Ishmael feels the chicks rubbing on his chest and neck. Every one is unloading from the car in front of a house party. Booming Gangster Rap comes blaring out of the open windows where gang members and their chicks are sitting on the screen less window sills. Every body is greeting him like a king and calling him “OG.” He doesn’t feel drunk any more but makes a Bee-line for the sink to chug a couple cups of water before feeling like meeting new people. Instantly his eyes water up from rehydration. He takes a deep breath and is startled as he hears a gravelly voice he never wanted to hear again. His mother’s. “You happy to see me?” He has practiced this moment a million times. He has felt like shooting this bitch in the head, socking her in the mouth, even throwing rubbing alcohol in her cheap weave and lighting her head on fire, but he is too shocked to say any thing as she approaches him like a spider in a hug.
She smells like cinnamon, honey flavored liquor and cigarettes. She is whispering how much he missed him. He hasn’t been hugged by any one in 10 years and feels a repulsion that is overwhelming. He roughly shoves her into the counter and yells “Get off me bitch, don’t ever talk to me again!” A familiar contempt comes into her eyes. “Yeah nigga… Fuck you. This is a business transaction. Im buying silence and you staying the fuck out my house.” She thrusts a crunched up paper bag into his chest. “Thats 25 grand, to get on your feet. Welcome home.” She walks out on him and he looks in the bag and sees two dozen stacks of assorted bills wrapped in blue broccoli rubber bands. He doesn’t feel any thing. He read a book about sociopathy and psychopathy. He thinks he has an anti social personality disorder but most of his life he doesn’t feel human emotions outside of hate. As he walks into the dark living room full of nasty dancing couples grinding in the reflections of mini disco ball lit up by a strobe light with a turning strip of colored gel making the room alternating between purple and blue light.
Seeing a new strobe of light through the window he hears “Every body break! Cops!” feeling the heavy bag of money as a ticket back in the slammer he rushes out the back door and jumps the fence into the neighbors yard and runs out the other side of the block. He stashes the money in the hollow of a big oak tree and circles back to the party to try and find his ride. He sees a bunch of sheriffs cars but the deputies are wearing plain clothes. They must be off duty and looking for him. He crosses the street and ducks low to hear what they are saying. He hears them asking for him and sees the party goers in a mob antagonizing the cops. He hears a youngish cop saying “Where is Ishmael Phillips?” The gang members aren’t helpful and finishing beers, holding the bottles backwards like a weapon. The Sheriffs look fearful of the mob and retreat to their cars saying. “Let him know we are looking for him, this isn’t over.” Somebody yells “Fuck you!” a roaring chant of “Fuck The Police!” reverberates from the front yard. An empty 40oz of Old English smashes between the cars as the Cops leave.
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He is startled by a shadow sulking back against he tree on his side of the street. Even in the silence of the night there is a malevolence. The guy keeps snorting out gouts of bloody snot and spitting black globs of smokers lung onto the sidewalk. From several feet away he can smell cheap vodka, rotten teeth and shit breath. In silhouette he can see a familiar leather player hat his Dad used to wear. He considered him self a ladies man. Something fancier than a golf hat or Kangol, right out of “Up Town Saturday Night” or “Cooley High.” The shadow lights a cigarette and says. “Yo youngster. I saw you dogging out your mom.” Ishmael doesn’t say any thing, glaring at the older man watching him from the shadows. “They call me Sarrow-Man. I used to run with your pops. We started the Ghost Towns together with Wolf, Devil Man, King Kong, OG Half Dead, Tall Can, Wasp, Tipsy and Dead Eye, Rest in Peace.” Ishmael doesn’t know how to respond. He is sizing this guy up. He could take two quick steps and crack this dude in the mouth, knocking him out. But the way he has his hand just out of sight gives him pause. He likely has a weapon. Something about this guy was corpse-like. Kind of crooked boned mummy from an EC comic book. Some vile spooky figure lying in wait with a voice like a rattlesnake with a mouth full of gold teeth.
Hearing this character rattle off names of his Dad’s crew of stick up kids and contract killers doesn’t mean much to him more than vague memories of dudes who used to hang out on his porch and show up for sneaky dealings with his mother once his father was out of the picture. These names are all hood legends but not to him. A bunch of unemployed dudes standing around car ports loitering doesn’t mean shit to him. “Any way, I said all that to say this. Your Mom is the Man around here. She is running the show and I don’t want to see you causing any grief around here, thats my job.” Ishmael sees the whole time this bozo had a revolver cupped in his hand almost out of sight. Ishmael says, “As far as I’m concerned she is just another Rat, Fuck her and fuck you too!” Spitting at the mans feet for emphasis. Sarrow-man has a smile like an alligator that spotted a baby monkey walking on quicksand.
Sarrow-Man says, “Feel how you want about Jinxy but if you make any trouble with our cash flow, I won’t come back to talk…” Ishmael watches as the shady character with his fake pimp-strut waltzes down the block between amber light of street lamps and pools of total blackness. Homicide has walked up and says, “Yeah fuck that fool. Those dudes around your mom need to get checked.” Any way lets blow this dive and get some rest. I think you got Parole appointment in the morning. I opened your mail and sounds like a got a chick Parole Officer.” Ishmael is confused. He served his entire sentence with out a bit of credit for good time. He maxed out and the motherfuckers still got a leash on him.