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After an hour of playing, The Kid saw his advantage
and went in for the kill against Junior. Junior moved his rook to 5G, trying to entrap The Kid’s knight. The Kid saw the move three miles ahead. The old man was good, but Kid countered the move with Queen to C3 and then exclaimed, “Checkmate!”
Uncle Junior and his nephew were stunned by the move. Uncle Junior had lost, and Mark Spark was out ten grand. Mark Spark stormed toward the table and shouted, “Yo, that crippled nigga is fuckin’ cheating!”
“What? I’m not a cheater,” The Kid said, defending his reputation. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and looked his accuser in the eyes.
“Fuck that! My uncle don’t lose,” Mark Spark hollered, “especially to no fuckin’ cripple.”
“It was a good match, but he lost. I give your uncle much respect. He was good, but it’s just a game,” The Kid said coolly. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Nigga, we want a fuckin’ rematch.”
“He lost. Why can’t y’all just move on?”
Mark Spark had his Brooklyn goons behind him to intimidate The Kid, who wasn’t trying to spark off anything. The look in the man’s eyes told him that the fuse had already been lit, and the man was ready to explode.
Mark Spark looked wildly at The Kid. He wasn’t about to lose ten grand to some Harlem niggas.
Meanwhile, Kip and his crew lingered on the street corner laughing and mingling with a few lovely ladies. Being the alpha male, he had first dibs on the best one in the group. He took a few pulls from his Black & Mild.
Papa John had his eyes on the light-skinned cutie with the light eyes and long curls. Meanwhile, Devon, AKA the Devil, tried desperately to impress the friend who looked uninterested in him and kept avoiding his eye contact. She hated his weak game, yuck mouth, and stinky smell.
Suddenly, a young girl came running their way with urgent news. “Kip! Kip!” she hollered, quickly trying to get his attention.
Kip turned around, looking at the fifteen-year-old girl. She looked like a track star running his way.
“Kip, you need to come quick,” she said, huffing and puffing. “Your brother is in trouble.”
Without hesitation, Kip and his friends took off running toward the park and toward the chess games. Who had the audacity to mess with his little brother—his disabled little brother? Whoever it was, they were looking to die. They sprinted in the direction and hurried to where Mark Spark and his goons were shouting at The Kid. Immediately, Kip, Papa John, and Devon wanted to knock Mark’s head off and put him into the ground.
Kid quickly wheeled himself between the two angry crews. “It was just a misunderstanding, Kip. We cool! Just chill!”
“Fuck that! Who this nigga coming at you like that, Kid?” Kip shouted.
Mark Spark retorted, “Y’all Harlem niggas better step the fuck off!”
Kip, Devon, and Papa John were ready to detonate with violence. They glared at these Brooklyn niggas encroaching on their territory, and it was about to be World War III.
Kip suddenly started having second thoughts. He didn’t want his brother in the middle of a beef, especially a shootout, if it came to that. His first priority was getting his brother home and out of harm’s way.
Mark Spark had a lot of mouth. “Fuck y’all Harlem niggas!” he shouted. “I’ll lay all y’all niggas down!”
“Yo, we ain’t got no beef wit’ y’all niggas,” Kip said. “Just go on back home, and we gonna forget this ever happened.”
“Or what, nigga? Huh? What the fuck y’all niggas gonna do?” Mark lifted his T-shirt and brandished a .9mm in his waistband. “I want my fuckin’ money back from y’all Harlem crooks!”
There was no getting around it. Everyone felt that violence was inevitable.
Kip shot Eshon a stern look, and right away, she was on point. She went over to Kid and grabbed the push bars on the back of his wheelchair and started to wheel him out of harm’s way. Kid was reluctant to leave his brother behind, but he didn’t have a choice.
Arguing and threats started to fly back and forth between both groups with Kip in the center of the commotion. The arguing escalated into pushing and shoving among the group of men. Kip struck Mark in the face, and a full-blown fight broke out, punches flying everywhere.
It was chaos. Innocent bystanders watched the skirmish play out like it was a movie. It was Brooklyn against Harlem, and over a dozen men were fighting.
Mark Sparks didn’t even see it coming. Devon walked right behind him in a sneak attack and blew his brains out with a .45 handgun. Mark went flying forward and crashed against the concrete—dead!
More gunfire erupted, sending everyone scurrying for safety. It looked like everybody was shooting.
