Ex Meridian (Nothing Special 7)

God cut across the one lane and swerved into the parking lot, skidding to a stop in front of the one who tried to run too late. He slammed the right side of his body into the rear of God’s cab. “That better not have left a dent,” God muttered.

Ruxs and Green were out of the backseat before him or Day, and taking off at a quick sprint. They caught the other two guys before they could even reach the street. Green had his runner in a head lock and was dragging him over, while Ruxs had his guy with his arm tucked tight behind his back.

“Nice attempt, but you’re fucking slow, man,” Ruxs scoffed, shoving the guy towards his other friend who leaned against the wall clutching his ribs. “You guys must’ve skipped your physical education classes in school.”

“Man, fuck you, Ruxs,” his guy said after his throat was released from his bicep and he was shoved against the wall.

God continued to sit in the truck with Day while Ruxs and Green got the men secured, giving them a quick pat-down. God, of course, recognized all three of them. They each had gang tattoos and markings on their faces and necks but they weren’t Warlords. They were actually a petty-thug crew who did jobs for bigger gangs. They were broke and didn’t move any product, so God and Day were never interested in arresting them, but it didn’t stop them from shaking ’em down for information from time to time.

“Tyriq, why are you running from me... as if you’re going to get away?” Ruxs laughed, his pale green eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Man, it’s not fair y’all do this shit,” the one still holding his ribs whined. “We have rights.”

These guys were in their early twenties and all of them had rap sheets as long as his dick. God didn’t care about their bullshit fairness complaint. It wasn’t right that they did the Warlords’ dirty work and covered up their crimes for them, either. Yet, he still left them alone for the most part. They were fucking minnows trying to swim in a sea full of sharks. God wanted to give each of them a swift kick in the ass.

“If you say one more stupid comment like that I’m gonna slap you in your damn mouth,” God said when he got out of his truck.

The guy who’d been on the ground scrambled to his feet and moved until his back was against the wall. Tyriq and the other runner were staring with fear in their eyes when the passenger door opened, and Day got out as well.

“God. Day. W-why... What?” Tyriq cleared his throat and tried to stand his ground, attempting to look unaffected and tough in front of his friends, but he didn’t do well with hiding his reaction and neither did his homies.

He and Day crowded the young assholes after they’d retreated until they hit the brick wall of the gas station, while Ruxs and Green watched their backs.

“If you’re wondering what God and I are doing here, then let me enlighten your ass,” Day said, only inches from Tyriq’s pimply face. “I wanna know where the Warlords are hiding. Where’s Big Mike? We know he and his gang are responsible for the drive-by a few weeks ago. Where are they?”

“I swear, I don’t know nothing about that. I was at my girl’s house when all that went down,” Tyriq said, raising his hands.

“No shit. Another one at a girl’s house when it all went down,” Day grumbled. “These hoes sure are loyal around here.”

“That’s my lady! Not just some ho, man! And if I said I was over there, then that’s where I was!” Tyriq barked, inching closer towards Day.

“Hey!” Day snapped, slamming his palm into Tyriq’s chest, sending him back against the wall hard enough to make him cough when he connected with the concrete. “Take some of that goddamn bass out of your voice when you’re talking to me.”

“Yo, cool out, Day. It’s all good. He’s sorry, okay.” The one who’d slammed into his truck, pleaded with his friend.

God focused on the guy acting as the diplomat of the group. He stood in front of him for several long, uncomfortable seconds, noticing the longer he remained silent the more the kid’s body shook. God shot his hand out and gripped the guy at the back of the neck. The little shit squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut as if God had done some serious damage to him. Punk ass.

God opened one side of his leather jacket, showing just one of his desert eagles—a handgun that would cause a man to be unrecognizable for a family viewing. He yanked the punk’s head down, forcing him to stare at it sitting to the right of his gold lieutenant’s badge.