The Movers

By Damien Jackson

A suspenseful tale that digs deep into the underworld and the deadly risks one man takes in attempts to find the one thing he could never find in the cold streets, love. Follow along on a journey with a moving company that will move your furniture out of your house or a few people out of your life permanently if the price is right. Love, loyalty, honor, and respect all the rules will be tested as you are introduced to The Movers.

“I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY ROYAL BROTHER AND SISTERS WHETHER BY DNA,STREET OR CONCRETE I LOVE Y’ALL.THIS ONE FOR US!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662409882

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Good Reverend

I’m-a say this one mo’ mothafuckin’ time, nigga, my little brother began his rant.

I know, I know, stop volunteering you for shit, I replied, mocking his voice.

Bro, you know baby’s been on me to slow this shit down, our paper right, crib cool, cars cool, I’m tryna fall back, he expressed.

See, my little brother, only younger than me by about four or five months, yet he had a good head on his shoulders, with a good girl to go with it. Between the two of them, they had all kinds of degrees, certifications, credentials, and shit. She pushed him to do better. He’d fucked up a lot as a juvie, got it out his system, and out of the crew. He’s the only one who had real positive shit to show for his money. Me, on the other hand, I been through it.

You know most would say, It’s my daddy’s fault he wasn’t there, or So and so touched my such and such when I was young, or the classic The White Man blah blah blah… Not me, most of my hardships came from ME. I had the same half a chance every other young black male from the small West Texas ghettos had; I just didn’t take it, really wasn’t my thang. I just never was too fond of rules, regulations, stipulations, nor delegations. (That last one may not fit; it sounded good, got on my Jessie Jackson shit just then.) So by fourteen, I was a full-fledged street cat, hustlin’, pimpin’, robbin’, long con, short con, you name it; if it was some money involved, I was there. Was even connected to a major drug cartel out of Mexico. Long story short, one gun, a lotta drugs, eight years and three months in a federal prison, and here we are. Honestly, had it not been for li’l bro putting me in his situation, I’d prolly be back in the clink by now. He put me in with Quic Movers and LE, making my job shit look legit, helped me get OFF paper and helped me put some major paper in my pocket and got me seeing things a whole new way. Being back with my little bro has been the best three years of my life, now he was ready to settle down and fall back and got me half-ass thinking ’bout doing the same.

Bro, you really thinking ’bout gettin’ out? I questioned.

Nigga, you deaf or what? he said, looking at me over his shoulder as he pushed the metallic black Dodge Charger through traffic. Hell yes, he continued. I’m ready to see some little mes runnin’ around, say ‘I do,’ build my dream crib in my own li’l piece of the hood, my nigga. Soon as my paper right and my plan in order, I’m done, big bro, he said seriously.

Riding silently for a few miles, I chose my thoughts and words carefully. How much? I threw the question out there.

How much what crazy man? he asked with a perturbed look on his face.

How much to exit, silly mothafucka? I asked.

Man, what kinda freaky gay shit you on, bruh? he asked jokingly. Hey, you my bro and I love ya, but keep that prison shit to yourself, he continued to clown, having a laugh at my expense.

Fuck you, bozo-ass nigga, how much money you need to get out the Game and be good, punk? I asked looking upside his head crazy.

Whew, I thought prison had broke you, he continued still laughing at his own jokes.

You gonna continue to be homo insensitive, or you going to answer the question? I asked sternly for the third time.

Oh, you serious? He acted surprised.

I’m dead-ass! I stated matter-of-factly.

Pulling into the chop shop in one of the Quic Movers moving van, Mr. No parked around back, and we both sat silently waiting on the freshly wrapped AGLAND CONSTRUCTION truck.

After this, lic a couple mill, bro said and broke the silence.

What if I said one and a half? I asked.

One and a half mill, he repeated.

Man what the fuck, is it an echo in this raggedy-ass van or what? I said, irritated. Yes, one and a half mill, three mill to split, half for you, half for me. I’ll do the footwork, you do the getaway and our exit strategy with LE, I stated matter-of-factly.

What is it? Mr. No questioned curiously.

Simple shit, I lied.

Mothafucka, seriously, he spat, reading right threw my bullshit.

Federal witness, I responded as we changed vehicles and headed from Lubbock, Texas, to Garland, Texas, on an old abandoned trucker route.

Soon as we were far out of earshot of anyone, my li’l brotha finally erupted. A federal fuckin’ witness, nigga, is you CRAZY! Nah, fuck that, fuck that, you really is crazy damn fool, you been to the feds, you know how they roll, you tryna get us threw under the supermax or what? he said as if talking to a stark-raving lunatic.

Nah, nigga! I spat. I’m tryin’ to square up like you.

Nah, nigga, I’m tryna square away some bread, square away my life. You, big bro, you tryna end up in a square box or doing life in a square concrete, federal concrete dungeon, my little brotha rationalized.

Jeezy said it best, I began and leaned my seat back in the four-door F250.

Jeezy, Jeezy, really, nigga! my li’l bro asked, shocked.

It’s only one-rule Playa, I started the Jeezy line and tilted my New York Yankees hat over my face. DON’T GET CAUGHT, I rapped then closed my eyes and snoozed the rest of the trip, leaving my brother to think.

Chapter 2

Preparations

We chilled at the stash house of LE’s cousin in a quaint little neighborhood in Garland, Texas. My little brother sat on the couch monitoring his stocks on his smartphone as I watched the latest bullshit on the news and sipped coffee. 7:20 am came, and we headed to the Potter’s Wheel Church to blend in with the construction crew on the new wing of the already megachurch complex. These dudes really made me sick to my stomach, using the Holiest Scriptures as a play to swindle people of not only their hard-earned money but their emotions and their faith as well. Shit wild, yeah. We sell a li’l dope, hustle, or whatever, and they make us PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER 1, yet these two-bit con man gets a building, a three-piece suit, and a Bible, and they can rob the world tax free. GOD BLESS AMERICA!

*****

As we pulled up, we prepared our disguises and fake accents. My little brother is a mixed breed (Negro father / Mexican mother), perfect skin tone to play the part of a Middle Eastern Arab named Aziz Mohomed. Me being a few shades darker, I played the part of his close friend and roommate/coworker named Amir Saheed, half-Arab, half-Negro American-born Muslim—kufi beard and all. We had the accents down. Face it, this wasn’t our first rodeo; we’d played many parts the few years I had been home, prosthetics and all. This REMOVAL BUSINESS was some real shit; it often got deep on some real double-oh-seven covert Mission Impossible-type shit.

Bro sported a nicely placed full beard, totally fake, you’d never know it though. Disguises were flawless, as were our clearances. Our security badges gave us access to anywhere in the church we wanted. Soon we were making our way to the top floors on a freight elevator. I started having second thoughts on our disguises; we were the only Middle Eastern-looking cats in the whole building, from what I could see. I mean it was kind of the point. MUSLIMS + CHRISTIAN CHURCH = ISIS getting the blame in 4.2 seconds, and the president using it to fuel another bullshit war on terror. Yet at the same time, these disguises could put us under the microscope and get us red-flagged before we even got to pay the Good Reverend, and by my brothers look, I knew he was thinking the same, as we shook off the thought, exited the elevator, and split up, then made our way into the main building.

My brother made his way to the Good Reverend’s office, hoping to get his hands on the Sunday itinerary, as I made my way to the electrical room to wire my remote system to the main breaker box. With little to no strain. our tasks were complete. Bro found a vantage point and left our bag of tricks in position, then we faded into the scenery and finished out our week as regular construction workers.

Chapter 3

HER

That Wednesday, we sat on the back of the work truck, eating lunch. Damn, bro, that’s like yo fifth sandwich! I said, astonished at my little brother’s appetite.

So, hoe, why you watchin’ me eat anyway, nigga? he asked, agitation evident in his voice.

’Cause, hoe, you AMAZING! I said, shaking my head as he ate his sixth sandwich, and I erupted into laughter at the guilty look on his face.

Fuck you, mark! he said while still chewing, then as if heaven opened a trapdoor, there SHE was.

Daaaaaamn! I let it fall out of my mouth before realizing it, forgetting my fake accent and all.

"What,