Michael Valentine: Diary of a Hitman

By Reicko Antonio

Young Michael Valentine narrates a first-hand account of his journey with words expressed in a manner that enables the reader to see everything down to the last detail as if you were watching it on the big screen. Following the death of his father, hes forced to become the man of the house. His vivid description of his life story helps you visualize his transition from a young naive Christian boy to a youthful contract killer hired by two of the largest crime families in the Metropolitan area and on the East Coast. You will feel his pain from the loss of his father to the betrayal of close friends and confidants as well as his pleasure he receives through his accomplishments. He not only grows into a man through his sexual and physical changes, but he learns the definition of loyalty, family, and greed as well. Travel with Michael as he takes you for a night on the town all around DC, Maryland, and Virginia and to various cities, countries, and bedrooms. Some of his sexual encounters are casual, few are emotional, but the majority is a part of business. Ride with him in exotic cars and walk with him as he stalks his target and takes them out. Nothings sugar coated; its as real as it gets. He realizes that he becomes addicted to sex, murder and money. You wont just read the diary of a hit man; youll see it as he lives it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479759316

Reicko Antonio

Reicko Antonio was raised in the Metropolitan area and graduated from DuVal High School. He attended Maryland University majoring in microbiology. No matter what obstacles might have gotten in the way, Reicko always remained confident, positive, and refused to become another statistic or a product of the environment. He’s first a husband and father of five children. Reicko enjoys writing. He refers to writing as the bridge that links our minds to our freedom. He’s always mindful of the reader when he’s writing. Reicko wants the reader to see what they read and feel what he’s written. He understands that the best things can be accomplished when you love what you do and feel what you say. Reicko isn’t trying to change the world; he just wants to change the game. Reicko’s aim is to write stories that are realistic that everyone can relate to. He also enjoys coaching the young youth in football and teaching them to work as a team and aiding them to become the responsible and successful adults of tomorrow. Reicko’s goal, as a responsible adult, has always been keeping the kids off the streets.

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Copyright © 2012 by Reicko Antonio.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Finding Myself

A Virgin No More

Networking Business

Creating a Bastard

Back on the Block

A Child Is Born

I’m the Target

A Score to Settle

Taking a Loss

Tying Up Loose Ends

A Mother’s Cry

Getting Back to Business

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my wife Oneika

and my kids RJ, Rick, Miya, Mello, and Laya.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to thank the only true God reigning in the heavens above for allowing me to breathe and giving me the strength to complete this project. Thank you for this literary gift and for saving me so many times, when death was at my doorstep. Without you nothing is possible!

I would like to thank my parents Thomas and Thomasine for loving me and raising me to be the man I am. Love you both to death!

I have to thank my wife Oneika and my kids RJ, Rick, Miya, Mello, and Laya for supporting me through this project and sacrificing the time we would usually spend together. All of you all mean everything to me, and words just can’t describe the love I have in my heart for each and every one of you. Love you!

I thank my brother Pooh—through every struggle and dark road, there’s always a light at the end of the path. It’s our time and destiny to be successful. Thanks to my sisters Drea and Liz for the constant critiques on this project. To my Grandma Annie—thank you for helping me understand how important it is to keep my money straight and for always showing me love. Love you, Grandma! I’ll be coming over for some candy yams, mac and cheese, and turkey. Thanks, Aunt Glenda, for all your help and support; you are truly amazing and talented and have been so helpful. Thank you Desi, Lawrence, Preston, LBJ, DD, Angie, India, Sonja, Johnell, Henry and Cornell for your encouragement. Thanks to Miarra, Davonna, Juston, Kennedy, Caleb, KB and the rest of my godchildren for the support as well as the rest of my family and friends—so many that I’d be forever naming, but you know who you are, and you’re always in my heart. Thanks, Jerome and Marie Jones, for always being supportive and keeping it real.

I have to thank my sisters-in-law—Wanda, Vickie, Toloria, and Melissa—and my nieces, Netta and Niesha, for their early support and encouragement before this process even began. I wouldn’t dare forget to thank my good friend Big Herb and All Homes Financial LLC for all the support and hospitality and love. Thanks to Pooch the ultimate barber for all your help behind the scenes and for providing the razor’s edge. Thanks to my best friend Roger Bowie for rolling with his boy. To my good friend Wayne Titus, thanks for always giving good advice and being a great godfather to Laya.

Thanks to Yonas, Coach Kid Ed, Delores, Don, Mechille, Sherita, Marlene, Yjeda, Big Hamp, Aaron, Ronald, Calvert, Roosevelt, Antwuan, Ionathan, Ramon, Dan, John, Jabbar, James, Leon, Brian, David, Richard, Anthony, Asa, Francis, Conor, Adeniran, Cliff, Charles, Malinda, Michelle B., Keisha K., Patrice, Mary, Margie, Teresa, Jerome, Kelvin Richardson and Faces and all my 42, Landover and DMV Crew who have supported and believed in me from day one. I won’t stop until we walk the red carpet together.

Special thanks to the best photographer in the business Richard SNAPhotos Herbert for taking the bomb photos in all four of the photo shoots. You are the definition of dedication. Thanks to Duane McCray from SO3 Photography for providing the lighting at the photo shoots. Thanks to my friend Renee Davis for providing all your behind the scene footage. Thank you, Lady O, for providing the input on the ladies’ outfits and for providing the makeup. I have to thank Sametta Bailey for hooking us up for the shoots on such short notice.

A special thanks to all the models who participated in this project; they are Ja’Paulus Hall, Ethan Pennil, Jordan Davis, Tae Michelle, Laina Baine, and Shawna Long. Thanks for the fantastic modeling jobs you put in. Ms. Tae Michelle, I have to compliment your hard work and dedication. I’ve never seen a model work so hard before in my life; you definitely have the it factor. Thanks, Ja’Paulus, for stepping up and getting it done on such short notice. You fit right in. Jordan, thank you for debuting your modeling career with me; you did a hell of a job. Ethan Pennil—always professional and a great image of what I was seeking. Laina Baine, you came right in and handled your business. Unbelievable! Shawna Long, thanks for putting in work in hours notice. I can’t wait to work with you on the next project. No single word can express my gratitude. Once again, thanks, and I have so much respect for all of you, and I am so thankful to have worked with all of you. We did the damn thing!

Grandma Betty, though you are no longer with me in the physical form, your love will forever live in my heart. RIP and I will love you always. Grandpa Buck, I think of you every day, especially on Sundays. I still wait for you to call me laughing when my team is losing. I still hear you say, Shorty, they’re getting their asses kicked. RIP. Love you, man. Grandpa Smitty, I’ll always remember you for teaching me and Pooh how to fish and for your smooth voice. I see you in my son Rick. Love you, man. RIP. Uncle Bucky, you were the definition of unselfish. I miss our late night conversations and our Saturday meetings. Every time I fire up the grill that you put together, I eat some barbeque for you. Love you, man. RIP. Uncle Tony, you put the G in the word gangster. RIP and play on, playa!

Frances Sanders, thank you for allowing me to share my life with your daughter. I will always remember you as being happy and smiling until you were taken away from us. RIP. Love you! Jerome Bimbo Turner, when I see Jerome, it’s like looking at you in the mirror. You will forever live in him. RIP; love you, man.

Kevin Matthews, you were a great friend and godfather to my children. Every day, I wonder—how could someone take a life so precious? Your life ended tragically and too damn soon. Whoever took you from us will have to settle it with God. You can fool man, but God can see everything, and from him, you can’t hide. I will always have the love for you in my heart and will never forget you. Rest in peace; love you, man.

Last, but not least, I would like to thank every person and or critique who took the time to read my work. Thanks to all my fans who purchased this book because without you, this would be just another underground project. A special thanks to Angelo Jose, Archie Brown, Lloyd Griffith, and the entire faculty at Xlibris who worked on my project.

Special shout-out to my 14U Potomac Landing team—Coach Bowie, Coach Ian, Fern, Oneika, Joe, Ivan, Rick, RJ, Bug, JQ, Noah, Myles, Josh, Julian, Erik, Tre, Adriane, Khari, Kammany, and Michael—for winning the area-wide championship. I look at my trophy every day. I can’t forget my Ravens family. Big ups to my Cannons and Potomac Landing family; I will always bleed blue for you, baby!

Sincerely,

Reicko Antonio

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FINDING MYSELF

In the summer of 1959, in a rural town in Georgia, Valona Mendoza and Michael Julian Valentine said their vows becoming husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Valentine’s first three years of marriage were so simple, until a warm spring night in 1962. Following weeks of passionate lovemaking, they conceived a child. Later in the fall of 1962, I made it into the world—a healthy baby boy. My father named me Michael Julian Valentine III.

Most of the earlier years of my life were just as normal for me as for any African American male living in the South in the early—to mid-1960s. Shortly after my fifth birthday in 1967, my family moved from Georgia to Maryland, supposedly in an effort to escape the segregated Deep South. The truth is that my father’s business took us to Prince George’s County in Maryland. You could escape a lot of things in America in 1967 but racism surely wasn’t one of them.

I always looked up to my dad. Being a Negro in America in the sixties was one thing, but to own a house and a successful business was on another level. My father owned a sporting goods store, which was the basis of our family’s income. My mother was your typical stay-at-home mom, who took care of the house and me.

I remember riding in a car to church with my parents on a beautiful Sunday morning in the summer of 1968. My father was spending his last day with my mom and me. He got drafted to defend our country, fighting in the Vietnam War.

During the service, all the members of the church gathered in a circle as Pastor Kingsley said a prayer for my father before his trip to the other side of the world. My mother lamented, so I comforted her as if I could absorb her pain. I just couldn’t understand why Mom was so sad. I thought church was for praising God and getting away from the troubles of the world.

We had a large dinner at our house, with all my father’s friends and our family who didn’t live too far away from us. I remember the beautiful trees that filled our backyard and hearing the birds singing and chirping. I went outdoors to the front porch and stared at the shiny tires on the black Mercedes that my father loved, just as much as he loved my mother and me. I thought of all the trips to the market and the soul food restaurant down the road.

I still remembered Dad’s favorite meal at the restaurant was chitterlings, yams, greens, and corn bread. I smiled when I envisioned the trips to the barber shop and the ball games we attended as a family. Mom didn’t like sports, but she loved our togetherness.

What memories and good feelings they were! After Dad finished his dinner, he joined me outdoors to talk. He looked down at me proclaiming, Michael, you’re going to have some grand responsibilities until I get back from my tour in Vietnam. Your mother is going to need you more than usual. You’re going to become the man of the house while I’m out of the country.

My facial expressions revealed the bewilderment I felt.

With his cigarette in his mouth, he continued, "Son, when I was your age, I had to do the same thing for your grandfather. He, of course, went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Back then, the system was geared to tear a Negro down in an effort to break up the family. In those days, a Negro who stood up for himself was a burden for white men. To be honest, not much has changed, except the tactics the man uses. In the old days, whites were open with their feelings. They only hid behind their sheets."

The translucent anger Father felt was shown on the knuckles of his balled-up fist. I might not have understood all that he told me, but I still sat and listened.

Full of anger and frustration, he yelled, Now they use laws and segregation as the means of doing their dirty work. Just like this draft that’s got me going to fight the white man’s war. I either go to Vietnam or go to prison. If there’s one thing that I always want you to do, even if it kills you, it is to be your own man and never become enslaved to anyone, especially a cracker. Let no man control you or be in a position to make you a puppet, Nigga. Getting your strings pulled and being controlled like an animal.

Those were the last words of advice my father was able to give me. He went to Vietnam in 1968, emotionally torn, and returned in 1971, physically in pieces. We only received a medal, his dog tags, and a letter from the military informing us that my father lost his life defending his country.

Now I sit here today on the front steps of my house in the winter of 1971, looking at the letter filled with the president’s condolences and stains from my mother’s tears all over it. I depart the front stoop and enter my house. The house is filled with people dressed in dark colors, consoling my mother as she weeps. I can hear her talking to Pastor Kingsley.

Sounding distraught, mother cries out, Pastor, I don’t know what we are going to do. Michael was the breadwinner in the household. I don’t have any idea how to run the business. I don’t have a clue on how to run a sporting goods shop. I was only supposed to take care of the house and our son. Without Michael, I’m nothing.

Sounding confident, he proclaims, Sister, the Lord will not forsake you. I will be there for you along with the church in your time of mourning to assist you in maintaining the day-to-day business operations. Here’s my personal phone number. Call me if you need anything, whether it’s a friend, pastor, or a shoulder to cry on. Just call my name, and I’ll be there.

Thanks, pastor she stated humbly.

I think it is considerate of the pastor to want to help out my mother. When all of the cars and family depart, my mother hugs me snuggly in her arms as we lie on the couch. She looks down at me and begins rubbing my hair. Mother whispers, Mike, you are and always will be the center of my life. You remind me so much of your father, from your dark-brown skin to your curly dark hair. I know you’re only eight years old or almost nine, but you have truly become the man of this house ever since your dad has been gone. You might find this hard to believe right now, but one day, you’re going to meet a girl, and she will become the center of your attention. You’re going to make a great husband and an even better father one day. Promise me, you’ll never allow anything or anyone to come in between our relationship.

With sincerity, I declare, Mommy, I promise. I will never choose anybody over you. You are my mommy, and I love you more than anything in this whole wide world. I’m going to always take care of you no matter how old I get. I made a promise to Dad, and I know he’s going to be watching me from heaven to make sure I’m doing my job. OK, Mommy, Mommy!

Sure, baby, that sounds good she mumbles. Those words are followed by drooling and heavy snoring. I assume Mother is tired. I don’t blame her. She would have to be exhausted after all the crying she did earlier at my father’s funeral.

Mother reopens the sporting goods store the next week, following my father’s burial. We sell a variety of items in the store from sporting, fishing, and hunting equipment. Mother picks me up every day during the week so I can help out in the store. I never ask or expect to receive any pay. I feel it’s not my duty but a responsibility to work in the business.

If I’m not in school or working at the store, I’m in church. I enjoy spending time fellowshipping with our church friends. We consider our church friends to be our family. With the exception of my aunt Beth and her son Richard, we don’t associate with our blood relatives much after my father’s funeral. Most of them get busy or feels Mom and I are on our own now, especially the ones looking for some blood money.

Beth is my mother’s sister and my favorite aunt. Everyone in the family calls my cousin Richard, Dick or Dickey for short. Aunt Beth and Dickey make sure to visit us on all the major holidays and during our birthdays. Beth gives me the best gifts and always sends me money to help out, but I can never tell Mother that.

It’s not that my mother is too proud to accept help. She just don’t want anyone to look at us as beggars or burdens. She tells me that no one, not even family, gives money for free. She even said holiday gifts had strings attached.

I saw the strings some of my father’s friends tried to attach, offering to help us out with money if my mother would go out with them. I heard her say that she’d never date a friend of my father’s. They still tried despite the rejection. I guess they find it hard to resist a beautiful biracial woman who’s half African American and Cherokee Indian. Unfortunately, for them, the only man for her died in Vietnam.

She puts on a facade of being strong to the people on the outside, but when we get home, she usually cries herself to sleep almost every night as I lie in her arms. I know it’s hard to get past the death of a loved one, but I hope Mother will find a way to overcome her grief. Fortunately, her depression has not driven her to suicide. I need my mother just as much as she needs me. We feed off each other, finding strength in knowing all we have is each another.

My father’s death destroyed our perfect family, and at the same time, it made the bond between my mother and me stronger. There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for my mother.

Mother remains affected from father’s death even though six years have now passed. Since Aunt Beth lost her job, we don’t get as many visits from her and Dick anymore.

Today is my fifteenth birthday. Me and Mother are going out together to celebrate. I’m excited during the entire bus ride home from school. As soon as the bus drops me off at the bus stop, I run home. My hands are shaking with excitement as I attempt to unlock the front door.

When I open the door, I see my mother asleep on the couch in the living room. I walk over to where she’s lying and gently shake her, uttering, Mom, Mom, wake up.

I must’ve startled her because she jumps up off the couch, screaming, What the hell is wrong with you? Coming into this house and scaring me like that!

I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just was trying to see if you were ready to go out for my birthday I state remorsefully.

She rubs her forehead and calmly articulates, I’m sorry, honey. I was just sitting here, and time must’ve gotten away from me. I was thinking about the first day I saw your face and how blessed I was to have a son as special as you. I wanted to see your face on your special day as soon as you walked through the door. I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch waiting for you to come home from school. Give me a second to get dressed so we can go.

I sit on the couch as my mother goes to her room to get dressed. I must’ve sat down on something because my butt is killing me. When I stand up, a bottle of liquor falls on the hard wood floor. It’s shocking to see a fifth of vodka half-full lying on our living room floor.

All this time, I never knew my mother has been drinking this heavy. I knew she took occasional drinks to wind down after a long week of running the business. Drinking half of a fifth during the day is a little more on the alcoholic side. This doesn’t look good, but I’m not going to jump to any conclusions before talking it over with my mother.

I sit patiently, waiting for her as she dresses. She returns to the room dressed and ready to go. I compassionately ask, Mom, why don’t you come over and sit down beside me for a second?

She sits beside me on the couch and puts her arm around me.

Sounding concerned, I inquire, Mom, is everything okay with you? You know I’m here for you if there’s something wrong.

Thank you, baby, but I’m just fine. I don’t want you worrying about your momma today. This is your day she acknowledged, appearing to be appreciative of my concerns.

Holding up the fifth of vodka half-full, I question, Are you sure everything is OK? This ain’t water.

I can see the anger in her face and hear the grit of her teeth as she points her finger at me and screams, Where do you get off questioning me? I’m your mother, not your little sister! You may think you know everything, but, baby, believe me, there are things I know you aren’t ready to handle now. As always, I appreciate you caring and looking out for me, but I just don’t want to discuss this with you right now.

Yes, ma’am I replied respectfully.

Now that’s my boy. Let’s get out of here before we sit around all day and end up missing the movie she stated anxiously.

We have a nice time together, just me and my mother. Before I go to sleep, I get down on my knees and pray, Dear God, I know I don’t deserve to address you because no matter how much you do for me, I continue to fall far from perfection. But being the loving God you are, I would like to ask that you watch over my family in our time of need. Since my father’s death, my mother just hasn’t been the same. They say, time heals all wounds, but it’s been over seven years, and she still needs your help. My mother continually struggles to keep her sanity while coping with being a widow. Today, I found out she’s been drinking. I’m worried about her, and I love her so much. If there’s anyone who can help her, it’s you. Amen.

I assume God must have heard my prayers, because the next night we receive a visit from Pastor Kingsley. When pastor walks in the house, I ask, Hello, sir. How are you doing tonight?

He replies, I’m just fine. How have you been doing, Michael?

Things have been as good as can be for me until last night I informed him with disappointment.

Sounding apologetic, he states, Oh that’s right. The church secretary told me it was your birthday. I apologize for not calling or coming out yesterday to wish you a happy birthday. Things got a little busy for me. I must have made at least five home visits to women in need of some counseling. Still, I am sorry. I promise you right now that I will check periodically to make sure your family’s doing okay.

Sounding relieved, I utter, Thank you, pastor. Lord knows my mother can use the help.

What makes you think she needs extra attention? he inquired curiously.

I explain, I came home from school yesterday and saw her on the couch sleeping off a bottle of vodka.

Sounding surprised, he asks, Are you sure?

Trust me, I know what I saw I responded confidently

Sounding confused, he claims, That’s funny. She seemed to be fine the last time I saw her.

When I hear my mother walking into the living room, I stop the conversation. She walks over to Pastor Kingsley and gives him a hug. I leave the room, but I watch and listen from the hallway. They sit down on the couch and begin to converse.

She asks, How have you been doing?

Sister, I am just fine. he responded.

You’re looking good she claimed.

If I am looking good, you are surely looking better. he insisted.

She acknowledges, I haven’t seen you for a while outside of Sunday service.

I know. I’m so sorry I haven’t been by here as much as I should. he stated remorsefully.

You don’t have to apologize. I know how busy you can get she admits.

He sighs, Maybe a little busier than I would like to be. All in all, I’m living and breathing. That surely means I’m blessed. I know it’s been quite some time since your husband’s passing. No one can place a time limit on someone else’s grief. Now how are you doing mentally?

She breaks down and confesses, I’ve been mentally drained lately. I’m finding it hard to understand why I’m still feeling the loss of my husband though almost seven years have passed. I’ve never been much of a drinker until lately. The alcohol is the only thing able to ease the pain lately. When my son is sleeping, I’m drinking and listening to old records me and my husband used to listen to. I love my son with all my heart, but I’m so lonely.

Mother begins to cry, and pastor consoles her.

While consoling her, he sympathetically suggests, Sister, it’s OK. The relationship you have with your son is different from the one you had with your husband. That’s a different kind of love. I don’t want to cross the line here, but it may be a good idea for you to start trying to move on with your life. Moving on doesn’t mean you’re forgetting.

Are you suggesting I start dating? she inquired curiously.

He states, I’m not suggesting you get serious or find another husband, but getting some time to yourself would be beneficial.

When I said my nuptials, I promised to be faithful to one man and one man only. Even though Michael isn’t here in the physical, he’s still in my heart she proclaimed, seeming to be offended.

He explains, When you two exchanged vows, there was also a ’till death do us part’ clause in the agreement. It’s going on seven years since his death, and you still haven’t allowed yourself to at least befriend someone else. That’s not loyalty, sister. That’s torture. What’s the harm in a casual date here and there? I’m not suggesting you sleep with anyone out of wedlock. No righteous, God-fearing man would suggest something like that. Just trying to encourage you to get out and live a little. If it’s not too much of a burden, I would like to stop through to check on you at least twice a week.

What are you trying to say, I’m some type of head case contemplating suicide? she questioned, seeming to take offense.

Compassionately, he reasons, Of course not. I just want to make sure you’re OK and provide you some counseling.

She sincerely insists, I don’t want to be a burden to you. There are plenty of other people more in need of your help.

You and your son are no burden to me. Me and the wife think of you as family. As a matter of fact, you are our spiritual family. We will let God decide who is needier. Right now, the Lord has told me through my heart that you are the one in need he reassures her.

He leaves our house for the night and holds true to his promise, making house calls several times a week, ensuring Mom is OK. He even stays at our house late at night until I fall asleep, returning by the time I wake up, in order to make sure I get to school on time. Pastor is keeping my mother from being an alcoholic. I’m so grateful and I make sure that I thank god for pastor every night.

He’s become more than the family’s confidant and leader of the church. He’s the glue, keeping my mother together. I’m more than grateful for what he’s doing for my family. I feel as if I owe him. There’s no one outside God and my mother whom I trust more than Pastor Kinsley.

I met so many of my father’s old friends and associates while working at the store. Most of them were in the thirty-five and older age bracket. They were your average blue-collar workers of the seventies. Some were friends from school that eventually moved up north to the Metropolitan area. Others were old buddies from our neighborhood that my dad fished and bowled with.

Today, I’m working at the store a little longer than usual. My mother appears to be overwhelmed from the fishing and hunting rush. I walk to the back storage area to record today’s inventory. We sold (150) .22-caliber hunting rifles, three hundred and fifty fishing rods, thousands of pounds of bait, and thousands of boxes of ammunition. Today turned out to be quite profitable for our business. We are going to have to hire more help if things continue to be this profitable.

I’m already receiving business management training without a semester of college. There’s nothing like getting a head start on the future. Math has always been my strong line of study. My mother and father had been grooming me to be an accountant for a long time.

With only twenty minutes to closing, the door chimes. My mother is in the restroom, so I walk to the front of the store. I approach a middle-aged man dressed in full business attire. He’s accompanied by what appears to be two muscular bodyguards.

The man asks, How are you doing, young blood?

Just fine. Thank you, sir I replied

He inquires, Is your mom around today?

Yes, sir. She’s at the back resting right now. But I’m sure whatever you need from her I can help you with. That’s unless it’s something personal I stated.

He innocently throws his hands in the air and tells me, No, blood. It’s nothing personal.

I put up my fist and tell him, Solid, how can I help you?

No. It’s how can I help you he suggested.

I respond to the gentleman standing well over six feet, stating, I don’t even know who you are.

Shaking his head, he claims, My fault, young blood. My name is Donald Hicks, but my friends call me Donny. Please call me Donny.

That name sounds familiar. My boy Pooch has an uncle named Donny. I acknowledged.

You know my nephew Pooch? he exclaimed, sounding surprised.

I confirm, Yeah, that’s my best friend.

He laughingly communicates, Small world, young blood. This is a small world. I too was a good friend of your father’s. We did a lot of business together. So just let me know if there’s anything you or your mom needs.

Proudly I state, Thank you, sir, but we’re just fine. We spend most of our time together. If I’m not in school or in the store, I’m at church. We’re financially sound, and pastor has been blessing us, keeping us mentally stable with spiritual support.

He sarcastically mutters, Believe me, I’m definitely well aware of what the pastor is providing. He’s helping your mother more than you know.

With uncertainty, I ask, What do you mean?

He inquires, How old are you, blood?

I’m fifteen years old I stated with my chest stuck out.

He smirks and assumes, Blood, you’re still young.

With bass in my voice, I boast, I’m almost sixteen and the man of the house now that my dad’s gone!

He laughingly claims, I hear you, young blood. We all think we’re men even if it’s before our time. If you really want to know what’s up, sneak out your room one of those nights when your mom thinks you’re sleep. I promise you, your eyes will open. Anyway, here’s a little something for this fishing rod handle. Keep the change.

Donny pays for his equipment and tips me an additional crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. He walks out