Hi babes. It is almost my birthday (Tuesday 3/16) and here is a little experimental murder ballad.
CW for sexualized violence and regular violence.
Two things. Had he been smarter, there would be no story. Second thing, the wrath of a woman with ideas about behavior modification is truly a beautiful thing. Let’s set the scene, shall we?
Our players:
She: Brown. Braids. Lip-gloss. Booty shorts. Books. Cigarettes and a mysterious coffee cup.
He: Brown. Bald. Tragically unaware. Lacking game. Doomed.
Setting: Quiet street in the hood, around 3 AM. High summer.
~
She always sits on her stoop late at night in the summer, a book in one hand, coffee cup at her elbow and a steady chain of cigarettes until she’s done or tired or whatever she does. She knows He prowls. He’s new, not one of the hood dudes. Not one of her neighbors or somebody’s cousin. Not the him she waits for at night.
He skulks.
He creeps.
She knows.
She ready.
He makes his approach She sitting in her usual spot, in her usual cute booty shorts, her Timbs unlaced, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, lookin’ like a whole ass snack.
“Hey, how you doin’-”
She shakes her head, not bothering to look up from the book in her hand.
“Nah man. Go on.”
And so, he is curved and salty about it but, like any apex predator he’s patient. He can wait. He’ll shoot his shot another time.
Days and nights pass.
He is swift enough to understand that She is a night owl. He can see that his opportunity will come.
He skulks.
He creeps.
She knows.
She ready.
He knows from asking around that she ain’t strapped. A few men give him vague warnings about her being crazy but, it doesn’t matter. He knows how to handle a woman.
Tonight, she’s posted up, no Timbs this time, pajama shorty shorts on and flip flops. She reaches to her left and her long fingers grope, then flutter on a soft pack of cigarettes. That drags her attention away from her book and she looks down at the empty pack like it insulted her Mama.
“Fuck.”
He smiles.
He waits.
He is ready.
She rises, leaves her coffee cup and book. He watches her walk, her booty almost claps and he wants her right now. He waits. Nobody is around, the bar is closed, the baseheads are all off having basehead dreams. The only light around the corner is the little bodega, the mouth to the alley is ready.
He is ready.
The thing about not being from the neighborhood is that, you don’t know shit. Not where the drop pieces are, not where the head stash is, not who might be up and who might not be.
She knows.
She ready.
He sees her as she exits the bodega, she throws a peace sign over her shoulder and calls back.
“No fuck you Gordo. You still owe me ten from the last time. Man, don’t make me tell your Mama.”
The whisper of profane Spanish and Gordo’s laughter trails her as she walks back up the block. He waits in the mouth of the alley, rubbing his fingertips together. He can smell her, cocoa butter, smoke, coffee, Black girl deliciousness.
He is fast, not basehead fast but fast enough to grab a handful of her braids just as she passes by. He holds the knot of hair at the back of her neck like a guide and turns her into the alley.
“Don’t be so rough.”
Her voice is raspy tonight, husky. Her breath is warm, she likes her coffee sweet and it makes him feel good.
~
Two things. Had he been smarter, there would be no story. Second thing, the wrath of a woman with ideas about behavior modification is truly a beautiful thing. Let’s set the scene, shall we?
SETTING: Alley. The witching hour. She is looking up at Him. If he were a smart man, or a film man he would recognize the look. The villain emerges through a downturned chin, upturned eyes and the prettiest wet pink flicker of plump tongue.
He sees the wet on secret wet of her underlip and thinks, yes. He turns her loose and she walks further into the alley.
She doesn’t turn around while she tucks her cigarettes into the waistband of her shorts and peels off her tank top. She lets him admire her back as she walks deeper into the shadows.
He is hard.
He ain’t ready.
He is too busy following the idea of a tramp stamp riding her lower back to see what she’s doing when she bends over and reaches under a pallet.
She moves like a shark. This is her night, her hood and the bat in her hands feels like home. She is Queen Bitch and she plants her feet and swings from her wide hips.
By the time he registers the low arc of the bat, his right knee explodes and he folds like a paper bag. The pain is enormous, it radiates from his knee to his hip to his balls and he howls.
No one comes.
She ready.
She smile.
“Listen baby.”
She licks her lips and lines up for another swing. He swears he can hear the bat whistle as it goes over her head and crashes down onto his hip. He can see her bounce of her pert, chubby little titties and the titanic jiggle of her thighs as she hits him.
When the pain registers, it is a raging ball of fury that takes his breath and makes him cry for the devil. The pain obscures her fine titties and the idea he started with. The pain rolls through his pelvis like lava, dripping into his balls and making his bowels loose and his asshole clench. His teeth chatter and he can hear sound coming out of him but can’t identify it.
He is watching her watch him, her head tilted, glossy lips screwed up.
“You an old head, you know what they say.”
She swings again and his ribs, dear Jesus his ribs. The breath runs out of him as if fleeing the pain. He can’t breathe, he can’t speak and all he wants is for someone, anyone to save him.
We could have saved him, had he been a wiser man.
“Don’t start no shit.”
Another blow, she breaks his arm.
“There won’t be no shit.”
She steps back and her pretty face is lit from within. Glee and malice give her a glow under the fuzzy dim light. He sees her teeth, she’s smiling. Everything is going to be fine.
For her.
While he writhes he manages to get through his pain and tears to speak.
“Please, I got money.”
He paws at his pocket, he’s got a roll. He had planned on treating himself to a bottle after they were done, maybe breakfast later. A little for rent and a few other necessities. She nudges him onto his back and he wails, she squats with her thighs wide open.
Her shorts pull tight into her crotch and the plump outline of her fat pussy is clear and close.
“Go ahead and look. That’s what you wanted.”
He looks, even in his state of extremis he has to look.
“Listen, I ain’t gonna kill you.”
His relief is shaky and he starts to cry.
“Thank you, I ain’t mean nothin, I was only playin.”
She laughs, sweet and high and joyful.
“Oh, I know. But, I still don’t like it.”
She straightens up, drops the bat and pulls her shirt back on. Grimacing she rolls her left shoulder, lip curled.
“Softball injury. Well, bye boo.”
He relaxes. He knows once a little bit of shock sets in he can crawl to the bodega and maybe get some help. That is not to be.
We know what her whistle brings.
It is late, but not late enough for all of the night creatures to be in bed. We know that the worst of the worst of night dwelling. She knows him, everyone knows him. He is fucked up, a walking burn mouth corpse but, he is from their neighborhood and knows his place. He eases out from behind the dumpster, jiggling foot to foot.
“Hooo boy you fucked with the wrong bitch boy, I tell you what.”
He whimpers, confused and uneasy. She looks at the stranger.
“I was nice once. You got this?”
The man, the new man, the scabrous oily creature with the perverse gleam in his eye nods.
“For real?”
“For real.”
They smile at each other.
We see that the man with the evil smile, is the thin burnt version of her. Her smile is not quite that evil, hers has an edge of fun. Mischief. Prettiness.
“Yeah. I can keep the money?”
“Course. Get rid of this shit and I’ll see you at home. Come home today. I’ll make you chicken and waffles.”
She opens her cigarettes and they smoke together while he begins to understand. Let’s watch him, he knows he has met his death. He should have stayed home. What we know, he is learning. Too late, of course.
She walks away, her booty almost clapping. Holding her dirty hands away from her still clean tank top. The man on the ground looks up at the Grim Reaper.
“I-”
The Grim Reaper shakes his head, we shake our heads, around the corner Gordo shakes his head and she walks into her house smiling.
“That’s my fuckin’ sister man. My. Sister.”
His eyes close.
Our eyes are open.
What he should have known, we know.
~
Two things. Had he been smarter, there would be no story. Second thing, the wrath of a woman with ideas about behavior modification is truly a beautiful thing. Let’s set the scene, shall we?
Our players:
She: Brown. Braids. Lip-gloss. Booty shorts. Books. Cigarettes and a mysterious coffee cup.
He: Brown. Bald. Tragically unaware. Lacking game. Doomed.
Grim Reaper: The one she waits for at night.
Setting: Quiet street in the hood, around 4 AM. High summer.
We know, there is always another He. Always tragic and always dead.
About that Writing thing. 