When he touched down, we took over the streets. We started eating but was hungry.
Not long after that, he was given an opportunity for boxing. I silently invested in him even though he had the bread to do so. Rayzor’s been untouchable.
I wanted to keep him outta the streets.
“Until I can’t see what’s in my account, I got shit to work on.”
“That’s why you’re the face in the ring. I’m the face out here. You already got shit under control.”
“I hear ya, but we got shit to do. You coming or I gotta make these runs?”
I shook my head as he climbed inside his truck.
That nigga don’t listen.
I get it, though. That’s what he knew. His safety cushion.
Niggas like me don’t get that chance. And if I had the opportunity, I’d likely never take it. Fast money kept momma’s lights on, tuition paid, clothes on backs, food on the table and everybody what they wanted and needed.
Rayzor was destined for the ring. He was born into it. Even his abilities came naturally. I liked to hit dirty. He hit with precession and study. That’s where we differ, but we understood the same.
Niggas like me don’t get chosen for the limelight. We got crowns from the streets.
My work out this morning was more intense than usual. I hit the bags harder, roped faster, doing more pushups than normal. That shit was on me bad. I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Walking out the gym, steam from my body evaporated in the air. One headphone on, the other behind my ear. Vigilant. The two interconnecting streets were night and day, livingly on the side. Calm near the gym. Empty enough to see every face but packed enough for every piece of equipment to be utilized.
Just as I threw my bag in the car, I noticed that familiar Camry in the distance. A nigga stood outside it dressed in black sweats and a beat-up black hoodie. Salt and pepper afro, reminds you of the 80’s. Goatee and beard connected. The mothafucka looked like an old-time spy.
I couldn’t mistake what or who he wanted because he was looking at me.
Adjusting my waist, making sure my shit was locked in, I lightly jogged across the street. “Aye, you got a problem?”
He tossed out the cigar he was smoking.
“You’re weakest on your left. Always have been,” he stated.
I balled my fist. “Fuck you say?”
“You need to lean in more to your left. Weight training helps.”
“You think you can do better?”
A creepy smirk crossed that niggas cheek. Yellow teeth peeked from behind his lips. “You’re cocky just like your father was–”
I hit him quick before jacking him against the car, gun pressed into his temple. “Fuck you, nigga.”
“Still quick tempered,” he mocked, blood seeping through his lips.
Yeah, this nigga had a death wish.
I wanted to squeeze the trigger, but it was something in his eyes that made me drop his shirt.
I stepped back.
Gun still aimed at him.
His eyes dragged along with the person jogging past us.
