“No! How the fuck y’all gonna let this happen? That’s my fuckin’ baby daddy!” Lala cried hysterically while being held back by Martin County deputies.
Her shrill was heartbreaking, and the deputies understood her pain.
“Ma’am, we can’t let you come ’cross the line,” a sheriff’s deputy said to her.
He was a black man in his twenties and one of the first to arrive at the chilling scene. Yellow tape had been set up around Jake’s store’s porch. Both Joc and Meat Head’s bodies were covered in white shrouds. The entire block was lit up like Christmas, with a crowd of grieving family and friends for both victims.
Meat Head’s mother had been rushed to the hospital when the devastating news came knocking at her front door.
“I can’t believe this! Please bring him back!” Lala continued to shrill.
It took Lala’s mother and other Ms. Gorgeouses to come pull her away as they all cried uncontrollably.
Real, Shamoney, and Lunatic pulled up an hour later to the crowded block and saw that Joc and Meat Head’s bodies were still on the scene.
Damn! Real thought as he looked on at the aftermath of what without a doubt came behind hitting Popa Zoe.
After Jake had called 911, he called Real with the devastating news that they had lost two swamp niggas.
“Man! What we gonna do? Play like these Zoes ain’t do dis shit!” a swamp nigga named Var exclaimed, wiping away his tears with his black T-shirt.
“Hell no. We ain’t gonna play like they ain’t do this shit!” Real said to Var, embracing his homeboy and consoling him. “We gonna get these muthafuckas, brah. We gonna get ’em!” Real promised.
When he looked farther into the crowd of people, he made eye contact with Lala and could see the pain on her face. He knew Lala loved Joc to some point, and she was transparently showing him how vast her love was for him, despite them cheating on each other. It was something Real didn’t want to be a part of. There was no way he was going to be a rebound nigga to replace a dead man.
“Man, I gotta get up from here,” Var said, breaking away from Real and walking away from the scene.
“When dis shit clears out, we runnin’ in on all these Zoe traps and gettin’ them out of our hood and county,” Real told Shamoney, who concisely nodded his head in agreement.
* * *
Detective Mark Harris was a veteran of the Martin County Homicide Department, and what he hated most was being perplexed when solving a murder. He was a fifty-five-year-old black man who stood six three and weighed 212 pounds. He was solid, with salt-and-pepper hair. His partner, Det. Lisa Holmes, was a strikingly gorgeous, thirty-five-year-old blonde woman who stood five five and weighed 140 pounds. She was just as perplexed at the scene.
“First the Haitians and now this! What connection do we have?” Det. Harris asked Holmes, who stood near her unmarked car with her hands resting on her hips close to her Glock 21.
“I’d say we maybe have something, but why?” she asked, perplexed.
“Lisa, I just don’t get this one,” Harris retorted as he walked back under the yellow tape to thoroughly investigate the crime.
With a gloved hand, Harris knelt down to where Joc’s body was and pulled back the shroud to inspect the nature of the wounds, praying that they could tell him a story he hadn’t heard, or provide a clue to solve the case. But unfortunately, there was no luck on that hope.
“A Mossberg pump for sure!” Lisa said over Harris’s shoulder while looking down at Joc’s disfigured face.
“Yep,” Harris retorted, then covered Joc’s face and stood up.
“This one really scares me, Lisa,” Harris admitted.
“Tell me about it,” she replied.
* * *
“So, do you think Shamoney is responsible for Popa Zoe?” Black asked Pat on his iPhone while pacing in his spacious, opulent living room.
“Honestly, Black, no. I do think that one of them niggas in the swamp is behind it,” Pat admitted.
“B-Zoe did a good job. Who did he have with him?” Black inquired.
“He took one of his men with him.”
“Was he paid in full?” Black asked.
“Yeah, everything!” Pat replied.
“Okay, dat’s good business,” Black added.
“Haitian mafia will always be good business, brah!” Pat said.
“Always. You know that Polo got away again? Da nigga is swift.”
“Tell me about it,” Pat said in Creole.
“He killed all my men from Little Barn. No one knows how he knew it was them. Some say Grandma Benita, and we all know if she had any vision, then it was her,” Black explained.
“So, tell me dis,” Pat began, but paused.
Black could hear a woman screaming in the background. No doubt it was Gina.
“Black, she’s going into labor, brah! Oh shit!” Pat was exhilarated.
“Congrats, boy! Go attend to her. We’ll talk later,” Black said as he hung up the phone.
Black lived alone in his mansion, other than his guards outside. Since his wife had died, he never remarried and only dealt with women when he was sexually frustrated. When he did get a hold of some pussy, it was always a threesome.
I think I’ma call up them twins. Shit! A nigga love seeing them bitches go at it, Black thought while calling up his main bodyguard, Choppa.
“Yo,” Choppa answered into the phone.
“I need them Jamaican twins,” Black said to him, and Choppa then hung up the phone.
Black walked upstairs to his room and stripped down to nothing and hopped into bed. While he awaited the twins’ arrival, all he could think about was his swift nemesis, Polo.
One day you will not be able to escape my wrath. Soon, I will have your chump ass, nigga! Black thought, engrossed in vengeance. One day, muthafucka, I will have you! he thought, never foreseeing the real threat that was approaching him.
Twenty minutes had passed before the twins entered the room wearing nothing but their birthday suits. They lustrously sashayed over to Black and climbed in bed on both sides of him. Their names were Keke and Meme, and both had a swarthy complexion. They stood equal at five eight, with Coke-bottle frames and stallion thighs. They were definitely eye candy from Opa-locka, Miami, and were Smooth Girl models.
Meme took Black’s erect dick into her mouth while Keke climbed on top of his face.
“That’s right, baby. Put dat pussy in me face!” Black said in his best English as he began sucking on her throbbing clitoris.
He then grabbed her succulent ass with both palms and ate out her hairless phat pussy like he was eating a juicy watermelon.
“Uhhh! Yes, daddy! Eat dis phat pussy, mon!” Keke purred as she seductively gyrated her hips and rode his face. “Yes, daddy! Uhhh!” Keke then moaned while sister took Black’s dick deep down her throat without gagging on his enormous size and girth.
Clap! Clap!
Keke clapped her hands, and Keith Sweat came softly pouring from the hidden surround system, adding spice to their grooves.
The Haitian dream. Fuck the American dream! Every Haitian needs them two bitches by law, Black thought as he fucked Keke with his tongue.