Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (An Urban Story) Vol. 1, Part 2

Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (An Urban Story) Vol. 1; Part 2

copyright K. Omodele 2016

The minute Glass' gun popped out, I realized - we got set up, plain and simple. How they, and them alone, get guns up in The Turntable?

Then, soon as Mongrel grabbed the tool from out coward-rass Glass' hand, Bull got low and dashed for the bar. That man dove head-first like some Olympic diver, clear over the counter. And the same time Bull moved right, me, Doc, English and them girls took off to the left. Which exposed Shortman with that half-built spliff in his hand.

He looked up but it was too late. With his back against the wall, all he could do was duck as Mongrel and Boo aimed at him.

Then the shots thundered. BADAP! BADAP! BADAP! BRAP! BRAP!

Over and over, booming over the music, 'til even the music stopped dead.

Then, all you could hear was shots. BLAM! BLAM! BRAM!

People scrambled for the door. No screaming, just silent, frantic like ants. I turned sideways, squeezing myself behind a skinny post that couldn't be no more than six-inch wide. Buddy-bye and Mammal ducked behind two tables. Doc and English and the rest of them? I didn't even see where they'd run and gone.

Shortman was taking shots. He tried to run, but the shots penetrated, twisted and turned his body, like he doing the Rocking Dolly. Then he dropped, his navy-blue Sergio Techini sweat suit turning black with blood.

Then, all of a sudden, the shots stopped. Them dutty niggas backed up a couple steps, looked around like they snap out a daze. Boo turned and dumped two shots into the bar before all of them ran to the door, guns held high. Before they exited, Mongrel swerved his tool around, threatening.

Then they were gone.

Two, maybe three minutes; that's how quick the whole bangarang played out - from the time Bull pointed them out to the moment they hauled rass out the door. Later, Shortman said that the first time he noticed something wrong was the instant Bull started yapping with Glass. Everything after that was a blur to him.

Looking back, it seemed longer; but that's because I remember every little thing. I don't panic, even in the middle of chaos. It don't matter if it feels like you stewing in a pressure cooker, you can't allow your emotions to swallow you up.

With them fools gone, the remnants re-surfaced from various crevices and corners. A set of girls ran out babbling, down from the DJ booth. My ears were buzzing and my eyes and nose were runny from all the lingering gun smoke.

I instructed myself: settle down! Find the crew! Don't rush outside into another ambush like some lamb to a slaughter! I looked around the dancehall carefully.

English, Doc, Mammal and Buddy-bye gathered round and I saw adrenalin pumping through their temples and flaring open their nostrils. Bull stomped over from behind the bar and we began searching for Shortman, but couldn't find him on the floor.

The Women's bathroom door was wide open so, slowly, we peered in.

The dingy-white and black tiles had a path of smeared blood leading to a stall. Three girls squeezed together by a sink, flinching when they saw us. One of them hollered out.

"He crawled in deh. He in there!" Pointed at the stall.

Shortman was curled up, hugging the toilet like salvation. His head propped awkward on the side of the bowl, his torso tensed. He was dry-heaving and his sweatshirt  was soggy wet. His footballer's legs lay sprawled like some pick-up stix. When Bull pried his arms from the toilet and pulled him out the stall, Shortman had tears streaming down his face but he wasn't crying; his eyes just shifted looking around the bathroom.

I knew exactly what he was thinking - we got set up.

I nodded.

Bull grinded his teeth hard like he was chewing wire.

Shortman gurgled. "Water. Thirsty." He struggled to breathe. "Gimmie some water." His teeth pink with blood and slobber.

Suddenly, sirens wailed and someone yelled.

"The Beast."

Everybody with us turned to exit, except Shortman, of course. Half of we had warrants, the other half, illegal; so, none of us wanted to take a check. As we filed out the bathroom, fire fighters streamed through Turntable's front door, followed by a gang of police and EMS.

I pulled my Kangol brim low over my brows and walked out, calm and natural, right past them. I kept thinking, don't freeze up. Don't look away but at the same time, don't stare at nobody! That ole crow see fear, it will take set and prey on you; might make this a longer, colder, sitting-behind-bars night.

At the door I turned and saw them people lift Shortman out the restroom and lay him on the floor in front Bob Marley, smiling with his guitar. I wondered what Bob might've been singing - Woman hold her head and cry??

The EMS converged on Shortman like a pack of wild dogs and cut his pants off him.

I stepped into the night and the air slapped me in the face. A news camera's light blinded me. I looked down, brim down; said nothing, just kissed my teeth and sidestepped the bag of excitement. I darted down the alley to where I'd parked round behind the nightclub. Bull had done cranked up his whip and had pulled beside my beamer, waiting. D.C. was bout to run red. Board box under ground by time we done.

The Harshness had stolen our night.

COMING SOON: Haunted Blood - Volume 2 (Chicken Little Sagas Continue)

Read the preceding episodes:

Haunted Blood Vol. 1; Part 1

Chicken Little and The Carrion Crow (the Introduction)

*(this is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or situations are coincidental and unintended)

The Abeng Interviews Quai54, Paris Creator Bah-Pna Dahane (Part 2)

The Quai54 Originator: Bah-Pna Dahane Interview 

by Kaya Omodele @TheAbeng

Read Part One of This Bah-Pna profile here

"This tournament was first and foremost a celebration of Blacks at its best on the French soil - a country that owes its freedom to the blood of black soldiers from Africa, America and the Caribbean." ~ Bah-Pna Dahane

Bah-Pna, Ralph 'Big Poppa' Greene and rookie Anthony William Parker

@TheAbeng: Greetings, Bah-Pna. Your reason for keeping the Quai54, Paris tournament a creation and production by Blacks was very Garveyite in principle. What was the biggest challenge you faced in respect to maintaining this goal?

BPD: Hi Kaya. No one knew it was based on Garveyite principle. That was a secret I kept within myself. With French people, you have to be subtle like them. Now after all these years they look back and realize that they had the impression of controlling something. Like Mandela said. "Lead them from the back - and let others believe they are in front."

@TheAbeng: I see that hip-hop was a big influence on you. And, you said you listened extensively to Bob Marley's Redemption Song while planning the marketing campaign for the Quai54. You ever listen to dancehall reggae artist like Capelton, Sizzla, etc.

BPD: I listen to everything. Music is music, but the music most associated with basketball is hip-hop. I am not a very big fan of hip-hop per se. It's a music that has lost its core due to mercantilism. It became less educational and [mostly] entertainment. Today's hip-hop has killed black culture.

@TheAbeng: You have a point. By the way, did you know that the second verse of Redemption Song are words from a Marcus Garvey speech: "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery...?"

BPD: I guess most of us grew up with Bob Marley's song and learned a lot from Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X's life as well. Malcolm X, who, as you know was a Garveyite, his father was also a Garveyite and most of Malcolm X's teachings were from Marcus Garvey.

@TheAbeng: Yeah, Man. So, which authors have you been reading lately?

BPD: The last three in December were Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Chinuah Achebe and Toni Morrison

@TheAbeng: How can we get young brothers and sisters in the black Diaspora to place more value in books (reading) than bling and sneakers?

BPD: It should start at home and we must learn what delayed gratification is all about. Bling-bling and sneakers is a way to be accepted because most of us are lost. Most of us blacks from the Diaspora are losing our roots and essence of being African and proud; therefore we fall into consumerism. We are willing to pa $200 for sneakers that cost $5 to make in China but wont put $20 in a book that will awaken us. Now we wake up and we see that those same Chinese, who make the $5 Jordan that Blacks are lining up to buy, are on the continent controlling our economy...

@TheAbeng: Jah Bless, Bredren. I thank you sincerely for this reasoning and your time.

BPD: Thank you Kaya

If you didn't read the first the first part of this interview catch the Bah-Pna Feature Profile here 

Bah-Pna Dahane Created The Quai54, Paris Streetball Tournament (Part 1)

How Bah-Pna Dahane Created The Quai54, Paris Streetball Tournament

by Kaya Omodele

Don't get it twisted and damn what you heard: Bah-Pna Dahane is the originator, the fire-blazing creator of Quai54, Paris, France's super-eminent street basketball tournament. Period. Born in Chad, Bah-Pna grew up in Lyon, France balling on various courts - swinging tennis racquets and shooting hoops. His love for sports would eventually lead him to earn a Masters degree in International Business and Marketing (he minored in Black Studies and Political Science) from Portland State University in Oregon in 1999. Education prepared Bah-Pna for the corporate sports marketing world and he's travelled extensively; but no matter where in the world his ventures take him, this brother is constantly sounding the Abeng, voicing out against racism wherever he finds it. Armed with the knowledge and spirit of Marcus Garvey, the brother reaches out regularly to uplift the consciousness of brothers and sisters around the Black (African) Diaspora. Such was the case when he envisioned Quai54, Paris.

"France's Racism is different than the United States'; France's racism is more subtle...like a gas you can't smell but will kill you slowly from the inside." ~ Bah-Pna

Being naturally athletic, at eleven years old Bah-Pna was selected as one of Lyon's best, budding tennis players and was awarded membership at an exclusive tennis club. That same year, he discovered the works of Nelson Mandela and also met French Open Champion Yannick Noah; both made big impressions on the Youth.

"Being the only black kid at the tennis club, I will never forget the special attention Yannick Noah gave me. That day in 1986, when he left us he waved good-bye to everyone, except me. He shook my hand, entered his car and winked at me before leaving."

This experience sowed the seed of giving back to his community that would later blossom beautifully in Bah-Pna's life.

Not long after, Bah-Pna developed a burning passion for basketball, which opened him to politically-conscious hip-hop and in turn, exposed him to film-maker Spike Lee's work, for which he has deep, long-lasting respect. Bah-Pna insists that after seeing Do The Right Thing, one can't help but be politically conscious.

As a young man in France, he promptly scrutinized any corporate staff he found short on black employees and executives. The brother blatantly refused to work for or support those companies where he found little or no blacks in the work force.

"I felt the same way as Bugging Out in Do The Right Thing. Where are black people besides the security guards?...

"You feel outraged when you are regularly referred [to] as 'black, but not like other blacks.' In France that statement means you are a sell-out, actually!"

Like many black, inner-city youth, Bah-Pna spent long hours practicing on basketball courts with dreams of making it to the NBA. It was during one of these sessions in 1995, the very day he realized his dream of playing in the League was falling short, that he linked up with Philippe Morin. The Nike executive was promoting the Nike Raid Outdoor Tournament, which duplicated the theme of Spike Lee's Urban Jungle sneaker commercial. Since Bah-Pna had an already growing admiration for Spike, he was naturally drawn to the project. 

Bah-Pna balling with Tim Hardaway

"I teamed up with Nike France only because the Nike Raid Outdoor Tournament was inspired by Spike Lee's Urban Jungle court  featuring Tim Hardaway...     

"...most importantly for many of us who grew up with the knowledge of Marcus Garvey, we were proud that the pan-African [flag] colors were showing up on the Raid Outdoor sneakers. Growing up with conscious rap music, we blacks from the African Diaspora living in France  had a voice and we were able to back it up with the history lessons coming from rap artists like Public Enemy...In most schools in France, we weren't taught about our real history, so those conscious rap artists influenced us to go to the libraries in order to build and strengthen our pride as human beings and people of black origin."

Working in sports marketing with Nike France led to future projects such as the Nike Euro Camp where Bah-Pna worked under the legendary Hall of Fame basketball coach George Raveling in 1997. By the time the Nike Battleground Tournament was up and running in 2002, Bah-Pna had graduated from Portland State and was Nike France's Basketball Marketing Manager, handling all aspects of business and marketing concerning basketball; he'd already worked with Coca-Cola France as a sports marketing consultant/liaison during the FIFA World Cup '98 in France; he'd created, coordinated and promoted a charity event called SLAM ATTITUDE from which proceeds were contributed to funding Dikembe Mutombo's hospital in the Democratic Republic of Congo. All these gigs gave Bah-Pna the necessary experience and contacts, and whetted his appetite, to birth his very own tournament.

The Quai54, Paris: The Mission

"Do not follow in the footsteps of the wise; seek what they sought."~ Osho

For this natural-born activist and socially-conscious brother, creating the basketball tournament that would one day be France's biggest street ball showcase was a social vision as complex as piecing together a 1000-piece, jigsaw puzzle.

"What many may have seen as a simple basketball tournament was for me a real political statement...My goal was to engineer an event created by blacks and operated by blacks, so we could have a real, black men-made event without begging others to do it for us."

It took many months of brainstorming; he knew he wanted this tournament to be black-owned but had no theme yet in mind. Then one day in 2002, while driving through Levallois with Philippe Morin (the now former Nike executive) to meet with the Paris basketball team, they passed a basketball court that became the catalyst for Bah-Pna's epiphany.

"My first time in NY was in 1995 when I won an award to go film my amateur documentary [about] the impact of street basketball in the U.S.A. When we drove past this location in Levallois, it reminded me of New York City..."

The street basketball-theme light flicked on. Bright.

"I drove back to the same playground the next day and started taking pictures. I sat down and I laid out all my inspiration. I started drawing certain logos and promised myself this tournament would be a success the day Jordan Brand sponsors it."

Bah-Pna's major concern was that the tournament had to be black-people oriented; that it must be a beacon for self-reliance of young, black men in France, to "show the white establishment of sports authority that we were more than just sneaker consumers with a bling-bling mentality."

Teach the Youth, Bahps...Talk to them!

With his objectives loaded in his mind, Bah-Pna took careful aim of his goal. He sought out the elders in his business and personal network and soaked in the wisdom they imparted upon him.

Ralph "Big Poppa" Green delivered an email during a meeting at Nike Headquarters in the Netherlands. "Watch out for Africa," the big man said, then shared stories about NBA great Hakeem Olajuwon struggling to complete projects in Nigeria.

Howard White and Kevin "The Katalyst" Carrol both reminded young Bah-Pna to give back to the community. Always!

When Bah-Pna travelled once again to NYC, Rucker Park Tournament's Gregory Marius kicked knowledge, telling him, "Stay true to yourself and they will follow!"

"Lead them from the back; let others believe they are in front."~ Nelson Mandela

From its inception, every detail of Quai54, Paris was a result of Bah-Pna's diligence and strategic planning. He designed down to the name itself. Each component was carefully considered, then laid and stitched with deliberate purpose and meaning. For example, the name "Quai54" itself: Africa consisted of 54 independent countries; Quai means pier or port. "As many know, during the Second World War, the capital of France was in Africa for some time. Black soldiers came from all ports to defend France from the tyranny of Nazism."

Bah-Pna kept tight focus on his mission and goal when he sought initial sponsorship. In his own words, he wanted to make sure the first sponsorship money would come from black-owned companies, and the remainder by anyone who believed in the cause of Black excellence. He was certain that if he gathered enough sponsorship money, he'd still be able to run the tournament if he fell short of landing a major brand's support.

Once Bah-Pna had gathered everything he needed, he searched  for someone to run the tournament - he needed a face, a front man. Eventually, he reached out to Philippe Saint and Jackie Blangonnet, who were both running the "Basketball en liberty" program.

"Philippe Saint was working for the French Basketball Federation. He was dealing with street basketball and was running this open gym in Paris' 13th district where everyone can go and play every day. I contacted him and told him clearly that I was looking for a young African man who loves basketball and hip-hop so he can be [my] front man."

Philippe Saint got back to Bah-Pna with the name of a player who was connected with hip-hop culture, adding that he could swing by the Porte de Choisy at the Hall Carpentier anytime after 6pm for a linkup introduction.

That's how Bah-Pna met Hammadoun Sidibe, the man who became the front man of Quai54, Paris.

Bah-Pna says:

"At the time I was working on the Nike Battleground [tournament] with Tony Parker and for the Nike account, so I couldn't run two events at the same time. When Mr. Saint introduced me to a fellow African [Sidibe], I explained to him that he would be the front man and all he had to do was connect the dots, the hip-hop environment and the basketball one and just carry the tournament as if it was his. All the marketing mix and connections with the officials and the brand was me, because my job at Nike opened many doors...

"It was important to me that black people take their destiny in hand even if it is a tournament." 

"Hypocrites and parasites/will come up and take a bite/and if your night should turn to day/a lot of people would run away..." ~Bob Marley; Who The Cap Fits

History is a carousel; there is nothing new under the sun. As was the case with Marcus Garvey's UNIA, some people only care about what they can get from a situation and so one must be careful about those he invites to his table. Like Garvey, Bah-Pna made the grave mistake of bringing the wrong, so-called African brother into his organization and giving this Judas-thief access. (Editor's Note: This man was not Hammadoun Sidibe; Bah-Pna has not revealed the name of this person to The Abeng.)

When asked why he no longer is part of a tournament he bled, sweated and shed tears over, why he didn't claim it, Bah-Pna responded.

"I had to take responsibility because the person I chose as the Chief Financial Officer ran away with the money. I had no choice than to take responsibility for the loss...

"I should have told the bank that we needed two signatures on the checks for all expenses. I didn't take care of that, so when cash from the sponsors came in, he took most of it and went back to the Motherland with his honey. Life happens, we live and learn...

"I couldn't fight my own black brothers...I decided not to argue and gave the ones I considered co-founders all of it. It was important to have this kind of reaction because we were all interdependent. I was the breadwinner at first, but without their input and connections, we wouldn't have been able to maintain the tournament all these years."

And so, without grudge or vindictive feelings, Bah-Pna relinquished his rights to Quai54.

Bah-Pna reiterates that his purpose in creating Quai54 was to show young black men in France, who believed in "the illusion of inclusion", that they could stand on their own two feet, deliver and be "accepted at our real value". He is adamant about the need for black people to hold ourselves in high esteem and value ourselves as more than consumers; that we see ourselves as creators, entrepreneurs, rulers of our own destinies.

"I wanted this tournament to create hope, so the black kids in France would find inspiration to become general managers, film makers or think in terms of becoming owners...

"Many blacks in France still have a sneaker mentality. You are more praised for the sneaker you have than the books. You are likely to find their room full of sneakers but no library with books."

Amen! Teach the Youth, Bahps; Sound di Abeng!


Read the second part to this interview

    

Chicken Little (An Urban Story Haunted Blood Vol. 1 Part 1

copyright K. Omodele 2016 

* (This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.)

It was Doc birthnight we had come to celebrate but every last one of us was tight and frost because, for the second week in a row, the club owner- Mackie, that battyhole, had some new security enforcing people from bringing gun inside The Turntable. So that night we marched into the little match-box dance hall club hard and fast like the Dirty Dozen and posted up in front we wall.

Now when I say "we wall", I mean everybody and they mother know that every, single club night, that space up under the DJ booth balcony, from the edge of that larger-than-life Bob Marley mural over to the women's restroom -all that space is our own. It bought and paid for with sheer testosterone and gun sulfur. Whensoever we popped in, people just slide over to the side and relinquish we space. Regulars knew that; next week, a baby going born in England and he going know that. No long story; no long talk; no big fucking deal.

So, we had we backs to the wall, women's restroom 'pon we right-hand side, dance floor straight ahead. Was me, my cousin Bull, the two brothers Shortman and Doc, Brixton, Dapper, English, Bim, Mammal, Buddy-Bye, Star Boy and Trigger. Buddy-Bye bored through the crowd headed for the bar.

Bull turned 'round grinning and shouted in my ear over the music. "Wha' the fuck do Mackie? A few little shooting and now the damn Secret Service manning the door."

I didn't share the laugh. "I feel naked, no fuck." I looked around the club.

Bull did the same. "Yo, Chicken. Culture and Joe not coming?"

I shrugged. "Ever since Lyla get killed, Joe been acting certain way, like if he is the only man in the whole world raising a youth without a babymother."

My cousin gripped my shoulder.
"It's only couple weeks now. I feel for him; that man have some real big man responsibilities now," he shouted.

I thought about it. True, Joe ain't been around lately. But what about Culture and Ray-Ray and the rest of them? They don't never miss no party.

I shook the them thoughts and turned to Doc. "Blessed earthday, Bredren."

Buddy-Bye resurfaced lugging a waitress and two wash basins full a Moet bottles on ice, plus two cases of Heineken and hot Guinness. Soon as he set them on the floor, hands plunged in and rummaged through the basin and boxes of beer. I came up with two Moet, for me and Shortman, who started crushing weed in his hand, preparing to build a spliff.

The whole crew was hyped. The spot down in Southeast was bubbling over thirty grand a day, more than triple the amount we made the first day we set up shop, which was a month before. Not bad for a set of teens - we was definitely flexing, smelling weself.

So, now we're guzzling bottles. The music was pounding, the place ram-packed with tension and swagger. The air, hot and hypnotic from ganja smoke and spilled-liquor fumes and too many black people cramped in too small a space. Girls were wineing up they waistlines, riding the booming baseline with perfect timing. Knowing full-well a man's eyes would only linger  on any one of them for a couple seconds, the wineing competition between them girls was fierce; you hear?

But as man, we couldn't afford to turn fool over pum-pum; so real road niggas' eyes kept shiftin from predator to girl prey, like young lions scouting the savannah for enemies and food. That possie over there watching that one over there. Man under a constant state of alert.

Shortman reached across me and handed Doc the new-built, big-head spliff, then started building a next one. English roped in some girls, waving them in from off the dance floor. The music slowed to a crawl...then stopped.

Silence.

Crowd movement settled.

Grammatica The Selector's voice rang out through the speakers.

"Hold tight, all massive and crew. Here comes a chune by the one-and-only Junior Reid, a brand new thing mashing up Jamdung* and Foreign. Turntable LISTEN!"

Junior Reid sing-jayed the intro:

"Moder vamp-ires of the ci-ty/ haunted blood, blo-od/ You coulda come from Rema, you coulda come from Jungle/ coulda come from Firehouse or you come from Tower Hill/ One blood, one blood, one blood..."

When the baseline dropped in, the whole dancehall nearly tear down. It was bare bedlam. Lighters flicked on, aerosol-can torches spewing flames out like some ole, spit-fire dragons. Sirens sounded, a bomb warning wailed. Now, even the lions were prancing, bouncing with gun fingers in the air, busting blanks.

BLO! BLO!BLO!

I was thinking, Mackie fucking lucky he stopped we from bringing guns in here tonight, f'real. Or we woulda turn his ceiling into swiss chesses, the amount of gunshots that woulda burst for One Blood.

With the drum and bass and the Moet talking to me, plus the smell of sticky girls and sexy ganja, I was sailing higher than a frigging kite. And right about that time, Bull turned around and said to me:

"Wrangla them over there by the Galaga." He was gesturing behind him.

Soon as he said it, that ole, dutty, stinking crow cawed. Sobered me straight, right and fast. I had to rise up on my Bally boot toes to catch a glimpse over Bull shoulder but I spotted them in the corner by the video game in the back of the club. They were definitely watching us. And when our eyes locked, the four of them fanned out onto the dance floor, skanking like wasn't nothing wrong.

And that was all wrong!

They spread out, bouncing around with some random girls, but we could see them lurking - Wrangla and Glass to the left, Mongrel and Boo on the right. I'm thinking: four of them; twelve of we. Ever since Lyla get lick down right outside the club, Mackie was not skinning or grinning with security, nobody couldn't even slip by the metal detector with piece of cigarette foil paper under their clothes. So, what they could try? We had the numbers.

But then, Glass dallied through the crowd, rushing over to our wall. Off pure reflex and instinct, my gun hand dug down into my pants waist, knowing better, but still hoping to God for a miracle.

Shit! Heard that crow caw again. I definitely wasn't high no more.

Let me tell you, Bull solid like a pillar or post, so it was hard to see over and around his shoulder. Next thing I know, though, Glass was standing with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, ranting and railing off, nearly chest to chest with Bull. I couldn't hear a word for sake of the thumping music; but he was running off his mouth non-stop and I knew it was gun talk, wicked talk, cause he was screwing up his mouth like he sucking a green mango or something so. His hands were poking around in his pockets emphasizing whatever foolishness was coming out his mouth.

On my left, Doc and English inched wide. Shortman, on my right, ain't notice nothing yet and his short rass definitely couldn't see over Bull or the crowd, so he was still picking stems out the weed, preparing to roll.

And then, Mongrel and Boo squeezed through the crowded floor and drew up beside Glass, who on cue, backed a Glock .40 out his coat pocket and carried on chatting even more fuckery, going on like a real, big-pussy gyal, now that he had representation beside him.

I gripped the Moet bottle neck. Doc and English did the same.

Bull inched up, closing the gap between him and yappy-yappy mouth Glass. Which in, caught Glass in a place somewhere between disbelief and feeling disrespected. His eyes bulged with confusion.

Mongrel looked at Glass with sour disgust, spit some cuss words at him and snatched the tool right out his confederate's hand. At the same time, Boo backed out a nine millimeter. In one fluid, in-sync motion, the two of them raised the machines and aimed.

Chicken Little: Haunted Blood Part 2 

Chicken Little and The Carrion Crow
(The Introduction)

Chicken Little And The Carrion Crow: The Introduction (Street Literature)

           Chicken Little and The Carrion Crow (Introducing An Urban Story)

                                       copyright K. Omodele  2016

Let me tell you 'bout things the way I see them. You go through life forever lonely, ever alert and aware of your surroundings, all while searching for something to make the Harshness bearable. Y'see, there's this everlasting gloom hovering all around me, a constant heaviness, a steady uneasiness I feel every single living day as I trod over the hills and through the valleys, the gutters and the alleys of my life. It's the overwhelming realization that, no matter how much sun is shining right here, right now, sooner or later something bad going drop on my head. Short Man say I too damn pessimistic, so now my whole crew call me Chicken Little.

I don't always know the precise hour or the minute this Harshness going wake up, shake up and drop the hammer; don't even know the fullness of the chaos it going bring; but as sure as dusk and dawn and death, it going come. If you don't believe nothing else in the world; believe that! Me? I just keep praying the next time it swoop down it don't bring about my total destruction and absolute demise.

Yeah, I have moments when I'm enjoying meself, like when basking in that warm, catch-breath afterglow with a woman- you know how! But then, even times like these still be haunting to me because I know deep down in my heart and soul that the Harshness right there, somewhere, maybe right outside the Marriott room door, waiting. It lingering, lurking, looming, ready to flap down like some dutty ole crow. So, all when I'm palavering and laughing, sipping two stout with me friend, in the depths of my conscience I expecting something worse. That's why come Chicken Little forever keep gun closer than skin and bone.

I want you understand this, the Harshness is our judgment 'pon de earth. All the world's injustices and conflicts and mischief feed it. It carnivals in vanity and greedy tendencies, in all a we pillaging and we plundering. Is a executioner and when it descends, expect repayment tenfold; whether it dive down with viciousness or glide down, slow and deliberate, wings cocked back, more dreadful and imposing than Armageddon.

It's always there. Waiting.

Like the night Short Man got wet up* in a reggae dancehall called Turntable back in the days when crack was king and D.C. was murder capital. I could feel it in the air, 'midst all a we Moet Chandon-ing and indica burning...

Continued Chicken Little: Haunted Blood (Vol. 1; Pt. 1)

*shot up

A LASTING TRIBUTE TO ROBERT NESTA MARLEY

SEVEN BOB MARLEY CHUNE* LYRICS FOR SEVEN DIFFERENT VIBES

Through his Natural Mystic, I've had a personal bredrenship with Robert NestA Marley ever since I was a little youth. And I'm positive there are millions of people all over Jah-World who feel that exact same way 'bout Bob and his music. The man holds many different titles for many different people- prophet, priest, king, philosopher, lecturer, icon, storyteller, just to name a few. Without a doubt, the man has an aura of accessibility.

I grew up with Bob casting me gems, in-song. These lyrical life lessons, stern warnings and guidance are still thought provoking, his tone often imploring, sometimes wailing. He said things I want to say; he's a conscious voice. His words have definitely comforted me through some rough spots in my life and uplifted me. He is like Everyman, flawed, but perfectly human with imperfections. That's's what gives him credibility.

"His fans come fro the music, but it's the message they take away."~ Tom Bradshaw, LA Times

It's said that a man's true worth is measured in the impact he's made on other people's lives-the effect he's had in our hearts and on our minds. Then Bob, no matter what the crisis is, they can't get we outta the race. It's said that a man's true worth is measured in the impact he's made on other people's lives- the effect he's had in our hearts. Then Bob, they truly can't get you outta the race.

                                  Seven Bob Marley Lyrics for Seven Vibes

1. Satisfy My Soul
For when: you need to tell her how you feel
Listen lyrics: Can't you see?/ Why won't you believe me?/ Oh darling, darling/ I'm calling, calling

2. Mellow Mood
For when: you 'bout to put in the wuk***
Listen lyrics: I'll play your favorite song, Dar-ling/ we can rock it all night long, Dar-ling/ 'cause I've got love, Dar-ling/ Love, sweet love, Dar-ling/ Mellow Mood has got me/ so let the music rock me/...qui-et as the night/pleeease, turn out your light/ ... strike the hammer while iron is hot

3. She's Gone
For when: the woman pack up and gone
Listen lyrics: My best friend told me inna reggae riddim/ Don't jump in the water if you can't swim/...Oh Mocking Bird have you ever heard/ words that I never heard?

4. Burning and Looting
For when: you feeling like you just "can't breathe"
Listen lyrics: This morning I woke up in a curfew/ Oh God, I was a prisoner too/ could not recognize the faces standing over me/ they were all dressed in uniforms of brutality/ I say, how many rivers do we have to cross/ before we can talk to the boss?

5. Easy Skanking
For when: you 'bout to light up
Listen lyrics (or feel the vibez): Excuse me while I light my spliff/ oh God, I got to take a lift/ from reality I just can't drift/ that's why I'm staying with this spliff

6. Johnny Was...
For when: you lose your child in the street
Listen lyrics: Woman hold her head and cry/ 'cause her son had been shot down in the street and died/ just because of the system/...wondering how can she work it out/ now she knows the wages of sin is death/ and the gift of Jah is life...

7. Duppy Conqueror
For when: you doing a bid (locked down)
Listen lyrics: Yes me friend/ me deh a street again/ their walls could not hold me/ bars could not control me, now/ thru the power of the Most High/ they had to turn I loose

* Tunes
*** Work (the good loving)

People, Sound di Abeng, nuh, and list some of your favorite Bob Marley lyrics for when you feeling like you...

My Tribe's Traditions: Once A Man, Twice A Child

copyright  K. Omodele 2015  .@TheAbeng

It's my tribe's tradition that we mind our elders; we home them, dine them, clothe them, include elders in life's events - holidays, birthdays, weddings, reunions; we cringe at the thought of placing our elders in nursing homes. In quiet moments, we read with our elders, cook with our elders, and listen, fascinated, by their old-time stories about the British, independence and the train line that ran all the way from Town to country. In our day to day, we turn garden soil for them, turn over mattresses for them, turn on TV shows for them, and twist open mango-achar* jars when arthritis done bend-up their fingers like some old-guava -tree twigs. Sometimes, we chauffer them around: shopping, visiting, appointment meeting, beauty saloning - nails, hair, and spa.

When my family gathers up, generations row like some parakeets 'bout who was the greatest West Indies cricket captain- Sobers or Lloyd?** We wind up to Sparrow, skank to Toots and the Maytals, groove with delight when Tinga Stewart tells we to "Play The Music/Jump like leggo beast!" Oh, and you should see how we all love three-step with liveliness to Percy and Benny and Sam- "Bring It All Home To Me!" Yeah- Yeah... But when we fling on dancehall,*** the elders screwface in disgust and confusion.

When I was a 'lil youth, my Granny, her sister (my Great-Aunt) and my Grandfather took care of my Great-Grandfather, Papa, in his final years. I got ancient-days images of Papa flickering through my memory; he, skin like burnt brass and hair like wool. I recall vaguely, he was fierce when it came to his mangoes, so you better had take your eyes of his mango tree.

I also remember, later, how my Uncle Stuartie (Jah Bless you, me Lion) and his wife took care of another one of my Great-Aunts when she couldn't manage living on her own any longer. And my Auntie has my Granny, who's 94 years old, and her sister, 90, taking care of them the best she can. Been doing this now for three decades, through two marriages, with a lioness heart and spirit. Sometimes despair wells up Auntie's eyes because my Granny now needs help getting dressed and my Great-Aunt keeps forgetting how to make her morning coffee. So, my younger Auntie rises early o'clock, prepares them breakfast, changes what-so-ever needs changing, washes whatever needs washing, with nuff**** love and care, honor and devotion.

One day it will be my generations' turn to care for my aunts and uncles, my parents. This is the way of our tribe. And we gon' uphold this tradition, no matter where on Earth we roam. The younger youth better had learn. This is what we do, in my family, my tribe.

*achar is spicy, pickled green (unripe) mango

**Sir Garfield Sobers from Barbados; Clive Lloyd from Guyana. Two captains of great West Indies teams, representing different eras

*** dancehall reggae is a more uptempo, faster, younger genre

**** plenty; a lot; much

STOP AND FRISK: Brooklyn Beast

copyright K. Omodele 2012   All rights reserved

Foto:MFR (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wasn't much smiling in Di Nineties, East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The E. 90's was a zone of gun claps and shrieking sirens, after all, with reggae and dancehall ever thumping in the background. People on the road  called this part of Brooklyn "Vietnam." 

This night was frigid, a rigid Sunday- hard like Reagan trickle-dung policies 'gainst Black People. Four D's only used to opened its doors from Thursday through Saturday night, so this night was dead. And the boys them loved these nights when they could alms-up the sound system equipment all to themselves.

After clearing bottles and washing glasses, Nephew had attacked the floor, sweeping, de-gumming, mopping, waxing and buffing 'til the vinyl did shine like a brand new dub-plate. By then Belizean Gerald did done already restock the Bar with mostly Guinness and Dragon Stout, Red stripe, Banks, Heineken and Corona, and was shouldering unused drink  boxes into the nightclub basement.

Seemed like the minute the wuk dun*, there was a rolling then clanking on the nightclub shutter grill. The two teenagers turned down the club lights, peered out the one-way, window on the door. Nephew then popped the door and touched fists with Bredren as they traipsed in...Culchah, Irie, Roro, Moet, Dex, Jungle, Eh-Em, Blacka Shine and the whole side ah dem...in diamond sox, Travel Fox and Ballys; suede fronts and knit ganzies; Kangol, leather baseball caps, buckas and tams; leather gooses, bombers and shearlings...bouncing straight to the DJ booth. Nephew flicked the power strip and pressed the amps' power buttons and next thing yuh know, the system lights woke up. 

Speakers crackled.

Nephew twirled a plate onto turntable 1.

Sleng Teng (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Irie unsheathed his locks from his leather crown and flashed them free.Took hold of a microphone like Selassie holding the Scepter.

The youth them took crowded the booth, one by one flinging lyrics 'pon the mic, riding riddims**: The Answer, Stagalag 13, Sleng Teng, The 54-46 (Boops), The Far East - in rapid-fire ganja and Heineken- slurred Patois, Creolese, Panamanian/Belizean Spanglish. Lyrics bigging up "weh we come from": The Nineties, The Fifties, Mini-mart, Brooklyn, Jamdung, GT, Panama, Belize. Lyrics 'bout Rastafari and Africa, 'bout teenaged love and odes to Ganja.
And lyrics 'bout the Dutty Boyz, the Beast, Babylon.

Outside, the wind howled. Feather-weight paper debris tumbled down shell-shocked streets into vestibule pockets where they twirled like twisters. Sirens blared up Rockaway Parkway. Minutes later more screaming sirens are chased by a next set a cop cars down Remsen Ave. Was only ten p.m. and yet Rutland Rd. was stripped bare of people like the climax of Gun Down in the Middle of Gun Town. A night-blue DT*** car crept off ah Rockaway, stalked down Rutland Road, crossed  E. Ninety-sixth, peering, lurking...

Two, three hours soon shot pass.
Nephew re-sleeved the records and shelved them.
Gerald emptied ashtrays and got rid of empty bottles.
"Starlight ah guh swing tonight." Culchah said, yanking the belt tight on his three-quarter length goose down.
"Schuups. If ah see my baby mother in deh one more time, I gon box she dung," Dex said, matter of factually. "Every single week, Man? Is wah do she so?"
Each and every one ah the boys cocked their ears. 
Rinsing the ashtrays in the sink, Gerald responded. "Box dung who, Loco?"
Nephew grinned. "Big, mampy**** Lorna? You mussy mad."
The whole side ah them nearly drop dead with laugh.
As they gathered at the door, Blacka Shine added. "My money deh pon Mampy-Pampy Lorna. First round knock out."
More laughs exploded.
Nephew checked around. The club was in order as it should be. No traces of the boys and the session. Satisfied, he locked off the lights.
The massive***** herded through the door into the shelled-down night.

The pulling down of the iron-gate shutters rumbled. The sound barreled all the way up Rutland Rd. to the Number 3 subway station and straight down to Rutland Plaza. The boys loaded six steel pins into the cylinders and clicked six locks through the pin eye holes.
Tested the gates with two tugs.
The whole crew turned, heading down towards Remsen Ave., shoulders up, chins tucked into chests to protect them from the cold.
Irie hauled up to a dumpster to hold a piss.
Suddenly, two night-colored DT cars roared, hurling horse power down the street. Tires screeched. The cars skidded and jerked into a stop right in front the teens.
Out pounced four undercover DTs, guns drawn and pointing at the teens.
The boyz stopped and braced themselves.
"Get da fuck on the wall!" The DTs pushed the boys toward the building's brick wall.
Two sprinted over to Irie, who by now done pissed on his Clarkes.
"HANDS ON DA WALL."
But Irie still had his thing exposed, so he fidgeting to zip that back in his pants.
The two DT's cocked their guns and rushed him. Each pinning an arm back, they shoved him, banged his head 'gainst the wall.
By this time, the next two officers had the other boys 'gainst the wall.
As the police searched them frantically, Culchah asked."Wah di fuck we do, dutty bwoy?"  chest swelling up.
The cop balled up a fist and cocked back his arm. "SHUT DA FUCK UP! Where da guns at?"
Culchah smirked. "Hmmmph."
As another DT frisked his body under his jacket, Nephew turned his head around. "Yo, we ain't do nuttn. Just done cleaning up my Uncles' nightclub back deh."
The officer nodded his head the nightclub's direction. "That jungle gym back there?" Chuckled. "Yeah, we saw youse come out. You got guns in there? We coming in."
Nephew wrinkled up his face. "Mek sure you dot your I's and cross you T's."
Next to them, Culchah laughed.

"Shut up and face the wall." The detective cocked his service 'matic, hand trembling. He plunked it, shaking, 'gainst the boy's head back. "Face the FUCKING wall, nigger! DON'T MOVE!""
Nephew faced the wall and rolled his eyes toward the sky. "Sir, please, why you don't tek the gun away from my head. Better if you put it on my back." Nephew insisted. "Whoever you think we are, we are NOT them."
The officer removed the gun from the boy's head and squared the nozzle in the middle his back instead. "Just don't move. Don't need no accidents, right?"
Culchah burst out. "Guh suck yuh maddah, dutty bwoy."
The officer jumped over to Culchah. Grabbed the back of boy's coat collar, ground him into the wall.
Culchah lets his body go limp.
The officer smirked and moved back over Nephew.
"Wah now offisah? How many times yuh gon search mi?" Nephew asked.
"Mek dey go bout dey business and 'llow we, nuh man," Dex said.
The officers searched each one of the boys, then collectively, the four DT's stepped back, guns still pointing.
The DT who searched Culchah and Nephew spat on the ground.
"What? No guns?" He turned to one of his colleagues, one who did search Irie. "Rooney, you check the dumpster?"
"Yep."
Unsatisfied, the DT now trolled over to Irie. Nodded and twirled his gun. "Turn around. Take that dread-head hat off, boy!"
Irie's whole body stoned up.
Glared at the officer. Slowly removed his crown. His locks cascaded below his waist.

Still aiming his gun at the boy, the DT continued. "Run your fingers through that shit!"
Irie glowered at the man.
The man bobbed the gun up and down.
Irie roughly flipped and rummaged his locks with fingers, then threw both hands in the air and held them high.
"Wha' more, OFF-I-CER?"
The officer looked around at the boys. Lowered his gun and tucked it in his waist-clip holster.
Grinning he said. "You ladies have a nice night."
Irie followed them with his eyes as the DT's retreated to their cars, jumped in and screeched off.
The boys on the wall looked behind them, then slowly faced the street.
"DUTTY BOYS, YUH."
"Dutty Babylon."
"Fuck di beast."
They continued down Rutland Road.
"Man, fuck Starlite Ballroom. Mi a guh a mih yard."
 "Banna, dat beast is a real antiman."
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copyright K. Omodele 2012   All rights reserved

*work was done, finished
**rhythms
***Detective i.e. unmarked/ plainclothes
****big, fat
*****a collective like a crew, group, team or gang

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Abeng Tribute: Gregory Number One

Cover of Gregory Isaacs

Gregory Number One
Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

6:45 A.M. and sunrise is pecking, struggling to hatch through the Manhattan skyline. Two dozen laborers with Malone Construction hardhats are milling around a group of tool chests, sipping steaming coffee, chatting in cliques, each silently dreading the impending workday. Their muscles ache; breathing is highlighted by streams of condensation.

“Yow!” A bamboo-limbed youth shouts before lighting a cigarette. Drags smoke deeply into his lungs then feverishly sands his calloused hands together. “One minute ah silence for the Cool Ruler, nuh man.” Rudeboy demands heavily.

Dreadie crams his locks into one extra-large hardhat ‘til it sticks cocked-up on his head Velcro tight. Shakes his head and pounces on him. “Yuh don’t hear lung cancer tek him way? Drop the Oldport them Rudie!” Gesturing to box the cigarette out his bredren’s hand.

They take shield from the late-autumn wind behind a mortar-laced, cinder-block wall.

A tree-stump man with ringed, saucer eyes joins them, skinning his teeth. “Yuh hear wha duh man say? Drop the cancer stick!”

Rudeboy pulls his coat collar up and leans a shoulder ‘gainst the wall. “Ay Trevor; yuh favor Guyanese patoo.*”

They all buss out a laugh.

Trevor continues. “Man all the great singers dying off: Dee Brown, Sugar Minott- when di foundation gone, wha’ left?”

“Ah rate Gregory over all them, still,” Rudeboy interjects. Pulls on the cigarette.

Trevor adds. “Me tuh.”

Dreadie whips his forefinger against his middle and thumb. “Gregory was the definition of artist. Art-is-try!”

Bajie marches up to them like some corporal in the B.D.F.**, drinking from a Thermos cup. Grinning out the corner of his eye, he snaps. “According to who?”

“According to I- Dreadie’s Sidewalk Knowledge Collegiate Dictionary, yuh mad rass yuh.” He licks back. “Anyhow, the definition of an artist is someone who creative expression inspire or who leave some kind ah impression on people; a great artist move the masses.”

Bajie sips with his pinkie out as if its tea time somewhere in Christ Church. “And? You want rate Gregory Issacs over Dennis Brown? Wunna mad or what?”

“Or whot? All up in yuh nose.” Trevor mimics, laughing. “Yeah man. Gregory ragamuffin.”

Bajie doesn’t let go. “Dennis Brown voice sweeter than a nightingale.”

Rudeboy bounces off the wall and outs out his cigarette. “Yuh never hear Gregory siddung pon a riddim yet?*** Listen Tune In! ‘I said I like it like dat.’” He sings, head and shoulders dippinging to a rhythm in his memory bank.

“Yeah?” Bajan challenges. “So wha bout Should I? Yuh talking bout a singer riding a riddim? ‘How can I go on feeling this waaay?/Acting like a child so young and gaaaay?/ YOU DON’T KNOW-”

Dreadie and Trevor chime in, grinning. “-WHAT IT MEANS TO BE LOVED.”

“Oh-Oh, Rudeyouth.” Dreadie says, eye brow arching. “Bajie want go tune fi tune.”

“Bajan a idiot. When I need fi pick myself up off di ground, I just play ‘One man against the world/” Rudeboy croons, gyrating his wiry frame, gun fingers cocked and poised.

The others rise gun fingers in the air, saluting. “BOOM! BOOM!BOOM!”

Still half-asleep, other workers gaze curiously over at the West Indians.

Bajie bend up his mouth like he not the least impressed. Raises one hand in the air, bounces and chants:

“Do you know what it means to-“

The rest of them sing along. “-HAVE A RE-VO-LU-TION?”

The whole clique is now wide awake, laughing and touching fists.

The lead plumber, Mike LaTronica, waddles over to them. “Trevor! You working or you gonna sing Calypso there all day, Harry Belafonte?”

Trevor straightens his face. “Nah. I gon stand over here wid you and sing Figaro, Pavorotti.”

More laughter.

Trevor goes off to flux and prep joints with the plumber.

With emptiness plowing in their hearts, the others trudge over to their respective work crews. 

* Owl                                                                More Construction Crew Stories on The Abeng...
** Barbados Defense Force                                                Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama
*** Sit down on the rhythm                                                        Cupful Reasoning

Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

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The Under The Mango Tree (Next Part)

©2009 K.Omodele

Pruitt’s eyes riddled holes through him.
When Owens didn’t elaborate, the Detective sergeant wrenched his face and chopped a crooked fore finger at the younger detective.
“Well Man, out with it. Wha’? you want me box it out you mouth?” Wrenching his face up couple notches, he tiraded. “LISTEN HERE OWENS. I don’t want no more ghetto heroes. The LAST thing this country need is a next criminal masquerading like some damn Robin Hood. Which Fidel? I want out this boy light, Owens, before he shine no brighter. YUH UNDERSTAND ME?”
He pounded the table again; Owens’s gun jumped again.
He boomed. “Miss Lorna, bring the rest a the bottle!”

Behind the counter, Lorna’s eyes locked on the glass she was rinsing. Her hands trembled, so she balled them up to steady them. Took a deep breath, grabbed the rapidly-emptying bottle and rolled back her shoulders on her way to their table. She released the rum and a smile, and if they woulda paid attention, her eyes would’ve betrayed her. But as it was, they didn’t take stock; so, with her ears 'pon cock, she scampered back to her refuge.
Pruitt drained his glass, refilled it, and then furrowed his brow. “Well...”
Owens’s face didn’t move a twitch when he replied, “At the Foundation dance- Sound The Abeng Hi-Power playing tonight.”
Pruitt studied him. “Yeah? Make you so sure? Last time we miss him, ‘member?”
Owens picked up the bottle, smirking as he poured another drink.
“Trust mi nuh. A little bird tell me. And I hear the boy love Sound The Abeng sound system. You know how it is with them youth deh. This bird know for a fact that the boy goin deh tonight. Same bird tell we 'bout the girl, the baby mother. And that did pan out, right?”
“You must make me meet this birdie.”
“Maybe after tonight.”
Behind the counter, Lorna washed the same glass for ‘bout the third time.

Meanwhile, in a shanty enclave ‘cross town, Natty Fidel and Dally share a meditation…

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(Chapter from the book Untitled)
©2009 K.Omodele
All rights reserved. Do not copy or reprint any part or section without the written permission from the author.

The Under The Mango Tree

©2009 K.Omodele

In Nineteen Eighty, poor people couldn’t stop talking bout young Natty Fidel and the newspapers couldn’t stop writing about him. The capital city was a barrel of gun powder with a slow-burning fuse, and the people of the city squeezed their eyes tight and corked their ears.
The Under The Mango Tree was little more than four gray, cinderblock walls, with a fifty-five gallon drum grill planted outside the back door. Inside was a vinyl covered bar counter with a sink behind it. In one corner, a beatup jukebox offered 45’s, selections from an era that had slipped away-the time of Desmond Dekker, Sam Cook, and The Mighty Sparrow. Overhead, a bare forty-watt bulb with a pull chain hung precariously, a threatening hangman’s noose.
A ruby glow snaked from behind the counter where the owner was bent over stocking the freezer chest with beer and stout and Malta. She pretended to ignore the two plain-clothes regulars huddled at a table by the juke box. She was a single mother of two and still attractive in her early forties. Her hands and feet were calloused and her heart tattered by pieces of shattered dreams.

Mid-day approached and she methodically prepared for the after-work, happy hours. Friday evenings were typically her busiest. The bar was a skip and jump from the city’s East-side police station and so it was like an officers' clubhouse. And so, in the surrounding ghettos it was known as the “Babylon Bar”.

Rising from the freezer, the owner wiped her hands on her apron and scooped up two plastic containers on the way out the back door. A minute later, spices dripping on embers sizzled and popped. Roast fish aroma wound through the door tantalizing the two men drinking at their table.
“Ms. Lorna,” shouted the older one-the detective sergeant. “I telling you, your hand coulda resurrect Christ. I need two piece a fish.”
“Coming deh, Mr. Pruitt.” This one was a killer, f’real. He was manatee large and deliberate in his movement. When he explained things, his voice was bogged in impatience.

Ms. Lorna scurried back outside and in few seconds flashed back behind the counter with two fire-hot fish in brown paper.
“And bring a next round,” the younger detective added, waving a long arm. He was a light post with a razor-bumped face.
Miss Lorna answered. “No problem!” and threw a pan of ice in the sink behind the counter. She ice-picked it and fixed two more rum and coconut water. Tossed a splinter of ice in her mouth, savored the coolness, and dabbed her forehead and neck with her handkerchief. Then she pressed her lips into a smile and went over to serve them their fish and drinks.

“So, where in the hell this little careless girl could gone?” the detective sergeant was inquiring. “Must be with the boy.”
Lorna placed the fish, then the drinks on the table and cleared the empty glasses.
The younger man snatched his glass and swirled the drink around. “She mussy left Town and gone out to the country.” He removed his nine-millimeter from his side and thrust it beside his food and drink.
Lorna wrapped a glance around gun and shuddered. Flashed a plastic smile then spun on her heels. As she retreated to the counter, she could feel the young detective’s eyes burning her backside.
“Is a week now nobody see this girl? You think she with the boy?” she heard Detective sergeant Pruitt ask. Before the young detective could answer, Pruitt slammed his hand on the table, jumping the man's gun . “Damn these hooligans! Running ‘round town like some leggo beast. I’m telling you Owens, is the politicians making them feel like they important. Me and you know where the guns coming from.”
Young detective Owens nodded in agreement. He stroked his gun metal and could barely conceal a twinkle in his eye.
Pruitt continued. “You can believe this? The gangs, they have better artillery than we. And still, the police force supposed to clean up this mess?"
Smirking, Owens leaned toward his supervisor and lowered his voice.
“Mr. Pruitt, I know where the boy going tonight,” he said, and then leaned back smugly.
Pruitt’s eyes riddled holes through him.

Behind the counter, Ms. Lorna strained her ears and threw her eyes down on a spot on the floor...

">(To be continued)

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