Maurice Broaddus - King's War

She kicked him in the back of the legs, forcing him to ground. If he tried to defend himself, it only brought on more punches. Her blood pumped with righteous fury. She hooked him in his head, groin, stomach, and throat. He curled into a ball, brain seized up. Mulysa's head fell forward, his chest tightened as if he had shards of glass in his lungs.

"Are you afraid to die?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah. I guess. We all are," Mulysa said like a general tired of war.

"That don't sound like the Mulysa I knew. The Mulysa I knew didn't let anyone's needs come before his own. Didn't back down from anyone. Didn't care whose territory he ran in. He wasn't afraid of anything.

"I'm afraid to meet God." The words came softly, without irritation or bravado. More resigned than anything else. "For Him to tell me that I wasted my life down here. That I pissed over all the opportunities He gave me."

She put a dirty look on him. Meek like a tree trunk, he disgusted her. He was too easy to insult. This wasn't the Mulysa she wanted. This animal was already broken and beaten down. This one sounded too much like the little girl trapped in her that she never gave voice to. The one who was also afraid, not of His judgment, because she was ready for that. She could carry that. No, she feared "… that He loves you anyway."

"Love. I don't even know what that means anymore."

She understood the resignation and the black hole from which he operated… but he was still a dog that needed to be put down. Tristan reached over his shoulder and stabbed him in the chest. He bolted, running on pain and adrenaline, already dead. It hurt to breath. He tripped, his head bouncing off a stone, leaving his ears ringing and his world blurred. Tristan landed on him and stabbed until he quit defending himself.

Classes in school would always have a timeout whenever a student entered holding a note. Prez's heart skipped a beat. If the student knew him, they'd try to catch his eye and give him a nod, but most times the kind of students trusted to run the administrative errands of the principal's office weren't the kind who ran in the same circles as Prez. In the usual routine, the teacher took the note then read it silently. Like they were on some reality show, all of the students studied each other for any tell as they waited to see who had been voted off the island, whose journey would end here. The teacher then called out a name and the student perked up with a "who me?"/"what did I do?" look of complete innocence. Too many times, Prez's name was called. All eyes turned to him, accompanied by a few stifled snickers and some exhales of relief that their name wasn't called. He'd march to the front of the class — under the weight of the glaring eyes — to receive the note like a communion wafer and then pass into the hallway.

His mind turned over the devious things he did, which ones might rise to the level of being called to the office. A dead man walking the green mile to his execution, the journey and the wait did their psychological jobs. He reflected on the cost of his antics. He pondered the various crossroads moments of his life and the decisions he'd made. He'd wonder "what if?"

Prez hated being called down to the principal's office. There was a bench right outside of her door where those awaiting her judgment waited. Not only could she watch each delicious squirm — and she'd let you wait there, stewing in your anxiety, dread, and guilt until you were fit to burst before she called you in — but her office was the first along the corridor. That meant that students and teachers had to pass in order to get to the other offices — the nurse's station, the guidance counselor, and so on — becoming tacit players in the shaming game.

And then he awaited his punishment.

Prez, Fathead, and Naptown Red relaxed at Red's crib. Dred had posted bail for them and assured them that he had lawyers at the ready to defend them. But they were instructed to wait at Red's until he could meet with them. He needed to switch up houses to deflect eyes and they needed to stay low until he had them set up. Prez's stomach bottomed out at the summons.

Naptown Red took his endo in deep, allowing it to work its magic inside him. It mellowed him out in a way that released him from having to play a role. Long as he was free, paid, and high, he was good. The game hadn't changed: get locked up, keep your mouth shut, stand tall, and you'd be taken care of. Naptown Red had all of the angles worked out. Just like how Dred sprang Mulysa, even if he didn't want anything to do with him once he got out, he didn't have much choice but to take care of Red and his crew if he wanted to keep his street cred. It wasn't as if they'd been busted doing their own thing; technically they were on the clock for Dred. Doing their do hadn't made them any more sloppy, just the opposite in fact, as they had to be more careful fearing Dred's retaliation far more than the police. Worst-case scenario, Red would break Dred off a piece of the action and they'd be square, because business was business.

"You think we in trouble?" Fathead asked.

"Where you think we is? Kindergarten?" Naptown Red had the belief that he was a shot-caller. It reeked in the tone of his voice. Play the part, be the part. First these two reacted to him like planets pulled into orbit by this sheer gravity then others, seeing them, would fall into line. That was how kingdoms were built.

"Just saying, won't he be mad? We lost his money and his package, then on top of that, he has to come out of pocket to bail us out." Fathead skittered nervously about. His exhaled smoke didn't seem to stave off his anxiousness. He didn't tell the police much. Certainly they had Dred's name already. No harm in giving them what they already had. And if they had Dred, they had to know who his main lieutenants were. And where some of the stash houses were.

"You give the ghetto a bad name." Red snatched the joint back from him as if he were a child wasting good food. "That's the cost of doing business."

"But Dred…"

"I ain't afraid of Dred. Green hisself couldn't work those corners any better than us. Shit, we out there on the front lines." Naptown Red had a way of sounding like he supported those in charge while undermining them at the same time to rally folks around him. "I got your back. So you better learn to squad up."

"Squad up?" Fathead grabbed a bag of halfeaten Doritos from the coffee table and absently began stuffing them into his mouth.

"Look here." Red reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a gun. "This here might suit you."

"What is it?"

"A Beretta. Light on recoil. A bitch's gun." Red let the insult fly and sink in before cleaning it up a little. "A starter gun for you. Let you get used to the idea before moving you up to something serious."

"Yeah, I don't think so. It's not my thing." It wouldn't matter if he had fifty guns on him, Fathead didn't have it in him to kill a man. He survived by rolling over, allying himself with whoever could protect him.

"Suit yourself." Red tucked it into his dip. "Probably blow off your joint with it anyways."

Heavy thuds hammered on the front door. Fathead nearly fell out of his seat. Naptown Red eyed him with mild disgust, beginning to re-think their partnership. He didn't need any weak links at the table. Peeking through the eyehole, he sucked his teeth in Fathead's direction.

"Dred, my nigga." Red opened the door and gave him a pound. "You alone?"

"I need to be here with anyone?" Dred stepped inside. His facial hair grew in odd patches, none of which took away any of the boyish nature of his face. But his eyes glared about, ancient and rheumy, caught up in his machinations. "Nah, shit. When you here, you with family." Naptown Red knew better. Dred's king was never alone. Not with as many enemies as he had not to mention Black on the hunt. Probably a soldier at the car as lookout. And Garlan's ass had to be around somewhere. Red glad-handed as best he could, but there was no play with Dred. Only a brooding intensity, like a volcano deciding when, not if, it were going to erupt.