Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

The taste of metal in his mouth didn’t tally. Like when you drink juice after brushing your teeth. Total confusion. But now—actually—it did tally. Mixed with fear. Panic. Mortal terror.

A grove. Mahmud on his knees in the grass with his hands over his head, like some fucking Vietcong in a war flick. The ground was wet; damp seeped through his jeans. Might be nine o’clock. The sky was still bright.

Around him stood five blattes. Each one = model lethal. True soldiers. Guys who’d sworn to always have each other’s backs. Who chowed on small-timers like Mahmud for breakfast. Every day.

Khara.

A chill in the air, even though it was nearly summer. Still, he could smell the sweat on his skin. How the fuck had all this gone down? He was supposed to be living Life. Had finally caged out—free as a bird. Ready to grab Sweden by the balls and twist good. Then this. Could be game over now. For real. Every fucking thing.

The gun was grinding against his teeth. Echoing in his head. Light was flashing before his eyes. Scenes from his life. Memories of whiny social-service hags, pretend-to-give-a-shit counselors, half-baked racist teachers. Per-Olov, his teacher in middle school: “Mahmud, we don’t do things like that in Sweden. Do you understand?” And Mahmud’s response—in a different situation, the memory would’ve made him smile—“Fuck yourself, this is how we do in Alby.” More movie clips: cops in the concrete who never understood what Sven Sweden’s shitty urban rearing did to guys like him. Dad’s tears at Mom’s funeral. All the buzz with the guys at the gym. The first time he got to put it in. Hitting bull’s-eyes with water balloons from the balcony on dog walkers down below. Shoplifting in the city. The chow hall in the pen. Him: a true Millionaire, a housing project kid from the Social Democratic Million Program high-rises, on his way up, like a deluxe gangster. Now: free fall. Wipeout.

He tried to whisper the Shahadah despite the gat in his mouth. “Ash-Hadu anla-ilaha illa-Allah . ”

The dude holding the piece in his grill looked down at him.

“You say something?”

Mahmud didn’t dare move his head. Glanced up. He couldn’t say shit with the gun filling his mouth. Was this dude slow or something? Their eyes met. The guy still didn’t seem to get it. Mahmud knew him. Daniel: on his way up, becoming a name, but still not one of the big blattes . Thick eighteen-karat gold cross around his neck—true Syriac style. Right now he might be the one bossing. But if his brain’d been made of blow, the sales price would hardly cover a candy bar.

Finally: Daniel understood the situation. Pulled the gun out. Repeated. “Did you want something, or what?”

“No. Just let me go. I’ll pay what I owe. Promise. Come on.”

“Shut it. You think you can play me? You gotta wait till Gürhan wanna talk.”

The piece, back in his mouth. Mahmud remained silent. Didn’t even dare think of the Shahadah. Even though he wasn’t religious, he knew he should.

Pounding thought: Was this it?

It felt like the woods around him were spinning.

He tried not to hyperventilate.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fifteen minutes later. Daniel was getting bored. Fidgeted, looked unfocused. The gat was squeaking worse than a rusty old subway car against Mahmud’s molars. Felt like he had a baseball bat in his mouth.

“You think you can do whatever you want, huh?”

Mahmud couldn’t respond.

“You really think you could boost from us, huh?”

Mahmud tried to say no. The sound came from far back in his throat. Unclear if Daniel understood.

The dude said, “Bottom line: nobody boosts from us.”

The guys farther off seemed to sense that things were buzzing. Came closer. Four of them. Gürhan: fabled, fatal, fat cat. Inked all the way up his neck: ACAB and a marijuana leaf. Along one forearm: the Assyrian eagle with wings spread. Along the other forearm, in black Gothic lettering: Born to Be Hated. Vice president in the gang with the same name. Southern Stockholm’s fastest growing gang. One of the most dangerous people Mahmud knew of. Mythic, explosive, insane. In Mahmud’s world: the more insane, the more power.

Mahmud’d never seen the other three dudes before, but they all had the same tattoo as Gürhan: Born to Be Hated .

Gürhan gesticulated to Daniel: Pull out the gat. The VP took it himself, aimed at Mahmud. Half a yard away. “Listen. It’s pretty simple. Get the cash and stop dicking around. If you hadn’t made a fuckin’ mess to begin with we wouldn’t have to play this game. Capice ?”

Mahmud’s mouth was dry. He tried to respond. Stared at Gürhan. “I’m gonna pay. Sorry I tripped up. It’s on me.” Heard the tremble in his own voice.

Gürhan’s response: a hard slap with the back of the hand. Exploded in Mahmud’s head like a shot going off. But it wasn’t a shot—a thousand times better than a shot. Still: if Gürhan flipped out, he was really screwed.

The dude’s neck muscles were stretching out the layered texture of the marijuana leaf on his skin. Their eyes met. Locked. Gürhan: huge, bigger than Mahmud. And Mahmud was far from a twig. Gürhan: infamous psycho-bandit, blood-loving violence addict, gangster Olympian. Gürhan: eyebrows more scarred than Mike Tyson’s. Mahmud thought: If it’s possible to see someone’s soul by looking in their eyes, then Gürhan doesn’t have one.

It was a mistake to say anything. He should’ve lowered his eyes. Groveled for the VP.

Gürhan yelled, “You cunt. First you fuck up and get collared. Then the five-oh confiscate the goods. We checked the court sentence. You didn’t think we were gonna do that, huh? We know there were over ten thousand ampoules missing from what they got. That means you boosted from us. And now, six months later, you start trippin’ when we want back the dough you owe. What, you gonna play hardball now ’cause you done time? It was three thousand fucking packs of Winstrol you lifted. No one steals from us. You a slow learner, habibi ?”

Mahmud, panicked. Didn’t know what to say.

In a low voice, “I’m sorry. Please. Sorry. I’m gonna pay.”

Gürhan impersonated him in a shrill voice: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—stop speaking gaylish, you fucking fairy. You think that’s gonna help? Why’d you start messing?”

Gürhan grabbed hold of the revolver with both hands. Cocked the top break. The bullets fell out, one by one, into his left palm. Mahmud felt his body relax. They could smack him around. Beat him bloody. But without a gat—they probably didn’t plan on ending him.

One of the other guys turned to Gürhan. Said something curt in Turkish. Mahmud didn’t get it: Was the guy giving orders or showing appreciation?

Gürhan nodded. Pointed the gun at Mahmud again. “Okay, this is the deal. There’s one bullet left in this cylinder. I’m gonna be nice to you. Normally, I’d just pop you. Right? We can’t be tolerating a buncha clowns like you who bitch as soon as things sour. You owe us. A lot. But I’m in a good mood tonight. I’ll spin, and if you’re lucky, it’s meant to be. You walk.”