Punk Ass Bitches (May 20, 2009. Issue 5.)

“Hey dogg, what you got in the bag?” I ignored him and kept walking. “I know you hear me you little scared motha fucka. I asked you what’s in the bag.”

“Just some nuggets. They’re for Daisy.” He knew Daisy. Everyone on the block knew Daisy.

“What kinda sauce you got?”

“Hot mustard and sweet and sour.”

I usually made it to the house without getting fucked with. Most people just drove by slow and talked shit or tossed empty forty bottles at my feet or threw up gang signs, always folks up, everyone on Calder Street were Cripps. One night a candy apple red Regal pulled up with tinted windows and deep dish gold Daytons and four guys jumped out. One of them had an aluminum Louisville Slugger. They took my coat, my hat, my sweatshirt, my pants, and my Reebok Pumps. The smallest guy had a Malcolm X medallion tied to a black string around his neck. His black Triple Fat Goose was unzipped and there was a bud leaf on his shirt and he put my hat on and punched me in the ribs. I bent down and he kneed me in the stomach. When I fell to the ground all of them kicked me a few times then got back in the car. I walked the four blocks home in my white and green striped boxers, bleeding from the knees after I scraped them on the sidewalk.

“I’m gonna need barbeque sauce with my nuggets bro. You better take your ass back to Mickey D’s and grab me some.”

He came over the day before to smoke weed with Daisy and she told him she don’t get high with punk ass bitches. He spit on her face and pushed her down the stairs, off the porch, and now he wanted to spit on me.

“Tell your bitch ass sister to come out here. Tell her I got something for her.”

“She’s already asleep. She’ll be pissed if I wake her.”

“And I’ll be pissed if you don’t, dogg. Wake her ass up.”

He ran off the porch in his bare feet. He was wearing a maize and blue Chris Webber jersey with the matching shorts and a gold necklace and his knees and legs were hairless and ashy. He grabbed me by the neck and his clothes stank like pissy diapers and rotten macaroni and cheese and there was a small hole inside the number four on the back of his jersey. He put me in a loose headlock and walked me towards my front door.

“Now go in and wake her ass up. If she ain’t out here in five minutes I’m kicking the motha fuckin’ door in.”

Daisy pushed through the screen door before I could open it. It was white and the screen was ripped out on three sides. She died her hair dark chestnut brown with red highlights and cut three inches off the back. She was wearing my Barkley jersey and a pair of silky pajama bottoms, with little cartoon cows jumping over gray moons with smiley faces. There was a joint in her mouth and he let me out of the headlock when he saw the gun in her other hand; a chrome .357 revolver I never knew she had. I never knew a lot of things. I never knew why my mother died or why Daisy told the police I killed her.

“I knew you were a punk ass bitch, a grown man picking on women and teenage kids. You must be really fucking tough.”

“What bitch, you gonna shoot me, right here on the porch?” She pulled back on the hammer and his eyes widened when he heard the click.

“Take your pants off mother fucker. I bet you ain’t got no balls.” He took them off. She pulled a pair of pink granny panties from her pocket and passed me the joint and I hit it. Then I hit it again.

“Put these on you fucking homo.” He did. “Now take off your shirt and pinch your nipples.” He did that too.

“Derek, there’s a camera on the coffee table. Bring it out here and let’s have a photo shoot.” I did, then I opened the McDonald’s bag, took out three hot mustard sauces, opened them, and smeared it on his face, then took eleven pictures.

“Put your thumb in your mouth…squeeze one of your ass cheeks…Derek, pull your dick out and put it on his eye.”

“Come on Daisy, this is getting fucked up.”

“No. Do it. He needs to know it’s not ok to fuck with us.” I did it. “Now piss on him. Piss right on his face.” She grabbed the camera from my hand and took two more pictures. I started pissing and hit the joint two more times.

“Now get up you sorry faggot. If you ever fuck with us again, I’ll show these to everyone you know and then I’ll blow your fucking balls off.” I knew right then that one of us was going to die. She called her dope man in Flint and told him she was just raped. I heard her crying, feeding him all the fake details. She set the .357 down on a stack of books beside her bed, all women, Gertrude Stein, Flannery O’ Connor, Sylvia Plath. Two hours later a van pulled into the driveway next door. I heard four gunshots. I ate the nuggets cold and went to sleep stoned. I was glad to know it wasn’t going to be me or Daisy.