Sonny Black - Gangsta Bitch

“ Go ahead, you black cock sucker. I want you to do something stupid, so I can toe-tag your ass.”

D-Murder thought about it, but seeing the half dozen or so guns pointed at him he knew he’d never win. As carefully as he could he laid his pistol on the floor and got on his knees. Before he could even raise his hands the officers’ dog piled on him, and they began punching him in various spots, trying to bend his arms at impossible angles.

Lying on his stomach, D-Murder looked around the room and wondered how the hell he had gotten caught in such a fucked up predicament. There was blood splattered on the overturned furniture and walls of the bedroom. A man he had never seen before lying on the bed with a quarter-sized hole above his right eye. On the floor beside the man was another body. This one was faced down with several holes in his back. Blood was still flowing from the body, turning the coke that had come from the busted packages into a pinkish goop. Though he had never once fired his gun, D knew he was fucked with a capital F.

“Somebody got caught with their hand in the cookie jar,” an officer wearing a windbreaker smirked, cuffing D’s hands roughly behind his back.

“Dawg, I know what it looks like but I ain’t got nothing to do with this shit,” D tried to tell the officer.

Windbreaker jerked him roughly to his feet. “Yeah, and I’m the fucking queen of England,” he chuckled.

“Looks like that tip we got paid off, huh? Who we got here?” a black detective asked, approaching from behind. When he saw who Windbreaker had in custody all he could say was, “Oh shit!”

“What’s the matter?” Windbreaker asked not really understanding the situation.

“That’s D-Murder, from 128 th.”

Windbreaker turned D around and examined his bloody face. “You’re shitting me. This can’t be the so-called Ghost.”

“It’s him,” the black detective confirmed. “I saw a picture of him at the house when we searched it.”

“Wow, we’ve nabbed the fucking Boogie Man. Funny, I heard you were a lot bigger,” Windbreaker examined him.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” D-Murder said, as if he was being cleaver.

“You think this was some type of payback for what they did to his brother?” Windbreaker asked the black detective.

“Fuck is you talking about, what’s my brother got to do with this?” D-Murder’s smug attitude disappeared and was replaced by nervousness. “Somebody tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Probably,” the black detective said to Windbreaker, ignoring D’s question. “He was a big man when he was running shit, but now he’s just meat. They tore that boy up something terrible.”

Hearing them speak of his brother in the past tense caused D to panic. “What happened to my brother?” D tried to break loose. “Let me go, I need to find out what happened to my brother!”

“Calm down,” Windbreaker ordered, putting D in a reverse chokehold. “Your brother ain’t going anywhere but the morgue and your ass is going downtown, D-Murder.”

“I told you I didn’t have anything to do with this!” D continued to struggle.

“Right, those two stiffs shot each other. You’re going down for double homicide, pal.”

Windbreaker read D his rights, but he gave no indication if he heard or understood them. All that was on his mind was the pile of shit he had managed to step into. Even if he beat the murders they had still caught him with a pistol. He had been betrayed by his own crew and someone had assassinated his brother, the same man who he had promised his grandmother he would protect. There was no doubt in D-Murder’s mind that even with a high-powered lawyer he would have to do some time. But no matter how long it took, D would have his revenge, this he swore on his brother’s stolen life.

She stood watching the television in wide-eyed shock. The bowl she’d dropped along with the ice cream that had been in it, lay at her feet in a mess of glass and melting cookie dough. Even though the news reporter spoke with complete clarity, she still felt like she had heard wrong. This couldn’t be happening.

It took a great amount of concentration for her to get her legs to move, but she was able to make it to the couch where she collapsed in a heap. With trembling hands she turned up the volume on her big screen television as the reporter recounted the breaking story.

“The bodies were found in this building,” he motioned at the familiar structure behind him. Though she was never allowed inside, she had been to the building many times.

“Both men were killed in what appeared to be a revenge murder for the slaying of Dwayne ‘Knowledge’ Bernard, the boss of the Uptown Boys drug cartel, earlier today. The man in custody is one Derrick Bernard, alleged enforcer for the Uptown Boys and the brother of the deceased. The younger Bernard, armed with a loaded 9mm, was apprehended at the scene. Bernard is currently being held for the double revenge slaying as well as for questioning in several other murders that took place between 2000 and today. We’ll have more news as the story unfolds.”

She wanted to scream, but didn’t have the strength to push the sound out, so the grief stricken roar she was looking for ended up being a sick meowing. She pounded her fists into the couch, trying to dismantle an imaginary opponent, until she was so spent that all she could do was collapse back on the couch. Pressing her tear streaked face into the cushions she prayed over and over for someone to wake her up from the horrible nightmare. When she opened her eyes nothing had changed.

Okay, Francis, you gotta pull it together. We’ve prepared for this . Pulling her self together as best she could, Francis tucked her emotions and slipped into Gangsta Bitch mode. The first thing she did was call the lawyer they’d kept on retainer for such emergencies. The second thing she did was pull out the safe she kept in the back of her closet. He’d always talked about putting it up for a rainy day, and from the looks of things, it was about to storm.

She counted the money twice and it still looked suspect. A double murder wouldn’t be cheap and as good as the lawyer was, he was still a vulture. But this didn’t deter her. For as feminine as she was, the heart of a hustler beat in her chest. As long as there was breath in her body and strength in her fingers, she would do any and all things in her power to protect her man. Grabbing her coat and a pair of leather gloves, she headed for the door. Before she left, she picked up her big black Coach bag and tested the weight. Nodding in approval she went out to make the rounds to try to ensure her man’s freedom.

Though she meant well, it would only be a matter of time before the other shoe dropped, and when it did, it fell hard.

It was cold, but the sun was still shining. Summer had rolled directly into winter, leaving everyone to wonder what in the hell had happened to the fall? The hood was quiet, but active. It was always like that in the winter. In the hood, some cats hustled like squirrels, stacking their paper through the warmer seasons and only periodically enduring the bite of the nastier ones. Then you had the goons, the young boys that are so hungry that neither weather nor warfare could deter them from getting a dollar. This was the case with Young Sha-Born.