Madman (Love & Chaos #1)

By W.S. Greer

People fear what they don’t understand. Maybe that’s why they all fear me. I’m sure they have their reasons, I just couldn’t possibly care what any of them are. As long as they’re afraid.
Born to a drug dealer father and a drug addict mother, I’ve been through enough to make a normal person lose their mind five times over. I’m not normal. Normal is for weak people, and I'm anything but weak.

My childhood was made of nightmares, but there was one light in all my darkness. Her name was Reina Wilde, and when my mother would hit me or pass out in the middle of the living room on her high, I would confide in her. We were from completely different worlds, but she meant something to me, though I never figured out what, because she left. In the years that followed, I built a reputation for myself, and let go of any and all deluded notions of love.

I’ll never go straight now. It’s just too much fun taking things from people who are powerless to stop me. And make no mistake about it, I take what I want, from who I want, when I want.

I'm infamous in this city. But everything changes when, after years apart, I finally see Reina again, and she’s standing next to my enemy--the underboss of the Philadelphia mob.

It’s not just about power anymore. It’s not about respect. No, this is personal now.
Gasoline has been thrown on the flame, and for Reina, I’m about to burn the whole world to the ground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.S. Greer
• Release date: Feb 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370834334

W.S. Greer

WS (Will) Greer is the author of bestselling novels such as Claiming Carter (The Carter Series), Kingpin (An Italian Mafia Romance), and The Therapist (The Therapist Series). He's also a USAF veteran since 2004, and is still serving today, after 3 deployments to the middle east and countless assignments overseas.WS grew up in Clovis, NM, and now resides in Delaware, where he lives with his family, and continues to write romantic thrillers and suspense like he's running out of time (shout out to Hamilton!).To learn more about WS Greer, please visit wsgreer.wordpress.comFind WS on social media:Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorWSGreerInstagram: www.instagram.com/author_ws_greerTwitter: www.twitter.com/authorwsgreerAmazon Central: http://amzn.to/2kztq7ZBookBub: http://bit.ly/2P6kzO8

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Madman

Copyright © 2018 by WS Greer

First edition published by Book Mode 2018

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Cover design by:

Robin Harper, Wicked by Design

Interior Design & Formatting by:

Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

Contents

Madman

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

TWO WEEKS LATER

Chapter 6

ONE MONTH LATER

Chapter 7

ONE MONTH LATER

Chapter 8

THREE MONTHS LATER

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

ONE WEEK LATER

Chapter 11

TWO WEEKS LATER

Chapter 12

ONE WEEK LATER

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART TWO

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART THREE

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Books by WS Greer

THE WORLD IS gray.

No surprise there. How else would I expect it to look on my seventeenth birthday?

I step out of my rundown house and breathe in the chilled air, nearly freezing my lungs in the process. On the other side of the door that’s closing behind me, is my thirty-four-year-old mother, who’s passed out on the filthy living room floor with a needle in her arm. Again. Whitney—the woman I have no choice but to call my mother—decided to use my birthday as an excuse to push more heroin into her veins. It was a time to celebrate, she said, as she pressed the plunger and fell into a lifeless stupor on the couch, just before losing control of her bodily functions and sliding down to the floor where I left her. Happy Birthday, Solomon King.

I can see my breath as I step off the squeaky, dilapidated porch and zip up my new coat. It’s thick, with a Philadelphia Eagles logo on the back. Really nice. It’s mine, but it wasn’t always. Because who are we kidding? Isn’t it obvious? Whitney is a junkie, so we all know she would never save enough money to buy me this coat. But it’s freezing in South Philly in December, so I needed something to keep me warm. I also needed these Timberland boots and sweatpants, just like I needed this Eagles beanie, and when you live in Strawberry Mansion with a junkie for a mother, you do what you’ve got to do. You take what you need, and make no mistake about it, I take what I want, when I want, from who I want. So let’s just say I needed the clothes I’m wearing more than the little rich prick I took them from. I’m sure his mother and father love him to the moon and back, so he probably has five new Eagles coats to replace the one I stole from him. Don’t feel bad for him. I don’t.

I walk out of my yard, closing the rusty fence behind me, and start down the street toward Aaron’s Arcade. It’s only a block away from the shit-pile I call home, and as I walk on the gray sidewalks that are glistening with pellets of ice, bypassing rundown house after rundown house, I pass a group of bums on the corner huddling around a metal trash can with a fire blazing inside of it. The flames release tiny embers that float around the entire group as they warm their hands and skinny bodies. There’s four of them, and as I walk past, one of them notices me. He’s the smallest of the four at maybe five-six or seven, and probably the youngest with the most to prove, but his glaring eyes catch the attention of the others, and before long, all of them are looking me up and down. They see my fancy coat and Timberland boots. I bet they’re thinking about how warm I look, because all of them have little thin jackets that look like they’re not offering nearly enough warmth. I see them watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I press on without care.

Nice coat, kid, the little one says. He steps away from the crowd as if he might walk towards me. That’s when I stop walking and face them, smiling.

Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say. I bet it’d fit you nice and snug, I say with amusement dripping from my words. I smile at the little black kid, and he glares back, but it slowly fades and morphs into confusion. He looks like he doesn’t know what to think of my smile, then turns around to look at his crew.

The biggest guy in the group is lanky with a thick beard that could use the love and affection of a comb, and he leans forward, squinting his eyes to see me better. His face freezes when he recognizes me.

Come back over here, Darnell, the big one says to the little one. That’s Solomon.

What? I don’t care who he is, Darnell spits back, trying his best to stay tough, but the tall one won’t let it go.

Yes you do, he replies. Just come back. Let it go.

Oh, don’t let him discourage you, Darnell, I interject, taking a step towards him. I’d love to play.

Little Darnell frowns again, before finally listening to his inner-self and stepping back over to the burning trash can. He re-enters into the empty space he just vacated and flashes me his best tough-guy-frown. I tilt my head, poke my lip out and pout in disappointment, just as I turn and continue on my path. As I walk away, I hear the tall one say, Don’t mess with that kid, man. I’ve heard about him.

The rest of my walk to the arcade is quiet. Nothing but the sound of my own footsteps and rows of broken down houses. The cars that pass aren’t fancy or flashy, and the passengers inside are just as beaten down as the automobiles. The trees have no leaves in December, and they seem to represent Strawberry Mansion perfectly—dead and ugly, but still standing, barely.

Most people are inside because it’s too cold to be out here, so I don’t see another person until I reach Aaron’s. As I approach the arcade, my first thought is that I’m probably going to have to punk some kid for his money, because I only have two bucks in my pocket, and I’m going to burn through that pretty quick. But as I walk past the narrow alley just before the entrance, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

In the middle of the alley, I see commotion that surprises me. It’s two boys and a girl, standing perfectly between the entrance and exit of the grimy alley. They’re arguing about something I can’t make out, but my eyes are drawn to the girl. She doesn’t look like she’s from around here. She has blonde hair, full lips, a thin nose, and blue eyes I can see all the way from over here. She’s wearing a white sweater and has a look on her face that says she isn’t even remotely afraid of the boys who are laughing at her for some reason. She’s holding her own, and I like the show the three of them are putting on in front of me, so I decide not to go into Aaron’s just yet. While I watch in amusement and wonder, I reach into the pocket of my sweats with my right hand, carefully bypassing the gun I keep there, and pull out my lighter, while simultaneously pulling my cigarettes out of the other pocket with my left hand, making sure to avoid the box cutter I keep in that particular pocket. I light one up and lean against the side of the brick building, just as the blonde girl reaches back and slaps one of the boys right in the face.

Not a second later, the heavy-set boy she hit pushes her, sending her falling backwards onto the cold, slick cement.

Bitch! the boy yells. He’s filled with a lot of pride for a guy his size picking on a girl her size. He even puffs out his chest a little. When I look at him, two things stand out to me. One: he has a hard time growing facial hair, but he’s really trying because he thinks it’ll make him look tougher. Two: he’s done this before and has signature moves for being intimidating, and sticking out his flabby chest is one of them.

The other boy is tall and slender, and he has the look of a kid who spends his free time dressing up in a Nazi uniform and doing that stupid salute to himself in the mirror, with his thick blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes. He screams something about money at the girl, so from the looks of it, I’ve walked up on an attempted robbery. My, my. This is just the kind of thing that puts a smile on my face, but usually it’s me who’s doing the robbing.

When the Nazi boy reaches down to try to dig into the girl’s pocket, she kicks him in the chest and he stumbles back, hitting the dumpster behind him. I smile as I watch this girl get up and throw a punch at the chunkier boy, hitting him in the jaw. The only problem is that this girl is just too small, and the chubby boy is pissed off now. He draws back and slaps her across the face, but to my delighted surprise, she doesn’t scream out in pain, and she doesn’t run away. She stands up tall, and tries to punch him again, but the Nazi grabs her arm and throws her back down to the ground. The two of them jump on her and start trying to dig into her pockets and take off her watch. Whoever bought her those nice clothes is going to be pissed when they see how dirty they are now. The boys are too strong for her, and she’s being overpowered by both of them, and that just doesn’t sit well with me. I put out my cigarette on the brick wall beside me and start down the alley, clapping my hands in delight.

Well done! I shout, grabbing their attention. What a show! I was quite entertained for a moment there.

Hey, just get the hell out of here, man, the slender one says to me as he leans over the girl, still taking off her watch. This has nothing to do with you.

Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t, I reply, swaying my head back and forth. But I’m here now, and the sight of two boys pushing around a little blonde girl—well that doesn’t put a smile on my face.

Hey bro, the chunky one says as he stands up straight and turns to me, showing me his linebacker physique. Now that I’m closer, I can tell he’s a thick kid, not just chubby. I can see he’s broad-shouldered even under his black leather jacket. You sure you want this to be your problem?

I let out a laugh that seems to rattle both of the boys, and it puts a frown on the girls face.

Oh I’m sure, I answer, still smiling like a kid on his birthday. How perfect. This is my present! Nothing would bring me more joy.

I’ve never been the type to rely on a lot of talking. Instead, I let actions speak for me, which has built me a reputation that obviously hasn’t reached these two. So I decide to show them.

Without another word, I charge at the thicker kid and tackle him. The two of us bounce off of a dumpster before crashing to the ground, and the second we land, I start swinging. My fists connect with his chubby face over and over again, and he’s defenseless with me sitting on top of him. Blood explodes from his face and flies all over the ground of the alley. Every time I hit him, more blood splatters on my fists and face, and for some reason I can’t explain, it makes me laugh. The sight of his bloody face is hysterical to me, especially after he was trying so hard to be tough on this little blonde girl. So I punch him and laugh like a birthday-boy should!

You see, other people are about trying to force you to believe something without showing you it’s real. They have no evidence of what they’re trying to convince you of. They want you to fear them so that they don’t ever have to show you just how weak they actually are. They hope to scare you away before the fight ever begins because deep down inside, they’re even more afraid than you are. Me? I want to show you. I want you to see it firsthand so that it’s engraved in your mind forever! I want you to fear my actions first and foremost. Once I stop talking, that’s when you should be running.

It seems like a full thirty seconds goes by before I realize I’m still punching this kid in his face. From the looks of it, he at least has a broken nose, and maybe even a broken jaw, though I’m not certain. It’s hard to tell with all the blood. My breathing is heavy, and just as I go to get up, the slender kid takes a step towards me, finally ready to try to get me off of his bloody friend. As soon as I see his foot move in my direction, I pull my nine millimeter out of my pants pocket and whip him across the face with it. Blood flies through the air and splatters on the girl’s sweater, making her jump back. The slender kid cries out in pain as I stand all the way up and aim the pistol at the back of his head, while he holds the gash on his cheek as it drips with blood.

Oh, I’m sorry, I say to him as he hunches over, crying. Did I get you there? Oops. Look at me, Slender. When he doesn’t turn to face me, I get annoyed. "I said look at me!"

The boy has tears streaming down his face as he turns around. I can see the gash on his cheek, and I’m sure he’ll need some stitches. Perfect!

Momma’s going to want to know what happened there, I say with a chuckle. I’d like to shoot you right between the eyes, but that’d take all the fun out of knowing you’re gonna have a big scar on your face for a long time. When people ask you what happened, you tell them that you met someone special. Someone who changed your life forever with just one encounter. Tell them his name was Solomon King. Now go. The kid looks down at his friend for support, but that’s useless. Looks like your friend needs to sleep our encounter off for a while. You’ll have to go without him.

The slender kid nods his head, turns on his heel, and runs the other direction.

I take a deep breath and let out a loud exhale as I tuck the stolen gun back into my pants. The blonde girl is still on the ground looking up at me. I can’t make out what her eyes are saying, but she’s staring at me like she’s never seen anything like me before. Little does she know that she hasn’t.

I don’t ask her if she’s okay. I saw what happened and I know she is. Doesn’t really matter to me anyway. I didn’t do this for her. Before I leave, I reach into the half-dead chubby kid’s pocket and take a twenty-dollar bill he has, then I look at the blonde again because she’s still staring without saying anything.

We exchange a long look into each other’s eyes, but I eventually get bored and start to walk back the way I came from, just as she starts to get up and dust herself off.

Hey, she calls out before I turn the corner. Her voice is smooth and pleasant. Not something I’m used to. You come here all the time? To this arcade, I mean.

I look over my shoulder and answer, Guess so.

I have to go now, but if you come here often, I guess I’ll see you around.

Guess so, I reply as I turn the corner and walk into the entrance of the arcade with blood on my face and hands, and an extra twenty dollars to spend. Happy Birthday, Solomon King.

NEW CUTS I see. What happened to your hands?

I take a seat next to Nix on the top step of my rickety porch and light a cigarette, bumping into his thick shoulder as I sit and make eye contact with him, smiling from ear to ear.

Threw a party for my birthday, I reply, to which Nix grins. Would’ve been much more fun if you were there though.

Nix Malone is the only person I’d consider a friend, if there is such a thing in this world. He’s the same age as me and we met when we were ten. I’m usually not the one for what the rest of the world calls friendship, but Nix is an interesting character with an interesting story that sucks just as much as mine.

The source of all of the crap in my life is my junkie whore of a mother, but for Nix, it’s his alcoholic father. His name is Moe, and he likes to sit around the house, take long swigs of cognac, and beat up on Nix and his poor mother. As much as I’d like to beat the life out of Moe, I have my own crap to deal with within the walls of my own hell hole. So, Nix and I have something in common—something nobody else can understand but the two of us, and that’s enough to make our bond a strong one. It’s quite hilarious when I think about it, actually. Nix and I live in Strawberry Mansion, we’re two white boys living in a place where we’re not supposed to fit in, yet there isn’t a person who lives in this neighborhood who would dare step to one of us. The only people dumb enough to do that are people who just don’t know better.

Nix is seventeen years old, six-foot-three, about two-hundred-ten pounds, and I’m pretty sure he’s still growing. He has the face of a grown man, with a thick beard and strong jaw, and he’s already got a couple of tattoos on his upper arms. If he didn’t have a deadbeat dad for a father and he wasn’t born and raised in Strawberry Mansion, I bet Nix could’ve been the next Barry Sanders or something. But he does live here, so he’s not a football player, he’s my right-hand-man who lives with parents who suck so much at life that they can’t even afford to buy their son a proper jacket for this cold weather, so he’s sitting here with a thin, black windbreaker that flaps in the slight breeze, and a pair of black shorts that are, somehow, too big for him and go down to his shins when he stands. Nix is the biggest person I know, and he’s my partner. If I want your neck broken, Nix would gladly rip your head off your shoulders. He’d do it for fun, and there’s nothing I love more than someone who’d hurt people for fun. Yeah, that’s a bond that can’t be broken.

I’m sorry I missed it, Nix says. He doesn’t smile much, but I can feel the desire coming off of him when he says it. What happened?

I made some new friends down at Aaron’s, I reply with a grin as I look out into the frosty street at a passing car. One thick one, one skinny one, messing with some little twig of a girl in the alley. They were trying to rob her, which I thought was hilarious considering the clothes I’m wearing, but then they started double teaming her, and something about that didn’t sit well with me. It was like they were a virus attacking an innocent cell that couldn’t defend itself. So I decided to become the cure.

"You saved a girl?" Nix replies, furrowing his brow, and I can feel his blue eyes peering into the side of my face.

Oh Nix, I didn’t know you could tell jokes. You know I didn’t do it for her. I just didn’t like what I was watching, so I changed the channel to something that made me feel better.

Nix cracks the slightest smile when I look at him, then turns his attention back to the road.

Interesting. Well, I wish I could’ve been there. I could really use some exercise to get out all the rage I’m feeling. Moe was drunk again last night.

"When is Moe not drunk?"

"Touché. But he started in on my mom again. He hit her, and she did nothing to fight back as usual, and when I tried to pull him off of her, he gave me his full attention. Mom didn’t do anything then either. I think the worst part is knowing that I could beat the hell out of him if I wanted to. But I don’t. I just let him do it, and that makes me just as weak as my mom."

I let out an exhale. Not many people know what it’s like to live inside a house made of nightmares. Every day is filled with everything you hate. For me, it’s my mother getting high right in front of me, or it’s one of her dealers or fellow junkies coming in to screw her brains out while she’s high. When I was little, it was being sold to dealers for scores of heroin, and then watching my mother have sex with the dealers just to get me back. It was her forcing me to lose my virginity when I was ten to another junkie’s daughter who was nine, as the two of them watched and got high. It was being beaten by my father before he was killed in a drive-by, and then being abused by my mother’s boyfriends and dealers later. I do not fear death, because my life is hell already. What do I have to fear? No, I fear nothing. But when you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you know that everything and everybody better fear you, because the level of rage I feel inside—you don’t want that kind of hate focused on you.

For Nix, his personal horror comes in the form of his parents, but for different reasons. His father beats him and his mother, but Nix hates his mother, Justine, because she doesn’t do anything to stop Moe. She lets it all happen. She watches when Moe beats up on Nix, crying in the corner of their living room. She won’t leave him either. She’s the woman you read about who stays in an abusive relationship until the abuse turns into murder. It’ll happen. Just give it time. The only thing that could prevent it is if Nix kills Moe before then. Only time will tell, but I know it every time I talk to Nix about this—somebody in that house is going to die. I wonder who it will be.

I turn to Nix and put my hand on his burly shoulder.

Listen to me, Nix, I say, looking straight into his blue eyes that match mine. I don’t believe in friendship, but you and I have a kinship—a bond that’s not to be broken. I don’t like what you tell me about Moe. It’s a knife in my gut, and I want you to know that if ever you’re ready, we can pull it out together.

Nix holds eye contact with me—he’s the only person who would ever do that. He knows what I’m talking about, and I can see the wheels in his head spinning around like tires on the car that just drove by.

Not yet, he says after some thought, which makes me a little sad. I have to convince my mom that she’ll be okay without him. Once I do that, we’ll talk.

I look forward to that day, I tell him with a smile.

Me too, he replies. I gotta go. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.

Nix gets up, dusts off his extra-long shorts, and walks down the steps without looking back, on his way back to his personal hell. With him gone, it’s time for me to go back into mine, so I get up, dust off my stolen clothes, and walk inside.

My living room is dark and filthy as always—beer bottles, needles, and three-day old food on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room, sitting next to spoons that weren’t used to eat anything. The tan couch only fits two people and rests in front of the coffee table at just the right distance to be able to grab one of those spoons with minimal effort, and the vomit-green recliner in the corner doesn’t actually recline. In fact, if you tried to recline in it, I’m sure it’d just fall apart right underneath you. The TV in the room is a whopping twenty-seven inches and has the clarity of muddy water when it’s being used. Drawers in the kitchen are pulled open like someone was looking for something, but when you’re mother is a junkie, you don’t know if it was her or one of her dealers looking for money to steal from her. I ignore all of this and start for my room in the basement, but before I can get too far, I hear a voice come from the corner where the recliner rests.

You’re Solomon, right? the voice says from behind me. I turn around to find a black guy sitting in the recliner with his elbows on his knees. I hadn’t even noticed he was there when I walked in, but he’s all I can see now—everything else in the house has disappeared. He’s about five-ten—roughly four inches shorter than me—with a decent build, wearing a baggy gray sweat suit and a long silver chain around his neck. He has long braids and a goatee under his chin—a pretty boy trying his best to be a gangster. I’m sure he has lots of time to do pushups and lift heavy stuff while his little minions do his dirty work, selling his product on the streets of Philly.

I don’t know his name, and I don’t need to. Just looking at him, I see all I need to know. He’s a thug who probably just got done banging my mother, who’s laying in her room with the door cracked behind me. Mr. No-Name was here while I was away, doing whatever to Whitney, but now that I’m back, he has been uninvited. He just doesn’t know it yet, and I smile at the thought of giving him is un-invitation.

What’s so funny? Mr. No-Name asks—maybe I don’t want to call him Mr. No-Name. I think Mr. Uninvited is better. Mr. Uninvited asks his question as he gets up from the recliner and walks over to me. What’s wrong, man, you deaf or something? I asked you what your name is, and I asked what’s so funny. Did you hear me?

Oh I heard you fine, I reply, still smiling.

Yo, what’s wrong with you, son? Mr. Uninvited asks, miffed by my beautiful smile. What are you smiling like that for? Trying to creep my out or something. I ain’t afraid of stuff like that, kid. You know who I am? I’ve seen way scarier dudes than you. What are you, sixteen, seventeen years old? You ain’t been through enough in your life to be scary to me, yo.

Ain’t been through enough, I repeat him, mocking him as I turn my neck to the side to stretch it out for what’s to come. And let me guess, Mr. Uninvited, you’ve been through the worst the world has to offer, haven’t you?

The hell? Mr. Uninvited? What the hell are you talking about? You know, I’ve heard a little about you, actually. I’ve heard that you were some weirdo, walking the streets, robbing people, and trying to be a tough guy. Yeah, I’ve heard some stuff about you, Solomon, but now that I’m here, I know it can’t be true. You don’t look so tough to me. You might have a few screws loose, but you’re harmless. Just a little screwy in the head because your mother’s a junkie prostitute who I’m sure has done some pretty messed up stuff to you. That don’t make you scary though. You’re a little sissy, I bet. Am I right?

I feel the rage boiling in my stomach like lava inside a volcano getting ready to erupt. I’m getting hotter and hotter, but I smile at my guest. He’s in my world, my house, and we’ll play by my rules. It’s much more fun this way. It’s my game.

Well, if I’m such a sissy, why don’t you show me what a real gangster is supposed to be like? Come on, tough guy. What do you say we go a few rounds right here in the living room? Teach me a lesson.

Wow, you’ve got balls kid, he says, nodding his head with a grin on his bearded face. But you keep talking, I might have to put my foot in your ass just to show you how soft you really are. Lucky for you, I’m tired from banging your mom, so I’m just gonna chill.

Oh that’s it. I have no more straws left, no more patience, no more will power to keep it inside. I hate my mother with a furious passion, but she’s still my mother. My mother. I close my eyes as a smile forms on my lips.

There you go smiling again. Go to your little room in the basement before you piss me off with that stupid grin, Mr. About-To-Be-Taught-A-Lesson says, as he glares at me. A true tough guy, talking trash to a seventeen year-old.

Let’s play a game, I say. First person to bleed has to admit they’re a bitch and get out of the house. Permanently. You game?

Listen kid, I’m just about out of patience with you. I’m not gonna tell you again.

I raise my arms like I’m asking him for a hug.

"You’re not scared of little ole’ me are you? I’m just a little sissy, remember? So if I’m a sissy, and you’re afraid of me, then what does that make you?"

I can see that Mr. Uninvited is a little hesitant to step any closer to me, but he’s a man of pride, and my taunts get to him. Of course they do. He’s just like every other drug dealer that Whitney has brought into this house. Arrogant, egotistical, selfish, prideful, rude, disrespectful pieces of human shit who don’t deserve affection or love from anyone. I’ve spent my life dealing with these people, and now, at the age of seventeen, I’m maxed out when it comes to patience. I loathe drug dealers, and anytime I have to deal with one, they will feel that hatred full force.

Alright, you know what? To hell with this, he says as he steps towards me and tries to push me, but I side-step and punch him in the jaw. My second person of the day. Happy birthday, Solomon King!

Mr. Uninvited stumbles and hits the wall next to him. As he tries to regain his balance, I reach into my pocket and pull out the box cutter I always keep in my left pocket for moments just like this. I slam the fake gangster against the wall and put the razor blade on his cheek, letting it rest there ever-so-gently.

Whoa, what the hell, man? he calls out, putting his hands in the air like he’s under arrest.

I take a few seconds to look him in his brown eyes and smile again. In that short moment, his confidence leaks out into a puddle on the floor. He’s terrified as he looks me in the eye, then looks up at the ceiling, afraid to maintain eye contact with me. Like I said, Nix is the only one who isn’t afraid to keep eye contact with me. I wonder what it is about me that keeps people from looking me the eye.

Sshhhhh, I whisper. "You asked me earlier if I was Solomon. Now you know that I am. Don’t you find it interesting that you’ve heard of me, but I’ve never heard of you? Hhmm. Seems to me that you’re a nobody, and I’m already a legend at only seventeen years old. I don’t even know your name. You may want to remember that the next time you think of me. I am Solomon King, and you are nobody. But I do want to know something about you, Mr. Nobody. Do you bleed? I bet you don’t. Tough guy like you? No way. Well let’s see."

Just as I finish my last word, I jam the razor into the drug dealer’s cheek so far that I can see half of the blade inside of his mouth when he opens it to scream in agony. I let him wail for a second, before jamming my hand over his mouth to silence him.

"Whoops! Guess I was wrong. You do bleed! Look at that! Now keep quiet! I thought you were some sort of tough gangster, but here you are screaming like—what was that you called me? A sissy? How ironic. Now, let’s review the rules of our game. The rule was whoever bled first had to admit they’re a bitch and leave the house permanently. So let’s see it. I yank the blade out of the fake gangster’s cheek and look at the bloody razor. Well, I may be a little crazy, a few screws loose, but I’m sure this blood isn’t mine. So, per the rules we agreed upon, you have something to do, don’t you?"

With my hand still over his mouth, Mr. Nobody nods his head as blood streams out