Yaccub's Curse

away and continued pulling on my boots.

Maybe she had felt something too?

I dismissed the notion. This White girl didn’t know shit about me, besides, the way she fucked she probably had boyfriends all over the place. She damn sure wasn’t no virgin. Just another ho with some exceptionally good pussy. Nothing to get your emotions all twisted over.

“I love you, Malik. I hope you don’t mind me saying that?”

She looked up at me with those big emotion-filled eyes that seemed to implore me not to hurt her. I stared back at her speechless. I wanted to fall back into her arms and tell her I loved her too. I wanted to make love to her all over again and my flesh was signaling its own readiness with an urgent swelling that was almost painful after so much use already. Emotions were swirling within me like a maelstrom. For right or wrong, my pride won the battle.

“Get over it.” I finished lacing up by boots and walked out.

— | — | —

Chapter 16

“It is strangely ironic that the American white man is not really free. He is the victim of his own insanity. The free man is the man with no fear.”

—Dick Gregory, “Write Me In!”

««—»»

Scratch watched passively as fire consumed the decrepit old building. Soon it would collapse and disintegrate into little more than a pile of ash. Scratch leaned against his arterial-red BMW with the gold rims and grille, watching the human shapes within the flames writhe in agony, trying to escape cremation. One burning form flung itself out of the second story window, hit the concrete at Scratch’s feet, and lay still. Scratch nudged it with his boot to make sure the char-broiled body was dead. Another figure braved the front door.

Scratch raised his .44 and pointed it at the burning man as he staggered out of the house completely engulfed in flame. His lips parted wide as if he was trying to scream and fire erupted from his open mouth and poured from his nostrils and eyesockets. The drug-dealer lowered his weapon when the figure stumbled and fell onto the other bullet riddled corpses piled up outside the front door. No sense wasting a bullet. The fire had already killed him. The other smoldering carcasses re-ignited when the flames, still greedily consuming the burning body now convulsing on top of them, crawled down to devour their flesh as well. Scratch had shot each of them dead as they tried to escape the flames and still the fire had found them. Their skin bubbled and ran like frying lard, the subcutaneous fat popping like boiling oil.

Smoke billowed up into the night sky blotting out the stars. Scratch frowned in disappointment. Burning the entire house down had been extremely reckless, perhaps even careless, but Scratch was starting to lose his patience. He couldn’t afford to let that baby live. It would ruin everything, and he’d been almost positive that the bitch and her whelp would be here.

The smell of burning flesh was overpowering. It made Scratch’s mouth water. There were still screams coming from inside the crackhouse, but no one else had attempted to leave. Anyone still inside was already a corpse. Yet, still he could feel the baby’s presence. He’d failed again. Scratch climbed into his BMW and drove slowly away as sirens wailed in the distance heading for the fire.

He had managed to narrow things down a bit though. He’d raided every crackhouse in G-town now except one. Scratch was positive that she had to be there, unless she knew he was coming for her and had already left the neighborhood. Then he would be fucked.

If someone assassinated him while that kid was still alive it would be over, there would be no resurrection. He couldn’t allow that to happen. If man’s sins were forgiven then all his efforts would have been in vain. No matter what, that kid had to die first, but he was running out of time.

He didn’t know why he was so sure that it would be a crack baby. He just knew. It fit the profile. He also didn’t know why he was so positive that it would happen in Philly, in G-town, but over the centuries he’d gotten good at predicting these things. He recognized the patterns, the subtle nuances in the chain of cause and effect that inevitably led to His coming. He was in the right place, at the right time, and he was going to crucify that little fucker again, and again and again. Every time He reappeared, Scratch would be waiting to send Him back to his maker. He’d get him. He always had, always would, and that uppity little nigger, Snap, was going to help him. This time, he wouldn’t even get his hands dirty.

“But where the fuck is the baby!” he shouted as he slammed his fists into the cherry wood-grain dashboard.

Any day now members of the Junior Black Gangsta Lords would be coming for him, to avenge their leader’s murder, and as long as that baby was safe in its mother’s womb Scratch was vulnerable. Once the little bastard was dead Scratch would be almost invincible. It wouldn’t matter how many times he was killed. He’d just keep coming back. Dr. Yaccub had made certain of that. The infernal energy that animated his flesh was eternal. He wasn’t a devil or a demon, but he was the next best thing.

— | — | —

Chapter 17

“Pass me the gat. I gotta stay strapped. I ain’t goin’ out on my muthafuckin’ back!”

—Brand Nubians, “Pass Me the Gat”

««—»»

“Yo, Snap? Yeah, dog. This is Scratch.”

“Da fuck do you want?”

“Look, brother, I’m sorry about Tank.”

“I ain’t your fuckin’ brother, white boy. Now, fuck do you want?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“I’m out Scratch. I’m done with this shit.”

“You’re what?”

“I ain’t stutter, muthafucka! I’m out this shit! Your ass is on your own from now on.”

The chuckle that came from the other end of the phone was like a witch’s cackle.

“You trippin’, Snap. You so deep in this shit you can’t never get out.”

“Yeah? And who tha fuck gonna keep me in? Your punk ass?”

“I don’t have to keep you in, Snap. The streets ain’t gonna let you walk away from this. You think you can just body the leader of a major drug crew and then walk the streets unprotected? If you ain’t part of my crew then you all alone and that makes you an easy mark. All the blood you done splashed on these streets? Black folks got long memories, Snap. You may try to ignore what you are, to put it out of your mind and act like a regular citizen, but those same citizens that you want to be like won’t let you forget. You know how the game is. If you ain’t a playa then you gets played. If you ain’t a gangsta then you gets ganked, and if you ain’t a killer—you feel me? There’s only one way out of this game. The same way Tank got out.”

“You threatenin’ me? Well, you can save it ’cause you don’t put no fear in my heart. All that voodoo Satanic shit don’t mean nothin’ to me. You can get smoked like anybody else. Test me.”

“You know I wouldn’t try to threaten you, Snap. I know you’s a real gangsta. Just do this last little favor for me and I won’t bother you for shit else. You want to be a civilian then more power to you. But you can’t just leave me hangin’.”

“You want me to spill some more blood then it’s gonna cost you another ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand? You crazy! I ain’t talkin’ about killin’ nobody on the level of Jah Warrior.”

“Then handle it yourself.”

“I can’t go no higher than five.”

My lip curled up in a snarl.