Abduction

It's hot in here. 

Stifling.

Suffocating.

Dark. 

Almost hope they come beat me again, just so that I can get out of the trunk. 

They do.

Ask me where the money is?

“Say, Bid dawg, fuck the money at?”

What fucking money?

I work for a living.

My hands ache where they’ve stomped on them.

Hammered my knuckles.

Keep asking me for money I don't have. 

“Aye Maine, you thank I woan kill you ani’t it?”

I think he better.

I've shown them where everything of value in my house is. 

Has to be at least 2-3 days. 

I’ve lost track of time.

Can't stand another ass whooping, something has to give.

Jaw is probably broken.

Couple of ribs definitely are.

Painful to breathe.

I’ve shat myself.

I Keep trying to escape.

They kick My ass every time.

Offer them my stash of Louis XV, it’s a gift from a client.

My Sterling Silver .38 bullets, another gift from someone I worked as a bodyguard for.

A pair of $6500 Komodo Dragon Boots, certified to have died from natural causes, with a Teak and mahogany sole, they’re my prized possession.

Tell them truthfully that I have nothing else of value.

Recognize the voices now that it’s been days.

Days of torture.

Two of them are my cousins.

The other a classmate.

I’m a pretty tough guy, I mean I have been a bodyguard for 10 years.

Worked in New York, LA, Atlanta, Dubai, even, The Continent.

Hard to believe that of all those places I get kidnapped in Shuqualak, Mississippi.

My Home town.

Being beaten is hard.

Not just physically, I am ill accustomed to losing, and I feel violated.

If my arms were free I’d beat all of them.

Know what?

Fuck how it turns out, I’m bucking.

Maneuver My legs and arms as much as possible.

They’re arguing.

Hear them in the Den.

Discussing killing me.

How to dump my body.

Motherfuckers.

Exquisite pain floods me as I try to ball my fists.

Makes me Black out.

Awaken to gunfire.

Chair falls to the floor as I struggle desperately to get free.

It’s coming from my media room.

AK-47 firing original 7.62 rounds.

20 Guage Street Sweeper, barrel clip Fed.

Both of those sound like my guns.

SKS and another weapon answer in tight controlled bursts.

Sounds like a Glock 19 but The Glock 19 doesn’t fire that quickly.

Barrage is followed by grunts and a harrowing scream.

Doors are being kicked.

Screams continue.

“Drop the Iron bruh.” SKS’s flatulence interrupts. 

“Damn Joe, you ani’t have to die today.”

Recognize that voice too.

He works for me.

Hogg.

He calls everyone ‘Joe’ must be a Chicago thing.

“Yo, Ice you here?”

Big Tyme.

He works for me too.

I holler. “I’m in here!”

Gag muffles the sound.

Jaw distorts it further.

Takes them a little while to get to me.

My house is pretty big.

“Say Round, I fount Tim, yeah! Hot damn Ice. You gone bearite Lil Daddy.”

Tyme is from New Orleans, fact that I played for the Saints endears me too him, even though I washed out in camp.

Both men fuss over me as they right my chair and untie Me.

“Say bruh, it’s 2 what’s Dead in the front rum, and another one bleeding out in the kitchen, yeah. You want us ta call them people? Or is you bout ta hannle it?” 

I couldn’t handle shit if I wanted to.

Have him call the police and an ambulance.

Hogg finally speaks.

He and I have been working together for years.

He calls me by my given name

“Will, you want me to help you clean up before the bus gets here?”

It hurts to reply and it’s probably garbled.

“Yeah Dave.” 

Get in the ambulance in a fresh tracksuit, answering the Police’s questions.

Fuck evidence.

I’m not going anywhere shitty and fucked up.

Two of my third cousins lay dead in my living room. 

They’re being prodded by investigators and the medical examiner.

A dude I’ve known since Head start was just carted off in an ambulance.

He might not survive.

EMT is putting my hands in splints.

Looks like every knuckle is broken as well as several other bones.

Spit out globs of blood as I try to answer questions.

I’m not usually the type to invite the police into my business.

Almost wish I had just dumped the bodies in my pond. 

I’m pretty sure the catfish and crawdads would have disposed of them.

Pain medicine starts to work and I feel guilty about my dead cousins.

Family bonds didn’t mean anything to them, don’t know why they do to me.

Big Tyme and Boss Hogg came looking for me, because I didn’t show up at an event we were supposed to work together.

Those are my real family members.

Do What I Want.

Blue lights.

Siren.

This shit?

Really don't need this right now.

Just worked 16 hours straight.

Doing Security on a movie set.

It’s been a long day.

And then some.

Production assistants, are what those bad children who curse out strangers grow up to be.

I’m tired.

I’ve walked over 30k steps.

My bionic leg is bussing.

8.5 on the old pain scale doc.

I'm smoking a blunt right now.

A blunt to relieve the pain.

The anxiety from having to be in proximity to fucking people.

Took this job to avoid that shit.

A well deserved blunt.

Fuck.

Even if I put it out, this cop is going to smell it.

This is some strong stuff.

Shit.

 I’m going to get another ticket.

Hmmm.

Since I am going to get a ticket anyway?

Plus, I really don’t like the taste of weed after I put it out and relit it.

You know what?

I’m 50.

I’m going to do what the fuck I want.

I’m not going to put it out.

 Who gives a shit.

I’m grown as fuck.

Turned 50 a week ago.

Cough into my sleeve as the young cop comes to my window.

A good cough.

My smokers know the One.

The kind that lets you know you’re high.

Put the blunt down.

It’s burning in my ashtray.

My eyes are watering as I let down my window.

Young cop gets a face full of smoke.

Looks puzzled, yet slightly amused.

“Damn Security. You not even going to put it out?”

Swallow.

Clear my throat.

Sip my watermelon, mango, dragon fruit lemonade.

I got it from catering.

It’s mostly water at this point.

I just need some hydration to respond.

“Man I’m 50. I do what the fuck I want. Go on, write me a $149 ticket. I got a woman waiting on me bro.”

Its $149 I really could use on something else, but I will pay it if need be.

Cop looks at me, wonderment in his features, I can see the rollercoaster of emotions play out, on his face.

Hope this nigga don’t play poker.

“Nah, security. I’m not gonna write you. You aight with me. I can’t wait to turn 50 so I can say that.”

“Don’t.”

Don’t think about my response.

Just believe it.

“You got it Security. Listen, you have a tag light out, that’s why I pulled you over. You might want to get that fixed. Enjoy.”

Walks back to his car.

Uses his lights to help me pull into Atlanta traffic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Conversation With Betty (My Truck)

Damn Betty.

We have been through some shit haven’t we?

Girl I need you to hold on a little bit longer.

I know you’re tired.

Fuck.

I’m tired too.

We are gonna be alright.

Long as WE alright.

You get me?

I’m going to get some work done to you soon.

I promise.

Not sure what the next move is. But we gonna figure it out together.

Just me and you. In my Tony! Toni! Tone voice.

You know I can’t sing.

Oh I really want to rebuild you, girl.

Rebuild your motor. Transmission.

New suspension.

Yeah, I got my leg repaired, why not get yours done too Hell.

Same parts just rebuilt.

Want you to be you.

That might be a metaphor for something

 Man Betty, I wanna take you everywhere.

I didn’t like our time in St. Louis and the Illinois area but you did cause we were always on that highway.

I know you.

If my money was right Betty, we would go on all types of highways.

Wyoming. Montana.

If I had a way to make money driving you everywhere I would do it.

 When I was out in California rented a young cousin of yours. GMC Sierra. Strong young boy. Girl you would’ve loved that highway. Me and you (Aww Baby) windows down. Sunroof open. Music pouring from your beautiful Bose speakers.

Yeah you know that shit I like. Could stop at those little cut offs where you can look out at the ocean. I could open your hatch lay back there and smoke a good fat one.

The Drive into Washington State.

Breathtaking.

If I won a scratch off right now I would take you to the GMC dealership and say, “Aye Players call me when my lady is as new as when she rolled off the assembly line.”

Real Spill, every other vehicle I look at is a younger version of you.

We really have been through some things.

I’ve slept in you more times than I care to think about.

Try to keep you clean when I can.

Remember the first time I saw you.

Reminded me of me.

Big.

Black.

Strong.

Even had a bullet hole like mine.

That’s why I never fixed it all the way.

Could have.

Easily.

Know how.

But our scars define us.

I looked at you and said this gull been through some things like me.

You might be metal and rubber girl but I feel your soul.

Put my hand on your hood and said, “This is the one. This is my truck. That’s Betty. Big Black Betty.”

Paid cash for your pretty ass.

Haven’ regretted it

 Big Black Beautiful Betty.

We’re both fucking tired dahling.

But it’s gonna be okay just be patient and hold on for me.

Been through some shit.

Haven’t had many ladies in you.

Couple who were really cool and cool with you.

Just cause I was inside them don’t mean they get to be inside you.

Yeah girl I don’t have it figured out.

My back is against the wall.

As soon as things get better I’m putting nothing but premium in you.

Getting you some new shoes and tires. Big New Orleans Saints gold brake calipers.

New Orleans Saints light that Shines on the ground when your door opens.

We’re gonna go from coast to coast. I’m going to stop and write as we ride through all the places Calvary and Jake went.

Come on girl.

I hear you and I am going to take care of that in a minute.

Just anit got the dough.

This anit where I saw myself at 50 dahlin.

Ahh!

Hey Betty.

How bout when I sell my book to Netflix for a animated series, me and you are going everywhere.

Ideally my son would be with us.

You’re going love him.

He’s a good kid.

Shit man now.

Come on baby I know.

I swear I’ll put gas in you in the morning.

You can’t break down dahlin cause I can’t.

We’re all we got.

First Day

“That nigga Cheese God’ a million and one hands boy!”

Hear my fellow prisoner telling his rap partner about the fight I have just won.

“Bruh bruh, I’m telling you that shit was pretty as Fuck!”

Witness is excited. 

Have to admit it was pretty impressive.

Combination was the same one my Mom had used on me, on several occasions.

Right jab.

Left jab.

Right uppercut.

With the 700+ lbs of pressure my punches carry, it’s extremely effective.

I call it “Shut up, Sit down, Good Night.”

This particular 3 piece was delivered because I had been disrespected, to the utmost.

First day of prison.

Real prison.

Not county Jail.

Not processing.

Parchman Penitentiary Farm.

Real live chain gang.

I was scared to fucking death.

My Dad had assured me, I was going to be raped.

He’d proclaimed it in his same nonchalant Clint Freeman/Morgan Eastwood monotone.

“They’re going to rape the hell out of you.”

Reassurance was fresh in my mind.

As was the White kid I’d seen brutalized at the processing prison.

So when I put down my mattress and meager belongs, and a man approached I was on guard.

He had a net mesh bag filled with various snacks, ramen noodles, and tobacco products.

My high street IQ wasn’t even necessary.

This was bad.

Knew it before he spoke.

Once he stuttered out “I want you to have this, I thank you pre..” 

Before he finished, I was a blur of motion.

“Shut up, Sit down, Good Night!”

Fear had made it faster than normal.

Took the bag of “zoom zooms and wham whams” from his unconscious hand.

Yell at his incapacitated form.

“I expect a bag like that every week!” 

Snatch the buttons off my brand new MDOC shirt.

“My name is Cheese! You see WHAT I am! Ann nigga want problems, I’m right here. I’ll show you WHO I am!”

Gang Tattoos were on display.

Everyone who cared to could see them.

Man on the floor is affiliated too.

With the opposition.

They won’t retaliate, homosexuality is technically against the rules.

His overtures put him in violation of their laws.

There is no way I can extort him for future mesh bags.

However I was able to keep that one.

Made sure to use it for gambling games.

So people would be reminded of the brutal violence I was willing to resort to.

 

Surprise

Nation, has been in the penitentiary for 17 months.

Just has to hold on 7 more months.

Just 7.

Last birthday inside.

Turning 26 in 5 days.

A Big one.

Realizes he's now in his late 20’s.

“What happened? Where did time go?”

Nation is thin.

Average height.

Heart is Giant sized.

“Big and Tall attitude, baby gap body.”

His friend Montray used to say that.

“Friend.”

Not anymore.

Montray, tried to turn state’s evidence against him.

Him!

They’d known each other for their entire lives.

Grew up in apartments so close, they talked through the walls.

Had their own codes.

Several of them.

In the county Jail, before the discovery motion came back and showed Montray had made sworn statements, they had been unbeatable at spades.

Seemed to know each other’s thoughts.

It kept the impoverished pair with snacks and ‘soups'.

Ramen noodles, or soups as they were known, were currency, a mediocre meal tray went for 1 soup.

Just 1 of the undersized ‘chicken’ leg quarters cost 2 soups, if competition was fierce, it might net 3.

The pair had conned their way to full “lock boxes.”

Then one morning Montray was gone. Nation, was selling his breakfast sausages by himself.

Next day his attorney had given him heartbreaking News.

Evidence had later proven Montray lied.

Attempted to make Nation seem like their crime's mastermind.

Text messages proved Nation had been duped into participating.

Wanna be snitch wound up with 15 years.

Nation, pled out to 3 years.

Kept to himself for the most part.

Flew under the radar.

Didn’t gamble on Spades anymore.

Couldn’t read anyone else like he could his childhood friend.

Shines ‘State Boots’ in elaborate patterns for snack foods.

Can turn the ugly 3rd rate leather boots into glistening masterpieces.

His own boots have so much shoe polish at the toes, they glisten like ink black candy apples.

Clients of discernment purchase his supplies, those guys have multiple pairs of boots.

State gave you 2 pair, one for your work detail, one for visiting and inspection.

During inspection you were expected to wear clean shoes.

Just clean.

Warden was impressed by Nation’s footwear.

The man 'allowed' the inmate to shine his boots.

More officers requested him.

Box is full again.

He’s been on ‘detail' since 06:00.

Commissary Trustee.

It’s simple.

Gather the orders from computer print outs.

He doesn’t have any friends.

Customers and inmates.

It's cool with him.

Montray has spoiled and warped his trust.

Is surprised when he gets to the dormitory.

The other inmates have prepared a party for "The Sto Man."

Ramen noodle casserole made with chips, pretzels, tuna, and crackers, Also has a cake made from mushed up candy bars and pastries.

Casserole is big enough for everyone to get some, takes up most of a 6 foot section of the Day room table.

"Appy Bert Day Sto Man."

“Happy Birthday shoeshine Man!”

Even received a hand made Cross as a gift.

Shows that he is respected by his peers.

7 months might not be that difficult.

The Voice

Sounds like loosened ties, suspenders, and white shirts.

Like cognac.

Velvet.

Cuban Cigars.

Cymbals.

Gyrations.

Deep sexual urges.

Creates an air, an environment of sensual heat.

A Vulcan landscape of lava oceans.

A pulsing throb from deep inside your abdomen, defining depths previously ignored.

Blends.

Entwines with each individual instrument.

Polygamist marriages.

Voice and violin.

And Snare.

And Bass.

Extra marital affairs with the entire Horn section.

One night stand with the electric guitar.

We embrace the promiscuity.

Endorse it.

Laud and deify it.

Gives it’s listener’s permission to release inhibitions.

Indulge their most craven fantasies.

Tragic Comedy

I’m working a 12 hour shift today before I go to work at the Club.

A conversation with a friend reminded me of the night I got shot.

It might have been shock.

Distinctly recall exactly what I said.

Thought.

Felt.

Did.

Everything.

Every 

Single.

Fucking.

 Thing.

Some extremely painful.

You know that sickening, fill your mouth with salt water, rearing, ripping copper tasting, overwhelming, turn your bowels to a painful cauldron type of pain? 

No?

Count your blessings?

Some of my sisters who have been shot and given birth say it’s an unwinnable tie.

Some of my thoughts were graphic.

Some silly.

Some drug induced.

The best way I can tell you what was going on in my head is to just put the thoughts on this page as they occurred.

I’m starting when the shot hit me in the back.

For detail purpose; I had been holding my cigarettes in one hand and was in the process of lighting one.

Fuck was that?

Damn a motherfucker shot me!

Shit!

Again.

Gotta buss back.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking fuck.

Ow.

My fucking hand!

Motherfucker!

God.

That was in the chest.

Anit gonna cry like a bitch.

God.

My ass!

Fuck.

That hurts like a bitch.

Think that one was in the nuts.

Can’t live without the Guy, Lord.

If he’s Dead go ahead and take me.

What the fuck?

When did I fall?

My finger!

I can see the fucking street through my finger nail.

[Aloud]

“Guess I won’t be playing the piano.”

My beautiful hand!

Who the fuck? 

I’m going to kill em!

My Woman!

Oh wow.

She’s gonna freak out!

Gonna leave me!

Yeah.

I’m going to kill this fucker.

Fuck can’t I stand?

Jesus Christ!

Oh wow!

Fuck.

Oh yeah.

That fucking hurts.

Really hope My Dick is still attached.

Man.

My Woman!

Ah fuck.

No I anit giving you my gun!

Oh yeah.

12.

“Here!”

“Shit”

Oh this fucking hurts!

“Aye hand me them cigarettes bro. I’m bout to be in the hospital for a minute.”

“Aye sis call my girl?”

“It’s the last number.”

Aye bro you 2 anit enough to put me in the ambulance.

Oh ahhh God.

Please God.

That hurts.

“Ppreciate ya sis.”

“I’m good.”

"Nah, I'm Gucci."

I’m scared.

Fuck happened.

Scared then Fuck.

“Aye man can y’all cut off the right pants leg first?”

“I gotta make sure my Dick’s still attached.”

“I’m not going into shock, I’m worried bout my Dick!”

Oh I’m scared.

God what’s gonna happen.

What if I can't ever Walk again?

I might be going into shock.

“Say little Buddy, I am hurting pretty fucking good.” 

Oh thank you God!

It’s still there!

“Its still there!”

Oh my God.

“Oh my God it’s beautiful right?” 

“Oh shit my bad lil Buddy.”

Fuck is we fucking doing?

Taking the motherfucking scenic fucking route?

Hurry the fuck up.

This shit really fucking hurts.

“Say shawty.”

“Not you lil Buddy.”

“Aye Shawty?”

“Fuck is we doing? Taking the scenic fucking route? I’m fucking hurting back here!”

[Black out]

Doors open.

Get some fucking help.

Dumbass.

I weigh a lot.

Dumbass.

You couldn’t lift me at the club.

What you take something?

Dumb fucker.

Nice.

Halfway in this motherfucker. Now the bloods rushing to my Head.

What type of inbreeds are these?

“Ahhh”

“Fuck!”

“I think I’m going to vomit!”

Idiot.

Stupid.

Stupid motherfucker.

Idiotic motherfucker.

“Aye can y’all please get some help?”

Okay.

Let’s go.

This is like a episode of House.™

Fucking love fucking House.

Whatever they gave me is some wonderful shit.

Feel better.

Fuzzy.

What’s that noise?

Like wa-wa?

Shit!

She’s here.

How?

“Hey.”

Stay cool.

“I’m good.”

“Cause I am.”

“I’ll be back at work in a week or two.”

“Aye don’t worry. I checked. My Dick is still there.”

“It should still work too.”

Fuck did I say that silly shit?

I had better stop there.

Kinda want you to respect me in the morning.

The Excuse Of Camaraderie

A friend who is like a brother to me, challenged me to do some writing.

Even gave me prompt words to get me going.

Camaraderie and excuse.

Depression and it’s cohorts, anxiety, and stress have been working me over fairly consistently since December.

I won’t blame that but the words didn’t stir me.

It took me watching another heartbreaking post season loss, and a drive to work for me to understand what I really needed to write.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Read it again.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Only extraordinary effort yields extraordinary outcomes.

If you know me even a little bit you know I’m a Saints fan.

Always will be.

They’re an excellent team with  consistently winning numbers, yet they broke my and other Who Dat Fans hearts and hopes again.

I am not bashing my squad.

Ever.

I’m using them as an example.

Here’s another.

My vehicle is equipped with a powerful V8 engine.

An excellent engine.

However my truck has 333,532 miles on it as well.

So of course the other vehicles with powerful V8 engines, that are 16 years newer, with drivers who are 20 years younger than me, zoom past us. 

Excellence in and of itself is not enough.

Excellence is not the ceiling, it's the floor.

It’s a misunderstood notion.

We human beings have become comfortable in our complacence.

Arrogant in our mediocrity.

When everyone gets a trophy, how is a trophy special?

In 15th century France aluminum was the most precious of metals. 

Only the Pope and Emperor had crowns of it.

Rarity makes value.

Value creates worth.

Strive for excellence.

Daily.

Hourly.

Each millisecond.

In every endeavor.

However don’t assume your excellence is enough.

You’re sadly mistaken.

Minority individuals who are Excellent yet must compete with persons who’s mental acuity is not in their league know exactly what I mean.

Time To Let Go

It’s coming to an end.

It’s obvious.

Clubs are shitier and shitier.

Burnt one too many bridges.

Thought his condition was an asset.

Extra Testosterone.

Makes him hyper aggressive.

Always enjoyed a good fight.

Overhears a bit of conversation.

“Ma he’s good. I’ve heard of him. His hands are the stuff of legend. He tears clubs to the ground. We’ll be okay.”

God Damnit. 

It’s one of Those places.

OG knows he’s working on a broken foot.

Must be angry with him.

A bunch of bull.

Plus the chairs are uncomfortable.

Sits to tie up his boots

Grunts loudly as his swollen foot resists being confined.

Didn’t want to fight tonight.

Shit.

Just had to squabble last night.

Foot’s throbbing.

Flexes his toes. 

Lights go off.

Pool tables are closed.

Strippers head to the dressing room.

Takes a look at the picture of “His Truck.”  The 2013 Escalade with 120k is the motivation. 

Why he is working so much.

Supposed to be his birthday gift to himself.

Needs a vehicle.

Wants that one.

He’s had one $1800 car after another.

Some of them have been spectacular.

For $1800 cars.

$7,985.00 He’s worth it.

He’s more than put in the work.

Been “Faithful over a little.” Scripture is all he remembers from church, but he holds on to it for all it’s worth.

Needs his “Much*” soon.

Faith keeps him going.

Not only to the increasingly decrepit night Clubs, but also to his Warehouse job.

Wants to abandon both.

Draw comics.

Look at Mountains.

Create new adventures for his characters.

Maybe be able to see both a mountain and a large body of water?

Even in his wishes and fantasies he’s conservative, a  microscopic amount of success, a vehicle he’s not afraid will break down on him, enough food to eat, these are his dreams.

All night long he waits for something to kick off. 

When the lights come on at 4:00 a.m. a wave of relief washes over him.

Survived another night.

Received a little more money.

80 more nights like this one, and a few more OT hours at his primary job he just might be able to pull it off. 

*Matthew 25:12

Making Enemies (Kyng Of Clubs Part 2)

Teeth feel fuzzy.

Been working 27 hours straight.

Vest is digging into his sides.

Last shift.

Should be easy.

Goes to the storeroom.

Pulls out a bar stool, top is disconnected but it will serve his purpose.

Kyng perches on it, head swiveling, taking in every detail.

White Chocolate is on stage.

Money fills the air.

Sparklers stream from behind him.

Barking loudly, Kyng shines 3000 lumens in the waitresses’ path.

Observes closely until the bottle reaches its destination.

Rests his eyes for seconds at a time.

Asks Nia the bar maid for another coke.

Rather have an energy drink, does not want to fork over $6 for a knock-off of the most popular brand.

While he is aware that the club is set up to make money, does not feel it should make it off him.

He needs it too badly.

Patron comes up to him.

Thinks to himself.

“This motherfucker better not try to shake my hand.”

Yes.

He is

Looks at the extended appendage.

Unless he’s a prestidigitator there is no money in that mitt.

Kyng looks at him, his disgust, vivid and clear.

A Von Gogh of revulsion.

“Wa’dup?”

Patron sways.

Leans closer.

“You Jes gonna leave me hanging?”

Drunken individual is in danger.

Has no idea.

Reaches towards Kyng’s shoulder.

If the inebriated Man contacts his person, Kyng is going to break his clavicle, and dislocate his shoulder.

Might break his right leg.

Has not decided just yet.

But definitely the arm.

General manager saves the drunk.

“Hey Greg. Come here man stop playing with my Wolves and let me buy you some Crown.”

Kyng, files the man’s face for future reference.

Bob’s his head to the beat.

All the songs sound the same.

Blend together into a monotonous, bass heavy, beat.

Same for the dancers.

All have a generic look as if they came from some stripper clone factory.

Notices one of his team is not on the floor.

Not only is he not at his post, but he is also nowhere to be found.

Makes a mental note.

Walks the club makes certain the missing man is not sitting in VIP.

Dancer exits the stockroom.

Looks like she has been busy.

Horse, the missing bouncer, comes in the front door minutes later.

Kyng has a feeling he knows what the man was doing. A quick survey of the man’s hands and face confirm. 

Glitter. 

Most of the dancer’s bodies are fairly coated in it. 

You cannot abandon your post. 

No matter how fine she is. 

Even if it is only a few minutes. 

Shoots a text to "OG Big Boy" asking that the long-faced man, nicknamed Horse not be sent back to his club. 

Text back is instant. 

"You want him gone? U fire him."

At the end of the night, as money counters are buzzing through garbage bags full of one dollar bills, Kyng pulls the man aside. 

"Horse, let me holla atcha?"

The 6' 9" man has a couple inches of height over the head of security, Kyng's dangerous demeanor more than makes up for the disparity.   

"Listen, I know you were fucking Klimaxx, while we were on the clock. I can't have that. I don't want you back."

Horse's light features begin to darken, and his voice raises an octave or two.

"Fuck you mean? Fuck you thank you is? I'ma call OG!"

Kyng, absently loosens his pistol in his holster.

The man's raised voice makes him feel as if he might need to pull it. 

Because he does security as well, Horse notices the movement and is instantly angry.

"Nigga anit scared of that motherfuckin pistol!"

Kyng drops his hands.

Doesn't want to have to do anything to this man. 

"Bruh. I talked to OG. He told me to fire you. It don't have to be like this. If you act a fool with me I'm gone act a donkey with you."

His words are clipped.

Voice even. 

Calm. 

Soothing in a way. 

His intent is lethal. 

Has decided if Horse approaches, he's going to shoot him. 

Amir, the General Manager saves Kyng a second time. 

Wraps an arm around the tall light skinned giant. 

"Hey Douglas, how's your auntie Vera? She know you been working for me?" 

The older man gives Kyng a hand signal, one that lets him know that he has things under control and that the warrior can take his weary bones home. 

Its been a long work day.

Kyng's made a couple hundred dollars, and a couple of enemies. 

 

Everything Happens For A Reason

 He was a star in his hometown.

Small Tennessee town bordering Mississippi had never seen anything like Chevron Taylor.

Defensive Lineman of the year, every year of his high School career.

All American.

Most recruited High School senior class of 2006.

LSU is sending the most to the pros. 

Virginia Tech and Wisconsin have the best defense.

Tours several schools.

Decides on Arkansas.

College football is a different level of the game.

Finds out he wasn’t the only one who hauled pulpwood, and hay.

These guys know how to move people too.

Works harder.

Eats a lot more.

Works out.

He is determined to be a professional football player. Has a few Sparks of brilliance in his college career.

Doesn’t hear  his name. 

He’s not on TV. 

He’s a late seventh round draft pick.

NFL is yet another level.

Career lasts mere days.

Tries other teams.

No takers.

The NFL team he’d signed to loses 8 members of it’s practice squad to a freak plane crash.

Expects a call.

Nothing.

Refuses to return to Tennessee broke and broken. 

Does some bouncing.

Even more bouncing around.

Hollywood California.

New York City.

Two years after college gets another chance to play football.

The $38,000 they’re paying him is less than his forklift operator job and bouncing net him.

Doesn’t matter, he’s playing football again. 

Shreds Offensive lines, with the power of a Rhino.

Racks up 6 sacks through 3 games.

It feels good.

Like home.

Starts hearing his name.

Sure the crowds are not so much a crowd as a group, but those 1200 or so know his name.

Life is good. 

Team building exercise.

Ice Skating.

Over eager teammate hurts both of them.

Depression sets in.

26 years old.

No clue what to do next.

Here’s a bunch of his teammates were infected with HIV by a new cheerleader.

He’d made a point of sleeping with as many of her squad mates as he had been able.

Metal rod in his leg means zero chance of playing Ball again.

Also gets him put off flight 583, most deadly airline crash in recent history.

Plane crashed into a new Mall’s Grand opening.

The event was being hosted by the NFL's Defensive Lineman of the year.

Feels unlucky.

Doesn’t see the essence of the plan.