Love and a Gangsta (22 page)

“Yeah, a nigga like me done finally jumped the broom,” I said.

I saw the look of pain and hurt on her face. I felt bad somewhat, but she had to understand that I was becoming a changed man, and our sexual relationship was fun while it lasted.

“Well, I feel like a fuckin’ floozy, standing here throwing myself at you. I was ready to suck your dick again and have you fuck the shit outta me. I had two abortions by you, Soul. I wanted to have a baby by you so bad, and you made me give it up. And now you’re married, you think it will last?” she asked with a lot of hope in her voice.

“Alexis, you need to chill.”

“Fuck you, Soul!” she barked. “I love you, nigga. And you went and married that bitch. I wanted to have your kids and be your fuckin’ woman, and you did nothing but dissed me.”

She was starting to cause a scene.

“Alexis, chill the fuck out,” I said.

“I did everything for you… Stashed your drugs and guns, lied to police for you, gave you pussy when you wanted some, I even made runs out of town for you in my own fuckin’ car, and all I gotten in return from you was nothing. Now I’m standing here asking for some dick, and you got the nerve to tell me no!”

I was losing my patience with her. I stepped to her, grabbed her arm and said, “Ain’t no need for you to get loud up here! Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, Alexis.”

I saw eyes staring at us, all in the business, watching this raving tall beauty cursing me the fuck out.

“No, I won’t keep my mouth shut, Soul. I’m tired of you treating me like some second rate cum collector for your ass. You toss me to the side to run home to that bitch!”

“Alexis, you really need to chill and watch your fucking mouth,” I warned.

“No. Fuck you, Soul! Does your wife know about how we used to fuck like crazy? Or should I go and tell the bitch about the two abortions I had and how you used to eat my pussy out real good Soul… Real good.”

I punched her in the jaw, spewing blood. I was pissed at her.

“You muthafucka!” Alexis screamed, throwing her drink in my face and charging at me.

Before anyone else could get a hit in, two men came between us. Omega was pulling me back from her with a smile on his face. He escorted me outside and said, “Damn nigga, you must have been laying pipe in that bitch like a plumber for her to react like that.”

“Mega, I ain’t in the mood right now,” I said.

He just laughed like it was a joke. I felt bad about hitting the bitch. But threatening my marriage about some bullshit that happened in the past? I didn’t need her shaking things up between America and me.

“Since we’re out here, let me get that from you,” Omega said, referring to the cash in Greasy’s trunk.

“Yeah, I’m parked over here.” I pointed.

The night was calm. A few folks lingered outside the club. Omega and I walked across the street to Greasy’s parked Lexus. As we walked, I happened to stare at my reflection in one of the parked cars and noticed a shadowy figure slowly creeping up behind us.

He was dark like the night, and my suspicion told me that we were in danger. I saw him raise his hand and saw a gun gripped in the image coming from the car window. I pushed Omega out of danger, screaming, “Get down, it’s a hit!”

A loud shot went off soon after. The bullet whisked by missing me by mere inches, and shattering the driver’s side window.

Omega and I scrambled for cover, the sound of gunfire going off around us.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Shots were missing us by inches. The killer was dressed completely in black and he was tall with a mask covering his face, shooting at us
erratically.

“Muthafucka!” Omega shouted.

He had his Glock gripped in his hand, and returned fire quickly. People scattered hastily, and I heard screaming and panic, and the night suddenly turned chaotic. I pulled out the Glock 17 Omega gave me. I felt the coldness of the street coursing through me again. This nigga almost killed me. I was seething.

I returned fire with Omega by my side and noticed the shooter was now running away. He fucked up and missed, and was running like the bitch he was. But I took aim carefully and fired off two shots in his direction. I saw the shooter stumbled suddenly and collapsed.

The incident was quick. I had saved Omega’s life, and he was grateful. But I knew that I probably just killed a man. What the fuck…? The shooter was lying lifeless in the street and I became extremely nervous. Omega’s crew started to pour out the club, guns in hand, looking around.

“Mega, you ahight?” one of his peoples shouted.

“I’m good,” Omega returned.

“What happened, nigga?” one asked.

I just stood there, gun still clutched in my hand and gazing downheartedly at the body sprawled out in the middle of the dark avenue. Suddenly sirens were heard. It was time for me to be ghost.

“Soul, get the fuck outta here,” Omega said to me. “We got this, my nigga.”

I rushed back to the Lexus with the gun still on me, and drove the fuck off before seeing one cop car racing by with its lights sounding and blaring. I was nervous, but tried to play it cool. I hid the gun under the driver’s seat and made my way down Liberty toward Merrick Blvd.

I drove carefully and made it to my building moments later. I parked the car and got out. It was two in the morning and the lobby felt still. I got in the elevator, and noticed this warm runny feeling near my right ear. I was bleeding. I wasn’t hit, but the first shot scattered car glass and nicked me, enough to have my fingertips smeared with blood. I rushed upstairs to the apartment.

America was up when I walked in. She came out the bedroom and glared at me as I walked in. She spotted blood coming from my small
wound.

“Ohmygod, Omar, what happened to you,” she shrieked.

I was sweating and looking like a mess. This whole night was just bad news for me, starting with running into Greasy. America quickly came to my aid. We were in the bathroom and the wound wasn’t anything serious, but just a small nick from the bullet or exploding glass that neared my face.

“Omar, what happened to you? How did this happen?” she demanded.

I didn’t want to tell her the truth. I tried avoiding eye contact with her by staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. She stood behind me with a worried look on her face. I pulled out bandages from the medicine cabinet and wiped the blood from my face.

“What happened, Omar?” America asked again, in a more hysterical tone.

“There was a shootout at this club,” I said faintly.

“What? Was you involved?” she asked. I heard the panic in her voice and knew she was scared to hear the answer.

I stared at her in the mirror and said, “Nah, I was just leaving, and niggas started wilding.”

Even though I lied to America countless of times before, this time it was different for me. I was involved and denied telling her because things were going so good between us and I didn’t want her to panic. Besides, I think I just killed a man, and that was news America wouldn’t be able to deal with. I wasn’t ready to accept the truth. And even though I’d bodied niggahs before, this time it was different.

“Omar, are you telling me the truth? You weren’t involved, and what club was you at till two in the morning? Are you back in the streets?” she nagged.

“I’m not, and I wasn’t involved in no shooting, America!” I barked. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong damn time. I told you, I ain’t wit’ that roughneck shit no more.”

“Don’t put me through this hell again, Omar. I don’t deserve this, I don’t have the strength anymore,” she said before walking out the bathroom.

I continued to stare at my reflection, nursing my small wound. I’m out of the game, so how did I get caught up in this bullshit tonight? That was the million dollar question.

Can you kill a man who’s not afraid to die?
All he sees is mayhem and destruction…

 

 

 

This is the part of the game when it gets really ugly. Someone tried to murder me the other night. And if it wasn’t for my nigga, Soul, I would have been dead. This was the second time that he saved my life. He had my back, for real. He was always cautious, keeping an eye out and aware of his surroundings. That nigga is definitely my right-hand man.

The hit had to come from Tiny, because them Jamaicans don’t miss. They’d sprayed the entire block with Uzi’s and automatic weapons wiping out everything in sight. The shooter missed. Now it was my turn to hit back, and I planned on hitting back hard.

“I should a been there. Yo, I’m ready to murder these nigga, yo, fo’ real,” Biscuit exclaimed furiously.

“You know who it was?” Greasy asked.

“I have a clue, I’m gonna handle it,” I said to them.

The game was about to get ugly with murder and mayhem. The streets belong to me, and I was ready to take it to the next level. I set up a meeting with Smitty, a gun dealer from North Carolina. He always came through with the heavy armor, firepower, and equipment for times like this.

Greasy, Biscuit, and myself met with Smitty at a discrete location in Brooklyn. It was two in the morning when Smitty drove up in his black Cadillac, sitting on 18” chrome.

Smitty was a white boy from the south I’d been dealing with since my brother ran the streets of Queens. He served in the marines, did his time overseas, and had access to almost any gun. He was straight from the trailer parks of North Carolina and grew up poor.

We stood outside our truck as Smitty came to a stop in front of us. He stepped out his ride, fresh in a dark blue three-piece suit, wearing dark shades.

“Omega, it’s been along time since we did business together. I thought you was doin’ a bid,” Smitty said smiling.

“Had to lay low. What’s good?” I said greeting him with a handshake.

“Business is business. I got some nice toys for you and your crew to
play with, for the right price,” he said.

“You know what I’m about, Smitty. I want the best. I got a beef wit’ some muthafuckas who needs to be laid.”

“What I got for you is no joke. Whatever you shoot at—you hit. And they’ll stay down for the morgue to pick up,” he joked. I smiled.

“Let’s do this,” Biscuit intervened, looking like an eager eight-year old boy on Christmas Eve.

“I got some firepower in the trunk of my car that I know you and your friends will definitely enjoy,” he stated.

We followed him to his Cadillac. He opened his trunk and pulled out the biggest gun that he had.

“Aw shit… That’s the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Biscuit exclaimed, his eyes glued to the weapon.

Smitty gripped the weapon in both hands and said, “This right here will lay an elephant down. I just picked it up. It’s the SMG PK. It’s one of the most reliable and compact sub machine guns in production. It shoots both in single shots and automatic. The rate of fire, 900 RPM and has a muzzle velocity of 375m/sec.”

“Damn,” Greasy uttered.

“Yo, let me hold this cannon,” Biscuit said.

Smitty slowly passed him the gun, and Biscuit held the weapon in his hand trying to look like a professional.

“I got his brother too,” Smitty said. He then pulled out the SMG PK1, which looked similar and Greasy picked up the SMG PK2. You feelin’ it, Omega?” Smitty asked, smiling.

“Most def,” I said.

He then went on to show us the Heckler and Koch MP-5, and a few Uzi’s. I wanted it all. Biscuit didn’t want to let go of the SMG PK.

“What’s the damage for everything?” I asked.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, for you, bro… Give me fifty even,” Smitty smiled.

“Ahight, bet.”

I nodded to Greasy, and Greasy tossed him a small bag filled with fresh hundred dollar bills that totaled to fifty grand.

“That’s your money right there,” Greasy said to him.

“Yessir.”

We started loading everything into the back of our truck. Biscuit was happy.

“You know what, I wanna get rid of this too,” Smitty said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He pulled out a Rocket launcher from the backseat of his ride.

“Is you fuckin’ serious?” I asked.

“Take it for an extra five-hundred,” he suggested.

“Yo, we can definitely fuck shit up wit’ that right there, son,” Biscuit said. “Take that shit, Mega.”

“Ahight, I’ll take it.”

Smitty put the rocket launcher back in the case and passed it to Biscuit. I gave him the five-hundred.

After everything was loaded into the back of our vehicle, we drove off. I was ready for anything that came my way.

A week after the attempt was made on me, everything seemed cool. I was laying low for a minute, getting my head right and my strategy correct. I wanted those niggas to suffer. I was thinking, riding down Rockaway Blvd. in the passenger seat of a black polished Denali sitting on 22” chromed rims. It was evening and the hood was quiet. Greasy was driving and we were on our way to get our eat on. Jay Z was pumping and I was chillin’.