Warpath

“You the baby daddy of two of my kids! You ain’t movin’ out, you ain’t fuckin’ no other bitches and you ain’t gonna treat me like your other baby mammas! I ain’t some throw-away pussy like that! Got me, motherfucker?”

“Bitch, lower your voice,” Candy man says, his voice husky. He continuously sniffs with the runny nose that coke users have.

“I ain’t no bitch—”

“You a tired, play-out bitch and I got better things to occupy my time with—”

“Ronnell, I’m gonna get your momma on the phone and then we’ll see who you be answerin’ to. Wanna see that? Huh?”

“I said shut up, bitch.”

Well, I’ve heard enough. I go to the stall door and kick it in. Candy man shoots up off the toilet, pants down around his ankles, cell phone laid across the toilet paper dispenser. His coke mirror and a small vial fall to the floor.

“What the fuck?” he shouts. His mouth is full of gold, and collapses inward as I drill him into the wall behind him.

I drag him out of the stall, all to the chorus of gleeful shouts from his phone. “Beat his cheatin’ ass! Whoever you is, motherfucker! Beat his cheatin’ ass! He need to learn! But send him home now, I need my baby daddy!”

I go back into the stall, get the phone and whisper, “I’m going to kill and eat him, if for nothing else than to spare him all your bitching and moaning,” and terminate the call. She immediately calls back, and I drop the phone in the toilet.

Go to work.

Before he comes to I dig through his pockets.

The usual: no ID, state-issued welfare debit card, two more cell phones I find just as they start to ring as well. Probably baby mamma. They go in the shitter also. Cheap gun, a wad of money which resembles a cash register since its all small denominations for making change, twelve plastic wrapped dollops of cocaine. Money in my pocket. The rest in the shitter. I must have flushed it eight times by now.

Candy Man’s eyes creak open and my gun goes to his forehead.

“Where does Thuggie hang out?”

“What?”

“Thuggie. Where is he?”

“Ahh, man. I ain’t no snitch—

”

I slug him with the gun. The bridge of his nose opens up and spills crimson all over the tiles. I braced the bathroom door before this all began, but I need an answer quick.

“Answer me before I put you face down in the toilet and we start over.”

“You think you gonna—”

Slug him again. Eyebrow splits like an over-roasted pig. He screams. I lay the gun across his throat as leverage. Press down. He wiggles and writhes, makes wet choking sounds.

“I’m waiting.”

He starts to mouth something frantically. I let up on the gun. He draws a ragged breath and shouts an address. I know the place. I press down again.

“I want to make sure you’re telling me the truth.”

Candy Man’s eyes pop out. He must have a thing against helplessly being choked to death. He tries to nod his head like a wild animal. He wouldn’t be more spastic if I were electrocuting him.

“All right, I’ll buy it.” I let up. He gasps for air, starts to vomit. I let him roll over and he wretches across the tile. “If I get there and it’s bullshit or I’ve been set up, I’ll live. I want you to understand that. I’ll live and find you. Do we have an understanding?”

He nods as he spits, dry heaves. “I ain’t no snitch,” he coughs out. Translation: he has more to fear from that reputation and what will happen than he has to fear from me. Fine, if he thinks that. Not true, but let him think that. It’ll buy me a surprise entry into the building.

I stand. He struggles to his feet. I drill him in the back of the head and he collapses into his vomit. It’s where he needs to be.