I had some tough decisions to make. It was about love just as much as it was about life—my life. And unbeknownst to Malachi: His life too.
He seemed to love to be in practice for getting his adrenaline up-for the day he dreamed about: Rolling up on me and Malachi and flat blasting the both of us.
The moment he would see my pretty red car shining and rolling down the street, out of nowhere, he would bust that U-turn and trail me to wherever I stopped: My mom’s house, friend’s house, gas station-you name it. Ciara, my mom, and two of my other friends where unfortunate casualties of the war in his mind he had going on. But little did they know, they were lucky enough to not be Malachi riding shotgun with me.
Still, the site of his abruptly pulling up on us and reaching beneath his shirt-impulsively and threateningly yelling: “WHAT’S UP ANGIE!?”… was enough to let ‘em all know that he was up to something not so good. It was clear and present enough that an argument would ensue-about keeping his “crazy ass” away from me and not wanting to ride in the car with me anymore because of his behavior.
Little did either of them know; it was just dress rehearsal. And as long as it wasn’t Malachi riding shotgun-they didn’t have to worry about: [yes]…his shotgun—beneath his shirt, tucked in his pants. For his personal collection, he had an expensive, tricked out old school and a sports car that he’d like to late night drag race alone up the highway-to test the speed and horsepower. Other than that, he hardly drove either. His style of hustling involved paying [people he knew of or served coke and weed to] to borrow their cars to do his dirt, hustle or transport. So anytime he would bust a U-turn, it would never be in the same car, ever. That was so unnerving to me.
You see, days fresh from returning from Atlanta with Malachi, ever since that day he showed up at my door and puffed his chest out-strapped with that big ass high powered gun with the holes in it-emotional about hearing that I was dating Malachi; he loved to pull up on me anywhere-in that same menacing fashion…reminding me that the “let” me live—for now.
The only thing that saved me that night was Lucky being home when he asked if Lucky was there with me or with my mom. When he asked “Where’s Mashed Potato Man?” and I pointed back into the house and told him “sleeping”-his puffed and ready chest was deflated and his conscious got the best of him. You see, we used to laugh about how Lucky went through this weird stint of wanting no meat and vegetables-only wanted oatmeals, Cream of Wheat, Cream of Rice, Rice, Grits and mostly: Mashed Potatoes. The doctors had him on an iron clad vitamin regimen because of his decided stubbornness and rejecting any food but those as is faves: Breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Once upon a time before this night, my BFF Carrie from the artsy school, had a sister about two years younger than us, that was stayed with me for a minute. She and her son needed a hide away and safe place from a troubles with her hubby as, Carrie (along with Dana) was still away up at the poppin’ college being career students pretty much.
Between my and her work schedule, fun and life; we had a bomb ass babysitting swapping system going while she quickly picked up her self esteem and independence when she got a lil’ job in walking distance from my house. She was stacking her coins. With Vince earning his stacks of cash keep in the back of my room closet, I didn’t need her money for help around the house but I only had one rule: For safety reasons, the hubby was to never know where she was staying.
After a few months, that all came to an emotional head when I pulled into my driveway and saw her outside with the baby–and that hubby.
She knew how I was and that was going to be the end of her stay.
We got upstairs, thugged it out by hugging it out and cried about how much we’d miss our little makeshift family, but she assured me that hubby was prepared to change. I hurt to so badly to see them leave. With our boys in the back seat, I was going miss my shotgun riding BFF’s sister singing her whole entire chest plate out to Toni Braxton’s Seven Whole Days. That song was the ONE song to her soul and art lyrically mimicking life for her.
I was going to miss her singing that-pressing repeat. I wouldn’t disturb her groove. It was her therapy. And I knew it.
Although she was about two years younger than me and her sister (Carrie: my BFF gone off to college) still, she married way too young to this older dude-sucking away her youth, vitality and breaking her spirit. Hell, truth be told, Carrie’s boyfriend too, was ions older than us all too but at least-while he stayed back home building his home renovation business and building their home from gut to glory-he let Carrie soar her wild oats away at college in preparation for her to come home, marry her and make him some babies. And fast forward, that’s just what happened.
But in the meantime and in between time, here we were-babysis was staying with me and just beginning to get her groove back and here-her mentally and emotionally abusive ass suffocating hubby comes…swooping her right back up. Ole motherfucker.
We were having so much fun. Vince included.
Vince, her son and my son shared lots of laughter and memories just beyond that door that same door he showed up to blast me in front of-where I warned my BFF’s sister not to bring any drama to yet, here it was: my turn.
That night however, the lucky one was me. He didn’t have the heart to do what he came to do when I greeted him outside my door while Lucky was just on the other side of it sleeping.
When he broke down and began to cry and I consoled him-despite my being in total and complete shock and awe at the large, powerful ass gun he chose to blow my ass away with. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even give me the ‘courtesy’ of coming for me with a little gun. He brought the gun that totally matched the intensity of his emotions. I could tell he cried and selected that powerful gun with the kind of anger and agitation that I thank GOD I didn’t greet him at the door with. Because typically-knocking at my door at 12 a.m. without calling first would have prompted me to say: “fuck wrong with you-coming over here at this hour?!” or: “what the fuck you done-did man? Don’t bring no bullshit over here?”
Considering the fact that he didn’t call first, I knew it wasn’t about his cash stash.
I obsess over that moment-how God must’ve ordered my steps and my mouth closed. Because (rather than to throw the key down as if it was daytime) since if was so later, it would be like me to yell down: “fuck wrong with you-coming over here at this hour?!” or: “what the fuck you done-did man? Don’t bring no bullshit over here?” But instead, when he rang the doorbell, I opened the window and simply tossed the key out to him to open the bottom door-like I always did. Had I yelled down at him like that, he would have kicked or blow that door in and came right on up to do what he came to do.
God ordered my steps and my mouth SHUT.
Who the fuck knew I was throwing the key out to let this fool in to walk up the hallway steps, split that corner, only to blast my ass while standing at my front door to my apartment? With that gun cuffed in his hand and under his arm-in hindsight, I knew that was just him giving me one quick chance to force him to blast off-had my mouth given him any ammunition. His energy at that door was something I had never felt coming my way.
I wasn’t as scared because right up the steps from my front door, I could hear my neighbor Tanka and her man talking and lil’ music playing. After Vince asked me about Lucky and took his readiness to kill down a notch and began to cry, consoling him worked but still, he wouldn’t look at me. When after asking about Lucky, his chest dropped and he began to cry while sitting at the bottom of Tanka’s steps. He then said: “How could you shuffle that motherfucker in front of me like that Angie? You know I like you. Always have. And you know it. And I know what you did. I know you were in Atlanta with that motherfucker. I know how long you were there and what time you got back. Why him Angie?“
I’m convinced that when God ordered my mouth open to answer Vince, I was guided to use the right choice of words to respond. Rather than friend-zone reminding him and saying “how are you coming at me like this and you know you and me are friends… homies and shit?” I opted for saying: “Man, why do y’all spazz out over Malachi like this? He’s just one dude-he aint God.”
Vince didn’t respond, he still held his gun pointed downward to the bottom step and kept his head on my leg.
I proceeded to tell him that my meeting Malachi was an “olive branch” trip of sorts.
While the long version was: “You see, after we first met and hit it off good, we fucked and 
(especially after we discovered we actually grew up together and knew the same people as kids in the downtown hood we grew up in) were tight like Dick’s Hat Band and Frog’s ass-fast. Oddly though, he then up and disappeared for like four whole months. Ghosted me like white tv static from a full, beautiful, colored picture. Just…up and disappeared. I was sad as hell. And then he called me out of the blue and told me he missed me-he couldn’t take it anymore and needed to talk about what was on his mind.
Turns out, my homie Junebug-just like you-whom I’ve been friends with since we were 16 and worked at the chicken joint, told Malachi he fucked me. A TOTAL lie. I was floored because Junebug and me were so tight and was often the ride to and from the skating rink and hangouts back in the day. I couldn’t believe he did that to me. We never were romantic or liked each other in that way at ALL. It was highly bizarre. At any rate, Malachi got mad and didn’t call me no more. After four months, he called to apologize and poured his heart out. Next day or so after I got off from work, out of the blue, his homie Mauran shows up at my door-because Malachi couldn’t get in touch with me. He told me Malachi was on his way back from New York and wanted me to meet him in Atlanta.”
With a heavy gun between his legs and still not looking up at me as I spoke, the version I gave Vince was: “Man he was on some ‘she must be a hoe’ type-shit ’cause my own damn homie told him a lie that he fucked me. I guess Malachi was checking around with the street dudes to see if anyone knew me-if I was in the streets like that. But after he stopped calling and got his number changed on me, I kept on with my life. He then called and asked if I would meet him in Atlanta. I even brought my homegirl with me and his friend Mauran was with us as well. I wasn’t that deep.”
I didn’t think it was a good idea to acknowledge his gun or give him any emotion to induce a nervous or emotionally reactive response. I chuckled and nudged him with my finger and said: “Mannnn. You and Junebug do NOT want y’all girl dating Malachi. It aint that deep. We’re just cool. He was just trying to do the gentlemen thing-at his level I guess…and headlining a full-on “Apology Tour” of sorts.
After getting to the bottom of things and being able to laugh about it, while I was able to get an apology packaged with a reason for my old friend Junebug boldface lying on me like that [being simply because it “rattled” him when Malachi brought my name up]; that Scorpio in Vince however was fully activated. He did NOT chuckle back with me, give me a ‘reason’ for his behavior—or an apology. He merely responded: “Mmm”—like the single letter ‘m’ with a closed mouth.
He then said, “Soooo…”
I then quickly interrupted (playfully) and said: “So quit trippin'”—before he could he fix his lips to have the NERVE to ask if I was still going to keep seeing Malachi and risk my ‘yes,’ or non response force the night to go to the Quick Graw McDrawing board—as he intended.
Hell. I didn’t know what else to say, though. It was all so weird that I was explaining myself to my homeboy simply because he was emotional with a fucking high powered, loaded gun in his hand.
As cool as we had been for so many years and especially considering how much I knew about him, I was befuddled about how he could totally flip out like this over something that had nothing to do with making money: The only thing that concerned him. Furthermore, he and Malachi weren’t even on the same level in these hustling streets. Malachi was in no way, shape, fashion or form in Vince’s way-or Vince, his. I wanted so bad to run that logic by Vince, but in the end, I could see the scene. There would be no careful way with words that would change the outcome of the conversation:
{Me}: I know you are waiting to try something for the moment you catch me rolling around with Malachi. I don’t even know why you would have Malachi in your eye in this way, he’s not stopping your coin or you-his. Y’all are on two different levels in this game.
{Vince}: (laughs) Yep, you’re right. So if the motherfucker aint on my level, maybe this’ll teach him to roll around with bitches that are on his level. If I aint shit or “on his level” I know you-so then that makes both of y’all not shit too.
There was no ‘creative’, or non offensive way to have a much needed conversation with Vince than what he could already taste doing and already rehearsed so much in his head. The convenience of the red dot placed on Malachi head-being so larger than life yet, easily accessible and defenseless-was too good to be true. I could tell.
I couldn’t believe it. I mean knew he was my menacing lil’ guy friend that would get it poppin’ at the drop of a dime. But I never in a million years entertained the thought he would be this level of trouble for me.
I ended up being able to live, breathe and sleep that night but he still never looked me in the eye after he got up, cuffed his gun under his arm in jacket and split the corner and proceeded to hop down the steps to leave . It was weird. I could tell that while it worked for the moment, none of that was quite what he wanted to hear. He was looking for a different conclusion…
I was evolving and learning with every situation, every person.
When the daylight came, and the day began; that’s when I learned that the night time is the keeper of many thoughts and doings that the daytime gives us the answer to-lets us know that if, at night, the “yes’ answer was real, when the sun comes up, if that same answer is “yes”-then that’s what’s up…it’s a go.
And if, at night, that answer was “no,” and come morning, if you still feel “no,” then it’s a no-go. Period.
Things we do and say yes to in the night cannot fully be counted on or shouldn’t be solidified until the morning.
If it was a go, or “yes” at night, but when the morning sun arrived and it feels like “no”-then, it’s “no.”
“Sleep on it” is real. Cells are replaced, we shed skin. Things happen to our bodies and minds while we (sleep) fast.
I learned to deal with what the clarity of the light after dark tells me.
The sun is a life force of heat and energy.
Like “a thief in the night,” thieving happens in the night. It takes over our thoughts, and doings, even though we do them willing. And when the morning comes, you’re either going to be honor among thieves—or not. The light of the sun-it’s energy and life force-will clear your thoughts, allowing you to be okay with whatever happened in the night as “okay to proceed.”
Either way, it’s always about the morning.
This situation with Vince taught me to not make final decisions at night—or trust no one else’s until the morning cleanses slumber and reproduces sober thoughts at sunrise….
And well…morning didn’t ‘cleanse’ his. It was honor among the thief in of the night…
I Iooked for Vince to wake and call me to say “man I was drunk and shit,” or call to say something to laugh it all off. That didn’t happen. He was clear on what he intended to do that night and was still okay about it when the sun came up. It was painfully obvious.
So when after that night, he started busting U-turns and pulling up on me aggressive like he was doing, I knew he had plans to fatally react-but just didn’t want to warn me “If I ever see that motherfucker with you, I’ma fuck [‘him’ or ‘y’all’] up.” Vince had never started doing weird shit like that until after that night he showed up with the gun.
In hindsight, I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, alone, per se. But me with Malachi-at any time, anyplace, was just as good enough reason. When I processed things, I summed up the questions that I dared not ask him because like I thought it best not to acknowledge the gun, it was also best not to ask him “did you come to my house with that gun-thinking that Malachi may have been there with me…and you were going to kill us?” Was that fact that I stepped outside the door and told you that yes, “Mashed Potato Man” was home and sleeping and I sat out there long enough for you to know that no, Malachi was not at my house, did that save me?
I didn’t have to ask-to get him to talk to me about what was on his mind because he showed me better than he could tell me, that that’s precisely what it was and time was ticking.
Time was ticking, and it would only be a matter of time before that ticking time bomb would lick off the kind of shots that would surely send myself and Malachi to smithereens and human flesh confetti.
Time was ticking. I knew that soon, Malachi would be back in town and I would be somewhere in the city picking him up for our daily and day to day excursions for whatever we had plans to do. Riding around in the city with Malachi was like playing Russian Roulette and I knew it. But I had to make a choice: To run this by Malachi or dodge Malachi forever and that certainly was NOT going to happen.
I already knew how the conversation and dime nickel-dropping would go, though:
- I would, first, have to remind Malachi to run it by his homies that they need to be a bit more tight lipped about their hanging out with him. While I know that casual conversation about hanging out with a guy like Malachi would be a humble brag, even the smallest, seemingly harmless details could hit the wrong ears and cause problems-like the problem on my hand right now. All things considered and steps ordered among the disorder, Vince could have kept quiet and busted a U-turn and reacted emotional with no warning. Either way, he still had me in a messed up spot and forced my hand, regardless
- I would have tell Malachi how Vincent stopped over to take me out but broke out and cried because he didn’t have the heart to do it while my son was home and sleeping
- I would have to tell Malachi that while that is my problem and not his, THE problem is that ever since then, Vincent will see me out and about and bust U turns-prepared to blast. The only thing he is waiting on is to see him in the passenger side of my car. I was sure of that. Like it was some Andrew Cunanan-Versace shit: Having the thrill of having access to some larger than life figure and render him powerless while defenseless
- I could assure Malachi that no, I don’t think Vince would do anything to him out on any other given day, just only if he saw us together—that’s the ambush he was prepared for and fantasized about but still, I knew that would still serve as no comfort to a street king that knows a street guy had it for him on some sucka attack shit any more than the fact that I knew that it would be a thrill kill for Vince to take out a popular street superstar even for no other reason but that he caught him slipping and could-proving that a guy at Malachi’s level could indeed be touched
- I would know that regardless, that wouldn’t sit well with Malachi and he would want to do something about it, even if it wasn’t because of what Vince did to me. He would want to do something about it because he is on the radar of a loose canon like Vince
- I would know that the first question Malachi would want an answer to is “where does hustle at?” or “Just give me his name and his street name and I’ll know where he hustles at”
- I would have to warn Malachi about how as youngsters, myself, he and his brother-who had a flat in their mom’s big house basement-would take to the acres of back yard where Vince was so handy with pieces of steel, when birds thought they were flying south in the winter, he would light their asses up. He was like Menace To Society‘s O-Dog: Loving to watch his work and had complete choreography in the way he handled a piece of steel
- I would have to warn Malachi that Vince was always strapped and ready for war. He was built for war. He was ready for war. He fantasized about going to war. He LOVED war. He was like a living lyric clear out of a T.I rap song: “wild as the Taliban, 9 in my right, 45 in my other hand.” That, indeed was Vince.
All that consumed his mind was hustling and getting money, smoking cigars, spliffs, reciting Dolamite and Tony Montana quotes-thinking he was Scarface his little same, self. After he would cop himself some fresh digs and slated to be hustling on my side of town, if he didn’t feel like driving home; he would ask if I would draw him a hot bubble bath so he could get dressed and head out from my way. Reciting Dolamite and Tony Montana quotes were like his rubber duckies
- I would have to warn Malachi that even in the middle of a convenience store, if somebody yelled too loud and activated his paranoia, everybody inside would be laid the fuck out. He’s not going to run or duck down the isles trying to figure out where to hide from danger—he is going towards it. He enjoys war and shooting. Such a scene would be like playing Cops and Robbers for him.
I knew enough about the life that Malachi didn’t want me to know about him and insisted was his past that while he could throw hands, by comparison to Vince, he was a mere pretty boy to Vince being a low-key rogue, fuck “savage.”
I knew of rumors work Malachi’s put in that everybody knows about yet, no one talks about yet and still, he was no match for Vince. I knew that Malachi was well respected in the city and despite the fact that many were jealous of him, wanted to be him or be around him; so the fact still remained that in the city, he was pretty much pampered and idolized and damned sure didn’t walk around like Quick Draw McGraw—as did Vince, just beneath his clothes. Malachi was no match for Vince busting a U-turn and beginning to bust. NONE.
I had to decide if I wanted to keep playing Russian Roulette in the shiny red car or if I wanted to put Malachi on notice-knowing that even if he wanted to, his answer wasn’t going to be some sap shit like “I’ma have to leave you alone” or, “we gon’ have to rent cars” or some sucka shit like that. I knew enough about male pride that if I warned him about Vince, he was going to want to do something about it-if, for no other reason but that he knew he was in somebody’s eye in this way.
At this point in the game, this was about survival to me and knowing that I certainly wasn’t going to go the police about Vincent-especially knowing that what I had against what he actually did would only permit me a restraining order; I knew Vince well enough that compounded with his emotions and the way he surprised me the first time; going to the police would just agitate him and he would have no problem doing the deed now that he would be upset that his clean hustle record is tainted and on record downtown. A restraining order wouldn’t even be worth my troubles. And besides, he knows how this game goes: You get it how you live it. And police didn’t have shit to do with him showing up at my door with the big gun and tears for my fears.
At this point in the game, yeah….”somebody’s got to die….If I go..you got to go. (Somebody’s got to die). Let the gun shots blow. (Somebody’s got to die). Nobody’s got to know that I killed your as in the midst, kid..“
In his eyes: Me, if he ever busts that U and sees me with Malachi.
In my eyes: Once I run it all by Malachi—and offer incentive, so as to layer the plus in getting the job done. I knew where all the guns, the ganja, the bricks, and the triple beams were, so he wouldn’t even have to pay for the job. (And well, I had access to the cash but that would be my well-kept secret).
But most importantly, whoever Malachi would send for the job would have to be as good as Sosa’s main goon on Scarface-nothing more all the more, nothing less.
Because that was just the kind of war they had coming-trying to roll up on a guy like Vince. He couldn’t send no wannabes, goofy, slow or scared mu’fuckas. And no lames. Real killers only.
In addition to even being forced to entertain the thought about my own homie forcing my hand in such a way, I also knew that after the deed was done, Malachi’s image of me would be totally blown and by God, I couldn’t bare the thought of that.
While, unfortunately, what was merely survival (for me) with incentive (for him or his goons) may have been just that; in a hustler’s eyes, I knew Malachi wouldn’t see me the same-and certainly never trust me—ever again. Even without access to or my knowledge of his street dealings or never any confirmation or conversation about any of his “other life”….and end even despite what was in it for him: his own life being looked after and spared by my warning him about what could happen if Vince ever rolled up on us; still, there would be a whole other side to this situation that I knew he would not be able to shake off and just forget. There would have been no Bonnie and Clyde-like bonding being made of this situation. And I knew this. Going forward, I could only be looked at as a ‘rat’ who was his little rat.
By his choosing (and delight), I wasn’t in his life for those kinds of purposes, and to fulfill some drug dealer’s wifey fantasy. Uh Un. No.
I low-key knew that I was his escape from the world that was his, actually. Later into our relationship, during one of our emotional conversations, I would learn, know and be told that as a sure fact…
As it stood right now though, I simply knew he enjoyed being himself away from his true lies of the life he insisted was his teen and young adult past. He enjoyed cuddling with me, gossiping with me. Staring at me, watching my eyes and lips when I talked–interrupting me to tell me how beautiful i was, as if it caught him by surprise, every time.
He was enthralled and smitten by my fun, my funny, my ‘way’ and my intelligence. He could loose track of time cuddling or sitting with me at dinner while day-dreamy like staring at every trace of my face with his eyes and impulsively interrupting to say-with surprise in his voice-every time: “Angie….my God you are so beautiful…and intelligent with it…I could sit, lay and listen to you all day.” That was like his impulsive, internal script and dialogue to remind me to keep on simply being just “me” for him-(rather than the run of the mill that he was used to running after him and his lifestyle).
When he would so impulsively interrupt me to say those things, it reminded me of the moment Prince abruptly slapped Appollonia after she told him she was about to join a girl group, then he (impulsively) drew back and slapped her. He then proceeded to say “I don’t want you in my life this way.”Meaning: ‘I want to love you separate from my lifestyle–and any reminders of it.
He enjoyed the homebody in me, my simplicity, my normalcy and the fact everything he did for me [despite my walking in on him counting millions and stuffing them in courier boxes with newspaper] he did it for a girl with no expectations or demands of him based upon what I knew about him or how he got his money.
Beyond what his goons and street groupies idea of him was, he loved the idea that I had of him-the truth about who ‘he’ was: His love of being able to put forth his catholic school early education, a few low key conservative views and yuppie judgmental ways that secretly was who he was opposite his street living life and how he got his money.
With me, he lived a “double life”: With what he was doing in the streets vs. being able to share with me, his “double-thought, mind, and views as well [which later into our years during his tax evasion Fed stay and into our break-up-to-make-up umpteenth chapter of “Baby, Please Let’s Try this Again”]-he had a lil’ time to think, regroup and plans—that included me in offers most any girl wouldn’t refuse—and that he, even financially looking after me from his Fed stint, could certainly afford…
Maybe due to his being well-connected and being well-traveled far beyond, and to levels his street goons would never see; he was much classier than what he would probably want his goons and those that envied, and wanted him even knew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fast forward.
My luck worked out before time ran out with this ticking time bomb on my hands, thank GOD!
By divine intervention and like a succession of scenes out of a Set It Off movie, everybody got what they wanted, their just desert—or what was ultimately destined:
- Vince got his war
- Malachi kept his life and was none the wiser about what could have happened-and my making off with being his girlfriend as-was
- And as for me? I made off with a clear conscious, and my karma in tact while ending up with some stacks
You see, the last time I had seen Vince was earlier that same week when he came by to grab some of his money stash to go take care of some business. It was easier to keep an eye on his emotions, moves and energy by keeping everything as-was before what he did that night at my front door. With his stacks placed in the back of my closet and his coming by to load his knapsacks to do whatever it was he needed to do, I could feel him out. I could test his pulse. He could be predictable. If, after his episode in the hallway, if I treated him any different and forced him to remove his stuff, that would have changed the program. I knew he would creep by more and with him already becoming more and more unpredictable; with no legit reason to ring the doorbell and me to throw the keys down, I knew he would become erratic.
I knew he hustled alone and trusted no one but me-mainly because I was around from his beginning to his level up. Aside from his stash at my house, he kept everything else in the garage of his house. The only thing that changed with me was that I stopped picking off of his stacks and leaving notes to inform him of how much I took out of it-so that he could keep his count when he’d be back there counting, removing or stacking. Since that hallway incident, I needed to be no more indebted to him than I was already-emotionally. I hadn’t even slid that side of the closet door to see how much he had back there during his picking up and stacking back up. I treated the area like it was boobie-trapped.
Fast forward. Fate happened.
It was televised on local tv-a true to life fucking standoff. And there Vincent was, up the road from me having it out with Swat. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I must have been sitting there like Dr. Dre feeling the way he did about Cleo out there with Swat while too, (like slow motion) running to the back of my house where his stash was at-checking up on things back there.
Sure, like pouring out a lil’ liquor for the dead homie; part of me was sad like Cleo’s girlfriend, too:
According to the news, some shit had gone down and Vince was in that building licking off shots at the doors of random tenants while folks where running for cover. I already know Vince probably had some ammo on him that could blow the roof off that apartment complex.
Eventually, Swat got at Vince like Sosa’s goons and Vince was laid the fuck out on the asphalt-just like the Tony Montana he idolized-in the water.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I staggered down from full-time, to twenty hours part-time, to sixteen hours to eventually quitting my job at the Fortunate 500 company, altogether.
I kept my mouth shut about everything and never even had to tell Malachi a thing. And with a
bit of cash on hand and what felt like a second leash on life-like a dark cloud and my numbered days had replenished.
I also learned a few things along the way: There’s really a lop side and fine line of being “friends” with the “homie.”
I also learned something else as I was evolving in ways and to the capacity that I didn’t have in me when I was young, ignorant and innocent, and naive and neutral: I began being a bit more shrewd and discriminating, unapologetically. I made a conscious decision that, on any level whatsoever, male or female friend or whatever; I’d never fuck with anybody that has nothing to live for, nothing to lose or nothing to look forward to. I learned that there aint no length of time, love for, “good” or “loyal to” somebody with nothing to lose. They will take you right down with them-however, and by whatever means downward is to them—or within their reach…
I also learned that you have to be careful about what you want, wish and will in your life. If you want war, you will get war. If you want peace, you will get peace…
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Malachi and I
From the next/upcoming chapter excerpt drop:
Spitfire .
Media Maestro .
Writing Rhinoceros .
