Double Penetration:: The Life and Times of Roland Granderson

By Gregory Johnson

G" appears to have everything... Or at least all the things he's always wanted; women, financial freedom and overall comfort. Along with his closest friend, Ed, he oversees D.P. International, a successful company that thrives off of it's sales of mace, stun-guns, and other small articles of self defense. It's what they've done since their expulsion from the U.S. Armed Forces. And this business of theirs has done well.

However, it's their illegal profession that has, now, brought new hazards into their lives. Greed has dulled their vision, as it pertains to distinguishing between friends and foes. And an event from their bloody past has mustered the strength to rear it's ugly head, biting them both on their asses... hard. Life, if he can manage to keep it, will never again be the same for "G".

"Double Penetration" is the first in a series of books detailing "G" as a person as well as an arms dealer. Entwined with G's peril is a glimpse of stylish living that will engage the have-nots and relate to the well-offs, as opposed to his dismal childhood and upbringing that will do just the opposite. Also, G's appreciation for the pleasuring of beautiful women is 1st class, making this novel just as raunchy as it is thought provoking. "Double Penetration" will captivate any audience whose intrigue can be found in sexual arousal, suspense, and that brand of closure that only revenge can purchase.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496965684

Gregory Johnson

Throughout my life I've experienced many different forms of education. I've learned and been schooled by some of the most unpleasant and unexpected circumstances. I've been rewarded by some of the weirdest and most unlikely outcomes to situations I never thought I'd see through to the end. I've done a lot and witnessed the rest. I've given plenty and taken more. I've endured the misfortune of seeing myself casted as the villain as well as the excitement and pressure of bearing the hero's role in life's little day to day skits. I don't feel as if I've gone through any more than the average person I may or may not pass without speaking to on a normal day. However, I just may pay a little more attention to the honing of my observation and comprehension skills as I seek to make sense of the arts, purposes, and sciences of life. I've always been fascinated by anything that stimulates the senses or piques the imagination whether it be pain, the thrill of victory or the anguish of anxiety. Early on in life, I recognized the healing qualities that lie in a meaningful dream just as well as in a strongly moving conversation or sexual encounter between two or more people. I've known love. And had the pleasure of separating it from possessiveness and obsession, uncovering an undistorted view of it's true appreciation. And when writing I do my best to convey these views. Not unlike any other art, it becomes my outlet. Using words to deliver a message that words alone may not be equipped to deliver... If that makes sense. My birthplace and home has been Baton Rouge, Louisiana for the majority of my life but I've traveled and lived in a number states. Business brought me to some places. Leisure led me to others. And lack of choice forced my residences in the rest. My experiences with new and different people in places that were once foreign to me are among my true life's treasures understanding that those memories can never be taken nor tainted. And my dream is that my art may find appreciation outside of me in the same way and magnitude that I've grown to appreciate the art of so many others.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Last Sunday Night: The Not So Very Beginning.

Yo, G. Whatcha think ’bout Bush? my business partner asked.

Shit, Ed. Nothin’ at all. Barack’s in. He’s out, I replied before inhaling to fill my lungs with Cohiba smoke.

Come on. Where’s ya head, G? I’m talking about Reggie Bush. You know, the ultimate weapon in cleats. He cracked a smoke-filled smile. Since when have you known me to give a fuck about who’s in the White House? Didn’t you just see those highlights from the game? He squinted to protect his eyes from the cigar smoke.

But I hadn’t seen a thing. My eyes were fixed on the plasma screen, my drink was on the table, and three-quarters of my stogie was clamped between my fingers like the business end of a billiards stick (now more ash than tobacco), but my mind and body were oceans apart. Momentarily detached from reality.

As a self-described lover of life and a firm believer that you should get everything possible out of the few fleeting breaths allowed, I’d reached a level of financial independence that had done wonders for my inner peace. My substitute for yoga had been success, and my preferred version of a traditional mantric meditation had been an exercise in living comfortably. I possessed sizable measures of the two things that are known to be great motivators in the minds of men: cash and beautiful female playmates with their own careers. Nevertheless, I was still beginning to feel the offspring of anxiety and tedium growing inside. And it’s presence was becoming a distraction.

Call me crazy if you’d like, but instead of continuing the rat race with my head stuck in the sand, I sought a break from the madness. I wanted an island, fresh fruit and seafood, my own little world, and two senoritas whose asses I could utilize while indulging in my own version of hypoxyphilia, smothering myself. And I know it sounds unreal or far-fetched to most, but a few years ago, I would’ve felt the same about making it this far, especially considering where I was coming from. And trust me, I’d come a long way.

As for my partner, he was a true risk-taker and a hardcore gambler. Despite his longing for the glory days of Walter Payton’s Chicago Bears, he was also a Reggie Bush fanatic. Ed loved speed-balling the thrill he got from sports betting and feeding his fascination with watching great running backs perform. He even used the alias Eddie Tailback, under which he’d wagered and regularly lost pretty large sums of money in Vegas. He had it bad. But other than that, he’d always seemed all right. He was my best friend and closest associate. Boasting, often about his Hispanic blood, which came from his mother, Ed counted himself a minority in spite of favoring his Caucasian father. He was a rebel at heart, hip with a posh respect for the urban way of life and its trends. He loved all women of color, and he partied like a rock star.

Pulled away from my carnal thoughts of asphyxiation by ass on a beach, I refocused on my partner’s topic of conversation. ESPN’s SportsCenter played in a continuous loop on the flat screen in the Cigar Room. It was the only suite where the 40/40 Club allowed smoking, and we’d rented it for the night. With a calm, steady breath, I exhaled my cancer fog and took a sip of Absolut and pineapple juice. And realizing that I’d been on the wrong page, I started to respond to my cohort but our clients began to walk in.

After visiting the 40/40 Club and closing one of our first major deals, I’d anointed this New York sports bar our official rendezvous spot for negotiating the details of all future merchandise sales. For some reason, it just seemed to fit us. Though the place was a favored pit stop for some of the biggest names in music, sports, and fashion, most Sunday nights were slow, and we could reserve a private room for about fifteen hundred dollars. The cute waitress of our choosing kept the finest liquors, finger foods, and cigars only a request away. Also, flat screens hanging from the ceilings, leather-furnished private suites, and exclusive cognacs that could run upward of six hundred dollars per shot made it classy, deceptive, seductive, lethal, and inconspicuous. It had a lot in common with my partner and I.

Ed and I owned a company that advertised the sale of pocketknives, stun guns, and other small articles for self-defense. DP International was the largest of its kind. We’d grown it to that point. However, it was initially a front for our more profitable business of supplying qualified customers with the best weapons that international illicit trading had to offer. In layman’s terms we were arms dealers—and damn good ones too. Ed had given our supposed dummy corporation its name, mocking the military operation (Double Penetration) that had marked our fall from the government’s grace. It was his way of thumbing his nose at the system. He was still bitter from the outcome. As for myself, it was what it was.

On that particular special ops assignment, we were ordered to enter Harare (Zimbabwe’s capital) under the cloak of night to take microfilm photos of a map in the treasury’s vault. It revealed hidden routes leading in and out of the city. The Secretary of Defense was interested in finding the whereabouts of a secret tunnel that was rumored to have been a transport pipeline for stolen nuclear arms. Orders were strict that there was to be no tarrying, detection of our presence, or casualties. Something went wrong, and things did not go as planned. We were court-martialed and ousted as a result of our malfeasance. And a few years later, here we were.

As always, the 40/40’s music seemed to have served as a cue for the entrance of our company. Lil Wayne’s Hustler Music had just ended, and Jay-Z’s Oh My God rushed the last of my private island fantasies away. Our clients were two Rwandan women who’d been sent as ambassadors to establish a mutual agreement with us about the price and delivery of an arsenal to their native land near the Congo. And the idea that females were negotiating an arms deal did not strike us as odd. In the past, we’d dealt with both sexes and all nationalities, and actually found dealing with women easier because they tended to be more punctual and attentive to every aspect of a business deal. And as far as their honesty, they were normally too busy being cautious about being taken advantage of in such a testosterone-filled profession to try to con us.

So, needless to say, they knew what they were getting into—and they would not have had our contact information if they did not. Dealing with us meant a person was somebody. And their enemy, target or mission wasn’t my business. If they’d needed defense against neighboring tribes and countries as the diamond and coal wars raged on, it wasn’t my business. Where would they get the funds to negotiate a seven-figure arms deal while their country needed better water, food, and medical attention? That wasn’t my business either. But, making sure our customers—male or female, black, white, purple, brown, or alien—were as comfortable as we were about the particulars of our business arrangement was my only concern. Others were paid to do the spy work and worry about the details. We had our shit together.

Even though we were involved in black-market commerce, we still had to sustain a competitive advantage. You can’t begin to imagine the competition we faced. The playing field was crowded. Hence, our service and to-your-doorstep system of fulfilling our end of the bargain was unparalleled.

Our customers didn’t know it, but we rarely touched or saw the items they’d purchased. However, after eight years of completing classified overseas missions and networking with guerrillas on various foreign soils, Ed and I had established strategic partnerships with suppliers from all over the world. Our associates dealt in everything from heroin to terrorism, but above all else, they held a healthy respect for the American dollar. As a result, we were continuously updated on the availability of new and old goodies: hand grenades, sniper rifles, body armor, rocket launchers, whatever. We had everything short of a fully functional tank—or should I say had access to it? And if you lived in the Middle East and really wanted a tank, we could refer you to someone. But that wasn’t our preference. Brokering deals of that kind was more like hustling nuclear arms; the shit drew a little too much heat for our liking. I mean… where the fuck are you gonna hide a tank?

Also, since we’d used or had at least been trained with 95 percent of the hardware in stock, we could recommend favorites and keep you from throwing money away. We’d offer advice on what would best suit your people, according to their skill or lack thereof. Beretta, Glock, and Heckler & Kotch were frequently requested, but we also carried the products of a few private manufacturers who chose not to comply with the ever-growing restrictions that were placed on officially licensed firearm producers. That gave us an edge and boosted our percentage of repeat customers.

While Ed and I were in the physical shape of weekend athletes, he could pass for Caucasian or Hispanic, depending on his mood. At six foot with black hair, he’d stayed true to the cleanly shaven appearance that the marines had forced upon him as a late teen. He weighed about 195, dressed neatly, and the female magnetism he possessed suggested that ladies found his short, pointy nose, dark eyes, and lightly tanned skin to be attractive. And he knew it too. He had no shortage of arrogance to prove it. On that night, he wore tan Ralph Lauren slacks, shoes, and a dress-shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned. No flashy jewelry. It was important to us that we didn’t offend our consumers. Well, it was important to me. Ed rarely gave a fuck.

I was five foot ten, a bit shorter than my partner, and my 212-pound frame was more muscular than his. My skin was a medium shade of brown, and my eyes were a lighter brown, carrying a tint of seriousness. I dressed casually for our meeting. An Armani sweater accentuated my brawny physique, and Armani slacks draped atop my most comfortable pair of square-toed, leather Ferragamo shoes. My tapered haircut and light mustache were never unkempt. Although I was an outlaw, I played the role of a classy merchant like an A-list actor. Shit, it all came pretty naturally. Business was business.

During negotiations, my partner and I were always observant, shunning more serious intoxicants besides our occasional mixed drinks and cigars. After giving both ladies menus, I offered refreshments.

Our waitress looked through the curtained doorway and asked, Can I get anybody anything?

Both ladies politely declined in pleasant, heavily accented voices.

Right away, I noticed Ed’s admiration for them. When it came to women, he practiced little self-control. It was nothing new. It was a major reason we’d been relieved of our government duties and were self-employed. But who was I to complain? The ladies did seem to grow more beautiful by the minute. I was not above appreciating that. Nevertheless, my plans were to finalize the deal and move on. I always said, There’s a time for everything.

The taller of these two soul sisters stood around five foot nine with a slim, sinewy build and a complexion that was dark, almost to a fault, except for its smoothness, glow, and overall health. She wore no makeup and was naturally gorgeous. She dressed like an American; her conservative skirt and blouse fit as if they had been stitched for her and her alone. Her toes peeked neatly out of the front opening of her heels. And she clutched a small designer handbag; her only jewelry was a handmade seashell necklace and earrings. The look in her eyes was as confident as her walk, and her braided hair hung over her shoulder. The ends were tipped by smaller seashells.

The other Nubian queen was five foot seven, and her natural hair was pulled back in one curly puff. Its shine and texture suggested that her bloodline was of mixed descent. Her sundress and Christian Dior sandals made each movement of hers appear as if she was in the comfort of her own home, gliding around her living room in her birthday suit. I found her presence to be very enchanting.

Her skin was chocolate but not as dark as her accomplice’s. Her nails were manicured in a pristine fashion. And her legs displayed an exiguous bow that added to her innocent sex appeal. She was a little less conservative in terms of her attire, adorning herself in an Egyptian bicep bracelet of gold and a few matching bangles on her opposite wrist. Her petite Louis Vuitton tote matched her dress, and her only makeup was lip-gloss and lip liner.

Both beauties were classy—having no need for blingy accessories—and their bodies carried an alluring fragrance.

Turning their phones off, the ladies introduced themselves. Sasha was the name of the taller woman, and the shorter, shapelier specimen turned out to be Jana.

We did the same, snuffing our cigars and popping Altoids into our mouths. Conveniently their unique scent developed a rapport with our suite that hastened the work of its ventilation system, ushering out the tobacco fumes in no time. We made small talk as we inquired about the comfort of their trip.

After the mood was set, I began to ease into the business at hand. Our clients sat on the leather couch, and Ed and I settled on an oversized ottoman. They were attentive and eager to hear us out.

I leaned forward with my forearms on my knees and my fingers clamped together, pressing ahead. Your request was relayed to us, and we’ve already subtracted your order from our existing inventory. We should have no problem with delivery, as long as your people are in place to receive—

Our people will be where you need them to be. This, along with many other particulars, is understood. But we’re really here to discuss numbers, Mr. G: cost, price, and finances, Sasha said. We are prepared to place $2 million in escrow, and it will be released into an account of your choosing upon receipt of our hardware. She was feistier than she’d appeared.

That sounds great, Ms. Sasha, Ed said. Except for the 175,000 presidential reasons why your militia will never receive their precious cargo. The number is $2.175 million unless you’d rather borrow your ammunition and explosives from one of the many neighboring countries with whom you are feuding.

My partner’s blunt words were taken seriously. And to think he’d been giving Sasha the eye for the past fifteen minutes. My comrade didn’t play about money.

I’d remained calm, doing the math in my head. However, Ed had almost snapped. I understood that his outburst had probably been brought on by Sasha’s attitude as much as her proposition. I always anticipated a hard sell when dealing with a new client. It was all a part of wheeling and dealing.

The eye contact remained tense as I allowed the women a minute to digest our steadfastness. Then I said, There’s a feasible solution, ladies. We can rearrange the order.

Ed began to relax.

I continued, We swap out your original M-16 units, replacing each with Russian AK-47s. By doing this, there’s no need for further inconveniences. The ammo gets switched to 7.62 millimeter. No big deal. The weapon is less accurate, but it is more durable and requires less maintenance. Dip it in water, sand, or mud, and it’ll fire when needed. We can do this for $2.1 million. How does that sound, ladies?

They were a bit hesitant at first. But after more reassurance—and our consulting skills—we were able to confirm the deal and iron out all the wrinkles.

My partner and I normally operated really smoothly. As ex-military officers, it was hard for us to feel guilty about breaking the law. Shit, we were only doing what life had exposed us to. It was no different from an electrician who’d graduated from apprenticeship to journeyman or from employee to self-employed. And we were the elite, with an accreditation that was accepted worldwide because our peers knew that we’d been trained by the best of the best. Thus, our competence was seldom questioned.

Moving on, the four of us discussed milder issues over food and drinks. Everyone recaptured an air of undisturbed comfort. The music continued, and Ed resumed a subtle flirtation with Sasha. We ended up touching on various topics like old friends. Attraction was definitely present between us. The conversation was constant, stimulating, and amusing. But I took it upon myself to retreat gradually. I preferred distance, inner solitude, and my thoughts about my world.

Ed, Sasha, and Jana left the Cigar Room to enjoy some dancing and pool shooting, but I remained seated. Relighting my Cohiba, I watched the highlights of the day’s football games. Reggie Bush had had a stellar performance as the New Orleans Saints beat up on the Chicago Bears, 42–13, at Soldier Field.

So that’s what Ed had been so excited about. I was glad that somebody I knew felt good about it because I’d expected to see long faces when I got back to our office in Chi-town tomorrow.

Forty minutes later, I stepped out of our suite, intent on catching up with the club’s co-owner. When I’d found Juan in his office, he was busy scolding a young waitress who’d been busted for engaging in extracurricular activities in the unisex restroom.

Peering past her, I gestured that I’d catch him another time. And after passing through the kitchen area, I walked the length of the hallway, searching for my companions. They weren’t in any of the unreserved rooms, including the billiards suite. I went down to the dance floor. Ten couples were grooving to UGK’s International Players. They were evenly spaced, courteously giving each other enough room to share vibes exclusively with their partners. I wasn’t surprised when one of those couples happened to be Ed and Sasha. They were enjoying themselves. And they were enjoying each other.

The night was coming to an end. It wouldn’t happen how I’d expected, but the aura of sexuality that surrounded Ed and Sasha threatened to thicken. They were on cloud nine as they moved in sync with one another.

Sasha stood with her back to Ed’s chest and her ass pressed firmly against his crotch. Her head was swaying, her fingers were massaging her braids, and she was grinding her controlled, snake-charming body into his. He kissed her neck, rubbing her hips and stomach, stopping just shy of her breast. They appeared to be seducing each other in a maturely mannered fashion. I hadn’t seen Jana, and my thoughts were elsewhere, but I was doing my best to hide it. I felt anxious and uneasy about something. But I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Mildly frustrated, I took a piss and called it a night.

Outside the club, our limo, a running taxi, and eerie gusts of wind were the only things visibly inhabiting the block. A few other parked vehicles were present, here and there, however there was no way of knowing if they were club goers or street residents. Aside from the occasional flashing blurs of traffic, there was no one in sight. But the engines and horns of metropolitan nightlifers on busier streets could be heard in the distance. And, in my mind, their sounds created a constant output, orchestrating an authentic, audible collage of New York City at playtime.

It was no surprise when Ed and Sasha continued their courting and cuddling as we were leaving the sports bar. I’d opted for a walk while they’d chosen to catch a cab to God knows where. Ed protested my decision, arguing that it was a few minutes past midnight. But I didn’t see the big deal. I rarely carried large amounts of cash. I was armed, as always with my easy-to-conceal .40 caliber Glock 26. And I really needed the fresh air and clear, starry skies for my cloudy thinking. I overlooked his advice, paying him no mind. The way I saw it, everyone could use a few minutes to themselves from time to time. It aided in the preservation of one’s sanity.

Big C opened the limo door for Jana, and I instructed him to return her to Manhattan’s Waldorf Astoria. Being careful not to come off like the common all-about-money asshole, I maintained my charm. I flirted passively but I explained how other pressing issues required my immediate attention. Her disappointment was visible, but she remained a lady. She assured me that she understood and would agree to take a rain check for the next time she visited the States. I kissed her hand, and she took her time stepping into the limo. My trusty chauffeur drove off, and I embraced the night’s peace.

Checking the time, I mentally mapped out my way to the Comfort Suites in Harrison, New Jersey. It was nothing extravagant—and far below my means—but it allowed me the luxury of moving around the way I liked to: as if I didn’t exist. For eighty-five dollars a night, no one wondered or cared who I was, and nobody would check for my name as a resident. I wasn’t on vacation; this was very illegal business. The less attention I received, the better off I was.

Only a few blocks away, I could catch the subway, transfer twice, and have the hotel’s shuttle van waiting for me outside the train terminal in Harrison. After a four-minute ride, I’d be at the hotel. I’d appear to be an ordinary cat, exhibiting naïve tourist behavior. No sweat.

But as I turned to follow my plotted route, I heard a sound I knew all too well. The muffled burst combined with an electric, sharp, high-pitched noise. It whispered the silence of death and startled my adrenal glands into overdrive. Instinctively, I darted in the opposite direction, sensing the presence of another. Whoever he was, he was up to no good. I’ve never been one who believes in friendly fire.

Two more energized puffs informed me that I was not mistaken. One grazed my ear, and the other hit its mark, directly in the center of my lower back. I dove behind a parked Hummer on the sidewalk about thirty yards from the club’s entrance. No one was outside to witness or help. Kareem, the club’s head of security had stepped inside after bidding us farewell. I was alone.

The situation’s criticality, I’d assumed, numbed the stinging in the small of my back, and I reached instantly in that area grasping for my holstered savior. I hadn’t been shot in a while, and it was damn sure nothing to long for. However, there was no time to think about that. Realizing where I had been hit, I was extremely worried until I retrieved my weapon. Its handle had been shattered. The grip and magazine had taken the blow, but that led to another problem.

My weapon—my most dependable friend at the moment—was fucked. It was damaged beyond operability. Sweat drenched my sweater, causing it to cling to my body. Silenced bursts from my assailant’s banger continued to bang away and fine circlets of fiberglass and windshield were being picked out of my gas-guzzling shield. Chwk. Chwk. Chwk. Chwk. Chwk. He kept shooting.

My heart raced and sweat poured, causing my body to rev like a Bugatti engine. My muscles pumped like intricately tuned pistons, and my mind chose to ask questions later and make sure my body survived now. After fleeing halfway around the truck, hoping to distance myself from my attacker, I dropped to the ground in search of his whereabouts. I could see the feet of my shooter between the tires as he stepped closer to seal the deal.

Then, I remembered the hollow-headed round I always kept chambered. And with my sights targeted on the front of a black Timberland boot, creeping across the street, from the other side of the Hummer, I squeezed the trigger.

Buaw, my Austrian hater hurter barked.

Aaaaahg! the sloppy assassin cried.

The front of his boot exploded in a bloody mist, turning his first three toes into smoking shards of mangled flesh and bone. Hopping to my feet, I heard him shriek in pain, once more, before five samurai-like strides brought me behind him, within striking distance. And, suddenly, I felt the rush of pure power. The tables had turned.

As the seconds slowed down, my shooter became an insect about to be ravaged by a cruel genetic cross between a tarantula and a pit bull. Nothing could save him. He was done for.

As he attempted to raise his muffled Bushmaster while turning on his good leg to face me, I crashed his knee in with a kick. Gristle and ligaments snapped. Loose jeans and a hoodie concealed a bulky frame that was of no use to its owner. And from there, his long-bearded, bald head was an easy target. The fight was pretty much one sided.

Throat chops, groin kicks, and five-piece-combinations; he got a taste of it all. It was a display of hand-to-hand skills that I hadn’t used in years. However, I was comforted by the fact that I’d showed only the slightest amount of rust during my performance on this injured merc.

Once I was confident that he’d been amply beaten, I regained my control, dragging him to the sidewalk and out of view. I needed him alive. I needed to find out what the fuck was up.

Chapter 2

A Nice Ride

Kareem was standing inside the club’s entrance and hadn’t realized what was going on until my blast alerted him. After peeking down the dimly lit street and seeing that I had everything under control, he’d pulled out his cell phone and dialed like his life depended on it. The Hummer’s owner exited the club, attempting to barge past him, unaware of what was taking place as he yelled, Hey, yo, get the fuck away from my truck!

Kareem restrained him, keeping witnesses to a minimum and advising the cat to be cool.

Yeah, he’d better, I thought. My nerves were shot.

My wounded hostage and I were nestled within an alleyway, made up of a newly vacated building and a brownstone condominium. We were hidden. Just he and I. But that wasn’t good news for him.

Who the fuck are you and who the fuck sent you? I demanded aiming my assassin’s Carbine 15 at his forehead while standing over him.

Everything had happened so fast that I’d had no idea which direction he’d come from. The son of a bitch had just appeared like a genie, catching me off guard. Maybe I should’ve gone with Jana. I mean, even if it had turned out to be a lame fuck, cold pussy would get my vote over hot bullets any day. And that was common sense. It didn’t take a porn star to figure that out.

However, I felt fair in concluding that my name had been engraved on the rounds my attacker had fired. I was undoubtedly a marked man. And there was no use in prolonging this shit. I’d never found success in putting off till tomorrow the things that could be done today. I sure didn’t plan on waiting till the next day to get this clown’s answer.

I’m gonna ask you one last time, playboy, and somebody’s gonna speak. And it can be you or your little semiautomatic, hole-punchin’ friend here. It’s your choice. Who are you? And who sent you?

His fiery eyes glazed over, tearing from the combined pain of a shattered cheekbone, newly deformed knee, and what little remained of his left foot. After spitting a broken tooth onto the chest of his hoodie, his blood-filled mouth opened. He had a strong Jamaican accent. I no tell you nothing, boy. I welcome death, you bumbaclot. He then began to laugh wickedly until I stepped on the front of his mutilated foot.

Aaaaaaaaag, he wailed and coughed, trying to catch his breath.

I bit down on my bottom lip, kicking his ribcage as hard as I could. My aggravation multiplied as I thought of the unexpected wear and tear on my clothes.

Who? I demanded. My finger was snug against the trigger. I sensed someone approaching from behind. With calm precision, I pirouetted 180 degrees, fixing the sites of my borrowed toy on a massive figure in dark slacks, a dark blazer, and a black T-shirt that identified him as 40/40 security.

It was Kareem. He halted, hands out front, and said, It’s me, G.

Nodding, I returned my attention to my island friend. Kareem came closer, stopping at my side.

I said, Watch out, ’reem. This piece of shit’s bleedin’ like a stuck hog.

Kareem stepped back. Word, son. He’s in bad shape. Whatcha do to him?

What I do ta him? I asked. "Shit. I did what I had to do. I walked my lady friend down this way to put her in the limo so Big C could take her back to