Chapter Eighteen:

Simple Beams

The following day had been all rain, pouring like if the heavens had been weeping. Lakeda was curled up in a soft mattress with comforters and a lovely quilt. The AC had been blasting and she sighed happily, opening her eyes. She was in X-Large's studio house, in his bedroom. She got up, yawning and stretching, getting out and looking at herself on the mirror mounted on the wall. She wore a cute little tank top and short-shorts to bed. She slipped on the house slippers provided for her and happily made her way to the living room, where X-Large was sitting, already awake in just boxers with a red sash around his waist. He lit himself a nicely rolled blunt and took a hit, sighing in delight as he did. Lakeda walked over to him, her tiny yellow tuft of a tail wagging.

"Morning," she said X-Large. He smirked at her, his fluffy white wolf tail wagging as well as he got up and gave her a kiss.

"Morning to you," he said, slapping her ass as he walked to the sink and kitchen combo, blunt in his mouth.

"Having a few days off…thank Arceus, I needed some rest," she said, plopping happily on the couch. X-Large reached into the fridge, grabbing bacon and eggs. Then he went into his cabinet to get some grits. He got out a frying pan and the stove, throwing in a tablespoon of butter and letting melt down into smooth oil. He put the bacon in first and then, the eggs, seasoning it with some salt, pepper and paprika. He got out a pot, poured in the grits and some whole milk, boiling it together with a bit of sugar and a pinch of salt.

Lakeda laid in the couch now, reaching for the remote. She flipped through channels, finally settling on a station that played old sitcoms such as the Fresh Prince of Hoenn-Air. X-Large finished up the grits and poured it into two bowls. He placed the bowls on a plate and laid out the bacon and eggs separately and walked over to Lakeda. She sat up and stretched out the portable folding tables that was there for TV-dinners and smiled as he placed the food in front of her first.

"I loved this show," Lakeda said, tasting the grits, nodding in approval, "This is some fire ass grits."

"Just like how my ma used to make it," X-Large said, sitting next to her and taking a big spoonful to his mouth. Lakeda grinned at him and ate daintily, watching the sitcom.

"You know what just happen the other day? I caught Strika's lil' narrow behind participatin' in one of them…ghetto ass underground fight matches…the same kinda prizefights his daddy used to be in."

X-Large pretended to be surprised, "Oh woooow…that's craaaazy…what happened?"

"He was in some fucked up looking junkyard, tryna fight some nigga named Blazemaster. You ever heard of a nigga named Blazemaster? And he was rude as all hell with his ol pencil built ass self."

"Blazemaster," X-Large took another spoonful, "Yeah I heard of him. Heard he got cooked the other day…was that you?"

Lakeda sighed, "Yeah but hear me out… he was being rude as fuck."

"You put his ass in the Poke Center, Lakeda," X-Large said, his voice a mixture of amusement and irritation, "He had burns all over his torso, damn girl…."

"He was tryin' me," Lakeda said, shaking her head, "Ion like when niggas try me. Cuz if you try me, you gon' get got, that's simply how it is. But…yeah, Strika…ion know how he got caught up in all that."

X-Large nodded, shrugging, "He's a man, Lakeda. The choices he be making…they his…"

"…And he's seeing some old ass stripper…Belilah…"

"Belilah?" X-Large asked, surprised, "Oh damn…"

Lakeda sighed, sounding disappointed, "You know her?"

"She uh…be at the club, dancin'," X-Large said, licking the bowl clean, "But ya know how it be, niggas like her. She nice."

"She's too old for him—ugh, wha'ever," Lakeda grumbled, "She better not break his damn heart…hoes be trifling these days."

"Like I said…he grown now," X-Large said, "Gotta…let 'em make their own mistakes."

"I…ain't feeling that…but…" she finished her grits and began eating her bacon, "I…just don't wanna lose him…"

X-Large put his arm around her, "I feel ya, Lay." She smiled and purred happily, leaning into him, feeling his strong heartbeat. As she did, her ears twitched and she pulled away, turning her head slowly. X-Large heard something as well, his ears pointing forward. He suddenly grabbed Lakeda, pushing her to the floor and getting down himself. A hail of bullets tore through his home. The windows shattered and the walls were being pierced, along with the door, now riddled in bullet holes in a matter of seconds. X-Large's ears were flat against his head, snarling. Lakeda, on the other hand, was screaming, covering her head. X-Large got up bolting for the door, opening it and ran outside to see the shooters starting to reload, sitting in cars parked across the street. X-Large bared his large fangs. He clutched his fist and jumped, rooting his stance firmly onto the ground and then banged both fists on the asphalt road. The road cracked immediately and large pillar of stone ripped through it from below the earth, impaling the car on the other side.

The driver of the untouched car began to drive off. X-Large made a lifting motion with his hands. The asphalt collapsed in on itself underneath the speeding car, creating an instant pothole. He ran barefoot to the impaled vehicle. The shooter was groaning while he climbed out the car, falling flat on his back when he did. X-Large grabbed the assailant, getting a good look at him. He had brick red skin, black shaggy hair and dark beady eyes that were hidden behind shades, being of the Krookodile line. He dropped him, soaking wet now from being in the rain and saw he'd fallen unconscious, bleeding profusely from the side of his head. He ran towards the pothole he created seeing the second shooter climb out, face covered in his own blood streaming from a huge gash across his forehead. He was brown skinned, with a curly mane of deep violet hair and pitch black eyes hidden behind shades. He was dressed in all black with a bit of navy blue in the seams. His hands were hidden with gloves also. His semi-automatic was still in the car and he didn't bother grab it when he crawled out. He was breathing heavily, letting the rainwater soak him. X-Large growled at him.

"Y'all really gon' try this shit with me!" He shouted, "I'll fuck all yo asses up, with yo lil fuckin' trash pea-shooters. Who wants me bumped off, nigga? Lemme know right now."

The shooter coughed a bit, looking up at him, his mouth bloodied as he grinned, showing his sharp teeth. X-Large stepped back, readying himself to fight. He got up, his breath still labored. The Lycanroc swung on him and delivered a jaw-shattering punch. He fell over, sputtering up blood that dripped onto his black sports jacket and matching polo. X-Large watched him struggle to get back to his feet, breathing hard in tandem with his assailant. He got back up, his face swollen and bloodied and X-Large gave him an old one-two. He tried blocking, but was caught with a right hook to the head when he failed. He stumbled back, grunting, staring X-Large down behind the black opaque shades. He slipped off his gloves, showing his hands: a gaping mouth in both palms.

He narrowed his eyes when he, realized this man was of the Hydregion line. X-Large didn't bother wait and rushed forward, moving at breakneck speeds towards him. The shooter gathered up energy—a glowing, pale white blue light that turned a deep magenta as it intensified. He shot out a hyper-focused beam of energy that pulsed as it traveled through the air. X-Large tried his best to dodge it but to no avail as it caught him in the stomach, going through him. He fell down to his knees in mid stride, crumpling to the asphalt. The shooter coughed up blood, giving the still body a disdainful look. As he began walking away to check on his Krookodile partner, he heard a shout.

"Nigga!"

He turned around and saw X-Large getting up. The sash around his boxers dissolved into red smoke and X-Large rocketed towards him at his top speed. Pieces of rock formed around his fist and forearm as he did. He delivered a blow so hard that the assailant's nose, jaw and cheek crumbled underneath the pure power of it. He yelped and fell back onto the ground, twitching for a few moments before falling unconscious, a pool of blood forming underneath his brutalized face. He sighed and saw Lakeda watching him from his veranda, not trying to get her hair wet in the heavy rain. X-Large looked down at his stomach at the puncture wound: it had vanished as soon as the sash faded. He walked back to Lakeda, escorting her inside and locked what remained of the bullet riddled door. He got his smartphone out of his pants pocket and began called his contact. Lakeda sat down on the couch, shell-shocked, gawking at X-Large.

"Who tryna off me now, nigga? Is it that fuckin' punk bitch ass G-Dos, that fuckin opp? Tell that nigga to pull up, got somethin' for that ass. He out here with strapped niggas shootin' up my fuckin' house cuz his trap game ain't shit? Well tell that motherfucker to come thru then." He paused for a moment, listening to the other voice chatter loudly over the other end. "Bitch! Ion care if he a water-type, he gon' get this smoke, he 'bout to be a dead-type when I'm thru with that fuck nigga! Let him know, cuz I ain't playin' no games. He been tryna push up on my shit for a while now and I been lettin' it slide! I'm strapped too nigga, fuck you mean? And I got hands, which his swimmin' ass don't. So let him know, pull up, cuz he got me all the way fucked up if he thinks, he can stroll on through Los Lados and shoot up my GOTT-DAMNED house."

Lakeda listened to him, still trembling.

"Nigga—you better not bitch out on me. Whaddya mean you need forty? I'ma have to hit you with a hell no cuh, cuz you ain't been doin' shit these days but eatin' up my motherfuckin' time and resources. But you can make up for that if you let G-Dos know, that I know it's him tryna snuff me out and I'm gonna either put a fist down his throat or a bullet up his ass, ion care which one."

He paused to let the person on the other end talk, but he soon interrupted, "Fuck you mean: 'how I know it's him?' Nigga, who else got beef with me but that big mouth, Charlie Brown soundin' ass, 'I swim in my own shit' headass, G-Dos? He been tryna push up on me since Drill-Unit got me in the game…" he paused for a second, listening and then shouted over the smartphone, "Nigga ion care if you got kids! Get yo strap, get the niggas and tell G-Dos to pull up. I ain't fuckin' playin'. He ain't built like me so he gon' get this work. Niggas buggin if they think I'ma let this slide."

He immediately hung up, not waiting for a response and turned to Lakeda, who's ears were drooping and her eyes were wide. X-Large groaned, looking guilty and fatigued.

"Iight," he said, helping her stand up, "Real talk tho…you already knew what you were gettin' into fucking with ya boy. So, yeah, I get it…you wanna bounce. I feel you. So…you better go home…it's about to get ugly."'

"I…" she took a deep breath, "Nigga…we could have died."

X-Large shrugged, "It'… real out here. But…it ain't safe for you here right now, so…lemme call you a Drop…and send you home. When it's safe, I'll text you."

"…Clarence…" Lakeda began, realizing that she was getting too old for this. I'm not gonna repeat my mistakes…I'm not having another Zebadiah. "Thank you for all this…but…I'ma…just…" she swallowed hard, "Chill on my own for a bit." If I could make a deal with Arceus…and just…swap places…

X-Large looked at her, a long stare and sighed, smiling forlornly. He leaned in, giving her a slow, long kiss on her forehead. She forced herself to hold back her tears as he gave her a hug. She hugged him back, sighing deeply.

"I'm too deep in the game," X said, calling her a Drop, "I'm sorry Lakeda."

She exhaled quietly, grabbing her purse, giving him a sad, longing smile, "I'm sorry too." She stood near the door, looking out the window. The unconscious men lying in the street were enough to draw the attention of neighboring people, but not enough for them to pry, knowing X-Large's reputation. One thing people knew was to mind their own business. Within a minute or two, the Drop pulled up to the house. She was in her nightclothes, but it hardly mattered now. She took one last look at X-Large, who gave her reassuring nod, mouthing 'we will be okay.' She gave him a slight nod in return, opening the door and heading to her Drop and getting in.

When the Drop drove off into the distance, she finally allowed the tears to fall down.

Lakeda walked into the apartment, with eyes still red and her face wet. She sighed and kicked off the house shoes, hung up her keys and set down her purse. When she walked into the kitchen, she looked over, seeing that Strika was in the living room. He was lying on the couch watching some reruns while texting on his smartphone. He heard Lakeda walk in and sat up, turning around to look at her, confused to why'd she been crying and been in night clothes when she came in. Before he could say anything, however, Lakeda spoke.

"Look," she said, wiping her face, "You grown, iight? I ain't gonna stop you from making decisions for yo life."

Strika remained quiet, swallowing his words.

"But for Arceus' sake, Strika, make the right fuckin' decisions. Don't be like yo father," she mumbled. Or me...

"Yeah…" Strika gently nodded, his voice hoarse.

"If you really like that girl," Lakeda began sighing, "Just…make sure she ain't no triflin' hoe. If you wanna fight, then go ahead…I can't really stop you. At the end of the day…its yo life, Strika. It's yo life…" she began walking off to her room.

"Ma, wait."

She stopped as Strika walked up to her. He was the tallest in the family now, standing a whole head over her and even more than Jazmin. He showed her his smartphone. He was applying for a job at community center. Lakeda sighed in relief and smiled at him, kissing him on the cheek. She turned around, heading to her room, shutting the door. She sat quietly on the bed, wiping her face again. No repeat mistakes, she thought. She looked at her phone and deleted X-Large's number, sobbing softly as she did. She tossed her phone aside and laid back down, getting under the covers to sleep. If I made a deal with Arceus and we could swap places. She closed her eyes, dreaming of dancing one more time with Zebadiah at the discothèque.

As Lakeda slept, Strika grabbed his keys, backpack and headed out, texting Laquan. A good game of basketball would help him shake off the feeling of dread he was experiencing. He got onto the elevator, trying to feel more hopeful. I still got the prize money I made last time…and now I'ma find a real job. I'm with it, he thought, getting off at the lobby floor and leaving the housing projects. The rain had ended, with the sun now emerging from behind the silvery stratus.

Now that it was summer, more people were outside, sitting on the benches or chilling in front of the stoops of the adjacent apartments, smoking cigarillos and listening to music. He waited for the bus, checking his phone from any new texts. Laquan had responded, saying he was already at the basketball court. Within six minutes, the bus pulled up and Strika got on, swiping his metro card and took his usual seat in the back row of the bus. He popped in his earphones and scrolled through his music selection, bopping his head to some trap. As the bus pulled off, he shot Belilah a text. She immediately responded, sending him hearts. Strika grinned again but very briefly. Soon he sobered up from that rush of love and took a deep breath as he looked out the window. I gotta go harder than the next guy…just to be as good as the next guy…and to do better, I gotta just…go all in, he thought. Only type of shit that get me by, I guess.

He thought about Arty. Their time together was tumultuous. The sex was good and they made each other laugh, but Arty was from Stillwood. She was used to having shit, something Strika couldn't provide: no expensive designer gifts or treating her to upscale restaurants. Arty grew disillusioned and found herself bouncing back and forth between him and 2-Zap. Ultimately, she chose 2-Zap, although she found him utterly useless. She prolly ended it, Strika thought. I'm doing better than them. But why did he have prove that? Maybe I gotta prove to myself what I can do. He shook his head. He tugged on the yellow wire, requesting his stop. Soon, the bus pulled up near to basketball court that was attached to some tumbledown playground. He yelled out "back door," and it slid open as he hopped off the bus and jogged over. Laquan was there practicing free throws. There were other people playing their own game of basketball on the other side of the court that was divided by a chain link fence. Strika walked up to him, giving him a pound and bro hug, setting his bag down on the bench.

"Ayo, did yo moms whoop you?" Laquan asked. Strika shook his head.

"Nah…no punishment either," he said, "Just…ion know man. Ion know what the fuck I was thinking, for real."

"Nah I feel ya," Laquan said, "You looked cool tho. When you win, I mean."

Strika shrugged and chuckled as Laquan tossed him the ball. They began their 1-v-1, with Strika's speed being a great advantage when it came to avoiding steals. However, Laquan's bursts of explosiveness was good for keeping the ball when he managed to get it and as Strika knew from the jump, Laquan was a better jumper and shooter. Extreme-speed, Strika thought, laughing internally. In a thirty minute game, Laquan had got him 6-2. He trudged over to the bench, grabbing a sports drink from his gym bag and chugged it. Strika opted for water, splashing it on his face before taking huge mouthfuls. They began another game. Strika started off with the ball, able to avoid Laquan's attempt at stealing, doing a layup when he reached the net. They continued on for another thirty minutes, the score now being 10-4, Laquan still being in the lead. They were drenched. Hot and humid was not the best weather conditions for outside b-ball, but they had fun anyways, with Laquan teasing Strika about his whack ass jump shots. After the fourth game, with Laquan now beating him 14-6, they decided to call it a day. Laquan grabbed his towel, wiping his face and downing another sports drink as Strika poured water on his head and drank whatever was left. He got his backpack and Laquan slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, walking with him out the playground, his basketball underneath his arm.

"So how you and Belilah?" Laquan asked, as they walked together.

"We iight," he said, spraying himself with body spray and handing some to his friend, "You know, typical shit."

"Yeah," Laquan chuckled, "Yeah, good luck with her."

Strika raised an eyebrow, "Wassup?"

"I mean…I be hearing shit, nigga," Laquan said, "Like…how she be strippin'."

Strika didn't look surprised, but he furrowed his brow, "Yeah…I fuckin' figured."

"Yeah, sorry—"

Strika shook his head, "I ain't trippin.' I mean she be workin' only on weekend nights and shit. Kinda figured she was doing some shit like that. Ion smell any niggas on her, so it ain't like she cheatin'."

"You got good smell? Zebstrika's doin' it like that?" Laquan asked, surprised.

"Nah, got that better nose from my moms," Strika said, "Wish I got the better hearin' tho. All Zebstrika's get is good stamina and shit…"

"Shit nigga, that ain't bad," Laquan said laughing, "You know who need some of yo stamina? Fuckin Big Smoke. He be getting' tired after walkin' five feet."

Strika laughed along with him, "Damn, nigga."

"Oh, which reminds me—he holdin' a party at his place, he livin' on his own now," Laquan informed.

"Big Smoke? Damn, moved out already. Doing big things, I see."

"Trappin' brings in cash," Laquan said, "Nigga got a nice ass set up. He sent me pics. It's a studio."

"When the party?"

"Next week," Laquan said, twirling the basketball on the tip of his finger, "This gon' be lit, if one thing Big Smoke know how to do beside eat and have drip, is throwing parties."

"Word," Strika said, laughing, walking past 22nd Avenue, waiting for the signal before they crossed the street. They walked past a commercial area that had people on line, waiting for unemployment. A homeless man was sleeping next to a pawn shop, with standing outside of the corner store, smoking cigarillos and cigarettes. Kids were playing in front of their houses further down the street, where it had become more residential. When they reached 23rd Avenue, Strika raised an eyebrow when he saw someone familiar—Tessa Tres. She was shouting at someone, hitting them as she yelled. She looked thinner than usual ever since she got out the Poke Center. Strika's eyes trailed over to who she was yelling at: a familiar face he saw at the Red Radisson. Laquan and Strika exchanged looks and ran over to the scene. It had been Mal Mezzos, who was manhandling her. He was out the Pokemon Center, with his nose bandaged up, with a brand new cane and bandages around his left forearm. When Mal saw them approaching he let go of Tessa, who was on the verge of tears.

"The fuck—you again, nigga?" Strika shouted. Mal backed up a bit, glaring him down.

"The hell is you doing?" Laquan snapped as Tessa hid behind the both of them.

"She wants something from me and she's refusing to fucking pay," Mal snapped. Strika looked at Tessa who was quivering and having a chronic sniff.

"How much is it?"

Mal gave him a "you know what I mean," look, his eyes unflinchingly angry. Strika stared him back down.

"I ain't afraid of you, nigga."

"Your Bewear bitch isn't here to save you, you fucking idiot," Mal said, pointing at Strika, "So back the fuck off. I gave her what she wanted and she refuses to pay up."

"Fuck you!" Tessa shrieked, spittle dribbling from her mouth. Laquan held her back, concerned to how thin she's had become.

"Listen nigga, with yo ol' scary ass," Strika growled, "You out here, once again, giving drugs to underage niggas. How the fu—you know what, suck my dick." He snatched his cane and Mal stumbled, groaning as he did. Strika's eyes were starting to glow bright blue, but he sighed, tossing the cane to his feet. He didn't have the drive to whoop the ass of a clearly injured, middle aged man.

"Leave her alone," Strika warned Mal, "I ain't fuckin' playing, bruh."

Mal gave him a narrowed eyed look.

"Nigga…I'll beat yo fuckin' ass into another region," Strika snapped, "Keep tryna to test me—"

There was the whoop whoop of a siren, with two cop cars pulling up. Mal began to quickly leave the scene. He grabbed his cane and hobbled away as fast as he can. Two cops from each car stepped out, their hands on their guns. They were all human, glaring down at Laquan, Strika and Tessa.

"The hell is happening here?"

One of the cops immediately withdrew his gun when Laquan tried to set down his bag to lift up his hands in surrender.

"Do NOT move!" He shouted. Laquan stared at him, his eyes as huge as the moon.

"Yo, officer—" Strika began, "We just tryna help our friend—"

The officer cut him off, "Who's your friend?"

He looked at Tessa who was standing there. Her countenance was fearful and her hands all the way up. They eyed her, not believing their claim.

"Search 'em for drugs," a taller officer with fair skin and weak eyes said to the shorter one.

"We don't got no drugs on us," Laquan said, "Damn son…"

"We will see. Also, get out your ," the officer said, "Right now!"

Laquan looked at the other officer, whose gun was still drawn.

"Bruh why the hell y'all got yo guns out, the fuck?"

"Shut up and get out your fucking I.D," the cop snapped at him. Laquan swallowed hard, reaching into his pocket. But when he shifted, trying to move his phone out the way to get his wallet, the other officer, freaked. Instinctively, Laquan lurched back as he heard the gunshots. The world seemed to slow down as the cop fired three shots without thinking. Two hit him in the directly into the chest as one went straight through his skull. Tessa let out a bloodcurdling scream as Laquan collapsed to the ground. Strika's eyes grew wide as he turned around, feeling his throat turn as dry as the desert. Laquan twitched for a few moments, blood pooling in his mouth and he blinked rapidly, his lips trembling for mere seconds. Within that second, Strika could see the light escape from his eyes as he stopped moving altogether.

"LAQUAN!" He cried out, dropping down to check on his friend, "No! No! Holy fu—call an ambulance! Laquan! LAQUAN!"

Laquan was unresponsive. His eyes were fixed in one position, glassy and gray. Tessa was screaming as the three other cops stared at the one who shot him.

"I—I thought he was go—gonna use an at-attack," the shorter cop stammered, his face blanched at the sight, "I—I…."

"Call for backup, right now! Call an ambulance!"

Tessa was sobbing now, covering her mouth as she did. Strika was shaking him to no avail, tears running down his face as he did.

"Laquan…" he gasped between labored breaths, "Laquan…" he lowered his head, allowing himself to weep. People were coming out their houses or out the store, looking gasping and pointing, filming the whole ordeal on their smartphones. Strika didn't care that they filmed. He broke down crying now, gripping Laquan's jersey. Tessa was hyperventilating, screaming at the people to get help. Everything was a blur of noise and lights to Strika. He looked at his hands, soaked in Laquan's blood. The other cops tried to control the crowd that was now gathering, surrounding, gasping at the sight. Someone yelled out "pig," from the crowd and Strika went catatonic for a second…unable to process what was happening. More cop cars pulled up, with an Officer Jenny stepping out, telling the jeering and shouting crowd to back up. Strika didn't move, however, not hearing Jenny telling him to get to his feet.

"I…" he mumbled, shell-shocked, tears still streaming down his face, "I…"

All he could hear is Tessa's cries into the midday air and the smell of blood waft underneath his nose.

"Laquan," he said tiredly, still shaking between soft sobs. He was eventually pulled away from the body by Officer Jenny. He resisted, yelling and shouting for his friend as they covered him with a tarp.

It's just another body in the sun…

He cried.

And cried.

And cried.