Chapter 11 Chapter X

It was about noon when Chulo got to 42nd Street and Grand Central Station. His trip upstate had been a success and he'd even managed to bring back a few hundred cartons of Newports and some Marlboros. The trick he normally used was to go up with the SUV and rent a motel for a week but return by some other means two days earlier while spending time getting to know the natives, so to speak, on the reservation. This time he'd taken the train service Amtrak up to Rochester by himself. From there he'd gone up to the Finger Lakes area, specifically Cayuga, where he'd met up with his shooters. There were two of them: Nut and Bolo, who would stay in another motel one block away - they had driven upstate in Chulo's Ford Explorer and had quickly gotten in touch with the underground of Cayuga County. Their papers were legit and he'd sent them back to The City clean, with nothing dirty on them, a few days later.

The cartons were packaged inside four extra large duffel bags, two hundred packs (twenty cartons) to a duffel. The duffel bags had been placed in a special place in the train (for a Grant note) where they were guaranteed safe passage.

Bolo and Nut were waiting for Chulo when he got off the Metro North. Chulo had taken the Amtrak back down a few stops and transferred to the Metro North, choosing to enter The City by a different route. He had paid a local with a pickup to transfer the duffels also and when they got to the Metro North, he shelled out another Jackson note to a worker to stash his luggage somewhere safe. Metro North didn't allow you to travel with luggage you couldn't carry on normally.

Chulo was an Afro-Dominican, dark as aged wood but in his early thirties who just barely spoke English but understood it far better, although his accent while enunciating was quite an earful. His stomach was fat but not overlarge and his chest and arms were also large; as a teen, he had competed in some local bodybuilding competitions and won a few. But that shit ain't pay no money. He kept a baldy and liked wearing sneakers and jeans with no socks. All his sneakers and jeans, literally all his clothes, were designer clothing. A long and heavy silver chain with a very heavy silver Santa Maria piece

hanging from his neck, the latter sitting on his upper stomach. During winters he could always be seen with a designer leather jacket as well. He had plenty.

Nut was a skinny nigga, also Dominican, straight out of Washington Heights. He and Bolo were childhood friends and had grown up from Chulo's old stomping grounds. His past was tenebrous and unsavory.

Bolo, the eponymous namesake of Bolo Yeung, was larger than Chulo, but more

muscularly defined.

He was an African who had immigrated with his parents from Cameroun, the Central African country now embroiled in a war between the predominantly Francophone (French speaking African) government and minority Anglophone (English speaking African) population. The Camerounian government, in the person of its head of State, the ailing octogenarian President Paul Biya, had declared war on those Anglophones because the landmass Cameroun denoted as its "Northwest" and "Southwest" had been illegally occupied by Cameroun since September 30, 1961. Earlier that year, the so- called "Northwest" and "Southwest" of Cameroun (properly known as British Southern Cameroons, with its own Prime Minister and Constitution) had gained independence by United Nations vote.

But the UN wanted the British Southern Cameroons, a former trusteeship of the United Kingdom, to join with what was then known as French Cameroun; in fact, the union was forcedon them. There was also something called a "Plebiscite," upon which both nations had vowed to maintain the cultural, social, political, societal and historical autonomy of each. It was ignored and violated by French Cameroun. British Southern Cameroons refused this union from the beginning, knowing the outcome, but was invaded (with the support ofa then young Queen Elizabeth and the international community) one day before its independence took effect. Now, due to the brutality of the neocolonialistic-ruled present day Republic of Cameroun on the English speaking population of a people it had tried but failed to assimilate (in the words of the ailing autocratic octogenarian himsel) most of the English speaking population called for a clean break from Cameroun. The Secretary of the United Nations at that time was a Mr. Dag Hammarskjold who had also opposed the forced union of both Cameroons, but the will of the colonial powers were simply too strong for a mere "Secretary."

The Anglophones began by peacefully protesting in 2016, led by the Anglophone teachers Association who was shortly joined by the Anglophone Lawyers Association - they were beaten, arbitrarily arrested, tortured, maimed and killed, as their forbears before them who had dared to oppose the government of the Republic of Cameroun. When military troops began and continued killing innocent civilians and burning hundreds of homes, displacing hundreds of thousands to neighboring countries, the Anglophone youths began producing their own arms, their homemade dane guns. This continued until they began killing the military, police and gendarmes and "harvesting" their guns to fight against the illegal occupier of their lands, which lands would no longer just be known as British Southern Cameroons, but would be called "Ambazonia," named after "Amba's Bay," the bay in the city of Victoria whereat the first foreigners

cumcolonizers landed in the eighteen hundreds. This was a crisis that had been fought for decades. However, in the age of easily accessible weaponry, no one who didn't want

to be illegally ruled over would be ruled over. Simple. This was what Bolo's family had been running away from.

Bolo was now 26 years old; he had immigrated here when he was literally a baby and had no recollection of anything in Africa, though he took a keen interest in the plight of his fellow Ambazonians. His real name was "Caleb Johnson" and, in fact, he was American, through and through, having received his citizenship at 16 years of age. His physique was like that of his African ancestors: extraordinary, which he did the minimum to maintain. When Nut had proposed to Chulo that the latter hire Bolo on as a bodyguard before someone else could, Chulo called for Bolo. As soon as Chulo saw the Ambazonian, he hurriedly agreed to employ him. Neither Bolo nor Nut had a criminal history. Chulo had even sent them to obtain firearms licenses. They completed their training and occasionally worked for a privately owned armed security agency.

Without a word, they followed Chulo to where the duffel bags had been secured. Bolo easily hefted two of the bags over his shoulders and left by a different exit than that which Chulo and Nut would take. Chulo carried the other duffel bags to a busy exit at which point he followed Nut to where the Explorer was parked. Nut opened the back of the Explorer and arranged the duffels in the boot before securing it. They got in the truck and took off, heading uptown. Bolo had his instructions and was on a different mission. Chulo called Branson.

"Como esta, hermano?" asked Branson when he picked the call.

"De nada, mi amor," Chulo replied. It was amusing to Branson that Spanish niggas, particularly Dominicans, many times used "mi amor" when addressing niggas. Most times than not, it meant they had mad love for you; you were accepted and trusted. "Y tu?"

"Estoy bueno aqui," Branson replied. If you grew up around Spanish people, it was wise to learn the linguafranca, even the bare minimum. It really helped getting one in the door to do business - they were usually impressed that a Black nigga would take the

time to learn a bit of their language. The added benefit was you got to fuck mad Spanish bitches: Dominican, Puerto Rican, Venezuelan, Mexican, Honduran, etc.

"I come now from upstate," said Chulo, practicing his English as he liked to.

"Okay, let's meet up at two-thirty, at Aquarios. I'ma call Get Right and let him know." "Todos va bien con Get Right?" Chulo asked. Branson almost burst out laughing. Chulo's

accent made "Get Right" sound like "gay right." He controlled himself by clenching his jaws before answering.

"Muy bueno ahora, gracias, hermano."

"Okay, man," - "mang" "Quatorze horas y trente a Aquarios." "Si."

"Uno."

"One." They hanged up and Chulo told Nut to head for his crib in Kingsbridge in The Bronx. It took about forty minutes to get there, traffic being light. Nut parked in front of the building which was down the hill from the VA Hospital. The entrance was mid-block and before he got out, Chulo removed two gift bags out of one of the duffels in the back. One of the gift bags was for his wife, Ygritte, the other for both of his daughters.

"Dame una hora, eh!" Chulo told Nut before going up some small steps and into the building. The kids were likely still at their private tutor's place, since Chulo also wasn't

one for the wearing of masks and he had refused that his children wear masks in school. Chulo's apartment was on the fourth floor; he took the elevator, as was his wont. He hadn't told his wife he was coming today but he wanted to surprise her and the children. The elevator door glided opened and he fairly tiptoed to the apartment door. He

unlocked the front door quietly and stepped into a somewhat darkened home. Perhaps it was some primal instinct that caused him to shut the door quietly and not call out. A suspicious noise was audible from the living room area and instantly caught his attention. He put down the gift bags at the side of the front door before proceeding farther into the apartment.

To the right of the entry, there were two ways into the living room: a short corridor to the left that branched right and directly into the living room and the other was straight through the kitchen ahead. To the left were some bathrooms, the kids' room and his and Ygritte's room. He crept straight ahead though, through the kitchen, towards the now discernible noise of moaning. He peeked into the living room from a blind spot at the kitchen's other entrance. Years from this moment he would still remember the image seared into his mind and, of course, carry the wound of being cuckolded. They had two children together - how could this fuckin' putado this to him? Since she met him, she'd never wanted for anything. Later on, neither had her family. Of course, throughout the years, he had been victim to temptation but he had never violated her by doing anything in, near or around their home. He had given her that courtesy at the very least.

But here this bitch was with Puerto Rican Julio from the building opposite the laundromat around the corner. Chulo slid down to the floor and continued watching. Julio was standing on a midsize wooden game table while Ygritte was stuffing her mouth full of his cock.

An idea struck Chulo. He took out one of his phones and began recording the filthy whore. Ygritte and Julio had shut the blinds halfway but it was midday - plenty of light to record by. He muted the volume on the phone and continued recording. Julio was a

short nigga so he stood on the table not to dominate over Ygritte or anything like that but rather so she could comfortably suck his dick. Chulo couldn't understand it - Julio's dick wasn't even that big but the way the dirty slut was bobbing her head she seemed to really be getting full off it. Julio grabbed the back of her head and face fucked her

rapidly for some moments, enjoying her gagging. Then he grabbed her head with both hands and began drivinghis cock into her mouth, at times holding her face flush to his pubic hair so she couldn't breathe and had to squirm around for gasps of elusive breath. She would struggle to back away but Julio's grip would only tighten until her breathing became ragged and she had to forcefully beat against his thighs for some breathing room. There were times she would choke and his dick would flop out of her mouth - at those times, Julio would slap her like a recalcitrant child being chastised; then he would grab a handful of her blonde hair in a painful clench and ram his dick into her mouth again.

Finally, Julio began to spasm and cry out, telling her over and over that he was coming. When he ejaculated in her mouth, he forced her to swallow every drop. She gagged and choked, semen rolling down her chin, but Julio kept her mouth firmly placed around his dick. A bit later, he forced her to lick his balls, cleaning them of any semen runoff and also sucking on them like hard candy. She complied so submissively, telling him repeatedly "Si, mi amor!"

Yes,mylove.

Silent and unnoticed tears streamed down from Chulo's eyes but he still kept recording. Maybe one day he would show his children what a filthy whore their mother was. Julio jumped off the table and it was plain to see that Ygritte was taller than him by a few inches. Her lusciously thick body made Julio look even more like a midget, but she was so submissive to him, so docile, like... apet, Chulo thought. Julio roughly turned Ygritte around and bent her over the table on which he'd just been standing. He began drilling her pussy, his small frame absurdly diminutive behind her big ass. He held onto her waist with a death grip and was stroking her with quick thrusts, sometimes slapping her ass, its fatness and roundness jiggling from his thrusts and slaps.

Ygritte began getting into the groove of it, moaning things she normally said to a nearly zombified and utterly numb Chulo. The latter took out his other phone and texted Bolo.

["U finish w/the cigarios?"]

["Yeah boss. I'm on my way back now."]

["Tell me when u here"]

Ten minutes later, Bolo texted Chulo that he was there, parked behind the Explorer in a Chrysler Minivan. Chulo then texted some instructions to Bolo and Nut which they immediately executed after all three deleted the texts.

Nut took the Explorer over to Fordham and found a secure parking lot. He parked the car and accessed his FB page, making a few random posts about nothing in particular then left the phone on and in the glove compartment. He got out of the Explorer and hurried

to take a cab back to Kingsbridge. Bolo left the minivan and took a cab down to Kingsbridge Projects and found a dopefiend, one of the many hard drug addicts for which The Bronx was infamously known. He pulled out a Jackson note and the fiend's eyes cleared like a bright dawn after a stormy night.

"You got ten minutes to find me a hammer," Bolo told the fiend. The fiend looked confused. "Yes, nigga, an actual hammer, not a ratchet." The addict scrambled into the projects like Carl Lewis at the 100 yard dash. As Bolo waited for him to return, he spotted an exotic looking goddess walking his way. She was his height (which was rarity in and of itself), thick bodied and heavy breasted. She saw him admiring her and

rolled her eyes, steeling herself for the inevitable catcall. Bolo wasn't too well dressed at the moment - he had on some green Tommy slacks, beef and broccolis and an Aeropostale button down shirt. More importantly, he was clean; and he knew he was handsome - his mother had told him so his entire life before passing away when he was

17 years old. Mama ain't lie a day in her life.

"Excuse me, Miss? Miss?" Bolo called to her, stepping up beside her to get her attention. "Yeah you, I'm talking to you, you fine specimen of the female sex." She grinned and turned her head, still not breaking her stride.

"How do you know I'm a female?" she asked. Bolo's face went rigid with shock. She took a few steps without him but stopped when she realized he was no longer beside her.

She laughed, a bright and bubbly sound on this spring afternoon. "Y'all so damn gullible." Bolo cautiously approached her.

"Seriously though, were you born female?" he asked.

"Yeah, I was," she answered, deliberately and obviously deepening her voice. Bolo laughed but still looked at her from the corner of his eye. She, noticing, began laughing again. "Yes, I was born a woman. What isit with y'all nowadays?"

"Can you blame us?" Bolo retorted. "With everything going on nowadays, especially with them alphabet people out and about, you can't blame a nigga for being too careful, my beauty." And indeed she was a beauty. Fitted jeans over firm and ample buttocks; white

on white and not too tightly laced Ups; a midriff Calvin mini t-shirt exposing waist beads around a slender stomach leading up to some succulent looking breasts, the bottom roundness of which was visible; long and natural looking black hair; and her features were Black and Indian, very becoming. Black mixed with anything made the stock of that "anything" rise.

"You do have a point there," she agreed. The sun was glistening off her skin in a most becoming manner.

"Is it possible we could continue this conversation at a later time? I'm actually doing something for my boss right now."

"That's fine." She waited patiently, knowing what was coming but still wanting him to initiate that part of the conversation.

"So... Can I please get your number so I could take you out sometime?" She cocked her head to the side.

"No," she replied. His face fell but she continued. "You can have mynumber so we can

'continue this conversation at a later time.'" She gave him her number. "As for the date, we'll see how this conversation ends." She smirked as she turned away.

"Hold up, ma, I don't even know your name!" "Clarisse," she yelled back at him.

"It's a pleasure."

She waved and continued on her way, Bolo thoroughly enjoying the sway of her hips and ass. He saved her number in his Gmail account and shortly thereafter the dopefiend returned with an old hammer, but it was sturdy and functional, still able to do that for which it had been created, amongst other uses. Bolo added a Hamilton note to the Jackson and even took dude to get lunch at a nearby Kennedy Fried Chicken. After ordering, he asked and was given permission to use their restroom. While there, he accessed the FB app, sent some inane messages to a few people, and left the phone on and in the app so it could show that he was still "online." He opened the toilet tank and hid the phone inside, washing his hands afterwards, for obvious reasons. Before leaving the bathroom, he hung the hammer on the inside of his trousers at the side, with the claw just over his waistband but under his shirt so it wouldn't be visible. Then he went and paid for the addict's food and headed out.