"I'll be back." Merle admired the gathering, but couldn't tarry. Lott and Rhianna would soon join them and the circle would be complete. He still had one last errand to attend to before then.
Dred nervously chewed on his tongue, the movement compounding his throat's swollen veins, thick as serpentine coils, and threatened to stop his breath. The power rippled through the knots of dead muscle. The pain might have killed another man, but his body had been trained by years of abuse. The drugs. The women. The violence. The hate. His blood was the venom of the streets, concentrated succor, and he savored its pulse coursing through him despite its burn. His chair rattled as he convulsed in it, his fingernails digging into the vinyl arm rests. His scream the sound of a soul raped, then cleaved from its body.
Baylon rushed in to check on him, faithful to the end. The umbra tendrils knotted around Dred, their foul energy like black lightning. The unfocused slits of his eyes turned toward Baylon. Dred spat a tendril at him, an ebon tongue lodging on his mouth, the two locked in a dark kiss. Baylon back-pedaled, his body skittering from beneath him as the leeching strand smothered his inhuman cry. It scorched holes into his skin, searing it like tissue paper over a match. Like digging out chunks of his face with shards of glass, the pain was his desperate night of the soul. His muted screams reduced to a dull lowing, his large eyes embracing the inevitable. His flesh reduced to red chaos, puddles sopping under the tread of the wheelchair. Hate his only coping mechanism against the pain.
Dred hyperventilated, choking on the stink of hot blood, trying to find meaning in a meaningless world arriving only at the pure white depths of his loathing. The plasma screens of his televisions flickering to life. With a wave of his hand, the cable spread of channels all shifted to the same image. King.
Psychosis. Self-annihilating violence. Sociologists only guessed to make themselves feel better and justify their own useless existence. They didn't know what it took to survive on the streets, where the rules of the civilized world didn't apply. Where polite society had turned its back. They wouldn't keep him away, sealed away in this chamber, away from the game. His back spasmed. He knew when it all went wrong. He could hear the manic screams of people as he unremembered the pain of the bullet ripping through him. Devoured whole by the shadow and absolved from what he would have to do in the name of his holy cause. His left leg kicked out, wracked with exquisite pain. The metamorphosis happened quickly now, much like giving birth to himself. The throes of labor pain, with Baylon's vitality as a mystic Pitocin. He regretted that King couldn't be here to witness it, nor know the hand he played in his rebirth. A phoenix rising from the ashes of his own body.
"I am…" His mouth opened and closed around the syllables letting the word break in the echoing emptiness, a stillborn child given voice. An awful laugh of a broken soul knitting itself back together. The laughter of the damned. He wiped flecks of Baylon's blood from him.
He rose from his wheelchair and stood. Walking stiffly on undead legs, he shuffled to a shelf and the box that sat in the middle of it. Opening the box, he lifted the gold gun. His Caliburn.
Soon it would be his time.
"None of it was real." Prez scratched at the frayed edges of the peeling wallpaper. Some pieces pulled free in strips, lifting patches of drywall with it. Still, he continued to channel his nervous energy focused on the last bits of paper. A distraction to break the tedium, he wanted to dig his fingers into something real. Most of the homes on the block stood abandoned, boarded-up windows proving little deterrent for a body looking to get out of the cold. Stacks of stuff waited to be hauled out, the previous owners prepared to take everything not nailed down. Clay tiles from the roof. Iron grates from vents. Pile of fixtures. Door knobs and jambs. Cabinet handles.
He sat down on a couch, in direct eye line of a mirror. To wear his game face, as affectless as a Noh mask, all day every day. He washed it, shaved it, presented it in every way, treated it as his own until it became the only face he knew. He scraped behind his ear at an itch of the greasy build-up hidden there. He stank of unwashed armpits and a sweaty crotch.
"Ain't no one up in here but niggas. Niggas can't get a job, got no place to be. You want to be black? You want to be African American?" He emphasized the "can" syllable of each word with a sarcastic bite. "You need to move your ass to the suburbs."
He thought he knew what life was about. He thought he knew what he wanted. Gold-capped teeth. A fine whip with fresh rims and a bumping stereo. Gold chains were still chains. And a blast was still a good high. The idea of life and success putrefied in his mouth. His past a horror of broken promises, his present bleak, his future one of dying dreams, he threw a cabinet handle and shattered it. Putting flame to the blackened bulb, he sucked on the glass dick. Prez let the smoke issue from his mouth. The tendrils slowly swirled around his head.
"Me? I don't want to feel nothing." Tears burned down his face. Angry that they'd come so easily, he lacked the will to wipe them away. "I don't want to feel nothing…"
Only history could tell you certain truths. Puddles of shadow darkened the streets from failed street lamps. The truth was people were slow to learn, if they ever truly did. A stiff-necked bunch, the lot of humanity, destined to repeat their follies, re-live the same hurts, and need the same healing.
The Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department announced that it would soon open a command center within the Phoenix Apartments. Captain Octavia Burke was put in charge over it. The recent spate of tragic deaths awoke the city to the forgotten blight within itself, where poverty and crime had been given free rein. There were talks of organizing crime patrols and offer job training and mentoring programs. Community leaders applauded themselves, joined in choruses of a community coming together and staying together.
(120 Degrees of) Knowledge Allah's gait dipped with each step of his limp. The pain bothered him more when rain threatened. No clouds dotted the skies but he knew a storm was coming. The mathematics of circles. The sidewalk stopped abruptly giving way to a worn-down-to-the-dirt grass path which cut in front of the beginnings of a construction site.
To little trumpeting, the mayor announced the ground-breaking on a new set of apartments. A high-rise with an emphasis on security. Camlann. The Camlann Apartments.
Though not a playwright himself, with no gift for words or even the subtleties of speech because those sprung from understanding the human condition, the human heart, and he'd stopped trying to be human long ago. But he understood the gift. How writers often stood outside of their own lives, watching people, the intricacies of their interactions, the interplay of bodies and language as they danced around certain truths. Observers in their own lives, unable or unwilling to live them, contenting themselves to scribble their accumulated elucidations in lieu of having to participate in the messy thing called life. And he pitied them.
Merle saw things with the double vision and distance of a writer. He saw the here and now, but he also saw the story being played out and the characters, the roles, they played out. He knew his part in the greater scheme of things and he pitied himself.
Merle withdrew a bud from the inner pocket of his coat and dug his finger into the earth. A squirrel ran up to him then stopped, scratching around for an acorn.
"Sir Rupert. Where have you been? The days were dark and dangerous, not the time to be running around willy-nilly."
The squirrel rested on its haunches, turning its head left and right on the look-out for predatory eyes.
"We must take care of the old ones. Preserve the ways as best we can." Placing the bud within the hole, Merle gently folded the pile back over it. It was his seed to plant, but he hoped the next age treated Green better than this one had. He thought of King and his brethren with a pang of regret as he understood how things had to end.
That was the way. The streets had their own legends, their own magic.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maurice Broaddus is a notorious egotist whose sole goal is to be a big enough name to be
able to snub people at conventions. In anticipation of such a successful writing career, he is practicing speaking of himself in the third person. The "House of M" includes the lovely Sally Jo ("Mommy") and two boys: Maurice Gerald Broaddus II (thus, he gets to retroactively declare himself "Maurice the Great") and Malcolm Xavier Broaddus. Visit his site so he can bore you with details of all things him and most importantly, read his blog. He loves that. A lot.
Maurice holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Purdue University in Biology. Scientist, writer, and hack theologian, he's about the pursuit of Truth because all truth is God's truth. His dark fiction can be found in numerous magazines, anthologies, and novellas.
www.MauriceBroaddus.com
Extras...
Coming next in the Knights of Breton Court trilogy:
KING'S JUSTICE
Prologue
The ebon hole of the storm drain some called Cat's Eye Tunnel. A thin stream of water trickled down the center of the concrete tube. Its sides not quite dry to the touch. Ignoring the faint smells of algae and waste, the boys crawled for what felt like quite a ways in the damp, dark pipe. Their ears strained against the shadows, past the faraway plink-plinkplinks of water dripping somewhere further down the line. Nor was there any mistaking the skritching sounds.
"Rats!" a voice yelled in the dark.
"Oh, snap!" another called out.
Gavain and his younger brothers scrambled on all fours, sloshing through the brackish water, rushing towards the light of the opening until they tumbled out of the pipe. Piling onto one other, they formed a twelve-limbed beast that writhed in its own laughter. Gary and Rath were practically twins; the way their momma raised them. It was easier on the budget and it simplified fights if they both wore the same outfits. Gary, six, bright-eyed and innocent, idolized Gavain. Though a little bigger than Gary and only five years old, Rath had a potty mouth that sailors envied. Both had the scrawny physique of angry twigs. Their youngest brother, Wayne, stayed home with their mother. Sick again.
"Get your butt out my face." Gary shoved Rath.
"Who yelled 'rats'?" Gavain asked.
"Gary."
"Get that bad boy," Gavain said, knowing full well that it was actually he who had made the scratching sound. "Let's kick his li'l butt."
Gavain scooped Gary up and tossed him easily over his shoulder. He smacked his little brother's butt a couple of times, over Gary's playful squeals of "no" and "stop", before letting Rath get a piece. Gavain, nine and a half, felt a generation older than the other two. Tallest in his class, with the same weedy thinness of his brothers, Gavain loved both of them, but – in his heart of hearts, in that shadowed place where all secrets lay fallow – he admitted to being partial to Gary. The boy's unquestioning, unflinching idolization helped, but it was more the simple, no, innocent way that Gary approached the world. Gavain envied him his purity and wished just for a moment he could reclaim any sense of his own.
After letting Gary tumble from his grasp, Gavain leaned back against the grassy creek embankment to stare at the clouds. The thin creek divided their housing complex, Breton Court, from the rest of the neighborhood. Some days, the creek was the same sad stretch of trilling water serving as a receptacle for collecting trash. Other days the creek seemed to stretch out into infinity, an event horizon of adventure and mystery. Today it was both.
They laid on the grass of the sloping hill. The rear fences of houses caged Dobermans and Rottweilers, who barked incessantly at their presence. From their hillside vantage point, they could see all of Breton Court. Gavain liked this spot, the wide creek separating Breton Court from the residential neighborhood. He'd been chased by bullies through the court, his rare black face in the area too tempting a target for the white thugs. His speed kept him out of harm's way for a long time. Then, nearly cornered, he turned and dashed toward the creek. He leapt its breadth, landing flush on the other side. It was as if he crossed a border check and the bullies didn't have their papers in order. A natural dividing line.
"Look what I found." Rath held up a bent piece of discarded metal pipe.
"Here's another piece." Gary first held his pipe to his eye, scanning the neighborhood like it was a telescope before mounting it on his shoulder, like a bazooka. "Boom."
"Yeah, c'mon, we've got to kill our enemies," Rath declared.
Gavain watched the two of them scamper toward the overpass the creek ran under. Stifling heat thickened the air making it akin to breathing steam. His brothers pantomimed shooting at the unsuspecting cars as they drove past. He meandered after them, just in time to break up the inevitable. No matter how much or how little money they had, no matter what school they attended, no matter which doors opened and closed for them in the maze of opportunities life afforded, boys would be boys.
"I said I was going to blow that one up." Rath swung his pipe at Gary.
Gavain separated them. Forgetting who he was for a moment, they turned at him with a feral grimace. "Don't hit me with that," Gavain said in an unmistakable, no longer playing, tone. "F'real. I ain't playing with you."
The sternness of Gavain's voice shocked them back to their senses. Rath slunk a short distance away, pouting, before contenting himself to shoot at more unsuspecting cars, unhindered by his distracted brother. The dreamy, distant stare – which so often filled Gary's eyes – signaled him drifting into his imagination. Whatever thoughts occupied his mind in that moment would find their way back to his little stack of "his papers" at home. Not quite a journal, more like a collection of stories and day dreams that he chronicled, such as his comic strips with doodles in each corner that depicted two super-heroes fighting when he flipped the pages.
"'Mother, may I go out to swim?'/'Yes my darling daughter./Hang your clothes on an alder limb/And don't go near the water.'" Gary sang, dragging the length of pipe behind him.
"You little bitch," Rath chased after him, in his half stalking lope which indicated a mood to bully or get into mischief. He knew he was the tougher of the two. He hated the softness his brother had and hoped to toughen him up. It was either that or spend the bulk of his days as his brother's shadow protector. Which, all told, he didn't mind too much.
"Watch your mouth!" Gavain yelled.
"Alright… Preacher."
Preacher. The word spat at him with the venom of an ill-considered epithet. Gavain loved going to church, especially Sunday School. His class was small, so the teacher lavished extra attention on him; easy to do with an eager student. So at his instigation, the brothers often played church, building blanket cathedrals in the living room. Gavain recited his favorite Old Testament stories (Noah, Moses, Jonah) and led songs while his brothers Amen-ed and sang along, happy just to be playing any variation of forts with him. They all knew it would only be a matter of time before his friends claimed him and he spent his days running around with them instead of spending time with his little brothers. At nine, the called of the streets beckoned with its siren song.
"Momma used to sing that to me," Gary said.
"Cause she thinks you're a girl. She still tucks you in too," Rath said. Gary lowered his head, with a splash of shame as if hit with too close a truth, obviously too sensitive to play insult games with Rath. He always took them too personally and hated the idea of hurting people for amusement.
"I know where we can go," Gavain changed topics, speaking more under his breath than to anyone in particular.
"Shut up." Gary had pretty much exhausted his comebacks in one shot.
"No, you shut up," Rath retorted.
Gavain stage-sighed. "Forget it. I'm going without either of you. I don't have time to baby sit, no how."
It didn't matter who said what, the apologies rang with the same cheery melody, a chorus of "Wait up, Gavain" and "Yeah, we're sorry." Whenever they turned on him, or even got too out of line, the simple threat of abandoning them was usually enough to straighten things out. Gavain reveled in the adulation that bordered on respect and the power that accompanied it. He
smiled a wan, yet victorious, smile.
"Where we going?" Gary asked.
"To the lake," Gavain said.
"But that's so far."
"We're almost there already." Gavain's tone didn't invite debate.
"Quit whinin', you can't come anyway. You too little," Rath said.
"Momma said I could go with you," Gary whispered.
Their momma's parting words slowed Gavain's steps. Look after your little brothers. "Fine. C'mon then."
The trio followed a trail known only to Gavain. This marked the first time he had taken them to his special spot. He retreated there to read, and think, be by himself, away from his brothers and the responsibilities of them. Though they only lived two miles from the park, Gavain had deemed his brothers too young to make the trip before; but now they walked along a creek bed, its low flow revealed slippery rocks under the late afternoon sun.
King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 Page 30