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.