But we can't figure who's tellin' the sucker, though we know he's gonna like this part-- the last supper, the beef, which is the thing that got us stuck, hear what I'm saying?

But, like, how big a nut ought a nigga get? These days, it ain't easy getting paid.

Froggy (Sucio's main man) says that Sucio is stupid fresh for rice pudding and Cherry Cokes. "He eats that shit every day, yo." And that's def with us 'n' all, but Sucio's bitch Pookie gets in everybody's face.

She says, "If Sucio is goin down with us, if he's puttin' a bullet in his head for us 'n' shit, we could at least show the fucker some respect. Rice pudding ain't nothing to catch a bullet."

And I'm down with that. I tell the niggers to step off and turn out their pockets. And they know I don't profile. I'm not square to the wood. But no one got jack to spend on Sucio. So Pookie says, "Fuck it. I'll make my okra chicken."

But then, yo, my man Zoom-O says that Pookie's got paint chipping off her kitchen walls 'n' shit and we don't want no one catching the lead poisoning, 'cept Sucio, who's getting it in the head. He says, "We gotta give the nigger a party--at least!"

Now, everybody knows that Sucio is one partying mamma jamma. And Zoom-O says he'll let us use his apartment. But I wonder, Like yo? What about the pit bull, Zoom-O? Everybody knows what Sucio did to Tommy Lee's dog.

We was sleeping in Tommy's basement. Then Pookie woke up and saw Sucio with his dick out, his mushroom in the dogs mouth 'n' all. And we all laughed 'n' shit. But yo, the louder we got the more he slapped that dick into the dog's face. And when we couldn't stand it no longer--yo, we was laughing so hard-- Sucio screamed, "Meeees-ter, I'm coming meeester!"

That's why we named the raspberry Sucio, which means dirty in Puerto Rican.

But if this going to be a real party, I got to thinking: What about the invitations? What they gonna say? I realized… like making these up ain't easy.

The Pookie put it up straight. "Ain't no one coming to a good-bye unless there's some fly music and drugs 'n' shit." Which is when my man Zoom-O said, "Then fuck it." I'll put my bull on the roof. We can use my crib but ain't no way I'm letting you niggers blow Sucio's nasty brains up on my walls. Not at my place, yo."

And that's why I'm president. BTS, my crew, Born to Stomp, depend on me 'n' all to figure things out. I first got the idea to run it down to Sucio: Why we can't have fucking up no more. But I had backup, hear what I'm saying? My gat, my cronz, was close to my heart and if he jumped salty, I'd burn his ass twice real fast. And I know, if one day some rapper sings a song about my life he's gonna say:

And Sucio knows this shit foe-one-foe. Which is why he was cool with me and said if he had to, he was doing himself. And I respected that, and I promised he could pick his own gat 'n' shit, any gun he wanted--two gats, pick one.

Pookie even set it up with her woman Mermaid, who took out a bag and spread the shit on Tommy's table. Mermaid smiled and said, "Death for sale, motherfuckers." And I realized I liked the bitch and maybe one day we could go out and see a movie 'n' shit. Maybe we could bump the uglies, yo. But that was later. Mermaid had a dope selection:

-a Colt .45 Peacemaker
-a Glock Model 23, .40 caliber
-an HK4 firing .22, .32, or .380 caliber by changing the barrel
-a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum Revolver
-a Roughrider .22 caliber
-a Colt Trooper Mak III .357
-a Glock 19

"Take your pick," said Mermaid, still sweet tooth 'n' shit.

Pookie was the first, and the fastest. She said Sucio had a dick thang for racing cars, watching demolition derbies 'n' shit; he liked them engines exploding in barrels of smoke, the drivers pulled from their wrecks, helmets burning 'n' shit. She said the Trooper Mak III sounded like them Mach speeds Sucio was always yapping about, saying he was getting a jeep and fixing it up 'n' shit once he got enough G to set Mr. T bumping. But everybody knew the only thing this nigger was driving was on a video screen for twenty-five cents.

But Froggy said he didn't play it like that. He figured Sucio for an HK4. That way his main man could choose the caliber going into his head--the size of the lead. If Sucio felt bad, he could go heavy with the changing barrel, yo, the .380. But if he was running with the juice, he might go E-light with the .22 caliber.

But then, yo, my man Zoom-O was quick to let us know: buying lead cost money 'n' all. We don't want to spend more than we got to. We got drugs and music to lay out. So I said I'd talk to Sucio about it, knowing that before he fucked up he was always down with the posse. He knows that getting paid, these days, ain't that easy.

Like the time Froggy herbed that ol' humpback. That bitch put a cane stitch to his skull. He had a forty-ounce, and I don't mean malt-liquor. And he only got twenty bucks; twenty bucks and we had to lock down in Tommy's basement for a whole fucking week, hiding from the cops 'n' shit, with the dog jumping for everybody's dick--yo.

If we need money to party, yo, then we gotta hit them megabucks! Pokie's right--we gotta hit some drug-dealing motherfuckers. But we gotta do it far away, like in Queens, and we gotta bone'em good and dry. And if we do it right, Froggy says, we can even get those invitations made in a copy shop, on shiny red paper 'n' shit.

But still, we gotta settle this thing big time with Sucio. He gotta pick his gun and he gotta decide: Does he want a blindfold, his chest to a wall, his heart beating against a brick? Does he want a knit cap and a cap in his neck, down on his knees? Does he want a chair and a pop between the eyes? Does he want to lie down, a pillow for his feet? Or does he want what I think is best?

We'll dig a hole in the Bronx Park, overlooking the waterfalls. That way, a cap to the head and he goes ka-plunk, his ass falls straight into the grave. Totally yes!

Pookie says the park is good. Since it will be June, the trees will be green and leafy 'n' shit. That'll give the whole thing a nice, natural feeling.

But what if it rains? Zoom-O got the jump on me. I was thinking the same thing. Then everybody will be pissed and the foods will go bad!

But Froggy wanted to know, "What if Sucio, the last minute, decides he wants like a firing squad? That would be just like his ass, to let his ego take over, imagining himself with a cigarette dangling from his lips, blowing smoke rings at us while we line up, raise up, and shoot on the count of three."

But there's no way. I remind everybody that Sucio already knows that he's in deep shit for his fucking up 'n' all, and I told him we won't have fucking up. No more.

He always wore two gold rings on every finger, braggin that every finger was a virgin he popped. He bragged that he did the seven-year-olds, slapping their titties left and right, real gangsta-like, making them suck his dick 'n' shit, like Tommy's dog. And that's fucked up 24/7. We all agreed on that.

Pookie didn't even know it. She knew he was a sick bastard, and she laughed. Like when he got drunk and puked his guts out, he always said he never washed his mouth until he kissed a girl. He said bitches liked that shit. He said it made them hot in the twat!

But fucking with a seven-year-old? We all figured that pussy got to be ripe (at least thirteen) before it got to be boned. Even Pookie didn't give it up until she was fourteen.

That's when the shooter came up. Who is pulling the trigger? I grew up with Sucio. Our moms put us in a stroller together and rolled is down Tremont Avenue while they smoked weed. We knew Sucio said he'd do it himself, but like… what if he changed his mind? Even the baddest motherfucker gets weak in the balls staring down the barrel, the steel of a .357, a Glock 'n' shit. But Mermaid said there were lots of guns wandering the city, ready for work.

But what if we hired a gun, how do we know he's really a professional (and not just money grubby)? And what if the mamma jamma fucked up and just grazed Sucio's skull or some shit and the next we know Sucio is stumbling around the grass, bleeding in a world of pain? After that he might come out of a hospital, wearing a baby bib and dribbling oatmeal 'n' shit. He might end up like a lot of guys who took the drive-bys in the spine, and now they shit in their pants all day in a wheelchair stuck in some welfare hotel. I'm not buying into that shit.

We all agreed that Sucio had big balls and he got to do himself. But then Froggy reminded us: "By not getting a shooter, you're leaving the whole party up to Sucio. That sucks the dick!"

But then I had an idea (after I told Froggy not to get loud with us 'n' shit). What if we set something up? That way, if Sucio got rubbery in the nuts, we could have like a booby trap. We could tape the gun, aimed at Sucio's head, to a tree and put a long rubber band to the trigger and tie the band to Tommy's dog. That way, when the little bugger jumped for Sucio's meat 'n' shit, the rubber band would snap, WHACK BANG, and we got us a fucking party, word to the mother.

Finally, the shit was settled. We were ready to do the invitations. Pookie was worried about the wording. What if it gets into the wrong hands? It's against the law and if they find out, they'll come down on us. But even if it's against the law, I figure we got us a right to do it because Sucio is our boy. His ass belongs to us. And he's fucked up and we can't have fucking up no more.

We all decided that the invitation should be written in gangsta so anybody from the law will go like, Come to a Waxin... like whassup? And Pookie says she'll even add a little of her own money. She'll pay for some fancy lettering. And we all agreed. Money should not matter no more!

Like yo, I said, we're Sucio's best friends and if we can't treat the boy right, then damn, what the hell is the world coming to? I said we should let Sucio drink all the wine he wants and take as many drugs as he likes (even if it's a waste of a good high).

Right on, said Zoom-O. Even Froggy and Pookie gave me a satisfied look for the first time.

Like, the party went off real good. We had plenty of peeps and everybody laughed. The deejay rocked the instruments, bumping Sucio's favorite tracks. Some girls danced for Sucio, and he sat there, not even moving. Pookie spun in circles under a leafy tree.

When I finally slapped the gun in Sucio's hand, that nigga was buggin'. Pookie gave him a loosie and a few blunts. He smoked his brains out, and then took two shits behind a tree.

Froggy was going mad crazy. That night, he was Sucio's dog. But every time he tossed out another shovel of dirt from the ditch, already down six feet, he mumbled about "forty-drinkin niggas that don't give a fuck if they live or die."

Zoom-O kept yelling, "Now we keepin' it real. Dig, motherfucker."

It was getting dark and I was worried. All that waiting around with the loaded gun, Sucio started flossin' and making plans with Pookie on the DL, telling her how she'd be his shorty for life. He was fucking up again.

Froggy, get your ass out of the grave," I said.

Then I stepped on the deejay's shit and told everybody to recognize.

"It's time to pull the trigger," I said.

Sucio gave me a grateful smile. And Pookie was proud of her man as he fell facefirst into the dirt--the motherfucker had balls. He didn't ask for a chair, a blindfold, or nothing. He just went--WHACK BANG.

But now, like, these assholes from Queens are still pissed off that we stole their money 'n' shit for Sucio's party. The other day, like, I was out by the park with Tommy's dog when I was surrounded by them.

I knew the biggest one, the loudest one, who called himself D.B., the one with the tattoos like spiders up in my face telling me he got the personal beef. That asshole was dipped in black leather and gold chains. He had wraparound shades, silver.

Suddenly one of his boyz starts going on about this guy Colby, how he shot this little kid, and how they hung that motherfucker-- and now they'd be happy to hang me.

This guy took out a long rope and pointed to some trees in the park, and said how easy it would be to see me swinging. But like I told that D.B., I said, "Whassup? I'm not into this shit."

He said, "It's not the money, you know, it's like Colby, it's like the idea that you stole-- that you fucked with us."

Which is when I tried to educate these boys about the whole shit, and how they got it wrong.

"Brothers," I said. "You don't get it. It's like, when you fuck up, you hang yourself."

But personally, I added, "I'm not into this killing-myself shit." And the next thing I knew I was running for the trees with Tommy's dumb-ass dog yapping and jumping at my meat, and that posse at my heels.

***

Reprinted without permission. Provided as a reference for "You Too, Steve?" by Jason Edwards. Please see also "Some of Us Had Threatening Our Friend Colby," by Donald Barthalme.