“Gunna, I’ll break your bitch-ass the fuck up,” Hamma said, removing his shirt. “Don’t hold that nigga, Chop.”
“Get the fuck off me, dog,” Gunna said, pushing Lamar. “How the fuck are you gon’ take they side over mine?”
“Look,” Lamar said, “it ain’t even like that. But just go to let shit cool down. Look at where we coming from while you’re gone. You were booked for a murder, nigga. Something ain’t adding up. I need time to think.”
Gunna stared at all three of them. Hard! Death in his eyes. “Remember, this was y’all call, playa. Y’all ain’t gon’ be shit wit’ out Gunna,” he said, backing up. He hopped into his car and sped down the street.
CHAPTER 37
Thursday afternoon.
Mossberg’s funeral came to an end. Although today was a time to grieve, Slam’s appearance made many spirits change from somber to glee. Slam’s whole camp was at the service, those that were still alive, anyway. He had one of them in the cut talking privately.
“I just can’t get involved in that lifestyle anymore, Slam. I mean, like, I got a wife, kids, and drive for SEPTA now. This shit is all over nothing. Look at where it got Mossberg,” one of Slam’s original gangsta, Roc Wilda, proclaimed, pointing at the casket Mossberg rested in as the pall bearers carried it out of the church for his late ride.
“Come on, man, just one last time for ‘Berg. That’s our homie in that box. He’d do it for you, no questions asked,” Slam said.
“Well, he’s not here to confirm that. Now is he?”
“You’re losing ya fuckin’ mind with this so-called real life Huxtable bullshit that you’re on.”
Roc Wilda was now a law abiding citizen. he lived a routine life and maintained a career driving a SEPTA trolley. After being shot in an eighties gang war, he left the game, promising his wife that he was done with the streets. He was happily married with lively twin daughters and was not about to exchange that for a meaningless war with no washed-up ex-con. As much as he sympathized with Mossberg’s family, he was done with the game.
“I can’t do it. It just ain’t in me no more,” Roc Wilda said, shaking his head.
“You working niggas kill me,” Slam said, balling up his face. “These muthafuckin’ young bulls probably think that we some type of pussies. I been home and still ain’t drop nothing on them li’l bastards.”
“You sent many warnings and threats their way, man. You started this crazy shit.”
“Fine, but they walking around here like shit is all good. Like they got me scared of them of something. I ain’t scared of them fuckin’ kids,” Slam declared angrily.
He walked side by side with Roc Wilda out side of the church to see everyone coming out.
Mossberg’s five brothers and his father made up the six pall bearers that transported Mossberg’s coffin from the church to the awaiting hearse.
Out of nowhere, Hamma’s AK-47 rapidly ripped through the cool breeze sending everyone running and screaming back into the church. Shots penetrated Mossberg’s youngest brother’s back, who shielded their mother. He died instantly. Hamma ejected more rounds into the crowd of people, taking out windows from the hearse and causing the pall bearers to drop the casket in the middle of the pavement.
Mossberg’s stiffened body rolled out of his casket, and Hamma watched the carcass bounce out onto the blacktop. He pumped shots into the dead man.
Trying to kill him, again? No?
After carrying out his plan to instill fear, a getaway car whisked him away.
“That coulda been you,” Slam said to Roc Wilda, ducking between two cars. “I bet you want parts now.”
CHAPTER 38
Under the Sixty-third and Market Street SEPTA El Station, the nefarious Slam and the traitor Gunna met. Word traveled fast that Lamar had cut Gunna off, and Slam pounced on the opportunity to create a millennium, Benedict Arnold. Lamar was currently terrorizing the city, and Slam needed help to even the score.
“Listen, young buck, that shit Lambchop and them did at my man’s funeral earlier today just took this shit to a whole ‘nother level,” Slam said. He was flustered by Lamar’s disrespect towards Mossberg’s family. He chains smoked Newports, a habit that he had brought home from state prison.
“Yeah, old head, I must admit, I’m only meeting with you because, I don’t fuck with the clown no more,” Gunna said interrupted by a train zipping by above them. “I wanna kill this nigga, and he’d never expect it from me.”
“Right. Right.”
“I’m still able to get close up on him.”
“Aight, yeah, I been heard that you’re official. I hope what they say is true.”
“Indeed it is.”
“I got fifteen grand if you kill the li’l bitch.”
“I gotcha, OG. Just give me coupla days, and I guarantee he’ll be on the cover of the Daily News. Real rap. I hate that, nigga. Before I kill him, I’mma rob him. I know where he lives at out in New Jersey. I’m going to get that ass.”
“Nice,” Slam said, rubbing his hands together.
“You got some heat?”
“What? A gun?” Slam asked puzzled.
