by Tranay Adams
Me and My Hittas 4
Tranay Adams
Me and My Hittas 4
Copyright © 2016 Tranay Adams. All rights reserved.
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Me And My Hittas 4/ Tranay Adams-1st ed.
© 2016
Editing: Ghost
Kindle Formatting: Renee
Cover Artist: Sunny Giovanni
Publisher: Tranay Adams
Previously
The atmosphere reeked of blood and sweat. The white tiled floor had been scrubbed with every cleaning product you could name, buffed and waxed, but there were still faint splotches of blood that wouldn’t come up. Many fighters had been left quadriplegics, and some had even lost their lives inside of the savage battle arena. But that didn’t stop the two gladiators from going at it like a couple of starving wolves over a fresh kill.
Crack!
Whack!
Thrack!
Clayvon delivered a three punch combination to his opponent that made him stagger back. He’d almost fell but righted himself before his bare back could kiss the floor. After regaining control of his equilibrium, the six-four Russian whipped his head back around. He glared at Clayvon, snapped his broken nose back into place, and wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his bandaged fist. He screamed at the top of his lungs and charged at his opponent.
The millionaires and trainers rooted for the fighter that they wanted to win. There were cheers, hoots and hollers coming from the audience as they were egging their respective fighters on. There were hundreds of thousands of dollars and even some million dollars bets that had been laid. You had to have your dollars up to be able to bet in this fighting league. It was a billion dollar business, and only the wealthiest of the wealthy could throw their hats into the pot.
Clayvon bobbed, weaved and ducked the punches, uppercuts, and hooks that his opponent came at him with. He then came up with an uppercut that was reminiscent of the Mortal Kombat video game. It was so powerful that it split the Russian’s jaw in half and sent a mist of blood into the air. The foreigner fell on his back with his eyes rolled to their whites and a crimson mouth. He groaned in excruciation as red streams flowed over his chin. Some of the guys in the audience were pissed while others were in frenzy over the win. The referee, who was a short Puerto Rican man, grasped Clayvon’s wrist and raised his hand into the air, declaring him the victor in broken Spanish accent.
“It’s because of that kid right there that I’m $500,000 dollars richer.” Black Jesus lit up an Arturo Fuentes cigar and took a few puffs. “By the time I leave here I’ll have a million dollars.”
“Yeah, he and Gouch have been putting in that work,” Gangsta stated keeping his eyes on the youngster with the frizzy cornrows. “I’m sitting on two-hundred and fifty kay ‘cause of them.” He looked across the way to Gouch. He had a towel draped over his head and Shelly was behind him massaging his shoulders. Gouch gave him a slight smirk and winked at him; Gangsta gave him a nod. He then leaned over and whispered into Killa Dre’s ear. The young nigga walked backwards until he was swallowed by the audience. One minute later, he emerged on the end of the room where Gouch and Shelly was. He was standing behind Shelly, but he was oblivious to his presence.
The fights went on with body after body crashing onto the floor. Some of the fighters left the arena crippled for life, others left in body bags and the lucky ones left with minor injuries. At the end of the night only two fighters were left to take the floor. Gouch found himself pitted against Clayvon; a man who had ran through his opponents with little difficulty just as he did. Gouch had fought many men in his twenty-seven years on earth, and he’d beaten them all. But somehow he wasn’t so sure of himself when it came to his younger opponent. For the first time since he was six years old, and had his first fight, he had butterflies in his stomach.
Gouch bounced from his left leg to his right, bending his neck from left to right. Clayvon’s one good eye was dead locked on him; sweat ran over his brow and trickled off of it. He cracked his knuckles but never broke eye contact with his competition.
Kenny Masters stood at the center of both men with a microphone in his hand. He looked between the two fighters, smiling as he brought the microphone to his lips. “Here we are y’all the tournament has been narrowed down to these two fighters. To my right I have, Clayvon ‘The Hit-man’ Coles,” the audience went wild with cheers, “and to my left I have, Gouch ‘Crazy Hands’ Hood.” the audience went wild with cheers again. “This is it my niggaz. The Rumble in the Jungle, The Brawl for it All, the fight that will determine which one of these mothafuckaz will be leaving here with one million dollars in cold, hard cash.” He said in a game show host type of voice. He lifted his arm high, and brought it down saying, “Kick ass!”
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
The bell sounded, lighting fuses in both Gouch and Clayvon. They charged each other, full speed ahead. Nearing one another, they leap into the air and swinging their feet at one another’s heads. Their legs connect, duplicating a sound reminiscent of a bamboo stick striking a bamboo tree. The fighters landed to their feet and were quickly back at it, going punch for punch and kick for kick. Clayvon laid into Gouch throwing haymakers for his face and head. Gouch brought his arms up, allowing his arms to absorb the assault. Although none of his opponent’s power punches connected, he could feel the bones of his arms throbbing and aching.
Clayvon faked like he was about to throw another haymaker and kicked him on the side of his knee. The searing pain caused Gouch to grimace and drop his guard, leaving his head open for attack. Clayvon swung his steel-toe booted foot around and slammed it into the side of his dome. Seeing himself about to hit the floor, Gouch used his hand to catch himself and brought his feet across Clayvon’s face, one foot at a time. The attack made the younger man stumble backwards, but he quickly caught his self. Gouch rushed him again, unleashing a flurry of punches into his torso.
“That’s right, get’em!” Shelly egged Gouch on. “Kick his mothafucking ass!”
Crack!
Crack!
Thrack!
Brack!
Gouch stumbled back from the devastating blows, but caught himself, massaging his jaw. Standing erect, he listened to the chants of the audience as they egg him and Clayvon on. The eye-patch rocking fighter walked toward his opponent calmly as if he was strolling through the park.
“Fuck are you doing? Kick his ass!” Shelly barked on Gouch.
“No.” Gouch told him.
“What? We had a deal!” Shelly looked at him like he was crazy. He was so close to that million dollars that he could smell it, and here Gouch was about to piss it away.
“Fuck that deal, Blood!”
“You black, bug eyed, burnt face bitch!” Shelly hurled his insults. “I’ma blow your monkey ass up!” Spittle flew from his lips. He was so mad that he couldn’t pull the detonator from his pocket fast enough. It snagged on the inside pocket, but he eventually pulled it free. Gouch gave a
nod to someone hidden in the audience, just as Shelly was clearing the detonator out of his pocket. The old man’s eyes bugged, his nose flared, and his mouth opened as wide as it could as he released a bloodcurdling scream. Killa Dre pulled his switch-blade from out of Shelly’s calf muscle and wiped it off on his handkerchief.
Seeing the window of opportunity open, Gouch kicked the detonator loose from Shelly’s hand. The detonator flew up into the air and he kicked it in Gangsta’s direction. Gangsta caught the detonator and smashed it against the handle of Black Jesus’ wheelchair until it crumbled into pieces, like a stale cookie.
“No!” Shelly bellowed. He leapt forth and cracked Gouch in the jaw, dropping him. He ran as fast as he could with one good leg toward one of the security guards. The security guard made to shoot him, but his fists were like lighting as they tore into him. He punched him twice in the torso, kneed him and chopped him at the back of his neck. The man howled in pain and crumpled to the floor. Shelly picked up his assault rifle and spun around, spitting rapid fire and laying the other security guards down. The chatter of the weapon caused the audience to scramble and duck for cover, even Kenny Masters was getting the fuck out of dodge. After laying the security guards down, a very pissed off Shelly whipped his weapon around to Gouch. Gouch had just stood to his feet when a single round fled from the barrel of the AK-47. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as the missile shaped bullet soared in his direction, rotating counter clockwise.
“Ughhh,” Clayvon came out of nowhere tackling Gouch to the floor, narrowly missing the bullet. They hit the linoleum with a thud. Shelly went to fire the AK-47 again and it clicked empty. Seeing Gangsta, Killa Dre, Kenny Masters and Gouch coming after him, the old man tossed the assault rifle aside and made a mad dash toward the door. He threw all of his weight at the locks of the double doors and one of the doors came crashing to the porch. He scrambled to his feet and limped as fast as he could toward his rental. Killa Dre was the first out of the door, followed by Kenny Masters gripping one of the dead security guard’s assault rifles.
“Mothafucka, come into my house and fuck my shit up? Unh uh!” Kenny Masters took aim with his assault rifle. Killa Dre came to his side after snatching his gun from off the back tire of the limousine. He pointed his weapon at the fleeing car along with Kenny Masters. They dumped on the car at the same time, shattering its back window and blowing out its back lights. Once they could no longer see the back of the car, they ceased fire and lowered their weapons to their sides. Gouch, Gangsta, Clayvon and Brutus came hurrying down the steps.
“Y’all get’em?” Gouch inquired.
“Naw, mothafucka got away, Blood.” Killa Dre said, tucking his tool on his waistline.
“I know where he’s going.” Gouch informed them.
“Well, let’s go. Come on.” Gangsta ran back into the mansion to get Black Jesus.
Gouch turned around to Clayvon. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re welcome.” Clayvon shook his hand firmly. “You know you owe me a rematch.”
“You got it. If you were pulling those punches I’d hate to see what I’m in store for. But I’ll be looking forward to the challenge, though.”
The limousine blew its horn.
Gangsta stuck his head out of the back window and waved him on, saying, “Come on, Gucci!”
“Gotta go,” Gouch ran off.
Kenny Masters and Clayvon watched the backlights of the limousine until they disappeared into the night. Someone clearing their throat at Kenny’s rear gave him cause to turn around.
“Homeboy forfeited, so that million is ours.” Brutus said. “I’d like to collect.”
Kenny Masters nodded his head and said, “Let me have my guys get rid of these bodies and I’ll pay everyone. Come on.” He motioned for them to follow him with his assault rifle as he headed for the steps.
$$$
Shelly limped down into the basement as fast as he could, panting out of breath. His dogs rushed to him barking and jumping upon his pants legs, happy to see him. “Not now fellas, daddy’s gotta boogie.” He grabbed a suitcase that was buried underneath a pile of clothes. He slung it upon the bed and began throwing clothes into it by the handful. He threw a few other things on top of the clothes that he felt was valuable to him. He closed the suitcase, which now had shirt sleeves and pants legs hanging out of it, and grabbed it from out of the bed. He smacked his lucky Dodgers cap upon his head and grabbed his trusty stick. “Come on fellas.” He motioned for his dogs to follow him with his stick.
Shelly and his dogs were heading for the door when they heard the basement door being kicked open. The door bounced off of the wall and a stampede of footsteps could be heard hurrying down the steps. Shelly threw down his suitcase and stick. He went to grab the gun from the front of his jeans, but then he realized that he hadn’t tucked it. With that in mind, he ran to the place where he stashed his banger, leaving his dogs growling and barking at the doorway.
Shelly had just lifted his mattress and grabbed his Glock when Gouch, Gangsta and Killa Dre came rushing into his doorway. Gouch was lifting his banger to point it at the old man when he was whipping around to take a shot at him. Their fingers curled around the triggers of their weapons at the exact same time.
Bloc!
Boc!
Shelly’s bullet whizzed by Gouch’s head and crashed into the edge of the doorway. The shot that Gouch got off landed right in that bitch ass nigga’z chest cavity. Gritting his teeth, he fell back onto the floor and dropped his gun. Gouch stepped to him with his gun leveled at his chest, kicking his burner aside. The banger spun flew across the floor spinning around in circles before wedging its self underneath an old refrigerator.
“Ouch! You fucking shot me!” Shelly hollered out, looking to a hand of blood having touched his wound.
“Killa, whack this old nigga’z dogs, Blood. I’ma tuck him in.” Gouch spoke to the young nigga, but kept his eyes on his victim.
Shelly crawled over to Gouch and wrapped his arms around his leg, pleading. “Oh, please, please, don’t kill my dogs, man. They’re all I got.” He stared up at him with teary eyes, looking like a sad ass puppy.
“Nigga, you worried about them punk ass dogs’ lives when you need to be worried about your own.” Gouch looked down upon a sobbing Shelly. The mothafucka was pitiful. It amazed him how a man that had been so arrogant and confident two hours ago, had been reduced to groveling behind a couple of mangy mutts. Gouch made a mental note to never love something so much that it would have him in the same position that the poor bastard at his feet was in.
“Man, fuck all of that.” Gouch yanked his leg back from Shelly and brought his burner into play. “See ya, I wouldn’t wanna b ya.” He gave the nigga his parting words before letting that thang go in his face. Each pull of his trigger made it sound like thunder erupting down in the basement. The last sounds besides the dogs barking were the empty shell casings dancing on the floor. Once Gouch finished the deed, he lowered his smoking gun at his side and studied his handiwork.
“Dre,” He called out to his little homie.
“What’s up with it?”
“Take care of them mutts.”
The dogs barking grew louder and louder. They were heated as a mothafucka having seen their master slain. Just seconds after Gouch gave the order it was executed.
Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc!
“Let’s roll.” Gouch motioned for Killa Dre with his gun as he headed for the door.
Everyday above ground was a good day.
Chapter one
Meanwhile
Monk sat on a stool at the kitchen counter playing solitary with his self. A black .44 Magnum revolver rested on his waistline as if he had a license to carry. He involuntarily tapped his foot and chewed on a straw from a Big Gulp he’d gotten earlier in the night. About twenty minutes ago he’d gotten a call from a couple of chicks that claimed they’d successfully killed Paybacc and were now looking to collect the ransom on his head. At first he th
ought they were bullshitting, but then they texted him a picture of the Paybacc with a bullet hole in his forehead. He was for sure he was dead now, and was even more impressed that a couple of broads had put in the work. He reasoned that times were hard with the recession and people were willing to do whatever they had to in order to make a buck. He gave the girls the address where they were to meet him with Paybacc’s body for confirmation and collect the bounty.
Monk put down his cards and picked up his bottle of Budweiser, taking it to the head. He sat the bottle down on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at the Timex watch that adorned his wrist, and for the hundredth time, peeked under the flap of the bag that held the $50,000 dollars that was the bounty on Paybacc’s head. He closed the flap and went back to his game of solitary.
“Ah, fuck!” Playboy cursed after losing a game in Madden. He was a slim dude who rocked a shadow fade that swirled with waves. He wore glasses, not because his sight was bad, but for fashion. Princess cut diamond earrings hung from his lobes, twinkling under the soft light of the living room. His fit was a Louie Vuitton button-down with silver cufflinks and matching loafers. He was a pretty boy that lived for fast money, fast cars, and even faster women.
“You tryna run that shit back?” Banga asked.
“Yeah, run that shit back, dawg.”
“Alright, I’ma ‘bout to chip your old fiddle ass again,” Banga sat up on the couch.
He was a chubby dude that had just enough hair around his mouth to be called a goatee. He wore an Oakland Raiders beanie and a matching sweatshirt. He sported his socks pulled up to his knees and had black All-Star Chuck Taylor Converse on his feet. A cigarette rested between his chubby fingers as he worked the joystick of the PS4, dropping ashes.
Banga and Playboy was a couple of young brothers from the set. They had a knack for putting in work and had a drive for getting paper that was unheard of. This made them Killa Dre’s pick of the litter to have on the team. All of the time he’d spent around Pavielle had come in handy. Not only did Killa Dre have a knack for hustling, he also had an eye for picking talent. He’d heard enough about the brothers to know they’d be a valuPlayboy asset to the team, which is why he didn’t waste time recruiting them into the fold.