Read Online Yaccub's Curse by Wrath James White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wrath James White
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say ya naw can claim nut’ing in G-town. Ya wan’ sell in G-town ya ’ave ta pay! Dis ’ere Jah Warrior territory! Now go on way from ’ere for I take it in my mind ta stop ya breat’ing!”
“You know who you steppin’ to fool? This here is Scratch! I ain’t nuthin’ ta play with, son! I ain’t nuthin’ nice! You think shit is sweet up in this piece? You think you can run up in here and take my shit?”
I had run to the window when I heard the dread refer to his adversary as a peckerwood because I just couldn’t imagine a white boy in our neighborhood, talking cold street, and stepping to one of those ruthless Jamaican dealers like he was some bitch.
Just as I parted the blinds enough to see the two, this tall skinny white boy in a leather Nike running suit, a thick gold “dope rope” with a gold nameplate that read “Scratch”, and more lines carved into the side of his towering block taper than Vanilla Ice, drew a big shiny automatic pistol out of his waistband while the Jamaican reached for his and blew the rasta’s dreadlocks off his head along with the greater portion of his skull. His crown of thick dreads went spinning through the air looking for a moment like some type of grisly gore-streaked Christmas tree.
I sat frozen at the window watching the emaciated scarecrow-like Jamaican whose eyes had burned like Moses slip to the ground with blood streaming out of his nostrils and ears and his brain flopping out of the top of his ruptured head. His body hit the ground with a soft thud and then a smack as his head struck the asphalt and his brains spilled out onto the street. His legs were still twitching and his fingers were clenching and unclenching. The white boy stepped up and put two more bullets into him silencing his restless corpse. I was transfixed.
It was the first time I had seen anyone die in real life and several hundred thousand TV and movie murders hadn’t prepared me. This was not killing it was butchering. It was like watching videos of deer being gunned down for sport. Yet where those videos made me sad and angry, this left me feeling hollow, helpless, vulnerable, and then suddenly excited! If this white boy could take a life away so easily than so could I! To me it was like witnessing the power of a god. Then the white boy knelt down over the bleeding carcass and did something that no god I’d ever heard of would ever have done.
A pink spaghetti-like mass of tissue oozed between the white boy’s fingers as he reached into the Rasta’s skull and scooped out his brain. I stared in shocked silence, my body shaking and the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, watching as he crammed the man’s brain into his mouth, gulping and swallowing like a snake swallowing a rat. I kept watching as he slid his fingers along the inner wall of Jah Warrior’s brain pan and brought two fingers dripping with blood and cerebral fluid up to his lips where he licked them clean, shuddering as if in the throws of orgasm. He smeared his face in the blood flowing from the dead guy’s head like war paint, a horrible grin scarring his features. If I’d been forced to describe Satan…that was the face I would have given him.
“Jesus Christ!”
I was terrified, but not nearly as much as I should have been. I know it seems bizarre now, but at the time I didn’t see anything at all unnatural about what he’d done. I even thought I could remember seeing something on National Geographic about a tribe in Africa that ate the brains of their enemies in order to gain their power but I couldn’t be sure. I guess I just figured that he was playin’ that crazy nigga role to build his rep and scare off witnesses and competition. Who would fuck with some crazy white boy who talked like a thug and ate motherfucker’s brains?
“Ya’ll niggas ain’t see shit! Say you saw somethin’ and see what happens! See what I do to you! See what happens to your families!”
He was standing in the middle
“You know who you steppin’ to fool? This here is Scratch! I ain’t nuthin’ ta play with, son! I ain’t nuthin’ nice! You think shit is sweet up in this piece? You think you can run up in here and take my shit?”
I had run to the window when I heard the dread refer to his adversary as a peckerwood because I just couldn’t imagine a white boy in our neighborhood, talking cold street, and stepping to one of those ruthless Jamaican dealers like he was some bitch.
Just as I parted the blinds enough to see the two, this tall skinny white boy in a leather Nike running suit, a thick gold “dope rope” with a gold nameplate that read “Scratch”, and more lines carved into the side of his towering block taper than Vanilla Ice, drew a big shiny automatic pistol out of his waistband while the Jamaican reached for his and blew the rasta’s dreadlocks off his head along with the greater portion of his skull. His crown of thick dreads went spinning through the air looking for a moment like some type of grisly gore-streaked Christmas tree.
I sat frozen at the window watching the emaciated scarecrow-like Jamaican whose eyes had burned like Moses slip to the ground with blood streaming out of his nostrils and ears and his brain flopping out of the top of his ruptured head. His body hit the ground with a soft thud and then a smack as his head struck the asphalt and his brains spilled out onto the street. His legs were still twitching and his fingers were clenching and unclenching. The white boy stepped up and put two more bullets into him silencing his restless corpse. I was transfixed.
It was the first time I had seen anyone die in real life and several hundred thousand TV and movie murders hadn’t prepared me. This was not killing it was butchering. It was like watching videos of deer being gunned down for sport. Yet where those videos made me sad and angry, this left me feeling hollow, helpless, vulnerable, and then suddenly excited! If this white boy could take a life away so easily than so could I! To me it was like witnessing the power of a god. Then the white boy knelt down over the bleeding carcass and did something that no god I’d ever heard of would ever have done.
A pink spaghetti-like mass of tissue oozed between the white boy’s fingers as he reached into the Rasta’s skull and scooped out his brain. I stared in shocked silence, my body shaking and the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, watching as he crammed the man’s brain into his mouth, gulping and swallowing like a snake swallowing a rat. I kept watching as he slid his fingers along the inner wall of Jah Warrior’s brain pan and brought two fingers dripping with blood and cerebral fluid up to his lips where he licked them clean, shuddering as if in the throws of orgasm. He smeared his face in the blood flowing from the dead guy’s head like war paint, a horrible grin scarring his features. If I’d been forced to describe Satan…that was the face I would have given him.
“Jesus Christ!”
I was terrified, but not nearly as much as I should have been. I know it seems bizarre now, but at the time I didn’t see anything at all unnatural about what he’d done. I even thought I could remember seeing something on National Geographic about a tribe in Africa that ate the brains of their enemies in order to gain their power but I couldn’t be sure. I guess I just figured that he was playin’ that crazy nigga role to build his rep and scare off witnesses and competition. Who would fuck with some crazy white boy who talked like a thug and ate motherfucker’s brains?
“Ya’ll niggas ain’t see shit! Say you saw somethin’ and see what happens! See what I do to you! See what happens to your families!”
He was standing in the middle
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