Dirty Little Angel

Harlem nodded.

“I want you to turn this city upside down with murder and terror. I want people to know I ain’t down and I ain’t over. And I want you to find my bitches and I’ll deal wit’ them when I deal wit’ them. But your first priority is puttin’ to death everything that nigga YB ever loved.” Crown stared intensely at his number-one killer.

“I got you, my nigga,” Harlem assured him. “When I find that nigga and that bitch, you’ll be the first to know.”

“They shoot me down and rob me? Oh, it’s comin’ back on them. I want them to suffer, muthafuckin’ suffer like it’s medieval times in this bitch.”

Harlem walked out of the room with his mind on his mission. Crown watched his killer leave and smirked. He had set the dogs loose on his attackers and knew that in due time, vengeance would be his.

****

Harlem’s body count was extreme. He had caught his first body when he was only fifteen, and afterward killing came easy to him. His first victim was Black, a man three years his senior. Black and Harlem never liked each other. He always teased Harlem and cracked jokes about him whenever they saw each other. He was a weed dealer around Harlem’s way and was trouble wherever he went. He had a loud mouth and thought he was untouchable until one day, he got touched.

Harlem’s reputation was growing and he was becoming a badass on the streets of Philly, coming up under the Rocquelle drug crew in the early nineties. Black figured out a way to get to Harlem and decided to start with his woman. Black tried to push up on Harlem’s girl, Tammy, in a club one night and she warned him to back off. Black felt disrespected by Tammy’s rejection and slapped her openly in front of dozens of people.

“Fuck that bitch-ass nigga Harlem. Skinny-ass, beanpole-lookin’ muthafucka!” Black shouted. “You need to get wit’ a real nigga like me, bitch, ya hear? What kind of name is Harlem, anyway? Muthafucka, this ain’t fuckin’ New York! Let me put that faggot nigga Harlem on my knee and spank him, like he my bitch.”

Tammy glared at Black with tears streaming down her face.

“Fuck you! You’re a dead man,” she spat.

“Bitch, you know who the fuck I am? Yeah, tell that bitch-ass nigga of yours that Black slapped the shit outta you and if he comes lookin’ for trouble, I’ll slap that b

itch silly, too!”

Of course, word got around about the incident. Two weeks later, the hype of the incident died down. Everyone thought that Harlem just was going to let it be and figured he probably feared Black. But that wasn’t the case.

One night, Black was sitting in his ride on Lancaster Avenue, getting a blowjob from a hooker. He reclined in his seat, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the oral pleasure she was blessing him with.

Black didn’t even notice the tall figure in all black approach his car quietly. Harlem came from the back and was crouched down, focusing on Black in the driver seat. He watched the woman’s head bob up and down.

“Ummmm . . . shit, suck my dick, bitch,” Black moaned. His hand was on the back of her head, urging her on.

Harlem had the element of surprise and suddenly loomed over Black. The woman felt a shadow over her and gasped in shock when she opened her eyes and saw Harlem with the gun aimed at them.

“Why you stop?” Black complained. He opened his eyes and was stunned by the .45 aimed at his head.

“Suck on this, bitch!”

Black didn’t have time to react. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Harlem shot him six times in the head, splattering his blood and brain matter all over the front seat, dashboard, and the female passenger. She shrieked loudly, covered in Black’s blood.

Harlem looked at her, thought about letting her go free, and said, “Fuck it!” He fired three rounds into her head, making it a double homicide before he ran off.

32

Rufus had come up in the past few months, and the dope game for him was growing daily. He controlled several profitable blocks on the west side and making his mark in the city. He also reopened the house on Brown Street. He had soldiers who would kill for him and workers who hustled hard for him. He drove around in a burgundy CTS and a black ESV Escalade. He was ballin’ big time.

His pockets were lumped up, but he was missing YB. It had been months since they’d seen each other or spoken, and Rufus hoped YB would return to Philly one day to be by his side in the game again. He was upset that YB had left, but Rufus knew that with YB by his side, they would be much stronger.

Rufus walked out of his four-bedroom brick house with the wraparound porch on Parkside Avenue. He had his cell phone to his ear and was walking to his truck with two armed guards flanking him. He wore a black-and-white velour sweat suit and was armed with a .380. He glanced around quickly and moved down the stairs.

“Yeah, I’m ’bout to head that way now . . . I got you. Yeah, but you got that for me, right? I don’t ask twice,” Rufus said into the phone.

Rufus quickly got into the backseat of the ESV that sat on 24-inch chrome rims with tinted windows and bulletproof plating. He was aware that he had enemies, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

The driver got in and soon the truck pulled off. The occupants of the truck were unaware that they were being watched closely.