The evening was crisp and breezy, just as he preferred…
He stood atop a tall building, basking in an almost greedy fashion, as the smoke from his blunt danced and created several meandering patterns in the gentle breeze. He had just finished making a very important phone call… He had been made a very lucrative offer he couldn't refuse.
An evil smile curled onto his thick lips. He tossed the blunt roach to the ground and immediately lit up a Newport cigarette for a chaser, and took a swig of Colt 45 from his 40 oz. The breeze tickled across his handsome face, and danced through his wavy, silky jet black ponytail. Even in this soft light cast by a half moon, he was drop dead sexy.
His twin custom Glocks, shiny and menacing, rested securely in their holsters. His stance was relaxed, but anyone who knew him well could attest that he was forever ready to brawl, even in this intoxicated state. His bulletproof covered his chest, with an "S" engraved on the front and back. What a nice gift he'd received from a crooked cop whose life he'd spared years ago. His Adidas sweatpants were relaxed, but clinging slightly to his well-muscled thighs and flared out slightly because he had them unzipped at the bottom. He wasn't wearing a shirt, so the glory of his caramel-tanned body was displayed for all to see, his chiseled arms, adorned with six tattoos, and the bottom half of his six pack (and navel!!) was visible. Everyone who knew him feared him, his reputation was that of a man NOT to be fucked with, by any means. If anyone had a death wish, they should cross him…
He chuckled quietly to himself, the moonlight reflecting off of his silver mirror-lensed shades. What a mysterious man to wear his shades at night. Funny, because he still never seemed to miss seeing a damn thing. He brushed his fingers across his carefully trimmed beard, one of his other signatures. He liked to be different. He liked to be underestimated. He loved to be feared… It was then he realized that he should go down to ground level.
He couldn't help but smile his famously conceited smile as walked casually down the 29 flights of steps. He took swigs of the Colt, thinking of his next few days…
Suddenly, his reverie was broken by a red Acura Legend pulling up to him, coming to a screeching halt.
"STRIKE!"
Strike scowled fiercely as his high was almost blown.
The redhead behind the wheel gave him a concerned look. He hated it when Strike would send him off when he was making cell phone calls. Not that he really gave a fuck about what his friend would talk about, but they'd known each other for years. It was the principle… His fiery hazel eyes zoomed in to the Newport…
"You half-black sum-bitch!! You've been chiefin' without me again?!"
Strike tittered to himself. He'd known the ex-racer Heat for so long they were like brothers. It was Heat and only Heat who could get away with speaking to him in such a manner.
"You're late, you red-assed fucker. I tol' you to meet me here fi'teen minutes ago," snarled Strike as he got in on the passenger side. "Besides, you know how I roll. Here's a blunt for you." His voice was so deep it carried a certain ambience all its own.
Heat smiled like a little kid at Christmastime, tucked the blunt behind his ear, and proceeded to shove a bag full of piping-hot Burger Dog at his boy. "Remember that next time you have a solo smoke-out, bitch," he grinned maliciously. Heat was forever talking shit, an ex-F1 racer who survived a violent crash and burn on the track. Anyone who could survive that deserved to talk all the shit he wanted. He realized that Strike only had the highest respect for him, along with 2 or 3 other people, and that was a high honor in itself.
The Munchies were kicking in overdrive as Strike began to viciously snarf down a Triple Deck Burger with cheese. Eating was the only time that Strike's suave and casual demeanor would switch to Primal Cave Man, with ear-assaulting grunts and belches here and there. It was quite disgusting at times, but Heat could even rival him…
"So where to, Captain Cro-Magnon Man?" asked Heat as he pulled off, steering with one hand, eating fries with the other.
"Shit… drop me off at the HQ," grunted Strike through a mouthful of burger. "I need to meet up with my gang and tell them I'll be away handlin' business for a couple of days."
Heat nodded. "Yes'm, Miss Daisy. So I take it your deal went through, hermano?" He couldn't hide the fact that he had some Latin in him if he tried…
"Yeah… when e'ything goes down, you talkin' 'bout a muthafuckah getting paid hella cheese for this shit here. I'm gonna need your help, you know, so I'll be more than happy to break you off for your services."
"Man, keep your money. I'm still getting paid for the crash… You know I tag along with you for the adventure…"
"'Tag along'? Please, you know you play a more integral role than that," said Strike. It was funny how he could curse like a sailor one minute and use a very broad vocab the next. Heat was one of the only other people in Strike's selective circle of peeps who knew just how intelligent he really was.
"Well…. Hamm asked about you, by the way. Said he's got some 'Maui Wowie' for you," reported Heat.
"That fat fucker," grinned Strike. "He knows he gets the most fi' shit, working at Burger Dog just to front." Strike had also known Hamm for quite some time, and they were pretty good friends. Hamm would serve as weed provider and valuable informant, and for that, Strike provided him with loyal friendship. "We'll swing by there after my meeting with the Kings."
Strike was the leader of a deadly street gang called the Straight Kings. Only because of him was their reputation known all across Japan and even parts of China and the U.S. He was known as a vicious, heartless, cruel, but fair leader, and to betray or dishonor him meant death. And most of the time, Strike would be the one to handle those affairs himself. All recruits had to pass strict initiations and be as tough as steel; a gang leader is only as legit as the gang members representing him.
Heat's hazel eyes glimmered in the moonlight, he was in deep reflection and planning on what he was going to do after he smoked his blunt. Heat was a handsome creature himself, with his adorable cheeks, fire-red hair and distinct Latino facial features, not to mention a hint of the accent in his voice at times. Even though he no longer desired to race, he was still a worldwide celebrity and a walking miracle. At first he despised the distinguishing scar over his right eye, but Strike helped him see that it was a "Battle Wound," a sign that he'd made it through the impossible and that he was very blessed.
Strike looked to the back seat for another bag of food and caught a glimpse of several porn tapes…
"What the hell?" said Strike, "What's up with all this porn, man? You still ain't got no lovin' yet?? Wit' cha meat-beatin' ass, man, go get some cut!! I know you got chicks from here to Taiwan trying to (ahem) handle your stick shift."
"Man, FUCK THAT, a'ight? There are diseases out there and I ain't sticking my shit in just anything. I'm waiting for the right lady to come along. LADY, not bitch. Hell, you feel the same way… I don't see you running around with this ho and that ho."
"Hmmph… You got a point."
"Thank you. Hey, we're almost there," announced Heat through a mouthful of fries.
Damn, that didn't take long. But when you're cruising with a speed demon, what do you expect?
Please review and make me smile… Girl Glyce^^.