Detroit Cracked Book 2: Big D's Return

By Marsell Morris

How could he have foreseen how it would end? No one could. Thanks to being stabbed in the back by, Edward, one of his dope house operators, Big-D, a kingpin in the crack trade on the East side of Detroit, was facing several years in the gray bar hotel, “prison” for drug distribution.

He’d already lost his home, his clothes, his jewelry, all the money he’d made from plying his trade, his luxury SUV, and now he was loosing his two women, companions, and bi lovers, Candy and Shirley.

To make matters worse, Brick, Big’s counterpart on the West side of the city, as well as Sandman, and Midnight, two brothers, and vicious dealers from Chicago, wanted his territory, and Big wasn’t having any of it.

While behind bars, and witnessing the rape of a fellow inmate, Big realizes he can’t do his time. He contrives a plan to not only get out of jail, but, also, get rid of his rivals, as well as get his women back.

After getting out of prison, Big puts his plan into action. What he couldn’t foretell was the chain of events that would lead to his demise. Not even his best friend, Boss-man, a retired, ex-pimp, and whore house operator, could save him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marsell Morris
• Release date: Oct 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301128914

Marsell Morris

Marsell was born in Detroit Michigan in the year of... well, a good while ago. After graduating from Cass Technical High School, Marsell went to work for the Chrysler Corporation as a conveyor loader. Shortly after beginning his employment with Chrysler, he married, and fathered three children. Thirty-one years later, and after having gained the position of production supervisor, he retired at fifty.After retiring, he began playing golf everyday and all day. Having lowered his handicap to near scratch, and winning a tournament at even par, and behind a debilitating injury, he was unable to continue playing. He had a lot of free time on his hands, whereupon, he took up writing as a hobby and time killer and discovered he had talent for spinning a yarn.After pounding out eleven urban fictions, covering everything from drug use, prostitution, gang crime, murder, and romance/erotica, and having always been a science fiction fan from his teenage years, he thought he’d try his hand at writing a Sci-Fi tail, which culminated in his first work “Alien Plot - First Contact” now retitled "Alien Offensive - Nanobot Storm" and its four sequels, and which, at one time before he ran into problems with its publisher, was considered good fodder for production as a movie, not because he is such a great writer, but because of its unique, previously unexplored, plot.He still lives in Detroit, and being a compulsive writer, he spends most of his time wearing out his fourth keyboard replacement, while pursuing what he loves doing — writing more tails with unique story lines.

Book preview

Prologue

…During the fifteen-minute drive to the alley Dawg was looking for, Kiki fought back the erg to beg for forgiveness. She felt any attempt to reason with the mad man would only bring down more immediate punishment from him. She decided to accept the whipping she thought she was surely going to receive. She slumped low in the rear seat, trying to slow the drain of blood from her broken nose while holding a finger across her nostrils, and then pulling it down to only see the flow continue. Her head thumped from the blows from the pistol, and she had trouble focusing her vision. She probably had a concussion. She glanced up at the seemingly compassionate Donald, hoping for help from him. Donald, catching her mournful gaze, only turned his head to look through the side window, knowing there was little he could do to help…

Chapter 1

Gerald, Kelvin, Reynolds, or Big D, knew this could happen as he sat in the small anteroom waiting to be arraigned on charges of trafficking a controlled and illegal substance - crack. The small, cramped, windowless, room was stifling, and smelled of unwashed armpit, and stale cigarette smoke, which was attempted to be covered over by the overuse of a pine-scented disinfectant. The plain, pale, green, plaster walls were bare, not even a clock to focus on.

At least I could have watched the second-hand move, Big thought.

The black and white, checkerboard, tiled floor still held the remnants of extinguished and flattened cigarette butts left there by some lung-polluting cop, no doubt, he imagined.

Big had been sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair for nearly two hours, and his butt, legs, and feet were a-tingle, having gone to sleep not long after being seated, and to make matters worse, he had to take a leak. He was offered a chance to relieve himself before being brought to the interview room, but he declined, while not having to go at that time. He now wished he'd at least tried to drain the pipes.

He wanted to get up and walk around, give his sore butt a rest, but his right wrist was shackled by handcuffs to a metal loop protruding from the top of the metal table.

A deputy had opened the heavy metal door several times, poked his head in, and gave Big a quick once over, to only close, and again lock the door. Every time the cop looked in at him, Big hoped it was either his lawyer coming to brief him, or someone coming to take him to his hearing, or at least offer him another chance to relieve himself.

He shifted his weight in the hard chair, trying to give each hip a chance to regain feeling. While hungering for anything to focus on. He leaned over to try and read the small brand names on the butts on the floor. It was a waste of time, his eyes weren’t that good.

He heard the keys being inserted in the lock again, and quickly straightened up. This time he’d demand to be taken to the toilet. The door opened. It was the same officer who’d checked on him more than an hour ago. Hey, officer! Big said loudly, but not yelling, come on man, I got to go. Give me a break. I’ve been sitting on this hard ass chair for hours.

The officer glared back at Big, saying, hold on buddy, it won’t be much longer. They’ll be with you in a few. With that, he closed and locked the door, not giving Big a chance to ask again.

Big D was a huge man, at over three-hundred and fifty-pounds, and if he had to sit there much longer, he doubted he’d be able to walk when the time came, and he desperately had to go. As he waited to be called to the courtroom to find his destiny, having nothing else to do but stare at the scratched charcoal gray tabletop, he thought back over the most recent events, which led to his arrest...

******

The dope Edward had in his pocket was making him a little edgy. His addiction was slowly emerging, tempting him to do something stupid. He was on the Island for one reason, to set up Big D. To make an undercover drug purchase with marked money.

The purchase a success, he was having second thoughts about turning in the bundle of crack in his pocket. He was sure once he was over the Belle Isle Bridge and back in the city, the cops would be waiting for him. Hell, they’d told him so, and warned him to not try to get away or they’d throw the book at him. Warned him the deal would be off, and he’d do the maximum time in prison due him. But his addiction was whispering in his ear, and he could hear it as clearly as if a little devil was sitting on his shoulder talking to him. It was saying, forget the police and their deal — you can get away. You need a hit, go ahead and try it. Its right there in your pocket. All you need is a cigarette and a lighter.

He only had moments to make up his mind. He was torn between doing the right thing, and giving in to his powerful craving. The cab was moving too fast — he needed time to think. He pulled the package of drugs from his pocket and turned it over in his hands. He eyed it from one angle and then the other, mashing it, fondling it. Watching the chunks of dope slide back and forth in the plastic wrapper.

The craving was getting stronger while centered in his stomach and rising into his chest. His mouth watered. In his mind, he could taste the smoke of the rock. He seriously wanted to break off a small piece of the eight-ball and hit it right now, before he turned the remainder over to the cops. But how could he dodge the cops, and where could he go to hit a little piece, and what would he use to smoke it?

He knew he’d be going straight to jail once back in the city proper, and this would be his last blast for who knows how long. The thought depressed him, but in a way, after turning on Big D, he was kind of looking forward to a stay in the pen. There was no telling how Big would react to being set up, and jail might be a kind of sanctuary against Big's wrath.

Even better yet, he thought, maybe I can go on the run — lay low for awhile, somewhere neither PoPo nor Big's hit men could find me? Yeah, I could get out of this cab now, before we get to the bridge. I could hide out on the island until dark and then walk across the bridge under the cover of darkness, or maybe steal somebody’s car.

Naw, he rejected that idea. It’s too cold outside and I ain’t dressed for the weather. They sent me on this mission straight from my cell, and I’m still wearing the same clothes I was arrested in. I ain’t got on nothing but this flimsy white T-shirt, these light weight jeans, no socks, and borrowed shoes. No, not the rags for Detroit’s winter weather, he thought, better stay in the cab.

I’ll let the cab cross the bridge and then try and make a run for the expressway, he decided. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll get down in the ditch and make a break for it, and hide out somewhere. I can leave town while keeping the dope or the money from selling the dope, of course, after smoking a crumb, and still make a few dollars and have my freedom.

Good or bad, his mind was made up. The cab crossed the bridge off the island while passing over the partially frozen Detroit River, and while cruising at a leisurely pace. So far, the cops hadn’t shown up.

He told the cab driver to go east on Jefferson, and make a left on Conner, forgetting about the wire he was wearing. He figured if he could get to the freeway, he’d be home free, and could dodge the cops from there.

As he rode, his head was pivoting like an owl’s, looking for the cops — nothing in sight, good, he thought, as the tape holding the concealed microphone in place, pulled a chest hair. Damn, I’m still wearing this frigging wire, he remembered. I wonder if they heard me tell the cab where to turn. Naw, they probably ain’t listening no more, he imagined. Dumb pigs, they don’t know who they’re dealing with — slick Eddie, that’s who.

He relaxed and sat back in the seat, thinking he was in the clear. Nothing could be further from the truth. The traffic was light on Jefferson, and the road to freedom in sight.

Yeah, man, I’m gone, gone, gone. Free as the birds in the trees, he imagined.

He watched the meter clicking away, now just over three dollars and clicking faster than he liked, while wondering how far he’d be able to get on the twenty-dollars Big had given him for the trip back. They were about halfway to Conner when the meter reached five dollars.

Okay, he thought, I might not make it to the freeway, but I can get near a familiar neighborhood where I can find another dope house to hide in.

He relaxed a touch more as he decided whose house he’d use. Suddenly the cab driver began, repeatedly, looking into his rearview mirror. The driver could barely keep his eyes on the road. Cursing, loudly, as he took an extended gaze in the rear view mirror, the driver then quickly glanced over his shoulder, and then back at the mirror.

What’s wrong? asked Edward, halfway knowing the answer.

The damn cops are pulling me over, the driver replied. Hell, I ain't done nothing wrong, why they messing with me? Probably, because I’m black.

Edward snapped his head around so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. A sinking feeling gripped his stomach. There, on the cabs bumper, in an unmarked car with cherries and blues glowing through the grill, were his two friends, Officers Drake, and Johnson. They were the cops who’d raided his dope house, and made him the offer of a light sentence if he flipped on Big D. With smirks on their faces, they were looking him straight in the eyes, and were talking between themselves.

Don't sweat it bro, it's me they want — pull over, Edward told the driver, as he took one last forlorn look at the dope in his hand and cursed.

The driver pulled over and stopped. The unmarked car pulling along-side them and stopping. The two officers didn't bother to look around. Edward knew the drill. He tried to be slick and got out of the cab without paying the driver. He was hoping he could keep the money Big gave him for the ride.

Hey player! The driver called, where you going? You ain’t paid me yet. Where’s my money?

Edward stopped and got back into the cab.

Now is not the time to create more trouble for myself, he thought, especially, with the cops right there.

He paid the driver, giving him no more than the exact fare, and got out of the cab, and into the back seat of the black, unmarked, patrol car.

He was crestfallen. Even though he hadn’t had anything to eat, he could feel his bowels wanting to move. It was cold outside, but he broke out in an instant sweat. The craving for the drug sometimes did that.

Once seated in the cruiser, Officer Drake turned to speak to the sick Edward, Eddie, my boy, you weren't thinking of trying to make a break for it, were you? We heard you tell the cab to turn on Conner.

Who, me? Naw, man. I knew you guys was behind us and listening. I was telling you which way I was going. I was just waiting for you to make the stop. Honest man, I didn't know what to do next, Edward lied, as he handed the plastic wrapped, balled up, two cubes of sugar sized, package of dope to Officer Drake.

Officer Drake, a seventeen-year veteran in the department, the last five in the narcotics division, took the dope and examined it, hefting it in his hand. Giving Edward a quick look over his shoulder, Drake asked, I know you weren't fool enough to pinch off this were you?

Edward thought, why the hell’s he asking me that? I know he don’t think I’m going to tell him, ‘yeah, cop, I was going to bust me a big o’ piece off that marble, and do me a big, mind-blowing hit, get my head in the right place?’ Damn, these cops are stupid.

While, tipping his head to one side, and faking an injured expression, Edward responded, come on man, I know I ain’t too bright, rolling the way I was, but I ain’t no idiot. If I did break off a small piece, where was I planning to smoke it? And I know it’s a felony that would add to my time in jail if I brought the crumb into the station house. Give me a break, man. And, when you going to clean this mutha? It stinks back here, smells like vomit, he concluded, as he turned his head and watched the free world pass by for the last time in a long while.

I shoulda got out of that damn cab when I started too, he thought, I coulda borrowed a lighter and cigarette from somebody and had me a good hit by now.

His stomach was turning flips, partly from the odor, partly from the craving for the crack just out of reach in the front seat.

So close, and yet so far away, and so much of it too. Damn, I wants me a hit.

Good answer, is all Officer Drake said, ignoring the remark about the odor in the back seat. He knew it stank back there, but wasn't his problem. The motor-pool was responsible for maintaining the units, but they sometimes got a little lazy, especially, if they had to clean up some junkies vomit. He knew it wouldn’t matter if Edward did try to break off a piece of the dope, it wouldn’t hurt their case against Big. He dropped the contraband into an evidence bag and labeled it. He too, turned to watch the free world go by, but not for the last time.

Sit tight, Ed, Officer Johnson added, we’ll remove the wire when we get to the precinct. You did good, you can relax now. Big will be in our hands in a few minutes, and while you’re in the joint, you can start your recovery from your addiction. I hope you learned your lesson, Eddie. There’s no way you’re going to sell crack in this city. Think about that while you’re in your cell cooling your heels. We’ve busted you before, and know you. When you get out in a year or two, don’t try rolling again. We’ll bust you again. And next time we ain’t going to offer a deal — you’ll do your full time.

With that, Officer Johnson turned back around and said no more. He knew Edward wasn’t going to take his advice, but at least he had his conscience covered by offering.

I wonder how long it will be before I bust him again, he thought?

Cherries off, the cruiser sped eastward on Jefferson, headed towards the 9th precinct, and Edward's destiny.

Edward laid his head back on the seat, not bothering to watch where they were going any more. He knew they’d get there soon enough, and way too soon for his comfort.

Chapter 2

Back on the island, Big watched Edward’s taxicab drive down the Strand on its way to the bridge off Belle Isle, an island park in the Detroit river. He wondered if he'd made a serious mistake by bringing Edward the package. The cab almost out of sight, he looked over his shoulder. The girls in the back seat of his truck were asleep. A movie was still running, quietly, on the headrest DVD.

Damn, I wish I could go to sleep anytime I wanted, he thought, particularly, behind being woke up early this morning.

Big, or D, as some people called him, had a feeling something wasn’t right about Edward. The feeling was like an itch in between his shoulder blades where he couldn't scratch. It began this morning when he got that emergency call from Edward, who was one of his dope house operators.

Edward said he'd been raided last night, and had just bailed out of jail. Edward explained he needed a couple eight-balls to sell, until he got back on his feet. Big ignored his intuition — that almost audible voice in the back of his head was trying to tell him something was wrong about that call. Ignored his, something’s wrong with this crap, meter, and despite his misgivings, met with Edward.

They met on the island at a site suggested by Big. A site he could see the cops coming from any direction. Because Edward only had money for one ball, and because Big didn’t deal in credit, he only brought Edward one marble. Big handed the desperate looking Edward the dope while taking the little money he had.

Damn shame, he thought, not long after Edward got out of his customized Navigator. I hope Ed gets back on his feet. Hell, before the raid, Edward ran one of my highest volume dope houses.

But he still had a bad feeling he couldn't explain. There was something about the call from Ed that didn’t set right with him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. There was nothing concrete to latch onto, but it was like a tinny voice in the back of his head. A voice, which was trying to warn him of something, but was speaking so low he couldn’t quiet make out what it was saying. Big wondered if he was getting paranoid as he grew older. He’d never had a feeling like this before. It was nagging him, and he wished he could understand exactly what the voice was warning him of. Everything seemed to be okay, but that feeling just wouldn't leave him alone.

The delivery of the one eight-ball of crack to Edward went okay. At least it appeared so. But now that he thought about it, Edward did act a little strange. He seemed to be in a hurry of some kind — want to get out of Big’s large truck.

Edward had never been in much of a hurry before, why now? In the past, the two men sometimes shared a drink of Yak, and talked about how the business was going. They’d kick it, Edward telling Big about the freaky women who always hang out at his dope house. Edward would brag about how he was getting all kinds of sex from those crack-head, sack-chasing, women. Big would try to warn Ed about the consequences of his sex-capades, try to warn him of the possibility of catching AIDS. They’d laugh and joke before splitting up.

Not this time. Edward didn’t want to engage in small talk. He didn’t want to talk about his arrest, or anything else. Furthermore, Edward didn’t check the dope as he usually did, while turning it over in his hands, and complaining about the size of the package. He seemed to be nervous, and more interested in what was going on outside of the truck than the transaction at hand. He appeared to be in a hell of a hurry to get on his way, which was strange.

Big chalked Edward’s nervousness up to having just being released from jail, and maybe being worried about the fare of the waiting cab parked behind them. Big dismissed all of the warning signals, and giving Edward cab fare back to the city, sent him on his way.

******

Big D, (a lot of the dealers use the letter D as their name, or part of their name. The D standing for DOPE, or DEALER), was a well known, mid level, drug dealer / supplier, on the Eastside of Detroit. He, at thirty-seven, was a huge, barrel of a man, about 6'3'' and 350 lbs. His oversized head was the platform for a face with a permanent smile plastered on it. He was an even-tempered, easygoing type of dude, who loved people, loved kicking it with them, and having a good time.

He drove a new, fully equipped, and customized, Burnt Orange, Navigator, with 22-inch spinner wheels, the kind that made the SUV's wheels seam to be stationary while the truck was moving. The cream interior was of the softest leather, with wood grain trimmings. It had combination TV / DVD screens in the front seat headrest, satellite radio, 20 disk CD player, GPS navigation system, On Star, and much more.

Big quit his job as security / bouncer in one of Detroit's more popular blind pigs, and got into drug pushing, after spending a week with his cousin, Jarow, in Chicago.

Couz, you too sharp to be working for someone else, Jarow, a tall thin man, who was a failed pimp, would repeatedly tell him while smiling with the one gold tooth in his mouth, flashing. I can set you up with the right people here, and in D-town, and teach you the ropes to rolling, he persisted. Look at me, man, I got the cash, I got the women, hell Big, money practically jumps into my pocket, Jarow encouraged.

It didn't take much for Big to take Jarow up on his offer. After meeting the right people in Chicago and Detroit, Big began his life as a dope dealer. What neither, Jarow, nor Big, could know at that time, was a month later, Jarow would be shot, and killed by rival dealers over territory. Jarow's murderers were particularly vicious. They shot him in the head five times with a .22 long, and then dumped his naked body into Lake Michigan. His executioners were never found and brought to justice. They probably got away with the murder because the Chicago police knew who Jarow was, and figured the murder was drug related.

The authorities chalked it up, saying, one less dealer on the streets.

Big’s specialty was crack, or powdered Cocaine, but he also sold pills of any kind, Weed, and Blow (Heroin). You name it, I got it, he’d always say, and, although, he didn’t have to sell to his customers in person, he continued too. He loved the contact with some of his customers.

He had several small dope houses, all of which he supplied, and were run by others, and were doing fairly well. Because he didn't have to stay in one spot waiting for his customers to come to him, he also had a lot of free time. His frequent trips to the casinos had lost their allure. Going by Boss-man’s after-hours, blind pig, and gambling, or watching the women put on freak shows, was still fun, but not something he wanted to do every night of the week. Having sex with his two lesbian traveling companions, and watching them freak each other, was not as exciting as it once was, so he spent less time at home in his large suburban house, and more time in the streets. He enjoyed the streets, meeting people, and flashing his bling-bling. And of course, he liked taking his two fine women to a nice restaurant, front, and have a nice meal.

He knew the police were aware of his supplying, but he was not worried because his Navigator had several hidden compartments he spent several thousand dollars to be incorporated in the design of his truck, and were undetectable at first glance. He’d be safe from a street search unless they brought in the dogs. He kept a low profile by delivering to his customers, and dope houses, only after they ordered by cell phones that were prepaid and untraceable.

******

The transaction now complete, Big waited for the cab to get out of sight before he started his engine. As he drove, he, in his mind, went over the earlier phone conversation with Edward, trying to figure out what wasn’t right about it. Trying to quiet

******

When the call came, Big was at home in bed with his two lesbian lovers, trying to sleep off the head thumping hangover from partying the night before. His insistent cell began ringing, and rang until it was answered. He now wished he'd set the phone to accept messages after a certain number of rings. Big rolled over, grunting, and shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through the side of the closed window blinds, and past the drapes, at the exact angle to hit him in his face. He picked up the phone, and checked the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the incoming number.

Who’s this, he wondered, as he hit the send button? Hello, he answered.

Hey, Big, this is Edward, the caller, responded.

This ain't your number, where you calling from? Big, immediately, asked, always cautious.

******

Big stopped to think, maybe it was the strange phone number that’s bothering me? I don’t know. He went on with his recollection…

******

Yeah, I know, it ain't my phone. That’s what I’m calling you about. You ain't going to believe this, but I was hit last night and... Edward tried to explain, but was interrupted by Big.

What do you mean you were hit? Somebody rob you? You have a drive-by? What the hell are you talking about? Big inquired.

If you hold on a minute and let me talk, I’ll tell you what happened. I was raided by the cops. Can you believe that bogus crap? Edward continued, they found a marked fifty-dollar bill in with my other money. They nailed me man. They took everything, all my dope and money. Somebody set me up, Big. Somebody made an undercover buy with marked money. When I find out who it was, I'm going to have them hit. But that’s another story. What I need right now is some help to get back on my feet.

What are you talking about? What kind of help do you need? How did you get out of jail, anyway, if they got all your money? Big questioned, suspiciously.

Man, I had to have Darlene pawn my bling to raise the bail, Edward lied, it was more than enough to pay my tab and have a little left over. That's where you come in. I got enough cheddar for one ball. What I was wondering was if you’ll front me another? I know you don’t give out credit, and normally I wouldn’t ask, but I’m in a jam. I promise, I’ll tear off your change by the end of the day, Edward pleaded.

Edward’s right, I don’t give credit, and have no intention of doing it now, Big thought, while listening to Edward’s story, and then said, sorry Ed, my man, I can't help you right now, Big said, after Edward finished his begging routine, I can get the one ball to you when you’re ready, but I don't have anything to spare. You know there’s a light panic (shortage) out here right now. Do you want the eighth?

Are you sure that's all you can let me have? I wouldn’t ask if I didn't need it, but if that's all you can do for me, I’ll take it.

That's all Ed. Do you want it or not? Big said, while growing impatient. His empty stomach was growling. He wanted to end this conversation and maybe go to a restaurant and get the girls and he something to eat.

Yeah, I'll take it, Edward said, while sounding dejected, I'll have to cut the dimes down a little to make a little extra money. Will I be able to get another as soon as I raise the money?

Word, baby boy, you know I'll take care of you.

Where do you want to meet? Edward asked.

I don't know. I want some place I can see the cops coming. I know, let's meet on the Island... At the point, near the rest rooms. You know, near the fountain, Big instructed.

Damn Big, wake up, you know I ain't driving. Can't we meet somewhere on the Eastside?

Don't worry about that Edward, catch a cab, and I’ll take care of it when you arrive. I’ll meet you there at two this afternoon. Be on time, I don't want to have to wait. And make sure the money’s right, Big instructed, and hung up without giving Edward a chance to reply.

******

That’s when the nagging felling something wasn’t right, began. Edward's explanation of pawning his jewelry just didn’t sound right.

I ain’t never known him to have a lot of bling. Hell, Edward smoked dope as well as sold it. When did he have money to buy jewelry?

No, that jewelry thing doesn’t have the ring of truth, he thought.

He ignored his instincts, and forgot about it as best he could, but that feeling, that little voice in the back of his head wouldn’t let him dismiss it completely.

******

After the transaction, and before he pulled away from the curb, Big looked around, and scoped the vehicles in his area. Another couple were sitting on a picnic table feeding the Seagulls, and other than giving his truck, and the taxicab behind him, a quick glance, they paid him no attention, or so he thought.

There weren’t many vehicles on Belle Isle during this time of day in the winter. During the warmer days of summer, the Island would be teaming with families enjoying a day on the Island Park, one of Detroit’s jewels. At night, the family crowd on their way home, the younger crowd descended on the island, usually in groups of three or more per vehicle. The young women, driving their parent’s vehicles, pretending they didn’t want to be noticed, were there to have some fun the same as the young men. The young men in their fancy vintage cars, rolling on double duceses, would try to draw attention to themselves with the oversized bass speakers in their trunks, blasting the latest rap tune. They, while attempting pull a fine young scank, would sometimes cause the late evening, heavy traffic, to come to a stand still, as