Bury Me a G 3
Page 20
With movements that looked like blurs, Savon thrust his hand forth trying to stab him in the heart. Tiaz knocked his hand aside with the hand that was wrapped in the sheet and stabbed him in the cheek, drawing a howl of pain out of him. Savon backed up and touched his cheek; his fingertips came away with blood. He avoided his rival’s next few attempts at assaulting him, moving with the agility and grace of a ballroom dancer. He was good on his feet until a slip-up cost him a bleeding shoulder.
The fight went on to the point where both men were bleeding something awful. Their faces were coated in sweat and their hearts were slamming up against the interior of their chests. Their uniforms looked like they had been hit with splashes of red wine. Droplets of blood and sweat covered the floor of the infirmary. The doors of the entrances to the infirmary rattled as the riot squad of the County jail facility tried to force their way in.
One of the men moved in for the kill, thrusting his shank forward. The other man smacked his hand away with such a force that it sent his shank flying across the room. He then delivered an upper cut that lifted him off his feet and dropped him on his back. The man bumped his head and was nearly knocked unconscious. He lay on his back looking through narrowed slits and groaning in pain. The other man straddled him and gripped his throat, squeezing it and lessening the oxygen flowing into his lungs. The man beneath him squirmed and punched at his torso, but his opponent clenched his jaws and took the blows without complaint. He then slammed his seven inch metal blade into the man’s armpit down to its handle. The blade pierced the man’s heart, killing him instantly.
His eyes bugged and his mouth dropped open. He took his last breath and his arms dropped limply beside him. At that moment the infirmary went deathly quiet as the inmates stared at the man that was victorious. All that could be heard was the blaring alarm and the rattling of the entrance doors. The victorious man lay over his dead opponent, breathing heavily and bleeding from everywhere. He felt relieved having been the one that came out on top. No one could tell him that he wasn’t completely justified. He did what he had to do to survive, so whatever punishment came for his actions, he was willing to face. It was survival of the fittest.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The doors came flying open and the riot squad came pouring inside of the infirmary.
Years later
The C.O. opened the cell’s door and he came waltzing out. He moved down the hallway toward his death as confidently as he could with his wrists and ankles in shackles. A host of correctional officers and a priest crowded around him walking with him as he moved down the mustard yellow corridor.
“Dead man walking! Dead man walking!”
He flinched hearing the officer’s voice sting his eardrums. He glanced over his shoulder with a scowl and twisted lips.
“Damn, homie, you all in my ear and shit,” he complained, heatedly.
Continuing on his way, he threw his head back at the other inmates on Death Row like ‘What’s up?’ Never breaking his stride. His face was one chiseled out of stone, void of expression and emotion. It was like he was taking an evening stroll through his neighborhood, taking in the sunshine and mingling with the people of his community.
“Alright now, hold yo’ head, bro!” A prisoner called out from his left.
“No doubt!” he responded.
“That’s the realest nigga to have ever walked the earth right there!” Another prisoner called out from his right.
“Balls of steel.” A third prisoner called out.
He locked eyes with him and said, “You mothafucking right.”
He knew the life he led would lead to either death or the penitentiary and it led to both. Cold world. But what the fuck could the nigga do? The streets were all that he knew. He played the hand he was dealt and came up short. He wasn’t about to bawl and cry about the shit though. He had a reputation to keep. He knew the streets would keep his legacy alive. Once he finally closed his eyes his name would be mentioned with some of the most gangster niggaz in history, he was sure of it. No one could tell him otherwise.
He was led to the room where his life was to end. He stared at the dark green leather cushioned gurney with all of the straps on it as one of the correctional officer’s unlocked the shackles around his wrists, waist, and ankles. After the C.O. removed the chains and shackles, he passed them off to the other officer who hoisted them over his shoulder. The officer then told the prisoner to lay down on the gurney. He obliged.
His head snapped to all of the areas of his body that the correctional officers strapped down. They made sure that the thick leather brown belts were pulled good and tight to ensure that their prisoner wouldn’t escape. Once the officers finished strapping him down to the gurney, they stepped back to allow the doctor through. He was a tall, white man with thinning hair. He wore glasses and a lab coat. He tied a tourniquet around the thug’s arm, cleaned it with a swab moistened in alcohol and tapped it until a ripe, juicy vein was visible. Once he did this, he inserted the IV then removed the length of rubber. He repeated this same routine with the other arm, as well. He then opened his patient’s shirt and attached the patches that would monitor his heart. This was done so that the time of his death could be recorded and confirmed.
When the doctor turned around walking off and pushing his specs back upon his face, he noticed a machine that housed three large syringes containing three concoctions. The first one was sodium thiopental, an anesthetic agent that would be used to render him unconscious. The second one was pancuronium bromide, a non-depolarizing muscle relaxant that would cause sustained paralysis to the skeletal striated muscles. The last one was called potassium chloride which would stop his heart, thus causing death by cardiac arrest.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
His heart was beating fast now because he knew that death was looming around him like a foul stench. But he wasn’t afraid of dying. Hell mothafucking nah, he embraced it, welcomed it even. The next thing he knew the curtains were pulled open from over the large windows surrounding the diagnostics room, leaving a host of people looking in on him. They sort of resembled the audience at a talk show like Jerry Springer or Wendy Williams.
One face stood out among them all though. He’d come to love it like he loved breathing. She was beautiful, but at that time her appearance was less than flattering. Chevy’s eyes were red webbed and pink. Her cheeks were slickened wet, making her face shiny. She swallowed the lump of hurt that had formed in her throat, her nostrils expanding and shrinking as she breathed angrily. He didn’t know if she was mad at him for what had happened or not. One thing for sure was that he didn’t care. Nah, he had other matters that had his attention, like all of the hoes he was going to get at once he got to heaven or wherever he was going.
He looked from her and took in all of the faces behind the thick glass. He figured that this was what an animal caged up at the zoo must have felt like. Most of the people in the audience wore solemn expressions. Some looked like they felt sorry for him, while others were crying. Not crying because they felt for him, but because they were happy that justice was being served for the murder of their loved ones. He cracked a wicked smile at them and they went ham, jumping to their feet and hurling chairs which deflected off of the glass. They talked shit and some of them even tried to rush out of the room to get to him. He chuckled and threw up his hood the best way he could with his arms being in restraints. It was his last fuck you to them.
After a couple of armed guards ushered the unruly guests out, kicking and screaming, the priest approached the prisoner with an opened Bible. He began reading off a passage when he shouted at him.
“Father, I don’t wanna hear that shit, God gave up on niggaz like me a long time ago!”
The priest closed the Holy Book and cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth. “Very well, may the Lord bless your soul, my son.”
“Yeah, whatever, nigga.” His head whipped around to the warden, looking him up and down like ‘Fuck you doing here?’ “C
an I help you?”
“Any last words, Savon?” he asked. The room had a PA system, so everyone outside of the glass could hear what he had to say.
“Once y’all done killing me, and it’s time to lay me to rest, y’all just make sure they bury me a G!” He said aloud, taking in all of the faces of the people in the audience, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “You hear me? Bury me a G, bury me a mothafucking G!”
The End
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