by Tranay Adams
Threat was cruising in his brown El Camino, nodding his head to the infectious sounds of Westside Connection’s Westward Ho. He took slow draws from a writhing blunt, allowing the fog to fill his mouth. He peeled his lips apart and smoke rolled off his tongue. He sucked it back up into his nose and blew it back out. His glassy, red-webbed eyes scanned the street and bent the corners of South Central Los Angeles’ scandalous streets. The brown paper bag sitting in the passenger seat contained a bottle of Hennessy, a stack of plastic cups, Swishers, and a box of Magnums. He was en route to the motel over on 83rd and Figueroa. He had some pussy on the line that he was dying to see what it was hitting like.
He narrowed his eyes as he peered out of the driver side window. He saw some tall, light-skinned nigga with a ponytail beating on a thick ass golden brown complexioned chick. She hit the sidewalk on her hands and knees, crawling away from him with her nose trickling blood. Her big titties jiggled about as she hurriedly went down the dirty, cracked sidewalk.
“Bitch, this all the fuck you done made?” He shouted down at her and threw the balled up dollar bills at her back. “What I tell yo’ ass, huh? Fuck I tell you?” He took a cautious scan of the streets as he unbuckled his belt.
Figuring that it was nothing out of the ordinary besides pimp and hoe business, Threat was about to keep it pushing. That was until he noticed that the girl was pregnant.
“Hoe ass nigga.” Threat’s face contorted into something heinous, he then pulled his ride over and murdered the engine. He pulled his head bussa from where it was wedged between the seat and the console, ejected the magazine, stuffed it into his back pocket, then threw open the door and jogged across the street, looking both ways. The wicked look on his face and fire in his eyes made him resemble a slave master as he caught the flesh peddler whipping his hand left and right, his thick leather belt acting as a whip. He swung his arm from left to right with all of his might. The girl screamed and tried to crawl away, but he stayed on her, causing thick red pulsing welts to appear on her back like magic as the violent lashing tore her clothing into shreds.
“Ahh! Aahh! Aaahhh!” Her head jutted each time the leather belt assaulted her back with a vendetta. “Calvin stop, stop! Waaa!” She tried to grab the belt, but that only made him angrier and he beat her harder, faster, unmercifully.
“Bitch put cha hands down, put cha mothafuckin’ hands down!” A film of sweat masked his forehead and he breathed heavily, attacking her like she’d been caught stealing. “Yo’ ass gon’ learn”. Whap! “Oh yeah, yo’ ass gon’ learn.” Whap!” To have...” Whap! “...all...” Whap! “...My mothafuckin’ trap.” Whap!
“Please, Calviiinn! Stooopp!”
“Calvin? Bitch, my name Daddy, you disrespectful ass hoe!” He walked around her and kicked her dead in the temple, causing her to fall off to the side, out cold. He then moved to her protruding belly. “Fuck you and that trick baby!” He stomped her stomach as hard as he could twice with his Stacy Adams leather shoe, blood squirted out from between her legs, staining the concrete burgundy. Old girl didn’t even feel it, because she was lying unconscious.
He looked down at his handiwork proudly. A smile plastered on his face, seeing her battered and bruised as he procured his belt back on his waistline. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.
“Let this be a lesson to you, have not some of my trap, but all of...”
Whack!
“Aaahh!” Calvin staggered forward, grabbing the back of his dome. He whipped around and took a look at his hand, it was masked red. Frowning, he looked up at his attacker and found a short, skinn,y black ass nigga who looked like he had murder on his mind. Before the pimp could launch an attack, the little nigga was on him. Whap! Whap! Whap! He held the unruly nigga by the collar of his shirt and went upside his head with that steel until his gun was stained with his own blood. He then let him fall to the ground groaning in pain.
“You like to hit females? You like putting yo’ hands on women, mothafucka, huh? Take off yo’ belt!”
“Fuck you!” Calvin winced.
Quickly, Threat took a step back, smacked his magazine into the bottom of his weapon, and brought it up. He gripped it with both hands like One Time do and pointed it at him. The battered man looked up, peeling his eyelids open and trying to keep the blood out of them.
“Pl—please, man.” He croaked painfully, head throbbing and hurting.
“Take off yo’ belt like I said, nigga, I ain’t gon’ tell yo’ mothafucking ass again!”
“Alright, alright, shit!” Calvin unbuckled his belt and pulled it loose from around his waistline, outstretching it. Threat snatched the belt from his grasp and tucked his banger at the small of his back, taking a cautious look around the area for police presence. Seeing that the coast was clear, he went to work beating the flesh peddler’s ass with his own belt. His hand swung from left to right, up down and all around, slinging that leather belt.
“Ahh! Ahh! Ahhhhh!” He screamed louder and louder every time the belt licked at his arms and legs furiously. “Stop, man, stop! Waaa!” He tried to grab the belt, but that only succeeded in pissing Threat off further. Heated, he beat him without mercy.
“Bitch put cha hands down, put cha mothafuckin’ hands down!” Threat barked at him like he did at Bianca. “Yo’ ass gon’ learn.” Whap! “Oh yeah, yo’ ass gon’ learn.” Whap! “To keep...” Whap! “Yo’...” Whap! “...mothafucking hands to yo’ self.” Whap!
Breathing hard, with a face shiny from sweat, Threat stared down at Calvin for a second before tossing his belt beside him.
Hearing a police cruiser siren heading in his direction, he darted across the street and pulled his El Camino over alongside the curb where Bianca was lying unconscious. He took a minute, but he was finally able to get her into the front passenger seat of his ride.
One week later in the hospital
All of the lights were out, save for the one illuminating the face of the beaten girl lying in the hospital bed, looking like she was in a deep, peaceful sleep. Her head was wrapped up in a bandage and she was wearing a blue hospital gown. Threat sat beside her bed in a chair with his jacket draped over him while he slept.
“Mmmm.” The girl’s eyelids flickered open like the wings of a wasp. Her pupils moved around trying to process everything around her. She couldn’t see clearly, so she squeezed her eyelids closed tightly and peeled them back open. She could see quite decently now. Gritting, she sat up in bed, feeling the aches of her pimp’s beating. Her body was a little stiff, but she was sure she’d be alright in time. She touched the bandages wrapped around her head and looked at her arms. She donned a plastic hospital wrist band and her clothing was a hospital issued gown. An IV was in the back of her hand. Looking down at her stomach, she frowned. Lifting her gown and saw a C-section scar, she threw her head back and shrieked. Her veins bulged at her neck and her face turned a slight red, like rose gold jewelry.
“My baby, my baby, God, why? Why? Why?” Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and outlined her face. Her trembling hands felt her stomach missing the bump that was once there. This felt like a nightmare to her, she had to be in the Twilight Zone, this couldn’t have happened to her. “What did I do? Please give her back! Please gimme back my child!” Her entire body shivered all over as she looked at her ashy palms. She started smacking and scratching herself trying to wake up from this bad dream, but nothing was happening. That was because this was her real life. She was far removed from this being a bad dream, although she wished it was.
Threat awoke and rushed over to her. Grabbing her by her shoulders, he shook her and stared down at her.
“Calm down, look at me.”
She calmed down and sniffled, looking up into his eyes with cheeks wet by a tragic loss. She ran his face through her mental database and that’s when she remembered he was the one running across the street to help her. It was something in his eyes that made her feel safe. Like he would do any and everything in his power t
o make sure no one would hurt her again. She felt like he was her guardian angel, sent down from the heavens to watch solely over her.
Bianca threw her face into Threat’s chest and wrapped her arms around him. He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her back with his hand trying to soothe her.
“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be all right.”
Threat held Bianca that night until she fell asleep. He eased out of the bed and grabbed his jacket off of the door. In step toward the exit, he heard her at his back calling him to her. He froze and turned around, sliding his arms inside of his jacket, straightening his collar.
“Could you...could you stay the night with me, please?” she asked with eyes so swollen from crying that she could barely see out of them.
Threat stood there for a time just studying her face, it was one of great grief and turmoil. He couldn’t begin to fathom the hurt she must have felt having lost her unborn child. The horrors she must have been through or seen being a prostitute probably had substantial effects on her. How could he leave her when she needed him? There wasn’t any telling how many people had turned their backs on her. He wasn’t going to even try to figure it out. He just knew that he wasn’t going to join that, more than likely, lengthy list of them.
“Okay.” He slipped off his jacket and crawled in bed with her, hugging her into him. They shut their eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Bianca was ready for a change and Threat was the answer to her prayers. From that day forth the couple had been inseparable. Threat would enlist her every now and then to accompany him on jobs. He showed her the ropes. The ins and outs of that kick door shit, and the proper way to use a gun and evoke fear into a victim. Bianca caught on to his teaching, taking to them like a duck to water. Although down the line he made her take a step back from the game while he attacked the streets with vigor and made sure that she was well taken care of.
Coming back from her stroll down memory lane, Bianca blinked back her tears and sniffled.
“You okay?” Tiaz questioned with a creased forehead creased.
“Yeah, I’m good. Sooooo, uh, who...who does this lil’ guy belong to?” She raised a curious eyebrow.
“He belongs to the man that had a hand in killing Threat.” He scowled.
Bianca’s face twisted and she looked down at little DJ, then back up at Tiaz.
“How do you...What makes you think that he had something to do with Threat’s murder?” she questioned, tears sliding down her cheek and curling around her nose. She swiped away her tears with her fingers and wiped them on her housecoat. Tiaz told her all of what he knew about Threat’s murder and those he believed were involved. The relay of the information only made her cry and hate those responsible that much more.
“But don’t worry though. I took care of those dog ass niggaz off the strength of my brotha.” He bumped his fist against his chest and went about the task of licking a blunt closed. He then withdrew a lighter and produced a flame, guiding it back and forth across the blunt to seal it closed.
“What about him?” She nodded to the baby. “What chu plan to do with him?” Her hand slipped inside her housecoat’s pocket and settled on the Glock she had concealed. She grabbed it on her way back to the bedroom when he’d arrived. Although Tiaz was her boo’s best friend, his being at her house at that hour struck her as odd. She couldn’t be sure what he’d stopped by for, so it was better for her to be safe than sorry. Bianca didn’t know what his intentions were with the baby, but she’d fill him with some hot shit before she allowed him to bring harm to the innocent’s life.
“You can ease yo’ hand off of that burner,” he said, having peeped the move. “I’m not gonna do anything to that nigga’z baby.” He took a draw from the ass end of the L and blew out smoke in thick clouds. “I’ma piece of shit, but I’m not the biggest piece.” He assured her.
Bianca nodded and closed her eyes, silently sighing with relief. “So, what’re you holding on to him for then?”
“Leverage.”
“Leverage?” Her brows creased. “For what?”
“You’ll see. What?” His face pulled tight at the center.
Bianca’s face was scrunched up as she studied the cuts covering most of his face. She hadn’t noticed them when he’d gotten there, but their bleeding had drawn her attention. Tiaz wiped his face with the back of his hand and saw a small smear of blood. “Must have happened when I went through that window.”
“Window?” She looked shocked.
“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Let me put him in bed and I’ll grab the first aid kit to patch chu up.” She carried little DJ off to bed. When she returned she patched Tiaz up and sat down on the arm of the couch. She watched him pull a burnout cell phone from out of his pocket and a piece of paper. He looked from the paper to the cellular as he punched the numbered buttons. Once the line began to ring, he placed the device to his ear and held a finger to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet. She nodded and watched as he made the call to the man that had taken away someone very special from them.
***
The front of Don Juan’s complex was lit the fuck up with police and ambulance lights, their blue and red rays shining on the faces of those who were nearby. A coroner’s van was also parked out front. People were standing around being nosey and talking in hushed tones amongst each other. Some of them were even snapping pictures and filming what was happening. Don Juan stood beside Lil’ Stan who was chopping it up amongst a couple of the homies that had come through. They were tooled up and ready to give the business to whomever on the kingpin’s orders, but he was too far gone, consumed with grief and hatred for the man known as Tiaz Petty.
The police had questioned him about what had gone down earlier that night, but he didn’t tell them jack shit. Not even about his son being kidnapped. As far as he was concerned mentioning anything illegal that went on was considered snitching and he didn’t want any parts of that. He was a street nigga and he was going to leave street business where it belonged, in the streets.
Don Juan’s eyes were glassy and his lips were peeled back in a sneer. He stared ahead at nothing as he clenched and unclenched his fists, defining the knuckles and muscles in his hands. His jaws were so tight that the bone structure could be seen appearing and reappearing as he was seething, head tilted down, eyes staring up. His eyes rimmed with tears, but he squeezed his eyelids shut, dissipating the wetness. Hearing rolling wheels and the squeaking of un-oiled metal stole his attention. When he looked in the direction of the noise, he found his wife’s body under a white sheet being rolled out on a gurney.
“Hold up,” he called out to the men pushing the gurney forth. They froze where they were and he stalked over, pulling the sheet back. He found the face of who he believed was the most beautiful woman in the world hands down. She wore a solemn expression and there wasn’t any indication that she’d been hung to death besides the rope burns around the neck. He placed his hand on her forehead and caressed it with his thumb, feeling the slight chill on the surface of her skin. Staring down at her face, suddenly, he leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her lips. He then whispered into her ear saying, “I’ma find this cock sucka and I’ma bury ‘em for you, baby. I swear on our son, I’ma kill ‘em.” He then stood upright and draped the sheet back up over her face.
At that moment his cell phone rang and vibrated in his pocket, he pulled it out and took a look. He frowned when he saw the number because he didn’t recognize it, but he answered anyway.
“What’s up?” He spoke into the cellular dryly.
“My nigga, Don, what’s cracking, homie?” Tiaz came on the line like they were old college chums. It was like he didn’t just lynch his wife and kidnap his son.
“Nigga, where the fuck is my son?” Don Juan hollered into the cell phone, drawing some of the bystanders’ attention, as well as his homies. Noticing, he ducked off into a recess with his crew huddling around him.
“Yo,’ Don, who dat?
” Lil’ Stan asked.
“That’s him?” One of the homies questioned.
Don Juan threw up a finger for them to be quiet. The call was disconnected right after. “Hello? Hello?” His brows furrowed and he looked down at the screen of the cell. He then placed it back against his ear. “Hello? Hello?”
“What happened?” Lil’ Stan inquired concerned, looking from his boss to the cell in his hand.
“He hung up! Shit!” He called him back twice and got sent straight to voice mail. “If this nigga touch my seed, so help me God I’ma...” He was cut short by the sudden vibration and ringing of his cellular. Quickly pressing talk, he pressed the device to his ear. “Hello.” He answered coolly, attitude having vanished.
“Let’s get something straight, my nigga, you ain’t calling shit here. I am!” Tiaz blared in the receiver. “And the next time you come at me talking sideways I’ma take this lil’ mothafucka and chuck ‘em in the river, you understand me?” He waited for a response, but didn’t receive one. “Oh, you must think it’s a game, huh? Well. I’ma show you how real it is this way, homeboy!”
“I understand, man! I understand!” Don Juan humbled himself, still fuming on the inside. But what could he do? That thug ass nigga had his son’s life in his hands.
“Good. Now apologize.”
“What?”
“You heard me, you bitch ass nigga. You hurt my feelings. I’m sensitive.”
Don Juan closed his eyes, swallowing his pride and setting his ego aside. He licked his lips and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Put some base in yo’ voice. I can’t hear you.”