by Tranay Adams
*** Reboc sat on the end of Nightmare’s bed, staring up at him as he straightened out the collar of his shirt. Once Nightmare had finished straightened out his homie’s collar, he smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt. He then cupped Reboc’s face in his hands and stared into his bloodshot and glassy eyes. Nightmare pressed his forehead against homeboy’s and held it there for a second. “I love you, Cuz.” Reboc said it back. Nightmare kissed his forehead and turned around to Bobby Blue. She was at the opposite end of the bed snapping closed the locks of of some luggage.
“You got everything in there?” Nightmare asked.
“Yeah, the whole kit and caboodle,” Bobby nodded.
“Good.”
“Yo,” Reboc stole Nightmare’s attention, holding the blunt up to his face. Nightmare received the cough medicine and took a few puffs that made white smoke clouds surround him like he had appeared out of thin air.
“ Bobby, hit up Nike and see what’s taking him and Supa so fucking long.” Nightmare said before taking a pull from that calm down.
“We’re here.”
Nightmare turned around to find Nike and Supacrip standing in the doorway.
“Y’all dumped that M.C and set it on fiya?” Nightmare asked.
“Yep,” Nike answered. “Help me grab Reboc’s shit so we can scram, Supa.”
Nike and Supacrip grabbed Reboc’s luggage and headed out of the door, leaving the men to themselves.
“Where you setting me up at, Cuz?” Reboc asked.
“My big sis’s crib.”
“Shantel’s spot? Aint that in The Junglez?” “Yep, don’t worry about it though, you’re straight.” Nightmare assured him. “Her baby’s daddy, Tay Rock, is a reputable over there,and he assured me that you’re in good hands. I’m laying a few racks on him to guaranteethat.”
“Still, I’m not feeling The Junglez.” Reboc took the Jack Daniel’s bottle to the head. He brought the bottle down and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his leather coat.
“Me neither. But it’s the best I could do on such short notice. Just lay low a couple of weeks over there until shit blows over and I’ll send for you.”
“Alright, Cuz.”
“Gimmie some love, man.” Nightmare opened his arms. Reboc sat his bottle Jack Daniel’s bottle down beside the bed and embraced his brother from another with a gangsta hug. Afterwards he broke their embrace and picked the Jack Daniel’s bottle back up. He gave Nightmare dap and staggered out of the bedroom.
Nightmare hung his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. Bobby approached him from the rear, rubbing his back.
“Are you alright, daddy?” she asked. Henodded and said, “I’ma thousand.”
Chapter One
A month later
Killa Dre lay back behind the wheel of his Dodge Charger, blowing smoke from his nostrils, eyes hooded from the exotic weed. He sat up in his seat having been zapped back from the night that his brother had been murdered in cold blood. His recalling was so real that he had to pat himself down and look around to make sure he was where he last remembered. Garnering looks from his homeboys, Woo and Big Head, he sighed with relief and silently thanked God that he was in one piece.
Killa Dre had been fucked up ever since the day he lost his big brother, Tramel. All he did was play football, talk to girls and work his part-time job at Jon’s Market. He was a nice kid with a good head on his shoulders. Everybody in the neighborhood had love for him; they just knew he was headed for N.F.L stardom. When hewasn’t playing football, you could catch him with some of the neighborhood kids tossing a pigskin around. He didn’t gangbang, but that didn’t stop someone from staining the streets burgundy with his blood.
As Tramel lay dead in him and his mother’s arms, Killa Drepromised him that he’d bring his killer to justice, street justice. He vowed to never stop until he murdered the crip that killed him; even if it meant he’d be lying in a grave beside him when it was all over. Tears threatened to spill down theyoung nigga’z cheeks as thoughts of his late brother stirred up emotions inside of him. Not wanting his homeboys see him so vulnerable, he shut his eyes for a moment and drew them back within.
“You straight, my nigga?” Woo asked before sucking on the end of a blunt. He was a tall cat with dark caramel skin and hazel green eyes. He wore a short unlempt afro that always had a red pick in it. Woo was a dangerous fella who lived his life by the gun.
“Yeah,” he nodded, feeling the fog rise from his brain. His high was coming down having relived that experience. Taking a deep breath, he ran his hand down his face and exhaled.
“You sho’?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Yep.” Woo took a couple of puffs from the blunt and smoke wafted around the confines of the vehicle. After his indulgence he passed that shit to the back where that nigga Big Head was perched, watching the streets from the back window.
“Yo, Big,” he passed the blunt to the the little nigga in the backseat. Big Head leaned forward and took it from between his homie’s pinched fingers. Big Head was a short, big head nigga that wore his kinky hair in a Mohawk. He was lethal behind the trigger, but what he really loved to do was fight. He held the title of Knock-Out King on his block, successful laying out niggaz twice his size. The little dude was like a wild pit bull when set loose from its chain, ready to get it in. His record was thirty-four and owe. He was with the shit wherever, whenever for whatever reason.
Big Head was about to take a pull from the blunt when he noticed that it was wet at the end. He frowned and pulled out a Bic lighter of his own. “Damn, Blood, you done wet the mothafucka all up!”
So what?” he flipped the sunvisor down, scowling at him through the rectangular mirror.
“So what? Nigga, I don’t know who’s pussy them big ass lips been sucking on.” “They been sucking on yo’ mammy’s nigga,” He chuckled and nudged Killa Dre who gave a half hearted smile. Big Head twisted his face up and held up the middle finger. Woo saw him through the mirror’s reflection, still laughing.
Seeing their destination up ahead, Killa Dre pulled over alongside the curb and murdered the engine. He hopped out of the whip first, followed by Woo and Big Head. The threesome mobbed towards the black gate of a white two story house with a charcoal gray roof. As soon as they entered the yard they were greeted by a collective of four men who were shooting the shit until they arrived. These men ranged from their mid to late twenties and held affiliation to the infamous Eastside Outlaws Rolling Twenties Bloods.
There was Big Panic, a six foot two, three hundred pound man with a shaved meaty head and a thick beard. He was built like a refrigerator with hands the size of boxing gloves. He was no joke, and he made it his business to make sure no one ever thought so.
The six foot one mahogany complexioned dude beside him, stroking his nappy beard with an unmanicured hand was Gouch. This man was a stone cold killer with a fierce reputation. He was a mothafucking beast with his twin Berettas he nicknamed The Girls. Under no circumstances was he to be played with.
Gouch had been studying the Nin Jit Su style of fighting since he was six years old. Seeing him in front of the television set mimicking the martial arts moves he saw in Kung Fu flicks, his grandmother decided to enroll him into a dojo in downtown Los Angeles. The lanky killer got real nice with his hands. In fact, he had never lost a fight.
The brown skinned fellow posted at his left who wore his hair in six neat cornrows that curled like snakes at the middle of his back was the seasoned killer’s younger brother, Pavielle, also known as O.G Booby Loco. He wasn’t as trigger-happy as his brother, but he’d have a fool’s momma buying a black dress in a New York minute. You didn’t get to be an O.G before you turned twenty-three without busting a few heads. Like his uncle Gangsta before him, he was all about a dollar; he breathed to hustle. He often joked that all he needed in life was G.M.B: Guns, Money and Bitches.
“Where you get that shit from, Killa?” Pavielle asked of the L he’d just taken from him. “That Rasta that be s
langing them bootlegs out in front of Superior market.”Killa Dre answered, throwing his hood on his head and sticking his hands inside of pockets.
“For real?”
“Yep.” “I just copped an ounce from ‘em, but the shit fiya,” he informed him. “Nigga said if I’m tryna fuck with something larger than that then he’d have to get with his people. I got his contact. I know yo’ unc been looking for a better plug on the shit than he’d got, so I figured maybe they could work something out.”
“Good looking out.” Pavielle nodded, taking the card that his little homie passed him. “The shit we be getting from the eses ain’t got shit on this.” He admired the blunt that was pinched between his fingers, smoke rising from it and evaporating into the air. Pavielle kneeled down and stroked the black shiny coat of his Rottweiler.
“Yeah, we gone have to rush that, fa’ sho’,” Gouch nodded, blowing smoke from his nostrils after taking a couple of puffs of that shit.
“Y’all hogging the mothafucka all up and shit,” Panic complained, having just taken the L from him. “Relax, fat boy, it’s enough for everybody.” Gouch chuckled. “Killa said he gotta ounce, right?” he looked at the young head bussa.
Killa Dre spat on the ground and looked back up, nodding. He pulled an ounce from out of his pocket and passed it to Gouch. He smiled happily and held the Ziploc to his nose, taking a deep inhalation.
“How you been holding up, my nigga?” Pavielle asked him of his dealing with his brother’s death. “I’m solid, big homie. I would be doing a lot better if I could put the tool to the fool that smashed my big bro though.” His eyes bled his truth. He knew that he could not rest until the nigga that had popped his sibling was six feet under.
Pavielle threw his arm around the little nigga’z shoulders and said, “We gone find this nigga, I promise you that. Mel was just as much my brother as he was yours.” He spoke sincerely. Pavielle felt bad when he’d heard that Tramel had been claimed by the streets. He’d known him and Killa Dre all of their lives. Sometimes he’d give them rides home from school, or play football in the streets with them and their friends. The Johnson Boys reminded him of himself and Gouch coming up, which was why he’d taken such a liking to them. Although Killa signed up for the troubles that the life brung, Tramel was headed down a completely different path. He had a bright future a head of him, but that all came to a tragic end when he was shot down like a goddamn rabid dog in the streets.
“Fa sho’,” Killa Dre gave him a complex handshake and pounded the Blood gang sign against his chest.
Hearing a man’s soulful voice and a shopping cart being rolled brought everyone’s attention to the black gate. “New school, I got something for you.” A venue smiled as he moved his way into the yard pushing a shopping cart loaded with junk he’d collected throughout the day.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Paviel le’s Rottweiler went ham when it saw Avenue, struggling to get loose from its owner. He growled and barked viciously causing spittle to fly from its mouth. He leaped forward but Pavielle yanked back on the chain of his spiked collar, pulling him down. If it wasn’t for the beast being on the leash he would have surely tried to rip the junky limb from limb.
“Damu, sit your ass down!” Pavielle smacked the dog on his ass and it calmed down, sitting on its hind legs. Avenue was an older cat; about sixty years old. A tall dude with a slender frame, he rocked a shabby afro that looked like tangled barbed wire and unkempt facial hair. His smoked out ass used to be the lead singer of an R&B group called The Mesmerizers. The quartet was a group whose talents rivaled The Temptations. The singers were internationally known and were well acquainted with fame and fortune.
The sky was the limit for old Avenue. That was until he managed to get hooked on crack cocaine. In a couple of years he pissed away his publishing, his houses, his cars, and his jewelry. The crack guerilla came with a broom and swept away all of his assets, including his position in The Mesmerizers.
The D-boys christened him Avenue because he would break out in song and dance at any given moment on the avenue where they were slinging. High out of his mind, Avenue would imagine that he was back on the stage at the Apollo with his old group performing one of their many hit songs. His performance would be so good that the hustlers would bless him nickel and dime rocks.
“What chu got for me, old school?” Pavielle asked, switching hands with the chain that held Damu.
“Top secret, for your eyes only,” Avenue claimed proudly. “Alright,” Pavielle said before chaining Damu up to a tree. He turned to Avenue, placing his hand to his back. “Step into my office.” He led him into a darkened area on the side of the house where they wouldn’t beseen. “Now, what chu got that’s especially for me?”
Avenue held up a finger before stepping around his shopping cart. He took a cautious look around before moving about some of the junk inside of the cart until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out something wrapped in a tattered sky blue blanket and sat it on the hood of Pavielle’s Chevy Impala. He un-wrapped the blanket and revealed the AK-47 it was concealing. Pavielle’s eyes grew big, he whistled when he saw the assault rifle. He stepped to it, gently sweeping his hand up and down the length of it.
“There you go, baby boy, aint she a beaut?” Avenue asked, smiling from ear to ear, putting his beige, rottening teeth on display, “Brand spanking new, straight outta the box.”
Pavielle picked up the AK-47 and slowly swept it back and forth, imagining cutting his enemies in half with it.
“Where’d you get this big mothafucka?”
“Never mind that, do you want her?” “Hell yeah, I want her.” Pavi elle said, like ‘Nigga, you don’t even have to ask that’.“How much you want for me to walk off with her?” he looked from the assault rifle to Avenue. He saw his mouth biting to the right. This meant that he was fucked up in the game and needed a blast of crack badly. There wasn’t any telling when he had his last hit. Seeing this let Pavielle know that he could take the AK47 off of the crack head’s hands for a little of nothing.
Avenue scratched his nappy facial hair as he thought on a price. Pavielle cringed as he imagined flea him a dog with fleas.
“I’ll tell you what, since I fuck with you hard body,” he tapped his fist over his heart, “gone throw me four of dem dead white men and gone ‘bout ya business.”
“Three.”
“Three? Come on now, new school, you tryna beat me like I stole something, man.” He balled up his face. “Nigga, you show up outta nowhere with a choppa, I know you done stole it.” Pavielle angled his head and twisted his lips. He looked at him like ‘Come on now. You know that I know better’.“I’ll drop you three, homie, for all I know this mothafucka gotta couple hot ones on it.”
“G, I told you that bad boy clean. Trust me, folks.” “Nigga, I don’t trust nobody,” He spoke from the heart, “Either take the three or bounce with this mothafucka and risk getting caught with it and catching ten.”
“Man nnnn,” Avenue blew hard and massaged his chin as he thought on it. “You know you robbing me without the ski-mask and gun, right?”
He looked away rolling his eyes and running a hand down his face. The nigga was tired of the back and forth spat with old head. “What’s up, fam? You gone let me get this off of you or what?”
The crackhead sighed and said, “Yeah, G, gone and run me that for I start to regret it.” Pavielle sat the AK-47 down on the hood of the car and reached inside of his pocket. He’d just pulled out a roll of dead presidents when Avenue held up a hand.
“Wait a minute, new school, what cha doing?”
“I’m ‘bout ta break you off.”
“Naw, you know how I get down, I need my prescription filled.” “Oh, alright,” he stuffed the roll of dead presidents back inside of his red Dickie’s pocket. “Gone and see my nigga Debo on the seven, tell him I sent chu. He’ll hook you up.”
“Sho’ ya right. My man,” He slapped hands with Pavielle and swung his shopping cart around. H
e bopped off pushing the shopping cart and singing a song he and his group performed back in the day.
“What chu got there, baby boy?” Gouch approached with Panic by his side. Pavielle picked the AK-47 back up and swung it around, pointing it at Gouch and stopping him in his tracks. “A choppa.”
“Whoa!” Gouch held up his hands in surrender.
“Be easy, nigga.” Panic spoke of Pavielle’s handling of the AK-47. Pavielle chuckled and smiled before turning the weapon over to Gouch, who gripped it and aimed it at something across the way.
“How much this mothafucka run you?” Gouch asked, barely audible with the cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Three yards,” Pavielle answered.
“So that’s what that smoker fool had for you.” Panic said. “At three B-notes that was a steal.”
“Real spit,” Pavielle agreed. The sudden burst of automatic gunfire ripping through the air caused Pavielle and Panic to duck. Their hands went to grab the bangers on their waistbands, but when they saw that it was Gouch letting off the AK-47 in the air they dropped their hands.
“This mothafucka chunky, Blood, on me,” Gouch claimed. He used one hand to take a pull from his cigarette and used the other to palm the AK-47. He ogled the lethal weapon with admiration.
“Let me see it, Gucci.” Panic took the AK-47 into his large hands. “Y’all alright out here?” a voice rang out from behind the threesome. Pavielle turned around and found a dark figure clutching what looked like a gun from its shape. “We’re straight, unc, just playing with my new toy.”