Wrath White - Yaccub's Curse

“That was some game, huh? Them niggas sure can ball.”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, white boy! I should bust your fuckin’ grille for that shit!” Huey growled, pushing his face up into Scratch’s pasty mug. Tank dragged Huey away from Scratch before they could lock horns.

“Look, Snap, I just stopped by to tell you I need that business taken care of tonight, alright?”

“Then it’s done. Now get the fuck out of here before Huey caps your ass.”

I was tempted to ask Tank to let me do this job on my own. That would have been the sentimental thing to do, but Warlock was a crafty muthafucka with that blade and I had seen brothas get gutted with shanks in juvie. The idea of having my belly ripped open by a six-inch stiletto and seeing my steaming innards come boiling out of my stomach or of having my throat cut and drowning in my own blood, chilled me deeper than the idea of catching a bullet or just about any other way of dying. I took Tank along just in case. If that sneaky little nigga got the jump on me I would want Tank backing me up with the AK. Warlock was no ordinary crackhead and I was feeling more than a little guilt over the idea of killing him, not to mention my guilt over the death of his brother who had once been a close friend.

Just like any other teenagers we thought we were invincible. That doesn’t mean we didn’t take all the proper precautions. It just meant that we thought we could out fight, out shoot, or out smart, anyone we came across. It never occurred to us that there may be some situations we couldn’t handle. The only way we thought we could die is if we fucked up and got caught slippin’. It never occurred to us that we could plan and execute everything perfectly and still get killed. It never occurred to us that people died in this game no matter how strong or cunning they were. That bullets really don’t have any one’s name on them. No matter how many innocent children we saw gunned down in drivebys, no matter how many times we saw our homeboys torn apart as we stood mere inches away by bullets meant for us, no matter how many funerals or public service announcements we saw, it never occurred to us that we could be next. Not because we were careless, but just because we were in the game, and that’s as careless as you need to be to get your ass taken out.

I was nervous as a muthafucka when we rolled down G-town Ave, looking for Warlock. Tank sat in my big old Impala with a turkey and cheese hoagie between his legs right next to the AK. If a cop had drove by he would have seen that big ass assault rifle immediately, but of course Tank was giving less than a fuck. If cops had rolled on us Tank would have held court in the street and I would have thrown down right beside him. Some cop might have been given a parade for being shot in the line of duty, but the two of us would certainly have wound up as just two more sorry-ass dead niggas bleeding on the sidewalk. I threw my jacket over the AK, which drew a slight chuckle from Tank. I was sure that his lackadaisical attitude would bury us both some day.

“Yo, there’s that muthafucka now!”

Tank grabbed the AK and swung the barrel out the window. I grabbed the rifle and pulled it back inside. Warlock, who was just passing a local bar called the Starlight Lounge, caught the motion and bolted down the street.

“Man, fuck did you grab me like that for? We could have had that nigga!”

“Yeah, and started a big muthafuckin’ drug war in the process! You can’t just go sprayin’ up the Ave like that. We ain’t the only killers in the world you know.”

Those two blocks of Germantown Avenue between Washington Lane and Walnut Lane were where all the players hung out, both young and old. You could buy anything here: weed, heroin, crack, powder, guns, pussy, anything. The most dangerous thugs in the G kicked it on this stretch of avenue and it was no place to go unloading an assault rifle.

I floored the Impala’s big four hundred and fifty two horsepower V8 engine and sped off after Warlock while Tank’s eyes scanned the vast array of hardened gangstas he’d almost unloaded into. Buttaman, the tall inky black skeleton who singlehandedly controlled all the horse on the West side of G-town, glared murderously at our car as we drove past. His hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his trench coat and probably gripped around the handle of the big forty-four Colt revolver everyone knew he carried there. His soulless eyes looked through us without seeing two of the hardest niggas in the game as we thought of ourselves, but a couple of dumb-ass trigger-happy amateurs who probably wouldn’t live to see half of his forty years. He slid his hand out of his coat, sneered, and waved us off. I felt like I had just passed through a ghost. Even Tank let out a long staggering breath. Buttaman was a dead aim with that forty-four. If he had decided to pull it out we would both be dead. There was not even a question about it. We were alive because he didn’t feel we were worth wasting the bullets. He was from a different time when people didn’t kill each other over shit like that, or at least that’s what they told us. For a split second, looking into Buttaman’s eyes, I felt the fear my own victims must feel when they see me coming. It was a feeling I hoped I’d never have again.

“He went around the corner!”

I spun the Impala into a sharp turn and lit up Tulpehocken Street with my fog lights. Warlock ducked into the playground in back of the pre-school in the middle of the block. We knew he was going to jump that fence and keep going into the junkyard next door where there would be plenty of shadows and shit to hide behind for an ambush. A shiver crawled up my spine, raked its icy claws over my shoulder, and wrapped its fingers around my neck to strangle the breath from me at the thought of following him into that death trap. Tank had already grabbed the AK and had the door half open as I pulled to a stop in front of the big mango-colored pre-school.

“Come on! Lets get this muthafucka!” Tank said and was out of the car without a hesitation.

Warlock ain’t shit but another crackhead , I told myself, but the thought of that blade sliding between my ribs brought fresh shivers up my spine.

I looked around the playground, but I knew that Warlock wasn’t there. He had already gone into the junkyard next door and was probably waiting to ambush our asses.

“Yo, Tank! Don’t get too far ahead of me, man!”

“Just hurry and catch up before we lose this slippery son of a bitch!”

Tank’s voice came from no more than five yards ahead of me, but it was so dark in that junkyard that he was completely invisible. I jumped the fence into the junkyard. My feet came down on what was probably a paint bucket and I went sprawling face first into the dirt.

“Shit! Where you at, Tank?”

“Right here.” His voice echoed off the piles of trash and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“Where, man? I can’t see shit in this muthafucka!” I was starting to panic. This wasn’t a cool situation at all. Alone in the dark with a knife-wielding homicidal crack-fiend.

“Fuck looking for me. Go find that crazy son of a bitch!”

I could hear Tank’s heavy footfalls moving quickly, increasing the distance between us.

“Wait! Let’s stick together on this. We don’t know where this muthafucka could be.”

“Stop worryin’ and handle your business, Snap!”

I cursed to myself as I heard Tank moving further off into the night. It would’ve made me feel a hell of a lot better to have Tank beside me with the AK. Normally that’s how we played it, but that night it was like Tank had something to prove. Maybe getting Darlene’s phone number had gone to his head and boosted up his testosterone? Whatever his problem was, that type of ego shit was dangerous.