Me and My Hittas 2

Chapter One

Chapter OneNightmare had rallied his troops and so had Pavielle. With drive bys and walk-ups being executed on both opposing sides, bodies were dropping like flies and piling so high you could build a wall out of them. Pavielle was feeling the loss of every homie he lost but there was the death of one homie that really hit home for him.

Big Panic made his way out of Wally’s Liquor Store with a brown paper bag in his hand. Its contents were a bottle of Alize, a box of Swishers, a box of Magnums and two clear plastic cups. The big man was overly excited; he had some ass on the line he had been trying to get for a month now; a little fine, educated honey by the name of Remy. He had been trying to get baby over to the house, but she seemed to always have an excuse. If she wasn’t at school, she was at work, or taking care of her grandmother or babysitting her niece and nephew.

Panic was about to say f**k it and move along to this other broad he had bumped a week ago until he got a call from her out of the blue. He worked his charm and got her to agree to get a motel room with him. With images of her voluptuous, curvy body burned into his mental, he thought about how he was going to wax that ass like Mr. Miyagi. The thought alone had his d**k nudging at the zipper of his jeans, trying to free its self.

Panic was so caught up in the XXX movie playing within the theater of his mind that he hadn’t spotted the two suspicious characters that had followed him in and out of the store. They had clung to the shadows and masked up with their chrome Uzis. When the big man went to stick his key into the key-hole of the driver side door, he saw their reflection in the window. His eyelids peeled wide open and his mouth formed an O as he gasped. The killers had their automatic weapons out stretched and were about to spray him. He whipped around quickly, dropping his bag of goods while in motion; he reached for the strap on his waistband. But it was far too late; the masked assassins already had the drop on him. Their Uzis fired in unison, waking up the silent night as bullets struck their mark, misting the air with his blood. Panic danced on his sneakers as the bullets entered him and exited out of his back, splattering his blood against the side of his ride. It looked as if the bullets were attempting to levitate his three-hundred pound body from the surface. Panic crashed to the asphalt in the liquor store parking lot, landing hard on the ground. His blood ran from under him and mixed in with the alcohol that was concealed inside of the Alize bottle. The masked gunmen fled into the night, letting the darkness swallow them whole.

Urrrrrrrrrrk!

The tires of a Turquoise ’95 Honda Civic squealed as it bent the corner of the liquor store in a hurry, making a clean getaway. The killers pulled off their ski-masks and revealed their identities: the driver was Supacrip and the nigga in the front passenger seat was Nike. Supacrip kept a constant look over his shoulder as he sped ahead, one gloved hand gripping the steering wheel. While he was occupied with this, his partner-in-crime was hiding the murder weapons inside of a stash spot.

“You see The Ones, Cuz?”Nike inquired.

“Nah, we good.” Supacrip assured him.

“Smooth.”

With that said, Supacrip slowed the G-ride to a modest speed that was sure not to break any speeding laws. Once he felt that they were in the clear, they breathed easily. Having accomplished the mission, they disposed of the Uzis and burned the getaway car.

Kill, kill, kill, murder, murder, murder!

Later that night

Pavielle lay in bed asleep beside Vayda. His cell phone’s screen lit up and it danced across the nightstand as a call came through. The young kingpin stirred from his sleep and turned on the lamp light. He checked the caller I.D, pressed talk and brought the phone to his ear.

“What’s up, Blood?” he asked groggily into the cell phone, wiping his eyes.

“Panic’s dead.” He spoke with a dead serious voice.

“Woo, it’s too late at night to be playing, fam.”

“I’m not playing, Bleed. Real spit, they hit’em tonight.”

“Who?” Pavielle looked alive. His elevated voice stirred Vayda from her sleep. She narrowed her eyelids as she looked at him. By the look on his face she could tell something was terribly wrong.

“Nike and Supacrab,” Woo told him, his voice slightly cracking under his emotions. “On Lil’ Face it’s on now, Blood, me and Big Head ‘bout to murder every last one of these niggaz. Dinosaurs ain’t gon’ be the only mothafuckaz that’s extinct, on the set.”

“Y’all chill for a sec,” Pavielle began, sitting up in bed, “I’m a sic old girl on lil’ homie. I’ma call her in the A.M and get the ball rolling, alright?”

“Alright, Blood. I love you, my nigga.”

“I love you, too, Duce Owe. Twenty minutes.” he disconnected the call.

“Boo, what happened?” Vayda asked concerned, scratching her chest as she peered through narrowed eyelids.

Pavielle shut his eyelids and put his hands together in prayer, having a moment of silence for Big Panic. When he peeled his eyelids open, his eyes were glassy and attempting to accumulate tears. Seeing the hurt in her man’s eyes, Vayda sat up in bed and took him by the face staring into his eyes. “Babe, tell me what’s wrong, what happened?” she inquired, looking as worried as ever.

“My best friend was murdered tonight.” He told her, and as soon as he spoke the tears jetted down his cheeks. He shut his eyelids for a moment and bit down on his bottom lip, nostrils flaring.

“Panic?”

“Yeah, go back to sleep, baby.” He kissed her on the forehead and then cupped her face, kissing her on the lips. He then turned off the lamp and rolled over to go back to sleep, his heart heavy with grief.

The crown was proving to be heavier than Pavielle thought. Sure he was making more money than he’d ever dreamed of, but it came at the cost of his peace of mind as well as his loved ones. He started to think that his new status was more trouble than it was worth. He truly was paying the cost to be the boss.

Two hours later

Pavielle stirred awake and looked to Vayda, who was sound asleep. He brought his hands down his face and took a deep breath. Big Panic’s death was weighing heavily on his mind. He knew that he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night so he decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air and a blunt. After throwing on a hoodie and Dickie shorts, he proceeded out of his bedroom.

Pavielle stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door behind him. He took the blunt he’d rolled from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips, sparking it up. He tilted his head back and released a cloud of smoke into the night’s cool air. That’s when he heard ‘Psssst’ for his attention from the right side of him. In a flash he whipped that thang off of his hip and swung around, pointing it in the direction that the voice came. At the end of his barrel he found a neighborhood crackhead by the name of Rudy. She was in a burgundy hoodie and dirty, tattered jeans that were torn at the knees. As soon as she saw the Death Dealer in that nigga’z hand, she threw her hands up into the air.

“Whoa, be easy, Booby, it’s me.” She said, voice shaky with terror.

“Who the f**k is me?” his face tightened with anger and he gripped his banger tighter.

Quickly, she pulled the hood from off her head and revealed her head of half braided hair. It was nappy and unkempt like it hadn’t been done in quite some time.

“Rudy.”

At the mention of her name, Pavielle tucked the steel back inside of his waistband and went about his business of smoking.

“What’s bracking, Rudy?” he threw his head back and blew out a gust of smoke.

She cleared her throat with a fist to her mouth before continuing, “I heard about Panic tonight, I gotta say I’m sorry for your loss.” He nodded his head, but didn’t look in her direction. His eyes were glassy and he was afraid his hurt would come sliding down his face. “You know the streets are talking and they’re saying that it was Nightmare that ordered that hit.”

“Yeahhhh, I know.” He took the blunt from his lips and tapped it, dumping ashes. The grayish black flakes and embers floated to the ground.

“I know where you can find him.”

When she said this, Pavielle’s head snapped in her direction and he stepped off the front porch. He closed the distance between them, seriousness spread across his face.

“Where?” he watched as she fished around inside of her jeans pocket. She pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to him. It was an address. He looked it over and then looked back up at her. “What’s this address to?”

“His house.”

“Alright, what chu won’t for this?”

“Nothing,” He frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Look, a lotta these mothafuckaz around here treat me like a smoker, but Panic treated me like I was somebody…a human being…a person.” Her eyes misted because his death affect her greatly. The big man would bless her with crack, clothes and money for food from time to time. Hell, he’d even paid off a debt to another hustler that she owed so that nigga wouldn’t kill her. Thinking about all of this, she wiped the tear that threatened to trickle off the rim of her eye.

“I Griff you,” Pavielle nodded.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You put one right through that nigga’z head when you find him.” She gritted, teardrops falling. He gave her his word and pounded his fist to his chest. “Thanks. I gotta go.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the dirty sleeve of her hoodie. She then threw the hood over her head and walked off down the street where she was joined by another crackhead. Pavielle watched the pair as he smoked his blunt, blowing smoke clouds. Once he was done, he dropped the roach to the ground and mashed it out under his corduroy house shoe. He retreated back inside of the house with one thing on his mind, vengeance.

***

Killa Dre scaled the fence of Inglewood cemetery high and drunk out of his mind. Jumping down to the other side, he staggered forward and fell to all fours. Slowly, he got to his feet searching his person. He was relieved that he hadn’t dropped the 40 oz of Olde English malt liquor, but when he searched his ear for his half smoked blunt and discovered he’d lost it, he was disappointed.

“s**t!” he cursed.

Wide eyed, his eyes scanned the grounds for the blunt he’d dropped. When he didn’t see it, he shut his eyelids and took a deep breath. “f**k it.” He ran his hand down his face and pulled his bottle of cheap alcohol from where he had it stashed. After twisting off the cap, he took it to the head, guzzling it. The bubbles floated to the bottom of the bottle as his throat rolled up and down his neck. Taking the 40 from his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. Shortly thereafter, he shuffled forward drunkenly. Using the illumination from his cell phone, he searched the cemetery’s grounds until he found his deceased brother’s grave stone. Coming across it, he put his cellular away and stepped to it.

“’Sup with it, big bro?” He took the 40 oz to the head, guzzling it and pouring some out on the lawn below his brother’s marble stone. Having screwed the cap back on his alcoholic beverage, he went on to talk to his late sibling. Once he wrapped up their conversation, he made him a promise that he was definitely going to keep.

“The next time you see me here, big bruh, I’ll have your killer’s blood on these hands,” he held up his hands and looked between them. After balling them into fists, he focused his attention back on the stone with his brother’s name carved in it. “I swear to God…,” his vision was quickly obscured by the tears that accumulated in his eyes, outlining the rims of them. The teardrops fell, hitting the grass and the tip of his right sneaker. “No,” he sniffled and snorted back some of the tears that wanted to fall. “No, I swear to you, I’ma kill that nigga.”

Killa Dre’s older brother, Tramel, was murdered in cold blood outside of his high school after winning a game he and his team played against a rivaling school. The incident tore The Johnson family apart and left the young nigga searching the streets for his sibling’s killer. Although he hadn’t caught up with him yet, when he did he was going to make him regret the day that he was born.

Thunder rumbled and lightening flashed, hiding his face in darkness and then revealing it, each time it made an appearance. Suddenly, rain fell from the sky looking like falling crystals. Killa Dre threw on the hood of his jacket and sat the Olde English bottle down beside his big brother’s marble head. Stashing his hands in his pockets, he turned around and trekked back from where he came.

***

Killa Dre’s mother lay across the couch. She was under blankets and fast asleep. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her nose was red. Lying against her chest was a portrait with its back visible. Her hand dangled off the side of the couch just above a box of Kleenex, which sat among an abundance of soiled, balled up tissues. The TV’s blue illumination flickered on her face like a light show.

Killa Dre stood where he was observing his mother. He had to admit that she was the strongest person he had ever met. After the loss of his older brother and his father he thought that she’d definitely end up in a straight jacket inside of someone’s asylum, but to his surprise, and hers as well, she’d managed to keep it together. Taking a deep breath, Killa Dre staggered forward like a Walking Dead extra. He was still as drunk as a sailor, but he had enough wit to do what he had in mind. He took the portrait from his mother’s hand and looked at it. A smile stretched across his lips when he saw that it was a picture of their family. He took the time to admire it for a time before sitting it on the shelf. Afterwards, he placed his mother’s hand back upon the couch, covered her up with the blankets, and then turning off the television. He made his way inside of his bedroom where he kicked off his sneakers and pulled off his hoodie. Slinging it aside, he killed the lights and plopped down on the bed. Once he steepled his hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. An amused express crossed his face as he thought about the look on his brother’s murderer’s face once he finally caught up with him and filled that ass with lead.

The next morning

“Thank you.” Black Jesus said to his maid, Marisol, as she sat his breakfast and his cup of coffee down on the table before him. He slipped on his glasses and opened up the news paper, reading over it. The doorbell chimed, but he didn’t bother to tell Marisol to answer it. The paper held all of his attention. Besides that, he already knew she’d get it, because it was just one of the tasks that he was paying her to do. Although he was focused on his reading, that didn’t stop him from over hearing the locks being undone on the front door and the maid greeting Tango as he crossed the threshold.

“Jesus Christ, are you, okay?” he overheard her. This caused the drug lord to frown. He folded his paper in half and set it aside.

“I’m fine,” he heard Tango say as he made his way through the living room. “Where’s the jefe?”

“In the kitchen.”

Black Jesus turned around just in time to see his bodyguard making his way toward him. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and his arm was in a sling. When he saw this, he immediately thought, Oh, s**t. The old gangster didn’t even have to say it, because right then he already knew that his shipment had been hit.

Black Jesus’ face balled up and he removed his glasses, sitting them aside on the table. He glared at Tango and said, “I wanna know who hit my shipment, and I wanna know now. So you for damn sure better have a name for me.”

Tango nodded and said, “I do…Booby.”

“Booby?” Black Jesus’ brows furrowed, he couldn’t believe what his ears were hearing. This couldn’t be true, or was it?

“Yes. I’m afraid so.” He hung his head like he was sorry to be the bearer of bad news, his hand brushing back and forth up his injured arm. His eyes looked up at his boss to see that he was wearing a devastated expression across his face. This expression quickly morphed into one of anger.

“Alright, I wanna know exactly what happened. And don’t chu leave out a single f*****g detail.” His face balled up as he wagged his finger at him.

“Okay.”

Tango went on to recount the story of how Black Jesus’ shipment had been jacked. Once he was done God’s son seemed to be extremely pissed. His jaws were pulsating as he clenched his fists, veins bulging at his temples.

“Alright, you can leave now.” He picked his news paper back up and continued his reading.

“Well, what do you plan on doing about this?”

“Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t want me to send a hit squad after him.”

“I said that I’ll take care of it…you’re dismissed, Tango. Leave now, your presence sickens me.” If it was one thing Black Jesus hated it was failure no matter what the reason was behind it. He never took it too well.

“Boss, I’m sorry. We did our best to protect the shipment but we were overwhelmed.” He tried to plead his case. “Those n*****s were coming from everywhere.”

The kingpin adjusted the news paper as he continued his reading of it. “Tango, if I have to repeat myself again, you and I are going to have ourselves a situation.”

Tango took a deep breath causing his shoulders to rise and fall. His eyes lingered on his boss before making his way out of the kitchen, headed for the front door. He didn’t know what Black Jesus had in store for Booby, but he was sure as hell glad that he wasn’t him.

May the Lord have mercy on that poor bastard’s soul, he thought to himself as he closed the door shut behind him.