Prophet Tales, Vol. 1
By PDB

"Man, Prophet, I got sum muf-fuckin baddd feelins 'bout this shit right here!"

The air flowed in and out of the windows of the car, the front windows down, even though it was January in the cold streets of Boston. The temperature was frigid, but the car smelled like dead rats, so the men chose cold skin over bad smell. They were on their way to an abandoned lot to do business with a rival gang, one in which they shared a nasty history with. The two men in the front seat shivered, the man driving shaking as he gripped the cold wheel, the other lighting a cigarette in hopes to keep warm. The man in the back was staring out the window, watching the world go by.

"Just chill out, ok?", Prophet said, blowing out a puff of smoke. "This is gonna be like every other time we do a deal: we go in, they give us money, we give them the goods, we go back to home and we do what ever the hell we have to do in the process. I bet we won't even have to pull any heat, man!"

Prophet was a cool character, but he didn't look like the type. At a couple inches over six feet, his muscles were clearly large and defined through his windbreaker he wore, two sizes too small. He had pale skin which contrasted with the dark tattoos all over his arms. When he was younger, he was a football player, one of the best, until he shattered his right knee playing, giving him a limp for life. Now, with no one left in his life, he was just trying to get by in the world, doing whatever he had to do to do it. When things got bad, people turned to him, as he always somehow knew how to handle them. He was a think first, shoot later type of guy.

"Prophet, this muf-fuckahs we dealin' wit here aren't nice white fulks like ya self." J-Killer said, taking a slow turn down a dark street. "Man, they gon' kill us if we fuck up! These n*ggahs gon' fuckin' show us the way to hell if we be fuckin' screwin', Prophet, you hearin' me?"

J-Killer's real name was Jake, but he thought that was a "stupid bitch name", so he refused to be called anything but J-Killer. He was a very dark skinned African American with a deep booming face that didn't match his skinny frame. On his head was a green bandana to hold his cornrows in place, which were done in a custom criss-cross design. He has long limbs and fingers, and had the speed to utilize them well. His size made him useless in a fight, but put a gun in his hand and he could hand you the heads of his enemies before they could even blink. He possessed a heart of cold for his enemies, and open arms for his friends.

"Steven," said Prophet, "You gonna be ok man?"

"Yeah, chill, chill, I'm good."

Steven was a quiet man, quietest out of the three. Speaking, according to him, was only done when you were spoken to or when you absolutely must. He was a man of business, and pleasures were at the bottom of the list. Handy with a gun, he could be used in most situations with ease, and you really didn't have to worry about him.

Soon, they pulled into the lot and let the car roll to a halt. The abandoned space was dark, with only a few lamps providing light. There was debris and trash everywhere, covering up the cracks pavement. The picket fence on the perimeter was a light brown, rotted away after being there for who knows long. A dog could be heard, barking, it didn't seem to want to shut up any time soon.

In the streetlight, two figures could be seen. They were both wearing baggy black jackets and baggy jeans, their carpenter boots almost glowing in comparison. One had his hood up; the other had a beanie on instead. The hooded had a cigarette in his mouth, which light the darkness in the hood. They both waited for something to happen.

"I'll be back in five, a'ight?" Steven said, grabbing a 9mm Glock hand gun, placing it in his jacket, stepping out of the car. He started to walk slowly over to the two men, and they started speaking.

"So, Proph, what we gon' do if they fuck around?" J-Killer said, keeping an eye on the two men.

"Well, in that unlikely case of events," started Prophet, "You got the Tek 9 auto there next to ya, I've got the heater, we take care of these clowns, then we go from there."

Prophet threw his cigarette out the window; it still burned half lit on the ground. The two stayed quiet, trying to hear the quiet conversation being held across the lot. They watched with hopeful eyes, both being optimistic, hoping nothing would go down.

The night air quickly picked up a faint smell of blood. Something happened, and the one wearing the beanie shoved Steve. Steve quickly pulled out a piece and aimed it right for his head. He held it there, staying cool, the man in the beanie cursing Steve out. J-Killer suddenly got out of the car, holding the Tek 9 out of site, yelling across. The man in the hood took his own gun out and flashed it, pointing it in the air. In that same second, Steve switched his focus to the man in the hood, much to his demise. Out of nowhere, the man in the beanie pulled a gun, and fired it.

BAM! BAM!

Two quick shots went straight through Steve's skull, leaving to gaping wounds on opposite sides. He fell with a thud, laying there like a spread eagle, the blood seeping out of his head slowly.

"Mothah Fuckahs!" screamed J-Killer as he pulled up his gun, spraying bullets in the direction. He landed bullets in both their bodies, sending the one in the hood back a few feet back onto the ground and the one in the beanie to his knees. With is last breaths he shoot at the car, the bullets shattering the front windshield. J-Killer let out a scream, grabbing his thigh. A bullet grazed him, leaving a small wound. He shot back, sending a bullet into the forehead of the man, dropping him on his face!

"Fuck, dude, get over here, I'll fucking drive!" said Prophet, switching from passenger seat to driver seat, starting the car in record time. J-Killer slid into the passenger seat, and the two pulled out of their, careening into the streets.

They started driving down the back alleys, the sounds of the police sirens growing louder, heading toward the lot. They were driving away, staying hidden, getting away from the scene of the crime. The two breathed heavily, and then J-Killer grew a face of concern.

" we get their cash, yo?

"OF ALL FUCKING TIMES TO BE CONCERNED ABOUT CASH." Prophet screamed, ".you choose RIGHT AFTER we lose a man."

J-Killer sat there, driving, staying silent. His face was solemn, as he watched the streets. Prophet sat there with his head in his hands, groaning.

"No," Prophet said, "We didn't get the money."

"Dayumn, man, they had like 20 g's wit couldn't fucking remember that shit!"

The two drove off into the streets, chuckling at their antics. Even in a time of death, humor can be found.

This story is dedicated to the memory of John Karlson, aka J-Killer, who recently died of a Coccaine addiction. My enemy takes another. We all miss you.