Glenn Gray is back. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s been here before. If he hasn’t, that’s a goddamn shame. And I did more drugs than I thought.
Here, he proves an important life lesson: go big, or go home.
Here, he proves an important life lesson: go big, or go home.
Buttshot by Glenn Gray
“You stay here, baby. Chill. I’ll get the shit.”
“No way,” she says. “You ain’t goin’ up solo.”
“Hell I ain’t,” I tell her. “You ain’t gonna risk it, no how.
Stay cool. I go up. I ain’t back in five take this ’n’ walk on up.” I nudge the
.22 in her palm.
She caresses metal. “Cool, then.”
“Love you,” I say. “Can’t wait to get back to the crib. Know
what I mean?”
Starting to smile, playing now. “Like how come?”
“You know, baby,” I say. “Wantcha gimme that buttshot thing you
do.”’
“What buttshot thing I do?”
“You know,” I say. “All bent over ’n’ all.”
A sexy laugh.
“You crazy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Crazy for that sickass bod.”
“Love you.” Shakes her head. “An’ watch yo’ ass.”
I kiss her hard.
I hop out the Civic, stroll up red brick. Get my serious
head on now. Shake it off. Got my own metal tucked right coat pocket. What I
wanna do is get them anabolic agents and get on my way. Sell the shit, make
some money is all. Get that ass back to my crib, work that thang.
I knuckle 3B.
Muscle-head gangbanger appears, tank–top, delts ’n’ guns
hanging—dang twenty large. Inked up. Friggin’ full body sleeve.
“Sup.”
“Yo,” I say. “Pickin’ the shit up, is it.”
“Ay’ite.” Steps back, bent door swings out.
Smell reefer. Dim and grungy. Make my way center square,
look ’round. Bed, covers messed. Chinese food scattered on a table. Bong on a nightstand.
“You got the cashish?”
“Fukyeah, bro.” Pat my coat pocket. “Where the shit?”
Juicehead strolls casual, plants ass on mattress. “Got it
bro, easy.” Reaches under the bed.
Hear a slam and some ape-shit dude leaps from the closet,
crazy and hyped. Got a rifle, waving it, like he’s jacked up on some speedball.
“Put hands up, bitch!” Has the barrel next to my skull
before I get my hand in my coat.
“Yo, dudes.” Throw my hands up. “Chill, man!”
“The money, bitch!” Rifle Boy says.
Juicehead chest-presses me, growls. “He tell you, where the money,
bitch?” He swings and jaw-slams a fist, sends me sideways, wet mouth all
crooked.
Rifle Boy gun-butts my skull, pushes me to the floor, face
in hardwood. “Money, bitch!”
I figure the money ain’t worth getting wasted so I make some
noise. I tell ’em, “Yo—the pocket, man.”
Juicehead pats me, finds the piece, laughs. “Lookit, bro!” Holds
it up, grinning, like he just won a prize. Jams my pockets, finds the envelope bulging
with dinero, swinging it ’round.
“Guess I gonna leave.”
“Guess again, yo!”
“You got the cash, bro.”
“You a piece a shit!”
“Take it easy, Chico.”
“Up!”
I struggle to my feet, face the guys. Got their backs to the
door. That’s when I
see my girl. Gun out, two hands, feet splayed nice. Like Wonder
Woman.
I stay cool. “Yo, you got the cash, man. Won’t say nothin’.”
“That right you ain’t say nothin’,” Rifle Boy says. “You
going bye-bye.”
“Yeah bye-bye,” Juicehead says. “Less go.”
“Freeze a-holes!” my girl yells, all official FBI-like.
The guys lock up. Not sure what to do.
“Drop the guns!”
They don’t move so my girl jolts them with an ear-poppin’ wall
blast. Plaster splatters.
Guns hit hardwood.
“Now drop the pants, dirtbags!”
They exchange stupid looks. Shrug. Goofy smiles, uneasy. Another
shot and they undo the pants, drop ’em to the ground.
“Undies too, girls.”
“Yo, lady,” Rifle Boy starts but another blast and he’s got
the striped boxers at his ankles.
“Turn ’round!”
The guys spin, hands up, slow.
The stupid faces again. “Is cold, yo,” Rifle Boy says.
“Turn around you ugly dickless shits,” my hero girl says.
They turn at me and I hear POP POP and the guys hit their
knees, screeching and the muscle guy says, “Fuuaaa!” as he falls to his face.
The other guy twists, goes down sideways and I see their asses all red
splotched.
I snatch the rifle off the floor and I can’t stand the
moaning so I head jab Rifle Boy with the butt of his own rifle. Muscle guy takes
two slams before he’s out.
Then it’s quiet.
I look at my bubble-ass queen by the door, smiling.
“Nice shot,” I tell her, walking over.
“Seemed right,” she says. “With that buttshot thing you telling
me.”
“Yeah?” I grab the envelope of cash off the floor, pocket it.
I look under the bed, nothing. Go to the closet, yank the door. A puffy gym bag
on the floor.
Bingo.
Boxes of shit—Dianabol, Anavar, Anadrol, Teslac. Growth. Bunch
of other stuff. Weed to boot.
I smile, show my girl.
She grins.
I clap that bubble-butt. “Lookit those dicks?”
She shrugs. A screwy half-smile face. “Knew that would throw ’em off.”
“Sure as hell did.” Tick my head at the door. “Harsh, baby.
Real harsh.”