Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun

CW: Contains themes of drug trafficking, violence and profanity.

Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun

“Ay yo, Mo-Mo, maybe you should be careful what you wish for. Things is basically goin’ all right now but they can get worse real quick I think. We can prolly smooth this shit out. We should try and talk wit them, for starters at least. Shit.”

He just looked at me, with something dark and dangerous swimming through the shallows behind his gray-green eyes.

Sure, it would have been easy to just go along with the rest’a them but my pops raised me to play chess, not checkers, from a young age and although a dude like Gary Kasparov would prolly kick my ass a thousand times out of a thousand in like ten moves or less I still learned a few things about thinking two or three steps ahead. I aint no dumb muthafucker. "Taking the long view", that’s what they call it. I never went to college and I don’t know my IQ score (I never even took the SAT) but I like to think I aint just some dumb nigga from down the block. I don’t know where you from but out here, where I stay, you best be at least a little bit smarter than these streets.

So when Big Mo said it was time to take out Nando and Nestor - N&N’s what everyone call them - and the rest of the crew all agreed, I was obligated to disagree. I was the 10th man, as they say, and I knew about the 10th Man Rule. (My pops taught me about that shit too.) I was Mo’s top lieutenant - we went to grade school together back at P.S. 157 in the Grove Hill section of the South Bronx - and we been together for a minute but things had gotten a little shaky between us just lately so I really didn’t want to speak out, but I had to.

“Ay yo, man. If you aksin’ me? I say we let em’ have that shit for now. We got like four more empty blocks going south that we can just stretch out into without bumpin’ up against no one and if we keep on putting out that good shit in the blue Comotosa bags these junkie muthafuckers are still gonna come to us, even if it’s a few extra blocks. Ay yo, I think you already know this, Papi. Let’s try to be smart about this shit for just a minute. Bullets is cheap but pay lawyers cost money, nigga. Big money for real.”

N&N sold coke and dope in our neighborhood of East Tremont way back before we did. Nestor’s dad was slinging out here before I was even born and his boy inherited the family business when pops got sent up to The Hill on an A-1 charge like, shit, at least 15 years back. I think that was his third. I was just a kid then but he still up there and I heard he killed a nigga and he aint comin’ back.

Things was all good though until recently, when they started to push down onto the corners we been holdin’ down for years, them blocks between the Concourse and Jermone Ave just south of Tremont. Not even a courtesy convo. Those blocks always been ours but lately we’ve had beef, and now we got bodies.

When Berto got shot in the leg about a month back it set things off to start with but everyone was down with Tiny - that funny fat-ass muthafucker - and they was all heated up real good when he got smoked tryin’ to run off that corner in his baggy-ass pants. Tiny couldn’t run for shit and took three in the back. We just got home from the service with his family and all, everyone cryin’ and shit. Niggas was pissed off for real, out for blood. Six dudes, nine handguns and two cut-downs on the table, everyone ready to go out and buck.

“I done been smart for a long time, Primo. I think you know, else I wouldn’t be here now, right? But maybe this is a time for muscle tho’, not brains. What’choo think, man?” Mo raised his chin towards me. It was half a question and half a challenge. They all looked at me. I knew I was out on a real thin branch to begin with so I just backed the fuck off.

“Ay, obviously it aint my call. I’m just….tryin’ to give you sumthin’ else to think on, Mo-Mo, that’s all. Options, man. I’m wit you however it go, you already know this. Shit. Where I come from? Who my peoples?” I shrugged and lit a cigarette and then just looked down at the floor. 

I knew he wasn’t gonna listen.

“All right, let’s mount up muthafuckers. We on the hunt and we aint comin’ back until we drop at least three of them bitches. We gonna start at that busy corner they got on 177th and roll on from there. I know where Nestor’s grandma live and that’s where he stay most of the time. Either there or his girl’s crib down Fordham. I know where she stay too. We gonna spill some blood. Straight up. Yo Willy-Boy, go pull the truck around and we’ll see you out front in like a minute.” He threw the keys to his Escalade to the youngest kid in the room. I had a real bad feeling about the whole thing. It was too quick. They would be waiting, ready.

We all piled into the truck and I took the passenger seat, snicked a round into the chamber of my pistol and clicked off the safety. Mo had one of the cut-down shotguns in his lap - a Benelli 12 gauge loaded with pumpkin balls - as he drove. He didn’t look at me. When we got down to 177th Street and circled the corner I was relieved to see there was almost no one out there. I just assumed the 5-0 came past and business would be back up and running in like ten or fifteen minutes.

“Yo, Mo-Mo, let me out up at the corner here. I need to grab a deck of smokes and something to drink. Y’all niggas want anything?” They were all tensed-up and no one wanted shit so I stepped out on the corner and told them I’d be right back, then I walked into the bodega.

I took my time. I stood in front of the cold case for a while and looked at my phone, even though I already knew what I wanted. Then I took a can of root beer up front and made some small talk with the counter man for a while, an old Dominican dude who had been running that place since I was just a kid. We was both Yankee fans. I bought a lottery ticket and then I bought a pack of Newports, opened it and lit one, and by the time I walked back out the store the Escalade was gone, as I knew it would be. This was a real narrow one-way street and there’s no way that Big Mo could just stay double-parked out there without blocking traffic for a minute or two. Like I said, my pops taught me to think a few moves ahead. Chess, not checkers.

I stood out there in front of the bodega for a minute, smoking my cigarette, and then I heard the pop…pop…pop of gunfire and the sound of a car crash, which is basically what I expected. Big Mo was always just a little too hot. A little too quick to get involved whenever shit was jumpin’ off.

I waited to see if the Escalade would come racing up the block towards me but when it didn’t I started to jog in that direction. I heard the police sirens right when I got close enough to see Mo’s Caddilac slammed up against a few parked cars with all the windows shot out and he was slumped over the wheel. The corner was empty by then. I turned around immediately and began walking back to my crib with my head down.

I laid low for a while, “going to ground” as they say, but I knew N&N’s hangouts better than Mo-Mo did. Shit, I knew the pizza place just off Fordham Ave where all them niggas like to eat. I just chilled at home for a minute and watched some movies on Netflix and waited til’ the time was right, about two weeks later.

“What up muthafucka, you aint get a slice for me? God damn, nigga! Who pay yo bills? You know I’m hungry like a Goddamn wolf, always. What’s up? I really gotta aks?” Nando hopped out of his Lexus with his phone in one hand and looked at his man Nestor with both palms raised in a gesture of insult and offense.

That’s when I came out of the alley behind the pizzeria with my hoodie tucked over my head and put down Nestor with three shots to his chest from my Springfield .45 from less than fifteen feet away. It’s a big gun and I knocked that muthafucker straight out his shoes, sent his pizza sailing into the gutter and the rest of them young‘uns just ran off towards the Concourse. Everyone but Nando. He was just too close, which is how I planned it, and he knew that runnin’ was pointless.

He tried to get all hard with me for a minute and I saw his eyebrows scrunchin’ up but as soon as he started talkin’ I just pistol-whipped that muthafucker in the mouth and knocked out a few of his teeth. He fell to the sidewalk and then pulled himself up against the wall.

“Sup’ Nando? Aint no fun when the rabbit got the gun, right?,” I said in a quiet, scratchy voice and then smiled and chuckled at him for a second or two while pointing the barrel of my pistol directly into the center of his face as he wiped away some of the blood running down his chin.

“Shit, I don’t think your boy Nestor’s gettin’ up over there. What’choo think, man? Looks like you fresh out of muscle.” I looked over at Nestor’s dead body lying half on the sidewalk and half in the street, his white NY Knicks jersey turned mostly red at that point and I smiled some more.

“Cuz yo, with y’all gone I think I’m taking over the rest of Tremont Ave, little man. We prolly could’a worked this shit out if you just came past to talk. But nah. Not you. You too big for talk, right? Too late for talk now though I think.”

I didn’t waste no time. I just looked around to make sure no one was witnessin’ up close and then I put two in his dome. I snatched up his pocket money, his rope chain, his rings and his Rolex (I mean, you gotta be stupid to just leave all that shit behind) but I left his Glock .40 on him and then I jogged off towards Fordham Ave with my head down and my hoodie up.

Yeah, Daddy. Fuck Nando. He got his. I paid some of the little shorties from around the way to go and shoot out them street lights the night before so I wasn’t trippin’ about no security cameras. It was dark and I ain't never heard nuthin’ about it afterwards. Nuthin’. I don’t think the police round here care about this shit really. Just one street nigga killin’ another. They prolly like it that way.

I wasn't worried. I had business to tend to anyways. I had new territory to run and I knew I might need to handle up for a minute; make sure no one got no problems with the new arrangements. It was all good though. I had peoples standing with me. I know how to muscle up, for real. Shit. People always need to get paid. It’s just a matter of money, like everything else. We can hold this down. Might be a few bodies but that’s just what they call “the cost of doing business.” Ain’t no thing.

And things was working out just fine, for a while. Only two bodies got dropped, neither of them on my team, when Spring turned to Summer and then it got real hot, real quick. Not the police, but the weather. It’s like that out here. All concrete, no trees.

I was out on East Tremont two blocks off the Concourse one day in late June, just tryin’ to stay cool in the shade and collecting some dollars and paying off some of my peoples when I seen this little kid coming down the block with a grape soda in one hand, minding his own business. I only noticed the little nigga because he looked at me for a second when he got closer. I didn’t really think shit about it. I run all these corners round here and the shorties all know whassup, so kids look at me all the time. Ain’t nothing unusual. They need work but I ain’t got enough to go round for every little nigga in the South Bronx. Shit.

I was just telling Red Light - we call him that cuz he ran a red light and hit an NYPD roller from the 48th a few years back and got his ass beat for real - that my boy Shiny would come past with a re-up package for him in about an hour or two, when all’a sudden this shorty drops his grape soda on the sidewalk and pulls a little deuce-deuce auto from his pants and before I know whassup I catch three in the gut and one skimmed the side of my neck. Little shorty motherfucker tried to put one in my head too but he was already running off at that point and he only took off the top of my left ear.

It didn’t matter. I coughed up some blood and I knew I wasn’t never gonna make it to the ER up at Misericordia. That’s the only Level-1 trauma unit round here and I seen enough niggas get dropped in these streets to know it’s your only chance when you catch a few. Shit. They take you to one of these other B-list hospitals round here they might as well just leave you where they found you.

I only ever done dope a few times back when I was just a kid but Red Light was leaning over me and aksin’ what to do, so I told him to just give me a couple of them blue bags. I didn’t have no works to shoot up with (I ain’t no dope fiend) and no time neither so I just dumped that shit out on a c-note and snorted it up. Then I told Red Light to give me two more. Shit, if I was going out slow I might as well try to kill the pain, right? I couldn’t get those next two bags down though. My throat was filling up with blood by then and I was choking on it.

I remember how everything just started to fade out around then. I seen Red Light take the bloody c-note from my hand along with the rest of the cash I spilled out onto the sidewalk. He started to hustle off down the block as the sirens got closer but then he ran back and grabbed my Patek Philippe wristwatch and my gold chain, that muthafucker. I was too weak to stop him or even to reach back for my Springfield.

I guess I forgot that Nando had a kid, or maybe I just didn’t think about it at all. I don’t know. I had other shit to worry about and I thought he was just a little nigga, and he was, but still big enough to pull a trigger though. It don’t take much.

When the EMTs came rushing up to me on the sidewalk they was aksin’ all sorts of questions but I remember the pretty white lady say, “What is your name?”

I spit out the blood in my mouth and my head was starting to feel real heavy. I just told her in a half-whisper, “Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got the gun…”

Then everything just went black.

THE END