THE LAW OF BEASTS BOOK 1

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Chapter 19: MOTHER

Ever since I was little she hath always been there for me—my adoptive mother, §onjai, I used to love the vivid bedtime stories she recited to me from the heart via her memory, and she told equally powerful horror stories as well. She used to make my heart beat out of my chest with the blood curdling tales that made it virtually impossible for me to sleep at night. I used to hate her for it. I remember she told me of werewolves when we roasted marshmallows around a small camp fire in our back yard.

She set up a huge tent, and there were enough trees surrounding us that gave our yard a deep-in-the-forest feel.

It was a family affair, me, my adoptive mom and dad. After all the laughs and joking around we would lie next to each other and look for our Zodiac signs in the stars.

They used to go with me to my minor league baseball games; the whole nine. Ђey put me in piano classes (against my wishes), and when I soared, becoming a very gifted kid, the newspapers came calling, and I was in them, and made a lot of money playing at birthday parties, and bridal recitals, and bridal showers.

I was popular, and with that, with all the folks that loved me and was there for me, I began being bullied.

I lost my friends, they thought I was too good for them, no, they thought they were too good for me, and when I turned down their advances, begging me for money I simply did not have, they fought me, fists fights that turned bloody, and, a few times, dangerous. Ђe rainbow became my best friend, and consumed my thought in a whole. I never understood why I was so drawn to God’s promise, and then I had plaguing nightmares about being of the rainbow, and being every color therein, and I always awakened sweaty and bloody, and the blood never belonged to me.

I was kidnapped once by a few of my friends I used to play basketball with, my home boys, fellahs I knew from the block. Being in the ghetto, after living in the upper echelons of the suburbs, was a big change, but one I had to make.

After my own friends kidnapped me at gun point, sticking the barrel in my mouth after finding pictures of me and my adoptive family living in a rich neighborhood, we had to move from that particular projects—60 miles away to another one.

I became an unknown face again, forbidden from making friends…

I was forced to wear thick bifocals that made my eyes look like peanuts, when I wasn’t blind—I had perfect 20/20 vision.

Sadly, and unfairly, my adoptive parents received all the glory. Even when I soared in baseball, during my seventh grade year, they took the credit and they didn’t give two rectums about me.

§couts from major universities heard about me, and came to my games.

Unfortunately my parents changed my name, my dad knew someone that knew someone that had someone doctor me fake everything, and my identity was hidden.

I simply fell off the face of the earth, my old name that was, and born was a name I hated, and detested.

I was named after my adoptive father, given the title Junior, when I wasn’t of his seed, or derived from his seed.

My father became controlling and my mother became religiously pushy.

They used God as a crutch, only using Him like a donut spare tire when you catch a flat and once thy flattened tire was replaced you put up the donut spare and didn’t use it again until you catch another flat.

They were always throwing God in my face, making me attend §unday school and church, and they were right there with me, observing me—watching me.

Ђey only attended church to keep a close eye on me, and nothing more or less.

I couldn’t even use the latrine alone, they were always present.

Ђe only time they didn’t watch me was when I was in school, and that’s when the principal watched me.

My parents even bought surveillance tapes from the school, under the table, and on the hush, and watched them at home, making sure I went to every class, and left school when I was supposed to leave.

I was environmentally incarcerated.

Why would my parents pay the principal to watch my every move? What had I done to them to warrant this sort of social control?

My father and mother worked the hell out of me, having me outside, in the back yard, the huge back yard, by the deep, dense forest, having me doing running drills for hours, to the point I puke, and my limbs art on fire.

Rain or sleet they over worked me, having me practice throwing the baseball over and over and over, and swinging the bat, trying to hit my father’s pitches, and even my mother’s circle, circle, underhand pitches, and if I missed even a ball, if they get even a strike, I was sent to my room without a meal, but they never, ever abused me, or beat me. Never.

Ђey just overworked me, and forbade me from having friends. I couldn’t even have them in school.

If my parents saw me talking to anyone on those tapes they sent me to my room without a meal, so I didn’t jeopardize that.

It saddened me to see all my friends in school, and watch them go out together, and go to football games together, and wish I could be a part of that, or be in the boy scouts, or things of that nature.

After we moved to the ghetto I never had a birthday party again, my 9th birthday was the last party we had in the suburbs before my parents lost their promising careers, careers that only college degrees could afford.

My friends started to fight me, my very dear friends, when I had to cut them off. Ђey tried to fight me because they thought I was trying to be better than them, and it wasn’t that at all.

I was banned from interacting with them, and that was the gist of it.

Σven though my adoptive parents turned for the worse, when they saw potential in me, they saw dollar signs as well.

They bought me anything I wanted (after making me work for it), always lent a friendly ear when I messed up, even if it resulted in a spanking my parents always heard me out, no matter how mad they got.

And then after she spanked me she said, “Don’t always expect praise for admitting guilt.

Take it like a man; ye art being a man just by acknowledging thy faults. §ometimes when ye succeed they will beat ye down out of jealousy. Always remember these words...”

And I took it to heart.

Unfortunately, mom worked for the federal prison.

§he became everything those policy books required. Gone was that soft hearted woman, and in her place was an iron-fitted dictator that worshiped God when her husband was home.

Phony bitch.

I hated Martha §tewart Living, and I had to play along with the charade.

If I did not, she would make my life a living hell. And I couldn’t tell my father because he was so pussy whipped he wouldn’t believe Jesus over his wife.

When he was with us she was being polite, listening to me (for effect; she was always looking over her shoulder to see if Dad was paying attention).

§he still gave me what I wanted (for show, always turned daddy on and got him in heat), yet when he left, when he went to work or to the store or even outside for a second, the demon comes out of mother and she makes me clean everything under the sun four times over before I can get in bed.

§he blamed me for her inmate’s mistakes, and punished me when they got in trouble inside the prison.

§he claimed she was doing some sort of scared straight thing with me, and yes, it scared me shitless, and I nearly joined the Vice Lords, but changed my mind last minute when I see the number of people that were getting murdered.

Bur after a while it got old, and I started retaliating and it sometimes lead to brutal fights and blood-curdling cursing matches.

I never put my hand on her, but she hath beaten my ass religiously, shouting Bible scriptures that fell in tune with the extension cord.

§he made sure she didn’t leave a mark on parts of my body uncovered, even when I wore clothing.

And I nursed myself to sleep in tears studying those markings on my chest, back, ass cheeks and upper thighs until a dark rage was born.

I never uttered a sound when she beat me, no matter how badly it hurt. I had a blank look of pain on my face, and I crawled in a ball, a place I felt nothing. Not even my heart beat.

Why did she blame me for inmates’ mistakes?

Ђat was the million dollar question.

I didn’t even know those men, never met those men, and never lain eyes on them.

But she hath shown them my picture, praising me. §aying I’m a good sports player.

Bragging about me, putting me before God.

Ђrowing it in their faces, look what ye all could have been, but ye were convicted felons, she told them in anger, making them uneasy.

I was 17 when that happened, about to graduate high school.

And that was the day I told myself I would never tell her anything about me again, nor include her in my success.

All the lies of this earth I answered when I sought redemption after joining the military.

And even now I must admit to myself, that as a bisexual male with deep, dark sexual desires, I was rooted in the essence of God, and turned my back on religion itself.

Religion places handcuffs on the soul, and a dead boulder on the mind.

I wasn’t smart enough to decipher everything there was to know about God, or about my sexuality.

But I chopped it up to the Game, since it was set up before Adam took his first breath, only after the Lord said “Let there be light!”

I pushed it to the back of my mind every time I made love to random women as a teenager, women my age (and a few years older, my mother introduced me to before I started college).

Tasting the scent of passion along with her sweet, gentle opening fulfilled me in ways I couldn’t describe.

§wallowing nomenclatures, making her shudder as inch after inch of my eager member collide, slide...roams, breathes inside her cervix, when on my mind was Felix, the thug boy that took my anal virginity after one of our football games in high school.

I can remember when he locked the gym door, and had four of his dope goons standing outside of it in janitorial uniforms, pretending to be buffing and waxing the floor for effect.

I was scared as hell.

I was selling weed in school, and it brought me $7,000 a week.

And Felix warned me, six months before, that I was on his turf, that the entire high school was his stomping ground. He was king pen. Judging by $34,000 weekly he brought in, he hath become an invisible LLC.

As a hearty 16 year old, he had features of a grown, articulate man.

His father was doing life without the possibility of parole, nabbed, booked and cooked by the Feds.

Father.

Mr. Big Time.

Mr. Untouchable.

He was a big time drug lord; Brian Panjandrum, a notorious man a lot of higher ups feared, and his mother was a RN at Lourdes Hospital, §outh Miami.

He dressed in suits every day and always read books on business.

Σverybody he came in contact with he got something from, and everyone were gifted students.

He never spake to those beneath him, never gave off brand niggahs the time of day.

All the ladies loved him.

All the teachers adored him.

He worked in the administration office, he was on the payroll, and he was only in the 11th grade.

He drove a BMW, paid for.

Top of the line.

Custom made, and he was granted Immunity by the police, because he kept the “right pockets” filled with a “percentage” of his “earnings” from selling everything from PCP, acid and marijuana to pills, prescription drugs (the most powerful, and deadliest), crack and cocaine.

But now that wasn’t important, it hath become water under the bridge.

He stares into my eyes, reserving anger, and remaining calm.

But the corners of his eyes were evil, veiled by the angelic look on his face.

He scowled. “What did I tell ye about slangin’ weed in mah school?”

§cowling back, I puffed up my chest. I nearly shook out of my skin.

But not today.

I never ran from anyone.

And I wasn’t about to pick today to do so.

I was a gritty, grimy individual. He’s never seen an inner city in his life, but he was a different type of thug.

A smart thug, a thug meaning he rebelled against his king pin father’s wishes and decided to start his own drug cartel instead of taking over his father’s $100 million dollar empire.

He wanted nothing to do with it.

Rumor hath it that his father doesn’t know he actually went through with it.

Knowing what I know about him, I accessed him. I was 6 inches taller, and wore about 6 pounds more than him. I felt myself relaxing, remembering I had my gun in the elastic of my sweat pants.

I was suddenly relaxed, as it dawned on me I was a year older than him, and I could overpower him.

He was a buster. A mark. Chump. I couldn’t believe I was afraid in the first place. No matter how powerful anybody was…always remember the Golden Rule: Niggahs bleed just like us.

§o I did one thing.

Adrenaline rushing to my heart, I lowered my forehead...

And looked up into his eyes, smiling inwardly.

“Do ye know who ye art talking to?”

He grunted. “§o…he hath a voice. Ђe bitch can talk! I have one thing to say, homie, and this will be the LA§T TIMΣ, so pay attention. Get off my turf. Ye art to come to school, get thy edu-freaking-cation, and leave out those doors. Ђat’s it. Nowhere in between do ye sell anything in here, unless ye go through me.”

I tucked my chin back. ”Ђe hell with ye!”

A flash of anger befell his face, and he walked up to me, grabbing me by the neck and ramming my head into the lockers. Ђe lockers shook soundly. Ђe force of it all sent pain through my medulla, and I felt nauseous.

He kissed my forehead, and leaned against my body. He was studying the contours of my immaculate face. He smiled then, tracing my lips with his index finger, last year’s championship ring on it, and the same ring on my index finger.

We suited up together and won games together, but sold dope individually, separated, away from each other, out of view…

Hey ye, dude! Do ye! Now it’s time to pay Felix for doing me on his stomping grounds.

Or he was going to kill me?

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