Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [46]
L.J. got to his crib as fast as he could move his ass so he could get his Uzis and his lucky ring. He hadn’t been wearin’ the ring ’cause it was too fuckin’ heavy when he was doin’ three-card. The gold ring spelled out the word LOVE, ’cause L.J. was all about that.
He also stuck his Rick James CD in his pocket. Never should’ve left the house without his guns, his ring, and his Rick.
Shit, that was probably why he was busted.
Now he just needed a ride.
Thing was, L.J.’s ride got took last month when Junior Bunk decided that L.J. wasn’t allowed to be no three days late with the payments. That, and L.J. told Bunk that maybe he needed to adjust his Ritalin. Motherfucker had no sense of humor, and that meant that L.J.’s Chevy was at Bunk’s chop shop. By now, the engine was in Baltimore, the battery in Seattle, the radiator in New York, and the body in fuckin’ Japan.
But L.J. always landed on his feet, and as soon as he walked out the door, he found a beautiful red Camaro just sittin’ in the middle of the street.
L.J. looked around, but didn’t see nobody. When he moved closer, he could hear that it was still running. He looked in the window, and sure enough, the key was still up in there.
Well, shit, a nigger ain’t gonna look no gift horse in its fuckin’ mouth.
The passenger door was open, and L.J. saw some blood on the floor, but, shit, his Chevy had blood on the floor. That shit don’t ever come out, and L.J. was used to that. Probably belonged to one of those zombie-ass motherfuckers.
The Camaro even had a CD player.
Just as he got into the driver’s seat, some white boy fell onto the hood, scaring the shit out of L.J. He had the zombie eyes and those fuckin’ teeth.
“Move yo’ ass, motherfucker!”
He gunned the motor, threw it into drive, then slammed on the brakes.
Not only did the zombie-ass motherfucker fall off the hood, but when he hit the gas, the other door closed. Saved L.J. the fuckin’ hassle.
After running over the zombie, L.J. drove on, putting the CD in the player.
All L.J. wanted was to get his ass out of Raccoon. Everywhere he turned was another zombie-ass motherfucker.
L.J. was sick and fuckin’ tired of zombie-ass motherfuckers.
Then he saw a meter maid shuffling her ass down the street with her arm hangin’ off her body.
Back when L.J. had the Chevy, the meter maids were always goin’ up on his ass, givin’ him tickets and shit. L.J. never put money in the meters—he was a paper money operation, he didn’t deal in no small-change shit, so it wasn’t like he carried quarters around. He had a cell phone, so it wasn’t like he needed quarters for phone calls, neither.
So he veered toward the meter maid and ran her down.
“G.T.A., motherfucker! Ten points, sucker! Kiss my entire ass!”
Laughing, and singing along with Rick James—after all these years, Rick was still the man—he turned the corner onto Harbor Street.
This was the one street he was gonna miss when he got his ass outta town. The Playa’s Club was here. Many a late night he’d spent putting singles in some big-titted bitch’s G-string, giving them twenties for table dances, and sometimes, if he was lucky and had enough big bills, getting to take one in the back alley.
His favorite was LaWanda. That girl could move—a booty that would not quit, and the best tits money could buy.
And there she was now, stumbling down the street on her platforms, wearing a white tank top and black leather miniskirt, and with a big-ass hole in her leg.
On the one hand, L.J. was sorry she was dead. On the other hand, she still looked damn fine.
“Shit, bitch,” he called out to the zombie ho, “you still got it!”
She wasn’t wearing a bra under the white tank top. L.J. decided that, zombie-ass bitch or no zombie-ass bitch, she was still one fine piece of ass.
Then an airbag exploded in his face, right when he felt a sharp pain in his back.
It took him a few minutes to get his head on straight, but finally he got his ass out from under the fuckin’ airbag and tried to open the door.
It wouldn’t budge.
He shouldered the fuckin’