Maurice Broaddus - King Maker

Junie loved that boy after his fashion, conjuring vague plans for Parker's future, but also hated him. Hated him for making him see himself. As he was, not who he dreamt he was.

"You bout done over there?"

"I don't give a fuck. You feel me? I don't give," Parker retorted in close to an insulting tone. "A. Fuck." Tall, but skinny. Heartless, he had done had all the life damn near ground out of him. His smile, even his laugh, was joyless. He could shoot or otherwise inflict all manner of cruelty without a moment's hesitation. He was perfect. The secret to enforcement wasn't a matter of the most intimidating body, but the precision of the coldest heart.

Parker carried around his share of pain, let it accrue in his belly until it knotted the muscles in his shoulders. Pain he was all too happy to dish out. Not one for confession, he was one of those mute motherfuckers, just as soon turn to an icy glare and stone lips rather than admit to anything personal or true. Stoic silence was his definition of holding his head up. Of being a man. He'd never admit to anything like abuse. Bitches were abused. Yet when he was eleven, a friend of his mother's came to stay at their house. It was how family did, drop in and board with their people for a minute as they pass through. Every night the woman secretly summoned Parker to her room. Three raps against the wall separating Parker's room from his sister's. Each night. As his sister slept in the next bed, the woman had him go down on her. His first sexual experience outside of nutting off to his father's stash of Player magazines. She had no special love for or attachment to him. During the days, she dismissed him, choosing to talk only to adults. Beyond the initial conversation where she told him how special he was, asked him if he thought she was pretty, and asked him if he wanted to prove how much he liked her, they never even shared a knowing wink. The age difference didn't matter. Nor the fact that she didn't let him get off. He was a means to an end. An instrument of her gratification. She taught him everything he needed to know about sex. And put to death the idea of love.

He never told his friends. The bragging of his tryst with an older woman, no matter how he cast it, rang hollow to his ear. All it brought up was the feeling of powerlessness. Of weakness, of being a bitch. He buried it alongside the other memories, like the leather strap of his father when he was due to be punished.

"I just don't give a fuck." The words had become his personal mantra. Half prayer, half braggadocio, he announced his climax not caring that Junie was in the room. Junie tossed him an admiring smile and knew they would fist bump later recalling the events. The moneyhungry ho who still chickenheaded in his lap swallowed his seed without complaint. She was face less, a walking fix waiting to score, a convenient orifice to empty into. Something akin to pride stirred within Junie as he dismissed the girl with the turn of his back and the hitching of his pants.

"We got to wrap this up and turn the count over to the Durham Brothers."

"Them some uglyass Samoans."

"You need to learn when to back down and when to step it up," Junie said in a low, warning tone. Parker was an eager student, one who looked up to Junie, and admiration was a powerful intoxicant.

They trod downstairs where the Durhams discussed a matter with Baylon. Junie and Parker waited to the side, not interrupting. Baylon waved them in. Junie wasn't too fond of the Durham Brothers, but respected their rep. Michaela with her purple hair and matching shirt over a pair of blue jeans towered over Baylon. Her brother, Marshall, sported a set of chops which looked like he glued two hedgehogs to either side of his face. Ridiculous appearance aside, their penchant for the most brutal of violence to the human body was well documented. Rumor whispered that they occasionally ate their kill. From Michaela's recent weight gain, he assumed Baylon had them out on assignment.

"What's with the hair?" Junie tried to forage for any humanity in her eyes to reassure him, but found no trace. Her jowly face, the extra waddle about her throat, the girth of her belly failed to make her any less a killer.

"Needed a change in my look," Michaela said.

"I don't think a haircut's gonna do it. Plus, purple-"

"Draws too much attention?"

"I think you've got that covered too."

Baylon made some mild clucking noises. Junie was never fond of him. He had a way about him, let folks know he didn't think much of them. Condescending, like they didn't know nearly as much as he did. His ass never held a gun. His ass never did any jail. His ass never did anything beside talk. He acted awfully superior for someone who was simply Dred's errand boy.

"Damn girl, you packed on a few pounds," Parker said with the brazen fearlessness of youth. Or psychosis.

"It's not polite to talk about a girl's weight." She flashed him an eye warn.

"Since when you so sensitive?"

"I'm a flower. I'm a delicate flower who's gained five dress sizes in the last year and is pretty pissed about it."

"Need to work off a few calories?" Parker tossed her the tapeddown grocery bag full of cash.

Full of hate and wariness, Marshall leaned near Junie's ear. His fetid breath reeked of decayed carcasses. He smacked in his ear with a wet gurgle. "We get called in for special jobs. The man says come up, we come up. The man says make this delivery for me, package gets delivered. The man says handle this here problem, the problem gets handled. Do we have a problem here?"

"We don't have shit," Baylon said, feeling suddenly pressed in. "You got a delivery to make. I got an errand to run."

"You hooking up with Griff?"

"Not that you need to know, but yeah. You two hold down the fort. Don't need any unnecessary drama tonight."

That was the night everything went to shit.

Griff stood guard while Baylon slipped into the house. He didn't know who was such a threat to Dred who might have lived out here. One of those transitional houses used for homeless teens to get off the streets. Baylon was hit with that critical self assessment of living in Griff's shadow. Having no heart, no respect, no gravitas. He skulked about the house, every bit as dangerous as Griff or Tavon or even Junie, but he lacked some essential intangible. The focused will to survive, oblivious to the lives of others, he lacked. The singlemindedness, the ruth lessness. Intelligence and prudence, on the other hand, he had in spades. Out here, if you were going to make it, all you had was your name, your word, and your rep. Without heart, you were nothing. And Baylon needed to show heart.

The first door on the left, a soft light revealed the outline of a door. He pushed it open. A young woman rifled through some cabinets. Under a furred jacket she wore a black Korn Tshirt and had five friendship bracelets on each hand. An acne scar dotted the middle of her forehead giving her a vaguely Indian appearance. Blue jeans — bellbottoms in his day, flare cut these days — with ragged edges barely cov ered her ragged Chuck Taylors.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Who are you?" she retorted, unstartled and with out making eye contact.

"Michelle."

Davis. Michelle Davis. Baylon expected a prosti tute, maybe a burnout crack whore, someone who had run game one time too often or stolen money and had to pay the final piper. Not some fresh faced girl no older than his niece. She reached into her rich, furred coat and fondled the hilt of her knife.

"We match." Baylon pulled up his shirt and re vealed his knife.

"Where'd you get that?"

"My father gave it to me."

"I never knew my father," Michelle said.

"Not all of us are so lucky," Baylon said. "A pretty girl you. It isn't right for you to have such… teeth."