucka,” he said under his breath. Everyone present heard it. One of Mufasa’s men’s faces balled up and they moved to answer the disrespect with violence. If it wasn’t for his boss stretching his hand across his chest, he would have surely acted on the violence he’d thought out in his mental.
“Skinny pasta eating, mothafucka,” he grumbled, gritting his teeth. He snapped out of his intense stare when he spotted his boss eying him. He remembered quickly how he hated for foul language to be spoken in front of his wife. The last cat that broke that rule was beaten to death inside of a pool hall and got the broken half of the stick jammed up his rectum. Mufasa had done him something filthy. He was still waking up in cold sweats about that incident.
“Sorry, boss,” he humbled himself and lowered his head like a disobedient dog. Mufasa nodded to his wife and he removed his hat, placing it to his chest. “My apologies, madam.” A tear streaked faced Eleanor gave him a nod like It’s okay.
Marbella pulled some of her hair over her shoulder, tied it into a knot six inches up, and cut it loose. Some of the loose hairs fell to the floor as she placed the knot of brunette hair into her lover’s palm and closed it tight, kissing his fingers. As a fresh set of hot tears stung her eyes and rimmed her lids, she gently caressed his forehead with her thumb. Big tear drops trickled from her and splashed onto his face, rolling down his cheeks as if they were his own.
“I love you very much, Zonyai, and if we cannot be together in this life, then perhaps the next, my love.” Her voice cracked under her emotions as she went on to loop a rosary beaded necklace from around her neck. She turned to Eleanor and took her hand, opening her palm. She placed the rosary into her palm and she closed it tight. When their eyes met, they both cried uncontrollably, having great love for the young man laid up in bed.
“Please,” Marbella began, wiping her eyes with the damp Kleenex. “Make sure he gets that when he wakes up.”
“I will. I promise.” Eleanor nodded, wiping her tears away with her thumb and finger. She was startled when mob wife suddenly hugged her. Hell, everyone inside of the room exchanged glances as they were taken off guard by the sudden act of affection. Eleanor snapped out of her awkward daze and threw her arms around her, her hand running up and down her back as she listened to her weep and felt the vibration against her bosoms from her grieving. Marbella pulled back wiping her nose and face with the Kleenex. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from shedding so many tears.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” she told Mrs. King of the Streets.
“You’re welcome.”
Marbella looked up at Mufasa and rolled her eyes. All he could do was lower his
gaze. He knew he should have laid Franklin and his boys down in that basement but he couldn’t bring himself to do it because he had too much invested in him and the mob boss’s relationship. After turning her nose up at the Street King, Marbella turned back around to the love of her life, approaching him. Leaning over his bed, she placed a tender kiss on his lips and caressed his hand as she rounded his bed en route toward the door. Her high heel pumps clicked on the linoleum as she approached the exit, sliding on her dark shades to hide her crying. She looked like a straight up movie star with those babies on and she wouldn’t have it any other way. The world didn’t need to see what she had going on in her life until she was ready. That is if she would ever be ready to show them the soap opera that was her life.
****
Brolic paced the waiting room floor of UCLA hospital bent on revenge and ranting to Mufasa’s soldiers. “I’m telling y’all now, that fat mothafucka has got to go, on my momma, cuz! We’re hitting them Italian niggaz tonight!” He slapped the back of his hand into his palm for emphasis as he talked that shit. Zonyai was his man plus fifty grand and he was all for showing the wise guy how he gave it up in the streets. He had bullets with their names emblazoned on them and coffins awaiting their cold bodies.
The hot headed nigga was so busy shooting off his mouth that he hadn’t notice Mufasa and his niggaz enter the room and shut the door behind them. The Top Dawg cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth and grasped everyone’s attention.
“As you all may know, I had a sit down with Mr. Trombone earlier tonight. As for the outcome of that meeting...we’ve agreed to let bygones be bygones for the sake of our business venture. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m tryna juice this game til’ the day comes when I’m comfortable enough to call it quits. And I’m not about to let some mafia princess fuck that up for me. When Zonyai jumped in bed with that man’s wife, he knew he was playing with fire and there’d be a chance of him getting burned. He made that decision as a man, and now he has to deal with the consequences.”
“Man. This is some old bullshit!” Brolic barked, spittle flying from his big lips. “These cock suckas do a number on my brother, and we ‘pose to turn the other cheek on some Martin Luther King shit? What part of the game is that? I mean am I the only gangsta present up in here, or what?” he looked around at all of the faces in the room. The men either avoided eye contact, or kept their mouths shut. They weren’t feeling Mufasa not wanting to shed blood over what had happened to one of their own but they didn’t dare say a word. It was working for him that kept a roof over their family’s heads and clothes on their backs. They were far from fools. “What the fuck, Mufasa? Are you scared of these wops, or...”
Smack!
The back of Mufasa’s hand went across his face so hard that it whipped his head to the left and bloodied his grill. His forehead deepened with lines and he smiled evilly, showcasing his red teeth. He spat blood on the flat hospital carpet and wiped his lips with his fist, swallowing the rest of the blood that had pooled inside of his mouth.
“Mothafucka, don’t chu ever mention scared and my name in the same breath! You hear me, huh?” he spat with arched eyebrows and a wrinkled nose, wagging his finger in Brolic’s face.
He threw his head back when the muscle bound thug snatched his head bussa off of his waistline, pointing it dead in his face. He bit down on his bottom lip and released it a couple of time. All he needed was for him to pop some more fly shit up out of his pussy sucker’s and he was going to reward him with one through the brain.
“Go ahead, I double dog dare, you mothafucka. I’m begging you, pleeease,” he thought eager to use his gun. His eyes darted all around the room and he realized that not only did all of Mufasa’s men have them thangs pointed at but Zeus did as well. Now the giant had love for Brolic, but his loyalty to his boss overrided that love. The niggaz gathered in the waiting room watched in anticipation, waiting to see how things would play out. All of their hearts were pounding as a collective. Their trigger fingers were anxious and their palms were sweaty. At the drop of the hat they could get it cracking. Slugs could fly, blood could be shed, bodies could fall and lives could be lost forever.
Looking around at all of the bangers and seeing that the odds were in his favor, Mufasa smirked triumphantly and looked Brolic dead in his eyes. He had the upper hand and he loved it. It was what he loved the most about being one of the biggest gangstas in Southern California.
“If you pull that trigger, you better be ready for everything that comes behind it, son.” He told Brolic with a stone face and eyes that pleaded with him to reconsider before he got filled with a thousand holes up in that bitch.
Normally when Brolic pulled his tool whatever nigga that stood on the other side of it was as good as dead. He may as well have shown up wearing a suit and tie because that would be his ass. He couldn’t let this cat in front of him get the business though. Why? Because he knew that right after he left his brain dripping from the ceiling, his niggaz would lay him down right after and he’d never be able to avenge Zonyai then. As bad as he hated to let the shit ride he knew that he was going to have to if he ever wanted to punish the De Lucci family for doing his man up.
Awww, fuck it, Cuz, I just walk the earth forever haunting these pussy ass niggaz, Brolic smiled at Mufasa, boasting his chipped front tooth. This caused The King of the Streets to frown, wondering what the fuck was going through his crazy little head. Brolic had thrown his life on the crap table and was feeling lucky. Or maybe he was just feeling suicidal, real suicidal. He brought pressure to the trigger of his Desert Eagle .44 and Wayne came running through the door, leaving it open behind him. He dipped off to the vending machines earlier and was just now coming back. The young hooligan placed his hand gently on Brolic’s hand and pressed it downwards, making him lower his weapon. Even then he and Mufasa were staring each other down like a couple of raging Rottweilers.
“Don’t mind my big homie, Fasa, he’s just high is all. Nigga smokes too much, hahahahaha.” Wayne laughed and patted his nigga on the shoulder. The two men kept on mad dogging one another until the youngster finally got him to make his exit.
“That’s one crazy son of a bitch, right there,” One of the nigga’z said, tucking his banger away.
“Wont us to follow them and put homeboy outta his misery?” another nigga asked.
“Nah, let’em be, he’s just a kid,” Mufasa told him. “Just needs to blow off some steam.”
****
The elevator stopped on the fifth level of the hospital parking complex. The doors opened and Eleanor, Mufasa and his men came out. They headed for the stretch Mercedes and froze once they saw what had become of it. The luxury vehicle was sitting on four flats. Its hood was opened with a bunch of wires having been torn out and all of its windows were busted, except for the windshield. Fuck you Mufasa! Was spray painted there in lime green.
“Yep, he sure did blow off that steam,” Zeus patted Mufasa on the back.
“Fucking kid,” Mufasa scowled and gritted, kicking the back door of the limo so hard that it indented.
****
Meanwhile
“This is it, nigga home, too.” Brolic said, looking out of the windshield at Franklin’s mansion. He and Wayne were dressed in all black and wearing ski-masks on the top of their heads like they were beanies.
“You sure you wanna do this, fam? Two black mothafuckaz in this lily white ass neighborhood, somebody probably already called the police.” Wayne tried to reason, after locking and loading his choppa.
“Is that cologne you’re wearing, or do I smell pussy?” Brolic asked sarcastically, checking the extended magazine in his Choppa and smacking it back into the stomach of his weapon.
“I’ve been on 100 missions and you still questioning my G? When you gon’ recognize that a young nigga done came into his own, pop? How many mo’ heads I gotta bust out here?” Wayne asked frustrated, his gold grill twinkled under the soft lights of outside.
&
nbsp; “Look, I’m Mr. Miyagi and your Daniel Son. And right now you’re still in training; I’m showing you the ropes of this street shit.”
“Yeah, whatever, pop, let’s do this.” Wayne pulled the ski-mask over his face and down around his neck. He looked thugged the fuck out with that mask on and that shiny ass gold grill.
“Alright, come on.” He told him, throwing open the driver side door and hopping out.
Stooping low and carrying their assault rifles, they moved out like they were military trained. They scaled the gates that stood ahead of Franklin’s mansion and sprinted across the enormous lawn, heads on swivels. Once they reached the three luxury vehicles in the driveway, they gave each other a nod and opened fire, sweeping the spitting barrels of their weapons up, down, and across the cars. The vehicles windows exploded, imploded and their tires burst, sitting them lower to the surface. The gunfire caused a domino effect of lights to come on inside homes lined up and down the block. Brolic and Wayne ceased fire. Brolic slung the strap of his weapon over his shoulder and climbed onto the hood of one of the cars, unzipped his jeans.
“Nigga, what the fuck are you doing?” Wayne asked in a hushed tone. His street daddy ignored him and proceeded to whip out his meat, pissing all over the dashboard of the car he was standing on. The yellow fluid rolled back onto the hood, outlining his sneakers and dripping off the edge of the vehicle. Police sirens blared from a far and people began to emerge from their homes to see what was going on. “The mothafucking cops are coming. We’ve gotta bail.” Wayne’s head snapped back and forth from Brolic to the tall gates of the mob boss’s estate.
Just as the buff hoodlum stashed his meat and zipped up his jeans, the porch light of the mansion popped on. The don of the De Lucci Family stepped out on the porch with a pistol in one hand and a glass of Brandy in the other, he and Brolic locked eyes. The thug pulled his mask up from over his face so that he could see exactly who it was that fucked up close to a half a million dollars in luxury vehicles. They stared each other down for what seemed like an eternity; Franklin gritting and squeezing the glass in his massive palm and Brolic mad dogging him. Veins rolled up the mobster’s forehead and neck as he squeezed the glass tighter, causing cracks to appear all over it. Suddenly, the glass exploded into shards in his hand, dripping blood and dark alcohol on the porch. He didn’t even flinch from the wounds to his fingers and palm.