Bury Me a G 3.5

Prologue2015 Tiaz was bussed from the courthouse to the County jail. After going through all of the bullshit they put a person through when he first came through that shithole, he made his way to the telephone, slapping hands with the cats he knew and mad dogging others. He was surprised at how his name was ringing off behind the walls. Dudes were talking about how he was putting it down and giving it up in the streets. Although he got some love, he knew he’d also feel the hate. The two coincided with one another. It wouldn’t be long before he had to set a mothafucka straight so they’d know that he wasn’t one for the bullshit. Tiaz pushed the thought of having to check a nigga to the back of his mental. Right now, he was focused on getting in touch with someone on the outside so they could get his money and hire him a decent lawyer. Tiaz stepped to the payphone and reached for the receiver. Before his hand could grasp it, a bony one grabbed it. His eyes followed the bony hand, up its arm and over to the face of the body it belonged to. It was in the possession of a dark-skinned man with nappy hair and some serious acne. His face looked like plastic bubble wrap and his eyes were as yellow as lemons. His uniform was two sizes too small so his limbs looked like tree branches coming out of his sleeves and pants. He sized the thug up, studying him as if he was the tallest stack of s**t he’d ever laid eyes on. “My man, now I know you aren’t tryna use my phone without asking?” Dark-skinned asked. “Your phone?” Tiaz frowned. “I don’t see your name on the mothafucka.” “The hell you don’t.” Dark-skinned pointed to the name on the phone. “Your name is Pacific Bell?” He raised an eyebrow. “Ya damn skippy, now pay up.” Dark-skinned rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “What chu got, money? Commissary?” “How about an ass whopping?” Tiaz punched him in the mouth with all of his might. The force behind the punch was so great that it caused him to bump the back of his head on the wall and slide down to the floor. The dark-skinned man’s bottom jaw split straight down the middle and his grill quickly filled with blood as he tried to push the separated halves back together. The pain was so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. Tiaz went to work on him, kicking and stomping him as he held his arms up trying to shield his face. Tiaz was so occupied with giving the man the business that he neglected to watch his back. A look of surprise came over him when he felt sharp metal puncturing his back and ribcage. He swung around with his full strength, bringing his balled fist across the jaw of a stockier, muscular cat. The blow caught the man off guard and caused him to stagger to the side, but he held tight to his shank. He righted himself before he could fall and wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes took on a frightening glint and a satanic grin emerged on his face. The sight of blood seemed to entice him. He charged at Tiaz. The thug sidestepped him, grabbed the back on his neck and gripped his wrist. He twisted his wrist so hard and fast that a sharp pain shot through it. It was the equivalent of piercing the skin with a hot needle and it made the man drop his shank. The man’s mind was quickly taken off of his wrist when his face smashed into the wall and his forehead split open like a coconut. The man fell to the floor in a heap, groaning in pain. He slowly made to get up when the cats Tiaz knew from the hood finally rushed in and mopped him and the dark-skinned man up. All he could do was watch before collapsing to the floor from blood loss. An alarm blared inside of his ears. The last thing he saw were the C.O.s suited and booted in riot gear rushing in to restore order. A couple days later Tiaz’ eyelids fluttered open. His vision was blurry, but it came back into focus after a while. He sat up in bed and looked around. The room he was inside was dimly lit. There were hospital beds lined up on both sides of him. Some of them were occupied by inmates. A nurse was checking one of the inmates’ vitals. He also saw a doctor standing in an open door jotting something down on a clipboard. That’s when it dawned on him that he was in the infirmary. He looked down at his torso and saw that it was wrapped in a bandage. Tiaz brought both his hands down his face and blew hard. He realized that he passed out from loss of blood, but he didn’t know how long he had been out. The nurse walked inside of the room that the doctor was in. As soon as she went through the door, two inmates arose from their beds, slammed the door closed behind her and pushed a file cabinet down in front of it. A C.O. came running towards the two inmates. He radioed for help through his walkie-talkie and suddenly an inmate pulled a pillowcase over his head tightly and rammed his head into the wall until blood smeared the inside of it and he passed out. As soon as the C.O. hit the floor, the inmate along with a few others, barricaded the rest of the entrances into the infirmary. They then moved in on Tiaz. The dim light in the room bounced off the metal of their shanks and caused them to glint. Danger! Danger! Danger! The alarm inside of Tiaz’ head blared like the dismissal bell for after school detention. “Arrrr!” He grabbed his side, his moving too fast caused pain to shoot through his ribcage like bolts of lightning. He shuddered, feeling groggy and weakened from his wounds, but forced his eyelids back open. These niggaz wanted blood, his blood. And he wasn’t giving up a drop of it without a fight. Swiftly, he pulled the IV from his arm and hopped out of bed. He wrapped his left hand up in a sheet and unscrewed the top half of the IV pole beside his bed. He held tightly to the lower half of the IV pole, planning to use it as a spear. He then backed himself up against the wall. His head was on a swivel as he surveyed his surroundings, searching for the first man looking to claim his life. The shank wielding inmates formed a circle around him. He looked around at all of their ice grills wondering why they hadn’t attacked. That’s when the circle parted and a man came waltzing through. His face was partially hidden by the darkness of the room, so he had to peer closely to I.D. him. When recognition ripped through his brain, he had to blink a few times to make sure who he was seeing was actually standing before him. “Sa…Sa…” Tiaz stammered. “Savon, alive and in the mothafucking flesh,” the man spoke. Tiaz was speechless, he couldn’t believe it. Chevy’s brother was standing right before his eyes. “You done my niggaz up real nasty, but they were throwaways. I got plenty more hittas where they came from.” He swept a hand around to all of the men surrounding them. “Are you ready to die, nigga?” He pulled a sharp metal shank from the small of his back. It was about seven inches in length and had fabric wrapped around its lower half for grip. Tiaz readied himself for the fight for his life once he saw the weapon come into play. “You set me up, p***y. Left me to rot in this shithole, put cho mothafucking hands on my sister, got my nephew out here pushing poison in the streets! Ah, nigga, you gots ta go off of GP! What chu did was a violation punishable by death! And yo’ sentencing has come, b***h-nigga!” “You ain’t saying s**t, let’s dance!” Tiaz shot back with a hard face. His heart was beating fast, but it didn’t pump Kool-Aid, it pumped Gangsta Juice. A flicker of movement at his left brought his eyes around. One of the inmates was tossing him a metal shank identical to Savon’s. He threw the IV pole down and pulled the blade down from the air. As the alarm blared in their ears and the inmates cheered them on, the two men circled one another, looking for flaws in the other’s defense. The thug’s eyes were trained on his opposition’s left side. He knew vital organs were on this side and attacking the right spot could kill a man. 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, fingertips coming 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 s**t,” 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 f**k 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 s**t 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.