Me and My Hittas by Tranay Adams

behind
a barbwire fence.
    “So, what exterminator should we hire?” Bullet
inquired. “I was thinking about Tito.” He took a bite of
salmon.
    “Definitely not, Tito’s family,” Black Jesus told him.
“We don’t want this thing being traced back to us. It’s bad
enough the cops are sniffing around. The last thing I want
to do is give them a reason to come prying further in my
affairs. We’ll get some outside assistance for our little
vermin.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
    The drug lord held up his fork, as he chewed his food
and then he swallowed. “The Ghost,” he went back to
cutting up his salmon.
“The Ghost?”
     
“Unh huh,” Black Jesus said, munching on salmon.
     
“You sure you wanna use this guy? I mean, he charges
an arm and a leg.”
    “
Fifty thousand dollars to be exact, but who gives a
shit? I have more money than I know what to do with. I
spend fifty thousand dollars a year on socks and drawers
alone. What the fuck do I care?” Black Jesus was about to
take another bite of salmon until he noticed how uptight
Bullet was at the mention of hiring the infamous hit-man.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think old Ghost
had you spooked.”
    “Who me?” his brows furrowed as he pointed his
thumb at his chest, “Not the kid, my heart don’t pump no
KoolAid, you know my resume.” He took a sip of red wine.
    Bullet was full of shit; the hit-man gave him the
creeps. As a kid he was told stories about the assassin as if
he were The Boogie Man. If you don’t behave then The
Ghost will come and chop your head off, his big brother use
to tell him late nights when they were the only ones home.
    Black Jesus clapped his hands sporadically and the
maid emerged in the dining room with a pearl and gold
antique telephone on a golden platter. It was time to make
a very important phone call.
That night
    A milk white stretch Mercedes Benz pulled up on
124 th and Compton Avenue. The chauffeur slid out from
behind its wheel, popped its trunk,
and removed a
wheelchair. He sat the wheelchair on the ground, closed the
trunk, and proceeded around to the back passenger door. He
then opened the back door of the stretch hog and helped
Black Jesus into the confines of the wheelchair. Tango
exited the limo from the opposite side and made his way
over to his boss. He took his wheelchair by the handles and
rolled him upon the sidewalk. Rolling Black Jesus through
the black iron-gate of the house, he gave the creepy looking
place a once over and could have sworn he saw a dark figure
move past the openings of one of its boarded up windows.
    Tango knocked on the chipped wood door of the old
house and paint chips floated into the crisp, cold night air.
For a moment there was silence, and then they heard what
sounded like ten locks coming undid. The front-door swung
inward and Tango and Black Jesus’ nasal passages were
assaulted by an odor so foul that it made them gag. The
stench was a combination of blood, sweat, urine and feces.
Tango and Black Jesus brandished their handkerchiefs and
covered their noses; as they proceeded over the threshold
the front door slammed shut behind them, locking itself.
Startled, Tango pulled his pistol and stepped in front of his
boss to shield him from any danger. He pointed his piece
and turned his head in every direction a threat might present
itself.
    Black Jesus
looked around the living room; its
hardwood floors were dirty and wore gaping holes. Its walls
and ceiling was filthy and covered in green mole from water
damage.
    “Hello? My name is Jesus Arturo!” He yelled. “I’m
looking for the one they call The Ghost!” he spoke loud
enough for anyone to hear that may be listening.
    “Come down into the basement!” A voice
came from
the dirty, spider webbed intercom on the wall. The voice
was deep with a heavy bass to it. If you were to close your
eyes you could assume that it belonged to the Lord himself.
Tango and Black Jesus’ eyes