Bury Me a G 3

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Wicked sat a worn brown leather bag down on a table against the wall that looked like it was made to carry a bowling ball. With latex-gloved hands, he unzipped the bag and began pulling out shiny silver tools that were made specifically for torture. One by one, he laid the tools on the old, rusty iron tabletop until he drew the last. Snikt! He turned around to Te’Qui, smiling devilishly. The illumination from the dim light bulb in the ceiling pounced off of the Instrument of Death and a glare swept up its length.

Te’Qui’s ten-year-old eyes bulged and his mouth hung open. His heart raged inside of his chest, showing its impression on his left peck as it beat out of control. His head snapped from left to right. At this moment, he was wondering how the hell slinging a little crack to cop some chains for him and his best friend had left his right hand dead and his older brother ready to torture him because he wouldn’t give up the cat that gave them the drugs. If he could go back and change the past couple of weeks he would, but unfortunately he couldn’t, so he was left to deal with this mad man and his aunt.

Helen dropped the spent beer can at her feet, crushed it with her flat and kicked it aside. Wicked advanced in his direction with the tool in his hand and evil thoughts on his mind. With nothing to lose, Te’Qui decided to make a run for it. He made a mad dash for the steps, but something caught him while in motion. Suddenly propelled up into the air, he came down hard on his face, busting and bloodying his mouth. Licking his lips and swallowing, he tasted metal. His eyelids opened just in time to see his red tooth tumbling up. He felt around inside his mouth and came across the space between his teeth. When he looked to his fingers they were stained with blood.

He looked to his ankle and saw that it had been shackled to the wall. He’d been much too panicked to notice before. When he looked up, Wicked and Helen were approaching him, laughing like a couple of crazed maniacs.

Te’Qui squeezed his eyelids closed and mouthed a prayer to himself, hoping that God Almighty would pull his black ass out of this one.

“The Lord can’t save you, lil’ homie. Only you can,” Wicked spoke honestly. “You either tell me who this cat is that gave you and bro bro that work, or I’m gonna make sure you get acquainted with each and every tool in that there bag behind me, ya dig?”

Te’Qui closed his eyes as he swallowed hard. He peeled them back open and stared up at his enemy with defiant eyes.

“Yeah, I dig and I still ain’t telling you s**t! Suck my d**k!” He threw up both middle fingers, letting them linger.

Te’Qui was pissed off at Wicked for threatening to bring harm to him for not dropping dime on who it was that gave him and his brother the crack to sell, being that he was against snitching. In fact, Wicked was one of the main niggaz that drilled into his head that telling wasn’t an option, under any circumstances. Te’Qui couldn’t believe it. For as long as the maniac gang-banger had known him, he was about to slaughter him like a pig for not submitting to him.

Ain’t this about a b***h? The young nigga thought, feeling flabbergasted. Before I eat the cheese, they’ll be bury me a g.

“Oh, I’m gonna love this,” Wicked stated with a fiendish smile. Kicking the youngster in the chin, he knocked him unconscious then pressed his sneaker against the little dude’s chest, moving to perform surgery with the shiny instrument. He stopped himself short when his cell phone rang, intending to ignored it, but something told him that he should see who it was. Withdrawing his cellular, he flipped it open and glanced at the screen. His brows furrowed seeing the name, but he knew he’d best answer the call. Placing the device to his ear, he answered.

“What’s brackin’?” His eyes wandered as he listened to what he was being told. He was hot as a firecracker, being that the call had interrupted him right when he was about to lay his torture game down on Te’Qui. “I’m in the middle of something right now. Let me wrap this up and…” He was cut short from the earful he received. “I know, I know, I know…” He blew hot air, feeling cheated, because he knew that the plans that he had for Te’Qui would have to wait until later. The call he had gotten was a very important one and the situation had to be addressed pronto. “I’ll be there, two hunnit.” He disconnected the call and slipped the cell into his pocket. “You one lucky lil’ nigga, you know that?”

“Who was that?” His Aunt Helen frowned.

Ignoring her question, he simply said, “I got some business I gotta tend to.” He sat the tool into the worn leather bag. “You babysit our friend here until I get back, alright?” He zipped the bag up and turned to her, pulling a compact handgun from the small of his back.

“Alright.” She nodded and took the gun.

“Good.” He hugged her affectionately and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Wicked headed back up the staircase, leaving his aunt alone with Te’Qui. She planted a chair down before him and leaned forward, allowing the handgun to dangle between her legs as she watched him attentively.

***

Wicked hopped behind the wheel of his BMW and tucked his banger underneath the driver seat. After firing up the sexy machine and adjusting the rearview mirror, he pulled off, cranking up the volume on Dr. Dre’s Bang Bang from The Chronic 2001.

Everyday it's the same thing,

L.A. ain't changed

Niggas still player hating,

but Dre ain't changed

I'm just a lot smarter now

‘Cause these niggas is banging ten times harder now

Niggas bringing they ass up in the wrong part of town

Better turn they car around

Rollin’ the window down (hey, can we talk it out?

Nah get the f**k out!)

Johnny got a shotgun

And he ain't even strong enough to c**k one

Fuck tryin’ to job hunt.

Wicked stared ahead watching the street and taking swigs from his flask. Face solemn, deadpan look in his eyes. The night’s cool air blew in through the cracked open windows, disturbing the loose strands of hair sticking out of his cornrows, while the illumination of light posts flickered on and off his face as he drove the dark city streets. Taking a swallow of the dark liquor, his mind wandered back to the day he became indebted to one of the most ruthless Jamaicans Kingston had ever spawned.

Wicked disrobed and entered the shower in flip-flops. The room was humid and foggy. He stared straight ahead, but he could see all of the men surrounding him. Each of them were occupied, lathering themselves with soap, washing shampoo from out of their hair, or heading back into the locker room to dry off and dress. The inmates were minding their own business and paying him no mind. Seeing this, Wicked turned his back against the spray of the showerhead. When the hot liquid hit his head, it laid his hair down and coated his body. He made sure to keep an eye open while he lathered up. By no means was Wicked a stranger to prison, every time he went in, he left with a new set of enemies. He robbed, cheated, stole, and opened niggaz up with razors. He never knew when his dirt would come back to haunt him, so he had to grow an extra pair of eyes in the back of his head.

The hot water that poured over Wicked’s form soothed and relaxed him, freeing him of his tension. It felt damn good. So good that he closed his eyes and soaked in that moment. That one moment was all it took for some s**t to jump off. Wicked’s eyelids snapped open hearing hurried flip-flopped feet slapping against the wet tile. He looked from left to right, identifying the four men closing in on him. He knew he had to react fast or that was going to be his ass.

“Ah, niggaz wanna pack me, Blood?”

Crack! Bwap! Pwap!

Wicked dropped one of the opposing men with ease and followed up with the next. He chopped him in his throat, causing him to gag then grabbed him by the back of his neck. With a grunt, he swung him into the white tiled wall. Thunk! He busted his nose and mouth, falling to the floor and leaving a smear of red behind. Wicked went to turn around and met with a solid right to the chin. His head slammed up against the wall and he fell to his palms and knees. He went to get up, but a kick in the ribs brought him back down on all fours. Before he knew it, he was swarmed. His body and head got real acquainted with fists and bare feet. The men assaulted him until they were left with flaring nostrils and heaving chests.

“Hold his ass, hold ‘em right there!” The baldheaded convict gave the order, dropping the lock into a sock, causing it to go slack. He grasped the opposite end of it and spun it around rapidly, twisting it up, setting the lock in place. “So, you like r****g lil’ girls, huh, mothafucka? Alright.”

His eyebrows arched and his nose scrunched up, lips peeling back in a sneer. He threw his hand back, grunting and swinging the sock across his face. Crack! Thwhack! Bwap! Whack! The assault split open Wicked’s forehead and right cheek, red webbing his eye. His nose fractured and burgundy blood flushed from his nasal cavity, tatting up the tiled floor and washing down the drain. His eyes were hooded and his vision was blurry. He moaned. His head throbbed like he had the worst migraine and his broken jaw was aching.

“Big brudda!” The voice rang from the doorway.

The bald con and his henchmen’s heads snapped in the direction from which the voice came. They found a tall, skinny man with keloids and burns on his bony chest. His hair was a crop of wild dreads that were long and thick. They looked bigger than his head and heavier than his body. Standing on both sides of him were three Rastas. They were sporting shorter dreads, nappy heads, and fades. They wore menacing expressions and looked like they’d kill on their leader’s command, like a couple of trained attack dogs. Beyond them were two C.O.’s masking the door so no one would be able to get out of the shower room unless they permitted it.

“Let da mon go now, he’s takin’ ‘nuff of a beatin.’” The dread spoke with an easy Jamaican drawl.

“What? You betta raise yo punk ass up from outta here!” Baldhead frowned, looking him up and down.

“Me dunt ‘spect nuttin’ fa free, I’m willin’ ta buy da man’s debt from ya.”

Baldhead’s forehead wrinkled and he exchanged glances with his men. Turning back to the dread, he said, “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“As cansah.”

“Nuh uh.” He shook his head, “Ain’t ‘bout the money, this c**k sucka…” He grabbed a fist full of Wicked’s thick, nappy hair and pulled his head back. His eyes were peeled to their whites and he was groaning in pain. He was in bad shape. “…likes sticking his grown ass d**k in lil’ babies, the slimy mothafucka that he is.”

“Me know of da man’s sins and me have bigga plans fa him.”

“Like what?”

“Dat’s no business of yours, and I’m growin’ impatient wit’ ya chit chat.”

“Nigga, f**k you!” He scrunched his face up, looking at him like ‘who in the f**k do you think you are?’

“Right.” With that said, the dread and his men drew shanks from the waistlines of their towels. The blades were long and thick, looking like they’d cause major damage no matter what part of the human body they hit. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Big Shot…” He twisted the knife in his long dirty fingernail as he talked. “I’m gonna give ya ten boxes of cigarettes of ya choosin’ and ya gon’ take ‘em or ya gon’ take deez knives up ya ass.” His eyebrows slanted downward and he clenched his teeth hard, creating wrinkles around his gruffly face. “The decision is yours, batty bwoi! Choose wisely.”

The baldheaded convict looked from the shanks the dreads were wielding to the weapons of his henchmen. They had two blades between them. If they bucked against the rude boys there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that they’d be lying sprawled about on the wet floor of the shower room with their blood spiraling down the drain. He wanted to say f**k it and lock ass with the Rastas, but being the wise leader that he was, he couldn’t jeopardize the lives of his men over his foolish pride.