Bury Me a G 3 Page 2

  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 shit 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 ‘Fuck 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 shit. 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 shit,” 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.

  “Fucking spiders and shit, 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, shit!” 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 shit in his native language and the vicious animals dispersed. They went from angry beasts to a couple of fucking 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 fucking 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 cock 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. Sch
hrrip!

  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 marijuana 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 Massacre, 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.”

  Chapter Two

  Honk! Hoonkk! Hooonkkk!

  “Get the fuck outta the way!” she screamed harshly, veins bulging at her temples and neck. She was doing eight-five in a thirty-five mile an hour zone, flying in and out of lanes, narrowly missing other cars. Her heart rate was jacked, her adrenaline was amped, and she was scared as shit. Why? The love of her life was bleeding out, and bad. Her head snapped back and forth between the windshield and him, holding his bloody hand. “Hold on, baby, you hold on! You stay with me now!”

  Faison was laid back in the seat, eyes blinking like mad and looking all about. His mouth was bloody and moving awkwardly. He was breathing eerily and trying not to choke on his own blood at the same time. The holes in him had saturated the lower half of his shirt red. “Ah. I’m. I’m dying, baby.”

  She whimpered and tears came down her face. “No! You’re not gonna die, don’t chu say that to me! Don’t chu fucking say that shit to me!” Her head snapped back to the windshield where a Volkswagen was driving too slowly for her taste. “Get. The. Fuck. Outta. My. Waaaaayy!” She honked the horn madly.

  Honk! Hoonnk! Hoooonnnk!

  The driver of the Volkswagen honked his horn back and threw his middle finger up out of the window.

  “Alright, bitch!” She floored it and zipped the car around, zooming real close to the Volkswagen. Crash. The side view mirror flew off and tumbled out in the street. She smirked and glanced out of the rearview mirror seeing the driver of the Volkswagen hop out and examine his whip. He kicked the car’s front tire and turned in her direction, throwing up the middle finger.

  “Hahahahaha!” She laughed aloud, staring into the mirror. “Fucking asshole!”

  “Aaaaahhh.” Her ex-fiancé’s moans of excruciation brought her head back around. His eyes were rolled to their whites and his mouth was hanging open.

  “Hold on, Faison, just hold on, we’re almost there!” She slipped her hand away from his, it was stained crimson, but she didn’t give a fuck. That was the least of her worries. Her main concern was getting her man to the hospital before he bled to death. She needed to focus if she was going to get him there before his life expired. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pressed the pedal to the metal. The vehicle accelerated, zipping down the street with her emergency flashers on and leaving debris in the air. Chevy dipped in and out of lanes, dodging other whips and nearly crashing twice.

  Urrrrrrrk!

  A Jeep Cherokee skidded to a halt when Chevy sped by flying like a bat out of hell. Zooooooom! She almost clipped it, speeding toward her destination, not giving a mad ass fuck.

  “Watch where you going, you stupid bitch!” the irate driver yelled.

  “Home stretch, baby, home stretch!” She cracked a smile seeing the Centenela Hospital sign up ahead. She glanced at Faison as his eyes were narrowed into slits. He struggled to breathe, clenching and unclenching his fists. The smile disappeared and she adopted a scowl. “We’re almost there, Fai.”

  She made a sharp left and the car nearly tilted over she was going so fast. She zipped right into the parking lot of the hospital, flying toward the emergency entrance.

  Urrrrrrk!

  The vehicle came to a jerking halt and she threw open the driver side door, jumping out. She ran over to the opposite side and snatched open the door.

  “Come on, baby, come on.” She grabbed his hand and gritted as she struggled to pull him out. “Uhhhh!” She threw his arm over her shoulders, his head bobbled about as she walked him toward the exit. Her adrenalin was pumping so she barely noticed his weight. His legs were like cooked noodles and he was moaning in agony, but he was trying his best to stay ten toes down.

  “Heeelp! Heeelp meee!” She blared like an after school bell, nearly going hoarse.

  “Ahhh!” He moaned again and his legs gave out. He slowly went down and she went with him.

  A moment later

  Boom!

  The double doors of the emergency ward went flying open. The hospital staff rushed Faison along on a gurney, tearing open his shirt and exposing the black bleeding holes in him. His eyes were hooded and his pupils moved around lazily. He was saying something, but no one could understand what he was talking about.

  “What chu say, baby?” Chevy asked, running alongside the gurney, clutching his hand affectionately. Her face was soaked and she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. It was like they were pouring down her cheeks in buckets.

  “I love...I love you...Ch...Chevy,” He croaked. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry for ever hurting you.” His voice cracked and tears slid down his face as his bottom lip trembled. She’d never seen him cry, so she couldn’t help sobbing aloud and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. This was it, his last day alive. It had to be, with him carrying on talking like this. He was definitely in his final hour.

  “I love you, too. I swear to God, Faison. I always loved you, babe. I never stopped and I never will.”

  Just as Faison was about to reply one of the doctors slipped an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Miss, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait outside.” He told her. “We’ll keep you updated.”

  “I’m gonna have to go, baby, but I’ll be waiting for you, okay?” He slightly nodded his head. She caressed his forehead and kissed him tenderly on it.

  “Miss, we’ve got him from here.” The doctor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Chevy stopped where she was and cupped her hands to her face. She sobbed aloud and tears cascaded down her cheeks. She stood watching the hospital staff rushing her first love down the hallway toward the surgery room. She kept her eyes on them until they disappeared along the way, turning into nothing more than a few dots. Weeping, she turned around and headed back out through the double doors, her shoulders shuddering as she wept.

  She never knew how much she still loved Faison until she came so close to losing him. Forever.

  ***

  “Where. Is. He?” he asked, his tone implying, ‘I’m not finna keep asking yo’ mothafucking ass.’


  “Why don’t chu go ask yaaahh!” He screamed at the top of his lungs with his head tilted back, the pinkness of his mouth could be seen, along with all of his cavities, and his beige teeth from years of smoking.

  Thump! Another one of his fingers hit the floor.

  “I can do dis all day, cock sucka! Try me!” he yelled, spit leaping from his lips.

  Juvie looked up, wincing and breathing hard, chest jumping wildly. His face coated with perspiration.

  “Wat chu godda say now, tough guy, huh?”

  “Your breath smells like goat sex! Hahahahaha.” He busted up laughing, infecting Uche, who looked over his shoulder at his brother. He was laughing, too. And just as quickly that pleasant expression was replaced. His forehead deepened with lines and his nose crinkled as his lips peeled back into a sneer, baring his teeth like a ferocious lion.

  The spear whistled through the air, hacking off fingers unevenly. Snikt! Thump! Snikt! Thump! Snikt! Thump! The severed fingers hit the surface one after another making their own melody as they danced. By the time Uche was done playing butcher, all Juvie had was his thumbs left. He took a step back, holding his spear behind his back at an angle like he was about to attack again, his eyes never wavered from his victim. Through them it was as if he was saying ‘What now, smart ass?’