Gangsta Bitch by Sonny F. Black

help. He cursed himself for wearing the stylish, yet thin, jacket knowing it was damn near mid-December, but he wanted to show it off. A chest cold would be the price he paid for fashion.
    “How we looking?” Scott asked a slim kid who had come to stand next to him.
    “I’m almost done with this pack,” the kid replied.
    “A’ight, when you’re done go get another one from Steve. I’m getting up outta here,” Scott told the kid and bounced. Scott had decided that it was too chilly for him to play the block so he decided to turn it in. He had tried to call Marsha again, but she wasn’t picking up. She always did that when he stayed out. Their son was at his mother’s so there was no telling who or what Marsha was into. Writing her off, he hoped that he could catch one of the lounge stragglers to slide with before the night was done.
    Scott made a brief stop at the corner store to grab a cup of coffee and a cigar before stepping out to the curb to flag down a cab. Eighth Avenue wasn’t showing him any love so he decided to try his luck on Seventh. Scott made his way down the block sipping his coffee, lost in his own thoughts. A flicker of movement brought him up short. Scott gave a brief look around but other than him, there was no one on the block but two crack heads who were having a minor argument.
    “That fucking weed is making me paranoid,” he said to the night. Scott kept walking, but he still felt uneasy. Just as he reached the end of the block, he heard a flicking sound. Scott spun and found himself staring at a man huddled in a darkened doorway. The man hadn’t done anything or even moved in Scott’s direction but the warning alarm in his head was blaring.
    The man flicked a lighter and brought it up to his face. The flame played tricks with the light against the man’s face, obscuring his features. Though Scott couldn’t see him totally, there was something familiar about him. As the man stepped out of the shadows and under the soft glow of the street light, a ball of ice began to form in Scott’s stomach. “Oh shit!”
    “That wasn’t quite the reception that I was expecting,” Duce smiled. Scott went for his gun, but Duce beat him to the punch. The 9mm was pointed square between Scott’s eyes. “By the time you pull it the fight will be over. Why don’t you toss that hammer over here so we can talk?”
    Scott thought about trying for it, but he was sure that the man standing before him would shoot him if he did. Hell, he might’ve shot him if he didn’t, but he’d rather try to negotiate his way out as opposed to shooting. Scott cursed under his breath and tossed the gun on the ground, with a faint sloshing sound.
    “That’s better,” Duce continued. “It’s been a long time, my nigga. Ain’t you gonna tell me how happy you are to see me?”
    “Truthfully, no, you’re the last mutha fucka I ever thought I’d see again,” Scott said coldly.
    “Nobody did, baby boy, but here I am,” Duce spread one arm, but didn’t take the gun off Scott. “So what’s the good word? I hear you and that fat mutha fucka Butch is out here getting rich, building off the ashes of my brother’s shit.”
    Scott looked into Duce’s eyes and could actually feel the hate boring into his face. “D-Murder, I’m just out here trying to eat.”
    “Eating off the dead? Yeah, I always knew you were a vulture and even a creep, but I’d have never picked you to be a fucking traitor, Scott. That was some slick shit y’all put together though, calling me to the spot with them corpses then tipping the police off to it. Cock sucker, they could’ve fried me!” Duce took a few steps closer.
    “D, don’t do nothing crazy. Let’s rap about this, fam.”
    “Nah, we ain’t got nothing to talk about. All I want is…” Duce’s next word was replaced by a scream as Scott tossed the cup of hot coffee in his face. The liquid was hot enough that it burned when it made contact with Duce’s skin, but not