Wait: A Not-So-True Story by S.R. Torris (pt.1)

"I'm the man round here, muthafucka, don't you ever forget that shit!"

You know that flick from back in ’97, “The Professional”? Well that’s me – it was me, but I’ll get into that later. I love that movie, shit, I even wear them same dusty ass highwaters like my man Leon, did; and the beanie and the round glasses like Whoopi Goldberg. I know Whoopi had them first but I like the wayLeonrocks them. And I don’t let no damn wops hold my money, I’m literate enough, I can count. Besides them grease ball guineas don’t like niggas anyway so what the fuck I look like giving them all my money to hold? And I do my job, you pay me, it gets done or I die getting it done.

 I’m that type of chick nobody wants, not guys or girls. I couldn’t really give a fuck about the guys and after a while I learned to care less about the girls. I’m black. No, understand what I’m saying; I’m not shouting from the rooftops about how proud of “my people” I am – fuck them niggas. I am real black, dark as night-at-nighttime-in-the-dark black. And although I have all my teeth and no scars on my young face, God saw fit to make everything on me look manly, nothing soft at all. Anything in me that was gentile left when I shot and killed my very 1st mark; I was 15 when that happened. Some guy thought he was tough until this psycho gang banging kid found him and duct taped his ass. He tortured the tough kid for a little while and was about to off him until he saw me walking through the playground to get to my building.

“Yo! Dude, come here!” He was waving at me and laughing. I went over there because, one I was curious and two, the most important part, the psycho guy had a gun.

He looked at the tough guy and said to him, “I’m the man round here, muthafucka, don’t you ever forget that shit! I’m so on my shit I’ma let this dude shoot your ass!”

 I was the “this dude” he was talking about and I knew I had to shoot him or be shot.

So I shot the tough guy, blew his brains all over the damn side of the building, nearly took my hand off from the kick back, and the psycho guy laughed his ass off while his boys standing around scared shitless, ran like the wind. He looked at me, patted me on the back like I was some kind of hero and realized I was a girl.

“Oh shit! You ain’t a guy at all. Yo, fuck them pussies that ran, it’s me and you from now on, my dude!”

 “You a psycho, man,” I told him.

That’s how we became business partners, “Dude” and “Psycho”.

We was well known too. Gang bangers and drug dealers would fuck each other up when they were at war but when they wanted to send a message they called Psycho. Psycho called me. There were a lot of regime changes in the underworld because of me. The cops and the FBI haven’t caught me so far because they are looking for a Nigerian or Kenyan or South African man. And like my boy Leon, I lived real low key.

I ran away from home, actually I just packed a garbage bag and walked out that bitch, two days after I shot the tough guy. I knew I wouldn’t be missed, Moms had 6 other kids to worry about. One less ass to kick would give her foot some rest. I kept on stepping and never looked back.

I stay in a nice little one-bedroom brownstone apartment, small closet, twin mattress, little ass kitchen, sink, tub, and a toilet that works. I was going to get a plant but ain’t nothing green about my thumbs so I got figurines instead. You know, those blank white ones that you can paint yourself. I made sure I wore gloves and bought a special painting outfit so I didn’t leave anything behind if I have to leave all of a sudden. No need to make the job for the authorities easy.

When I made my first $10K, I got myself three safe deposit boxes at three different banks so I’d have a place to store my money, just in case I had to be on the move real quick.

I was by myself, no ties, and I felt no loneliness because I knew my place in the world. It had always been my philosophy that people were unhappy because they didn’t know their place. You have a bunch of hamsters trying to be top dogs. You have Alpha dogs not wanting to be responsible so they try and be hamsters; you got dumb asses trying to convince you they are smart and the smart ones run around acting stupid. Nobody wants to be in their place, it was that simple…

Psycho called me about a job, a suicide. I’d heard about this kind of shit but never actually believed it; thought it was some rich soap opera shit. But there I was on my way to645 Lavender Ave., apartment 5C(key to the place over the door jamb) to off some chick that paid $30K for it to get done. Thirty thou, is that all her life was worth to her?

How do you determine the price? When gangsters would see me coming they’d beg and promise to double and triple the price. I always found it funny that in the little span of time they had, instead of begging me to spare their family or giving a message to so-and-so of how much they loved them, special shit like that, they would put these ludicrous price tags on who they were which really got me thinking about how much they actually valued their life. And being a nigga with a gun, they insulted my intelligence every time. A watch, or a necklace or the diamond earrings in the safe – just the diamond earrings, not the Treasury Bonds that were worth 20 times more sitting next to the diamond earrings. One guy offered up his daughter in the next room, because he just knew a young white woman was going to be his stay of execution. I shot that guy’s balls off before I killed him.

But this job was different.


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