Bury Me a G 3

Chapter One-2

“Alright,” he submitted. “You can take this piece of shit.” He looked to his men that were holding Wicked up. “Let ‘em go.” They released him and he went face first, busting and bloodying his mouth, too weakened from the beating to hold himself up. The spray of the showerhead pelted his head and washed the blood from his bleeding wounds, sending it down the drain. His eyes were no more than slits as he continued his groans of pain.

Baldhead pointed a crooked and calloused finger at the dreads’ leader. “But I want my ten boxes of Newports, tomorrow afternoon, soon as chow is over.” He spoke with hostility trying to save face, knowing damn well that the opposition would have left him, and all of his crew, leaking something awful.

The dread nodded and said, “Ya got it, Mr. Big Shot, tomorrow afternoon.” He turned to the C.O.’s that were watching the door for him. “Gentlemen, would ya be so kind as ta let these fine men through?” The correctional officers stepped from out of the doorway, allowing the men to exit.

Once baldhead and his men had made their departure, the dread kneeled down to Wicked, tapping his shoulder until he was sure that he had his attention. The battered man’s eyes shifted to him and he kept right along groaning.

“Ya a proud mon, so I know ya won’t wanna go into PC fa fear of lookin’ like a sissy bwoi,” he began. “Ya want ta stay in Gen Pop? Alright, ya eat and play dee yard wit’ me and mine.”

“Uuuhhhhh!” Wicked groaned in agony, he wanted to buck, but his pain left his mouth paralyzed.

“Exactly,” he continued. “Anotha ting, I jus’ bought ya ass, ya belong ta me now, ya my b***h. Ya debt is paid when I say so and notta time earlier. I’ll see ya later, Sleepin’ Beauty.” He rose to his feet and stomped his head, leaving him in darkness. Wicked wouldn’t wake up until sometime later the next day. From that day forth he ate and played the yard with the Jamaicans. They protected him from the other inmates looking to tax his ass for the girl that he had r***d. The dread got his walking papers a year before he got his. He figured that he must have been keeping tabs on him, because he had someone get into contact with him shortly after he left prison.

Wicked killed his vehicle and took another swig from the flask before screwing the cap back on it.

Wicked wasn’t feeling being in Roots presence again, especially after what had happened. He had it in mind to lay the Kingston gangsta down, but had second thoughts. Giving homie that eternal sleep would definitely bring out some of the most ruthless criminals from his motherland. Now, by no means was Wicked afraid of these men, but he was far from stupid. His lone gun would be no match for all of theirs. So he had no choice but to push that suicide mission to the back of his mental.

He slid it into his back pocket and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he peered out through the driver side window. Across the street there was an old white house with a rusting metal fence and a dirt patch lawn. He wasn’t sure that it was the place that he was looking for, so he checked the text message the caller had sent him with the address on the front of the house. Seeing that it was the home he was told to meet the caller, he stashed his cell in his pocket and slid his banger from beneath the driver seat. He tucked it on his waistline as he hopped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He was about to jog across the street until a pickup truck sped past him, holding him up. Wicked looked up and down the block before hurriedly making his way across the street and into the yard of the white house.

He came upon the steps and froze where he was when he found a cat sitting on a chair facing him. The shade of darkness hid the man’s features, but Wicked did make out his auburn dreadlocks and the automatic shotgun in his gloved hands. That mothafucka was trained on him, so if he tried to run then a hot one was going to swallow his back before he cleared the yard. Wicked made sure not to make any sudden movements. The last thing he wanted to do was to get murdered before he was able to exact his revenge.

“Raise ya hans real slow like.” The man with the auburn locks spoke with authority.

“Punk ass mothafucka,” Wicked said under his breath, doing as he was ordered. Being naturally rebellious, he hated being told what to do, but he wasn’t a fool. The dread had a shotgun on him. Approaching cautiously, the Rasta recovered the steel on his waistline and a little pistol in a holster strapped to his ankle. Next, he stashed the guns on his person. He kept his shotgun on him as he leaned forward and pounded on the door with his fist. Someone shouted something to him in his native tongue and his shouted back, before opening the black iron door. He motioned toward the entrance by throwing his head to it and gesturing with his weapon. Wicked lowered his hands and crossed the threshold. As soon as he did, he was smacked in the face with the repugnant odor of some very potent weed. He narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the fog ahead of him. His head snapped over his shoulders, hearing the door click shut behind him. He looked back ahead and made his way across the foyer and down the corridor, taking in the blaring noise that was Bob Marley’s I Shot the Sheriff.

Wicked closed his eyes further and coughed, bringing a fist to his mouth. The weed was stronger than the hind legs of a donkey and smelled like diarrhea that had been heated up in the microwave. Stopping at the doorway of the den, he saw three Jamaicans sitting at a table wearing latex gloves. They bagged and chopped up work. Every so often they’d stop to indulge the biggest joint that he’d ever seen in his life. They laughed and talked s**t amongst each other, carrying on like he wasn’t even there. Or so he thought.

“Wiiickeeedd.” The dread that had saved his ass back in prison greeted, with weed slanted eyes. A jovial expression was scrolled across his face as he passed the joint to the cat at his right. “Come heah.” He motioned him over and rose to his feet, pulling the latex gloves from his bony hands. He scratched his gruffly cheek and embraced his guest with a hug that surprised him. He was always snickering and joyful when he was high. A far cry from the cutthroat dread he exhibited back in the joint.

“What’s up with it? What chu need?” Wicked gave him a funny look.

“I needa tock.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah, tock.” He threw his arm around his shoulders and ushered him toward the bedroom. “Right dis way, ma friend.”

Wicked’s eyes latched on to the Jamaicans at the table as he was escorted toward the bedroom. They turned around in their chairs letting their eyes linger on him until he’d passed them. Their looks made him queasy and his stomach did somersaults. If the dread had his demise in mind then he was a mothafucking fool if he thought he was going down without a fight. Homeboy at the door may have relieved him of his guns, but he still had a box cutter wedged in his right sneaker. If the dread made the wrong move then that was his ass.

“Step into my office.” Roots opened the door to a bedroom. He closed the door behind them when he entered. Wicked took in the bedroom as the dread locked the door. The space was fairly empty, save for the bed and the nightstand. When the Rasta turned around, he made sure to keep a close eye on his hands. He followed him over to the bed where they found a manila envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out three photographs, passing them to him.

Wicked went through the photographs, feeling relieved that the Jamaican didn’t try anything. Two of the photos were of a very tall and handsome dark-skinned man, while the last one was of him, a newborn baby and an attractive woman that looked like she may have been from Belize.

Wicked’s brows furrowed and he looked up at the Rasta like ‘f**k you want me to do with these?’

“Me want his fuckin’ head on a platta.” He eyes darkened and he scrunched his nose.

“This ain’t ‘bout s**t. My murda game stay on point, Roots.”

“Me know, me know.” He patted his shoulder. “Ya skills wit dee gun is one of da reasons why me enlisted ya. I knew a mon wit’ ya talents would be very useful ta my buddin’ organization.”

Wicked nodded his understanding. “So, if I do this for you, we square?”

“Yes. And just ta show ya dat it’s not all dat bad wockin’ fa me, I brought cha a gift.” He pulled a joint from his shirt pocket and passed it to him. Wicked slid it beneath his nose, inhaling the loud aroma. A smile curled his lips.

“This that s**t,” he claimed. “You got this from the Motherland?”

“Yep, Jamaica, me home.”

“Good looking out.” He slapped hands with him.

“No problem. Me got somethin’ else fa ya. Follow me.” He opened the door and led him out into the living room, stopping at the basement door. After flipping on a switch, he unchained and unlocked the door. He stuck his hand out toward the doorway and nodded, signaling for him to go first. Wicked went on inside of the basement with Roots following closely behind, pulling the door shut.

The old wooden steps squeaked as Wicked descended them. He ran face first into a spider’s web causing him to narrow his eyes and shake his head. He spat the web out that got in his mouth and pulled it loose from his face, letting it fall to the steps. Feeling something crawling up the back of his neck, he smacked it and took a gander at his palm. There wasn’t anything there.

“f*****g spiders and s**t, Blood, you needa getta exterminator.” He glanced back at Roots and he was wearing a solemn expression. He went on down the staircase.

Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!

He heard barking the further he got down the staircase. He looked to the left and saw a couple of Rottweilers standing around a naked, battered man who was tied to a rusting iron chair. His head was hung and he was shaking like one of those bitches on the pole at Magic City. His legs were chewed up and bloody and there was a puddle of piss between his bare, dirty feet.

Hearing the squeaking of the steps as the men descended them, the beasts snapped around and charged forth, barking. Wicked stopped where he was and instinctively went for the head bussa on his waistline, forgetting that it wasn’t there. “Aww, s**t!” He took a step back from the dogs, retreating from them.

“Say, Roots, you needa call off these mothafucking hounds!”

“Right.” Roots rattled off some s**t in his native language and the vicious animals dispersed. They went from angry beasts to a couple of f*****g puppies. Wicked was surprised.

“Who is this?” He looked to the Jamaican and pointed a crooked finger to homeboy in the chair.

“Ya present.” The Rasta smirked and gripped his shoulder, turning him toward the tortured man. “Unwrap ‘em.”

Wicked balled his face up. He looked from him to the beaten man, wondering what the hell was up. The way he saw it, if it was a trick, a hundred of them Jamaican niggaz with machetes would have come from everywhere ready to chop his ass up like a f*****g coconut. Figuring that it wasn’t a setup, he approached the poor bastard strapped to the chair, he placed his boot to his privates and mashed on them. He threw his head back, wailing at the top of his lungs. He screamed so loud that Wicked’s and Roots’ eardrums quaked. The men squinted their eyes and turned their heads, feeling the stinging of the noise in their ears. It felt like needles were jabbing them.

A light bulb of recognition came on inside of Wicked’s head when he saw the man’s face. The battered man was the cat that had led the pack of wolves back in prison that attacked him. This was the same c**k sucka that had beaten his face with that lock in the sock in the shower room.

Wicked smiled maliciously and rubbed his hands together, like he had come up with the perfect master plan.

“My, oh my, how the tables have turned.” He slid his wet tongue across his top row of gold teeth and sucked in his bottom lip, nodding his head. “Payback is a mothafucka, homeboy.” He looked back at Roots. “G’ looking, dread.”

“Dun’t mention it.” He gave him a nod.

Wicked kneeled down and reached inside of his sneaker, snatching a box cutter free. Next, he grabbed baldhead by his neck, gripping it tightly, causing redness to form around his hand. He pushed the small square up the box cutter, extending the blade. Fear inhabited the man’s eyes. The frightened man murmured and squirmed, trying to shake loose of the mad man’s iron hold.

“No, arghhh!” His eyelids snapped open as wide as they could and he screamed aloud, spittle flying everywhere. Wicked smiled devilishly and his tongue curled at his top lip. He curved the box cutter around baldhead’s forehead down along his hairline. Blood oozed out of the wound following the sharp razor’s trail. Wicked gripped his bottom jaw so tight that his lips puckered up. He curved the box cutter along his jaw line causing the flesh to split, opening to the white, red-stained meat. Baldhead’s eyes darted all around his head and he stomped his foot rapidly. The skin of his face leaned forth like a slice of bologna still attached to the roll. Once the blade had reached the opposite end of his victim’s face, he stuck his fingers into the opening he created and got a good hold of it. While he was doing this, baldhead was still screaming hysterically. With a grunt and one strong tug, Wicked ripped the flap of skin off of his skull. It sounded like a strip of duct-tape being torn off. Schhrrip!

Roots didn’t even flinch when he saw this. He stuck a joint between his lips and flicked a lighter until a flame licked the air. The end of the jay crackled as it met with the fire. The Jamaican’s face scrunched a little as he sucked on the end of the m*******a stick, birthing clouds of smoke.

Wicked turned around, placing his victim’s face onto his own. He locked eyes with the victim in the rectangular dirt smudged mirror which was broken at all of its corners. When the bald man saw all of the slick, glistening red muscles in his face, he screamed and screamed, each time louder than before causing that thing at the back of his throat to tremble. Wicked whipped around glaring at the man, looking like something out of The Chainsaw m******e, donning the flap of skin that was his face. His eyes darkened and twinkled with madness. He clutched the box cutter in his hand tighter, causing his knuckles to turn white. He brought the lethal weapon around and swung it with all of his might, slicing open his jugular. He threw his head back and his tongue wormed around inside of his mouth. His pupils looked like they shrunk as his eyes bulged. A searing, hot pain engulfed his neck like salt on a gash.

“Gaagggghhhhh!” His eyes stared up at his executioner as a black river oozed from the wide slit in his neck. His head bobbled after a time before it hung, his chin touching his drenched chest.

Sploch!

Wicked dropped his victim’s face on the filthy floor. He approached a table in the far corner that had a little junk scattered upon it. He picked up an old tattered T-shirt and wiped his hands clean. He then wiped the box cutter free of his blood and prints before letting it drop to the floor.

“Gimme a week and I’ll bring you his corpse.” He said to Roots as he passed him, climbing the steps. He got about halfway up the staircase and turned around. “I forgot to ask you, what’s the name of this cat whose cap you want me to peel back?”

“Donovan Cheatham, aka Don Juan.”