| Of East Brooklyn Drug Cartels | |||||
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| What: In his search for a particular mutant, Kwabena Odame enlists the help of an old contact in the drug trafficking world. WARNING: VIOLENCE, LANGUAGE AND DRUG REFERENCES (PG-13) | |||||
Street lights raced by as the car sped through the streets of East Brooklyn, leaving a trail of dirty tire tracks in the thin sheen of water left on the asphalt from rainfall that had passed over the boroughs earlier that day. It hadn't been the first time that Kwabena Odame had been brought to the home of a drug lord, so he was familiar with the routine. You made your contact, they made a few phone calls, then you got shoved into a car and driven half way across the city, losing your sense of direction and eventually giving up on trying to find backup or help.
There was something to be said about the world of narcotic trafficking. On the inside, this far deep into the workings of the trade, they were worse than the mob, hell, possibly even worse than the Nazis or Al Qaeda. Once you were on the hook, whether it was money owed for drugs, or a deed owed for something else, you were on the hook hard, and it was difficult to be let go.
Something about this trip seemed to upset Kwabena more than usual. The car was going just a bit too fast. It teared around a corner, slowing just in time to keep from ramming into the large garage door of a warehouse deep within one of East Brooklyn's industrial parks. The screeching of the garage door's old mechanism got him deep, setting him off and making him wish he was here to get a hit, rather than information.
The car parked, and the door was opened for him. Kwabena stepped out, putting on his best poker face while coming about to face the trio of men who approached. The driver and the two who had escorted him there approached the other three, and they all embraced, greeting each other with various levels of intimacy. At long last, the one front and center came into the light. He was tall, almost as black-skinned as Kwabena, and his face was scarred from more than a couple of knife fights. He walked up and hooked his arm around Kwabena's shoulder, guiding him away from the car and into the warehouse proper.
"What's up, Slee?"
"Sup, Kwa'?" replied Slee. He leered at Kwabena as they walked, as if Kwabena had done something wrong by coming there. "You good?"
"Yeah, I'm good," answered Kwabena. "Might need a hit on some hard in the next few days, but I'm staying clean for now."
"Hard ain't my game, you know this, but for you? 'Cause you special? Anything for you, you my main man, ain't that right?"
"You know it," answered Kwabena. He suddenly turned, pulling away from Slee and looking at him directly. "Alright, man, let's cut this crap. You know why I'm here. So, what is it?" He pointed at Slee, warningly. "You still owe me for bailing you out of Cook County."
Without warning, two of the thugs came up and started kicking Kwabena in the gut, sending him to his knees on the dirty warehouse floor. "You one hard up, stupid kid, you know that?" growled Slee. "Only the thing is, I like you. I like you a lot, and I want to keep on likin' you, know'm sayin'?"
Kwabena looked up at the drug lord, trying to hide the pain from his face.
"So, you listen up, and you listen good. This bitch you lookin' for, the one with the black eye? I can tell you where she been. She been busy knockin' over my supply warehouses, that's where she been."
Kwabena closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Now he was in real trouble, and he knew it a moment before another shoe was planted into his gut for good measure.
Slee leaned down, took Kwabena's chin in his hand, and forced it upward so that their eyes met in close quarters. "Here's the deal, Kwa. You find this bitch, you bring her to me, unarmed, without her little humvee totin' merc friends or whatever. You bring her to me, and you'll never owe me another damned thing again. You got that, Kwa'?"
Kwabena, snarling, met his accomplices eye with a growled agreement. "Yeah, I got you."
Slee released Kwabena's chin, and with a gold toothed grin, stuffed his jacket full with five grams of heroin. "Here's your payment. Now you in contract! Best not break this one or its your ass. You got forty eight hours to deliver." Slee motioned toward his thugs, who grabbed Kwabena by the shoulders and began dragging him back to the car they brought him in.
It was going to be a very long two days.