This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
While dueling loud megaphones from riot police and angry gun control protestors compete for audio dominance at the campus of USC, huge picket signs shield more Black on Black crime in progress: Two thugs committing assault and battery upon each other, would, no doubt, be the lead online story.
An INCEL Warrior Cometh
“Dude, like, what the fuck?” recognizing that distinct ghetto L.A. accent, Tarriq Madu quickly released his deadly grip from the throat of a man three inches taller than his lean 6’1” frame.
“Wrathful Willie?” the professional hitman kept his head on a swivel, regardless. “Sorry about that. My bad. Didn’t recognize you without your mask on.”
“No shit,” the infamous Internet host of the INCEL Warrior podcast coughed. “Guess that’s what my black ass gets for sneakin’ up on a niggah. And you can call me Dub.”
“Tron,” Madu gave up some dap along with his chatroom alias. “I’m a big fan.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re the one I was choppin’ it up with earlier about my homeboy,” Dub gave him a quick once over. “You should’ve called into the show. I would’ve sent you the link.”
“You had too many panel guests.”
“Yeah, you know how niggahs get.”
“Too bad about your boy, though.”
“Yeah, the cops hemmed him up before he could shoot any of them stuck-up bitches.”
“Surprised they didn’t murk ‘em.”
“If he was black, though.”
They both gave that sort of fake, half-laugh that strangers often give in an awkward situation. And the situation had escalated even more so with fist fights breaking out between law enforcement and civilians.
“Hey, you two!” a uniformed white cop pointed his finger at the two Black suspects. “Show me your fuckin’ hands right now!” Three more rollers were backing him up through the frantic crowd.
“Think we better bounce, potna,” Madu nodded towards the Expo Line. “One Time don’t look too happy.”
“You ain’t gotta tell me twice,” Dub ran alongside one of his favorite moderators.
“You ain’t packin’, are you?” Madu sprinted.
“Hell no. Left my shit at the crib.”
“Good. ‘Cause we don’t need to get pinched.”
“Niggah, what?” Dub slowed down at the sight of a small detachment of green and khakis colored uniforms that resembled the L.A. Sherriff’s Department. “More of ‘em?”
“Don’t trip,” Madu yanked his right jacket sleeve. “There’s a bus over there on Vermont.” He nodded toward the intersection of Vermont and 39th Street.
“And we ain’t even do nothin’,” Dub ran behind this lame-ass Tron groupie. “A niggah can’t catch a break for shit.”
“Keep movin’,” Madu hailed for the bus driver to wait.
METRO Getaway Bus
“Look, I don’t want no trouble,” the bus driver held up a red gloved right hand.
“Old-ass granny bitch, we ain’t criminals,” Dub spat with an attitude while standing behind Madu.
“Hey, young man, you just watch your mouth.”
“Just let us on witcho bald-ass head already.”
“Chile, I ain’t gotta do Jack, ,” she popped her chewing gum while rolling her head and neck in unison.
“Apologies, ma’am,” Madu shoved more than enough green back ones into the feeding mouth of that machine just to grant them both entry. “No disrespect intended.”
“Well,” she considered it for a beat, then closed the front door shut.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Madu said.
“Uh-huh, whatever.” she drove off back into southbound traffic on Vermont Avenue. “Just sit y’all asses down.”
About 20 minutes or so later, the no-nonsense single grandmother of the 11 prettiest chirrens on God’s green Earth appeared to calm her disposition. Nevertheless, she held unto that attitude.
A few more blocks flew by. The assassin checked his watch.
Be patient, he thought while staring at his own reflection through the tinted window. Just breath. Focus.
Madu pressed the button to stop at Vermont and Manchester. As Dub followed him through the rear exit door, he saw him flip the bird to the weary employee whom roared that public transport away into the night.
“You done yet?”
“Say what, niggah?”
“Aw, nothin’, man,” Madu nearly slipped up on his Tron cover but got back into character.
“Dafucks, you live near the bean pie people?”
“You mean Mosque Number Twenty-Seven?”
“Whatever, niggah,” Dub shrugged. “Didn’t s’pect you to be a Muslim.”
Madu just silently shook his head while strolling southbound on Vermont, forcing himself not to give him the side eye, let alone an old-fashion beat down just on GP. He kept his childhood rearing to himself.
“None taken, potna,” Madu got back on point. “I know this fine-ass, chocolate Sistah not too far from here.”
“I was gonna come through anyway.”
“Hope she’s not a hood rat.”
“Nuh-uh, she’s straight.”
“She got any friends?”
“Oh, yeah. I’mma hook you up.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
Madu crossed Vermont, making a left onto 88th Street. He could see the Algin Sutton Recreation Center just up ahead on Hoover.
“But can the hoe cook, though?” Dub rubbed his hands together like Birdman.
“Told you she’s straight, potna,” Madu nodded towards the Rec Center’s side entrance.
“And she’s gotta job, too?” Dub’s eyes lit up.
“Tron don’t deal with no broke and ashy mud ducks.”
“Well, niggah, what’s takin’ you so long?”
“Take it you’re interested now, huh?”
“Let’s get the fuck on,” Dub was grinning ear to ear.
Show No Mercy
Madu opened the door, allowing a now eager incel to walk through first. He peeped over both of his shoulders before gently securing the door behind them.
“Follow me,” Madu walked down a dim lit hallway.
“What’s her position here?” Dub looked around. “Manager?”
“I ain’t never seen no fine female janitor.”
“Well, perhaps you see one in hell.”
“Say what, nig—-” Dub felt himself falling backwards down to the floor.
“Be the fuck quiet,” Madu’s leather gloved hands gripped the mirco thin razor Garrote wire tightly around his target’s neck. Discreetly hidden inside that box of dental floss, now was the optimum time to take action.
Dub’s body convulses as a meticulous killer squeezes his arteries from behind. His desperate cries for help go mute all due from a hunter who’ll show no mercy.
Before leaving the rec center, Madu left the target’s still blood warmed corpse inside of a nearby Dumpster. Sloppy but satisfied with the results, he leisurely strolls back down 88th Street toward Vermont but stops to take a second look at the most interesting, if not downright shocking, pieces of intel retrieved from the now deceased God of War:
ATF Special Agent Roosevelt Augustus Jackson.
“Holy fuck me,” the experienced Watcher shakes his head.
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