A Stranger In A Strange Land

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I said that I was not going to be taking Kevin in a straight line. I hope that you enjoy the story. Let me know in the comments what you think that I should do with Kevin next.

Kevin was supposed to be in Mexico for two weeks.
It hadn't quite worked out that way. He had lost his temper again.
After threatening to beat his brother-in-law’s “Dusty little Mexican ass!” the frightened 5’ 4” man had demanded that Kevin leave his house immediately.
Respect for his sister, with whom he was finally trying to build a relationship, and  the stubborn pride that was his trademark drove Kevin’s 6’ 5” frame through the streets of Aguascalientes, Mexico.
Kevin still had not learned much Spanish, despite the promises he made to himself while He lived in New York.
As he trudged through the foreign country streets Kevin marveled at the dog's scratching and children playing in the gutters, the broke down old cars, and the  houses called Adobe that were literally made of mud.
It was beautiful and sad all at once.
Kevin guessed that no matter where you were there were ghettos, and slums, poor people, and people who worked hard not to be poor.
People were the same everywhere.
Kevin, had no idea where he was, or where he was going. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other.
He saw men and women going about their business.
He couldn't even ask if someone could point him to a hotel.
It was beyond his control of the language.
He only knew one sentence in Spanish,  his friend Benjamin had made sure that he knew that sentence, “donde estan las prostitutas”
  “Where are the prostitutes?”
That sentence would be of little help in his current situation.
Kevin knew that someone would rent him a place to stay.
He had American money, and quite a bit of it.
However, he had no idea how to ask for what he wanted.
Suddenly after a few miles of walking around Kevin, noticed a Cantina. The smell of traditional Mexican food and the sound of traditional Mexican music poured from the small business.
Through a series of mimes, bootleg sign language, and abortive attempts at conversation Kevin obtained a room and a meal. One that he devoured quickly, and completely. Much to the delight of the cook.
The following day he found an Adobe hut to rent within walking distance of the “Los Cactus Desnudo”
"The Naked Cactus" the Cantina from the first night.
At 60 pesos a month, it was a steal. The lack of modern amenities didn't bother him. Television had never held his interest, and though he was a great cook Kevin felt no need for a kitchen. Kevin, had no problem with showering outside, he had caught more than one of the local women watching him though.
Most of the young man's meals were eaten at the “Naked Cactus”, their specialty was of course cactus, Kevin  discovered that he really liked Nopalas. Fried, with eggs, as a side, wrapped in the corn tortillas, It reminded him of okra, and to the southern boy was a welcomed reminder of his roots.
Kevin, ate like the giant of a man that he was.
The Cantina’s owner and his wife became  totally enamored of the Twenty-six year old man. Donte and Marta, spoiled Kevin.
The couple delighted in introducing the Americano giant to Mexican cuisine.
Kevin, picked up the Spanish his friends spoke quickly as two weeks became a month.
His pronunciation was perfect, he imitated the accent of the people around him like a mockingbird.
The shopkeepers, and street vendors, all around the 9-17 km radius of the Cantina and his Adobe hut all knew about or knew “Grande”.
Kevin, wanted to work and would run errands for Donte and Marta.  It was on these jaunts that  he discovered more of the city.
Places where the people didn't yell “Grande” as he walked down the street. Kevin soaked up the culture on these adventures.
Kevin's Spanish vocabulary had grown enough to handle himself when he drove Donte's old Chevy truck to pick up supplies for the Cantina.
Kevin also helped do construction work always conscious of not stepping on the toes of a man trying to feed his family. Between fotbol, fornicating with senoritas, and eating his way through several Mexican cookbooks, Kevin had completely lost track of time.
Life was easy and easy going there. He didn't have to deal with any outside stress. 
He forgot about life outside of the simple Mexican city. It reminded him of growing up in Alabama, the natural ingredients that went into the food, and the hardworking honest goodness of the people restored a part of him that had been lacking.
Kevin, didn't think of anything else.
He was reminded suddenly.
His sister stopped him as he walked down prol Alameda.
“Kevin, is that you? What are you doing here?”
She had not known that he was there because he hadn't said anything to anyone. Kevin had not spoken to his family since he left for Mexico. It had been nine months.
“Yeah Kat it's me. I look that different?” Kevin’s braids had grown and went down his back below his cowboy hat.
“Mom and dad said that you were okay and that I shouldn't be worried.”
Kevin’s sister Katrina’s beautiful features scrunched and she choked back a sob.
Kevin was flabbergasted.
He had no notion of wrongdoing. Kevin's parents had always known that he was okay if he didn't call, he never called. Why did his sister expect any more than that?  In his still immature mind he still found no fault in what he'd done.
“Kat, come on its me ma I am always okay!”
Just than a shapely Mexican woman strolled past and said,  “Que Pedo Grande”
Her flirtation was evident in every movement.
“Oye ya mamacita Buena para comer ”
Kevin responded with a lascivious wink and grin.
“Travieso grande yo soy travieso.” The way the woman said, the words were yet another way of flirting with him.
Katrina looked at her brother in awe. He had no clue how big a douche bag he was being.
“Kevin have you forgot all your home training? I was worried about you! This is a foreign country. I was worried sick! Nobody's heard from you! At least it looks like you're learning the language.”
Kevin's attention was still on the woman He had been flirting with's backside.
“Baby sis please relax don't get your bragas in a bunch. I'm fine, I found a place to stay. I'm eating good. Los Cactus Desnudo has a burrito named after me. I'm good”
Katrina was incredulous. To her the concept of not letting people know where and how she was, was ridiculous. Kevin was an insensitive bastard. How was he raised by the same people as her she wondered?
She decided that she didn't like her brother.
Kevin had moved out when she was 12 and uninterested in him at all. Their Father had warned her as soon as Katrina told him that Kevin III was coming to visit. Kevin Jr knew his son well, and he told her in his whiskey and cigarette voice.
“That boy don't care bout nobody, but hisself! He thanks the Sun, Moon, and Stars shine only on his ass!”
When she remembered her brother as a kid, he was big and handsome and he worked hard.
That was all she could recall, she had been busy with her own stuff and Kevin had seemed content to pretend She was invisible. She attempted to get to know him, now that they were both grown.
Katrina, made the first overture, called him and they had been talking for a long time before she invited him to come visit her and her translator husband.
Katrina knew that her husband had been in the wrong. Kevin had gone overboard however when he threatened him.
Katrina, looked up at her brother, her grey eyes shot through with specks of gold, “Erses un idiota" and just in case your Spanish isn't good enough that means you're a Dick!”
Kevin, still blissfully ignorant of his errors just wanted to get away. He hated confrontation with any woman. Not certain what to say he held up his hands in surrender, whispering “Lo siento hermana.”
Kevin walked around until the Sun was setting.
He knew that Donte wasn't expecting him back quickly, but he could be. The local butcher had matched the price of the out of town supplier, because he wanted to please the American Giant.
Kevin, could've walked the four butchered cows to the Cantina easily, but he put them in Donte's beat up truck and drove the 9.6 kilometers.
Nothing brought Kevin out of his melancholy, not even the extra attractive afro-mexican senoritas  that obviously came looking for him.
Kevin didn't feel like playing. It was time to go home. It was funny how quickly New Orleans had become home.
Yeah it was time. First however he owed his sister an apology.
Three shots of the local tequila Kevin favored  turned into 3 more and somehow he arrived at the small elegant home his sister and brother-in-law lived in.
His words were slurred, but he was able to express his feelings. In fact the words rolled off his tongue in the most honest expressions he had ever uttered, not in anger.
“Baby sister I don't mean to be selfish, I just anit really learned how to do much else. I am sure that I love you, but I anit sure that I really know how.”
Katrina and Gabriel hadn't opened the door, so Kevin leaned his large inebriated body against the door and said his piece.
“Shit this is the longest I have ever went without working. I just decided to take a break. I should have let you know but I just wanted to forget about everything for a while.”
The large man pulled one braid beneath his nose and sniffed it, he had developed the habit since he quit smoking. The act seemed to calm him.
Kevin stood, his powerful long legs propelled him up quickly and his head swam.
“Anyhow, I am going to be going home in bout a week. I would like to see you before I leave. Maybe do some tourist shit.  Buenos noches hermana. “

Katrina and Kevin never hung out.
Kevin, had indiscriminate sex with a lot of the local women before he headed back to Louis Armstrong international airport and hopped a cab to his house.
The power was off and he was going to be basically starting over… Kevin didn't care he had proven that he would be okay anywhere.

I Woke Up In New York City!

So I have been writing about Kevin in pretty much a straight line, his misadventures in Butler Alabama and New Orleans. I got bored with the straight line so I am going to take Kevin everywhere. Hold on for the ride.
Please don't fear that comment section I NEED you to help me maximize my craft. I want to entertain you, and only YOU can tell me,how to best do that.
What stories do you like what would you like to read more of? 
Without further ado. 
  
Kevin had been in New York for nearly 5 months.

In that time, he had been through a lot. 
Kevin had no idea what he was thinking when he left New Orleans. It had been a rough and tumble few months. Kevin, had basically been abandoned by the person who had brought him here. His bank account was inaccessible and the meager $150 he had come to the city with, was long gone.
Kevin, was seething and hungry by the time he had been forced to call his dad for help.
“Family!”
Kevin thought, as he waited for his uncle.

Uncle Billy?

He had never heard of his grandfather's brother.
He barely knew his dad's father.
“I was comfortable as FUCK! What the fuck was I thinking!”
Kevin’s internal battle was evident in the way that he stomped up and down 145th St. and Hamilton Terrace.

The small side street was nestled between Amsterdam and Saint Nick. 

He had been staying in an apartment there.
The power had finally gone off. The gas had been sporadic since he had arrived, and Kevin had been sleeping in the BDU’S from his High school ROTC.
He was unbelievably fortunate, that when his uncle had abandoned the apartment to check into Rehab, he had at least left a mink blanket.
That blanket was the warmest thing Kevin had ever encountered.
He had Quilts that his mother had made for him, which were awesome, however they paled beside that blanket.

Kevin wished he had that blanket around him right now.
It was EXTRA cold and the snow hadn't even started falling yet.
Kevin had on his full battle dress uniform, and an army great coat atop his long John underwear.
He was still shivering.
His stubbornness had cost him this time, to the tune of 28 lbs. and malnutrition wasn't far away.
He could have asked for a ticket back to  New Orleans, but Kevin, being Kevin, would not lose.

 So he paced, looking for a relative he'd never met, a relative he'd never even heard of, before today.
He had went to the phone booth to page his cousin Boris again.
A waste of a now very precious quarter.
Kevin’s handsome face was lined. His pride severely injured.

He had always been able to work hard enough to get ahead.
He had left New Orleans after a week long bender.

After his long lost cousin had come to the house he had worked hard to restore in New Orleans, Kevin had consumed enough alcohol to fill a small swimming pool.
He had smoked a LOT of marijuana.

Thinking about it now he wondered at his own behavior. When had he become so foolish? Had he totally lost his mind? 

“What kind of what drugs, did I  really do?”

Kevin had every right to beat himself up. 

Actually maybe keeping his hands to himself was a better ideal.
“Ahhh,!” Kevin screamed aloud oblivious to the people walking by him on the street.
Kevin didn't care how he looked, yelling and pulling the two long braids that shone like hot black oil shot through with premature grey.
He had fought with his mid-shoulder length mane for hours the night before to achieve the simple style.
The building manager had informed him, that despite his assertions that his uncle had given him, his permission to stay there,  Kevin had to leave.
Plus, Kevin was penniless for the first time in his recent memory.
“What did I do to deserve this God?”

Kevin fought the tears that threatened to leak from his brownish golden eyes, fought like a mother bear.
A car horn abruptly honked behind him.

 “Hey is you Kevin?"

Then as he turned to face the man. "You sho is, Boy you look just like Kevin Sr. Get on in year!”
It was a warm country voice, rich and melodic the voice sounded like blackberries, and honeysuckle, like Kudzu, and red mud, it sounded like home.
Kevin realized that he was in NYC, he had gotten his dream, and he was thinking of Butler Alabama as home.
He spoke to the man on the passenger side of the newer Bronco.
“How you doing are you Uncle Billy? “
The man speaking had the largest chin, Kevin had ever seen, and the biggest laugh he'd ever heard.
“Oh hell no I ain't that Damn ugly I'm Walt, Willie is driving we are a long way from where we should be. C'mon get your lanky ass on in here.”
The older man hopped out of the front seat and into the back, Kevin protested momentarily, but he knew that he was much too tall to fit in the backseat. “Maybe you needed a um update sir. I am your Big great-nephew.”
Kevin attempted to get the dynamic together with the joke.
Kevin wanted to (1)Break the ice and (2) get a feel for this unknown relative.
His uncle wasted no time in letting Kevin know who he was.
“Listen, I ain't sign up to babysit some stupid kid. Your dad said that you was the most mature young man I could hope to meet. Are you?”
Kevin wasn’t sure that he liked this uncle.

People, just didn’t get to talk to him like that.
He had earned the respect of his peers, and his elders, from the time he was a very young teen.
Kevin gritted his teeth so hard they hurt.

He looked over at his uncle and said, 

“Yeah, I ain't no kid. I’m grown as fuck. I just needed to get away from a bad situation. I don't like needing help. And if you going to rub the shit in, you can stop this motherfucker right the fuck NOW!” Kevin had kept his tone even, in deference to this man who resembled his grandfather, the face which resembled his own split into a beatific smile.
“Good. Now we know you can get mad. Are you mad enough to make something happen?”
Kevin, whispered the affirmative through still gritted teeth while nodding the same. “Ight, well i’m betting that you are pretty hungry. Let’s feed you. Then I’m gonna show you where you’ll be staying.”
Kevin looked out the window as they sped in and out of the crowded city streets.
He had been driving in the city of New Orleans for a little over a year, but he still marveled at the level of maneuvering that was required to navigate traffic in NYC.

His uncle appeared adept at it. 
As they neared the Borough of Queens Kevin’s great-uncle started explaining life in New York to his ignorant relative. 

“I don’t care how charming you were before you got to New York son, that shit ain’t gonna fly up here, You can’t be running around up here showing everybody your teeth. Them jokes, save that shit. You were down the street from the Apollo when I picked you up if you were going to tell jokes that’s where you should have done it.”
Kevin was soaking it up.

His uncle Billy’s delivery might be lacking but here was someone who had moved to New York from Alabama and made it.
While Kevin might have agreed to come here in a drunken and drug induced fog, and on the world's stupidest dare, he was determined that he was going to be a success.
He hadn’t failed yet, and he was determined that he wouldn’t now.
The diner that his Uncle, who insisted on being called just Will, no uncle, no William, no Mr. Billy, not even Billy just Will, was a touch of down south in the city that never sleeps.
After the first good meal he had eaten in over 4 months, Kevin was excited about seeing this place that his uncle was talking about.
It rested on the corner of 191st and Linden Blvd.

There was a lot with two trailers in it, the lot was fenced in with one side facing the corner and the other was parallel to an alley.
The alley was beside a building that bore the sign “On the Money Deli” and it was into that building that the three men walked.
Will, produced an enormous ring of keys and quickly located the one that would unlock the building’s store front’s back door.
The door was nearly invisible, painted the same black as the bricks on the two story building.
Right beside the black door was another brighter door, complete with a screen and emblazoned apartment number.
Once they were inside, Will laid out his plans for his nephew.

He would contact one of Kevin's many cousin’s, his nephew, and see if he could pull some strings for a job.
They would begin by building a wall across the back of the deli where the bathroom was to make an "apartment"
Before they began measuring and drawing up plans in earnest, Will sent his friend Walter to the store, with instructions to get “The boy” some stuff to get through the day.
Once the large man had lumbered off, Will turned to face his nephew.
“Look I don't know you, I don't really know your Dad that well. My brother is my brother, but I don’t like him. I heard your mom's people let You down. You seem like a good kid and I am going to make sure you're okay. But I need you to get some attitude about yourself or these sharks will eat you out here.”
Will turned over a decade old five gallon bucket for himself and stacked up some abandoned Pepsi racks, to form a small bench, which he indicated that Kevin should occupy.
He sat down and pulled a large bag of marijuana from his sock.
He held the bag and a package of rolling paper in Kevin's direction with a questioning look.
Kevin took the stoner tools, sat and began constructing a lopsided monstrosity.
Walter returned from the store with a six pack of beer, a package of cigarettes and a folding chair that had obviously been in the Bronco.
The three men, two in their early retirement years and one barely legal, popped their beer cans and smoked the misshapen joint.
They sat against the back wall of the store Will had ran for years.
The metal overhead door had been peppered with bullets at some point and the glass behind it shattered. The paint from multiple coats of graffiti had spilled to the inside of the bullet holes, leaving trails in rainbow colors.
The trio talked, Kevin cautiously so, gauging his uncle's, and his uncle's friend's reactions as they devised plans and Kevin listened to stories of the two retirees from their working days.
As he reached into the bag for another beer, Kevin saw a twenty dollar bill and Mr. Walter nodded slightly in answer to his glance around.
After another horribly rolled joint that Kevin lit with a smooth flick of his Zippo lighter, Kevin's uncle, decided that he liked “the boy”, and promised to be back in an hour or two with a bed, some towels, a portable shower hose, and a radio.
He assured Kevin that in the morning he and Walt would be back to turn the store into an apartment.
Will came back to the empty former deli with all of the stuff he had said that he would and more.
Will was conflicted on the one hand he didn't want the kid to struggle.
He wanted to take him out to his Long Island home and make sure he was okay.

William Delaney was old school, and self-made.
He knew that diamonds are only formed by pressure, to that end, Will carried the stuff in through the sliding metal door.
He came back to the empty former deli to find his nephew doing push-ups and supplied Kevin with a twin sized bed.
Will handed Kevin a hammer and two hooks as well as a bunch of rope. He settled onto the Pepsi bench, and rolled up an expert joint.
“So look I still want to make money from the store front. So decide how much room you need, and that's where we'll build a wall. Sound fair? Or do you want to remodel one of those trailers?”
Kevin accepted the marijuana cigarette from his great-uncle inhaled deeply and said. “I don't want to be farther in your debt. I reckon I can remodel one of the trailers once I start making money.”
He hung up the hooks and the rope where he wanted the wall to be.
Before he left Will helped Kevin string up a tarpaulin separating the would be apartment from the bullet hole infested metal door.
Kevin could clearly hear all the street sounds through his tarp.
Sirens and laughter, cars driving past, he even heard what probably was a fight right in front of the locked screen.
He was glad his trusty.38 was beneath him within reach.
The heater his great-uncle had left was doing it's job, and he curled into the fetal position beneath the borrowed mink blanket and the much too small bed.

Despite the change of venue it reminded him of the first night he had spent in his house in Alabama.
Kevin knew that just like then he would make it, he would survive and prevail.

Best Served Cold

This is a completely fictional story. It's a little bit longer than most of my stories. I hope that you enjoy it.

Javier “Big Pockets “Banes. He had been given that nickname long before he founded an empire of illicit gain.
Javier was a survivor, he had avoided the huge drug sweeps that had decimated BMF.
 He had survived the decline of crack cocaine as the drug of choice.
He had also survived an intense investigation by Atlanta Police Dept's homicide division.
The police had long suspected that Javier Banes, Big Pockets, now, prisoner number 114890 was involved in some brutal and gruesome murders.

 Fulton county detective Aaron Douglas, had been chasing Big Pockets for the better part of two years.
Detective Douglas, suspected that the signature of shooting people through the mouth belonged to Banes.

 The M.O. had been used multiple times on people that were known to have crossed him. Pockets own mother had been one of his first victims.
Although Javier, had long avoided the "Chain gang", the colloquial term for the Georgia prison system.
He was finally going. Not however for the murders.
Pockets, had come a long way from the little boy who'd grown up in Atlanta's Venetian Hills.
His mother had been a seamstress before her stroke gave her diminished mental capacity.
She had still attempted to make his clothes. The results had been laughable, hence the nickname.
No, one knew who his father was. Men used to take advantage of Pockets mother all the time. Men would often rape the woman who wouldn’t stop them, scream, or call the police.

Regardless of the doctor's findings, Javier had known exactly what he was doing.
He had known when he took the gun of the drug dealer who was raping his mother, what he planned.
Javier had intended to kill both of them, the young
 “dope boy”
for taking advantage of his helpless mother, and his mother for being helpless. 

He had not intended for the bullet to strike his mother in the mouth.
A single physiologist, part of a four-doctor team, had dissented from the state's expert’s opinions that young Javier Banes hadn't understood his actions.

 She judged Javier to be a cold, methodical, narcissistic sociopath, with psychopathic tendencies.
He had escaped justice that time.
The dissenting doctor was involved in a suspicious car accident on the bridge on Cascade Rd. about two years later.

All of this had factored into Det. Douglas investigation. 

There was a reason that Pockets hadn't been caught up in the sweep that netted BMF.
"80% pure cocaine?"

 Pockets, thought that didn't smell right.
He could honestly say he had never met Meechie or any of his lieutenants.
Pockets, had been too busy thinking of a way to upgrade his own purity not,

 “Make some dude who ain’t even from Atlanta rich!”
Javier was able to up his purity and lower his cost buying the stuff straight from Mexico. Despite his Spanish name he hadn't spoken Spanish at the time.
He made sure that he learned in the next few months.
Pockets had felt like John Gotti. 

His business plan had been flawless. 

His drugs had filled the black hole left by the shutdown of BMF. 

Pockets had made only one mistake, trusting “family” and he was livid that he had been unable to “rectify” that situation.
Pockets, sat in the Douglas county court house all day only to be informed by the bailiff that the judge had ran his charges concurrent with his current five-year sentence.
 A sentence that He had received in Fulton county.
He was tired of being shackled, irritable and ready to get on the bus, not the one heading back to the Douglasville jail.
No, he was eager to get to prison and get his sentence started. There was no real reason to get upset, in fact he was pleased with the day’s outcome. 

Pockets, had studied the case law, but he was guilty, so he didn't mind not having to be present in the actual court room.
The court date over, he was resting his eyes when he was disturbed by a young man, who also was in shackles. 

The youngster was housed in the same 9x12 room with Pockets, and several other inmates who were having their day in court.
The teen, decided to start a conversation.
“Yo, Unc how you get them shoes in jail?”
Pockets, knew that the youth was addressing him, but he really didn’t want to entertain him.
The speaker, Marcel “Knuckle” Head, had just received his ten-year sentence moments before.
The 18-year-old Head, had been housed in Douglas County Jail for the better part of two years, and in that time, he had become known for strong-arm robbing other inmates for their commissary items.
It was the same thing that he was going to prison for.
Feeling disrespected because Pockets didn’t deign speak to him, he addressed the older man again, more harshly this time. 

“Aye Dad, I know you heard me nigga!”
Pockets, moved around so that a length of the shackles was between his hands in case he had to fight this kid.
“I am not your father. If I was I'd beat your disrespectful ass.” 

Pockets looked in the youth's eyes to see if the teen was going to make a move. Still watching the wiry kid, he continued.
“In my experience if somebody asks about your shoes it’s cause they’re planning to rob you. You plan on robbing me Nigga?”
Pockets  put just enough malic into his statement to let the younger man know that if robbery was the idea, it wasn’t a good idea.
“Knucklehead”, had indeed been considering robbing the older man, but the holding cell at the Douglas County Courthouse was not the place to do so.
Head wanted those Jordan's though and given half the chance he would beat the older man and take them.
Pockets, read Head’s ill intent in the way he held his body.
The tattooed young man intended on taking his shoes.

 Pockets knew, that if he and Head had been anywhere other than the courthouse, that he would have had to fight.
Court dates complete, the prisoners got into the blue bird bus headed back to lockup.
By the time the inmates returned to the jail, commissary, the bi-weekly mobile store, had been delivered.

 Javier picked up two large bags.
Head received an indigent package. A service for poor and destitute prisoners, which consisted of soap, a couple of stamped postcards, a soft plastic ink pen, and a toothbrush.

 Pockets, watched the teen and whispered to the C.O. that came to take them to their prospective housing units. 

Pockets, had a corner cell on the bottom tier.
The cell was for someone with a disability, and was complete with its own shower, and two bottom bunks.
 Prisoners called it the penthouse.
It had more square footage then a regular cell, but it was still jail.
Pockets, had been on his Samsung cell phone provided for him by one of the officers when an inmate yelled
“12!”
 Indicating that the police were in the cell house.
Pockets, had been expecting them, and the person they brought with them.

“Knucklehead”, had no idea why he was being moved. 

He hadn’t even had a chance to get his extortion payments from his cell mates, before the guard came and told him to “Pack it up” he was being moved.
Knucklehead, figured he would have to start all over again. Rob someone, and beat them up badly so other inmates knew that when he came to collect taxes,  they better pay up. 

The officers, thought it was funny that he was being moved and Knucklehead didn’t understand the humor. 

The C.O. opened the door to the unit and directed the young criminal to the proper cell.

Where Pockets, laid it out to his new roomie, in plain terms.

 “I don't like men, so you ain’t got nothing to were bout. I have plans for you when we hit the street.” 

The officer had left the pod but Pockets knew that he would be back shortly.
 “Lissen, I know that you want my Jays but hole on for you try an take em. I'm a teach ya sump'n.”
Head, didn't know how to react.

 He stared at his new cell mate. He didn't look like much, a hair under 6', about 185 lbs. of dad body.

 “I could beat the fuck out of Shawty.”

 Head was confident that he could, if the need arose. 

He started unpacking his stuff and wondering why he had been moved there.
Head stole glances at his new celly as he made the flimsy mattress up to the jail standard. 

The jails medical department had approved the thin mattress he was making up.

 It was luxurious compared to the mats he had been on for the last two years.
“Twelve!” another inmate yelled from the top tier.

 The cry was taken up by others. Followed up by hoots and calls. 

This C. O.  was female.  She came to Pockets cell door and handed Head, a pair of Jordan's along with a soft shoe profile so he could wear them.
Pockets gave him a single nod.
Head's, life in jail changed drastically and the special treatment continued as he went to prison.

 Pockets, continuously told him;
 “I have plans for you when we hit the street.” So he needed him to keep his nose clean.
Head wanted for nothing. 

His prison lockers overflowed at all times.

 He had his music, and his prison clothes were creased and tailored. 

His fade hairstyle was always razor sharp. 

Six separate pairs of Tennis shoes lined the underside of his bed.
Head, and Pockets, had been in the same cell houses for their entire sentences.

 Now, as Pockets prepared to leave prison, Head was genuinely, going to miss him.
The now 21 year old, believed, once Pockets left, he wouldn't be getting weekly commissary, and definitely, couldn't count on the girl that had been coming to visit him each week.
Knucklehead, liked Sheba, who insisted on calling him Marcel, but had a hard time believing she was into him.
The letters seemed sincere but she didn't know him. Sheba, met him because of Pockets.
Head, had gotten comfortable.
 He relied on the weekly money coming to his account.

 The packages every 3 months, like clockwork with the newest music, and designer pajamas. What was he gonna do without his smartphone, his Twitter, Facebook, Instagram,  and most importantly Netflix!
He was living much better in prison then when he was living on the street.
Pockets, had told him about the organization that awaited him when he came home.
Knucklehead, imagined once Pockets went home that the commissary would dry up quickly and so would the visits but neither stopped. Actually he had more money on his books then ever.
 His visits continued and he was in love with Sheba. 

He had tried to deny it but he discovered he was done in.
Head was a man. Twenty-five years old, in as good a shape as a man can be, with the limited prison diet.
Daily workouts of ridiculous lengths, 4 and 5 hours a day, and extra food smuggled from the kitchen had chiseled his once lanky body. 

He was a warrior complete with the commissary equivalent of $80k of body art.
The thirsty rob anyone youth, who had gone into the Ga penal system, had been reborn. Head, had honed his body and mind.

 He was excited about “The plans for him” that his Friend and Mentor had often spoken about.
Head, could hear Pocket’s voice in his mind saying those words every time he thought about doing something dumb.
Now he was coming home. 

The fact that he actually had a home to come to was Pockets doing.  

He wouldn't have been able to make Parole if it hadn't been for Pockets.
Head, wasn't just making Parole, he was paroling to a Buckhead high rise building.
Head, knew that whatever Pockets was going to have him doing was illegal. 

He didn't care. 

He would do anything Pockets, asked him to do.

 Pockets, had given him purpose.

Sheba, had worn him out. The brawny tattooed young man jumped out of bed regardless, as soon as the text came. 

 “Knucklehead” 

the single word was followed by an address, he clicked on the address and began the GPS.
“Marcel, baby you ain’t got to go over there. Just, tell him you were sleeping.” 

 Head laughed internally, he guessed that his inexperience wasn't that big of a deal. 

He figured that the woman had gotten sprung after their morning and afternoon together. 

Her Benz was a thing of beauty. 

One that the novice driver, Head, nearly wrecked twice. 

Sheba seemed sad when she told him to drive the AMG GT. Even without the vanity plate it was obviously the short-haired, butter toffee complexioned woman’s vehicle.
The pearl added to the sterling silver paint made it look like glitter rippled down the body of the $100k Mercedes as he zipped down 85 headed towards Campbellton Rd. 

Sheba, had encouraged him to drive some more, but, Head insisted on getting to Pockets in a hurry.
Head jumped out at the address and noticed the cars in the driveway.

 He couldn't help but wonder if the Dodge Hellcat was his.
“You sure you don't want to just drive to California with me right now, and start over?” Sheba called as she crossed to the driver's seat. 

“Maybe tomorrow.” Head replied. 

Smiling as her petite, perfectly proportioned body slid into the driver's seat.
Her response was lost in the roar of her motor. Sheba drove straight back to her apartment in Buckhead and stood under her shower for a long time. She couldn't make herself feel clean.
Head, walked in on a grisly scene.

 The man and woman tied to the chairs in the garage were begging for their lives. 

“Javier, I am Yo cuzzin bruh you know that I ain’t snitched.” 

The fat man had been sweating profusely and he smelled as if he might have fouled himself. 

Pockets, had his back turned to Head and the others. 

It was still obvious that he was speaking to his protégé and not one of the two flunkies in the room. 

“Pick up that. 38 long barrel put it in my cousin’s wife Lakeisha's mouth. Open up her head and lets see what's on her mind.” Javier's cousin plead with him to let her go.
Javier “Pockets” Banes  lifted a .40  to shoulder height and used It to simulate a head shaking no. 

“That's what you get for lying. DO IT.” 

Head didn't hesitate. 

He smacked the short-haired woman In her cheek, and stuffed the  pistol in her mouth as she cried out. 

The man howled as the echo of the single shot rang in Head's ears.

 The woman's brains and ocular fluid peppered his perfectly contoured arms. 

“Last chance cousin. See I've known it was you years. I've also known that the dead bitch put you up to it. The time just wasn't right for your payback. Head do him the same way but give him two.”

Marcel Head did exactly what he was asked. 

Coated in the couples gore, Head waited to hear Pockets welcome him home.

“Knucklehead. I am tying up lose ends. I waited to kill that Rat motherfucker for a long time.” Head reveled in his mentor’s wisdom.
The drug lord continued, 

“See Vengeance is a dish that is best served cold.” 

Pockets nodded to flunky A, 

“Make the call in 5 minutes.” 

Flunky B busied himself untying Pockets cousins.
Head wondered why Pockets had not turned his way.

 “Best served cold. That's why I put the type chick you like through college and bought her a Benz.” 

The words weren't making sense, and what was Thug B doing with that body. 

The Gunshot hit him in the testicles from behind, and he spun and fired the remaining three slugs into his attacker. 

It was a 13 year old boy. 

“Oh knucklehead, now you’ve murdered my cousin and his entire family, back to prison for you.”
Head's entire lower extremities were aflame, so was his brain. What? Why?

Pockets nodded at him.

 “See you thought it was okay to threaten me. I have been planning this ever since right down to making sure my lame ass little cousin had a gun to injure you with.”
The officers who found the unconscious brand new parolee received a commendation.

 They were credited with solving several murders committed with the same weapon and M.O.

 The unsolved murders had all been part of the investigation started by an APD detective named Douglas, who had committed suicide with his own service pistol about a year ago. 

Despite the fact that he had been 16 at the time of the initial murders Marcel Head was convicted of all of them.