Cracked Dreams (31 page)

After a few more questions that didn't make any sense to neither Don nor P., they ultimately found out that this stranger was no stranger at all. In fact, they had coincidently bumped heads in the streets on a number of occasions, with him always ending up with the shitty end of the stick. Most recently, and probably what had pushed him over the edge, was when they were granted bail earlier that morning. He'd been sitting in the back of the
courtroom when the judge had said the words, “Bail granted,” and he couldn't even control himself. He'd stormed out of the courtroom abruptly and could no longer contain himself. Earlier than that morning, they were directly responsible for his aunt's untimely and savage killing. They didn't know it then, but this was the same Dwight that was on the floor cradling his Aunt Nester's lifeless corpse after two shots came tearing through her door. As quickly as the chance was given to them to get rid of the only living witness to the murder, it was taken from them as Poncho shoved El down six flights of steps to make their getaway.

Just before this incident, he thought that someone representing their organization was to blame for his cousin Reggie's bloody murder. All that was left was a clutter of shells surrounding his body, but he figured who was responsible. This feeling was only confirmed when he saw them through the holes in his aunt's door. All roads were leading back to the Time Bomb Family.

Of course, he hadn't even known about the events that had led to his boy Bobby's a.k.a. Tec's death but he'd subsequently blamed Spits. He'd spent the rest of the whole day trying to figure out ways to get back at them. The loss of his friend would also have to be taken out on Don and P.

“Ya'll some bitch-ass niggas!” Dwight said in a loud tone before he paused to give a chuckle. “You heard? Ya'll some bitch-ass mu'fuckas. Why the fuck didn't ya'll merc that nigga Ceelow when Roscoe told ya'll that he was stealing from ya'll?”

A surprised look came across the faces of El Don and Poncho. “How the fuck did he know about that?” they asked themselves over and over again but couldn't complete the equation. It wasn't making any sense yet.

“What?” Dwight asked condescendingly. “Was ya'll mu'fuckas scared or somethin'?”

“Fuck you!” El Don yelled. “I ain't scared of no-fuckin'-body, not even ya punk ass.”

“Well, ya'll must've been scared if ya'll let that nigga keep breathin' after what Roscoe told ya'll.”

“Fuck Roscoe,” Poncho bluntly said. “Fuck Ceelow, too. Let's talk about
your punk ass. Why don't you stop playin' this bullshit game and tell us who the fuck you are?”

“I'm the one that told Roscoe to tell ya'll dumb ass mu'fuckas that shit about Ceelow,” he said as if he'd been waiting forever to tell someone. He then waited for a response, but there was none. “Is it startin' to make sense yet, dummies?”

When they could do nothing but carry blank looks on their faces, he knew that he had to continue.

“You see Roscoe was just some bitch nigga that owed me,” Dwight said. “He was expendable, so I ain't care when ya'll niggas sent him back to his essence. I ain't get tight until I realized nothin' was gonna happen afterwards, ya na'mean. Now, does that mean that our boy Roscoe's death was in vain?”

“Why?” Poncho asked. “What the fuck made you want to fuck with us? What was worth how much work you put in to wage an all-out war against us?”

“What?!” Dwight yelled as his eyes grew larger. “What the fuck you mean?! You don't know yet? Maybe that summer night didn't mean as much to ya'll mu'fuckas. Maybe you can treat a double-homicide like a walk in the park.”

“Hold up a minute,” El said aloud as he began realizing where they'd first met. “That was you?” he asked.

“Yup,” Dwight answered with a silly, but devilish, grin on his face. First, he felt a bit of contentment with the idea that they hadn't completely forgotten about that late-summer night in the park, four summers ago. But when El Don let out a chuckle, that feeling quickly transformed into a fit of rage. He got up out his seat and approached El with his shotgun cocked and pointed directly at his chest. “What's so funny, mu'fucka?”

El looked him straight in his face and said, “You's a bitch-ass nigga.” El said it with so much conviction that it sent a shiver up Dwight's spine. “You mad 'cause you ain't have enough balls to jump out the fuckin' whip and get buck for your boys? You just a pussy.”

All of the emotions that Dwight had felt after that night came rushing back to him. He hadn't spoken about that night once since it had happened. He was always afraid of what someone might say about the way he'd left his boys without any assistance. He was so sorry for his cowardly behavior but
had yet to get an opportunity to express these feelings. After everything, he wished nothing more than to go back to that night. He wanted so much for a second chance. He knew that if only this one wish could be granted, that he could've changed the outcome of that night. It was his fault that Drew and Pone got killed, but he couldn't admit that to himself. He kept telling himself otherwise, but he'd later come to the realization that had he not left them alone the way he had, they might have had a chance. They might still be here today. He had no idea that this night would be a pivotal point in his life.

Immediately afterwards, he couldn't yet find it in himself to go after his friends' killers. It only made it worse when they got so big and well-known in the streets. The fear only grew deeper and deeper. Finally, he'd come to the conclusion that he'd be justified in getting back at the Time Bombs in otherwise non-conventional methods. In other words, he did what the average bitch-ass nigga not thorough enough for the game would do. He started ratting. His first experience with the Federal Bureau of Investigation led to the arrest of Peter “Trigger” Beckford, and the unfortunate death of Mikey “Pop” Black. Things started to look a little bit better for Dwight after that, but that all quickly came to a halt once Trigger disappeared.

Now, he could no longer play the background while they screwed up the numerous attempts they had to apprehend the key members of the Time Bombs to bring them down. With this final example of how incompetent the police were, he'd decided to take the law into his own hands. He couldn't sit back anymore and wait for them to settle his beef. Now, he was prepared to handle his own.

BOOM . . .
chic-chic . . .
BOOM!
Dwight hit El with two shots in his chest at close range with the 12-gauge he was gripping. The first shot hit El with so much force that it pushed his chair over on its back. He then stood over him to give him the second shot and said, “That's for my Aunt Nes, you bitch-ass nigga!” When Poncho heard the first shot go off, everything else just went silent. His eyes grew larger and his face got so red that you could see veins bulging out of his neck and forehead. He couldn't contain himself. He tried with all his might to get free from the wire that had his hands and feet bounded but to no avail. His numerous attempts to get up simply
looked like a pointless rage to Dwight. He looked at him and smiled, then smacked him across the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. “You want some, too?” he asked, and then stood up behind Poncho's chair.

“Yeah, mu'fucka!” Poncho yelled helplessly. “Let me out of this chair, nigga. Please, let me out of this chair and I swear on everything I love, I'ma buss you right in ya shit!”

Click-clack . . .Dwight cocked back a chrome .9 mm pistol, just like the one that Cee had used on his boys that dark summer night, and put it to the back of Poncho's head. “This is for Pone and Drew . . .you bitch-ass nigga,” he said before pulling the trigger seven times. He put two in the back of Poncho's head for Pone, and when his body fell lifelessly over on the ground, he put five more shots in his back for Drew.

“I can't believe that you could even say a thing like that, Ma,” Ginger said to her mom as a river of tears continued flowing down her face.

“Well, there isn't anything that anyone can do about this now, baby,” she said, trying to reason with her daughter. “Michael is going to be going to prison for a very long time, and all the money in the world couldn't stop that from happening.”

“You're a liar!” she yelled. “That can't happen. He would never leave me.”

“Listen to me, baby,” she said as she walked over to console her only daughter. “It's already happened. The FBI picked him up at the Marriott Hotel in Manhattan last night.”

“That's not true,” Ginger said, still in denial. “How could you possibly know all of this?”

“I know because they told me, out of respect, to keep you as far away from that party as possible.”

“What?” Ginger asked.

“They knew for months that they were going to move in on Michael, a.k.a. Spits, and the rest of the Time Bomb Family the night of their New Year's Party. Purely out of the respect they had for my dedication to the
police force, was I informed of their plans ahead of time. If I could get through to you, it might not be too late for you to put this horrible person behind you and do what's right for you.”

“I don't know what that means, Mommy,” Ginger said helplessly. “I wouldn't know what to do without Spits. I love him with all of my heart, and I can't do anything to change that.” She paused for a second. She cried, and cried, and cried until she could form no more tears. It was hopeless for her to even consider a life without Spits. She would rather die.

A
s the afternoon hours set into the first day of the New Millennium, I was finally convinced. I knew now that I wasn't at all the same person that had begun this business only four short years ago. After all of the ups and downs, the good times and bad, I had gotten to a point in my life where I just didn't give a fuck about all of the same things anymore. My priorities got thrown all out of order that summer of '96, and now I had gotten in too deep to make a reasonable recovery.

As fucked up as everything seemed, it possibly went from bad to worse. My cell phone let out an indication tone that meant that I had a new voicemail message waiting. It surprised me that I would even be getting a message, as my phone hadn't been receiving a signal all night. My first feeling was genuine happiness as I listened to the message, but as it continued, I suddenly became numb. A single tear formed from my eye as I decided that I'd had enough. All of a sudden, I felt all alone in the world. I felt like there was no one left for me to even imagine talking to about my deepest and darkest feelings. I was lost. That one tear would soon turn into more, and those tears would turn into an uncontrollable wave of emotions. Wave after wave of deep emotions would be buried for no longer. “Why the fuck is all of this shit happening to me?” I asked myself that question over and over again but found no answer. My life was lost. Years and years of burying my feelings deep inside me was now in control of my actions. This is when I called it quits, but as with most of my decisions, it came just a bit too late.

“What the fuck?” I said as I realized that I was being surrounded by what looked like an entire police department. As I turned to make a getaway in the opposite direction, more cars came rushing from underneath the overpass toward me. All I saw were jackets that said “POLICE” and “FBI” in big white letters, and all I heard were the voices yelling, “FREEZE!” and, “WE'VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED!”

This is it . . .this is where my song comes to an end . . .I guess it's just my time. Sounds like the most reasonable thoughts to have in this situation, doesn't it? Nope. None of that shit went through my fuckin' head at this point. All I could think about was going out. All of the people that I'd loved had either fucked me, or were dead and gone, or both. My life was fucking over, and I wasn't about to spend the rest of my days in a goddamn jail cell. Fuck that!

I grabbed the first mu'fuckin' pig that got close enough to me, and put my big shiny burner to the side of his head with a slug already chambered. I held him in front of me for cover as I backed down the rest of them. “Get the fuck back!” I yelled as their looks went from “we've got this under control” to a look that could only be interpreted as one thing . . .“we're fucked.” I held him tight and close to my body with the gat planted firmly against his head, and without a second thought,
BOOM!
I splattered that mu'fucka's brains all over the sidewalk. I felt an indescribable burst of energy go pumping through my body and I was ready for more. When his lifeless body fell to the ground, I got low for the fire that would return. I made my way to a parked car where I knelt down for cover. With graceful and swift extensions of my torso and arms, I got up from behind the car to take aim and squeeze. On my right side I caught one of them tryin' to creep,
BOOM!
Then, they tried blindsiding me on the left . . .
BOOM . . .BOOM!
One by one, I picked them off. Aiming strictly for head shots with every squeeze of my trigger, I evened the odds and brought the ratio down to size. But, as the casualties grew larger and larger, my ammunition grew more and more thin. That's when I heard the best nine words I ever heard in my life.