What's Really Hood! (18 page)
LaLa had been instrumental in her escape plan. He had fallen for LaLa just as Serena had known he would. Her hearing of their
passionate affair only fueled her motivation and desire for revenge. Each of their trysts was recorded on tape and used so
she could stay focused. BoBo thought he and LaLa were becoming close, but actually it was Serena and LaLa who had bonded.
That night Serena had crouched in between two cars in the darkness and waited to become free. BoBo’s death
was her only option. Many nights of being home alone, patching her wounds, recuperating from one of many beatdowns while
watching A&E’s
Unsolved Mysteries
had helped her pick the perfect untraceable weapon. She wore headphones that played the tapes she had insisted LaLa make
of her and BoBo’s affair to use as fuel. There was no turning back. Serena having fallen in love with LaLa left BoBo not standing
a chance. Each pull of the trigger released years of oppression from her.
She stopped at a stop sign. The memories caused her to shake.
“You okay?” LaLa asked, concerned.
“Yeah. Just thinking.” She turned to look at LaLa’s concerned expression. She smiled, then leaned over as LaLa leaned toward
her. Their mouths connected and they kissed passionately while their tongues danced together. Just as Serena raised her hand
to touch LaLa’s face, a horn sounded behind them and caused them to jump. They both laughed. Serena drove off.
That’s a wrap!
BY SHAWN “JIHAD” TRUMP
I
t was late. The moon was a silhouette in the cloudy sky as Jihad drove through the McKeesport city streets en route to Legends
nightclub.
He stood five-nine and weighed in at 160 pounds, so appearance alone was not enough to instill fear. His pale face would make
a brother in the hood quick to judge. But any brother from the hood who knew Jihad knew better. More than once, men had waged
war and walked away with regrets or died from their stupidity.
He pulled the purple ’72 Cutlass in front of Legends and those in the line outside stared as he exited the vehicle. Never
flashy, he sported a pair of butter Timbs, blue jeans and a black hoodie with seven cornrows woven perfectly to the back.
As he approached the entrance he was joined by three other brothers, and together the four young men created the clique known
as Point Blank Mob.
They weren’t your average crew. Most cliques were plagued with some form of jealousy or envy, but not them. They operated
in harmony and were willing to sacrifice their lives for one another, and the bond of
loyalty and love they shared would bring certain death to anyone who transgressed their limits.
“What up, y’all?” asked Jihad as he began to embrace the squad.
“Ain’t shit,” answered Crook. “Just sittin’ out this muhfucker waitin’ on your ass.”
“My bad, homie,” replied Jihad. “I had to break out the crib. You know Monique’s ass is always actin’ crazy.”
“Man, you’s a sucka,” laughed Crook as he looked at the other two men and said, “He the only nigga out here who can put a
bullet in a chump and go home and bow down to some pussy.”
As Jihad laughed he thought to himself how close he and Crook were. By nature, Jihad wasn’t playful and the fact that Crook
could clown him and get away with it said a lot. Crook and Jihad were as tight as friends could be. They had grown up in the
same building and were separated by only two months in age. During their twenty-one years on this earth they, just like their
moms, had been best friends.
Standing more than six inches taller than Jihad, and seventy-five pounds heavier, Crook always stood out. However, he was
the least likely of the two to start any drama, but once shit jumped off, you had better duck.
“What the fuck. Y’all gonna sit here and crack jokes or we gonna go inside?” asked the short and stocky dark-skinned brother
named Teku impatiently.
“Quit crying all the time,” mocked the fourth and final man, named Tree, as the two men stared at each other as if a fight
would evolve from their words.
Eventually, though, the two men stood down and laughed. Since birth there had been a challenge of superiority, but only a
few could have a bond as strong as Teku and Tree. They were identical twins.
Done playing games, the four men passed the crowd and made their way to the front. A woman began to protest, but was silenced
as her man placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. Jihad laughed at the gesture of fear as they nodded to
the bouncer, placing some money in his palm, and made their way around the metal detector and into the club.
Once inside, Jihad and Crook hit the bar as Teku and Tree blended off to try and talk to some females. After ordering two
triple shots of Henny, Crook looked over at Jihad and asked, “So how’d it go?”
“It ain’t good,” remarked Jihad as he stared solemnly at his partner. “The young boy is gonna have to do a bid.”
Earlier that day Jihad had paid a visit to the crew’s attorney to discuss the fate of one of the young soldiers named Petey,
who hustled for them. A few weeks prior, Petey had taken a fall when he attempted to drop a kilo of coke on some chump. Turns
out the chump was wearing a wire and now Petey, at eighteen years of age, was preparing for a mandatory sentence with the
Feds. Adding insult to injury, Jihad didn’t know who the chump was who had set Petey up, but he knew if he ever saw the brother
again he would recognize him. Jihad never forgot a face.
“What the fuck was Petey thinkin’?” questioned
Crook, pulling Jihad out of his thoughts. “He ain’t even know ol’ boy like that.”
“That bitch Marcy introduced them,” said Jihad, frustrated.
“Which Marcy?” asked Crook incredulously. “I know you don’t mean his baby’s mom.”
“What other Marcy do you know?” asked Jihad. Then he added, “If she didn’t have his seed I would put a bullet in her stupid
ass.”
As the night progressed, Jihad and Crook got drunk and tried to forget about Petey and the fact that someone had crossed their
organization. Although the essence of Point Blank Mob consisted of only the four of them, they had grown into an army of over
two hundred soldiers. And it was not to be mistaken. When a brother rode under the banner of Point Blank Mob, it was known
that if someone crossed him, there would be consequences and somebody would die.
Two weeks later…
J
ihad and Crook drove on East Carson Street heading toward downtown Pittsburgh. Crook passed the leaf to Jihad, blowing smoke
through his nose as he lay back and savored his high. The bitter thought of treason had not escaped either man, but some things
were out of their hands. “There is no need stressing about it,” Jihad had told Crook a week prior. “Sometimes we have to be
patient and wait for things to find us.”
Jihad was a firm believer that everything a person did in the dark would eventually come to light. Jihad pulled the ride into
the car wash and hopped out to go make change.
By the time he returned to the car, Crook was leaning on the hood finishing the rest of the leaf.
Jihad snapped, “I don’t know why you got out the car; your lazy ass ain’t gonna do nothing!”
Unable to defend himself against the truth, Crook stood there and smirked as Jihad stepped out of the stall and into the sunlight.
It was a nice day, and although the car wasn’t necessarily dirty, Jihad wanted it to shine when they drove through downtown.
As he sat and thought about how good his shit looked, a white Chevy Lumina pulled into the lot and proceeded to the vacuums.
Something about the driver caught Jihad’s eye, but he couldn’t seem to remember. He continued to stare intently and then it
all became clear.
“Motherfucker,” he whispered after recognition set in. “Yo, Crook,” said Jihad as he motioned for his man to join him.
Taking his time, Crook casually made his way over to his man as Jihad leaned in close and whispered, “That’s the cruddy muhfucker
who told on Petey.”
“What you wanna do?” asked Crook as he stared.
Jihad didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he reached into his waistband and withdrew the Glock .40 as he moved toward the unsuspecting
victim. Without thought, Crook followed.
As they approached the car, Jihad noticed that his victim was not alone. In the front passenger seat sat a brown-skinned female
with long hair and a natural beauty that made Jihad wish he could let her live. Now five feet away, the target turned and
locked eyes with Jihad as realization struck and fear set in. Jihad stared without ever once blinking at the young light-skinned
man’s eyes. He raised the Glock and fired.
The cannon erupted, showering the young woman with fragments of her young lover’s skull and dark crimson liquid. A state of
paralysis overcame her as
she watched the life of her man depart. Finally, as self-preservation kicked in, she reached for the door handle and attempted
to escape. It was to no avail. As she stepped onto the concrete and stood, the muzzle of Crook’s .44 revolver exploded. The
bullet blew through her pretty little face and out the back of her neck. A fountain of blood painted the white Lumina. She
slumped to the ground instantly as the life slipped out of her body.
Staring at the carnage in front of them, Jihad whispered menacingly under his breath, “That’s for Petey, motherfucker.” Then
he turned and ran back to the car.
As they pulled from the car wash the sound of sirens in the distance hurried their retreat. They were aware that the mayhem
had been witnessed by many.
Jihad knew he had fucked up. He had allowed his emotions and anger to take control. He should have waited, followed the young
man to a safer spot, but he hadn’t and now there would be consequences.
Ain’t shit I can do now
, thought Jihad as he laid on the gas trying to make it to the hood.
While they drove, Crook sat quietly in the passenger seat clutching the revolver. Like Jihad, he knew they had fucked up,
but unlike Jihad he didn’t care. He was a warrior, fighting for today, never caring about tomorrow. Although he walked with
a smile on his face, and tried to avoid drama for the most part, he hated his life. Knowing that one day his environment would
claim his young soul. But he would never go alone. He had vowed to himself that he would make sure he shared Hell with each
and every one of his enemies.
After about five minutes they were well into the borough of Homestead. By this time Jihad began to feel relatively safe as
a few cop cars shot by them without a second glance en route to the car wash. However, as they exited Homestead and drove
on past Kennywood Amusement Park, their luck ran short as a cruiser swung behind them and activated its overhead lights.
“Fuck,” hollered Jihad as he punched the gas, causing the old Cutlass to hesitate, then jump forward.
As the vehicles accelerated, reaching speeds of over a hundred miles per hour, Jihad told Crook to pick up the phone and try
to call the twins. Tree answered on the second ring and Crook began to relay Jihad’s plan.
“Yo, Tree, we need y’all,” shouted Crook anxiously.
“What’s going on?” asked Tree.
“I don’t got time to explain. The police is chasing me and Jihad and we’re about to bring ’em through the hood in about five
minutes. When we do… light they motherfuckin’ ass up.”
Hanging up the phone, Tree hollered for Teku as he flew to the closet and retrieved two AK-47s that he had purchased for an
occasion such as this. Once armed, he and Teku ran outside hollering for those who were loyal to follow as they made their
way to the treeline that ran parallel to the brick road that cut directly through Crawford Village. When Jihad and Crook came
through Duquesne and turned onto the Duquesne-McKeesport Bridge, they found themselves trapped without an avenue of escape.
F
uck this,” hollered Crook as he began to get out of the car and set it off. However, he was stopped short as Jihad reached
over and grabbed his arm.
Jihad was surprised at Crook’s aggressive behavior. Crook was the more levelheaded of the two and usually it would be the
other way around. Jihad knew they didn’t have no win. However, one thing he did know was that regardless of the amount bail
was set at they could meet it with no problem. “Live to fight another day,” he said to himself as he coerced Crook into laying
the pistol down and getting out of the car.
“Get your hands in the air,” shouted the police as they exited the car and knelt on the concrete, only to be tackled to the
ground and beaten viciously until the cops believed thoughts of resistance had vanished.
After the beating subsided, the two were dragged into a police cruiser and hauled off to jail. When they arrived, they were
placed in cells that were facing each other and after the police left, Jihad looked at Crook and asked, “What the fuck got
into you, dawg? You all right?”
“Nah, I ain’t all right,” retorted Crook. “I’m tired of this shit.”