CHAPTER XXIX

11:20

Branson was still watching the precinct when he received a call.

"It's me," the person stated matter of factly.

"Yeah, I know it's you - caller ID."

"I'm at the Tram. Do I board?"

"Yup. Someone will be along to pick you up at the other side, a little Dominican shorty-"

"Always the case with you."

"Come on, don't start! We had our run, we had our fun, you said you couldn't deal with my lifestyle and so we went our separate ways. Don't mean I'm your enemy. As a matter of fact, I'm still right now trying to make sure you eat. At my table, and we don't even pump like that anymore." There was silence for a few seconds.

"Well I appreciate it, in any case. Don't mind me, these fuckin' COVID restrictions killing my business in New York."

"No thang. Get on the Tram and Yselle will pick you up at the other side."

"Ooh. 'Yselle!'"

You wanna be startin' somethin', right?"

"I'm messing with you. Lemme catch my ride."

"I-ight. Oh, and yeah, I'll be by a little later with twin."

"Oh, that handsome young man?"

"You do know he and I are identical twins, right?"

"So?"

"So, if you calling him handsome, then you know I'm handsome."

"Whatever."

"Later, Star."

"Later, Bran."

Yselle was putting away the groceries when her phone rang.

"Habla, mi amor," she answered, continuing to put away the canned goods. Jesus, everything was so expensive nowadays! Even if you had the money to buy those things, if you were the slightest bit human, you couldn't help but wonder how other people not so well off could afford to buy this shit. Or was good food only for those who could afford it. Why were prices being raised, in the first place?

No such thing as "scarcity" existed. Companies dictated the price of goods and services and, allegedly due to wars, rising production and transportation costs (and who regulated those?), droughts, overflooding (generally, environmental factors [which geoengineering was old hat in this new day and age]) - because of these and some other factors, prices of goods rose. Some other factors like "demand-pull inflation" which stated that a type of inflation occurs when the total societal demand for goods and services rises faster than that economy's productive capacity.

Which was absurd.

Inflation was nothing more than the financiers and financial institutions of the world casually batting their eyes at, and patronizing, price gouging. Why, when gas was in short supply, did certain gas stations jack up their prices and we're later slammed with local or Stay or Federal fines for gouging prices on gasoline... but the same was not applicable to food vendors? They said the cost of producing and transporting goods rose with the cost of "rising energy prices." How in the hell did the cost of energy "rise"? Perhaps the demand for the supply of energy rise but and perhaps that was what was meant but to say that rising energy prices caused the cost of producing and transporting goods was a lie, and not even a well-couched factitious one.

Natural resources would always be in abundance. No amount of human beings could make a natural resource "scarce." That was bullshit and, the more Yselle's mind contemplated what she had learned in Economics, the more she realized how fucked up a world the Rothschild's and Orsini's and Rockefeller's and Soros's were leaving future generations.

"Good as you know," said Branson. She gave snorted scoffingly. "The tattooist is about to get on the Tram. I need you to go and pick her her up."

"Okay, pero what she look like?"

"You'll know her when you see her. Her name's Star."

"All right. I'll see you later, right?"

"For sure." They hanged up. Branson was chewing on some beef jerky when, five minutes after his chat with Yselle, an unmarked police car parked a bit down front of the precinct. Two women in suits and with attitudes that screamed "I am a law enforcement officer," and an unknown man exited the Chevy whatever the fuck it was in which they were riding. Both women, a tall Black female and a short white one, casually looked around before sauntering towards the precinct. The man, looking a bit haggard, stayed with the car and lit a cigarette.

A few seconds later, Kingson, Get Right, Imani and Katrina walked out of the precinct and past both female cops going into the precinct.

In-fucking-credible!

His brother had actually managed to- hold up! Branson's attention went back to the nigga smoking the cigarette.

Ain't that...? Yeah, that's that police nigga, Blue Boy's pops!

He reached to pull the door of the store open but a hand reached over his shoulder to keep it shut. Branson turned around in anger and came face to face with an older man with a familiar face. The old man indicated with his chin outside and Branson turned back around to the window to the glass door. Blue Boy's pops (Mr. Miller, Branson just remembered from last night's news) had pulled out a gun and was firing off shots at Branson's people. They were about crossing to his side of the street and the cop thought he had a clear line of sight. After all, he was only some meters away. But the Grant's whiskey in his system, mixed with some of that white girl (cocaine), gave him a false sense of confidence that his aim would still be A1.

Mr. Miller drew his weapon on four unarmed Black people like the pussy he was and fired severally. More shots went wide than those that struck Imani and Katrina. Branson saw Get Right cover and shield his women, a second too late, as they all fell to the ground. Branson also saw Kingson creeping from the street side, hunched down low and moving slowly along the row of parked cars. The two feds looking ass bitches ran backed outside, ducked, rolled and took cover, unholstering their service weapons. When Branson saw their bravery, some of the lyrics to an old Ice Cube song came to mind:

Fools get drunk and wanna compete,

slapboxing in the street.

Niggas get mad, tempers are flaring, cuz they got a few bitches staring.

Just for the nappy head,

but scareless bitches make for happy feds.

I make it my duty to cuss 'em

out, cus I just don't trust 'em.

The name of the song was Steady Mobbing and, as usual, Cube had something relevant to say.

Scareless bitches make for happy feds.

Damn right. Kingson waited a bit as Mr. Miller came closer to his victims. The fed bitches were yelling sonething but wasn't nobody paying them no mind. Mr. Miller walked slowly by some cars; as he passed a space in-between cars, Kingson rushed out and tackled him. The gun flew out of Mr. Miller's hands and both men went tumbling, one on top the other. Kingson was on top and began punching the man in a series of calculated and well-placed strikes intended to break bones and cause heavy internal damage. He didn't realize that half of the 28th precinct had rushed outside, guns drawn. The captain nigga from the precinct tried to pull Kingson off Mr. Miller but Kingson got off a few more blows before relenting.

He shook off the captain's helping hand and stood effortlessly, breath only slightly ragged. All the hours spent practicing grappling and striking at the dojo had paid off. It enhanced their endurance and taught them how to breathe for better stamina.

The old nigga standing beside Branson pulled open the front door and let him out. Branson nodded in appreciation to the old timer who slow nodded back and shuffled away deeper into the store. Branson slowly sauntered across the street, the guns in his waist conspicuously heavy now, with the heavy police presence. Strange, how that worked. Something he had been carrying effortlessly all morning now felt clumsy and awkward. He came to stand in front of his brother; the twins regarded each other. Branson really thought about the fact that Mr. Miller had almost taken his brother's life a few minutes ago. Kingson put his hand onto the shoulder of his real soulmate, the person closest to him in the world, the one who would die for him, too.

The one who has also been double-crossing him for some time, The Voice insidiously remarked.

Then they both walked past throngs of police that let them by. Ironically, Branson noticed, it was the two fed bitches that had come along with Mr. Miller that were the same ones arresting him and reading him his rights. When the twins got to where Get Right and his girls lay they saw how Get Right had taken off his shirt and was tearing it in two. The Spanish looking detective from the precinct took his shirt and tied off the wound on Katrina's right calf.

Get Right gently pressed the other half of the shirt to Imani's side, where there was heavy bleeding. Imani was unconscious but Katrina was wide awake, being attended to by police staff until the ambulance came. Kingson was briefly interviewed by Columbiana, who gave him her card and asked him to call her if there was anything he remembered. Out of habit, he also gave her his card, hitting her with one of his ancient "you might need a lawyer one day" situational lines. Branson told his brother he would go with the others to Harlem Hospital.

"I guess I'll go back to the Island and see how much progress has been made. Or lack thereof," said Kingson drily.

"How long is all that gonna take?"

"Like an hour or two. Yo, that reminds me: I'm meeting up w/Elsie at two o'clock. Wanna come with?" Branson thought it over - Elsie was still one of his favorite White people: nonjudgmental, , straight to the point and generous to a fault.

"Yeah, I'll come. Lemme go get them settled in first and then I'll meet you at the big homie's crib." Branson's phone rang: Unregistered Caller. He held it up for Kingson to see."Speak of the devil," they both said.

"I-ight, see you in a bit. Keep track of the tattooist also," said Kingson, giving his brother dap.

"Make sure you call Yselle on your way to or when you've reached the Island," Branson reminded him.

"Got it," said Kingson. Branson answered the call.

"The big homie himself," said Branson, stepping away from the overwhelming police presence. Kingson was giving dap to Get Right and Katrina, who were slowly being led into the ambulance. Imani had been gurneyed in.

"The shots - that was you?"

Damn, how the fuck!

"It wasn't really a shootout" he said, keeping his voice low, walking towards the EMS vehicles. "Somebody wanted to smoke Get Right but never succeeded. Nigga must've thought Get Right was involved in something he wasn't."

"Yeah, something like that. So, hasta luego."

"Yeah and yo! Kingson on his way back to y'all. He should be there at like quarter past."

"I tell Yselle to get ready to pick him up."

"Not now but in like twenty to thirty minutes. I'll be there in like an hour or an hour and a half." Branson stepped into the back of the ambulance.

"Uno," Chulo signaled before hanging up. Branson put his phone away as the ambulance took off, escorted by two squad cars, all with lights ablaze and sirens blaring.