I Can Touch the Bottom Read online

  “Arrggh.” Blood ran out of Devin’s mouth, dripping all over his once winter-white shirt. Feeling as if he was done before he even got started, Devin held both hands up in the air like the Mike Brown protester with his eyes closed. Bracing himself for the worst that was evident to come, the other would-be robbers jumped up ready to come to his aid.

  Stackz was stern in his demeanor and words, dropping his much-needed bag of fries to the ground. He wasn’t with no games, and he made sure everyone understood that much, shoving the gun’s barrel in Devin’s mouth as hot piss flowed down the wankster’s pants leg. “Yup, come on with it, and I’m gonna send this here fat nigga to the upper room first. Then I got sixteen more ‘li’l friends’ to make sure you lames catch up with this big pissy bitch before he reach Jesus’ front door. So what in the fuck it’s gonna be, fellas? We rocking out or what, ’cause my food getting cold?”

  Rank and Mickey straight-away stopped. They stood perfectly still, taking in all what Stackz had just said. It was as if they were frozen in time. They both considered their fate if they took another step, as well as Devin’s. Confused and concerned, they turned to each other, not knowing what move to make next. Stackz was not in the mood to play around as his stomach was still growling. Ready to put an end to this entire failed attempt of them playing at being gangsters, he helped them decide. Snatching his burner out of Devin’s bloody mouth, he pointed it at the defeated voiceless duo. Motioning his peacemaker toward the booth where the females were still posted at, Rank and Mickey quickly got the idea and politely sat back down.

  “Oh my God,” Leela gasped on the verge of tears, seeing her meal ticket getting his ass handed to him.

  “Okay, back to you, fat boy.” Stackz turned his attention back to Devin, “Mister, I’m the winner of the ho-ass nigga of the night contest.” Not done with showing these fools that if you play with fire you will get burnt, Stackz gripped up tightly on his gun. With brutal force and an overwhelming taste for violence, he smacked Devin across the top of his head with the butt of the pistol. An echo rang throughout the walls of the restaurant. Cracking Devin’s skull, blood started to leak from an instant deep gash. He was dizzy. The room was starting to spin as smells of bacon, cheeseburgers, and chicken finger aromas filled his flaring nostrils. Stackz had proven his point just as he claimed he would. Tangling with him wasn’t what Devin or his crew of cowardly misfits wanted. “Now, okay, motherfucker, you see what it really is and what’s really good. So we done here tonight, or you wanna go a second round?”

  Devin tried to stand strong but couldn’t maintain his balance. His knees buckled as his heavy frame dropped to the ceramic floor. Speechless, Mickey and Rank were in shock. They had never seen their peoples so humiliated by the next manz. It was like Devin was nothing to Stackz but a small child being punished for speaking out of turn.

  With their mouths wide open in disbelief and horror, Ava and Leela held each other tight. The different-as-night-and-day sisters stayed at each other’s throats, but at this point, they were as one. What started off as a late-night run to the restaurant to grab a bite to eat and hang out had turned to them being terrified to move an inch. Motionless, afraid for their lives, the girls did what most females would do in that situation.

  Cry.

  Praying they would make it out of there alive, Ava searched Stackz’s eyes for any small glimmer of mercy he was willing to grant them. In between hoping she and Leela would see daylight, Ava was secretly elated Devin and them had finally met their match. They had a bad habit of thinking the world owed them something so Mickey and Rank getting ordered to go sit in the corner like some punk bitches was priceless. And as for Devin’s big-mouthed fat ass sprawled across the floor, mouth busted, drenched in his own piss, that was nothing short of Christmas, her birthday, and tax refund time all rolled into one. Ava wanted to do cartwheels across the restaurant and break out in a cheer celebrating Stackz, but the fact he was holding a gun on her and her sister thwarted that thought. As crazy as it seemed, Ava was turned on in a sexual way. She was mesmerized seeing this fine-ass mystery man in total beast mode. Her pussy ached and tingled with every word he spoke and movement he made; even when his rage was directed at her.

  “Okay, you two silly, sour-faced broads, bust the fuck up; get the hell on before I change my mind,” Stackz irately ordered, giving them the opportunity to leave unharmed.

  The fact they had come with the plastic thugs meant nothing. This was not one of those all for one, one for all moments. This game would be played solo, if need be. Terrified Devin’s fate could easily become theirs if they got too close to the man didn’t stop them from taking Stackz up on his offer before he did actually change his mind. Hauling ass toward the door, Leela was surprisingly first in line. Rushing by Stackz, who was towering over a bloodied mouth and head Devin, Leela’s body trembled with fear. Lying on the floor holding his open wound, Devin tried to slow down the loss of blood. While he begged for his life to be spared, Leela never once made eye contact with her so-called man. Instead, almost knocking Ava to the ground to get by, she pushed the double exit doors wide open. Fleeing into the parking lot, Leela disappeared into the darkness of the late night not looking back, with Ava trailing closely behind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tangy was all in. Stackz had just become her hero. Watching him regulate not one, but three thugs at the same time, he’d definitely be her new man crush Monday on Facebook. Just as Ava was feeling some sort of weird sexual tension seeing Stackz boss up, so was Tangy. Working the graveyard shift in the hood, Tangy had seen just about every type of crazy shit pop off and heard the unimaginable. But tonight was the icing on the cake of them all. The dude she’d been crushing on since the first time she’d seen him was full-blown flexing and making that shit seem easy. T. L.’s mentor was holding court on the wannabe thugs that’d been trash-talking and intimidating customers all night. The guy Stackz had laid out on the floor had called Tangy out her name repeatedly. He also had his girl threaten to beat her ass not more than twenty minutes prior. So in Tangy’s eyes, it was like fuck him. He needed some act right in his pathetic life.

  The foreign cook felt the exact same as Tangy. He didn’t want any trouble so he kept his head down, working on peeling potatoes. To him, it was just another normal late night at work. Since he didn’t have his green card yet, he wanted no one from any of the two sides to even look at him as if he was interested. Barely speaking English, he was there to cook food and go home to his wife and four small children. He saw nothing; knew nothing; and cared about nothing.

  “All I wanted was some damn chili fries. Maybe swing by a freak bitch crib to get some pussy and head and call it a night. But, naw, y’all thirsty niggas wouldn’t let that shit go down like that. That shit was too much like right. Y’all wanted to see what it was like to go toe to toe with a dude of my caliber. Y’all was looking for this heat, so now you got.”

  “Whoa, hold on, bro,” Devin spoke out as the room continued to spin from the blow on the head he’d suffered.

  “Naw, shut the fuck up! Ain’t no ‘hold on’ or ‘time-out.’ This shit is all the way live, and it’s gonna stay that way. And for the record, I ain’t your bro,” Stackz announced, enraged what a simple stop at the local late-night food spot had turned into.

  Devin did as he was told. He knew he had no win with Stackz at the moment. Dropping his head with his hands up, as to say okay, whatever you say, he prayed he could get to his gun. He looked over at his homeboys with a look of shame on his face. He wished Mickey and Rank would’ve backed him up when he originally made his move on their intended victim. Maybe then, things would have flowed differently. The tables would definitely be turned. Stackz would be half dead on the black-and-white dirty tiled floor, begging for his life instead of him.

  Realizing it was time to bring this situation to an end, Stackz had to break out. A born thinker, especially in chaotic bullshit such as this, he formulated his next move. With only one way out of the r
estaurant, he knew what he had to do. Staring down at Devin, he let him know that for every action, there was going to be a reaction; some reactions worse than others. With those words of hood wisdom being bestowed upon Devin, Stackz then kicked him directly in the face. Just to make sure he got his point across, he then callously stomped the side of Devin’s already traumatized head. The crispy fresh wheat Tims he’d coped earlier in the day now had bright red splatters of blood not only on the toe area, but the sides as well. Taking in account the door was at least ten or so feet away, Stackz slowly inched his way to the exit. Keeping his eyes focused on Rank, Mickey, and Devin, he wasn’t sure if the thus far cowardly trio had guns on them or not. Raised in the streets of Detroit, he cautiously treated the situation as if they did.

  Just as Stackz was nearing the front door, Tangy came from behind the bulletproof glass. Stepping over Devin like the piece of nothing nigga he was, she smiled, handing Stackz another bag. “Here you go, bae, some fresh chili fries on the house.”

  Stackz happily accepted the fresh hot food, almost forgetting the reason he’d stopped in the first place. “Good looking out, girl,” he winked, backing up slowly toward the doors. Watching his would-be attackers like a vicious pit bull ready to pounce in a dogfight, his finger stayed on the trigger. Finally arriving at the exit, Stackz placed his back against the door. Using his weight, he pushed it wide open. Gun his right hand, food in his left, in a quick movement, he tucked the brown paper bag food under his arm. With that now free hand, Stackz reached down in his pocket. Pulling out his keys, he pushed unlock on the multibutton pad. In one click, the driver’s door of his Jeep Commander popped up. Safely in the parking lot, the victorious warrior momentary stood at the side of his truck. Looking back into the Coney Island, he saw a lot of movement.

  * * *

  Making sure they were well out of harm’s way, Mickey and Rank ran over to their boy’s side. Lying on the floor both severely beaten and bloody, Devin moaned out in pain. Bending down, they aided him to get on his feet.

  “Dawg, come on, get up! Get up! Let’s go get on his ass before he dip.” Mickey was now brave hearted in words, gripping the big man’s elbow as he stood. “I’m gon’ kill that pretty-ass nigga. Look what he did to you.”

  Almost in tears, Devin desperately fought to catch his breath. Suffering from high blood pressure, the overweight ruffian was already two or three cheeseburgers away from a heart attack or stroke. Stackz’s rough house blows to his face and side of the head had him still dazed even after the fact. Being helped over to a nearby booth against the wall, Devin sat down, looking as if he was moments away from passing out. Barely having control of himself to sit upright, he told them to go handle Stackz as he slumped over on his side.

  Mickey and Rank stood tall. They didn’t have a choice if they wanted to save face and have any sort of dignity left. Finally revealing their weapons from underneath their shirts, each ran outside. With guns drawn, the pair sought Stackz out to deliver a little bit of payback for his disrespectful treatment of Devin. Revenge would soon be delivered in a deadly fashion. Easily finding him at his vehicle, Rank knew they had to act fast seeing Stackz already had one foot inside his whip with the rest of his body soon to follow. Raising both pistols, the calmness of the late-night, early-morning air was interrupted as shots rapidly rang out.

  Round after round was recklessly let loose. One, two, three. Eight, ten, twelve. It seemed like the hail of gunfire would never let up.

  “Fuck, naw,” Stackz mumbled as bullets whizzed past him, rocking his Jeep.

  Posted side by side, Mickey and Rank were going all-out commando-style. Close up enough to see the fruits of their ill intentioned labor, the menaces’ courage increased, seeing the bullets rip through the truck’s rear door and shatter the thick, tinted glass hatch.

  “What up, doe, now?” Mickey shouted, directly hitting the driver’s side mirror.

  Rank then chimed in, promising the ultimate revenge while doing his own equal amount of damage to the washed and triple-waxed Commander, “Whack pussy-ass nigga, yous as good as dead! Dead as a motherfucker!” Squeezing the trigger of his .45-caliber automatic, Rank held his firearm sideways like you see hooligans do in a bad, low-budget hood movie.

  Stackz was heated; beyond pissed. Never mind the fact bullets were zipping around his body barely missing him. Of course, he was mad they were shooting at him; that goes without saying. But he was even more so enraged because his ride, his baby, was being abused, taking in huge gaping holes left and right. Simple Street-olgy 101; the worst thing a player in the game can do is shoot up a nigga’z ride. Especially if he had money invested in it.

  Stackz wasted no time snapping into defense mode. His fury reached a hundred in no time flat. Automatically diving all the way in the truck, he ducked down, taking cover. Tossing the damn bad luck food in the brown paper bag aimlessly inside the truck, he listened to the ear-popping sounds of round after round being let off. Crouched over, Stackz reached into the driver-side door compartment where a normal person would often keep meaningless bullshit. Thank God, Stackz’s DNA dictated that he was far from normal. Retrieving an extra clip he kept fully loaded, ready, just in case for situations like this, he was ready to go to war.

  Climbing over to the passenger seat, he quickly put the clip in the back pocket of his jeans. Pulling the handle out, he swung open the door. Staying low, he positioned himself behind the car door. Stackz peeked with caution from behind his makeshift barrier. He knew from firsthand experience, the longer he stayed in one position, he’d be more likely to be a sitting duck, and one, if not both, of the amateur marksmen may get lucky. As the bullets continued to rock his truck from side to side, gaping holes started to appear in the door he was behind.

  These young boys want it . . . Well, they ’bout to feel me. 1, 2, 3, he counted to himself, then brazenly made a mad dash toward the rear of the vehicle, gun blazing. Once making it there, he started to return fire more deliberately aimed at Mickey and Rank. With the first volley of shots, he aimed high at their faces. Stackz’s motto was if you kill the head, the body will surely follow. In a matter of a few brief seconds, Stackz introduced them to what it was like to do battle with a real-life gangster.

  Mickey’s courageously tough-guy stand was abruptly cut short. His upper body jerked back. Instantaneously, his shoulder cap exploded on impact from the .45-caliber slug Stackz sent his way. “I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m fucking shot,” he agonized before being struck once more. This time, the force of the bullet spent him completely around. As he dropped to his knees and fell to the pavement, Mickey held his shoulder. Bleeding profusely from the two wounds, he crawled behind a huge green metal trash Dumpster located in the rear of the restaurant. Almost in shock, Mickey started to pray, begging God to spare his life.

  Having no focus or discipline, Rank was blindly shooting at Stackz, hoping to hit his mark. The more rounds he let loose, the more he realized it was as if Stackz were superhuman. None of his bullets struck the polished player, even though he’d emptied his clip. Taking cover behind a car also parked in the lot, Rank was terrified, feeling some wetness in his head. Reaching his hand up, he brought it down to his face. Rank wanted to pass out. It was blood. Like his cohort Mickey, he’d been hit as well. Hearing footsteps, he braced himself, knowing death was near. Fortunately, he heard his boy Devin’s voice yell out.

  “Yo, nigga, you think you just gonna do me like that up in that motherfucker, and shit gonna be all sweet? Naw, dawg, shit ain’t going down like that. You gonna pay, homeboy.” Gun in hand, Devin stumbled out of the restaurant door in search of Stackz. As blood from his open head wound dripped down onto his face, he went on with his impromptu rant, vowing retribution. “Yo, Mickey, Rank; where y’all asses at? Posse up, niggas! Let’s bury this bright-skin faggot!”

  Turning his head for a split second to the right, Devin caught a quick glimpse of a terrified Mickey lying slumped over behind the Dumpster. Unfortunately, for bad-boy-to-the-end
Devin, it was the last thing he’d ever see. One of Stackz’s bullets ripped through Devin’s neck. The next slug tore through his left ear, exiting the right side of his face. Devin’s brains showered the already filthy glass of the window’s restaurant. His body collapsed onto the pavement. His pistol fell out of his once-closed hand and slid across the asphalt.

  An eerie silence filled the air. Stackz had counted the rounds each shooter probably had and realized unless they had an extra clip like him, they were out of ammo; hit; tapped out. Stackz hoped they had seen what just took place with their appeared-to-be leader and scattered out of Dodge. On parole, the eager-to-stay-free Stackz had no intentions whatsoever to wait and find out if his calculations were correct. He wasn’t a fool. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the Detroit police either crept up on the fresh murder scene or were dispatched there. Either/or, it was time for him to do what he was trying to do before aggressively interrupted by Devin, Mickey, and Rank; go home. If the two survivors turned out to be rats and told the cops what they knew or bossed up to be loyal to the game and wanted street justice remained to be seen in the days to follow. Stackz would have to deal with either play they made next.

  He took in mind everything that had just popped off in slow motion. He didn’t panic before, during, or now. This wasn’t his first shoot-out with wannabe assholes who mistakenly believed they were about that life and the way he lived, Stackz surely knew it wasn’t his last. Running down the list of things he had to do next in his head he took a deep breath. #1 Get away from the scene as soon as possible. #2 Get rid of the murder tool after making sure his prints were clean. #3 Call T. L. or Gee for damage control, and lastly, but most importantly, #4 find out who these three clowns are and who their people are. If their folk were in the game, or even dreamed about being in the game, they might have the notion of getting revenge. And if they did feel ballsy, then the body count would have to go up; no questions asked.