Legacy: The Bloodline of a Legend by Mista Midas

PROLOGUE

       Eleven-year-old Prince Smith sweated profusely as he struggled home. The seven miles of winding dirt road not only soiled his school uniform but had ruined his brand new Converse sneakers.
       With only a short distance remaining, and a throbbing pain on the bottom of his foot, he decided to take a much-needed break.
       Seeking a place to rest, he limped over to a rotting log on the side of the road and plopped down in relief. He cautiously removed the dusted shoe and peeled off the smelly, sweat-drenched sock and breathed a sigh of relief as the cool breeze blew on his foot.
       Carefully inspecting his heel, he noticed a large ruptured blister. As he soothingly massaged the area, he once again renewed his vow never to spend his taxi fare wastefully only to walk the tiresome and dangerous stretch home.
       The year was nineteen-eighty, and the small Caribbean island of Jamaica was stuck in a bloody turmoil as the two political parties struggled relentlessly to win the upcoming election. This period of bloodshed was one of the worst in the island's history. The blind tentacles of political warfare had reached deep down into every community, snatching lives as it prowled like a perilous pestilence.
       Because of the perilous times, Prince's grandmother had strictly forbidden him to walk or even play in the streets. He was sternly warned never to walk home from school, never to stray from home, and to lock the doors and stay away from the windows when home alone.
       Prince, however, preferred to walk home with his friends rather than to heed his grandmother's warning. The thrill of seeing a gathering of people around a corpse, or someone bleeding to death was more compelling than to ride home crammed inside of a smelly taxi.
       A sudden burst of gunfire crying out a short distance away, startling Prince; causing him to frantically fumble for his shoe.
       A moment later a series of single gunshots were heard, followed by rapid machine-gun fire.
       Dropping the shoe, Prince sprinted off, limping with no regards for pain. In the blink of an eye, he was at his front gate, panting hard and frantically fumbling with the latch. As he opened the gate, he heard another burst of machine-gun fire; followed by a series of single shots.
       Frightened by the close proximity, and the loudness of the gunfire, he began to nervously tremble. Transfixed by the unfolding quandary, he wished he had heeded his grandmother's warning and for once had taken the taxi home.
       As the pitter-patter of footsteps heading his way was heard, Prince's heart began pounding mercilessly inside his chest as if trying to break free.
       The neighbor's dog's frantic barking was abruptly silenced by the sharp crack of a gunshot.
       Terrified, Prince made a mad dash towards his front door, but his hope of making it to safety suddenly halted when a man dove acrobatically over the back fence and landed in a loud crash.
       Landing headfirst in Prince's grandmother's vegetable garden, the man agily sprung to his feet. With a crushed ripe tomato hanging from one of his long, matted dreadlocks, he alertly surveyed the area for refuge.
       Petrified, Prince stared agape at the pistol-toting Rastafarian.
       Panicking, the young Rasta stared frantically back and forth between the front gate and an old abandoned outhouse.
       Locking eyes, Prince and the Rasta briefly stared at each other until they were interrupted by fast-approaching footsteps.
       Without many options to weigh, the young Rasta quickly decided to seek refuge in the outhouse as opposed to going to war against a squad of heavily-armed and ruthless soldiers with only a .45 caliber handgun. With his mind made up, and the bloodthirsty militia within hearing distance, he sprinted to the outhouse and snatched the door open and hurried inside.
      Before the outhouse's plywood door could close completely, a brawny ruffian came leaping over the fence with a large machine gun in his hand. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he crouched in a combat-ready position—completely destroying the tomato plot as he scanned the area like a hungry predator.
       Within seconds, four other soldiers came leaping over the fence in likewise manner. Panning out, they ravenously sought their target.
       "DOAN BLOODCLAAT MOVE, BWOY!" a lanky soldier barked, menacingly pointing a large machine gun at Prince's head.
       Terrified, Prince stared wide-eyed into the barrel of the Bushmaster machine gun. He began to tremble traumatically as fear radiated through his body; his teeth chattered rapidly, tapping away like an old typewriter. Overwhelmed by fear, a warm trail of urine dwindled down his leg as his bladder released its content. His brief existence on earth flashed through his mind as he felt the malicious evil that was projected from the soldiers.
       "Don't shoot, Percy!" another of the soldiers cautioned, holding up his arm, "ah jus' ah likkle youth."
       Percy, the lanky soldier, cautiously eased his finger from the trigger and lowered his machine gun. "Bwoy!" he barked. "Yuh si ah gunman run tru' yah?"
       Prince knew what he wanted to say, but no matter how hard he willed, the words would not cross the threshold of his mouth. His eyes flashed to the outhouse. For a split second, he could have sworn he had seen the Rasta's eyes sparkled as he peeked through the crack of the door.
       "BWOY!" Percy barked.
       Prince was snapped back to reality. "H-h-he w-went t-t-that w-way," he stuttered nervously, pointing a trembling finger towards the front gate.
       "Gwaan inside an' lak di door," Percy instructed. "Comeen." He beckoned his squad and sprinted off.
       Prince remained motionless as the bloodthirsty militia dashed off in hot pursuit.
       The Rastafarian silently thanked his God for answering his prayer. After a deep breath of relief, he cautiously removed his finger from the trigger of his .45 and wiped the sweat from his brow.
       He had made up his mind and accepted the fact that his final battle was at hand. He was ready to die and be numbered with the legendary outlaws of yesteryear. He had sworn the boy was going to reveal his hideout, but surprisingly, was proven wrong when the boy directed his pursuers in the wrong direction.
       Fifteen minutes later, the Rasta still remained inside the foul-smelling outhouse. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, he knew his decision would be critical. It was either to flee to safer grounds with the nagging fear of an unexpected encounter with the militia or remain trapped inside the outhouse, hoping they would not realize the boy had deceived them, and return with a more intense bloodlust.
       Irresolutely, he anxiously peeked through the crack of the door, hoping for a miracle. A slight shift of the window curtain caught his attention. Focusing his eyes on the window, he could clearly see the boy's inquisitive eyes peeking out. For the first time since the ordeal had begun he smiled. He cautiously inched the plywood door open, nervously flinching each time the rusted hinges creaked.
       Prince fearfully peeked out at the outhouse. He knew without a doubt that the Rastafarian was still hidden inside. His mischievous curiously urged him to want to see beyond the crack of the door. As if his wish was miraculously granted, the flimsy plywood door began to slowly creak open. He could now clearly see the Rastafarian crouched in the doorway with his gun in his hand and what appears to be a crushed tomato entangled in one of his locks.
       He smiled, and to his surprise, the Rasta returned a smile, pulled loose the tomato and devoured it.
       Realizing that the help he needed might only be a few yards away, the Rastafarian decided to try a third option. It dawned at that moment that if the boy had wanted to give him away, he would already have. With nothing to lose, he peacefully waved to the boy; the window curtains opened wide. Smiling, he beckoned for the boy to come to him; the curtain instantly snapped shut.
       Frustrated, the Rastafarian slammed the plywood door shut; angrily ignoring the squeaking protest of the rusted hinges. Mentally defeated, he slumped against the wall and close his eyes and began to pray.
       Startled by approaching footsteps, he snapped to attention and gripped his weapon tightly; bracing for battle. His only wish was to take at least one of his adversaries to purgatory with him.
       He nervously, but cautiously cracked the door open a fraction of an inch and peeked out. As he surveyed the area, he saw the boy cautiously limping his way with one dusted shoe on. Thanking his God, the Rasta smiled and opened the door.
       As the outhouse's door began to open, Prince stopped abruptly; frightened. He remained fixed until the door partially opened, and the smiling Rastafarian beckoned him forward.
       He reluctantly ventured forward.
       The Rastafarian flashed him a warm smile. "Weh yuh name, likkle youth?" he whispered.
       "P-P-Prince."
       "Yuh kno' who mi is, Prince?" the Rasta asked with a sly grin.
       "N-n-no."
       "Wha' mek yuh lie wen di swoja dem ax if yuh si mi?"
       "I-l don't k-k-know," Prince stammered, staring at the gun in the Rastafarian's hand.
       Following Prince's gaze, the Rastafarian realized the cause of Prince's nervousness. He quickly concealed the gun in his waistband and covered it with his shirt. He glanced up at Prince and grinned. "Ah noh real gun," he lied.
       "Y-y-yes it is."
       "Weh yuh come from, Prince, farin?" the Rastafarian asked, noticing that Prince had an accent.
       "Y-y-yes."
       "Mi need yuh fi help mi," the Rastafarian said, quickly changing the subject. "Di swoja dem ah try kill mi—"
       "Why they want to kill you?" Prince inquisitively interrupted.
       The Rastafarian grinned mischievously. "Evrybody waa fi kill mi." He laughed as if dying was something trivial.
       "But why?" Prince pressed.
       "Yuh eva hear 'bout Sulky Paul?" the Rastafarian asked proudly.
       "Yeah," Prince replied. "He's a wanted gunman who rob and kills people."
       The Rastafarian grinned. "Sulky soun' like seh 'im ah real badman. Mi wope mi neva come 'cross 'im," he chuckled.
       "I'm going to be bad like him when I grow up," Prince puffed proudly.
       "Hey, Prince," the Rastafarian interrupted. "Mi need someweh fi hide 'til lata. Yuh tink yuh cyaa help mi?"
       Prince thought momentarily. "You can hide in my room. My granny won't come home from market 'til later."
       "Calm dung, Prince," the Rastafarian chuckled at Prince's eagerness to render help. "Mi need yuh fi do sup'm fi mi first."
       "What you want me to do?" Prince asked.
       "Goh look dung di lane an' si if yuh si di swo—" Before he could finish what he was saying, Prince had sprinted off in a mad dash. "Prince!" he shouted, stopping before he could make it too far. "Mek sure dem noh si yuh, ca—"
       Once again, Prince sped off before the Rastafarian could finish what he was saying.
       With a mischievous smile, the Rastafarian cautiously pulled the door close.
       Prince returned minutes later with semi-pleasant news; the soldiers were a good distance away but heading back in their direction.
       Without further delay, Prince quickly led the jittery Rastafarian to the back door.
       The Rastafarian took one final look at the surrounding area, and then reluctantly ventured inside, closing the door behind them; double-checking the deadbolt to make sure it was locked.
       As they entered Prince's bedroom, he once again paranoidly checked to make sure that they were securely confined.
       Satisfied with safety, he silently thanked his God for answering his prayer. He reached inside his pocket and took out a small wad of money. He quickly leafed through the bills, extracted a one-hundred-dollar note and offered it to Prince.
       Grinning despicably, Prince snatched the bill from his hand and began snickering deliriously as he inspected it.
       The Rastafarian shook his head in disbelief. Greedy.
       As expected a few minutes later the soldiers returned; belching threats and chartering angrily, and they searched high and low.
       The Rastafarian once again prepare for battle. He quickly instructed Prince to hide under the bed and keep quiet until the soldiers were gone.
       Prince hurried under the bed; shaking like a wet puppy.
       Once the Rastafarian was sure that Prince was out of harm's way, he hastily crept towards the window with his gun brandished, and stealthily peeked out at the bloodthirsty band of killers; watching as they prowled the area. He breathed a thankful sigh after watching as the militia surrounded the outhouse and kicked in its flimsy plywood door only to find it empty.
       After diligently probing the yard to no avail, the squad regrouped and cleared out in a blood-craved frenzy.
       The Rastafarian waited about fifteen minutes after they had left to make sure that the coast was clear. With the burden of imminent danger lifted, he concealed his weapon and instructed Prince to come from under the bed.
       After the wave of danger had receded, the Rastafarian decided to share in confidence his real name to Prince, as opposed to revealing the truth that he and the Notorious Sulky Paul was one and the same.
       During the process of their conversation, Michael had learned that Prince was thirteen years old and had migrated from the United States with his parents when he was eight.
       Prince's father had returned to the States two years later in pursuit of a better life for his family. After an irreconcilable disagreement with her mother in law, Maria, Prince's mother had subsequently returned to the States, leaving Prince to be reared by his grandmother.
       After establishing a trustworthy bond, Michael had grown fond of Prince. Not only had Prince saved his life, but they also shared a lot in common. They were both the only child born to their parents; both were raised by their grandmothers, and both had been cursed with rebellious spirits.
       The fellowship came to an end when Prince's grandmother returned home. Michael had to make a hasty withdrawal to the bedroom closet and concealed himself under a mound of Prince's dirty laundry; where he remained out of sight while Prince spent time with his grandmother.
       Each time the opportunity presented itself, Prince would return to his room to check on his new friend. He hurried through his household chor, and finished his homework in record timing. After eating only a fraction of his dinner, he excused himself for the remainder of the night and returned to his room, leaving his grandmother in the living room to read her bible and study the scriptures.
       Knowing that his grandmother would not intrude on his privacy, Prince instructed Michael to come out of hiding.
       They spent the remainder of the day playing Space Invaders and Break Out on Prince's Atari 2600 video game system.
       Later that night while Prince and his grandmother were asleep, Michael cautiously sneaked into the kitchen and collect a small supply of food: bread, fruits, and water.
       The following morning, he emerged from the closest to an empty house. He once again headed out to the kitchen; this time walking with confidence.
       After making a hefty breakfast—scrambled eggs, fried plantains, and a small batch of fried dumplings—he cleaned up the kitchen, returning it to its original splendor. He then returned to prince's bedroom with his food and a large pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and a fixed determination to break Prince's Space Invaders high score.
       Oblivious to time, in deep concentration, he was only a few hundred points away from his goal, when suddenly he heard an angry creak as the front door was opened. He quickly turned the television off and grabbed his weapon and took battle formation on the side of the door.
       His heart pounded furiously as he instinctively braced for battle. Gripping his trusted .45 firmly, he stared predaciously as the doorknob began to turn. The door creaked angrily as it opened, and to his surprise, in walked Prince. He breathed a sharp sigh of relief and quickly concealed his weapon.
       "Hey, Michael," Prince greeted with a warm smile. "What's up?"
       "Nut'n much, likkle swoja. Jus' deh yah ah try fi—" Michael paused, realizing he was forgetting something. "Bloodclaat!" He hurried over to the television and quickly twisted the power knob. The caption on the screen diminished his disposition: his only remaining spaceship had been destroyed while the television had been turned off. His promising possibility of overtaking Prince's high score had come to a disappointing halt.
       The two spent the remainder of the day locked in mortal combat as they strived to outdo each other's highest score on the Atari.
       Later that night, Michael left, promising that he would return.
       As promised, a few days later, four to be exact, he had returned. He greeted Prince with a new game for his Atari and a small bag filled with school supplies.
       Prince accepted the gifts, hiding the school supplies inside the closet, and eagerly ripping the game out of the package.
       The two played video games until Michael, exhausted, fell asleep in front of the television with the controller in his hand. Before going to bed, Prince woke him up and instructed him to go into the closet; his usual sleeping and hiding spot.
       The following morning, Prince departed to school, leaving Michael inside the closet sound asleep. When he returned home, Michael was nowhere to be found. The next time he saw him was a week later on his way home from school.
       He had once again spent his taxi fare and was about half a mile into his journey home when a strange vehicle with opaquely-dark-tinted windows slowed to a stop beside him.
       "Prince!" a familiar voice called from the vehicle as the rear window began lower.
       Prince nervously turned towards the vehicle and saw Michael sitting beside a pregnant woman.
       "Weh mek yaa walk 'ome?" Michael asked, concerned, emerging from the car. "Move ova," he ordered the pregnant woman. She scooted over. "Goh in," he instructed Prince and hopped in after him. "Drive off, Milo," he instructed the driver.
       Without delay, the driver mashed the accelerator. The small sedan launched off, scattering a mass of gravel.
       As they traveled, Michael introduced Prince to his entourage: Milo the driver, Ringo; a renowned fugitive and Milo's older brother, Scatta; a cold-blooded sixteen-year-old who was wanted for six homicides, and Tonya; Michael's pregnant girlfriend.
       Upon arrival at Prince's house, Michael admonished him against walking home from school in such perilous times. Halfway through voicing his concerns, he reached into his pocket for his wad of cash and counted out two-hundred dollars and handed it to Prince.
       Prince listened until Michael had finished talking, and then exited the vehicle. He waved goodbye and watched as the small sedan traveled down the dirt road until it vanished.
       The next time Prince saw Michael was a few months later when he was awakened by a nagging tapping on his bedroom window. Upon peeking out, he was greeted by Michael, smiling. He quietly hurried to the kitchen and quickly let Michael in through the rear door.
       It was a Friday night and Michael had decided against accompanying a few of his friends to an outdoor dance. Instead, he had directed the driver to Prince's house.
       The following morning after prince's grandmother had departed, Prince and Michael had devoured a hefty breakfast and was ready to commence their daylong battle in video games. Michael turned on the television and was preparing to connect the Atari when something on the morning news snatched his attention. He stared dumbfounded at the screen, absently shaking his head in utter disbelief.
       On the screen, to the left of the news anchor was a row of pictures; pictures of his friends; the three who had attended the dance without him. The shocking news caused his body to shudder spasmodically.
       At the conclusion of the narrative, Michael learned that his friends were massacred at the dance; mown down in a hail of gunfire when the dance was surrounded by soldiers who were tipped off that the fugitives were present.
       Tears began to trickle down his face as the reality sat in.
       "Is everything alright?" Prince asked, noticing his tears.
       "Evryting good, likkle swoja," Michael replied, wiping tears from his eyes. "Evryting criss . . ." he repeated and began to sob freely.
       "What happened?" Prince pressed.
       "Di bloodclaat swoja bwoy dem kill Ringo dem," Michael sobbed. "Dem probly would'ah kill mi toh if mi did goh . . ."
       Prince sat quietly as Michael vent; not once daring to interrupt.
       ". . . Star, mi cyaan believe dem kill mi fren dem. Sup'm did tell mi noh goh wid dem. Ah dat mek mi tell dem fi drop mi off ova yah." Michael shook his head, perplexed. Tears once again began to trickle down his face. "Jah kno', Ringo ah did like mi big bredda," he sobbed. "Mi tell dem seh jus' figet 'bout di eedyat dance!" he shouted, startling Prince. "Mi cyaan believe seh dem dead." He shook his head absently. "Ah like seh di wole ah wi ah dead off. Soona or lata dem ah goh kill mi toh. But yuh kno' wha', fuck it, mek dem kill mi. Ah bet mi naa goh jus' dead soh. Ah bet mi naa dead alone!" he said stubbornly, wiping away tears. "Yuh wait an' si. Yaa goh 'ear, Prince . . ."
       No knowing what to say, Prince just nodded his head and remained quiet.
       ". . . Prince, don' eva pick up ah gun. Yuh hear mi? Once yuh tek it up," he continued before Prince could answer, "yuh cyaan neva put it bac' dung. Di babylon bwoy dem naa goh mek yuh put it dung. Dem naa goh mek yuh res'. Dem ah goh hunt yuh dung 'til dem find an' kill yuh. Noh arres'. Noh jail. Noh trial. Jus' kill yuh weheva dem si yuh. Even in front ah yuh family. Murda yuh all in front ah yuh madda. Di bwoy dem naa goh ramp wid yuh. Dats why evrytime mi si di pussy dem, mi put it on pon dem. Bus' nuff shot pon dem," he said angrily.
       Prince quietly listened to every word he said.
       ". . . now ah jus' tree ah wi lef'. Mi, Milo, an' Scatta. Cat dead. Merrick dead. Even Suzy-Q dem kill. She ah did jus' fifteen."—he shook his head—"Ah pretty likkle girl. Dem shot ar seven time an' kill ar. Now den kill Ringo dem." Michael shook his head in disbelief. "Mama did tell mi seh badness noh pay," he chuckled and reached into his pocket for his ever-present wad of cash. "It pay, but it noh worth it." He lightly cast the wad to Prince. "Noh wen yuh cyaan get ah peaceful night sleep. Cyaan even lay 'side ah mi woman dem an' noh 'fraid seh police an' swoja ah goh sho' up. Jus' 'memba dis, Prince. Mek sure seh yuh 'ave nuff pickney; nuff son an' daata fi carry on yuh name; fi secure yuh legacy wen yuh gone.
       "Mi 'ave two son an' one daata now, plus Tanya pregnant, and mi nex' galfren' ah breed toh," Michael said proudly. "Wen dem kill mi, Jamaica neva ah goh figet mi. Every time people si mi youth dem, dem ah goh memba mi." He smiled proudly. "Mi,"—he pounds his chest—"one ah di original gangsta; real badman. Soh wen yuh time come, mek sure seh yuh lef' yuh name chisel inna iyan soh it cyaan rub out. Yuh hear mi, Prince? Lef' ah legacy."
       After he had finished raving, Michael departed, promising to return.
       He never did.
       The next time Prince saw Michael was months later on the front page of the local newspaper. He read the headline in shock.
       Notorious Sulky Paul dead!
       As he began to weep, his tears attracted the newspaper vendor. "Why yaa cry, youth?" The concerned vendor asked.
       Without answering, Prince reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill and handed it to the vendor. He snatched up a copy of the newspaper and walked off without waiting for his change.
       Entering his bedroom, he locked the door behind him and read the entire article. He found out that someone had tipped off the authorities that Sulky was taking refuge with a girl in the neighborhood. A battalion of heavily-armed soldiers was deployed around the house where Sulky was at. When the battle had ended, seven people including Sulky were dead.
       Also dead were Simone, the female Sulky was staying with, her seventy-eight-year-old grandmother, and her thirteen-year-old sister.
       Living up to his vow, Sulky had viciously slain two soldiers, and a female police officer before he was cut down in a hail of bullets.

       Weeks later when Sulky's remains were being laid to rest, Prince and his grandmother were present.
       After days of noticing Prince's strange behavior, his grandmother had become concerned. She beseeched that he let her know what troubled him. Prince had broken down in tears in her arms and painstakingly told the story about Michael.
       Even though disappointed, his grandmother, Ms. Margaret could not be angry with him. She lovingly consoled him and promised she would find out when and take him to his friend's funeral.
       With Michael gone, Prince's life returned to normal. He had clipped the article concerning Michael's death from the newspaper and placed it along with the first one-hundred-dollar bill and the video game cartridge Michael had given him in a shoe box and placed it under his bed for safekeeping.
       With the knowledge Michael had imparted, Prince had become a new person. He had retained everything Michael had said and vowed never to forget his friend Michael; the Notorious Sulky.

       Milo was captured two years late after Sulky's death and luckily was subsequently sentenced to multiple life sentences. He was unfortunately stabbed to death six years later.

        Scatta, upon acquiring a travel visa and passport under a new identity, had fled the island never to return. He was rumored to be living somewhere in England.