The Nine

Chapter 10: Cayman

Okay so here's the deal with Cayman. He looks a lot like Victor Cruz, only Victor is... not the cutest? Like he could be, but his skin and his teeth and just... ugh. So imagine Cayman as Victor without all that non-cuteness. Okay enjoy.

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"Them joints ugly then a motherfucker," I commented as I watched Lottery Ticket on BET in my draws, stoned off my ass. I had set up the TV I just bought on the small living room wall. It took up nearly all the space, but if anyone thought that just because I was a wanted man that I wasn't gonna get a good use of the TV I had just bought, they had me fucked up.

I reached down with my left hand and took another puff of smoke as I sat on the old couch that had already been in here when I moved in the other day. I had smoked exactly thirteen blunts since I woke up five hours ago. That must've been some kind of world record. It wasn't my duty to stay lucid anymore; I was out of a job. The weed that I used to call Sweet's was as good as mine now. I owed no allegiance to him anymore since the nigga sent a couple of his men to my house last night. It's crazy how heartless the game was, but, having fifteen years of experience in it, I expected no more.

I had been cooped up in this box alone all day, save for Dr. Morrison's visit. Morrison was Allison's godfather, and was willing to do a free house call, no questions asked. I appreciated that; he applied some sort of ointment on my thumb wound that had it numbed for a certain amount of days. The wound still looked real gruesome, so I wrapped a bit of gauze around it.

As I was watching the movie, my business cell phone rang in the corner of the small living room where it was plugged up. It was a tiny, untraceable thick slab of a phone that wasn't even capable of text messaging. Everything moved in slow motion as I climbed from the dank old sofa to answer it. I moved slowly through the chilly room and picked it up.

Only my employees - or former employees, as they were now - had the number to this phone, so I wasn't expecting a nice chat with one of my niggas or anything like that. The caller turned out to be Ronovan.

"What's good Ron?" I spoke dazedly into the phone. I closed my eyes and smiled as my high intensified, engulfing me in a weird sort of warmth.

"What's up Bishop. You good, man?" Ronovan spoke busily into the speaker.

I chuckled. "I'm good fam, smoking on that good shit."

He picked up my vibe and chuckled too. "So that's why you got out the game? You just wanted to puff on something? Man, I been tryna get you to come get high with me for a while, and now that you can afford to get lifted, you all ducked off. Where you at, anyway?"

I looked around the dank, small room located somewhere in the real ducked-off, extra redneck sector of the south. Where was this place again? "Hell." I decided with a laugh.

"Well when you feel like you need to cool off, hit me up. But listen, I got somebody on they way over right now, so I gotta go. I was just checking in on ya." I took the phone from my ear while he was still talking, just barely catching him laughing while saying, "This bloke here..." before hanging up. I laughed at his wannabe British ass and looked back at Lottery Ticket.

Bow Wow and ole dude, his best friend - whatever his name was - was doing some funny shit that had me rolling. I doubt it was them that was actually funny - I could never stand this movie, the weed just had me feeling some type of way. Out of nowhere, BET had cut the movie off to air reruns of The Game and, once again, I was left bored. With no one to chill with. And with no other parts of the house to roam. And with no food in the mini-fridge.

I looked down on the couch to my left side. Even though virtually everything else was gone, I still had the weed.

I rolled up a fat ass blunt and heaved a deep sigh as I came briefly to my senses. Man, this shit wasn't me. I ain't tough out all them years in the streets just to end up a lonely stoner. Cayman Mack wasn't the breed of nigga to just hole up in some house all day getting high. I moved drugs, I ain't do em too much. I ran neighborhoods, I ain't hide in them. So what if Sweet was down here looking for me? Shit, let him find me. He's got his people, I got mine.