Array 50 Cent - Baby Brother

“Well, we knew they had an alarm,” Seven said.

“Don’t worry,” Butter said, and he walked the phone over to Caesar with the infant still in his hand, crying. “Tell them everything is okay,” Butter said. “If you try some slick shit, I’ll blow your fucking block off, nigga.”

“Hello,” Caesar said.

A female voice said, “This is ADP. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine. I just didn’t get to the alarm pad on time.”

“Okay. What is your password?”

“My password?”

Butter clenched his teeth.

“Tell the bitch your password or else it’s going to be a fuckin’ bloodbath in this motherfucker. I promise you, man.”

“The password is rubber .”

The little boy started crying louder.

“Okay, sir. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yes; everything is fine, ma’am.”

“Do I hear a child crying?”

“That’s my son. The alarm scared him.”

“Okay, sir. You have a good night.”

Butter snatched the phone out of Caesar’s hand and terminated the call.

“Okay, man. Where the fuck is the dope, nigga?”

“Ain’t no dope here, man.”

“Okay, motherfucker. You think I’m stupid?” Seven said through clenched teeth. “You think I believe you worked for this house and that fat-assed Benz you got outside? You think that I think this fine-assed bitch is with you for you good looks?” Seven looked at the female, who was still facedown and shaking nervously.

“Where the fuck is the cash?” Butter said.

“I’m telling you I ain’t got shit.”

“Nigga, you ain’t gonna have no fuckin’ son if you don’t give us what we want.”

“Please don’t hurt my baby,” the woman said, then stood.

Seven pointed the gun at her.

“Bitch, get back on the floor.”

“Where the fuck is the dope?” Butter repeated.

“There ain’t no dope here.”

Butter walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back. “I’ma count to three. If you don’t give me some dope or some money, this little boy is going out of the window.”

“Put the child down,” Seven said as he thought about his own little boy. He never had a soft spot for kids until he had brought Tracey into the world.

He and Butter made eye contact before Butter said, “Nigga, you don’ tell me what the fuck to do. I’m telling this motherfucker if I don’t get what the fuck I want, this little boy is going out of the window.”

The woman stood and Seven aimed the gun at her again. “Get your ass back on the floor.”

“No. Please, please don’t hurt my baby. I’ll tell you where the money is.”

Seven cocked the hammer of the gun. “Well, tell me where the godamned money is, then.”

“Please, put my son down first.”

Butter put the child on the bed.

The woman went into the closet and pulled out a large green gym bag. Butter unzipped the bag and saw bundles of money. He zipped the bag back up.

“Okay; where’s the dope, bitch?”

“There really ain’t no dope in here. I swear to God,” the woman said.

“Okay.”

Butter stepped out of the closet.

“Bring him to me,” Butter said to Seven.

Seven walked Caesar over.

“Okay, nigga. Where ya fucking car keys at, and ya guns and shit?”

The woman got the keys from the nightstand and handed them to Butter.

Butter duct-taped Caesar’s hands and feet together and handcuffed the woman to the bed.

The baby was still crying. Seven walked over to him, ran his fingers through the toddler’s hair and said, “It’s going to be okay.”

They left with the money.

As Trill cruised through the little hick town of Ashland, he consciously abided by all the laws. It didn’t matter, though, because the sheriff was sure he had hit the lotto when he spotted his mark: a young black male driving a $60,000 truck. The Hummer happened to be Sheriff Bowman Body’s dream truck. A truck he could only dream of having with his salary, and he despised the fact that some punk who probably never even finished high school was riding around in it.

Trill could have been wearing a priest’s collar, but as far as Bowman Body was concerned, he was a drug dealer and a prime victim of the monthly driving citation quota. Before Trill could think twice, the sheriff’s blue lights were bouncing off of his rearview mirror.

“Fuck!” Trill shouted. He beat his hand on the steering wheel as he spat the word out. He quickly looked down and, after making sure that his secret hiding place was secure, then pulled over. He watched from his side mirror as the small, thin-featured sheriff approached the car. His walk was like Forrest Gump but his look was the Terminator, coming to devour.

“License and registration, boy!” the sheriff said with authority as he knocked on the driver’s side window.

Trill rolled down the window halfway. “No problem, Officer,” he responded, and leaned forward to the glove box to retrieve his registration.

“Freeze!” The sheriff drew his gun and stuck his hand inside the car.

Stunned, Trill slowly eased back into the driver’s seat until he felt the tip of the sheriff’s revolver at his temple.

“I was going for my registration, man,” Trill said slowly. “Don’t most people keep their registration in the glove box?”

“You trying to get fresh with me, nigger?” The sheriff cocked his gun.

Trill could feel his blood boiling. Given the opportunity, he would leave the racist redneck stinkin’ on the hood of his own police cruiser for his fellow officers to scrape him off.

“You would think that you niggers would know the drill by now, and have these things prepared,” the sheriff drawled boldly. “As much shit as y’all stay in, you’d think y’all would pin the damn registration to your collars. Now slowly,” Bowman Body said, “open the glove box and retrieve the registration.” He paused before adding, “And I said slowly, not like you grabbing for the last piece of chicken out of a bucket of Colonel Sanders.”

Trill smelled the scent of trouble like shit from a three-hundred-pound man who just got an enema. He knew Barney Fife was gon’ fuck with him until he came up with a reason good enough to stick him. Trill was fully aware that the four thousand grams of crack cocaine in his hiding spot was 3,400 grams more than enough to get him a mandatory life sentence in a federal penitentiary. His instincts told him that he didn’t want to trust his life on the chance that this hillbilly didn’t impound the truck and stumble upon the stash box. He had to make a move. His next move would be crucial. A convicted felon caught with four kilos of crack cocaine was not a good look. He couldn’t take that chance; that was reason enough to give Bowman Body a run for his money. And he intended to do just that.

Trill grabbed the registration from the glove box and turned to hand it to the sheriff. When the sheriff reached inside the truck with his free hand and grabbed hold of the registration, Trill quickly hit the switch to roll the window up while he floored the accelerator at the same time. The powerful Hummer snatched the sheriff off his feet so fast he dropped the pistol, screaming while Trill put the pedal to the metal.

“Who the fuck reaching now? Get yo’ hand out the chicken box, cracker!” Trill screamed at Bowman Body. “Get yo’ shit out my chicken box, motherfucker!” His adrenaline was pumping, having the upper hand. He knew if he was caught he was gone for life. So he was going out like a real-live gangsta—with a mean fight.

He drove the Humdinger like he was on safari in Africa; the sheriff hung from the side of the car, holding on for dear life, slamming into the door every now and then as the truck dragged him at sixty miles an hour down the road. He went from Barney Fife to Barney Rubble as he ran alongside the automobile.