So I’m walking down the long corridor, right. And this is the looooong corridor that leads up to the Big Door, on the other side of which is Benny Blanco, the fattest, baddest mutherfucker that ever sold a gram of coke in Brooklyn. Problem is that tonight I’m the errand boy, and the particular errand is the delivery of 4 keys and $18,000, of which I have neither. Empty hands. But the corridor is short now, right, and what I have are maybe 15 seconds before I gotta start producing words of explanation for Mr. Blanco.

But let me back up a bit. Rewind to yesterday, around two in the afternoon. I’m driving down Flatbush Avenue, sportin’ my new MSW rims, just chillin’. White Debbie comes running out of this building all of a sudden, in her bra and panties. Me and Debbie’s kicked it around, so you know, I open the door and Debbie gets in. Bitch is trippin’, going off about somebody’s after her with a gun and shit. I’m still sitting there, blocking traffic. Folks know my ride, so they’re chill with a little disturbance being put down in a quiet and caste-honoring manner. But Debbie’s like: “Go, go, he’s gonna fucking kill me! Drive!” So, of course I pull out into traffic and go, but easy with the pressure on the pedal. Don’t want anybody thinking I’m spooked.

I check the mirrors as I drive away, just in case Debbie’s right. But no shots were heard to ring out that day on Flatbush Ave. Debbie hasn’t shut up yet since getting into the car. And we’re slipping stealthily into the well-greased lanes of the Belt Parkway, southbound toward Coney Island. Back in full control of my situation, I give an ear to the shit Debbie’s poppin’. The name Chiqui keeps coming up, like a sour note in the Debbie-bullshit-song.

“Chiqui said he’s gonna kill me because I talked to the police…” And then it trailed off again into the unintelligible. “Chiqui what…?” I said. Then she gives me that “…let me hide in the shadow of your cock for a while…” look on her face. So, what the fuck, I take the bitch back to my crib for a session. She remembers all my favorite positions, and the way I like to have her drag her lower teeth under the rim of the helmet. Bitch is the best fuck in Brooklyn. I’m balls-deep, when there’s a knock at the door. Fuck, I had forgotten Ruben from Queens was gonna bring me the buy-money for 4 keys of pure from the Chibcha Club guys, and some cut shit we we’re turning around fast with the brothers from Lennox Avenue.

The sight of Ruben and all the quick doorway niceties took their toll on my hard-on. So I put the $40,000 and 120 8-ball baggies on the bed, right next to the wet spot. “So tell me what happened with Chiqui…” I told her. Just sayin’ the name put that vomit taste back in my mouth. Chiqui is just one of those crazy mutherfuckers always gonna be in this business, because they do shit that’s 50 times crazier than anybody else for half the money, you know, a head case. Like this one time he cut the baby out of this pregnant bitch in an elevator while her husband was watching, between the 4th and 17th floors of the Holiday Inn by JFK. Lots of stories like that.

But I remember Chiqui back from 99th Street in Corona, when we were kids. He used to ride his bike up and down the block, in a popped wheelie, back and forth all fucking afternoon. Everybody thought one day we’d hear the screech of brakes and a dull thud, and we’d walk over and see that Chiqui had been bounced free of the unnatural forces that kept him alive. But it never happened. Mutherfuckers got shot every week, and houses burned down and you heard about kids who drowned in Rockaway every Summer. But Chiqui just kept his front wheel up in the air all the time, and was never seen to relax from that difficult posture of absolute dereliction.

Oh, but I’m forgetting myself. I tend to slip into the eloquent tones of a fan whenever I’m pressed to speak on the subject of Chiqui “El Maniatico” Alarcon. I suppose I preserve him in a bubble of mythology because it makes this business a little bit more magical, and that’s important. I wish I could say, twenty-two mutherfuckers kicked that door down, fucked Debbie into a coma, beat me to the front door of death and stole my shit. But that’s not what happened. Truth is, Debbie kept talkin’, kept telling her story. And I just listened, like a fucking cobra listening to the charmer’s flute. I bobbed my head, and she explained how Chiqui had been fucking her with an encouraging regularity, and had even begun to permit her to remain in his bed when it became his office during the day. It was well known that Chiqui almost never left his bed, for any reason. Me, I don’t think I’d like to screw and do business in the same place. I never could joyfully mingle those odors.

But hearing this shit was like hearing about dragons and sorcerers and shit. The story predisposed me to the sort of sleep I longed for as a kid, full of fantastic dreams, because I had shoved off into the waters of my slumber from such a strange pier. So Debbie saw a lot of faces and a lot of blow come and go while lying naked in Chiqui’s bed. Chiqui must have gotten scared by the intimacy, I mean, Debbie knows how to give a mutherfucker a God complex. She’ll just stare up at you, down from under the saggy weight of your spent balls, those trailer park blue eyes of hers just sparkly in the light she reflects from the object of her adoration. It gets old, and creepy, real fast.

Five minutes before the knock at the door, Debbie was telling me about this Nicaraguan slag Chiqui had offed last week right in front of her, and she’s got the whole memory just all fucked up and distorted in her head. Gotta be, because in her version of events, Chiqui is using a light saber on the Nicaraguan guy, and his head comes off “so gently”, and the blood floats away in these little globules, because there’s no gravity in Chiqui’s bedroom, where all of this is happening.

On any other Monday afternoon, I would have just taken care of business, and put the bitch out naked right then. Pretty much exactly where I came into this movie. But, I had had the uncertain fortune of running into Father Pesaresi on the steps of St. Philip’s the day before, and he really fucked my head up. He baptized me way back in the beginning, and now he knows I’m a dealer, same as everybody else. But he pays me the intelligence-respect of delivering his moral instruction in the form of densely coded allegories. “Walk with me a few steps, my son.” Oh shit, I thought to myself, he must have heard about that Italian punk half of Brooklyn thinks I threw off a building in the Bronx. Wasn’t me, but I hadn’t quite yet finished riding out the usefulness of the possibility.

So, I let Father run out his strings on Cain and Abel and brothers killing brothers and all that shit. But I’m staying above it. Number one, because I know I really didn’t do it, and number two, because if I had, I would have all the moral justification I could buy with the $288,0000 I heard they lifted from this Italian guy’s dead body. But Father’s in a rare form, he’s waving his arms all up in the air, and screaming shit in Latin. I remember enough from high school to piece together some vague story he’s tellin’ about a bad man and his treacherous woman getting their heads cut off by this avenging angel type mutherfucker, as they were screwing and sluicing in the spoils of their evil.

Then Debbie goes into this slo-mo simulation of Chiqui killing the Nicaraguan guy. She’s got her lips all puckered up hard, like a tied-off balloon end, and she’s making a sound effect, too, by blowing all the air she just sucked out of my cock through her ass-tight lips. Sounded like a helicopter getting ready to crash. She’s standing on the bed, naked, and somehow she’s got me convinced this must have really happened. She’s doing this Jedi performance thing on the bed and making all these weird noises, and I’m all freaked out, because she looks just like Father Pesaresi from the day before. And she just won’t stop, either.

That’s when Chiqui came through the door, he just passed through it, didn’t make a sound or exert himself in the least. He’s just suddenly standing right there in front of me, panting like he just chased somebody and caught them and slit their throat. Looking sort of like a newborn too, ’cause he’s naked and covered in this brown gooey shit. There aren’t a lot of ways for a drug dealer to go down with dignity, but taking Chiqui Alarcon’s Jedi light saber in the neck is definitely one of them. I’m naked too and weak and slow from fucking all day, and loopy from Debbie’s creepshow. And there’s all the Latin shit still bouncing around inside my head from Father Pesaresi, so I close my eyes and brace for death.

I swear I could hear the hum from the light saber, and even with my eyes closed could see the movie of Chiqui slashing away at Debbie and the sounds of big chunks of her hitting the ground. It was kind of exhilarating waiting there in the Lotus position, stretching my neck out, feeling the wind of furious movement against my naked skin. Problem is, I guess I don’t get killed. I wake up and the sun must have done its thing already, going down and embarking all over again. Because it’s the next fucking day, and Debbie’s gone of course. No coke, no cash, just my sorry brown naked ass wadded up in the sweaty sheets.

Now twenty-four hours after I picked the bitch up, I’m walking down this corridor on my way to death number two, still wondering why death number one is all wrapped up in amnesia, and why all I have to show for the experience are these empty hands and a sore cock. I think White Debbie does a lot of acid.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 24th, 2006 at 6:23 pm and is filed under a shot on the house, smut, overheard, sex in the head. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.