STREET KARMA. Pain
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Low shrugged.
Red’s left eye suddenly began twitching when he asked, “College freaks…? Say, what she look like again?”
“Man, I told you the bitch look just like that model-broad angel…just with green eyes,” Low smiled, rubbing his crotch.
“C’mon man. You bullshittin’ me…” Red said.
Red silently watched Low falling into a trance, reminiscing. Low’s smile was a telltale sign of what was on his mind—the delicious sex he had earlier experienced. Pictures of her face, and body flashed in his memory banks. Low chuckled then said, “Shit, fuck around, and find out that it was angel. Nah, but this broad’s ass wasn’t as fat though.”
Taking another swig, Low laughed, and said, “As a matter of fact, I remember that bitch had tats on her back coming down her spine.”
“Yeah…?” Red asked, silently nodding.
“Yeah, my nigga. She had some red roses, and vines and shit. The bitch was riding my dick from the back. I was fucked on ’em pills, and them roses on her spine had a nigga feelin’ like I was in the motherfucking Garden of Eden and shit,” Low laughed.
He was the only one laughing. Red snapped impatiently. A violent surge of anger was rising deep inside him. His foot weighed down on the gas pedal. The Roadster speedometer hit two hundred and seven miles per hour, and climbing.
“Nigga, what’s her name?” Red pressed.
“Ma-a-an, you know your boy ain’t too good on names,” Low muttered in a drunken slur.
The empty bottle of Haitian rum was now sitting idly in his lap. Low was completely oblivious to the heavy tension choking the air in the fast moving vehicle. Rum, along with the concoction of the ecstasy pills, and weed left him with double vision. Everything started to be blurry, and the world seemed to move in slow-mo. His rollercoaster ride reached the peak, and now it was time to go into a deep plunge. Suddenly, he felt the jolt.
“Matter of fact… I do remember that bitch’s name… Low said, snapping his fingers. Glancing over at Red, he continued. “Yeah, the bitch told me her name’s Karma, but I figured she was lying, and shit. So when she was rollin’ up some exotic bud, I checked that bitch’s wallet. She had a Miami U. ID. And that shit had Torri—”
“NIGGA WHAT!”
The car was moving at maximum speed driven by an impaired driver, who was under the influence of marijuana, alcohol, and Ecstasy. A surge of venomous anger exploded like a time bomb inside Red. The fiery output shot through his left leg, and it slammed against the brakes. Tragedy was a certainty.
Red’s animated response activated the Roadster’s four fifteen-inch Brembo upgraded brakes. The sudden halt in torque at such a great speed instantly elevated the Benz from the highway’s pavement. Causing the coupe sized Roadster to lift up in a rapid, death-defying three hundred and sixty degree spin. The car hurtled through the air toward the highways four-foot guardrail separating the north and south lanes.
It happened too fast for Red and Low to react. Like a speeding bullet into on-coming traffic, the Benz shot across the highway, bumper smashing against the concrete guardrail. At the same time, a massive eighteen-wheeler Mack truck transporting three-dozen luxury vehicles in tow roared down the highway. Traveling at ninety–four miles per hour, it was headed in the same direction as the flying coupe.
The heavy-footed trucker behind the wheel of the Mack Truck noticed a spinning black object. Instinctively downshifted the truck’s gear from fifth to fourth gear. This declension in speed prevented the unpleasant from occurring. The Roadster flew by the trucks massive front windshield, avoiding a head-on collision by fractions of a second. Maybe it was Divine intervention, but the Almighty couldn’t prevent the next turn of events.
Thick smoke from its demolished radiator filled the car’s interior. Slowly, Low raised his head from the dashboard on the passenger side. His face had smashed into the wood-grain trimmed air exhaust vent, he was feeling dazed, and felt the aches of a severe, neck-breaking whiplash. Low was also bleeding from his right eyebrow caused by a deep gash. Blood coursed freely down the side of his face.
“Ugh…ah shit! Ah…ugh!”
He let out an agonizing moan while trying to get into a sitting position. Feeling a sharp, burning pain from his shattered ribcage, Low grabbed his right side. Wincing, he collapsed backward against the passenger seat as the burning sensation intensified.
In the meantime, Red was in a nauseated state. Coughing, and desperately gasping for air, his head was spinning. Thick, toxic engine smoke engulfed his throat, and made it impossible to breathe. He was gagging uncontrollably, but Red did not suffer a scratch because he was safely secured in his seatbelt. Low neglected to put on the seatbelt, and suffered injuries. Other than a damaged bumper, punctured radiator, and a crack windshield, the Roadster was virtually intact. It was still running.
The Roadster crashed through a wooden gate that lined the residential backyard on the side of the highway, and landed on a manicured lawn. Red let down the driver’s side window, and his dizziness began to fade. The toxic smoke seeped out into the late night sky. Red took a deep breath of fresh air into his lungs. He shifted his head toward the passenger seat. It didn’t take long for his fogged mind to clear.
Low used both his hands to clutch his severely damaged ribcage. He glanced over at the driver’s seat, and for the first time in his life his face was flushed with fear.
“You had my little sister doing drugs, Low…?” Red asked though clenched teeth.
“Your Sister…? What…? What you talk—” Low groggily began.
Red sharply interrupted, and said, “Shut the fuck up!”
All the drugs and alcohol left Low critically impaired, but his mind screamed danger. He was made leery of Red’s emotion.
“My sister!” Red shouted.
Trying to shake off his heavy wooziness, Low’s eyes instinctively grew wide. He was desperately fighting the feeling of being high while attempting to keep his focus on the driver’s side. With every passing second, Red was clearly growing angrier.
“I’m a kill you!”
All seemed silent for the longest second of a gangster’s life. Within that split second, Low locked eyes with Red, and saw what he already knew. Low’s survival instincts took over, reaching for the gun on his waist, his heart sank. The realization that he wasn’t armed hit him like a ton of bricks.
Watching Low’s expression, Red firmly gripped the chrome handle of the.44. Low jumped at his only remaining option. He attempted to take flight, and even managed to get a foot out the door, but was ultimately seconds too slow. Red pulled the trigger, letting off two thunderous shots, and hitting Low in the left elbow. A second hollow tip slug tore through Low’s side, shredding muscle tissues on exit. Low’s arm was severely severed, and barely still attached to the rest of his body. His one hundred and eighty-five pound frame stumbled hard to the ground. Low attempted to break the fall with his right hand. It was just too much weight for his fragile wrist to withstand.
When Low hit the ground, his wrist broke in two places. Red let off another shot, missing by inches. Bullets exploded through the tinted glass window, sending fragments of glass, and plastic film flying everywhere. The deafeningly loud shot whizzed past echoing in Low’s
eardrum. He quickly realized if he didn’t get away fast, his death was certain. Frantically making it to his feet, Low swallowed the pain. His only thoughts were now on survival. His adrenaline kicked into overdrive as he took off running toward the highway.
“Fuck!” Red seethed.
Low was making good on his getaway. Hastily distancing himself from the car, Low began really running for his life. Quickly reaching for the driver’s side door handle, Red swung the cars door ajar, and attempted to hop out. His seatbelt restrained him.
“Fuck! Damn this