Soooooo, I'm sorry this took so long, but I was having such a hard time piecing it together. But, with some help, I got it together lol. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your patience. More is coming as soon as I can get the next chapter figured out. See ya!
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It doesn't take long to hunt down the guy responsible for his brother's death. The streets in his home town are mean. With the right price and the appropriate amount of force and anger you can almost find anything and anyone you want.
He was your typical street thug, belonging to one of the many small gangs that populated the area in which the Jackson family was taking over. Michael doesn't really remember the conversation all too well. He usually let his brothers handle the bad cop, good cop shtick. He only stepped in when it was time to eliminate the person.
Michael remembers the conversation beginning with the guy's boss being highly upset that they were cutting into his revenue. 'Markos....' was the name that he caught, and Michael had to suppress a eyeroll. Markos had the tendency of being threatened by an ant if he felt it crawled passed him the wrong way. The part that fully captured his attention and away from the melody that was stuck in his head was when the street thug started describing the death of his brother.
There was a sinister laugh followed by a wet cough of blood hitting the cement floor. Marlon and Randy had roughed him up something awful. His right eye was swollen shut and the left eye wasn't far off from being the same way. His lip was bloody and bruised and if you looked closely enough you could see that his face was throbbing.
"He begged me not to kill him," He stated, trying his best to look intimidating. "On his hands and knees like a dog. Pleading for his life like a little bitch. I almost felt bad for the nigga, but then his punk ass had the nerve to say somethin' smart. So, I shot him like the little punk ass nigga he was."
There was silence after his speech, and so many emotions were running through Michael's head. The most prominent was anger. Michael stood up from the chair he had casually been leaning in. His white Armani suit jacket was sitting on the back of it. All eyes were on him as he stalked toward his prey, stopping once he was two feet away from him. In one swift motion Michael grasp his gun from his holster and shot him right in his head.
"Michael! We could have used him for information about Markos."
"He wasn't telling us anything we didn't already know."
He tucks his gun back into his holster, and turns around back to the chair that he had occupied.
