No questions asked


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I knew it would be a bad day when the call came from The Bronx.

            Look, I ain’t against making an extra buck or two, but crossing people’s turf is bad enough without dancing through a whole borough.

            How this dude got my number up there wasn’t my business.

            My motto has always been: “No questions asked.”

            But hell, I needed a new jacket and business in Brooklyn was bad. So I said, “Why the hell not?”

            Part of it, had to do with keeping up my reputation. In my business, you don’t put out the word then refuse a job when people try to hire you.

            It has to do with trust – you know the old saying: “Honor among thieves.”

            On the subway, some puff gang part time rap group tried to give me some guff, fools with big mouths making like they owned the tracks when every gang worth a damn knew the subways were open turf.

            They took one look at me and figured they were going to score my shoes or my shirt and I went and pulled a ghetz on them, blowing them away before any of them could gather what went on.

            None of them every figured on me having a piece in my pocket, let alone daring to use it in public. And theirs weren’t the only faces shocked when I pulled the trigger. Everybody made for the exit once the train got to the next station.

            And of course so big brother transit dick got it into his head to play hero, like he was good at anything more than beating up on graffiti kids or chasing turnstile hoppers.

            The fool even shouted for me to stop, drawing his gun like he knew how to use it, when he had no guts to go shooting anything in those stone-walled places, risking hitting a civilian. So he got onto the radio instead and called some real pigs – which I knew meant trouble.

            So I turned around and blew him away, too.

            Then, I got up on the street as quick as I could before the shit hit the fan.

            I kept telling myself that borough hopping was no good, and told myself that I ought to get back where I belong, bad rap or not.

            But I didn’t listen. Instead, I went west, crossing over to the Broadway line where I knew I was safe to go underground again, and there, I didn’t hand anybody shit, playing sheep the whole ride uptown. I saw no more gangs or transit pigs, just sheep. Easy pickins, I thought, but I left them alone.

            I got pissed enough when I got to The Bronx and found the son of a bitch who had sent for me had changed his mind.

            Sure, he said he would pay me my money anyway. But I was in no mood to hear that shit and told him as much.

            Then it comes out that he had wanted me to hit his sister for him, because she had pulled some shit with another gang, but had decided he didn’t want her dead after all.

            I said I had come to kill somebody and if it wasn’t her, then I’d do him.

            When he pleaded with me not to do anybody, I shot him in the face. Then I went and hit his sister for the principle, and killed the hood she had hooked up with just to cleanup the loose ends.

            I dumped the heater and my cell phone in the East River as soon as I got back to Brooklyn.

            Okay, so many I shouldn’t have done everybody I did that day. But I was peeved and it would have looked a lot worse for my rep if I’d let those sons of bitches do that to me.

            But I’ve let everybody know. I won’t do no other borough ever again. It just don’t pay.


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