A LaLa Land Addiction by Ashley Antoinette Page A

him come down?” Noah asked.
    â€œNot a soul. He been down here since last night,” Messiah said smugly. “The basement is soundproof.”
    Noah pulled the tape from the boy’s mouth. “What’s your name, little nigga?”
    â€œDeMario,” the boy replied.
    â€œHow old are you?” Noah questioned.
    â€œFourteen.”
    Noah could tell the kid was trying to be tough, but his voice betrayed him. It shook at the thought of death. Messiah had already gone to work on the kid. He was bloodied and beaten. Noah could smell the scent of piss in the air from where the kid had emptied himself. Fourteen years on the streets of Flint were different from the life a normal kid lived. Noah knew that this type of warfare came with the game. It was the mentality that crippled his city. A life for a life. Age didn’t beget sympathy in the hood because there was no finger too young to pull a trigger.
    He turned to Messiah. “Close the car wash. Clear this bitch out,” Noah said.
    Messiah nodded and then headed up the steps.
    â€œPlease, man, don’t kill me,” the kid said. There was fear in his eyes. Noah knew that it was necessary for the streets to fear him, but the look of dread in this boy’s eyes made Noah feel like a monster.
    â€œYou know who I am?” Noah asked.
    The kid nodded his head. “You killed my brother.”
    â€œWho told you that?” Noah asked.
    â€œKeon’s baby mom,” the kid said. “Keon told her he was meeting up with you. Next thing you know he ends up dead and his stash was gone—Man, I don’t got no beef with you. Please, man, I swear I won’t say shit, man.”
    â€œWho tried to clip me in the club last night?” Noah asked. His voice was stoic.
    â€œI don’t know. I’m not in the streets, man. I just hoop. I play ball at Southwestern. I don’t be on the block like that. That’s my brother, man. I don’t have nothing to do with that!” the boy shouted. He was crying now, like the kid he was; he was terrified.
    â€œYour brother who?” Noah asked.
    The kid’s lip trembled as he stifled his cries. “It’s my brother, man,” he said, pleading because he realized he was being asked to sell his own flesh and blood out.
    â€œYour brother sent somebody to blow my head off last night. I’ma off that nigga on switch. You can die quickly or I got all day. Choice is yours, kid. Now I’ma ask you again. Who is your brother?” Noah asked.
    With tears streaming down his face the kid broke down. He was blubbering, but it was clear that he wouldn’t tell on his family. Noah respected it, but he didn’t show it. If the kid wanted to let his pride lead him to the grave then who was Noah to stop him? Noah looked at the torturous instruments that Messiah had already laid out for him. He picked up the hunters knife and walked over to the boy and placed it against his pinky finger. “His name or your finger, which one it gone be, lil’ nigga?” Noah asked.
    The kid played tough until Noah began to apply pressure to one of his digits. The first sign of blood made him yell out, “Demarcus, man! His name is Demarcus!”
    Noah placed the tape back over the kid’s mouth. He didn’t want to hear the screams to come. The kid broke down. He was crying like a newborn baby as he realized the Grim Reaper was standing in front of him. Bile filled the back of Noah’s throat and his stomach felt hollow because he knew that he was about to do one more thing that moved him further away from God. Murder wasn’t something he could take back. He knew that with each life he took his soul darkened more and more. It was the price to pay for street fame. On the rise to the top, the bodies of his enemies would be left in his wake.
    Messiah came down the stairs with plastic tarp and duct tape in hand.
    â€œWe don’t need that,” Noah