Me and My Hittas

by Tranay Adams

  Bullet ran into the bathroom with just his boxer briefs on and a pistol dangling at his side. “You alright?” he asked Black Jesus.

  “I’m fine. Look,” he handed him the three photographs. As Bullet looked over the photographs a smile broadened his face.

  “Downed that mothafucka, that’s what I’m talking about.” Bullet said, his eyes lingering over the last photograph.

  “You did a good…” the rest of the sentence died in Black Jesus’ throat, when he turned around and saw that The Ghost had vanished. He looked to the bathroom window and saw its curtains ruffle as a breeze blew in. He rolled himself over to the window and shut it; he then spun around to his little brother. Bullet was still looking over the photos.

  “Burn those and get the fuck outta here,” Black Jesus demanded. “I’ve gotta take a shit.”

  The next day

  “So what do you think about Lil’ Gangsta?” Detective Ortiz asked his partner of thirteen years, as he took swigs of a Corona in between flipping the meat over he had cooking on the grill. He had a few guys from the force and their families over to his house for a barbeque. There were chicken, beef franks, beef patties, pork ribs and hotlinks going on the Black & Decker grill. There were ice cold beers and sodas on ice inside of the ice chess. While the adults mingled amongst each other, their children played in the pool.

  “What about him?” Detective Arsenegger’s forehead indented.

  “You think he’s ever going to show face?” “No way, he definitely bailed. The little bastard hasn’t answered the cell we gave him, and he has yet to report back. We should have never let that spade walk. If he hasn’t skipped town bynow, he’s lying somewhere in a ditch, courtesy of his own homies.” He took a swig of his Corona and savored the flavor.

  “You know when he walked that Gangsta’s conviction pretty much walked with him.” Ortiz told him as he turned the meat over.

  “If he does walk,we’ll wait for an opening and pounce on his ass.” “How are we going to do that? When he got picked up his entire crew went AWOL figuring he’d use them to bargain his way out of prison. There’s no one left to flip.” Ortiz closed the lid on the grill and took a seat next to his partner, letting his Corona dangle in between his legs.

  “Then we’ll go above and beyond the law. We’ll go into our vigilante bag, we dead Gangsta, his nephews and their entire operation. That’s the only way I can see this thing ending. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of playing this little cat and mouse game we got going with these clowns. It’s time to kill them all and let the good Lord sort them out. All I want to know is that you have my back when the time comes.” He looked Ortiz dead in his eyes, forehead furrowed and lips twisted. Determination twinkled in his pupils, causing them to look like crystals.

  “Hey, am I,or am I not your dawg?” Ortiz raised his fist. Arsenegger smiled and gave him a pound.

  “Aye, can a guy get a rib or something? I’m freaking starving over here!” One of the officers yelled out.

  The crooked badges chuckled and went back to chopping it up, attending to the meat.

  “Damn, Blood, the crabs tried to straight up eightysix you,” Panic shook his head from the couch.

  Chapter Fifteen

  That night

  “Damn, Blood, the crabs tried to straight up eightysix you,” Panic shook his head from the couch.

  “I’m still tripping off of blood lying there playing possum,” Woo said, munching on some Sunflower seeds. “Avenue shoved me to the ground as soon as the shots went off. After they popped him, Blood threw his body over me to shield me. By the time I seen that crab nigga Nike coming, it was too late to pull my strap so I said fuck it and played dead.”

  The whole living room erupted into laughter. All of the homies were accounted for except Debo and Neck Bone; they were busy holding down the traps.

  “So, Blood saved your life?” Big Head asked from the sofa, looking higher than giraffe pussy. “Yeah, he did, that’s why we’ve gotta put the smash on these niggaz tonight,” Pavielle said behind a murderous scowl, clenching his fists so tight that veins rolled around his knuckles.

  “Word on the street is that Nightmare ordered the hit and sent his relative and Supacrip to carry it out,” Panic informed his comrades. “Y’all already know what this shit is over, right?” he looked around to all of his comrades to make sure that he had all of their attention before answering his own question. “Turf…” he let it roll off of his tongue, “Since we got on them niggaz haven’t been eating like their used to. What better way to solve the problem then to eradicate the competition?”

  “Right,” Panic nodded his understanding. “Kill the head and the body will follow.” The sound of a shotgun being racked drew everyone in the living room’s attention. They turned around and found Gouch with the powerful weapon in his scarred, calloused hands. “Y’all ready to show these niggaz what the dub block gang is all about?” he looked them all in the face trying to find any reluctance to put in that work.

  “Two sho’,” Panic said catching the shotgun as Gouch tossed it to him. Once he caught it, he marveled it like it was a pretty fine thang with a big old ass, kissing it tenderly. It was love at first sight!

  Gouch then went into the army sack by his feet and handed out guns to everyone in the living room except Pavielle. Being the leader of their organization, he didn’t have to get his hands dirty; he had soldiers to go to war for him. The streets were about to feel his presence without him being there. That was for damn sure.

  The young kingpin looked around the room at all of his homeboys; they were all examining their weapons and their magazines. He looked to the spot on the couch where Killa Dre was and he had vanished.

  “Where that nigga Dre at?”Pavielle asked. “What’s up, Blood?” the young nigga spoke from the doorway; his eyes were bloodshot from the blunt he smoked with Big Head. He had been taking a piss while the others fraternized in the living room.

  “You tryna get with these crabs that wet cha brother or what?” Pavielle asked placing a firm hand on his shoulder, gripping it affectionately.

  “Is it the fool that smoked my brother Tramel? Or is it just some niggaz from the other side?” Killa Dre lifted an eyebrow. He wanted the life of the killer that laid Tramel down,because to him that’s the only way his sibling could rest in peace. “And please don’t lie to me, big homie. I’ve been being lied to for as long as I can remember.”

  Pavielle thought for a second and blew hard, running his hand down his face. “I’m not going to lie to you, Duce Owe, I don’t know if the fool that smoked your brotha is gonna be among this lot. But I promise you this; we will find the mothafucka that smoked your peoples.”

  “Put that on the gang.” He stared him dead in his eyes.

  “That’s on the gang.” Pavielle spoke with a seriousness that bled from his eyes.

  “Alright.”

  They done a complex handshake and pounded the Blood ‘B’ against their chests.

  ***

  Ponk!

  Ponk!

  Ponk! The Spalding Basketball went as C-note bounced it on the asphalt, up and down. He and his road dawg, Crow, were passing through the hood when they spotted their little homeboys playing basketball in the street. C-note and Crow started reminiscing about their glory days on their basketball team back in high school. Each man swore he had a better jump shot than the other, so to settle the dispute they opted to play a game, best three out of five shots. The winner would receive $5,000 dollars plus bragging rights.

  The $5,000 dollars was lunch money to the curly haired Belizean, C-note. He was one of the members of the three headed monster, each man was a millionaire. Crow wasn’t sweating the five stacks either; he was Cnote’s right-hand man, so he was getting his slice of the American Dream, too. The homies had been competitive since grade school; one was always trying to outdo the other. So their little game was more so about the bragging rights than the $5,000 dollars on the line.

  Sweat d
ripped from Cnote’s brow as he bounced the basketball on the asphalt, his little homies on the edge in anticipation. One bit his bottom lip, another had his fists clenched, and the other had his hands together, silently praying. The three of them had their re-up money riding on the crip, so if he missed this shot they were fucked with a capital F.

  C-note took a deep breath, lifted his arms and let the hog skin fly from his palms. The basketball appeared to being traveling in slow motion through the air. It bounced off one side of the rim, then the other, rolled around and fell into the basket.The little homies went wild and so did the shooter; he was all in Crow’s ear wolfing big shit. The darker skinned man had a stupid look on his face when his homie snatched the fitted cap full of cash from his grasps.

  “Gimmie my mothafucking money, nigga,” C -note removed his two bankrolls and was just about to hand his little homies their winnings when the challenger spoke up.

  “Fuck that shit, Cuz. Double or nothing,” A scowling Crow spat. He was a sore loser and his demeanor screamed it. C-note looked to his little homies questioningly, wondering if he should double the bet or not. The young niggaz exchanged glances and looked to him, shrugging their shoulders. “Fuck you looking to them lil’ niggaz for, Loc? You werewolfing all of that shit, double or nothing!” He produced another bankroll from deep within his pocket.

  “What’s up? Y’all gone ride with your big homie one more time?” C-note asked his little homies, spinning the basketball around on his middle finger.

  The little homies exchanged glances; the tallest one nodded his head, “Fuck it, Cuz, double or nothing, we’re riding with chu.”

  “Yeah, C-note, you can take this nigga!” the skinniest one added.

  “Bet ‘em. We’ve got cho back, C-note!” the heaviest one chimed in.

  “Old cheerleading ass niggaz,” Crow shook his head shamefully.

  “You got the lil’ homies faded, Cuz?” “Yeah, I got these lil’ niggaz faded, ‘cause when I’m done everybody out this mothafucka going home broke!” he swore, dropping his bankroll and the little homies fade into the cap as well.

  The heaviest of the little homies shot passed C-note. “Where you going, nigga?” he called out after him as he spun the basketball on his middle finger.

  “Over to these bushes. I gotta take a piss.” Burger called out as he ran into the yard. “ Cuz, don’t whip that lil’ mothafucka out and cause C’s momma to have a heart attack,” Crow called out to Burger. All of the homeboys busted up laughing. Burger gave Crow the middle finger as he whizzed in the bushes.

  C-note looked to his right and saw an idling Buick Regal in the middle of the block with its headlights out. A veteran of the streets and a highly decorated soldier, he already knew what time it was. “Enemies!” he yelled, dropping the basketball and going for his banger. The rest of the homeboys scrambled. C-note managed to pull his burner and fired two shots through the Buick’s windshield, causing the glass to crack into several cobwebs. His eyes lit up as the car slammed into him and he traveled the length of the vehicle.

  The door of the Buick Regal flew open and Panic, Woo, Big Head, Killa Dre and Gouch, all spilled out wearing bandanas over the lower halves of their faces. Cnote laid sprawled out in the street with a broken back moaning in agony, his arms and legs twisted at funny angles.

  “Ahhhhhh, my back,” C-note cried in agony, his accent more evident now. “My mothafucking back, Cuz!” “That’s the least of your fucking problems.” Gouch rounded the trunk of the Buick pumping rounds into Cnote’s frame as he passed him, blood speckling his Dickies. The spent shell casings hit the ground dancing and making their own music. The killer then went off to join his comrades in the massacre they’d come to create.

  Big Head ran up on Burger who’d just zipped up his jeans when he entered the yard. When the young nigga turned around and met the menacing eyes of his executioner, his eyes grew wide and he threw his trembling hands up into the air.

  “Fuck your surrender, pussy!” Big Head blew a quarter sized hole through his chest and when he slowly turned around he blew a second one through his forehead, splattering his brains against the house. The mess there looked like spaghetti sauce as it dripped to the surface. He looked to his right and saw Panic chasing a shorter crip towards the backyard. Over his shoulder he caught Killa Dre and Woo chasing after a coal black crip, firing their weapons as they went along.

  *** The tallest of the little homies hit the black iron-gate and had just about pulled himself over to the other side when his back exploded, sending atoms of shredded flesh and blood every where. He screamed in pain and fell down on his back, grimacing and reaching for his wounded backside. Through teary eyes he saw a giant standing over him with the world’s biggest shotgun pointed in his face. Right then and there, he forgot about his injury. He raised a bony hand in an attempt to plead for his life and his skull desentagrated, sending everything inside his head everywhere.

  *** Killa Dre ran over the rooftops of cars lined up on the block in pursuit of Crow, while Woo chased after him on the ground. They breathed heavily and their faces wore coats of sweat as they relentlessly ran after their target. Crow dashed towards a main street. Seeing the well lit intersection with its passing automobiles and pedestrians gave him hope that he might live to see another day. He smiled broadly, but the expression on his face quickly converted to one of execruciation as his calf and kneecap exploded, spilling blood on the ground. He hit the asphalt like a stringless puppet, seeing Woo on one knee with his gun trained on him.

  Crow lay in the middle of the intersection causing cars to nearly crash as they came to screeching halts trying not to hit him. As he bawled in pain Woo and Killa Dre ran up on him.

  “Finish him, Blood,” Woo told Killa Dre. Gripping his Tec-9 firmly with both hands, Killa Dre held its trigger back, guiding the spitting machine up his target’s groin and into his face. He released the trigger and his weapon wafted with smoke. He admired the bloody masterpiece he created, watching red streams flow from Crow’s body.

  Woo looked around and saw pedestrians and people inside of their vehicles watching them. “Come on, nigga!” he nudged Killa Dre and they ran off.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So, who did y’all wet?” Pavielle asked as he sat down on the La-Z-Boy, holding his .9mm.

  “C-note, Crow, and three other nobodies from their set,” Woo told him. “We were tearing shit up out there.” “Blood, we caught them fools out there cold slipping.” Killa Dre informed Pavielle excitedly. “It was just like you said, ‘lay low for a minute, let’em think shit bool, and then pounce on their asses.”

  “I hope you wore something over your face. All it takes is one body for them boys to lock you up and throw away the key, ya Griff me?” Pavielle asked seriously.

  “Yeah, all the homies wore something.” Killa Dre nodded his head. Pavielle looked over all of his homeboys’ attire, they were all Cripped down. They were in Navy blue from head to toe: Chuck Taylor All Star Converses, Dickie suits, Pro Clubs, hoodies, fitted caps, beanies and bandanas. They donned these garbs to confuse the crips into thinking they were crips. Bloods who went on missions used this strategy sometimes.

  “I had on this beanie, this flue rag and these shades,” Killa Dre continued, holding up each item that he had called out. There was no way a civilian could identify him under his disguise. “Niggaz didn’t bee Killa Dre from Outlaws smoke old boy in the middle of the street, they saw some crab nigga from some other crab set puff homeboy’s wig out.”

  Pavielle smiled and gave the young nigga a pound. “Y’all know it’s about to be a full blown war out here now that y’all smoked one their shotcallers, y’all ready for this shit?” he asked, looking around at all of his comrades. All of the homeboys nodded their heads. “Good. ‘Cause the shits about to hitthe fan,” he rubbed his hands together and bit down on his bottom lip, anticipating the drama.

  *** It was a gloomy Thursday morning when Nightmare came from the backyard with Karma on a
blue leash. Stopping in the driveway, he fired up a Kush blunt; his breakfast for the morning, and looked over his hood. The dew had left the neighboring lawns slick and parked car windows fogged. People were leaving for work with their children in tow to drop off at school while others were returning home from their jobs.

  Nightmare took a pull of his L and then blew the smoke into the cold air, watching it dissolve before his eyes. He then adjusted the straps in his waistband and moved to patrol his turf. Patrolling the neighbor-hood was something he and Karma did at 7:30 A.M every morning; rain, sleet, or snow.

  He hoped to catch some enemies slipping while out on patrol. Normally he’d buck them down where they stood, but if he caught some out of bounds this morning he would sic Karma on them. It would be much more amusing to watch the pit chew his enemies up.

  Nightmare smiled as the thought crossed his mind. Yeahhhh, Cuz, I wish I would catch me a nigga slipping out here this A.M.

  A Lexus truck swung into the driveway of the house the gangsta crip was just about to cross. He went for one of his straps, but once it registered who it was inside the SUV he stayed his hand.

  Nightmare’s lieutenant and street son, Taco, hopped out of the truck. He was a skinny nigga who had a body that was a collage of tattoos. He wore his long hair in four thick cornrows that hung passed his shoulders. He was twentyone but didn’t look a day over sixteen. With all his jewelry and designer clothes on the young nigga looked more like a rapper than a gangbanger.

  Taco kneeled down and rubbed Karma behind her ears, the pit licked his face and hands as he did so. She considered the young hustler family just as her master did.

  “How ya doing there, girl, huh? Thi s nigga treating you right, or nah?” he referred to her master before turning to him and giving him a pound. “What’s cracking, Cuz?”

  “You know you almost got blasted on rolling up like that, right?” “My fault, homie, I need to holla at chu though, on somereal shit.” He stood in a half number four, with his fist inside the palm of his left hand. The look on his face was like My nigga, you need to hear this shit, but something else had caught his big homie’s attention.