Murder With A Deadly Weapon

By Thomas Overton

How does a single glock nine-millimeter reach the hands of several different individuals to be used as the weapon for diverse malicious
crimes? It’s amazing how this occurs, but it happens all throughout America everyday, especially in the hood. People are brutally
murdered, merchandisers are viciously robbed, and other menacing incidents occur without an actual weapon being found at the crime
scene. The police realize that this occurs, but how come weapons aren't discovered? Simple. Villains, more often, move faster than law
officials do, especially in urban communities. So after a person is killed and another gun goes undiscovered, who will be the next to be
murdered with an undiscovered deadly weapon?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Live2Die Publishing
• Release date: Sep 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501461354

Thomas Overton

Residing in the out skirts of Philadelphia, PA, Author Thomas Overton, aka NiceWiththePen, is a success story still being written.  He is an Author and Screenwriter who is making a name for himself within the world of Urban Fiction.   For more information pertaining to Thomas Overton, visit him on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or Google +. Google Author Thomas Overton and visit Amazon for a copy of his works.

Book preview

Murder with a Deadly Weapon

MURDER

WITH

A

DEADLY

WEAPON

From a pawnshop...to the hands of many...

I BECAME A KILLER!

An Urban novel by

Thomas Overton

A Note from the Author

––––––––

I’m no snitch and I’ve done a two-year prison term, but in fair instances, I want to thank God for law enforcement officials. Crimes have occurred towards my family, and me, but thanks to the efforts of law, I’ve found peace within myself without having to dive into the streets seeking revenge. I WANT OUT! I want to thank all of the readers of urban fiction and ask that you continue to support Literary Hip-Hop, because it can become as large as rap music within the record industry. It gives brothers a way of expressing themselves. Without the police’s perspective, Murder with a Deadly Weapon would not have been written. HEY HOLLYWOOD, LET’S ADAPT MORE URBAN NOVELS INTO MOTION PICTURES and GET THIS MONEY! Man, thank God for A NU Direction Publishing, Live2Die Publishing, mental creativity, and freedom from behind prison walls. A life is a terrible thing to waste.

Thank you for the support.  E-mail and let me know how much you enjoyed Murder with a Deadly Weapon. 

E-mail: [e-mail].

Dedications

This book is dedicated–as a revelation, to the people who are unaware of how guns circulate throughout our neighborhoods. God forbid these same-blinded individuals or their children become victims of gun violence. Gun violence is a very serious issue and individuals who blind themselves to that fact need to become very aware. In addition, to the parents of those children who have been murdered by undiscovered guns and/or murder weapons, may you find peace and may your children rest in peace.

CHAPTER 1

My name is Glock Nine. Serial Number: GN9-684-231.  I am made of eighty percent steel and twenty percent sturdy plastic. I’m a semi-automatic pistol and am midnight black in color.  Originally, I was manufactured overseas as a weapon to be used by law enforcement officials: Uniforms, Plain Clothes, Secret Service, FBI, the Seals, etc.  And if obtained by the wrong hands, I am an unlawful lethal weapon used to end a life. Throughout the United States, illegal arms dealers have distributed me and other guns like me in mass quantities. There’s a very serious problem with guns. This story is about how guns like me, illegally purchased on the streets or over the counter, live...

Well, if you don’t know... this is how I’ve lived.

The night air was cool in Philly as the Market Street shopping crowd died down. Earlier that spring day, stores along the Center City Street had made a fortune because of the numerous shoppers that infested the shopping strip. Urine and a heated midst filled the air as individuals, some accompanied with children, didn’t pay the ill aroma and homeless stragglers any mind. They were too engulfed in their own significant shopping sprees. Nevertheless, the warm day was coming to an end as the heavy vehicle traffic, mass people, and wide array of commotion calmed to a near silence. It was close to eight-thirty and almost closing time, as only a few scattered shoppers were still browsing inside the merchandise—filled Pawnshop. A place frequented by crackheads and anyone else who just needed some quick cash, in exchange for whatever the Pawnshop was willing to purchase; a television, a lamp, or even a well-conditioned handgun that could possibly have had a body on it. Pawnshop employees were oriented to pay the customers the bare minimum, so when a crack-head with a stolen radio and an expensive watch tried to strike a deal, it was no easy task.

Come on man! You got to be crazy! This watch is a genuine Jacob. And the radio’s a Sony. How you only trying to give a nigga a hundred and sixty-five damn dollars? the Crackhead asked, feeling as if he were just insulted.

You can take it or leave it, one of the clerks behind the counter replied sternly, not budging an inch.

Behind a separate glass-encased counter and opposite, the negotiating crack-head stood an old white man. The counter he stood behind was filled with different types of merchandise ranging from car radios to DVD players. And two shelves were filled with nothing, except pawned off handguns.

Since 1970, when the Vietnam War was being fought, the old man had been the owner of the pawnshop. When referring to the consistent business functioning Pawnshop, customers would say that the Old Man had maintained his business for years.  His six-foot tall, heavy-set frame seemed to hover over the somewhat sturdy counter. The modern-day, white-collar, button up he wore was so tight, that if he sneezed, it looked as if the force of the sneeze would pop all of the buttons, and burst the shirt wide open. His eyes glared through his librarian type eyeglasses at the inventory of handguns, as he made a mental note of how many were sitting there. Two other people, one male and one female helped the Old Man work the establishment. They looked like they could have been his grandchildren or simply just two college students earning an honest dollar.  But through the eyes of everyday customers, who would truly care.

The doorbells on the front door chimed as Jerry, a slim, dark-skinned, black male, in his early twenties, entered through the doorway. Feeling cheated, the crackhead with the Jacob and Sony now held the shortchanged money the clerk had given him; he mumbled Fuck you, old man to the pawnshop owner, before hurriedly brushing past Jerry and out the door. Paying that no mind, Jerry, dressed in his size 4X Rocawear hoody, baggy Rocawear jeans, and pearly white Air Ones, casually walked over to the counter. Jerry was from the gritty streets of West Philly, where drug dealing and gun toting seemed legal. Jerry sold drugs and worked a nine to five, however his cash flow made thugs who knew him jealous. After feeling the tension build among dudes he hustled around and a rumor he heard that niggas wanted to stick him up, Jerry decided to obtain some form of protection. Being that he’d never been arrested, Jerry chose to try and buy a registered gun out of the Pawnshop.  A couple of days before he walked into the Pawnshop, he had received his gun permit to carry a firearm. Thinking smart, Jerry wanted to keep the haters off of him and not get locked up behind his gun totting choices.  So as he stood in the Pawnshop overlooking the guns in the display case, he looked at the handguns like he couldn’t wait to cop one.

Can I help you? the Old Man asked, looking at Jerry with suspicion.

Like most men in his position would think, the Old Man viewed most of the young black males whom entered his establishment in the same way-they were drug-dealers. An occupation that Jerry dabbled in.

Yeah, I’d like to purchase a handgun, Jerry replied.

Well, do you know what type of gun you’re looking for?

Something powerful, you know...-with a kick to it, Jerry replied, like a dude from the hood with an itchy trigger finger, but had never touched a hammer before. 

The Old Man’s eyes met Jerry’s and he assumed Jerry was a drug dealer trying to obtain a legal gun with a legal gun permit.

The Old Man replied with a slight chuckle, If shot correctly, all handguns are considered powerful. Most of them are packed to blast with a kick so strong, you better have all of your weight behind it, so it can be withstood.

Jerry kind of cracked a half smile at the Old Man’s comment that was meant to be all so serious.  What about that one right there?

This one? the Old Man replied, as he pointed at the wrong gun.

No, this one right here, Jerry said as he eagerly pointed at the midnight black Glock Nine that sat handsomely within the display case.

Oh, the Old Man said, with hidden excitement that a young man like Jerry would choose such a firearm. A firearm that, if Jerry could buy, the Old Man hoped it wouldn’t be used to murder the first person who said something crazy out of their mouth.

This is a great choice of firearm, the Old Man continued, as he slid the glass door open, grabbed the Glock Nine, and placed it on the counter.

What is it? Jerry asked looking at the Glock, mystified.

It’s a Glock,

A nine milly?

Yes, the Old Man replied, as he picked up the Glock to show Jerry the handgun.

When loaded, this one carries nine in the clip and one in the chamber, the Old Man continued.

Curious, Jerry asked, What do the bullets look like?

The Old Man turned around and grabbed a box of bullets from off of the shelf behind him. He turned back to face Jerry.

They carry big bullets too. They can slow down or even stop a Mack truck, the Old Man said, as he opened the box of bullets, pulled one out, and showed Jerry its size.

Jerry took the bullet in his hand and looked it over. He was curious about what the bullet could really do if it hit a nigga’s flesh. Maybe splatter a hatter’s face, sort of like Jameel did to Little Malik in South Philly two weeks ago. Yeah, this looks exactly like what I need, Jerry thought to himself.

How much, for everything? he asked.

The Old Man looked at Jerry like yeah; you’ll kill somebody with it soon. Nevertheless, the Old Man replied to Jerry’s question, Well, you'll have to fill out a clearance form first. And if everything checks out, we’ll want five hundred for the gun and twenty-four dollars for the box of bullets.

Again, the doors chimed alerting the Pawnshop workers that another customer had entered the establishment. The two workers were tending to two other customers and did not pay any attention to the chime.  The Old Man was so engrossed in his conversation with Jerry that he never heard the chime or noticed the individuals whom entered until it was too late. Two masked men, Eric and Damien, entered the Pawnshop and quickly moved toward the counters. Each of them carried shotgun rifles. However, Eric also carried an empty duffel bag strapped across his upper body.  He licked a shot in the air. Everybody get down on the floor! This is a robbery!

Startled and totally caught off-guard, Jerry and the few other customers who were in the Pawnshop, quickly followed the directions of the two masked men and nervously hit the floor. The Old Man and the two other workers of