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He shook the ladies’ hands gently and considerately said, “Like Devon said, my name is Twitter. Why they call me Twitter? Because I got many followers for my business, baby. I’m everywhere, and now I’m here, at your service. I trend faster than the strike of lightning, and once I strike, like J.J., I’m dynamite.”
The ladies found him charming and amusing. But why was he there? He spoke in riddles about himself—and though it was cute, they didn’t have time to laugh and find it cute.
“And still, y’all look at me like I’m a calculus problem, so let me further explain myself, because show and tell is better than chatting and explaining,” Twitter coolly proclaimed.
He went to the duffel bag and unzipped it. He reached inside and immediately started pulling out guns and placing them on the bed for everyone to see.
“I sell guns, ladies . . . and gentleman. But not just any guns. The best ones—military upgrades. The guns that do not come cheap, you feel me?”
Before they knew it, there was an assortment of handguns and several submachine guns on the bed. It was the type of firepower that they needed; the ones that could put holes through Kevlar and pierce through steel.
“I got the Smith and Wesson XVR 460 Magnum—highest claimed velocity in a big-bore production gun. I got the Desert Eagle .50 caliber, my personal favorite. It’s a fuckin’ predator out there, the most powerful handgun out there,” Twitter proclaimed.
He pointed to the third handgun and said, “And then there’s this baby here, the Ruger Super Redhawk. Bullets fly at just under 1,200 feet per second. This baby right here, it has speed and power, and it will stop just about anything in its tracks. Now the few machine guns I do have, we talking about Miami Vice type of hardware: Uzis and the Heckler and Koch.”
“You definitely know your guns,” The Kid said.
“A man has to know his business, his merchandise. You know it, you love it, and you buy it. The rules of business.”
Everything on the bed was impressive, and if they were going up against a terrorist like Meek, they would need the best money could buy.
“How much for the entire lot?” Devon asked.
“Now you’re speaking my math. For you and the memory of Kip, I’ll let it all go for fifteen thousand.”
It was a big number.
“Do we need it all?” Eshon asked.
“When it comes to survival, sweetheart, you never know what you may need,” Twitter replied.
Devon agreed completely. But the streets were hot with confusion and madness, and the money wasn’t coming in fast enough. They had to cut back on a few things, including guns.
“How about half then?” The Kid said. “We’ll take seven thousand worth of your best weapons.”
“Half, huh?” Twitter replied.
“Yes, seven thousand dollars.”
Twitter thought about it, and then smiled The Kid’s way and said, “You know what, I’m cool with it. Like I said, Kip was a good friend of mines, and I honor his memory by doing good business with his peoples.”
Devon picked out the guns they would need. He reached for the Desert Eagle and the Smith and Wesson, and also grabbed several Uzis. For him, it was game time. He loved his guns. He was eager to try them out on his enemies.
Twitter smiled once more, his gold tooth shining, and said to Devon and the group, “Once again, it’s always good doing business with you, Devon. You continue to make me money like always. Ladies, until we meet again, hopefully under better circumstances. I gotta sign out now, and on to the next venue.”
He kissed the backs of the girls’ hands, and his charm was flowing like Niagara Falls. With his duffel bag of guns in hand, Twitter made his exit from the room with his pockets filled with a wad of hundred- and fifty-dollar bills. Devon was already loading bullets into the .50 cal. He said to the group, “We got a bitch to kill out there and a terrorist to slaughter, and I’m not tryin’ to see either one of them live another fuckin’ day. They wanna blow shit up, then we gonna fuck them up!”
11
Maserati Meek was somewhat concerned about Jessica as he sat naked in the bedroom alone and puffed on his cigar. The television was on, and the nightclub bombing was the chief subject matter in the news. It had been twenty-four hours since the deadly incident, and the death toll was still climbing. Now it was officially 205 confirmed dead. An impromptu memorial for the dead had been arranged near the bombing site—lit candles, dozens of flowers, teddy bears, pictures, and sympathy cards were steadily multiplying on the city sidewalk. Dozens of concerned citizens and mourners gathered near the location now called “ground zero.” The careful removal of rubble and debris would turn up bodies, and sometimes body parts—a leg here, an arm there, torsos, and numerous limbs. Poor souls, they never saw it coming. A night out of fun and partying transitioned into another disastrous nightmare in NYC—one that the city would never forget.
Meek stared at his work with apathy. He cared nothing for the dead Americans. What was tragic in America’s eyes was a recurring thing in his part of the world. The American government committed mass murders in the Islamic world daily. Innocent men, women, and children were slaughtered by their continuous drone attacks from above—indirectly striking a town or city from afar like cowards. Or implementing havoc and fear with their ground troops and their assault rifles—snipers picking off whoever they assumed was a threat to their military. Where was justice?
The bloodshed in the Middle East was a common thing—like a car accident in the states, they were expected. But in the States, two-hundred or more souls are killed, and the Americans cry out like children and vow for justice and retribution. They wanted punishment—but who would punish the Americans for their crimes against his people? Though the bombing was an action against his enemies, not a direct act of terrorism against their society, Maserati Meek felt vindicated. So, let the Americans cry out and mourn their dead. His people were in mourning every day.
Meek doused the cigar in the ashtray nearby and stood up. His penis was flaccid, but still impressive. He muted the TV. He had heard enough. There was no doubt the FBI would be vigorously hunting for terrorists—waiting for some foreign group to claim responsibility for the bombing—most likely ISIS. But there would be no group claiming the glory. Though it was tempting to take the glory—to become the light and envy of others—Meek was no fool. He was about money, revenge, and business. With one set of his enemies dead, now he could focus on eradicating Panamanian Pete, and from there on, expanding his wealth and empire.
