God Luv Us

Chapter One – Strong Bullfrogs In Juffair-2

The group walked over and sat among the young marines, allowing me to positively identify the white bastard, as our target. Jared Spillers was a high-priced scumbag lawyer from Northern Virginia. In Black circles, he was well-known for his trademark ponytail, brash legal approach and his reputation for representing some of America’s most loathsome White Nationalists. Due to his preferred clientele and the boat load of Anti-Black litigation he presented to the Supreme Court, Jared found himself on Robert Charles’s s**t list. For years, we monitored Jared and kept tabs on all of his activities and associations.

Back in the United States, he was a man on the run. The state police in Virginia had a warrant out for his arrest. He was the lawyer for a White Extremist accused of hanging a black fourteen-year-old several years ago. Law Enforcement officials had discovered evidence that Jared knew the well-hidden whereabouts of their primary suspect, a White Identity Extremist named Trevor Hancock. Unwilling to surrender his client to the cops, Jared instead decided to blow off a federal subpoena and took an impromptu vacation to the Middle East. For weeks, he’s hid himself here in the Kingdom of Bahrain. Aside from drinking at bars and paying for w****s, he usually keeps himself inside his plush hotel room.

Frustrated with the police’s reluctance to find Jared, the mourning family of the black teenager contacted Robert Charles. Once the family signed the check, Robert Charles executives assigned the task of locating Jared to Anthony and I. Our mission was to use all reasonable means to convince the man to reveal Trevor Hancock’s secret whereabouts. Due to Anthony’s prior screw up, this meant that I would have to leave my pregnant girlfriend in New Orleans, and take a long flight over to Bahrain.

Now, I was here in this dark lounge smoking hookah and drinking way too much, while Jessica was back home silently marinating in her insecurities. On the other end of the bar, Jared looked alive with joy as he bought drinks for everyone at his table. If you didn’t know the guy, it would be hard to imagine that this fun-loving white man was on the run for obstruction of justice.

I watched the drinks continue to flow as my waitress served them round after round. The young Marines’ voices got louder with each sip, challenging the DJ’s rave music. Jared’s expensive w****s seemed to enjoy teasing the young Marines. More than a few times, I noticed the sly ladies cleverly teasing the horny soldiers with hand rubs and naughty stares. Even if white women weren’t my cup of tea, I had to at least admire how shrewdly these ladies operated.

Finally, the moment Anthony and I had waited for arrived. Jared rose up from his seat and his legs began to wobble. He awkwardly tried to keep his balance before his body tilted forward in a drunken stumble. Sensing this, one of the young soldiers reached out to catch Jared, but his useless attempt was way too late. Jared’s left knee crashed into the wooden lounge table, causing a wave of alcohol and ice to spill out beneath them.

“f**k me!” he cursed.

“Hey waitress! Somebody made a mess over here, so you’re gonna need to mop this up and bring us more drinks.”

With panicked urgency, the Ethiopian waitress scrambled over, whipping out her long wash towel upon arriving. While the ladies of the night and their young thirsty subjects scurried away from the growing pool of liquor and ice, my humble African waitress obediently dove to her knees. With light chuckles, the group teased Jared with shaded smiles and hazy eyes. They all were much too inebriated to suffer within their own embarrassment. These were white people, and even on the Islamic Island of Bahrain, whiteness means living life without any notion of remorse or regret.

“Hurry up with the mop job. The floor doesn’t need to be perfect. Just pick up our glasses and go get our refills,” Jared vented.

Shaken by his abrasive tone, the waitress jumped up from the floor and nervously stared at him. Afraid to challenge him and risk getting herself deported, she attempted to say several words of pitiful English before dashing away with a mountain of fear. The group laughed as she departed, openly teasing her heavy accent and menial manner. Inside my soul, I could feel my black rage reaching its apex. If it had been part of our mission to kill Jared, I would have done so with an abundance of joy. A murderous fantasy of slitting his throat began to play out in my mind. It would be orgasmic to witness the life God had gifted this snow roach, get snatched away by my hand.

Jared clumsily unbuttoned his sleeves before turning around towards the bathroom. As he stepped forward, both of his knees buckled and he crumbled to the floor. Somehow he caught himself, bracing his fall with an extended arm. Everyone in the bar noticed his fall, and not one person bothered to help him to his feet.

“I’m fuckin alright! I just need to go take a piss….and then I’ll really get this party poppin!” He loudly proclaimed while waving his black card in the air.

In a cringe worthy display of misplaced bravado, Jared stood tall while everyone watched. He performed several drunken and offbeat dance moves before letting out a loud shout of personal satisfaction. Everyone in the bar, from the wealthy Arabs to the indentured Ethiopian servants, tried hard to suppress their soft chuckles as he stumbled towards the restroom. No matter how harmful their behavior, no one dared to correct these White Supremacists. It’s much too easy for others to simply make excuses for them or try to pretend away their misbehavior. Pissed at his pathetic display, I took my glass and finished off my drink with three large gulps.

Unfortunately for Jared Spillers, his White Privilege was about to meet Robert Charles. Within my world, White Privilege carries zero weight. After exhaling a long white cloud of smoke, I glanced over at a pensive Anthony, giving him the signal. Summoning his confidence, he rose from his seat and slowly walked passed my table after placing his empty beer bottle next to my glass. As the music blasted and Jared’s entourage poured out on the dance floor, Anthony slipped into the restroom unnoticed.

When the restroom door swung shut behind him, I immediately spotted the DJ. He was a shaggy looking Russian expat, with an insatiable taste for anything pertaining to Black American culture. Despite looking like he was in his early twenties, the Russian man loved to dress like a late-90’s rapper, sporting oversized pants and faded soccer jerseys. The DJ found my gaze and returned a bright smile while fading his corny rave music into the Three 6 Mafia’s song, Tear da Club Up. He increased the volume and the mounted speakers sent vibes of excitement pulsing throughout the bar. Instantly, everyone near the dance floor burst into action, letting out loud shouts as they performed pathetic renditions of popular Hip-Hop dances.

My plan appeared to be falling into place rather nicely, so it was time to get a move on. I took one last puff of the grape mint hookah before removing the plastic mouthpiece, dumping it into my pocket for safe keeping. Using a wet napkin, I wiped down my empty glass and Anthony’s beer bottle, erasing our fingerprints. My next pressing task was to secure the restroom. Looking over at the bar, I found my exhausted waitress and waved for her to come. With a genuine smile, she eagerly trotted over to me.

“My hookah bowl is all ash, so I’m about to head out,” I informed her.

Confused about my intentions, I watched her eyes widen as she innocently motioned towards her lips with a tightly balled fist. Amused by the awkward hand signal, I tried to contain my childish laughter, but failed. I couldn’t make out the sister’s English, but her eyes told me she was asking if I needed a refill. I laughed, shook my head and told her no, insisting that I was fine. Without hesitation she kneeled down, picking up the scorching hot bong with her bare hands before giving me a soft kiss goodbye.

With my waitress gone, I paced over to the DJ booth and examined his equipment. There were no stacks of vinyl records, just his thick laptop plugged into an old school mixer. His light blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the bar, as his head wildly bounced to the beat. Pulling off his huge earphones, he reached over, offering me a handshake. I accommodated his request, but his uncaged excitement caused me to second guess our agreement.

On the back of his hand, I saw a crude tattoo of a scorpion outlined in blue and yellow ink. I recognized the prison artistry that was typical among all Russian members of organized crime. The Kingdom of Bahrain is overrun with a wide assortment of Eastern European trash. From the hotel owners, club managers, bouncers, bartenders, pimps, prostitutes and DJ’s, the shadowy presence of the criminal underworld is pervasive here. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a small envelope and handed it to him. His eyes grew serious as he peeled back the flap and peered down at the stack of hundred-dollar bills tucked away inside.

“That’s the first half up front…. just like we agreed,” I clarified. “You’ll get the second half once I’m done.”

Visibly pleased, he leaned over, embracing me with a one-armed hug like we were besties. I felt the warmth of his vodka scented breath as he whispered into my ear with his heavy accent.

“When you’re done, you must come to my flat tonight. We will smoke a mountain of Kush and get f****d up, I promise you. Bring your partner too. I’ll have all the beautiful ladies ready for you both.”

“I’ll even bring that pretty African waitress you’ve been flirting with,” he stated with a devious sparkle in his eye. “She gives good head and will please you for sure.”

“We can do a lot of business together my friend. We will make a good team. This is only the beginning, I promise you. Bahrain is our spot homie, together we can run this place. I promise you.”

I played him off with a phony laugh, giving him some dap before heading off towards the restroom. There was no way in hell I intended to stick around and smoke weed with this bastard. I’d be an i***t to trust a white criminal like him. The only thing this pale faced gangster could do for me was honor our damn agreement and make sure no one entered this restroom.

Despite my initial concerns, the Russians had done a great job spiking Jared’s drink. It took me a while to convince them that I wasn’t here to make trouble. A stack of cash mixed in with a few kilos of rare contraband from Columbia was enough to convince these white thugs to play along. I could tell that the DJ had done a little research on me after our initial meeting, which is why I gave him a fake name. The second time we met, he was more suspicious, so he made me promise that I wouldn’t kill anyone. Being a man of faith, I looked him in his blue eyes and made that promise, yet everything about that interaction caused me to second guess his real intentions.

I pushed open the restroom door and my nose was wildly punched by the sour smell of hot s**t. Two toilet stall doors were shut, while the third hung wide open. In the first stall, I could see Anthony’s ugly dress shoes with his pants dangling down above them. In the stall next to him, I saw Jared’s fine leather shoes and heard him grunting heavily. The sounds of his loose stool splashing into the watery toilet, echoed throughout the restroom. Satisfied, I flipped the lock on the bathroom door, convinced that the Russian laxative had begun its work. Then I walked over to the sink and started washing my hands. Hearing the signal, Anthony flushed his toilet and exited the stall.