The booth mates munched in relative silence. Tavon twitched, craving some candy or something else sweet to ameliorate his body's mild trembling. Lady G picked at her food, already full, calculating how to save the rest of her plate for later. King neither ate nor made eye contact with anyone.
"King," Lott began as gingerly as he could, "didn't Green kill your father?"
"That's one story," Merle said.
"What does that mean?" King felt an invisible noose continue to tighten in his life. A wave of nausea swept through him, as if he floated outside of himself while strangers dissected, and then put back together, his life story. Coincidence couldn't explain the players in the game being close enough for them to reach out to him whenever they wanted, yet he be oblivious to their presence. Shadows in plain sight.
"That's all I know, really. One story, the one the streets made legend, had Green slaying the elder Pendragon, but that never made any sense to me. Green had nothing to gain and he never operated without something to gain. Wasn't his way."
"You sound like you were there," King said.
"To you, the arrow of time points in one direction," Merle said.
The rest of the table exchanged sideways glances with one another, not knowing what to make of Merle and Tavon. Bullshit artists of the first degree, probably, like griots of African tribes telling stories for their keep. Lott and King, however, paid extra attention.
"Thing is, Green could and should be running Night's crew," Tavon continued, smacking his mouth loudly as he ate while talking. "He has the name, he has the muscle. He even had the real estate. But he lets Night run things."
"Green prefers the shadows. That's irony," Merle said.
"Green's eternal."
"That's one story. Another goes that for every spring there must be a winter."
"I'm about sick of your riddles," Wayne said.
"We all have our roles to play. I'm only a guide. He's the hero." Merle pointed his dirty-nailed thumb toward King.
"I'm no hero," King said.
"That's why we're here. Heroes, love, and spiritual quests. The story's still the same."
"Any of you know a light-skinned sister, braids, pointy ears?" King asked.
"Thus enter the fey," Merle said.
"You mean Omarosa? What you want with her?" Tavon picked at his remaining fries.
"Seen her around. She fit into any of this?" King asked. The heat of Lady G's body made him all too self-conscious. She continued to eat her fries in silence, making no claim on him. Or any man.
"She's strictly independent far as I know."
"Never accept a gift from her kind," Merle said. "And don't raise the terror of their anger."
No one believed in fairies anymore. With no belief to sustain them, most faded away to the land of Nod, the wellspring of ideas, there to remain forgotten and unmourned. When most folks thought of fairies, the image of gay sprites and winsome pixies sprang to mind. There was the whispered caution to never accept a gift from one, but for the most part, people thought of them as prancing merry-makers. Because few survived to tell the tale of the fey once angered.
On rare occasion, a rogue fairy roamed the land of mortals, engaged in a tryst of some sort, and continued their wanderings heedless of the consequences.
Omarosa was such a consequence.
The Marion County Juvenile Detention Center had grown accustomed to scandal over the years. From their issues with overcrowding to the allegations of sexual abuse (many of those charges were later dropped, but the stain remained). In the wake of the ensuing reforms, guards, inmates, and visitors wore arm bands which could even alert staff when rival gang members were in proximity to one another. Certain events caused minor cracks in the system, such as the general scoops of kids in the wake of the Breton Court shooting. With public pressure for an arrest, many kids were detained overnight as the mess sorted itself out. Parker's luck never was too good. He was merely "spectating" as he explained to the cracker-ass po-lice who questioned him. As the detective explained, "spectating" did not explain the vials he was caught with. Personal use became his mantra, a charge to be all but dismissed by over-worked judges and a crowded system, and recognized that this was little more than a charge used to remind him of his place in the greater criminal justice scheme of things. The hillbilly cop tried to half-sweat him about Dred and Night's operations ("who?") with any further questions ready to trigger his Miranda-given rights ("Law. Yer."). So he was put in a cell to give him time to think about things. A peaceful night's sleep not worrying about getting got on a corner. That was the game then.
In the game now, Omarosa stood over the sleeping Parker, letting an arm of her set of handcuffs ratchet through the main body.
Click. Click. Click.
Parker didn't stir. Asleep, he was still very much a child, a man-boy, not quite the hardened killer he wished to be. Asleep, he was someone who could be loved, who'd let someone love him. Asleep, the possibility of dreams, of a better future remained.
Omarosa knelt down and whispered in his ear.
"Parker, your destiny calls you."
He smiled upon hearing the feminine voice, the sound of rose petals against naked flesh; a tease of promise in the night and his dick hardened. A few moments later, his eyes fluttered – he required several moments to be convinced that he wasn't dreaming – not quite making out the form, enough to register that he wasn't alone. Before he could react, Omarosa grabbed him from his bed. She had him in a choke-hold, but adrenaline-fueled panic soon flooded him. He had nothing to flail against besides her as she drew him to the middle of the cell. Her height advantage on him meant little compared to the blood and strength of the fey in her veins. His eyes bulged, his face reddened with his last gasps and dawning realization that he had reached his life's endgame. His arm shot out, grasping at nothing in particular, his other fist slamming weakly into Omarosa's side. Consciousness fled him and his body fell limp into her arms.
Tearing his bedsheets, she fastened a noose and propped him against the bed to let the body fall. The investigation – such as it would be since no one would look too closely for fear of the phrase "dereliction of duty" entering their job performance jackets; and with suicides being more common than anyone wanted to believe – would conclude suicide. Still, she wanted folks to know that she could reach them anywhere. She placed a black rose on the shelf above the sink. It would be a note in a file somewhere, but it would find its way into Parker's personal effects. And people would know. The fey were not to be trifled with.
You let them go about their business unless you want their terror to rain down upon you.
"Wait," Wayne said, still putting pieces together. "ESG was independent."
"Not that independent. There are a few dozen gangs here and everyone has their ties somewhere. ESG's loyalty was to Night," Tavon said. "I hear the trolls got into them."
"We were there." Wayne shifted in his seat. Lady G and Rhianna studied the napkins in their laps. Wayne told the tale of the trolls' attack on Rhianna's friends.
"And the police didn't do anything?" King asked Tavon.
"Oh, it's hot out there, for sure. Po-po out in force. But what they gonna do? Can't investigate with no body. And the trolls eat their prey. So Prez's boy is just another missing nigga. They wouldn't be looking too hard no ways."
"You know Junie? Him and some young dude he's been rollin' with," King said.
"Junie and Parker?" Tavon asked. "Yeah, I know them."
"I saw them trying to muscle Green."
"Once a fuck-up… Junie and Parker were replaced by the trolls. I hear they been demoted. Out slinging where ESG used to."
Smoke layered the air around him as Junie got blunted up, tripping high on his weed as he took swigs from his forty ounce. When he was up like this, his simple thoughts and false courage turned dark and focused, a cold, sick churning in his head. In the corner of the hovel he called home, sweat trickled down the burnt marshmallow flesh of his grayish face. The life he envied when he saw the likes of Dred or Night roll through the neighborhood in their Escalades with their rims, their stereos, their bling, had come to this. His body ached and he stank of overripe fruit fermenting in a dark, moist place. His scraped knuckles were red and swollen from punching the plaster from his walls. Rumor had hit the wire that Parker was dead. That he'd done himself. Not that the word of junkies and prostitutes was to be trusted, however, Junie knew down deep in his soul that the story had the stink of truth about it.