Page 187 of Invisible Bars
Of course, he couldn’t tell right off bat—ski mask and all.
I grinned. “Damn right, muthafucka… but you ain’t standin’ in front of Imanio; you’re in front of Gatez. Just for clarity… Imanio signs checks… Gatez signs death notes.”
I pressed the muzzle to his forehead.
“Andyou—and your lil flunkie of an employee—thought it was funny to embarrassmywife? To accuse her of stealing? When all she was trying to do was buy some fuckin’ tea?!”
“I—I didn’t know?—”
“No… you didn’tcare.”My voice dipped lower. “You saw aBlackgirl twitching and thoughtcrazy.You saw a luxury card and thoughtthief.And now you’re standing here looking like you pissed yourself, hoping I don’t blow yo’ damn head off.”
He was crying now.
“You disrespected thewrongwoman,” I said, finger resting near the trigger.
He trembled. “I didn’t know—she didn’t say—she was?—”
“Don’t insult me or lie on her,” I growled. “She told you she was my wife…. multiple times. And instead of listening or hell, maybe even calling to verify it, you humiliated her, laughed at her, and threatened her.”
“We thought she was lying!” the younger boy blurted, holding his bloody nose.
My smile was deadly. “You thought wrong.”
Less than ten minutes later, both the owner and cashier were zip-tied to chairs in the back, facing each other. I paced slowly in front of them, rolling up my sleeves like a surgeon prepping for a procedure.
Chi stood to the side, casually peeling a blood orange with a box cutter—the juice dripped like blood.
“Let me make this clear,” I said. “This ain’t about a card or no fuckin’ tea; she has plenty of that shit at the crib. Me beinghere, boils down todisrespect. You made my wife feel unsafe. You made her tic. You made herashamed.”
I crouched beside the cashier, who was already crying.
“I want you to look at this floor. Because your last job on this Earth… is toclean itwith what’s inside of you.”
I stood and turned to Chi. “Handle him.”
Chi didn’t hesitate. He slashed the nigga’s abdomen—deepandwide—like he was gutting a deer. The boy screamed so loud I was sure his voice rattled the ceiling tiles. Blood sprayed everywhere—on his shirt, on the floor, on the walls, on Chi’s sneakers. Chi grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward like dead weight, and forced him to his knees. Then—cold as ever—he shoved a filthy dish towel straight into the open wound.
The boy yelled, flailing, but Chi held him down.
“Bleed where you disrespected her,” I said, coldly. “This spot is stained with her embarrassment—now it’ll be stained with your blood.”
Chi snatched the towel from the boy’s gut in one brutal motion—blood spurting as the fabric tore free, slick and soaked. His screams turned to choking gurgles as blood pooled around him.
“Now clean that shit up,” Chi growled.
The cashier whimpered and writhed.
Chi slammed his hand down, dragging the soaked, bloody towel and smearing it across the tile.
“Don’t get lazy on me! Make it shine!” Chi snarled, pressing a hand to the back of ol’ boy’s neck, forcing him to keep scrubbing.
“I… I can’t!” he cried.
“Come on, little engine that could. I think I can, I think I can—now mop, bitch!”
I almost laughed at Chi’s crazy ass comment.
Ol’ boy kept dragging the towel in weak, jerky strokes—smearing blood across the tile like the last desperate strokesof a dying artist. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one wet with agony. Tears blurred his vision, mixing with sweat as they dripped into the thick, metallic puddle beneath him. Every motion shredded the wound wider, flesh peeling, muscle twitching. But he didn’t stop… couldn’t. He knew he was dying—slowly, painfully—and all he could do was try to clean it up like it would somehow save him.
