ANYTHING 4 PROFIT (ANYTHING FOR PROFIT) (6 page)

            Just then, two masked figures came through the bedroom door brandishing black pistols that matched their attire. Meka pretended to be too afraid to scream.  Eyes wide with horror, she jumped up and grabbed a sheet, attempting to cover her naked body.

    Twan was still in a daze, and physically weak from all the sex.  He didn’t even notice the intruders, until one of them smacked him on the back of the head with his pistol. “Yo Twan, what’s up, my nigga?”                                                                         

              The force of the blow made Twan spin around.  He was greeted by two faceless figures, both pointing pistols at his melon. Twan stared into the seemingly infinite holes of the barrels, and was paralyzed with fear.  His bowels loosened, and his stomach emptied right there.  Loose, hot shit traveled down his legs, and embarrassed him even more in front of Meka.  The stench of his feces quickly permeated the bedroom.  Twan’s weakened legs gave out on him, and he fell back onto the bed.  Everything happened so fast, he didn’t know what to do, or say.

             “Goddamn, nigga! You done shit on yo’self?!” asked one of the masked assailants rhetorically.  “Look here, Twan, we gon’ make this shit real simple, ‘cause I swear to God I ain’t tryna be smellin’ yo’ shitty ass all night! I’ma ask you some questions, and I want some honest answers, dig? All we want is the paper, nigga. We get that, and you live. We don’t, and you die. See how simple that is.”  The man’s voice was slightly muffled from the mask.

Twan was still in complete shock from the situation.  He could only nod his head “yes.”                                                                                                         

             “Alright, where’s the stash at?” The masked man to his right asked.                           

              Twan finally remembered how to move his lips and talk.  He said, “Look man, I-I-I d-don’t keep no money here at the house.”                                                                                                            

             “Wrong answer,” stated the masked man to his left.  He already knew that was a lie. He walked over to the bed and began beating Twan mercilessly with the butt of his black .44 magnum. Twan balled up in the fetal position and tried to avoid any more damage to his face.  It was already bleeding and swollen in several places.  From the looks of it, his nose had to be broken because it was gushing blood.                                                                                                            

             “Now we gon try this one mo’ time!” yelled the man who had just finished pistol whipping Twan. “Where the fuck the stash at!?”                                      

             “Man l-listen, I swear on my m-m-mama’s life there ain’t no money in here,” Twan stuttered. His normally deep baritone had become a falsetto.                                                                                                      

             “Wrong answer,” stated the other masked assailant. “It looks like he wanna be brave, and do this shit the hard way,” the man said to his partner.                                                                     

              Meka finally spoke up.  “Twan, please just give them the money! It’s not worth our lives, baby!”                                                                                                          

             “You better listen to ya’ girl, dog. She tryna save you a lot of pain and suffering.”

  Twan just remained silent.                                                                                       

              “Look here, nigga. It’s too late for you to be tryna play tough guy after you done already shit on yo’self.”

  Twan still refused to speak.

  The masked man on the left said, “Alright, fuck it.”  He placed the pistol on the bottom of Twan’s foot, and squeezed the trigger. Blood, bone, and pieces of flesh splattered everywhere, and Twan screamed at the top of his lungs.  He sounded like a wounded animal being devoured by a hungry predator.

              Now Twan realized the seriousness of the situation.  It wasn’t a game. Half of his foot was missing.  He finally spoke, his voice quavering with fear.  “It’s… it’s in the closet,” he whimpered.       

             “Speak up, mothafucka! I can’t hear you,” the masked man commanded.                                    

             “It’s in the closet,” Twan said again, this time louder.                                          

             “Now we startin’ to get somewhere,” Ant D said, his words muffled by the ski mask he was wearing. Mike went to the walk-in closet and started searching for the safe.  He turned on the light, and walked to the rear of the closet, and spotted the fireproof safe in the corner.  He did an about-face, and said, “I found it.” 

             “What’s the combination,” Ant D asked Twan.

   Twan was weak from loss of blood, and totally demoralized.  Now he only hoped to escape with his life, so he immediately gave his assailants the numbers: “45-62-89.”

    Mike went back into the closet and tried the combination Twan had just given them. The door to the safe popped open, revealing several large stacks of bills.                                                  

             “Jackpot,” Mike said, smiling to himself.  He walked back out into the bedroom to retrieve a pillowcase to put the money in.                                                                                                                                            

             “What’s up?” Ant D asked Mike.                                                                             

             “Everything good, my nigga. Let me put the money in this pillowcase so we can get the fuck up outta here,” replied Mike.                                                                 

             “Meka, find something to put on, and go outside and get in the car,” said Ant.

             Twan thought he was hearing things.  He said, “Wha… Hold the fuck up, how the fuck do this nigga know your name, Meka?!”                                                                                                                 

              Ant D didn’t give his sister a chance to respond. He answered for her. He pulled off his ski mask, and in the process, revealed his stone brown face, cold brown eyes, and murderous intentions. “I know her name ‘cause I’m her brother, nigga.”                                             

             “What the fuck?!!” Twan exclaimed. The surprise of what he’d just heard almost caused him to defecate on himself again. “Meka, how could you shit on me like this? I loved you,” he said. Twan was so heartbroken, he still didn’t fully realize that the moment Ant D pulled his mask off; he was already a dead man.                                                                                         

              Meka was a cold bitch. She laughed in his face. “Nigga, you ain’t love me. You loved this thang I got between my legs. At least you got a good nut before you died. So just be happy ‘bout that.”

              When Mike walked out of the closet with the pillowcase stuffed with illicit funds, Ant D said, “Meka, go get yo’ ass in the car.”                                                 

              Meka picked up Twan’s tee shirt off the floor and put it on, and then she headed towards the bedroom door. She looked back at Twan and gave him a smile that was colder than a Polar Bear’s toenails. “Bye, Twan.”                                                                                                                                                 

             Twan had a huge lump in his throat, but he managed to yell, “I’ll see you in hell, you
triflin’ ass bitch
!”

              Meka laughed. “Well, since yo’ ass goin’ there first, make sho’ you tell the devil I said what’s up. You pussy ass nigga! And just so you know…the dick wasn’t even all that,” she said over her shoulder. She walked out of the bedroom, and down the stairs without another glance.                 

              Ant D walked over to Twan, who was perspiring so much his whole body was soaking wet. He was trembling, and the stench of fear emanated from his pores.  It mixed with the already overbearing stench of feces that permeated the room.

Sensing that his life was almost over, Twan attempted one last desperate lunge at Ant D, only to be met with a shot to the back of his head from Mike’s black Glock 9mm. Fragments of his skull and brain matter flew all over the room, and Twan’s naked  body hit the carpet face up. Ant stood over Twan and fired two more shots from his .44 magnum into his face (or what was left of it). Ant knew Twan was already dead, but he felt the need to mutilate the nigga who’d been fucking his sister. That was some personal shit.  He stared down at the bloody, mangled corpse, his ears still ringing from the deafening shots he had just fired.

             Mike said, “Let’s go, Ant D!”  Ant snapped out of it, and they both hurried out of the bedroom, and down the stairs. Once at the bottom of the stairwell, Ant started pouring gasoline out of a gas can he had left downstairs upon first entering the house. “No evidence, no witnesses, no crime…” Ant D started.                                                                                 

             “…No case,” Mike finished. Ant D laughed, and struck a match and tossed it on the gas. The fire immediately began to engulf the house with an intense heat. 

  “Let’s go, homey,” Mike said. They both took off running, straight out the front door to the crack car that Meka already had started, and waiting to go. They jumped in, and they pulled out of the driveway slowly, leaving behind death and destruction in their wake.

Chapter 5

The ride back into the city from Twan’s house in Easley was pretty silent.  Everybody was lost in their own thoughts. Mike, who was behind the wheel of the old beat up Honda Civic now, was concentrating on making it back to Gloria’s house in The District without getting pulled over by the police. Fresh from an extremely violent crime scene, and riding in a vehicle with enough evidence in it to put all their asses in a concrete box for the rest of their lives.  Or maybe even on Death Row, so the last thing anybody wanted to see was the blue lights of a police car.

              He and Ant D’s last encounter with Greenville County police was still fresh in Mike’s mind, so he was being as cautious as possible.  He obeyed every traffic law in the South Carolina driver’s manual. Of course if they
were
stopped, whoever that unlucky officer happened to be wouldn’t be eating donuts or drinking any more coffee. Not in that lifetime.             

              And though both Ant D and Mike had little fear of anyone wearing a badge, neither wanted the extra heat killing a pig would bring. Especially in the Deep South. So Mike stayed on point, and drove back into the city using mostly side streets and back roads.

              Sitting in the backseat of the Honda Civic, Meka stared out the window into the night. Her eyes were looking at everything but seeing nothing. Her mind was reflecting back on the childhood that she and her brother never had. All because of their mother’s extensive drug habit, and the many things she did to maintain it.

               Meka and Ant D stayed on the move from one relative’s house to another.  They never felt at home, but found strength in the fact that they had each other. The instability and hardships that they faced at such young ages made them cold toward strangers, but drove them even closer together. To the point where they became inseparable.

   Back in the day when the twins were twelve, they stayed at their Aunt Gladys’ house for a few months in a neighborhood called City Heights. City Heights was an ironic name for a neighborhood whose people saw the depth of poverty and hopelessness daily. But that was the norm in most poverty stricken neighborhoods in America. And for some reason they all had names that implied serenity; like City View, Piedmont Manor, Jesse Jackson Townhomes, or The Gardens. Those names belied the harsh reality of those environments, which were really more akin to a jungle.