Brice squeezed over to the passenger seat. Opening the door, he searched over the sidewalk and hedges. He pushed himself out of the car, snuggling the chicken box under his arm and a beer in one of his hands.
“You’re about to get your head blasted,” the bulky figure said. The guy had I can do the time tattooed across the top part of his chest with prison bars behind it.
“What’re you doing here?”
Brice raised his hands, stopping when he felt the gun pressing against his earlobe. Yasmine naked body flashed in his mind. Yasmine. He tried not to ejaculate. Rum and cola scent circled him, bringing him back to reality.
“Speak up,” the ex-con said as he pushed the gun in deeper.
“I live here,” Brice said.
“Turn the lights on dumbass," the ex-con said easing the gun away from Brice's head. "Thought you were robbing the place,”
“Who are you?” Brice stepped closer.
It’s the garbage picker-mom caught, Brice recollected. His grayish eyes and thick nose were inches away from Brice’s face.
“You know me.” Brice slugged Hefty’s shoulder. He twisted halfway, falling against his Chrysler Shadow car.
“Just messing with you Brice,” Hefty said pointing the gun to his forehead. “You ain’t gotta hit me.”
“Kill me or find something else to do.”
Hefty backed away into the dark.
Brice believed he had become like the others who humiliated Hefty. His neighbors bullied and disrespected him as a child while he watched giving it acceptances. He felt he should have handled that better by making a conversation with him. He couldn’t keep beating Hefty down to make him act right, it persuaded him to use a gun.
“I’m going in for the night,” Brice said, feeling for the storm door handle. What made it worst was him having four sons by three different baby mamas and no skills in raising them. So many black men lack the knowledge of what to do as his father knew. These new parents created a generation of little gangsters.
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