Chapter 6 Chapter VI

It was about 7p.m. after Branson hanged up with Get Right. Thatniggagonfuckdeath outtasomebodydaughtertoNIGHT, Branson thought to himself. He was at Sylvia's, one of the most popular restaurants in New York, arguably the most popular restaurant for Black people, especially sinced it was based in Harlem, where all typesof good looking, well-dressed, famous and influential Black people dined from all over the City, the State and the country! He was sitting in the back of the posh and highly fashionable

restaurant by himself, enjoying the ambiance but also thinking deep thoughts and playing out some dangerous scenarios in his mind. Diddy was in the building a few tables away with his entourage, one or two other rappers and all of their bodyguards. Michael Strahan was up the way with some of his crew - the night, though only a Monday, was live. The lights were dim but other strategically placed neon lights, especially from the huge jazz jukebox on the side of the wall, made everything in the bar still visible.

The vibe of Black people getting together and having fun was so beautiful. There was a secret Black people around the world shared but couldn't rightly explain to the world. Black love was such a powerful thing.

That was really what made Black people so powerful and emotional. Ourlovestrongas fuck, Branson reasoned, raising his glass in response to Papoose toasting him from a few tables down. Remy was usually with him but not tonight. But that fat bastard was with him, though, olemanipulativeassniggathere.

Every rapper, every single famous individual, had this kind of creep around him - a person who was willing to do anything to continue to be in the famous person's good graces. From Prince and Michael, to Whitney and Marvin, to Selena and Easy E, to Nipsey and Pop Smoke - there was always that onecreep who usually ended up being fatal to the person.

A young nigga with a heavy gold Cuban link chain was making his way through the crowd; he was obviously tipsy because of the way he kept bumping into patrons and tables, almost getting into several fights on his way to the back where Branson was seated.

"Ayo, Bison! My nigga 'M. Bison,'" yelled the young fool ass drunk who now stood at Branson's table. Nonetheless, Branson accepted his dap. Dude told his dime-a-dozen Instagram "bad bitch" to get some chairs for them - she turned around and caught the attention of one of the staff who promptly brought over two chairs. She had a nice ass

for her short pretty self, better than average.

Whatthisnigganameagain?Branson thought lazily.

"So how's the family, homie?" the drunk nigga asked. Branson nodded, signifying that the family was fine. "Okay, good to hear... So, uh..." the dude trailed off, searching for how to approach Branson - the latter groaned inwardly because he knew what was coming. "I heard you was the one to talk to if a nigga needed a loan."

"You heard? Heard from who?" Branson asked the nigga. A waiter appeared with three bottles of water and two glasses. This immediately let Branson know three things: 1.) this nigga had spotted him from a distance and had planned his entrance; 2.) dude had "pre-ordered" the three measly bottles of water which "act of kindness" would make him feel more entitled to ask Branson for an outrageous sum of money; and 3.) those glasses weren't so much for the waters as to partake of the Johnny Walker on

Branson's table.

The nigga shifted his chair closer. In his mind's eye, Branson pictured himself putting on a bullshit-proof helmet to protect himself from what this fool was about to say.

"Ain't nobody told me nothing, big bro," the nigga replied, helping himself to some of the

Black Label. Apparently, none of the waters were for the glasses.

His bitch was well trained, at least. She played cool, didn't ask for shit and also didn't invite herself to the party. Her short and tight black dress complimented the burgundy and black mini leather Dior jacket and burgundy stilettoes she wore well.

"Niggas was just shootin' the shit after the b-ball game last week - remember? Some bitch was driving you around in a silver RAV 4 that day." Branson nodded, remembering quite well and he wished he had never asked shorty to drive through the 'hood on their way elsewhere, as some unsavory types had taken note. "Anyway, nigga said you was involved in a... certain business, feel me?" No, Branson most definitely did not "feel" this nigga but he wanted to see how far the nigga would go in begging for dough.

Ten minutes later and the nigga stillhadn't gotten to the point. Suddenly Branson remembered dude's name: Tray Mac. Yeah, son was a well-known streetballer whose game was similar to that of Tracy McGrady (hence, the eponymous nickname).

"Nigga," Branson firmly interrupted Tray. "What do you want?" He poured a half glass of whiskey for shorty who smiled and toasted him, something her lame ass partner hadn't the meanest courtesy to do. She wasn't bad looking at all either, and kinda thick for a snow bunny. These snow bunnies had turned into social status symbols niggas obtained when they got a little fame and a few riches, thinking that a white bitch was

better than a black bitch or that you had to take better care of white bitches than black bitches. To Branson, noneof that shit mattered. Black or white, a bitch is a bitch, and you gonna pay in some way for the pussy, whether or not you wanted to but especially for a pretty bitch.

Somebitches,though,thought Branson of a specific female, deservetheworld...but comewithhellaproblems.

"I need fifty k," Tray Mac said, cautiously, because that's not how much he really needed, that's how much he was shooting for, but if he got less he'd still be good.

"I can't give you that, Tray. We still in a pandemic," Branson replied. He believed there existed a real airborne and highly infectious (within a certain radius) pathogen, yes, but what Branson didn't believe was that the world had to be shut down for a hyped up variant of the common cold with a survivability rate of over ninety-eight percent. The Coronavirus was nothing more than a strongly mutative strain of the common cold. Shit, eventhefluandpneumonia,separately,killedmorepeoplethanCOVID 19, Branson thought idly. And what had happened to the flu? It had magically disappeared. World governments, in his opinion, were in cahoots with promoting the apparent eugenics plan proposed by Bill Gates for the diminution of the world's population, also further controlling and trying to track most of the world's population with health vaccine "passports" or inserted "wellness 'chips,'" coming to a neighborhood near you. They'd been chipping animals for decades now - why not humans? Imagine if you could get

free WiFi from an electronic chip inserted into any part of your body - so many people would go for it. The AstraZeneca vaccine was banned almost everywhere, Pfizer was banned in India where the death tolls from COVID were, allegedly, horrific. But some governments were banning vaccines simply because they were made by their rivals. For example, Ukraine had banned all vaccines of Russian origin, whereas Iran had accepted Russian vaccines but banned all those originating from the EU and the United States. Politicsasusual, thought Branson, remembering an old Jay-Z song of the same name.

One thing he knew - he definitelywasn't getting the vaccine. Now they were talking about periodic "booster shots" - didn't people SEE what was happening? Big Pharma was killing people off rapidly and creating lifelong dependencies on a gamut of drugs.

Why would he get a vaccine that had a high probability of fucking him up to death, rather than allowing his body's natural immune system to fight off the virus? Ninety-eight percent survivability rate sounded good to him. He had no preexisting medical problems. He stayed in shape though he was often "on that good good and alcohol," as the rapper Future would say. And many other Black people refused to take the vaccine because of what the U.S. Government had done to them during the Tuskegee Experiment. The U.S. Government had been doing Black folk a world of harm for hundreds and hundreds of

years. Why would they stop now? Anything that the US Government, shitANY government, would try to give its citizens free shit for (like beer and gear and all kinds of other incentives), Branson wanted no part of. He came back to himself and realized that Tray Mac had been trying to convince him of why he could be trusted with fifty thousand dollars.

"I got thirty for you, five percent interest per month," Branson offered. "But I need collateral; ain't shit free, nigga."

"Wh... Wh... What - whatchu want, homie, what? The whip is in the shop, I don't know..." Tray Mac trailed off when Branson glanced at his Cuban link. "Damn, homie, you want the shines? Nah, I can't..." He trailed off again when Branson shrugged. He sat back, fingering his chain, thoughtful. Branson knew why the nigga needed money - because the nigga was a gambler and owedmoney. These hood niggas would win $5k or even

$15k in a night of great luck and think they could make a living by gambling. Fools and blind.

More lost more than any individual's occasional substantial gain. The house always won, and the house, in this case, was the streets.

"I-ight, homie. I'm wit' it," said Tray Mac, trying to surreptitiously remove the Cuban which cost about 7k. Not bad. Tray Mac said he was "wit' it" - yeah, until he couldn't pay, at which point the house doubled down. And the house was the streets; and the streets were not to be fucked with. It was known that Tray Mac lived in the Polo Grounds Projects on 155th Street and 8th Ave. - wouldn't be hard to find him.

"I'm sending it through to your phone mobile money account," said Branson, taking the chain and putting it into his inner Pellé Pellé pocket.

"Bro, send the withdrawal charges too," said the ungrateful nigga. Branson just looked at the nigga as if he were an insect from under a rock. Tray Mac didn't see the look but his bitch did. She reached with her foot under the table to caress his leg, taking a sip of whiskey. Their eyes met over the rim of her glass briefly, but an understanding was reached, maybe. Meh.

"Yeah, i-ight. I gotchu," said Branson to a completely oblivious Tray Mac, who gave him his cell phone number. The transaction was done using a dummy Bank of America account in midtown registered to a functional addict he kept well supplied. It was done in increments of eight thousand dollars, thrice, the last transaction supposed to be six thousand dollars but he added five hundred dollars for withdrawal fees. The feds had increased their red flag notification from ten thousand dollar transactions to nine thousand dollar transactions. Recently, word was the feds would start looking at eight

thousand dollar transactions. If they were talking about, sho nuff they were already doing it. Shit was annoying as fuck but he thought he had finally figured out a way around that.

"Yo, my boy. I appreciate e'ything and I'ma get that back to you ASAP," said Tray Mac, getting up on wobbly legs. His bitch ain't even look at him but got up, smiled winningly

at Branson and left. Tray Mac tried to give Branson dap again but the latter gave him the fist bump. Tray Mac pointed at him and said, "Ah, that 'rona. You right, you right." He staggered out of Sylvia's and Branson could see him out the large front window looking left and right, probably for shorty, until he left in some confusion with another female he recognized from somewhere.

Branson waited patiently some fifteen or so minutes and was about pouring himself another drink when back in came Tray Mac little bad bitch, having successfully dipped on the nigga.

He felt a stirring in his loins.

She sat right next to Branson with her hand on his lap. Everyone was minding their own business enjoying the music and their company, but people took note. He took note of thembut ultimately he didn't care - who in the City wanted smoke with Bison? He drank a bit more and she finished off the rest like a pro. Taking ahold of the half empty bottle, she stood up and raised her hands with a questioning face. He slid a Jackson note under his glass and with some other nigga shines in his pocket and the same other nigga bitch, sauntered out of the restaurant like the gangster he was. The time was about 9p.m. as they walked up the block to where he had parked the Benz. It wasn't too late on a Monday night so he decided he would take the snow bunny down to one of his favorite spots in the City, Jekyll and Hyde.

Two niggas in masks and hoods jumped out from between some parked cars with knives held low in hand. Branson pushed the woman behind and to the side as the sudden adrenaline rush instantly overrode the whiskey in his system.

"Just give us the money and you and the Mrs. can go about y'all business," said the one in a black and red hoodie and matching mask.

"You know who I am?" Branson asked them.

"A rich nigga that ain't gonna make it home tonight," replied the other nigga, larger in size than his partner but with a younger voice.

"Because y'all clearly don't know who y'all fuckin' wit' and because I'm in a good mood tonight, I'ma let y'all go about y'allbusiness," injecting as much sarcasm as he could in

his voice.

"Nigga..." said the big nigga, stepping forward and reaching out to grab Branson. The latter snatched the hand, ducked under the armpit and came up with a sharp strike that broke the nigga arm at the elbow. The fool dropped to his knees, screaming in agony, also dropping his knife. Branson picked up the knife and turned to the other attacker.

"Y'all came to rob me with kitchen knives?" scoffed Branson. "If you don't wanna be the second nigga on the ground, I suggest you pick up your friend and get the fuck outta here." The nigga instantly threw his knife away and went to help his friend up.

"One more thing," said Branson, reaching into his pocket and brought out a few

Benjamin and Grant notes. He threw the money their way and the healthy nigga scooped it all up in the blink of an eye, never taking his eyes off Branson. They said thank you, genuflecting and backpedalling, one gasping in pain, all at the same time; they disappeared at the corner. Branson picked up the other knife and motioned to the snow bunny who was speechless, hadn't even screamed for help she'd been scared shitless.

"It's all right, ma, we good," he said, holding her by the hand as the crossed the street to where his car was parked. The pink toe grasped him tightly, still bewildered and in wonderment of what had just happened. No one had ever defended her in such a manner and with such authority. She really looked at Branson as they got to his whip. Branson pushed a button on his key card as they approached the Benz. The car lit up, engine revving. He pressed another button and both front butterfly doors arose, like the

wings of some bizarre awoken metallic angel. Trap music thumped through the woofers, the base pulsating the air as Branson and the White bitch settled into their seats that were heating up.

The doors closed automatically as well when he put his hands on the steering wheel at a certain preprogrammed position, else the car would have shut down, another failsafe mechanism to protect the car from any enterprising thieves, certainly not of the caliber just encountered. On a whim, he decided to head downtown. The Westside Highway was flowing and a short time later he exited at 14th Street, taking the streets and stuntin' until they got to West 4th Street. He was parked opposite the basketball courts where the lights shined down on some neighborhood ballers still, at this time,

surrounded by tourists, admirers, possible scouters and his crowd: the pushers. "Shorty, I don't even know your name," said Branson in the girl's ear.

"Naomi," she replied into his ear, softly grabbing the earlobe and sucking on it. He was cool, merely nodded his head, smiled and pulled out his IPhone to make a call. The phone rang on the other end a few times before it was picked up.

"Yeah, I know, I see you at the the pizzeria," said Kingson, looking out the window as he picked up the call. "I'll be down in a few."

West 4th Street was always a hub of activity: like 42nd Street and Times Square, 125th Street and so many avenues; these areas had ever since been major hives of attraction and movement. The so-called "pandemic" had somewhatdiminished the amount of people at these hubs of activity but New York City remained the heart of the nation. The main attraction of West 4th Street was, of course, the Cage, basketball courts where so many professional basketball players had played and every so often came to wow the crowds. The movie theaters opposite had long since closed and the City Council still didn't know what to do with it.

Branson was parked a bit before the dilapidated theater. There was a small pizzeria to the side of the ancient movie theater. Branson was devouring a calzone with fresh ricotta cheese, standing by the open passenger butterfly door. Naomi was seated in the passenger seat eating a slice with extra cheese and pepperoni. People walking by openly admired the suped up 4MATIC and the music blaring out of the speakers crisply, a testament to their quality. Branson had on some baggy cut Faded Glory jeans, a dull green Polo V neck sweater and the beef and broccolis.

Kingson arrived and gave his brother an elbow dap as he was eating. When Naomi saw him, her eyes widened and she kept looking from one to the other twin while eating her slice of pizza. Pizza from around this West Village area was damn good. She was also drinking a piña colada Special Brew. Kingson noticed her and introduced himself. The pizza she was eating prevented them from shaking hands also but, in line with Coronavirus health guidelines, they bumped the insteps of their feet and laughed.

"Everybody done heard about what you did earlier," shoving Kingson's forearm with his own. The latter shrugged, ever the modest one.

"That's actually a rare occurrence," Kingson began explaining. "Normally, even the judge's decision would have taken at leastanother month or two to be handed down." He paused to reflect, then decided against going into further details. "Guess I'm just lucky." Branson knew that wasn't the real reason. He also knew only when hell froze over would Kingson reveal how he had achieved such a successful feat. Their eyes met

and each understood the other a bit deeper. However, as Branson turned his eyes away, a furtive shadow flickered across the screen of his soul. Kingson frowned.

"Yo, but uh, what you know about this cryptocurrency trend?" Branson asked his brother. Kingson made a noncommittal face and made a skeptical sound.

"Honestly, not too much," Kingson replied. "Some people made a ton of money who

invested at the right time but I know others lost a whole lot too." They stood around for a little while.

"I know about the crypto market," Naomi said. The twins looked at her with similarly skeptical peers. "What? A woman can't be knowledgeable?" They looked away, wondering. No one spoke for a few minutes, as Branson finished his calzone and Naomi dusted off the last of her slice. Branson got some napkins from Naomi and wiped at his mouth. He joked with her, wiping at her mouth too. She blocked him, moving around. "Stop," she said, like a little kid. The twins laughed. They leaned against the car and listened to the music blaring from the car, watching the crowd go by who often watched them back. Kingson had long since showered and changed into the same kind of

clothes Branson was wearing - it was normal for one twin to wear what the other wore without knowingwhat the other had on for sure. They had been going through that their whole lives.

Naomi stepped out of the luxury sedan, panties exposed. That was another reason why Branson loved his car. Most chicks with short dresses had no choice but to show their panties entering and exiting the car. Apparently, Kingson got an eyeful too; Branson caught the nigga out of the corner of his eye quickly look away, oleprimandproperass niggahere, Branson laughed to himself. Naomi automatically and hurriedly pulled her dress back down. She went to stand between the twins, leaning on the car also. Body heat was nice and she cuddled closer to Branson after looking at him, then Kingson and back again. The twins smiled again as Branson put his arm around her. For about fifteen minutes they stood like that, enjoying each other's company, until Kingson looked at his phone and nodded to himself.

"Now it's time, to say goodnight, to all our company..." Kingson mumbled under his breath, the first line to an ancient and discontinued children's t.v. show that just came to mind.

"M-I-C - see you real soon," Naomi continued, shocking the shit out of the twins. "K-E-Y - why? Because we love you." Then her and Kingson sang the last part together. "M-O-U-S- Eeeee." Branson rolled his eyes - the muthafuckin' Mickey Mouse Club. Kingson laughed uproariously, which gave Branson another shock. He couldn't remember the last time Kingson had laughed so hard. Naomi held onto Branson and laughed also, if not so hard.

"Man, y'all buggin'!" said Branson, causing Kingson to go off into another fit of raucous laughter. Naomi merely smiled. A short time later Kingson got himself under control, though he had to lean on the car.

"Yoooo," Kingson wondered. "What the hell just happened?"

"Your inner child, the real you, came out, " Naomi ventured. Kingson's face sobered in contemplation at her words and he went back to being the no nonsense lawyer respected for his hard and effective work.

"Well... Maybe," Kingson responded. He turned to Branson. "If you need me I'm always there for you, twin." For a fraction of a second Branson looked hurt.

Why? Kingson shrugged it off.

The twins dapped and hugged. Kingson then shook Naomi's hand and a twinkle came back into his eye. "Hope to 'see you real soon,'" he joked.

"It was a pleasure, twin," she replied, stepping back into the front passenger seat, the mild heated seats exuding sensuous warmth. Branson and Kingson walked around to the driver's side of the car.

"I'ma be with shorty a few days. Hit me up whenever," said Branson as the car door opened and he crouched down into the seat.

"Yeah, okay...." Kingson paused. "Yo, bro, is everything okay? I mean, like, you not in any trouble or anything like that, right?" Branson's heart skipped a beat, but he used the moment to push start the whip. "I mean cuz like, I've been getting a strangevibe from you lately, bro." The butterfly doors would not close if any object obstructed the laser sighting between door jambs.

"E'ything wavy, kicko," lied Branson. Everything was not, in fact, "wavy." His mouth tasted like ashes. "Let the door close, man. I gotta get home, y'na'msayin'?" Kingson took his arm from the open door and stepped back as the steel angel's metallic wing folded back into its body.

"Alright now," said Kingson giving a short wave, thoroughly unconvinced by his brother's words. "Get home safe." With that he turned and nimbly weaved his way through the nighttime club and attention seeking traffic, dexterously navigating the two-way street's almost bottlenecked vehicles. As the night wore on things would turn up and never

really die down, until the daywalkers came out again with their own recharged and fresh energy to replace their nocturnal brethren. The steering wheel dropped and Branson positioned his hands unconsciously, watching his brother dart off before he himself threaded his way out of traffic, in and around back streets and onto the highway.

On a whim he decided to take Naomi to his main crib on 144th Street. He had two other places: an apartment and a studio, the former in midtown on 51st Street and 9th Ave (a part of the City affectionately known as "Hell's Kitchen"), the latter not too far from his brother's apartment.

Triflingassnigga.Whycan'tyoubemorelikeyourbrother!

When he heard the voice speak in his head he almost lost control of the steering and came millimeters away from crashing into an underpass iron reinforced cement girder. To her credit, Naomi barely budged. She just glanced at him curiously as he regained control of the vehicle and flowed back onto the highway, already passing some cars by that had just passed him, occupants glancing his way in concern or derision.

"Wasn't you scared I was gonna crash?" he asked Naomi. She looked at him again and thought a few seconds.

"No," she replied. "Scared of what? Didn't you save my life earlier tonight?" They were rhetorical questions, of course. "So why would you just up and throw it away? Even if you did, I'm fine with dying beside you."

"Come on, ma, you going a bit too far now," he scoffed.

She cocked her head at him for about a minute before responding. "No, I'm serious. Like, that shit was crazy how you handled them n-" she paused, face reddening.

"What?" he asked. "How I handled what? How I..." Then it dawned on him. She had almost said the word "nigga" and didn't know how he would feel about it. She was embarrassed, and rightfully so. He began laughing as wildly as Kingson had earlier, having to slow the whip down to a stop on the shoulder yet again with his blinkers on.

He rocked back and forth in amusement. Some time went by and he peripherally noticed some of the cars that previously passed him which he had again overtaken were once again zooming by. The eyes of some of the passengers opened wide in shock to see

this same car once again halted sent him off into another round of riotous laughter. A

few minutes later he stopped laughing but was struggling for breath.

"That was priceless," Kingson declared. "You are a gem, you know that?" They took off again, this time cruising, the music and smooth, silent motion of the Benz wrapping them in a time machine cocoon, so they could have been anywhere and any when. Nothing was said for a little while. "You can talk however you wanna talk, ma. But it is good you shouldn't say nigga, whether as we say it, with an 'a' at the end or as your

people usually attack us, with an 'er.'" He slumped lower in his seat, arm straight with his hand on top of the wheel, barely moving. "To this day it's a word that many Whites have gotten fucked UPfor because many of us Blacks died in the times White folk were using that word to put us down. Feel me?" he asked her, to make sure she was listening. Her face was still down but she nodded. "It's damn good you got some kinda conscience so to not be using that word any old way, regardlesswho raised you." Her head swiveled quick as silver. "It's obvious to a duck you were raised around or by Blacks or Spanish