TWENTY-SEVEN
“You know, I don’t know your biz like that, God, and furthermore, if I did happen to know your biz, I wouldn’t blow up your spot,” Rightchus said.
“I ought to use some duct tape an’ some gasoline on your ass,” Lil’ Long said.
“Let me shoot da muthafucka in his fucking mouth. I’m telling you, this muthafucka been snitching around,” Vulcha said. He reached for his weapon of choice, a silver nine millimeter.
“I’m telling y’all. That ain’t me, Blackman. Much respect and all that, you smell me?”
“Respect! Smell this.”
Vulcha raised the silver muzzle of the Desert Eagle to Rightchus’ chest and nervously toyed with the trigger.
“No rounds? No corns?” Lil’ Long asked with a smile. “Now, see, you pissed me off. You done pissed my man off. Money, if you don’t give us da real jewels, my man’s gonna push your wig back. You feel me? Ahight, go ahead spit the gospel.” Lil’ Long said looking directly in the eyes of the shook Rightchus.
“Ahight. Word, word. Listen up, let me build wid y’all like this: They trying to test y’all.”
“Who is they? Give us names. Well, muthafucka?” Lil’ Long barked with fury leaving Rightchus rattling like shells on string. He knew he’d be blowing in the wind if he didn’t get his game on. Rightchus’ mind registered life or death.
“I don’t really know them like that. I mean Eric, uh, Eric Ascot. Him and some peeps just wanted to check out my rap game, you know wha’ I’m saying? He wanted to see what kinda comp is really out there. He wanted to bite sump’n from me,” Rightchus said giving his best con artist performance. “Busta, you’ve seen da guy, da scout who brought me to him. They was looking for a hit, know wha’ I’m saying?”
“Don’t play wid us, you non-rapping mo’-fucka. They want a hit, huh? Well, tell them we have a demo we wanna let them hear, know wha’ I’m saying?” Lil’ Long asked his angry eyes taking deadly aim at a jumpy Rightchus.
“Hey man, I’m not giving y’all up, cuz y’all can make some real demos. I know, I don’t wanna see anymore.”
Lil’ Long reached into his pockets and pulled out about a dozen tiny redcap vials filled with cheap, yellow-stained, cocaine rocks. He poured them in Rightchus’ out-stretched hands.
“Now, you remember who really feeds you, muthafucka. Go on and enjoy. It’s on da house,” Lil’ Long said with a deadly smile. Horns blared as Vulcha pulled the SUV abruptly into the traffic. They departed, leaving Rightchus standing on the corner.
Coco ran over, immediately and slapped Rightchus’ hands. The vials of crack littered the pavement.
“Bitch!” Rightchus yelled. “What da fuck you think you’re doing, girl?”
“Saving your muthafucking, no good life. Your ass best tell me da truth about this whole shit or you ain’t smoking none of these goddamn rocks.” Coco scrambled on the sidewalk, picking up as many of the small vials as she could.
“What truth? What da fuck you talking ‘bout?”
“You know what da fuck I’m talkin’ bout, nigga. Hello, da real fucking truth. You better start yakking away or everyone in da ‘hood will know you is nothing but a fucking crack head.”
“I don’t give a fuck bout no muthafuckas from da hood knowin’. Everybody got a nasty habit. Mine’s crack. What’s yours? Drinking, smoking dust? Cuz that’s why your Spanish friend died. Too much fucking dust an’ coke. So don’t step to Rightchus wid that bullshit.”
“Bullshit! You fucking crack head.”
“Your mother is a crack head. Coco, you best keep your ass out of this and stay in school, ahight. I’m telling you, if you keep following this shit up, yo’ ass will be ended. Can’t say I ain’t warned your ass.”
“Well, you give it to me straight and I’ll let you have your rocks back. And I’ll handle my fucking bidness, ahight?”
“Can’t you handle bidness without my fucking involvement?”
“No, yo.”
“Why?”
“Cuz you started this whole shit. So now you’ve got to come straight, muthafucka.”
“You seen their guns?”
“I ain’t scared. I have guns, too, yo.”
“Guns? Guns? Listen up. You gonna need more than just guns to do battle wid them niggas. Drug dealers and cops. Fucking po-po be scared, and you wanna do battle? Coco, you stick to singing an’ doing your thing on the dance tip. Get your swerve that way. Let da big boys handle that type shit. Coco, I told you ‘bout da time I auditioned for Eric Ascot. He loves ma shit, ma shit. He love da way I put it down. See, I was standing there, he comes along in a limo, pulls up and start checking me doing my thing. At the end, he was like ‘oh shit, we need you in a da studio right away.’ He told me, I was all this ‘n’ that an’ he would love to work wid my ass soon. Soon as ya’ll shit drops, he gonna work wid ma shit. Ma shit be out there on your radio, in stere-ereo. Off the hook, baby,” Rightchus sang and stomped his feet in rhythm.
Coco gazed at Rightchus with eyes reddened from staying up too late. They glowed crimson red with anger at Rightchus’ comedic repertoire. Under the wrath of Coco’s stare, the stirring of Shorty-Wop, a.k.a. Rightchus, ceased. She opened her fists, exposing small red and white topped vials with yellow rocks inside. He read her intentions and opened his lips to plead.
“No, Coco. No, Coco, don’t.”
“Nigga, please,” Coco said. She hurled the vials at Rightchus. He failed miserably to catch all the vials. Most of them scattered in the street. Rightchus scrambled to retrieve them.
“Bitch, you best stay outta that shit. Leave peoples bidness alone or you’ll be toe-tagged.”
“Fuck you, you crack head lowlife.” Coco entered the park, ready to walk home. She turned back to see Rightchus being joined by a congregation of emaciated people in dirty clothes. They prepared to sacrifice their lives in the worship of the contents of the vials.
“Crack heads,” Coco whispered. Her bop came off a little shaky.
“Stay out of it, Coco. You ain’t much. Just a regular girl,” Rightchus called. Then he addressed his crowd. “Y’all muthafuckas come on an’ collect your poison. It ain’t free, it’s gonna cost three.” Business was brisk. Rightchus now concentrated on his growing flock.