6

      Living everyday like life’s suicide,

       corruption and murder he feels within.

       Touched by his father’s sins.

       His heart beats wickedly inside him…

       Omega

      Sometimes, the only thing a nigga understands is violence. In the streets, it’s the universal language. You put a pistol to a nigga’s head and squeeze, or take a baseball bat and beat someone’s brains out, and muthafuckas know you mean business. You gotta pull your weight around to let niggas know. I’m serious with this and I mean business. You show weakness and niggas will chew you the fuck up and spit you out like spit.

      A rep meant everything to your game. If you didn’t have authority and heart, you were dead. The game made no exception. You fuck up, and the game would come at you like a Mack truck, putting you flat on your ass. There ain’t no room for mistakes, or half ass shit—you got beef, you come at it full force, or don’t come at all. If you don’t then the next nigga will. You respect the streets and the game, and she’ll be good to you, until you fuck up.

      My beef was one block away. I had buildings and heard hustlers from Baisley were trying to setup shop around my way. I already warned them to take that shit somewhere else, but niggas were fucking hardheaded and took my threats lightly. But it’s all good, cuz what my moms always told me, if you don’t listen, then you’ll soon feel. And they were gonna feel my wrath real soon.

      “Mega, what’s good, why we just sitting here? Fo’ real, fo’ real… All ‘em niggas is up da block,” Biscuit said, ready to pop off.

      “Nigga, I said wait, ya heard?” I replied irritated by his mouth.

      “Ahight, nigga, you da boss,” he said impatiently leaning back in the passenger seat.

      Biscuit was my young protégé, sixteen, black, violent and just didn’t give a fuck. He was thirteen when he first came on my team, putting in work for me. He knew how to handle guns like a Middle Eastern soldier.

      I had a beef a few months back with Tiny. He had shop on Foch and Guy R. Brewer. He became greedy and wanted to stretch his business over into my territory, crossing that imaginary line of respect. His ego was out there, and he figured since he was a few years older than me, then it was cool to dip into my pockets.

      Tiny’s crew was on the corner of 155th street and 107th Avenue, chillin’ out. I finally got the phone call that I was waiting for. Tiny’s right hand man, Smoke just showed up and he was the nigga that I wanted to see. Without saying a word to Biscuit, I just started the car.

      “We on it?” he asked.

      I nodded.

      “Bout fucking time. Fo’ real,” he said.

      I slowly crept my whip around 156th street and parked it in the shadows of the block. I stepped out, so did Biscuit and we were greeted by three of my enforcers, Whistle, Tank, and Monk. They ran down the info on me and were ready to put Tiny’s crew on the ten o clock news.

      I had Biscuit by my side as we slowly approached the corner house near the bodega. Two rotweilers stood guard in the darkened back yard. I gripped a baseball bat, and closed in with Biscuit, .45 concealed in his waist. We went through the bodega, and hopped the neighboring fence to the yard with the dogs.

      The dogs started barking as soon as they spotted us. They came charging and I whacked the dog across its head so hard. Biscuit took care of the other dog. I knew hearing the dogs bark would bring somebody outside to investigate. We pulled out our guns. And soon after, the screen door opened and two men appeared.

      “What the fuck!” one men exclaimed, seeing his pulverized pups.

      “Don’t fucking move! Ya heard!” I ordered, pushing my Glock to his temple.

      “Shit!” he mumbled.

      “How many inside?” I asked.

      “I don’t know,” he replied with boldness.

      “You think I’m fucking playing with your ass? How many inside?” I asked going upside his head with the gat.

      He was bleeding, his face was tight, and he reluctantly mumbled, “Four.”

      “Including Smoke?” I asked.

      He nodded.

      Whistle, Tank, and Monk appeared from out the store, guns in their hands. I told Tank and Monk to take care of the two we had. Whistle, Biscuit and I went inside to handle business.

      We had an arrangement with the owner of the bodega next door. The two guards we had at gunpoint were forced down into the belly of the bodega, where they would be executed. Tank and Monk had their orders.

      Inside was dark, and we were cautious. We heard movement and talking throughout the house, and I kept a keen eye on everything around me. My soldiers were right behind me. I continued to hear voices in the front room where there was a light on.

      “Dominique, that’s you? What’s up with them dogs outside?” someone said.

      Before they got suspicious, I leaped into view with my gun aimed at them. Whistle and Biscuit quickly followed.

      “Fo’ real y’all know what it is?” Biscuit shouted.

      “What the fuck, yo!” someone shouted.

      There were four of them alright, but I didn’t know if the guard was lying to me or not. I nodded to Whistle. He checked all the rooms.

      “Everybody, down on your stomach. Ya heard me? Now!” I ordered.

      “C’mon now, Omega. You know Tiny gonna fuck your ass up for this,” Smoke said.

      “Get the fuck down, nigga!” I said, taking aim.

      Smoke glared at me. He was tall, black, and ugly. They were all sprawled on their stomachs. Except Smoke, who felt he was too good to take instructions from a young hustler like me.

      “Fuck you, nigga!” he spat.

      “We fo’ real. You think we playin?” Biscuit shouted, walking up to him and pressing the gat to his face.

      “Go ahead lil’ nigga, pull the trigger… Faggot, pussy muthafucka! You think I’m scared because this pre-school nigga gotta gun on me, nigga? I’ll put this lil nigga over my lap and spank him with my dick…..”

      Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

      Before