“Psycho-Dog”

I’ve rarely seen anything so funny in my life. I get cramps laughing at my sister, screaming at the top of her lung’s capacity, cowering in the corner of my room on top of my bed. The stupid expression on her face is priceless.

Sugar, the white, muscular pit bull I “borrowed” from one of my boys, Juice Tc5 snaps his teeth inches away from her toes. It takes most of all my strength to hold the dog back at a safe enough distance on its leash. My aunt barges into my room. Yelling.

What the hell are you doing?

Don’t think I won’t sic Sugar on you too. You better chill!

My aunt is not amused by my sense of fun.

My sister screams. He’s crazy, Mommy! He’s a psycho for real!

Oh take it easy, I’m just fucking with you. I’m not going to let Sugar do anything to you.

I yank the dog back and command it to sit. I kneel and pet her to calm the animal down.

Good doggie, good doggie. I hug and kiss her, but only a little bit because she stinks.

Mommy, you have to throw him out now. He’s crazy!

Fuck you! How about all those times when you used to bully me and twist my arm? Huh? Huh? Huh? And take my quarter. You’re just mad because you can’t fuck with me anymore. I’ll mess your bitch ass up. Say I won’t…I dare you!

Vincent! My aunt screams, watch your mouth in my house. What the hell is wrong with you?

Oh now, all of a sudden, we’re worry about language? Fuck that shit, Man! I don’t get down with that hypocritical shit. I’m as real as they come!

Man, Elsie really messed you up, boy.

Fuck Elsie!

Jesus Christ, Vincent, she’s dead.

So is Jesus. Whatever! I address my sister. You! Fuck out my room. Now!

I speak to the pit bull. You know what we’re going to do now? We’re going to vamp some writers. Oh yes, we are! I become so happy with the thought that I sing. We’re gonna vamp some writers! We’re gonna vamp some writers!

I leave my house with Sugar the pit bull. I am 16 and I used to be such a sweet, innocent little boy who used to cry at the sight of a dead bird or a mouse caught in a trap, but a few things have happened along the way that have killed the soul of that little boy.  Instead lives a monster in his place that hates. The monster hates so much, that he hates even himself. I wish I was never born, but since I was, I wish I was dead. Since I don’t have the balls to take my own life, I instigate my death frequently. I am far beyond angst. I am evil.

Once outside my apartment building, the sun glares in my eyes. I put on my shades. A short, obese man waddles towards me. Although, I find him disgusting to look at, I cannot take my eyes off of him. His stomach hangs to the middle of his thigh. He has to be at least 300 pounds if not more. I sneer at him as he passes by me.

Look Sugar, that’s a nice big snack. You’re hungry?

The obese man sneers back at me. Don’t you dare!

Don’t I dare what? You fat disgusting fuck! Sic him, Sugar!

The pit bull barks uncontrollably at the man.  He tries to run, but his legs can not support his weight and he falls to the pavement like a hunted elephant. He looks at me from the ground. His frighten face makes me laugh like a hyena. I have Sugar on a tight leash, just inches from snapping at the man’s fat ankles.

Leave me alone! The man cries out to me. I feel sorry for him, but not enough to stop laughing.

I jerk Sugar back on his leash. Sit! Sugar obeys. Good doggie! I praise the beast.

Lose weight, motherfucker! I yell at the man before I walk off with the dog. I reach the far end of my block when I hear the fat bastard yell.

Hey you!

I turn around. He sticks his middle finger up at me and tries to hurry off.

I crouch low and point to the man. Sic him! I command and let Sugar go. I am intrigued that the dog is amazingly fast. The obese man sees the dog coming and does the impossible and climbs on top of a parked Cadillac.

Holy shit! I exclaim to myself. It’s an unbelievable feat on his behalf, but he makes it on top of the roof. The car sinks low to the ground. Sugar is jumping and snapping his jaws at him. I run towards them, stopping to laugh every other second.

My aunt exits my building. This is not good. My aunt is a lady you can only push so far. She happens to be very unpredictable herself and I never know when she just might slap me. Getting slapped by your aunt in the street is not cool.

I run full speed and snatch Sugar’s leash and yank her back.

Chill, Sugar, chill!

The man is bleeding from his calf. I think the taste of blood excites Sugar. I have to physically hold her down. My aunt is yelling in my ear that I’m a maniac. This is the same lady who shot at her sister with a 22 caliber in front of me when I was 5 years old.

The obese man wants to know if I am her son.

He’s my nephew. Are you okay?

No, I’m not okay. I want your name and address. I’m calling both the cops and my lawyer.

My aunt stands, not knowing what to say. She takes the threat seriously and it’s stressing her out. I stare at the man with evil, unblinking eyes.

My name is Vincent fucking Mayta and I live right here, I point to my building, motherfucker! You come with the cops and your lawyer and I swear on my father’s grave that I will find your fat, nasty ass and chop up in a thousand pieces while you are alive and feed you to my dog. And you can tell them that I said that too.

I hock a wad of phlegm in the back of my throat and I don’t spit, I shoot it at him. The man looks like he’s about to vomit as my gook slides down his face.

You piece of shit!

My aunt looks at me, speechless.

Fuck that shit! I announce as I walk off with Sugar. I rap a song I just make up.

Niggas wanna die! Niggas wanna die! Niggas wanna die!

I flag a cab on Broadway. The driver tells me that Sugar can’t come in. I open the door and carry Sugar inside the car anyway. He tells me that I can’t be in his car with the animal.

Dude, just shut the fuck up and take me to145th street and Broadway.

The driver studies me, not sure what to make of me. I help him out.

Don’t make me tell you again. Go!

The driver bitches up and drives off. I smirk and mumble, “punk ass motherfucker” under my breathe. The Haitian man looks at me through the rear view mirror. I stare at him hard. He looks away. We arrived at my destination.

Four dollars.

Get the fuck out of here. You didn’t wanna let my dog in and now you want to charge me? Are you fucking insane?

I open the door. The man hits the gas as I have one foot out the car. I pull my foot back in quickly.

Do you want to die? I ask the driver, not stopping for a second to consider if he’s even a family man. I punch him in the back of the head. He stops the car and fumbles for something under his seat. I hit him again. He turns with a gun in his shaky hand. I look at his eyes. They’re soft. The guy is not a killer, but a lot of killers aren’t.

You’re going to pay me my money. I am not a sucker!

I look at the gun in disbelief. It has to be at least fifty years old. It pisses me off.

You’re going to shoot me with that piece of shit? What the fuck?

Sweat begins to bead down his forehead. I consider slapping the gun out his hand, but then I think that it might backfire literally. So instead I sit back and relax and pet and kiss Sugar.

Give me my money, motherfucker! What are you doing?

I’m chilling and I’m not giving you shit! What are you going to do? Shoot me if you’re going to shoot. If not, call the cops. Either way, I’m not giving you shit!

Don’t make me.

Shoot or call the cops!

The man is frustrated. I snicker at him.

You punk ass motherfucker! If I was at the end of that gun, you would be finished.

Get out! Get out of my car! You have no morals.

You would get along with my aunt. She says the same thing. It must be true. Later!

I open the door and slide out the car and sing my rap again: Niggas wanna die! Nigga wanna die! Niggas must wanna die!

I enter the 145th street train station. People look at Sugar and me in shock and fear.

Pussies!

I hop the turnstile. The token booth clerk screeches through her microphone.

PAY YOUR FARE!

I ignore her and walk t the downtown end of the station like I own it. I hope West and Zear or Jon-one are inside the lay-up. I think about Jon’s pieces. they’re cool. Maybe I could get West to rock a Psycho outline and have Jon fill it in with his abstract shit. That would be a crazy piece. I get excited about my new piece I’ve formed in my head. But first, I have to rob some writers for paint.

At the end of the platform, I peer inside the dimly lit tunnel. I smell paint. I look around for police. I check my watch. It is not even 9 am on a dead Sunday morning. I assume that they might be changing shifts. I enter the tunnel, keeping Sugar on a short, tight leash. A blue conductor’s paddle conveniently lies on the tracks I check for oncoming subway trains and cross the tracks. I creep past the first row of parked trains and take a peek down the middle of the lane. I see a tall, lanky figure many, many subway cars down. He is spray painting a train. I get excited. In the middle of the lane are a row of steel beams. I walk down the lane on the right side of the beam and it helps me stay out of sight from the lone writer. As I approach closer, I think that the guy has shitty instincts. I would have sensed my presence by now if I was him.

I am within 6 feet before he looks.

Yo, what’s up, bee? You know Psycho?

The guy is obviously taken back by Sugar, but he’s making a huge effort to play it cool.

Nah. What you write?

I write Tack, FBA. You know I did that joint with the sharks in Subway Art.

Oh word! I know who you are.

The tall guy has a mouth full of gold fronts and thinks he’s hard. This tells me that he’s either from Brooklyn or the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

What you write?

He tells me what he writes. It’s a bunch of bullshit initials like R2D2 that I don’t remember.  He tells me that he’s down with R.T.W. and that he’s rocks the J’s and the M’s.

Yo bee, that dude Psycho just robbed me of all my paint like two hours ago.  I’m going to sic my dog on him and beat his ass.

But aren’t you and Psycho both down with Tc5?

That dude has no respect. He’s crazy.  Watch out, bee. He might try to rob you. he’s a sneaky dude.

The guy takes out a pistol out of waist band. This is exactly what I was trying to find out. I check the gun out. It’s another shitty looking gun.

He ain’t vamping shit. I don’t play that. I’m from Brooklyn!

Shhhhh! You heard that?  Writers!

I raise the paddle and fake look around. He looks around too. I smash his hand with my paddle and knock the gun out of his hand. He yells.

What the---

The paddle stops him from finishing his sentence. Blood spurts out of his mouth. He bends over holding his face. Damm, I fucked up. I think to myself. Because now I don’t want his gold fronts.

Sic him, Sugar!

I hold Sugar back. The dog snaps his killer jaws at the tall black guy.

Take everything out of your pockets and drop it on the ground. Don’t forget your watch and your chain too.

My mother gave this chain to me. She’s dead.

For real?

Word is born.

Okay, I’ll let you slide this time. But everything in your pockets.

He throws about thirty bucks on the ground.

Can I keep my wallet and I.D.?

It’s a piece of shit. I shrug. Why not? Fuck it, I think.

The gold fronts too.

He throws the gold on the ground.

Now who the hell told you that you can come in here? I lecture to him. You think the one tunnel is a joke? This place isn’t safe. This is F.C. shit, bee.

Yo bee, I didn’t mean any harm, he manages to mumble, I was just doing some pieces.

Oh come on....you were looking all hard and shit a minute ago with your bullshit gun, talking about Psycho ain’t going to vamp you. Well, guess what, motherfucker? I just did.

I give him my crazy eyes look for added effect.

Thanks for the paint, Popeye. Now get the fuck out of my yard.

I watch him walk off.

I sit on the third rail and shift through the spray paint in his duffle bag. There are about 40 cans of beautiful colors. I get happy and sing.

Niggas wanna die!  Niggas wanna die!

I think for a second that Juice is going to be pissed because his dog is dirty. Fuck it.

Niggas wanna die!

Posted on October 30, 2007 at 11:01 AM   |   Previous Entry   |   Next Entry   |   Entry List   |   Email Entry   |    Digg

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