Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 44- Le'Shelle

"It's all over the streets," Kane confirms.

"Fat Ace is alive. Niggas are saying his ass crawled out of the grave all burnt up—straight zombie shit. They're also bragging that he and Lucifer wiped out the Angels of Mercy charter for double-crossing them. Muthafuckas done kicked off some racial shit now." Snake grunts.

It's nine o'clock in the morning and his ass is already drunk as hell. My head zooms. Lucifer's gangsta gets nothing but mad respect from my ass. "And that's not all," June Bug pipes in, frowning.

"Fat Ace and Lucifer are now a couple. Rumor is she's carrying his seed."

"Good God," I say. "I can't imagine the kind of demon those two will shit out."

"At least her ass can have a damn baby," Snake grunts. I drop into the chair behind me as if he sucker-punched me.

"I want a meeting," Snake says, changing the subject. "Mason and I need to talk."

"Snake , don't do this," I warn. "And where in the fuck is Diesel?" Snake adds in his own fuckin' zone again. "I've been calling him all morning."

"He's probably at the club. You know he's got that opening coming up."

"Bring his ass here. Shit. Do I have to do everything myself? His ass is supposed to be on top of this shit."

"You got it, boss," June Bug says, popping his sidekick on the shoulder and then leading him out the front door.

Once we're alone, I turn toward Snake with open disgust. "This is a mistake—a big mistake." Snake  blows me off to reach for another drink.

"I don't know why you can't get it through your head that this is something that I gotta do."

"Why? For closure?" I jump back to my feet. "You can't seriously think Fat Ace is gonna welcome you into his life with open arms. The chief of the Cartel Lords?"

"You don't understand," he mumbles. "I can't get you to understand."

"No. You can't—because the shit doesn't make sense. And even if I crack my fuckin' head and begin to live in this altered reality that you're in, what do you seriously think that's gonna happen? You two are gonna squash a lifetime of beef and the Vice Disciples and the Cartel Lords are gonna join hands and hum old negro spirituals because y'all share the same blood? You ain't Martin Luther King and that dream ain't ever gonna happen."

Silence.

I'm not getting through to him. "Fuck. Now I need a damn drink." I grab the bottle of Henney and pour myself a glass.

As I toss back my liquid breakfast, I can't help but notice that Snake looks guiltier than a muthafucka. "What the fuck are you not telling me?" This nigga glances away and mumbles something under his breath.

"All right, I'll bite. What the fuck do you think that nigga is gonna say after surviving your ass tryna kill him? Not once, not twice—but too many times to count. You do remember that was what you were doing before your hallucination of him being your long-lost brother kicked, right? Even if what you say is true—and I do mean if—what the fuck does that change? Cain killed Abel. Fuck. You killed your cousin Dat-won. I don't remember you getting all emotional over that shit."

"It's not the same!"

"Are you shittin' me? Your Aunt Peaches killed your mother—because she was tryna kill her! My sister stabbed me thirty-six times. And let's not talk about the shit that I did to her to prove my loyalty to your waffling ass."

"Don't put that shit on me. I told you to handle the situation. I didn't tell you to take the shit as far as you did. That's on you, ma."

The fuck it is." I jab my finger into his chest. "Go mind fuck some other bitch. We both know what you meant." I'm in his face, barely able to keep my fists from swinging.

"And so that we're clear: at the end of the day, I don't have any goddamn sympathy for this whiny bullshit you're on—and neither does anybody else. The Vice Disciples' war with the Cartel Lords is set in stone until the world blows up. Remember?" Snake takes another sip of his drink.

"There's still the possibility that Fat Ace already knows who you are and doesn't give a shit," I remind him.

"You and Mason—if it's him—were dealt a bad hand—I get that. Everybody out here got a sad ghetto story—my ass included—but there comes a day when you got to charge that bullshit and pain to the game. There's too many niggas depending on our asses holding shit down—winning our streets back and moving the fuck on. If you don't do it—another nigga will—including your shiftyeyed cousin, Diesel."

"Damn, Le'Shelle. Get off that shit." He shoulders me out of the way. "Don't sleep on that nigga. I don't give a fuck if he's family or not. His shit is suspect with me. He's always right there to lend a fuckin' hand. He's our new drug connect, he supplying our arms, he calls up his homeboys to help run your fuckin' crew, and now he buying up property all over Memphis? And I'm supposed to believe that his high-yellow ass don't want a damn thing in return? C'mon!" I stomp my foot.

"You're not that fuckin' stupid. You've never been this stupid."

"Enough!" Snake hurls his glass. CRASH! "I'm tired of your goddamn bitching about shit you don't understand! I'm the nigga running this shit. You don't like how the fuck I get down, then take off that goddamn ring and bounce your ass up out of here."

"Snake —"

"I mean it, Shelle. Your job is to jump when I say jump and fuck when I say fuck. Anything other than that then you're thinking too damn much!" He turns to storm out the living room, but I ain't having it.

I rush around him and block his path to the bedroom. "Get the fuck out of my way, Shelle. I ain't playing with you right now."

"Tell me what you're not saying!" I fold my arms. His voice drops to a menacing warning.

"Le'Shelle." I don't move. "Don't make me bounce you off every goddamn wall in this bitch."

"That's fine. When you get through, you're still going to tell me what the fuck you're hiding."

His fists tighten at his sides as we eyeball each other in a heated combat. "The full truth," I press.

Once he sees that I'm not backing down, Snake retreats a few feet and then spins toward the living room, looking like he's ready to throw something else.

"Fine," he roars. "You want to know the damn truth. I'll give you the truth." He takes a deep breath.

"It's my fucking fault what happened to Mason. The shit is all on me."

"What?"

He heaves out a long breath. "When I was six-years old. I placed my baby brother in an oven."