by Tranay Adams
Franklin made himself a drink at the mini-bar downstairs. He walked his glass into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of ice cubes out of the refrigerator. After, dropping the cubes into the glass and swirled them around until they chilled the alcohol. He brought the glass to his lips, and that’s we he spotted the cake Marbella made for him on the counter. Happy Birthday Zonyai was on the chocolate cake in red frosting. Franklin scowled. He couldn’t believe his eyes, she was so wrapped up in her side piece that she’d even put his fucking name on his cake.
“Fuckin’ whore!” he threw the glass into the wall with all of his strength and it exploded into shards, sending the dark liquor running to the linoleum. The big man was so pissed off that he was seeing flashes of red. His rage had made him incoherent to the apologies coming from Marbella, who was standing in the doorway.
“Baby, I’m sorry, I am so, so sorry. Please, forgive me.” She pleaded, tears cascading down her cheeks. Fear was in her eyes and her heart was beating madly. She didn’t know what this fat mothafucka may do.
Franklin shoulders shudders as his chest heaved up and down. All he could do then was stare at the cake. With the intensity that he was staring at it with it was surprising that it didn’t warm like it was in the oven. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t even hear his wife apologizing over and over again. Breaking from his trance, he picked up the birthday cake and marched toward her. Her eyes growing wider and wider the closer he got. Finally reaching her, he grabbed her by the neck firmly and forced her up against the wall, mashing the cake into her face. He twisted and turned it until it crumbled into her and fell in chunks at his leather shoes and her bare feet. She cried out and he licked the frosting from his fingers. Cleaning them with a paper towel, he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He grabbed his hat and coat from off of the coat stand and opened ****
the front door. He slammed the door with so much force that it knocked the portrait of him and her hanging over the fireplace down to the floor. Marbella slid down to the floor weeping and swiping cake out of her eyes, smacking it to the floor. She brought her knees to her chest and hung her head, wrapping her arms around her legs.
Thirty minutes later
Marbella stood in the medicine cabinet mirror cleaning the cake from her face and hair. Once she was done she gave herself a once over, paying special attention to her swollen blacken eye and the bruises covering her form.
“Sssssss!” She hissed after poked at her injured eye. After Franklin forced her and Zonyai apart she tried to forget about him, but she couldn’t. Even after four long years he still lived in her mind and heart. He had become a tenant in both, and no matter how many times she tried to evict him, he just wouldn’t leave. She thought that over time that her love would die for him, but it had only gone stronger.
Once he’d discovered his wife’s cheating all of the years ago, Franklin decided to make a change for the betterment of his marriage. He stopped sleeping around, spent more time with Marbella and even attended marriage counseling. The boss of all bosses went to the extremes, pulling out all of the stops, doing everything humanly possible to make her happy. But in the end it just wasn’t enough. She wanted Zonyai. Her heart ached for him and her soul cried for him. Love was a mothafucka.
Marbella threw on an old T-shirt and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, twisting a rubber-band around it. Once she slipped on some jeans and a pair of lady Air Maxes, she grabbed the shovel from the garage and headed into the backyard. She dug up the ground under the shade of the lemon tree until she hit an iron locker-box. Ping! The tin sounded when it met with the metal of the shovel. Marbella removed the locker from out of the ground and brushed the remnants of dirt off of it with her palm. Next, she un-locked it with the silver key that dangled from around her neck. Inside there was a photo of she and Zonyai sitting on top of a button-up shirt. They’d taken a picture with her cell phone before they went their separate ways and she’d gotten the photo printed out at Walgreens. Picking up the picture and admired it before sitting it aside. She then picked up his wife beater which she’d requested after their staying with each other at the motel. She wanted to have a little something extra to remember him by. Marbella brought the undershirt to her nose and inhaled deeply. A smile stretched across her lips as she could still smell his scent in it. Marbella placed her back up against the tree, admiring the photo and the wife beater she’d managed to salvage all of these years. She traced Zonyai’s face with a manicured finger and the smile that was on her face, morphed into trembling lips. Her eyes became watery and before she knew it big teardrops were falling, pelting the picture and rolling off of its edges. Right then and there she realized that she’d never be happy until they were reunited.
****
“Man, you’re the only nigga I know that listens to classical music,” Brolic said from the front passenger seat of Zonyai’s white on white Maserati. “I’m telling you, real niggaz don’t listen to this type of shit.” He jabbed his finger at the stereo.
“Oh, so I’m notta real nigga ‘cause I don’t wanna listen to all of that hip-hop bee bop bullshit?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly,” Brolic sat back in the seat listening to the classical instruments flowing from the speakers. He looked like that shit was giving him a headache. “I can’t take this shit no more, yo’.” He reached for the dial on the stereo and Zonyai smacked his hand down, looking at him he’d lost his goddamn mind.
“Aye, when we’re in my car we listen to classical music, when we’re in your ride we’ll listen to the bullshit you like, alright?” he told him with a stern expression as he pulled to a red light.
Brolic blew hard and slid down in his seat, looking out of the front passenger side window. He sat up in the seat as something caught his attention, creases coming across his forehead.
“Mothafucka!”
“What’s up?” Wayne asked from the backseat, sitting up to see what had caught his big homie’s eye.
“That nigga Melvin, fuck-nigga owe me money,” Brolic hopped out of the whip, leaving the door wide open. Wayne was hopping out of the car right behind him, following in his footsteps.
“Aye, where y’all going? Shit.” Zonyai slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
****
“Ah, shit!” Melvin cursed from his wheelchair when he saw Brolic and Wayne jogging across the street toward him, from the expressions on their faces he could tell that they meant business. He was a light skinned brother, with a tapered afro and a big nose that had a mole beside it. He was dressed in a blue jean jacket and Timberlands. Beside him was his homeboy Benny. He was a tall lanky stud that rocked a bald head and a wife beater and cargo shorts.
“What’s up?” Benny asked Brolic as he took swigs from a quarter juice. The thug ignored him, his sole attention was focused on his man Melvin and he looked like he was about ready to grab that steel off of his waistline and lift him up out of his wheelchair.
“Yo’ be cool, my nigga. It ain’t gotta be all of that.” Melvin gave him a nervous smile and held his hand up as he stood before him. Brolic looked hot enough to melt an ice berg. “Now what’s the problem, family?” he held out his trembling hand and he smacked it away, hard as shit. He was ready to get it popping. The nigga wasn’t there on some buddy, buddy shit.
“I ain’t tryna shake yo’ mothafucking hand, nigga!” Brolic looked him up and down with a scrunched up nose. Melvin was looking scared as hell.
“Bounce,” Wayne told Benny when he stepped in his face, throwing his head down the block. The wheelchair bound man didn’t seem to be moving fast enough for him so he stepped closer, mad dogging him and getting up in his face. “What, chu hard of hearing something, pussy? I said, kick rocks, bitch!” He smacked the quarter juice from Benny’s hand and kicked him in the ass, hurrying him along. He looked like he wanted to do something but when the little nigga upped that thang, thang he took off running, leaving Wayne to focus on Melvin with his big homie.
“Fuck is my loot?” Brolic asked the nigga in the wheelchair.
“I’m a lil’ short, homie, I don’t get my social security check ‘til the 8th. I’ll lay that lil’ paper on ya then, cool?” he tried to slap hands with the muscle bound thug again, but he left him hanging.
“I’m not trying to hear that, my nigga, you done owed me for the past three weeks. Fuck is up? I know you not thinking old Brolic done gon’ soft? You of all people know how I give it up, or have you forgotten how you wound up in this fucking wheelchair.” He kicked his chair and it rolled him aside.
Fearing for his life, Melvin pulled a jagged knife from the holster on his ankle and swung around to Brolic. His eyes took on a spooked look and his head whipped from left to right, nervously. Wayne was about to put something hot in his dome piece when Brolic produced a banger of his own, busting him across the bridge of his nose, breaking it. Blood gushed from his nostrils, dripping and staining the collar of his shirt. The pain was so excruciating that he was blinded for a moment, seeing flashes of white before his eyes.
Brolic was about to grab the handles of the wheelchair and roll his bitch ass out into traffic when Wayne stopped him.
“Hold up, pop, I got this nigga.” He tucked his tool on his waistline and grabbed the handles of the chair. Melvin’s head bobbled about and he moaned, vision coming into focus. Once he wasn’t seeing double and he noticed the cars flying back and forth his line of vision, his eyes bulged and he screamed like a he wore panties instead of boxers. Brolic stood aside folding his arms across his chest and cracking a grin, watching his little homie like he was a proud father.
****
The day of Wayne’s father’s funeral the sky was a murky blue and rain was falling at what seemed like a thousand miles an hour hitting the street, slicking it wet. Being that the juvenile’s old man was a crack head and a notorious thief, there weren’t too many mourners there. The people that did show up were the few family members that still had love for him or the street cats that had come out of respect for Wayne. At the Funeral Brolic noticed how much of depressing mood that he was in and invited him to come along with him to the repast. The young man was trying not to cry but his emotions got the best of him. Before he knew it his eternal pain was rolling down his cheeks.
“What’s up, Cuz? Why you crying and shit?” Brolic looked from the windshield to a grieving Wayne.
The young nigga looked to him with a scrunched up face. Eyes pink and moist, face stained with tears.
“I just lost my fucking father!” he sneered, looking at him like Mothafucka are you serious? We just left his funeral, I know you didn’t just forget.”
“Yeah, I feel you. But check this out,” Brolic began. “You ain’t saw ya pop’s since you were five, right?” he nodded yes. “Said he left you and ya mom’s for some bitch and you’ve been out here scraping and scuffling trying to keep the bills paid and food on the table, right?” he didn’t wait for him to answer. “Exactly, fuck that nigga!”
Wayne’s head snapped in his direction and lines went across his forehead. “Don’t look at me like that, lil’ homie. ‘Cause any nigga that’ll leave his family for dead out in these scandalous ass streets doesn’t deserve his kid’s tears. Only nigga that deserve them is the mothafucka that held it down and provided for his, ya dig?” he looked over his left shoulder and made a right at the corner. Once he’d completed the turn, he turned his attention back to the conversation at hand. “That’s the only nigga out here that should get that. A nigga that’s protected and provided for his family. Like you doing now, Cuz, taking care of ya mom’s and shit. That’s grown man shit, ya feel me?” Wayne nodded and took the blue bandana that Brolic passed him. Using it to pat his eyes and cheeks dry of his tears.
“I feel what chu saying, big homie, but a nigga out here by myself now. I ain’t got no pops.” He spoke from the heart. “I feel naked, Cuz, like I ain’t got my strap on me or something.”
“I’m yo’ daddy now,” Wayne gave him an eerie look. “What chu looking at me like that for, Loc. From now on, I’m yo’ pops and you’re my son. Me, Fasa, my right hand man, Yai, we’re ya family and the whole nine.”
“Y’all ain’t blood though.” He said disappointedly.
“Don’t matter.” He shook his head as he pulled to a red stop light.
“Blood makes you related but loyalty makes you family. That’s how me and mine get down, our entire organization. You peep how we move, as one.” The light turned green and he mashed the pedal, cruising through the intersection. “And if any nigga fuck with us he getting the business. You saw how we gave it up once before, right? You peeped our get down at that lil’ strip club.”
“Yeahhh.” Wayne chuckled, remembering what had went down at Starz gentlemen’s club that night between Mufasa’s crew and an unruly ass nigga. This local cat by the name of Migo who thought he was big shit because he and his squad were moving a couple ounces here and there, was up in the spot acting some goddamn fools, tossing money and popping bottles like they were going out of style. Niggaz was doing some mad stunting and fronting until Brolic and his homies came through and stole the show. Migo wasn’t feeling that so he stepped to Zonyai who was over at the bar and tried him on some slick shit.
“My man, lemmie get two bottles of that Belaire, on this nigga.” Migo threw a thumb to the right of him where Zonyai was. The bartender had just popped the cap and passed him a Heineken. He was about to bring it to his lips until homeboy said that stupid shit.
“Excuse me.” Zonyai raised an eyebrow.
“You heard me, mothafucka, pay for my shit!” He mad dogged him and fidgeted with the toothpick at the corner of his mouth. Before he knew it that Heineken bottle was being broken over his head. Green shards and beer went washing over his face and head as he stumbled back. Zonyai kicked him and he fell up against the bar. He stood over him as he held the edge of the bar top, kicking and stomping his mothafucking ass.
“Ah, I know that ain’t my nigga!” he heard Brolic at his back and then his sneakers as he came running over. From out the corner of his eye he saw a blur holding a chair up. Boom! Broli broke the chair on Migo’s back. Right after, he and Zonyai was giving him that act right, stomping the hell out of him. Migo’s goons tried to rush them but their niggaz came pouring from the opposite side of the club, Wayne included. They washed the trap boy and his goons up. Once the rumble was finally over, there was blood, broken glass and chairs everywhere.
“Yeah, I remember that night, y’all beat the brakes off of Migo and his niggaz.” Wayne clapped his hands and his shoulders shook as he came down from his laughter. “I barely got in that thang that night. If it wasn’t for the homie Yai paying off ol’ boy at the front door I for sho’ wouldn’t have made it through the door.”
“Yep.” Brolic nodded with a smile. “That’s just how we move out. We on some, one for all and all for one type shit.”
“I can feel that.” The young nigga wiped his face with the sleeves of his suit.
“Cool. So you down with the organization?” he lifted an eyebrow and held out his fist.
“Hell yeah.” They dapped up.
“That’s a blood oath, Cuz. A blue blood oath, ya dig me?”
“For sho’.”
Brolic pulled a half smoked blunt from behind his ear, stuck it between his lips, and fired it up using the in-car cigarette lighter. Once he expelled smoke, he passed it off to Wayne who got busy with it. He was a little nigga so one bleezy felt more like three to him.
Before that day Brolic had little homie running errands for him. Doing shit like picking his clothes up from the cleaners, washing his car, and rolling his blunts for him. He used to literally have homeboy following him around with premade L’s already waiting to be smoked. He thought of it like he was being hazed before he could officially join the fraternity which was really Mufasa’s drug crew. Now that Wayne’s father had passed and he needed that guidance in his life, he figured what better surrogate fat
her than himself? He was going to be the youth’s self proclaimed street daddy. Brolic had already planted the seeds so it was time he’d started watering them. He was going to fully turn him out, like a pimp would one of his whores. In a little under a year he’d molded his adoptive son in his image. They both damn near had the same mentality and swagger. It was so bad that niggaz had took to calling Wayne, Lil’ B. It was short for Lil’ Brolic. These niggaz were rocking the same jewels, clothes, and even driving the same kind of cars. Hell, even the hoes they fucked with looked identical. The only difference was their complexions.
Like father like son.
****
Present
Wayne released the handles of the chair and a screaming Melvin went hurling towards traffic. It went off of the curb, landing hard and rolling to the opposite side of the street, bumping into the curb. Vehicles zipped past him, missing him by a hair. Sighing with relief, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Grasping the tires, he went to roll of but before he could move he was struck by a van. The collision knocked over his wheelchair and sent spilling into the street, lying there awkwardly.
“You think he’s dead?” Wayne asked Brolic, looking around to see who was around to witness what he had done.
“Nah, just in a whole lotta pain,” Brolic answered, watching a twitching Melvin. He darted out into the middle of the street and dug into the crippled man’s pockets, producing a roll of bills and dropping coins. He walked off counting the dead presidents, leaving him moaning in agony.
****
“Let me give you your cut,” Brolic said to Wayne once they got back into the Maserati. “That’s two-fifty each, you got change for a five?” he held a five dollar bill toward the backseat.
Zonyai looked at him like he was crazy; he couldn’t believe he went through all of that trouble for five dollars. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“What, you want a piece of the action, too?” Brolic asked him seriously.
****
An hour later