He walked the block with a certain strut. His body was confident but his head was down. He pushed a faded white ice cream cart with letters missing, with a silver and black boombox strapped to the side. “Whose world is this?” blasted out its speakers. He wore a black 59 50 fitted yankees cap backwards and a plain black baggy sweatshirt. He wore dark long basketball shorts with a deep blue stripe on the side. White socks and white adidas covered his feet. Light green trees surrounded him. He approached a girl with chocolate hair pulled into a high ponytail, dark tan skin, and miami pink lips.
Day Eight:
I was stressed out man. Malik was my good friend. I treated him like a brother. His family was a second home to mine. His mother took care of me like I was her own. His father had been killed and we were the only source of income for their family. It was his mother Corrina, his sisters Destiny, Shelia, Noannie, and Sheniqua. The kids were all under the age of 18. Damn, to see his mother crying, I really just felt like I let her down. But business was more important. Had they torchered Malik? Did they know our secrets, our stash houses, our homes? We had no way of knowing what the enemy knew, so we were on alert. Tyrone was standing next to me with his gun in his hand scanning the area for any danger. Jamal was to the left of me smoking and enjoying life. Jamal was young and cocky, and Tyrone kept telling him to shut the hell up everytime he came with a smart remark. Everyone on our team seemed to be focusing on different things, I really had to reign it all in. Evaluate the situation at hand. I kept it cool and was known for coming up with the plan. Malik didn’t know about the stash house on 8th or Pea Street, so I knew we could move everything there. I’d just have to call up Bobby and Mack and get their boys to move the shit. We needed to quit lying around and put our team on offense. We needed to bring the fire to them. Malik needed to be avenged, and we were too spread out to play the d well.
20 years later:
I just turned 59 years old. I live a quiet life now in Tokyo, Japan. I’ve kept my life simple with few connections. I own a club here and do some back door dealings but nothing too crazy. Life has been good but the old days still haunt me. It all went downhill from the funeral. We returned to our stash house on Pea street and a shootout broke out. We lost Jamal. I still don’t really know what happened to him to this day. One minute he was next to me, the next he was gone. It was six of us against who knows how many. I shot at least twenty of em. Me and Tyrone recovered most of our money in the house and were on our way out the back door when bullets ripped up Tyrone’s back leg and back. I made it out though and drove away. I think about Tyrone every day. I’ve become numb to all that now though. I checked out the house on Pea Street, got the cash and burned the house down. I drove to Malik’s family’s house and saw their dead corpses hanging from the sycamore tree in their front yard. Escape was the only option. Everything had gone to shit. On the way to the airport I called up my other connects and no one would answer. I knew it was all over. On the flight to Japan I cried harder than I ever had in my life.
That's a good story.
ReplyDelete