2024 Baltimore County, Monday, September 23, 12:20 PM
What a lunch break. He had been hitting this bitch for near an hour now. Barry wiped it off on her pink heart bathrobe and pulled up his pants.
“Barry, do you think Tabar will do okay at his parole hearing? You know its coming up… you still puttin’ in the good word for him?”
He thought, ‘Fuck Tabar, let him rot.’
He said, “A hundred percent Baby, absolutely. I’m tight with the parole board. You know, a homicide detective has swag with them bench riders.”
She kissed him. It was the last Monday of the month and he was Johnny on the Spot with the cash. Well, it hadn’t been his cash until yesterday when he and his squad grabbed that praying nigga and emptied out his collection safe at the Christ Anthem Church.
He checked his phone, which had been ringing while she was bent over singing, and heard a message from some felon holed up in that county motel where those soft crooks were kept on ice awaiting trial. He would not bother checking this out, except the message gave him a chill, a chill that informed him that this nigga in room 31 out at the Welcome Inn was already dead. No way was he investigating bitch disappearances or their dumb daddy’s death, not when that trail he well knew led to the Mayor’s Office, The State House, the U.S. House and for all he knew The White House.
What ever her name was, she was hugging him and asking him not to go, had become a nag like this back in 22 when he first framed up her Baby Daddy, for accessory after the fact just so he could keep a line on this fine bitch. Talking to this stupid bitch was downright painful.
“Yeah, Baby, got ago. Don’t fuck no other niggas and the money will keep comin’—you know I’m a man that knows; later.”
The Sig 9 road well under the jacket as he pulled it on, it always being a policy of his to fuck side bitches with his shoulder holster on.
‘Only the wife gets it without the strap,’ was a rule he lived by.
Out the door, down the stars into the murky early afternoon, and up the sidewalk to his cruiser he went.
‘I miss the Crown Vic. This SUV stuff is bullshit. How can a man look serious in something designed for bitches to haul kids in?’
No threats were close.
He checked his rig and suit jacket, the blue silk tie to match, in the driver’s side mirror. He could still see her lip prints on the bottom of the tie, “Savage bitch, just bite your lip next time!”
Opening the door he looked around, slid in, checked the mirrors, checked the back seat, then reached under the seat carriage and drew his snuff gun, a piece of shit, .25 auto with a silencer, something you needed to press up against the suspect and empty. That went in for a cross draw, admiring his own fitness and youthful vigor on a 45 year old frame. His bald head shone with the coconut oil he used to stretch Baby out, here, at house of ho, 3815, Glen Ridge Road, less than a mile from the that dumb snitch. Barry never, ever fucked around in his jurisdiction. You just could not rust Baltimore City Cops—it was a shame, really.
He rolled west, then turned right and headed north.
“Daryl, piece-of-shit whoever you are, E-rase. Soon as I get your trifling ass to Central Booking you gonna make some friends that will silence you better than Snuff The Tragic Dragon, here.”
So saying he patted his suppressed murder gun, deleted the message and drove, ready to sort shit out, still not certain which way the thing would go down.
…
Seven Minutes Later
Two shit heads were hanging out on the covered walk to the second floor, where his snitch was, leaning on the railing, looking hard his way and spitting.
‘Shit, cant kill the snitch now. Looks like I’m gonna owe the BGF [1] another favor. Fucking witnesses. More people ought to be at work so that less eyes are on my side hustles. This country is going to hell.’
Barry walked up the stairs and sauntered towards the pair who turned and looked at him, a buff one and a thick one.
“Fuck off!” he pointed towards the foyer door.
They scowled and then slouched through the half open glass door, one of them mumbling, “Fuckin’ City Pig.”
Barry arrogantly strode by and retorted, “I will get your case number and fuck your mother.”
“Fuck you,” sounded the voices further inside.
Barry turned right to open the door to the next foyer and some skinny little bastard was coming out. The twit looked down and away, making Barry suspicious, so he shoulder butted him into the wall and drew Snuff the Tragic Dragon, pressing the flash suppressor to that shaking head.
“What the fuck, yo!” mumbled the surly bone rack.
Barry kicked his ankle with the hard edge of his dress shoes and slid Snuff back behind the belt on his left side, “Get gone, Slick! Go!”
“Goin’ goin’!” chattered the shit head, and he ran out the door.
Barry knocked on the door to Room 31.
A soft fresh, young felon, light of skin and big-eyed with fear, opened the door, met the narrow crease of impatience in Barry’s face, stepped back, starting to mumble. Barry flashed his shield in his left hand as he drew Snuff and walked in behind the small barrel almost dwarfed by the shit suppressor that jerk-off Jamaican had fitted for him. The snitch wilted; cringing, backing up, muttering “Please, officer, I’m trying to do the right thing.”
Barry was not too sympathetic as he stepped in next to the mostly open door and noticed that it had never opened entirely, and that there was someone behind it, “Motherfucker!” Barry, snarled, bending his wrist to point his gun around the door as he reached for the handle with his left hand to pull it open.
The door smashed him in the face and something smacked his wrist.
“Youuu done fucked up!” Snarled Barry as he was knocked back on the bed reaching for his Sig off his right hip.
The clatter of Snuff the Tragic Dragon hitting the floor seemed to slow down Time itself as his elbow hit the bed so he could draw his Sig—except the hand was floppy, numb.
All of his inner narrative, that long and lively criminal conversation he had been having since he graduated from the Academy and started working with the FBI and the BGF, was now being uttered out loud, “My fucking wrist is snapped!”
“I’m blurting like a bitch?”
A man of some six feet and 170 pounds, a white man in black sweats, boots—bad fashion choice there slick—hoody, gloves and sunglasses, a long-haired hippy with beard, stepped from behind the now closed door. In his left hand was a ball peen hammer.
“My fuckin’ wrist you nut job piece-of-sh—”
“Awee!” Some bitch screamed while his knee was being shattered with that hammer.
“Damn that—mmmmm!”
Now the bitch was just muffle cussing with a pair of dirty socks stuffed in his mouth while a knee slammed into his balls.
Barry woke to realize, through throbs of pain, that both of his wrists were broke and cuffed together, that both of his knees had been shattered, with stains on his pinstripe blue pants legs. Paracord was being wound around his face to keep the rancid socks in his mouth.
His eyes bugged out at the man doing this, who took note and said in a soft, easy, even reassuring voice, “Sorry, Barry, I don’t travel with duct tape.”
The bitch screamed like a cotton ball, “Why? Where? What? When? Who the fuck are you?”
The sound of the screaming bitch confounded the man who had commanded so many with his great voice. It sounded, it sounded like—and he was robed of even that observation as the snitch, who was a mere bystander, noted, “He sounds like Charlie Brown’s mother at double speed.”
He was rolled over, his broken wrists tied with the terrible green cord to his ankles. He turned his face to the side. Then a knee came to his back, the piece-of-shit Jamaican silencer pressed to the back of his head. Now the bitch screamed like canned whip cream.
The man said, “No, Barry. Blood leaves a trail, and I only have two sheets and blanket.”
The gun was jammed into his belt.
The knee in his back pressed and something popped, loud.
He could not feel his legs.
The knee came to his neck, a gloved hand to his forehead.
A loud pop sounded and he could no longer feel his arms.
Barry spun in a cocoon of clean gotten and dirty wool, the world no longer such a terrible concern.
…
Notes
-1. Black Guerrilla Family, the largest and most powerful criminal organization in Maryland Prisons.
