Me and My Hittas (22 page)

 

The crooked badges chuckled and went back to
chopping it up, attending to the meat.
“Damn, Blood, the crabs tried to straight up eightysix you,” Panic shook his head from the couch.
Chapter Fifteen
That night
“Damn, Blood, the crabs tried to straight up eightysix you,” Panic shook his head from the couch.

 

“I’m still tripping off of blood lying there playing
possum,” Woo said, munching on some Sunflower seeds.

“Avenue shoved me to the ground as soon as the shots
went off. After they popped him, Blood threw his body over
me to shield me. By the time I seen that crab nigga Nike
coming, it was too late to pull my strap so I said fuck it and
played dead.”

The whole living room erupted into laughter. All of
the homies were accounted for except Debo and Neck
Bone; they were busy holding down the traps.

“So, Blood saved your life?” Big Head asked from the
sofa, looking higher than giraffe pussy.

“Yeah, he did, that’s why we’ve gotta put the smash
on these niggaz tonight,” Pavielle said behind a murderous
scowl, clenching his fists so tight that veins rolled around
his knuckles.

“Word on the street is that Nightmare ordered the hit
and sent his relative and Supacrip to carry it out,” Panic
informed his comrades. “Y’all already know what this shit
is over, right?” he looked around to all of his comrades to
make sure that he had all of their attention before answering
his own question. “Turf…” he let it roll off of his tongue,
“Since we got on them niggaz haven’t been eating like their
used to. What better way to solve the problem then to
eradicate the competition?”

“Right,” Panic nodded his understanding. “Kill the
head and the body will follow.”

The sound of a shotgun being racked drew everyone
in the living room’s attention. They turned around and
found Gouch with the powerful weapon in his scarred,
calloused hands. “Y’all ready to show these niggaz what the
dub block gang is all about?” he looked them all in the face
trying to find any reluctance to put in that work.

“Two sho’,” Panic said catching the shotgun as Gouch
tossed it to him. Once he caught it, he marveled it like it was
a pretty fine thang with a big old ass, kissing it tenderly.
It
was love at first sight!

Gouch then went into the army sack by his feet and
handed out guns to everyone in the living room except
Pavielle. Being the leader of their organization, he didn’t
have to get his hands dirty; he had soldiers to go to war for
him. The streets were about to feel his presence without him
being there. That was for damn sure.

The young kingpin looked around the room at all of
his homeboys; they were all examining their weapons and
their magazines. He looked to the spot on the couch where
Killa Dre was and he had vanished.

“Where that nigga Dre at?”Pavielle asked.

“What’s up, Blood?” the young nigga spoke from the
doorway; his eyes were bloodshot from the blunt he smoked
with Big Head. He had been taking a piss while the others
fraternized in the living room.

“You tryna get with these crabs that wet cha brother
or what?” Pavielle asked placing a firm hand on his
shoulder, gripping it affectionately.

“Is it the fool that smoked my brother Tramel? Or is
it just some niggaz from the other side?” Killa Dre lifted an
eyebrow. He wanted the life of the killer that laid Tramel
down,because to him that’s the only way his sibling could
rest in peace. “And please don’t lie to me, big homie. I’ve
been being lied to for as long as I can remember.”

Pavielle thought for a second and blew hard, running
his hand down his face. “I’m not going to lie to you, Duce
Owe, I don’t know if the fool that smoked your brotha is
gonna be among this lot. But I promise you this; we will
find the mothafucka that smoked your peoples.”

“Put that on the gang.” He stared him dead in his eyes.

 

“That’s on the gang.” Pavielle spoke with a
seriousness that bled from his eyes.

 

“Alright.”

 

They done a complex handshake and pounded the
Blood ‘B’ against their chests.

 

***

 

Ponk!
Ponk!
Ponk!

The Spalding Basketball went as C-note bounced it
on the asphalt, up and down. He and his road dawg, Crow,
were passing through the hood when they spotted their little
homeboys playing basketball in the street. C-note and Crow
started reminiscing about their
glory
days
on their
basketball team back in high school. Each man swore he
had a better jump shot than the other, so to settle the dispute
they opted to play a game, best three out of five shots. The
winner would receive $5,000 dollars plus bragging rights.

The $5,000 dollars was lunch money to the curly
haired Belizean, C-note. He was one of the members of the
three headed monster, each man was a millionaire. Crow
wasn’t sweating the five stacks either; he was Cnote’s
right-hand man, so he was getting his slice of the American
Dream, too. The homies had been competitive since grade
school; one was always trying to outdo the other. So their
little game was more so about the bragging rights than the
$5,000 dollars on the line.

Sweat dripped from Cnote’s brow as he bounced the
basketball on the asphalt, his little homies on the edge in
anticipation. One bit his bottom lip, another had his fists
clenched, and the other had his hands together, silently
praying. The three of them had their re-up money riding on
the crip, so if he missed this shot they were fucked with a
capital F.

C-note took a deep breath, lifted his arms and let the
hog skin fly from his palms. The basketball appeared to
being traveling in slow motion through the air. It bounced
off one side of the rim, then the other, rolled around and fell
into the basket.The little homies went wild and so did the
shooter; he was all in Crow’s ear wolfing big shit. The
darker skinned man had a stupid look on his face when his
homie snatched the fitted cap full of cash from his grasps.

“Gimmie my mothafucking money, nigga,” C
-note
removed his two bankrolls and was just about to hand his
little homies their winnings when the challenger spoke up.

“Fuck that shit,
Cuz. Double or nothing,” A scowling
Crow spat. He was a sore loser and his demeanor screamed
it. C-note looked to
his
little homies
questioningly,
wondering if he should double the bet or not. The young
niggaz exchanged glances and looked to him, shrugging
their shoulders. “Fuck you looking to them lil’ niggaz for,
Loc? You werewolfing all of that shit, double or nothing!”
He produced another bankroll from deep within his pocket.

“What’s up? Y’all gone ride with your big homie one
more time?” C-note asked his little homies, spinning the
basketball around on his middle finger.

The little homies exchanged glances; the tallest one
nodded his head, “Fuck it, Cuz, double or nothing, we’re
riding with chu.”

“Yeah, C-note, you can take this nigga!” the skinniest
one added.

 

“Bet ‘em. We’ve got cho back, C-note!” the heaviest
one chimed in.

 

“Old cheerleading ass niggaz,” Crow shook his head
shamefully.

 

“You got the lil’ homies faded, Cuz?”

“Yeah, I got these lil’ niggaz faded, ‘cause when I’m
done everybody out this mothafucka going home broke!”
he swore, dropping his bankroll and the little homies fade
into the cap as well.

The heaviest of the little homies shot passed C-note.
“Where you going, nigga?” he called out after him as he
spun the basketball on his middle finger.

“Over to these bushes. I gotta take a piss.” Burger
called out as he ran into the yard.

“
Cuz, don’t whip that lil’ mothafucka out and cause
C’s momma to have a heart attack,” Crow called out to
Burger. All of the homeboys busted up laughing. Burger
gave Crow the middle finger as he whizzed in the bushes.

C-note looked to his right and saw an idling Buick
Regal in the middle of the block with its headlights out. A
veteran of the streets and a highly decorated soldier, he
already knew what time it was. “Enemies!” he yelled,
dropping the basketball and going for his banger. The rest
of the homeboys scrambled. C-note managed to pull his
burner and fired two shots through the Buick’s windshield,
causing the glass to crack into several cobwebs. His eyes lit
up as the car slammed into him and he traveled the length
of the vehicle.

The door of the Buick Regal flew open and Panic,
Woo, Big Head, Killa Dre and Gouch, all spilled out
wearing bandanas over the lower halves of their faces. Cnote laid sprawled out in the street with a broken back
moaning in agony, his arms and legs twisted at funny
angles.

“Ahhhhhh, my back,” C-note cried in agony, his
accent more evident now. “My mothafucking back, Cuz!”

“That’s the least of your fucking problems.” Gouch
rounded the trunk of the Buick pumping rounds into Cnote’s frame as he passed him, blood speckling his Dickies.
The spent shell casings hit the ground dancing and making
their own music. The killer then went off to join his
comrades in the massacre they’d come to create.

Big Head ran up on Burger who’d just zipped up his
jeans when he entered the yard. When the young nigga
turned around and met the menacing eyes
of
his
executioner, his eyes grew wide and he threw his trembling
hands up into the air.

“Fuck your surrender, pussy!” Big Head blew a
quarter sized hole through his chest and when he slowly
turned around he blew a second one through his forehead,
splattering his brains against the house. The mess there
looked like spaghetti sauce as it dripped to the surface. He
looked to his right and saw Panic chasing a shorter crip
towards the backyard. Over his shoulder he caught Killa
Dre and Woo chasing after a coal black crip, firing their
weapons as they went along.

***

The tallest of the little homies hit the black iron-gate
and had just about pulled himself over to the other side
when his back exploded, sending atoms of shredded flesh
and blood every where. He screamed in pain and fell down
on his back, grimacing and reaching for his wounded
backside. Through teary eyes he saw a giant standing over
him with the world’s biggest shotgun pointed in his face.
Right then and there, he forgot about his injury. He raised a
bony hand in an attempt to plead for his life and his skull
desentagrated,
sending
everything
inside
his
head
everywhere.

***

Killa Dre ran over the rooftops of cars lined up on the
block in pursuit of Crow, while Woo chased after him on
the ground. They breathed heavily and their faces wore
coats of sweat as they relentlessly ran after their target.
Crow dashed towards a main street. Seeing the well lit
intersection with its passing automobiles and pedestrians
gave him hope that he might live to see another day. He
smiled broadly, but the expression on his face quickly
converted to one of execruciation as his calf and kneecap
exploded, spilling blood on the ground. He hit the asphalt
like a stringless puppet, seeing Woo on one knee with his
gun trained on him.

Crow lay in the middle of the intersection causing cars
to nearly crash as they came to screeching halts trying not
to hit him. As he bawled in pain Woo and Killa Dre ran up
on him.

“Finish him, Blood,” Woo told Killa Dre.

Gripping his Tec-9 firmly with both hands, Killa Dre
held its trigger back, guiding the spitting machine up his
target’s groin and into his face. He released the trigger and
his weapon wafted with smoke. He admired the bloody
masterpiece he created, watching red streams flow from
Crow’s body.

Woo looked around and saw pedestrians and people
inside of their vehicles watching them. “Come on, nigga!”
he nudged Killa Dre and they ran off.

Chapter Sixteen
“So, who did y’all wet?” Pavielle asked as he sat
down on the La-Z-Boy, holding his .9mm.

 

“C-note, Crow, and three other nobodies from their
set,” Woo told him. “We were tearing shit up out there.”

“Blood, we caught them fools out there cold
slipping.” Killa Dre informed Pavielle excitedly. “It was
just like you said, ‘lay low for a minute, let’em think shit
bool, and then pounce on their asses.”

“I hope you wore something over your face. All it
takes is one body for them boys to lock you up and throw
away the key, ya Griff me?” Pavielle asked seriously.

“Yeah, all the homies wore something.” Killa Dre
nodded his head.

Pavielle looked over all of his homeboys’ attire, they
were all Cripped down. They were in Navy blue from head
to toe: Chuck Taylor All Star Converses, Dickie suits, Pro
Clubs, hoodies, fitted caps, beanies and bandanas. They
donned these garbs to confuse the crips into thinking they
were crips. Bloods who went on missions used this strategy
sometimes.

“I had on this beanie, this flue rag and these shades,”
Killa Dre continued, holding up each item that he had called
out. There was no way a civilian could identify him under
his disguise. “Niggaz didn’t bee Killa Dre from Outlaws
smoke old boy in the middle of the street, they saw some
crab nigga from some other crab set puff homeboy’s wig
out.”

Pavielle smiled and gave the young nigga a pound.
“Y’all know it’s about to be a full blown war out here now
that y’all smoked one their shotcallers, y’all ready for this
shit?” he asked, looking around at all of his comrades. All
of the homeboys nodded their heads. “Good. ‘Cause the
shits about to hitthe fan,” he rubbed his hands together and
bit down on his bottom lip, anticipating the drama.