Little Arbese was still feeling terrible about that girl. But he collected with the rest. It was what they did. They had never even bothered asking her name, just gave her one: GirlGirl.
I hope she doesn’t comeback. The look in her eyes was terrible. I’ll be expected to do more than watch this time.
Don’t come back GirlGirl.
Get scared and hide.
Get brave and forget.
Just don’t get stupid; don’t snitch.
They were just starting up. But after what T-Dog did to that Mexican the word got out. And MeWow and Obol were just plain crazy, would do anything. They used to spray paint cop cars and run before they grew balls. And Ty, he was dangerous, ruthless, the leader, the one that would make Arbese go first with GirlGirl.
This is terrible. I don’t want a girl like that.
They were all collected now. The boys were rapping but he could not make out a word. The stress had his ears ringing, like when the math teacher lady used to stand and wait for him to finish the math test that he knew none of the answers to. And the night was not dark enough to hide his fear of becoming totally like the rest.
They were laughing, Ty on the step, MeWow and Obol next to him, and T-Dog smacking the side of the brick house from the alley just off the curb. Arbese just squatted dejectedly on the curb.
Don’t come, GirlGirl. Stay home with Mamma.
Obol was pointing. Arbese looked over, following his finger, and saw that they were laughing at some grown-ass jogger; some dumbass in black sweats and hoody and army boots just asking to get snatched up by Five-O.
MeWow was cracking his whining laugh and T-Dog was just shaking his head at the fool.
That man is stupid. We could bank him. This is totally vacant around here—no one to even call the ambulance for his dumbass.
They settled down, talking about the fool jogger as Arbese went back to his guilty thoughts and godless prayers.
Don’t come back, GirlGirl. I don’t want you looking at me with those hurt ghost eyes. I’d rather be home getting high with Granny!
He thought maybe that he had said that out loud because they began to laugh. But no, they were laughing at the return of the jogger. T-Dog stood with the rest with his hand in his pocket on his twenty-two auto, ready to stitch this fool with the same iron that he used on that Mexican.
MeWow and Obol were to the sides flexing as the man jogged on, head down, hood hanging low, up their side of the street.
T-Dog was ready to pop. Arbese could see his hand working in his pocket.
Obol and MeWow were pacing and flexing now, right by his either side.
Ty stood up as Arbese did as well. Ty noted, “Old School sure enough buff en black as ash. Hold up Yo. He probly Five-O. Dat GirlGirl bitch mida snitched. Led ‘is ass pass en be lookin’ about fo skulkers.”
They separated a little, half house-side half curb-side, to let the suspected cop jog through. Arbese noticed that he was pretty big, not football big, but some harder kind of big. He could not see his face or even his teeth. The streetlight was across the way and this dude was as black as his hoody, head down.
Obol spoke up as the man got a house away, “Maybe he dat UFC shit?”
MeWow then spoke up as the man closed with his easy jog, “Yo, Old School, Yo some UFcugugu…”
And MeWow fell away clutching his throat.
What the fuck?
Then T-Dog was clutching at his throat and both of his wrists were spurting blood out in front as he fell to his knees. The man was leaping high over T-Dog, like some Olympic shit, a big-ass razor whirling in both of his big-ass hammer hands as he made a sound, a weird-ass sound, “Ulalalalala” in low creepy tones.
Arebese was frozen in terror while the rest tried to run but went nowhere. The man landed in their midst and spun, singing his weird-ass tongue rap and spinning; every spin making more cuts than you could count—blood spouting everywhere!
They were all now clutching at their throats and their junk, and doing it with wrists that were spraying blood. The entire Kray-Z Krew was now on it’s knees bleeding more blood than they had, bubbling blood when they tried to scream, screams that never came.
Arbese somehow remained frozen, staring in disbelief at his entire crew dying in a circle around the massive-shouldered figure in the black hoody. Then the head flew back, the hood falling back off the shining black head, a high narrow head, above a stone-cold killer African-looking face, narrow white eyes blazing with black pupils, and no smile to light up the night, just a deep frown. The man rose and stepped to Arbese, towering over him as he quivered in fright, two gleaming razors without a smear of blood on them between fingers as thick as hammer handles.
The man then looked deeply into his eyes and intoned in an even deeper voice, “Name?”
“A, A, Ah, ahhh—Arbese, Arbese.”
“You are my messenger, Arbese.”
“O, o,ohh—kay, sir.”
“You have been sent by Akbar Qama. Remember that name.”
“Ak, Ak—Akbar Comma?”
The man’s voice tolled deeper, “Good enough.”
“A, a, ah—what’s the, a, message?”
The man’s demon eyes then widened and Arbese saw a deep hate there, somehow the voice growing deeper, “Tell Kismet I come—that Akbar Qama comes! And that I shall fill her master’s pit before I arrive to strangle him on his lava throne!”
His ear’s rang with those crazy words—crazier than any words ever uttered by the Kray-Z Krew—as his head rolled back and he saw the stars above, stars he had never considered in his short confused life. There was a gust of air from his throat, which seemed strangely distant from his chin, then the sound of his head smacking on the asphalt obscured the stars…
He opened his eyes to see a giant black man in black straddling him like a merciless god looking down in judgment at the unworthy life he cut short…
Sorry GirlGirl.
