THE DEFINITION OF A TROUBLE CONSULTANT
A TROUBLE CONSULTANT is the last resort when it comes to settling a major beef. When you can’t squash it on your own and the police are basically waiting until somebody is outlined in chalk before they get involved, you hire The Trouble Consultant.
For a reasonable fee, he will put an end to whatever drama is consuming your life. But there are stipulations one should know before even approaching The Trouble Consultant such as: 1. He is not a hit-man, (it’s one thing to kick somebody’s ass, but killing is an entirely different matter). 2. He needs at least a week to check out your story, (this way he is not going into something blindly that could very well be the client’s fault). 3. Half the payment is expected up front before anything goes down and is kept regardless if it does or does not (prices vary depending on the assignment). 4. He will not take a job against vicious-natured women and would never strike one, (cause his mama raised him right). 5. And lastly, some jobs may be flat-out refused depending on the risk factor, (for example, The Trouble Consultant will take out a small low-level drug dealer, but he’s not single-handedly going up against a high-powered drug cartel).
Just because he can throw a punch, it doesn’t make him a superhero. He’s just an ordinary guy who can do extraordinary things.
“What’s up? You’re listening to the super rocking sounds of pure hip hop on 98.7 kiss WRKSFM New York City’s number one radio station. I’m your host, Kool DJ Red Alert going berserk spinning the phattest jams you wanna hear on the one’s and two’s. And as we bid a fond farewell to nineteen eight-seven, I’m gonna play a new joint from my man, Brooklyn’s own, Big Daddy Kane. It’s called Ain’t no half stepping. Peace.”
♫Aww yeah. I’m with this. I’m just gonna sit here laid back to this nice mellow beat you know. And drop some smooth lyrics. It’s eighty-eight, time to set it straight kna’ what I’m saying and ain’t no half stepping-word! ♫
Half way through the hot track, the Trouble Consultant muted his car stereo when the push button cigarette lighter popped out. He removed it and brought the orange glowing metal cylinder to the end of the blunt hanging from his mouth. Once it was lit, he took a deep pull then exhaled and leaned back comfortably behind the wheel with a Sony Watchman on his lap and the sizzling fat blunt between his thumb and trigger finger, stone cold lampin’. Thanks to the dark tinted windows, the car’s interior was pitch black and the only sources of light came from the fiery glow of the burning blunt and the bluish haze that the watchman gave off. On the miniature screen the ageless avatar of American Bandstand’s Dick Clark was dressed warmly on the streets of New York. In the background, countless vibrant screaming people wearing party hats and plastic glasses that blinked ‘Happy New Year’, shook noisemakers and blew into plastic horns to perform for the camera.
“Welcome back to Times Square. It is now less than 3 minutes ‘til midnight when the ball will drop and this crowd will go wild. For this very moment they have all gathered. They are ready, they are anxious and they’ve all got their eyes on that lighted ball atop a seventy-foot flagpole hoisted twenty-two stories up in the air. We are just moments away from the count down to the year nineteen-eighty-eight. The ball is in place and I have just gotten word that it’s ready to drop!” The Trouble Consultant watched through tight eyes as he took a long deep toke powerful enough to make a Rastafarian pass out. After exhaling he counted along as the famous apple shaped red ball of lights began its traditional year-end descent down the long pole to ring in the New Year.
“Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one-HAPPY NEW YEAR! Different year, same bullshit!” he said in a voice of pure gravel made rougher from an endless stream of blunts and Newports. He switched off the miniature television then laid his head back on the headrest enjoying his buzz as the night came alive with drunken shouting and gunfire on the mean streets of East New York. It was New Years, Brooklyn style. Top of the motherfucking food chain.
The blunt had The Trouble Consultant feeling no pain, but he didn’t want to get too lifted because he had a job to do, so he put it out in the ash tray for later then tilted back and put a couple of drops of Visine in each eye to get the red out. Now he was in the right frame of mind to work. He studied the intimidating-looking guard across the street standing outside of the dilapidated brownstone then cracked open a strawberry Calvin Cooler from the six pack on the floor. After emptying the bottle with one huge gulp to get rid of the dry mouth, he then fixed his stare into the rearview mirror and focused his attention on the passenger in the back seat.
“Aight partner listen up back there. This is a simple job, I’ma go in, get the goods, come back out. Piece of cake. I don’t anticipate on needing any back up. So keep your overzealous ass in the car. If I need you, I’ll call you. Are we clear?” he asked and a deep throaty grunt was heard indicating that while the message was received, it wasn’t appreciated. “Cool!” he said and went to get out. He paused snapping his fingers and removed twin Glocks with pearl handles from behind his back and tossed them under the seat. He slid leather gloves over his sharp-scarred knuckles, a bell Kangol hat on his head and covered his eyes with a pair of Gazelles. Taking one last look in the mirror, he checked the pulse on his neck. It was beating like a racehorse. He exhaled. No matter how many consulting gigs he performed in the past, the minutes right before it went down was always a little stressful. He pulled back his sleeve. “Time to make the doughnuts.”
The frosty temperature didn’t faze The Trouble Consultant as a gust of wind escorted him across the street. He pulled his collar up just beneath his dark eyes and went to the pay phone on the corner then fed it some coins. After the third ring someone picked up.
“Hello?…Yes, it’s taken care of. I’ll stop by your restaurant around closing time to collect the other half of my fee.” After hanging up he made a second call then turned his frown upside down when a familiar voice answered. “Hello?…Hey brat what are you still doing up?…Oh she did huh?…And Happy New Years to you too…Yeah I saw it drop…On that little TV set you and Mommy got me for Christmas…No you don’t get any New Year gifts…Because…Just because…Wasn’t Christmas last week?…And isn’t your birthday next week?…Well okay then, stop being so greedy begging Billy…Okay we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Now put mommy on the phone…I love you too…Mmmwwaa kiss-kiss…Okay bye…” The Trouble Consultant rolled his eyes at his sister’s antics. “Tee-Tee, stop playing around and put Mommy on the phone before my money runs out…C’mon Tee-Tee quit play-heyyy Mommy-O, how’re you doing?…Fine, I’m just calling to say Happy New Year, you know I can’t start off the new year without speaking to you and the brat…So you’re still coming over tomorrow?…Cool…No Ma I didn’t forget…I’m headed over to see him as soon as I leave this party…Of course I’m in a safe neighborhood,” he said surveying the area smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be even in the daytime. “…Nothing major. Just kicking it with some decent people to celebrate.” As he noticed the tough looking guard outside the brownstone frisking a shyste looking man. “Yes, I promise to be careful…No, I won’t be out too late. Stop worrying, I’ll be fine. Listen, I’m about to head inside so I gotta go. See you mañana…I love you too Ma, bye.”
The Trouble Consultant hung up feeling like a first–class heel for lying to his mother. But he knew she would sleep much easier thinking the worse that could happen to her precious baby boy was he’d wake up with a killer hangover from too much celebrating. He pushed the guilt out of his head as he approached the screw-faced guard eyeing him, while mumbling into a walkie-talkie and trying to keep warm in a red and black Lumberjack jacket, with the hat to match.
“The Hawk’s out tonight huh Big Man?” the Trouble Consultant greeted cheerfully.
“Fuck you want?” the Lumberjack growled back sizing him up and down. He was so black the Vaseline on his face had him looking like a patent leather Easter shoe.
“Any action going on inside?” the Trouble Consultant inquired.
“It’s a hoe house. There’s always action going on inside.”
“So, you wastin’ my time or what?”
“Neither yours, nor mines.” the Trouble Consultant grinned then held out his arms to be frisked. As the Lumberjack started at his wrists and worked his way down to his ankles checking for weapons, he was glad he remembered to leave his guns in the car.
“Aight Money-grip, you straight.” the Lumberjack said and swung the door open so he could enter the house of ill repute.
Making his way down the narrow hall, The Trouble Consultant could hear loud music coming from up ahead. Exiting through hanging beads in the doorway he paused taking in the scenery and muttered, “Never judge a book by its cover.”
The brothel’s interior was nothing like its exterior. It was an exotic refuge from the outside world. Luxurious, warm and clean, decorated nicely with hanging plants, colorful throw rugs, matching curtains, leather furniture and glass tables. A live Christmas tree patiently awaiting to be tossed stood in the corner and a few blinking decorations adorned the walls. Bikini and hot-pants-clad women were lounging on couches, laughing, smoking weed and sipping champagne as pioneer rap group, Funky Four plus One’s song ‘That’s the Joint’, played in the background courtesy of a huge JVC ghetto blaster boom box.
With stubble on his face and caution in his eyes, the Trouble Consultant flirted back with the bevy of beautiful women as he made his way towards a woman hairier than a Wookie and the size of Jabba the Hut, furiously twisting on a Rubik’s Cube. Frustrated she couldn’t solve the puzzle, she began peeling off the colored squares and putting them back on in the correct sequence. The Trouble Consultant pegged Jabba for the resident Madam and approached the disgusting example of womanhood gone wrong.
“Hello,” he said.
The Madam glared and about sucked the filing out of her left rear molar, “So what chu want?” she growled.
“Well it’s New Years, and I can’t think of a better way to ring it in than with a woman who will, fuck for a buck, holler for a dollar, do something strange for a lil bit of change-Miss um?” he pried for her name.
“Bitsy. As in itsy,” she said. The Trouble Consultant’s amused expression asked, ‘are you serious?’ as he eyed the woman who was so ugly if she went into a haunted house, she’d come out with a job application. “Look just go on over there and choose one of dem hoes. When you’re ready come back to me for your room key. Rooms are twenty bucks an hour and whatever y’all do is between y’all. Oh, and before I forget here, you get a free bottle of Asti Spumante compliments of Diamond Ken. Happy New Year.” Bitsy said unenthusiastically as she handed him a bottle of bottom shelf champagne from the milk crate at her feet.
The Trouble Consultant nodded thanks then glanced over his shoulder at the noisy ladies partying in the back. There was every type of woman for every type of preference. Thin, thick, short, tall, long hair, short hair, black, white, Spanish and Asian. Basically, the United Nation of hoes. The effects of the cheap champagne were beginning to take control as two of the friendlier girls began dancing seductively under the mistletoe, kissing and groping one another. Drunk and caught up in the moment, one of them snatched the mistletoe down and held it just below her navel as her giggling partner puckered up and buried her face beneath it. The lewd act started a quick trend that spread throughout the room like a venereal disease and it wasn’t long before the other prostitutes were wiggling out of their clothes with no shame oblivious to the rest of the room.
The Trouble Consultant watched the rising orgy for a hot second then looked over at Bitsy and frowned. The chunky Madam was becoming aroused and licked her lips while rubbing on her cellulite marked thighs. “Hey Bitsy, wanna chill out with the self-love? You’re gonna make me throw up, everything I’ve ever ate.” he said then blocked her view with a picture. “This here is the girl I want.” he said with an all-business intensity.
Bitsy rolled her eyes at him then snatched the picture and stared at the pretty black girl with long braids covered in white beads, Stevie Wonder style. Her eyes widened then she quickly regained her composure with an uninterested pout.
“And where’d you get the snapshot?”
“I’m a huge fan.” he said unconvincingly.
“Is that right? Well sorry. She ain’t here.” she said.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah I’m sure! What I gots ta lie to you fo’?” she snapped defensively then sipped some Asti and went back to working on her Rubik’s Cube like she couldn’t be bothered.
The Trouble Consultant could see the word ‘LIAR’ practically rise out of her forehead. He had been staking out the whorehouse for the past couple of hours and saw the girl in the picture come and go constantly with different men. He was about to cancel the job and settle for only half his consulting fee, because she obviously wanted to be there. Then ten minutes prior to Dick Clark’s countdown things switched up when he saw her try to leave and get dragged back inside kicking and screaming by a large fat man and she hadn’t come back out since.
“Hmm, now that’s funny because I heard from a very reliable source that I could find her here.” He said referring to himself.
“Well they can’t be all that reliable, cause ya heard wrong. Now like I said either choose one of them or breakout.”
“Nah I’ve got a better idea. How about I camp-out just in case she decides to come back.” he said ignoring her attitude and got comfortable on the black leather sofa across the room.
Bitsy sucked her teeth at The Trouble Consultant then gave him her back and snatched the phone off the hook. From his past experience in dealing with situations of this type he knew she was calling whoever it was she answered to. No doubt Mister complimentary champagne himself, Diamond Ken.
“Hello, Faye? Put Diamond on the phone…Hello Diamond? There’s some guy down here asking a whole bunch of questions about Mercedes. I think he’s Five-O, cause he has a picture of her.” Bitsy whispered into the receiver.
“Well whoever the fuck he is he ain’t a cop. That’s for damn sure. I paid them crooked bastards off yesterday. He’s more than likely just some lonely trick that heard about her vertical skills. You tell his stalker ass she’s not here and if he doesn’t want one of them hoes you got down there, then he can take his business elsewhere.” a stern voice said on the opposite end.
Bitsy glanced over at the man in question as he turned down a big-breasted woman’s advances who playfully removed his Kangol. “I already told him that, but his bald headed ass won’t leave.”
There was a long pregnant pause on the other end. “…Did you say bald?”
“Yeah he’s bald. Why?”
“…Describe this bald guy to me.” Diamond Ken asked with concern in his voice.
Bitsy clocked him as he placed his Kangol back on his head, “Well he’s a big guy, solid as a brick wall. Over six feet tall with a chest wide enough to play handball on. He looks to be in his early thirties. And his voice is crazy deep. Kinda like a cross between Barry White and Tone Loc.”
“What else?” the voice on the opposite end asked.
“Um I dunno, he’s brown skinned. He’s got a moustache and a goatee anything else you want to know?”
“Just one more thing. And this is very-very-VERY important….is he dressed in all red?”
Becoming increasingly concerned, Bitsy inconspicuously glanced back over at the mystery man who in the blink of an eye graduated from a random John, to a person of interest and studied his sharp style of dress. Just as Diamond Ken feared, everything he wore was the same crimson complexion. He was cloaked in a ruby red leather trench coat, wine colored leather gloves, an open collared magenta silk shirt, sharply creased cinnamon slacks, a copper snakeskin belt and tomato red Clarks Wallabee suede shoes. Atop his dome was a rose colored Kangol, the Gazelle frames on his face and even his argyle socks were maroon.
“Hey how’d you know that?” she asked becoming concerned.
“Fuck! I hope I’m wrong, but I think that’s Havoc.” Diamond Ken said nervously.
“Havoc? As in Havoc and Mayhem? But I thought they was just some stupid ghetto rumor.”
“Yeah, well that so-called rumor knocked the gold fronts down my homeboy Roc’s throat so deep dat fool has to stick his toothbrush up his ass just so he can brush them. Buss it, keep him there, I’ll handle this.”
“No problem Dee. I got your back.” Bitsy said picking up on the reverence and fear in Diamond Ken’s voice. In all the years she had known the evil natured cold as ice drug-pushing pimp, she had never witnessed anyone or anything take him off of his game. Until now. Which led her to believe that the mysterious man dripping in red might very well be Satan himself, here to personally escort the diabolical pimp to Hell for his life of sin. Bitsy hung up and came over wearing a three-dollar bill smile. “So, how are we doing?” she asked cheerfully.
“Chillin’ like Bob Dylan.” The man in red answered drolly while mindlessly spinning a thin gold whistle on a medium sized rope chain around his finger. By the sudden metamorphosis in her attitude he anticipated something was about to go down. A second later, it did. The Lumberjack came in out of the cold and locked the door.
“Roaches check in, but they don’t check out!” The Lumberjack hissed with an evil grin. At the same time a man larger than life came down the stairs shaking the entire structure with his weight and jingling from the ‘Mister T.’ starter kit around his neck.
“This oughta be fun!” Bitsy smiled anticipating a good show as she pumped up the volume on the boom box then tore into a bag of Doritos.
‘Another One Bites the Dust’ by Queen began to play. Rising from his seat, the man in red felt like he was in the middle of an action movie complete with soundtrack. He placed his chain and whistle back over his head and calmly removed his gloves with his teeth shaking his head with a sigh. The questions, the lies, the big tough guys. It had all become so boringly routine.
“Hey little red riding hood. Diamond Ken wants to see you.” The Lumberjack said while walking up on the Trouble Consultant from behind, then put his hand on his shoulder.
The Trouble Consultant growled at the hand like a junkyard dog, “Yo Money-grip I should warn you that my patience is about as long as the hair on the top of my head.”
“Ooh I’m shitting in my pants. Now move it tough guy!” The Lumberjack hissed unimpressed with a sharp shove.
Suddenly in a one handed move the man in red removed the Lumberjack’s hand from his shoulder, twisting his arm behind his back bending it at an unnatural angle forcing him to drop to one knee.
“You’re an eggshell,” he said.
“Ow-shit! Huh-a what?” the Lumberjack asked cringing in pain.
“An eggshell my friend.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple. A few pounds of applied pressure anywhere on the body and-Snap!” The Trouble Consultant said and with a gruesome popping sound he dislocated the Lumberjack’s arm like a bread stick. “See, what’d I tell you? An eggshell.”
The Lumberjack’s shrieks blended with the prostitutes as a grotesque lump strained from his sleeve. The Trouble Consultant could no longer take his screaming and clubbed him over the head with his bottle of Asti Spumante then rolled his eyes frustrated, “I hate it when heads be frontin’ like they’re from Rikers Island, knowing Goddamn well they’re from Fantasy Island.”
Everything was happening so fast that Mister T. never had time to act. The man in red walked up on him with eyes so mean they had no room for fear in them whatsoever and said, “Either I’m going past you, or through you. But I am going up those stairs. Make a decision.” The hired muscle paused for a second thinking over his options then went for his gun but before he could pull out, the Trouble Consultant landed a lead hook behind his ear and stretched him out like a rug. “Too late!”
“Rasheed!” Bitsy screamed when she saw her baby brother go down, then clambered out of her chair and stared down the man responsible with murder in her eyes. “Ooh you done fucked up now!”
“Come on Big Momma! Toro! Toro!” He goaded her flapping the tail of his coat like a matador. With a snarl and grunt Bitsy charged forward like a runaway bull.
The Trouble Consultant coolly waited for her to get closer then at the last possible second stepped to the side, yanked open the closet door behind him and slammed her inside then braced a chair up against the doorknob, barricading the hefty woman inside. He then hit the staircase and his adrenaline went from zero to one hundred in three seconds when a third man with dreadlocks appeared at the top clutching a Choo-Choo automatic and reminded him that this shit was real. Deadly real! Mechanically he reached behind his back for his own burners and swore loudly remembering that they were under his car seat. The dreadlocked gunman shouted, “Bon Fi-yah!” at the top of his lungs.
“Oh shit!” the Trouble Consultant yelled and dove over the banister as the Jamaican opened fire with a shower of hot steel. Meanwhile below the staircase amidst the panicked prostitutes running out the door screaming for their lives, Mister T. was regaining consciousness when a pair of size thirteen Wallabees dropped out of the sky and lullabied him back to sleep.
Relieving the pitiful fool of his weapon, the Trouble Consultant scrambled to his feet and fired up from below into the shooter’s legs then stepped over him as he tumbled down the stairs.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, he faced down two more of Diamond Ken’s goons. The bigger of the two grabbed him in a bear hug lifting him off the ground and squeezed until the man in red could hardly breathe and dropped his gun over the banister. The second rushed forward wildly swinging, burying his fists in his ribs and kidneys. Ignoring the pain, the Trouble Consultant kicked him in the chest knocking him down then slammed his head back breaking the nose of the man holding him as well as his bear hug. With the fight taken out of him, he was tossed over the banister. The second man climbed to his feet and tossed a few misguided punches that were no match for the Trouble Consultant’s vicious street-fighter moves as he 52 blocked them and sent him flying over the banister as well.
After taking out the trash, the man in red brushed his hands together then rolled his eyes as four more huge goons appeared.
“Aw geez fellas for crying out loud. Didn’t you see what I just did to Kid and Play back there? I mean honestly, why would you wanna put yourselves through that?” Unfazed, the leering crew advanced forward, “All right. But for your sake, I hope you have good medical and dental.” he said raising his hands defensively and switched to a South-Paw fighting stance. “Let’s do this!” Then, using good footwork, sharp jabs, elbows, knees, clenches, his opponents as barriers against each other, all the while sticking and moving, he proceeded to tear through the motley crew like a tornado. Once they were down for the count he called out for Mercedes down the long brown-carpeted hall.
Muffled cries and the sounds of someone being abused came from behind the first door on his right and he violently kicked it off its hinges to discover an androgynous pale-faced man on all fours getting spanked by a shapely dominatrix in a leather corset, nipple rings, 6-inch spikes and panties to hide her modesty.
“Oops my bad. Carry on,” the Trouble Consultant frowned. A woman’s sudden screams for help snatched his head alert and he took off. He knocked down the door where the screams came from and discovered a naked woman with her back facing him. She wore her hair in long braids with white beads, Stevie Wonder style. “Mercedes?” he asked unsure and she shook her braids yes. He was immediately suspicious. A ‘trouble consulting’ gig was never this easy. But then again, there’s a first time for everything. “Throw something on, time to leave!”
“Maybe it’s you who should leave.” the naked woman said and turned around in slow motion with her hands wrapped around a shiny silver nickel-plated 22. and a wide smile across her face. “In a pine box!”
“Shit!” it was the right hairstyle, but the wrong girl.
“Hands behind your head handsome. Now! Do it!” the naked imposter barked. The Trouble Consultant reluctantly obeyed. “Diamond I found him. He’s out here baby.” she yelled.
“Trifling bitch!” he hissed.
“Oh I gots yo’ bitch right here.” she retorted and cocked her gun.
The door behind him snatched open and someone stepped out holding a double-barreled shotgun. Covered in sparkling jewelry Diamond Ken was as clichéd as the cocked fedora he sported. In his left ear he wore a large diamond stud. All the fingers of both hands were covered in sparkling diamond rings. On one wrist was a diamond bracelet and on the other a glistening diamond faced nugget watch. Even the Gazelle shades he sported were diamond laden along the top of the frames. For a brief second, the man in red’s riveting appearance left the iced-out pimp frozen but he quickly shook it off and the Trouble Consultant heard the all-too-familiar Cha-chink of a loading shotgun.
Spinning around when he heard his street moniker called, Havoc brazenly seized Diamond Ken’s wrist. As the two struggled over the shotgun a misdirected shot fired blowing the naked woman back into the room.
“Faye!” the pimp called out visibly upset over all the revenue he saw flying out of the window.
In the blink of an eye Havoc head-butted the pimp to the floor then spun on his heels and zig-zagged down the opposite end of the hall as shotgun blasts chased after him tearing huge chunks into the walls. He came upon another flight of stairs and looked back to see Diamond Ken gun in tow, coming for him then bolted up another flight of steps. The third floor was dimly lit and every door he tried was locked. He put his hand on the last doorknob at the end of the hall when Diamond Ken entered the floor.
“You ain’t gonna MacGuyver your way outta this one motherfucker!” Diamond Ken promised with a bead on Havoc.
Havoc clenched his teeth and twisted the knob. To his surprise it opened and he burst inside as the pimp fired a missed shot and cursed up a storm. Once inside he caught his breath and locked the door behind him. There was a large dresser in the corner and he pushed it in front of the door as a barricade, then backed away awaiting the pimp’s forced entry when something moved behind him. He spun around with his fists raised to find a girl in bra and panties gagged with duct tape and handcuffed to an iron ring bolted to the wall. She too had white beaded braids like the girl from the picture but the room was dimly lit and her face was swollen, so Havoc was not one hundred percent certain if it was her or not. He checked himself for the photo and remembered Bitsy never returned it.
“Mercedes?” he asked unsure. Shaking uncontrollably with fear the girl managed a nod but that wasn’t good enough for the Trouble Consultant. Moments ago, Faye claimed to be Mercedes too. He removed the tape from her mouth and asked in a stern voice, “What’s your mother’s middle name?”
“Huh?” she asked not sure if she heard him correctly.
Havoc clamped his hand around her chin, “If you’re planning something sneaky, we ain’t the two and I ain’t the one. Now tell me your mother’s middle name!”
“It’s Jean. Barbara Jean Holiday.” she replied meekly.
Havoc glared at the girl then let go of her face hoping that an impostor wouldn’t know something as personal as the middle name for the mother of the person they were impersonating. Now that he located the goods all he had to do was figure out a way to get them both out alive. Piece of cake.
A toilet flushed.
“Somebody in there?” Havoc asked gesturing towards the bathroom door.
Mercedes nodded with wide frightened eyes and whispered, “Big Fella.”
Havoc shook his head and sucked his teeth. “I swear this place is like Christmas, full of surprises.”
The bathroom door creaked open and the room instantly became infected with a funky combination of shit and Lysol. Standing in the doorway naked and stretching was a horribly fat pear-shaped black man, twice the size of Mount Fuji, with thighs the size of infants. The obese man fanned the air and grimaced rubbing his stretch marked belly that hung so low it hid his dick.
“Coming out feeling ‘bout ten pounds lighter. Okay baby let’s do this-Nigga where in da fuck did you come from?” Big Fella demanded when he saw Havoc.
“What did you just call me?” Havoc asked through clenched teeth.
Big Fella waddled over shaking the claustrophobic small, room with each step. “What iz you deaf?” The obese man snarled but Havoc did not answer, “I said Nigga where…hold up…wait a second. It’s you-” a choke gurgled in his throat as he locked on Havoc allowing his eyes to travel over his signature red attire and trademark Kangol. He nervously took a step back as if he’d just seen his own death. “The one who whooped Roc’s ass.”
Havoc pushed his Gazelles back on his nose and smiled. It was nice to be recognized for his work.
Outside the door Diamond Ken listened with a confident grin certain that his huge friend would make quick work of the smaller Trouble Consultant. Havoc set it off and hit Big Fella in his large belly that jiggled like jello with no real effect. Big Fella looked down at his sloppy gut unphased by the punch. He patted his belly then wiggled his eyebrows at Havoc. With a smirk he lifted Havoc and put him on his back across the room with a hard uppercut punch.
The nude obese man waddled over and stood over Havoc smiling victoriously. Havoc rubbed his jaw repulsed by the view. He climbed to one knee eyeing Big Fella through dark slits. Every fiber of his being accusing him with absolute rage. Then, without warning he planted his fist hard in the center of the fat man’s crotch. The pain forced Big Fella’s eyes to roll up in his head and he doubled over in pain holding himself. Havoc rose to his feet and dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a massive four-fingered ring that spelled out ‘HAVOC’ in big bold block letters which doubled as a pair of brass knuckles and slid it on his left hand.
“A-yo fat ass, wanna know why I wear all red?” Havoc asked in a voice that sounded like boulders crashing. Unable to answer, Big Fella meekly shook his head. “Well aside from the fact I look flyy as hell, it’s because it hides the bloodstains!” he said then twisted back and landed a tremendous blow exploding Big Fella’s face and sending blood spraying like a broken water main.
With one hand protecting his face Big fella tried to fight back and Havoc went to work, working the fat man like a punching bag landing solid blows until his legs gave out from under him and he came crashing to the ground like a ton of bricks.
Once Big Fella was down for the count Havoc immediately began searching for a way to free Mercedes. On the nightstand next to a hot plate keeping Big Fella’s pot of chilli steaming hot was a set of keys. He scooped them up and smiled when they fit Mercedes’ shackles.
The doorknob twisted back and forth wildly. “Hey what the hell’s going on in there? Yo Big Fella is everything aight?...Big? Nigga you good?” Diamond Ken called out trying to Humphrey Bogart his way into the room. After no response it was obvious what had happened to his fat homeboy. “Havoc listen up, I don’t know how the fuck you managed to take out Big, but the only way out of here is past me so open up and make it easier on yourself.” he reasoned from the opposite side of the door.
“Yeah, picture that!” Havoc retorted then looked around the room for something to defend himself with but there wasn’t anything. Frustrated he ripped the newspaper from the window and looked out then got an idea.
“I want to go home!” Mercedes cried frantically.
“Chill. I got this.” Havoc said as he forced the window open and let in a surge of freezing air. Suddenly a loud shotgun blast ripped through the door and removed a chunk of the dresser. Mercedes screamed when she saw Diamond Ken’s angry face peek through the hole. After blowing off the lock he still could not push open the door because of the heavy dresser and Big Fella’s unconscious torso in the way.
“Fella, get yo family-sized ass up! Mercedes get over here and help me!” he ordered.
The sound of glass breaking startled Mercedes as Havoc shoved a twin sized mattress out the window. “Time to go!... Out the window!” he said sharply.
Mercedes looked up from sliding into her clothes, “Out the window?” she said feeling nauseous from fear.
Havoc grabbed her by the hand and pointed out the window. “Look, down there. See? Try to aim yourself right there,” he said referring to the mattress he dropped onto a pile of garbage below the window. “I know it’s not much but if you land on it it’ll absorb some of the impact from the fall.”
Mercedes was scared and didn’t know what to do. “But-but, um I don’t-” she stuttered.
“Bitch I know you ain’t thinking ‘bout leaving with that chump cause if you iz, so help me you’ll be even sorrier than he’s gonna be once I get in there.” the pimp threatened.
Havoc grabbed Big Fella’s pot of hot chilli and flung it at the door. “Who’s sorry?” Havoc asked as the pimp screamed in pain. “Nice guy. Now I can see why you’re having such a hard time making this decision,” Havoc said, “So what’s up, you staying?”
Mercedes pictured her face on the side of a milk carton and nervously climbed out the window. “As soon as you land run for the red Chevy across the street. But do not open the door. Wait for me I’ll be right behind.” Havoc instructed.
The teenager nodded, hung for a moment, then let go screaming and landed on her plump behind. She was sore and would definitely wake up with bruises tomorrow but just like Havoc assured her, the mattress and trash pile absorbed the blunt of her fall. It was now Havoc’s turn and when he climbed out he noticed Diamond Ken was no longer at the door. It was definitely time to leave. When he landed he was staring up at the business end of the pimp’s shotgun.
“Leaving so soon?” The pimp asked with a red scorch mark over his greasy face and winded from running down three flights of stairs. “The party’s just starting!” He said and kicked Havoc hard in the face. “That’s for throwing that hot shit in my face.” Havoc tasted his blood and angrily went to stand. “Ah-ah-ah don’t even think about it. Not unless you trying to win first prize in a wet t-shirt contest.” The pimp warned holding his gun threateningly.
Havoc cut his eyes at Mercedes trembling with fear then eyed his classy cherry red ‘1957 Chevy Bel Air across the street. Taking hold of the whistle around his neck, he blew into it, but it made no sound.
“Yo homeboy I think your whistle’s busted. But if you trying to call the neighborhood watch you’re wasting your time. Cause I’m it!” Diamond Ken laughed.
Havoc ignored the pimp and waited for something to happen. Inside of his car a pair of yellow eyes blinked open followed by a deep growl. The Chevy’s back door opened and everyone was magnetized as a huge paw stepped into the street making a crunching noise when it’s razor sharp nails dug into the ice. Havoc turned back to Diamond Ken with a devilish grin.
“Nah, my dog whistle works just fine.” The Trouble Consultant said cockily. The fearless pimp was paralyzed with terror from what had stepped out of the car. Havoc got up and brushed the snow from his legs. “Oh, I see you haven’t met my partner. Diamond Ken…meet Mayhem.”
The pimp was speechless. As soon as he laid eyes on the tan and reddish canine that stood at an imposing twenty-seven inches high and easily weighed one hundred and thirty pounds with its large wrinkled head, short black muzzle and big drooling jowls sporting a gladiator-pit style spiked red leather collar, he knew he was not dealing with an ordinary dog.
Sixty percent English Mastiff and forty percent Olde English Bull dog. Bullmastiff’s were cross bred to be one of the most powerful super dogs on the planet. Prized for their size, speed, intelligence and tenacity, they have had many jobs throughout history. Romans used them as war dogs due to their temperament and aggressive nature. South African’s employed them to guard diamond mines. In England they bravely guarded livestock, assisting English gatekeeper’s as night watch dogs and were the primary source of defense against poachers during the 19th century. And in the 20th century, the Trouble Consultant’s loyal and unflinchingly protective companion against killer psycho pimps and other deviants.
Diamond Ken’s face was tight with anticipation of what the freak of nature was thinking about doing to him. Prior to Mayhem the biggest, meanest-looking dog he had ever come across was Terminator, the ferocious rottweiler that guarded the auto body mechanic shop where he had his car phone and Alpine speakers installed. But compared to Mayhem that mutt was a poodle. Mayhem stretched with a yawn displaying sharp teeth that looked like they belonged in a shark’s mouth and caused a tidal wave of muscles to ripple from nose to tail. With shaky hands, Diamond Ken swallowed hard and aimed his shotgun at the large beast.
“NO!” Havoc shouted and kicked the gun from the pimp’s hands as a shot fired and snow exploded around Mayhem. The Trouble Consultant then landed seven lightning-quick punches to his face and stomach until he folded up like lawn furniture.
Holding his ribs and sucking oxygen, Diamond Ken struggled to his feet. Mayhem jumped into protective mode. Terrified, the pimp took off running. Havoc cut his eyes at his dog anxiously awaiting his next command. “Handle that!” Havoc instructed.
In a flash Mayhem took off after the pimp and using the knock and pin method like its ancestors were trained to do against poachers it pounced on top of him and pinned his shoulders with overwhelming strength. A menacing growl drilled a hole in Diamond Ken’s ear but to his surprise it didn’t come from Mayhem, it came from Havoc.
“Call off your dog man. Please!” Diamond Ken begged as the snow between his crotch turned bright yellow.
Havoc was so furious with the chicken-shit pimp for almost shooting his best friend that he was tempted to give the command that would prompt the dog to rip out his throat. “Mayhem…come.” he called upon second thought, while throwing a kiss in the air and patting his thigh. Mayhem played deaf and leaned in inhaling deeply. With anxious fangs inches from Diamond Ken’s face hungry for a bite, the mythical looking beast could smell the fear come out of the pimp’s pores and fed off of it. “Mayhem I said, COME!” Havoc called again this time with base in his voice and the dog grunted like it was pissed and trotted over to his side. “Good girl. That’s my precious little girl,” he said bowing to kiss her on the head and she wagged her tail pleased she made her master happy.
Havoc picked up Diamond Ken’s shotgun and placed it to the side of his head like he was about to make a hole in one. The pimp squeezed his eyes shut and screamed out, “Please don’t kill me!” More urine ran from his bladder.
Havoc pumped the shotgun spilling blue shells all over the pimp. “You know, I was planning on beating the piss out of you, but I’ll fall back. Seeing as how you’ve already done that for me.” He said and dropped the emptied gun then stared at him lying there humiliated and exited without another word. Mercedes trailed behind.
Happy to still be alive, Diamond Ken breathed a sigh of relief that is until he noticed all of the women whose flaws, weaknesses and addictions that he used against them to keep them under his thumb were watching him with Poetic Justice stretched across their lips.
Realizing how weak he must look in his stable’s eyes the pimp quickly climbed to his feet worried that if he did not do something right now to regain his power over them, he would lose them as well.
“G’wan! Take her junkie ass! Shit that hoe could use the vacation. But mark my words, she’ll be back. I mean shit, where the fuck else is a twenty-four seven, super-duper freaky hoe gonna go?” Diamond Ken called out in a voice as cold as ice chips, adding a sinister laugh for effect. Mercedes stopped dead in her tracks and spun around then marched right back over to Diamond Ken. “What, back so soon? That didn’t take long. Come on hoe. Come back to Daddy.” the vile pimp smiled with his arms open wide. Mercedes walked towards him and suddenly hauled off and slapped him hard across the face then began sobbing uncontrollably.
Diamond Ken was furious that one of his women had the audacity to hit him and raised his arm to backhand her. Havoc cleared his throat then shook his head letting him know that he was about to make a huge mistake. The pimp’s arm wisely swung to his side.
Havoc turned to Mercedes. “Let’s go.”
With every ounce of water drained from her eyes Mercedes walked past the sad faces of fellow streetwalkers who desperately wished someone loved them enough to send a Brooklyn-Knight in crimson armor to rescue them. As soon as Havoc slid behind the wheel of his ride he removed his heavy four-fingered ring because it felt uncomfortable when driving and impossible to fire a gun while wearing and stuffed it back in his pocket. Then reached under his seat grabbed his Glocks then put them back in their holsters. Now he felt whole again. He glanced over at Mercedes. She was staring straight ahead with a blank look and rocking in her seat. Havoc shook his head with a sigh. Deep down he pitied her. She had borne witness to so many loveless acts of sex and violence yet she wasn’t even old enough to sit at a bar and order a drink. He eyed his dog in the rear-view mirror.
“Gimme some,” Havoc said reaching an open palm over his shoulder and Mayhem placed her paw inside his hand to shake it. Then with a proud papa smile he twisted the key in the ignition. He was about to pull off when he heard someone screaming and shouting and looked out the window.
As Diamond Ken went from demanding to begging on his hands and knees that his stable not leave him, it was painfully clear that he had collected his last pimp’s commission off of them. In the game of Macking and stacking, a Pimp’s job is to dress, rest, finesse and let his hoes take care of the rest. And any self-respecting flesh-peddler who can’t keep his shit together, much less his bladder might as well turn in his playa’ card and fill out an application at some square-ass job somewhere because he was through in this field.
“Damn, I guess it’s true what they say. Pimping ain’t easy,” Havoc said ruefully then disappeared into the night.
He went in, got the goods and came out. Piece of cake.
It’s the section that put the ‘crook’ in Crooklyn and the ‘Nam’ in Brooknam. The New York neighborhood where its occupants convince themselves as they’re trying to make it, that they’re gonna make it. The area that fills up a huge percent of New York’s state prisons. Brownsville, aka Thugs-Ville. Home of the brave where the moto is, ‘Brownsville, never ran, never will!’
Barbara Jean Holiday paced her living room floor chain smoking like an expectant father. She was fifty with the blurry features of a woman who must have once been a pretty teenager.
She sat down for a second then got up and paced some more wondering how to prevent what happened from occurring again. After receiving a phone call from Havoc saying that he was bringing her daughter back home safe and sound she could not sit still. In fact, she did not even realize it was a new year until forty-five minutes into it. Riddled with worry and nervous energy she tapped the bottom of a pack of Kool cigarettes then lit one and looked out the window at the drabby, tall brown Tilden housing projects surrounding her, smothering her, caging her. Down below were the kids she watched grow up, some she even baby-sat, tranquilized by malt liquor, squeezing off rounds into the air, laughing and celebrating what they considered was living.
“If I owned Hell and these projects, I believe I’d rent out this place and live in Hell.” Barbara sighed.
When she first moved into the projects it was a completely different place to live. She had neighbors of different races and cultures. There were vegetable gardens outside of her window. And weekly tenant association meetings where neighbors brought delicious dishes and discussed things going on in the community and how to better improve it. Now it was a gloomy, depressing place where odd characters came and went at all hours. Daylight drug dealing was common and occasional gunshots were followed by the screech of tires.
Raising two kids on her own was no picnic and doing it in a hard-core high crime zone was even tougher. When neighbors reported that her oldest child Mercedes was spotted hanging out with a rowdy bunch of kids that cut class, drank, smoked and did Lord knows what else, Barbara did not want to believe it. But she had to come face to face with reality when she found a bag full of small plastic capsules filled with tiny white rocks in her daughter’s bedroom that she promptly flushed down the toilet. Fed up with her daughter’s dances with trouble, Barbara confronted Mercedes about it. Mercedes claimed she was simply holding them for a friend and did not even know what that stuff was.
Barbara may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, and she refused to believe such a tired ass story. A shouting match ensued which resulted in Mercedes storming out saying that since her privacy was not respected there, she would no longer live there. For weeks Barbara was worried sick and heard nothing. Then on Christmas Eve, her nine-year-old son Elijah came home to report that he overheard the older kids gossiping about how his sister was strung out and prostituting somewhere out in East New York. Barbara did not know what to do. Since her daughter was eighteen she was not a minor, and not considered a runaway. Therefore, New York’s finest would not waste their time searching for yet another missing black girl, hooked on the new wave drug, ‘crack’. A cheaper form of rock cocaine that caught people like an ambush and turned them into addicts at an alarming rate.
This was too much for Barbara to deal with by herself and she needed help. But where was this help going to come from? Purcell her children’s father and a pitiful excuse for a man, left her and the kids with nothing but the pain of abandonment. And her family and friends had their own problems. Then one day while she was at the incinerator dumping the trash and feeling sorry for herself, Maxine, the resident Wilona, offered some free advice about her predicament.
“Say gurl, I ain’t trying to be all up in your business, but I heard about your trouble with Mercedes. Now word on the street is that there’s a man who can help. He’ll listen to your story, and he’ll make a judgement. If he thinks you’re wrong, you’re out on your ass. If he thinks you’ve been wronged, then you’ll never have a better friend.” Maxine then handed Barbara a black business card with bold red letters that said:
NEED RELIEF FROM THE BEEF? THEN CALL HAVOC AND MAYHEM TROUBLE CONSULTANTS AT 476-4678 REASONABLE RATES, SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
Barbara studied the card and twisted her face a little skeptical. “Havoc and Mayhem huh, what is this dial a joke?”
“Trust me, he ain’t no joke!” Maxine said like she knew from personal experience, “He’s a man of honor and when he says he will do something, you can best believe it’ll get done.”
Left with no other alternatives, Barbara took the card then went inside her apartment and made a phone call…
A sharp knock at the front door awoke Elijah and he sat up on the couch and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Barbara replaced a picture of the sweet little girl in pigtails, taken at Sears way before she became a junkie prostitute, back on the mantle, gently ran her fingers through her son’s curly Afro and walked over to the door. She looked through the peephole, took a drag then exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke through a frustrated sigh before unbolting a series of locks, chains and a long metal bar over the door. Havoc stood beneath a lonely flickering light bulb taking up almost all the space in the narrow graffiti covered hallway with his massive red frame.
“Where is she?” Barbara wistfully asked darting her eye’s everywhere. Havoc cleared his throat and held out his hand rubbing his fingers together.
“Oh right, I’m sorry. I’m just real anxious to see my baby.” Barbara apologized handing Havoc a thick envelope.
The Trouble Consultant bowed slightly and stepped to the side revealing a worn out looking Mercedes, badly in need of a hot shower, a home cooked meal, a warm bed and most of all, her mother’s love.
“My baby,” Barbara whispered stepping forward and her eyes filled with water. Mercedes may have only been gone a little over two weeks, but the effects from the fast lifestyle she lived made her look way beyond her eighteen years. Barbara embraced her daughter and they both gave in to their tears. As Barbara led her into their apartment, she looked back to thank Havoc, but he was already gone.
There was no need for thank yous, the Trouble Consultant was simply doing the job he was paid to do.