Memphis Streets 3: Revenge

Chapter 16- Lucifer

October . . .

Mason "Fat Ace" Lewis

September 13, 1990-August 24, 2011

Two months after Mason's death a decision within the Lewis family is reached, and a funeral is scheduled. The prospect puts the city on edge. Even media outlets express their concerns about potential violence between rival gangs breaking out during the services. As it stands now, chaos reigns in the streets and as long as a majority of them are VD roaches, I have no desire to end the war -not until I have Snake's grimy ass sucking on my 9mm.

Cousin Skeet uses the citywide concern as an excuse to pack the funeral with cops. Rumors ran rampant in the streets about what really went down that night on the bridge. Some insist that someone was seen coming out the river that night. Despite the odds and common sense, too many times I find myself hoping that the rumors are true and Mason is laid up somewhere lost and with amnesia. Hell, it works on those soap operas I was forced to watch while I was on the mend.

The city spent a lot of money pulling vehicles out the mighty Mississippi and, so far, only Dougie's bloated body has been found. If Snake had been the one to survive that shit, then I'd be convinced that the muthafucka made a deal with the devil. Every once in a while, I remember him clutching Mason and weeping like a little child. That shit still has me stuck. No matter how I turn the shit around in my mind, I can't explain it and I damn sure haven't told anybody about it. Dice's mother, Barbara, flew up from Atlanta.

I have to admit that I don't recognize her as the same white, dirty crackhead that used to patrol our corners and parade on Smokestack's arm. She claims to be clean now and has made a new life for herself. Smokestack made big moves and was released from prison in order to attend the funeral, but he has to go right back to prison when it's over. A nineties OG, he is still pretty-boy fine with a mean-ass swagger. Like the old days, women still clock his ass whenever he's around. The soldiers give him nothing but mad respect and each make a point to make their way over to shake his hand and flood his head with praise.

However, Smokestack only has eyes for Dribbles, but she's sending out signals that she's shut the door on that part of her life and refuses to make eye contact. I watch everything feeling like a widow without the ring. Cloaked in my Grim Reaper black, I stand between Bishop and Smokestack as Dice strolls forward. After two months of intensive rehabilitation, Dice has packed back on his thirty pounds of muscle and has developed a swagger that commands attention. As he thrusts up his chin to speak to our people, the resemblance between him and Smokestack is stunning.

"First, let me start off by saying, I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out here today," Dice begins. "Seeing so many of you out here brings home that we are more than just soldiers on a battlefield-we're family. Blood be damned." He pauses a beat while he works his jaw muscles to control his emotions. "We might not have shared the same blood"-he glances over at his mother and father and tosses them a smile-"but he was my brother . . . no matter what anybody says . . . and I loved him."

While mother and son share a tender moment, I choke down a knot in my throat and mentally beg myself to keep it together. "We all loved him." Dice turns back toward our street family. "And because of that, his death will be avenged. The war against the Vice Disciples niggas is far from over. This murkin' season has just begun. SIX POPPIN', FIVE DROPPIN'!" Our soldiers pop off a few shots and cheer.

At last, Dice's brown eyes shift to me. "I'm not choosing any sides or even saying that I speak for anybody else but, for me, this war won't be over until we murk every last one of those pitchfork muthafuckas."