End of the Line Read Free Page A

crib? I can’t believe your rotten-snake ass!”
    Derek was high as two kites. He’d been on a drinking and smoking binge all evening; however, he easily recognized the heat in his homeboy’s tone. Being born and raised in the hood, it wasn’t hard to miss the ghetto fever Mike Mike was throwing in his direction. After taking in account his friend’s verbal shade, Derek looked downward. Squinting his weed-weary eyes, he momentarily froze. Not sure of what he was seeing, the inebriated visitor rubbed his bloodshot pupils to ensure he was not dreaming.
    “Yo, Mike Mike, my nigga. What’s the deal with you? Are you high? Are you gone off some of them pills we had the other day? I mean, you bugging. Why you got that thang out?”
    Taking a few steps backward, Mike Mike lived in the celebration of revenge. The element of surprise was definitely on his side. With his chest stuck out, he vindictively raised his right arm. Unlike Derek, he was far from being under the influence of any substance, liquid, pill, or otherwise. What Mike Mike was feeling was raw, uncut, unfiltered human emotion; none other than betrayal in its worst form. He’d been violated, so man code universal wide dictated he returned the disrespectful favor. With deliberate aim, Mike Mike pointed the hairline trigger firearm directly at Derek’s face.
    Instantly, Derek’s confused expression switched to terror as he tried to prevent the surprise confrontation from escalating any further. “Yo, Mike Mike, for real, though . . . Why you pointing that thang at me? What’s the deal? What, you and Jessica got into it again? What’s the deal?”
    “Don’t say her fucking name, my nigga; don’t. I’m dead ass right now.” Deep off into his feelings, Mike Mike set Derek on fire with his eyes, meaning exactly what he’d just demanded.
    “Huh?” Derek flinched up, still trying to slow his friend down from pulling the trigger.
    “Yeah, come on, dawg, don’t come around here playing the role. This ain’t what you want right about now. I swear it ain’t.”
    “Mike Mike—”
    “You think I’m bullshitting or something? You already know what it is. You know what time it is. That was some real slimeball bullshit you cosigned on.”
    “Mike Mike, hold up, boy,” he pleaded, wanting mercy.
    “Naw, slick, I swear on my dead peoples, I thought we was better than that! We been through hell and back since day one, and you gonna go out like that? Damn, dude, you got me all the way twisted; then coming around here knocking on the door like we still a hundred with it!”
    It rapidly became apparent there was no calming the escalating situation down. Realizing it was a mere seconds away from things popping all the way off, instinctively, Derek lifted his forearm in some magical attempt to shield the impromptu bullet play attack from occurring. He knew he had to think fast if he didn’t want to feel the burn of a bullet and risk prematurely meeting his Maker. With huge beads of perspiration dropping from his brow, Derek knew he had to make his move before Mike Mike got even more amped up and went for his own. Working with limited space on the porch and few options, the time was now.
    Getting out of Dodge, Derek shook off his fear as he dove head-first clean over to the other side of the porch. Roughly scraping the side of his face against the weather-beaten concrete windowsill, he sought refuge behind an old lawn chair, praying Mike Mike wouldn’t let loose. As blood started to leak down from his injured cheek, he once again tried to get some understanding. “Dude, what in the fuck is wrong with you? You straight bugging pointing that shit at me! You know that throwback joint ain’t right. Damn, fam, chill!”
    Furious, Mike Mike stepped all the way out of the doorway and onto the porch. Gun still drawn, he was in street-soldier stance ready to do battle. “Naw, Derek, I ain’t bugging; not at all. And it ain’t no more of that fam bullshit jumping off;