Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [0]
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2007 by Michael Presley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4990-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4990-1
LCCN 2006938897
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Dedication
To my mom and my daughter, Meekaya.
Prologue
Ian’s fist slammed into my ribs, making a crackling sound as my rib bones were shattered. I held my fists over my forehead to protect my face from Al’s fist, which had found its mark on the right side of my head. I was no boxer, but I knew the basics as I doubled over in pain on my way to the ground. Larry’s twelve-inch, red and white Air Jordans found my stomach, lifting me off the ground with the force of a hurricane. Gravity and agony pitched me back down; I was a painful, bloody mess.
“Donald Watson, you pretty motherfucker. You think you can fuck any woman you want? Aisha’s my girl. I’m going to kill you for fucking her.” Ian’s fist drove me deeper into the concrete foundation of our high school.
“Somebody call security! They’re going to kill him!” I heard a female voice scream.
Al surprised me with a left punch, leaving my mouth filled with blood.
“Let’s stab the motherfucker,” Larry said.
I was staring at about twenty different feet, all different sizes and shapes. I couldn’t lift my head high enough to see their faces.
“Naw, I want this motherfucker to suffer. I want his dick to go soft every time he tries to fuck,” Ian responded.
Pain created a small blanket of darkness as someone’s shoes dug into my back.
“I say let’s kill the motherfucker, Ian. He fucked your girl on the steps during third period. Look around; the entire school knows about this shit.” Larry had this deceptive, whiny voice. At six feet five inches and close to two hundred and eighty pounds, his grip on my neck prevented the slight amount of oxygen that was left in my system from circulating.
“Give me the knife, Larry. I’m going to cut this motherfucker’s balls off.”
My body was about to shut down as my pants were being pulled from under me.
“Donald, you’ve got to pray to God for help,” my grandmother’s voice rang out in my head.
I prayed like I never had before as I lay on the cold ground; about to lose my manhood.
“Al, hold down his leg,” Ian demanded.
“Somebody stop them! They’re out of control!” an unknown boy’s voice shouted.
“You stop them! They’ve got knives and guns.” another voice answered.
With the last bit of senses in my body quickly fading, I felt the knife dig into my scrotum. My eyes fluttered to Grandma’s God, asking Him for help.
“They’re cutting his balls off! Somebody do something!” a young girl screamed.
Her voice was my last recollection as I woke up in St. Mary’s. I was hospitalized for three weeks and on bed rest for another six. I learned that Ian and his friends were doing a stint in Juvie when I returned to school. Aisha tried to get with me again, but I wouldn’t go for it. Her pussy wasn’t worth it and quite honestly, I had bigger fish to fry. Within the following three months, I fucked Al’s sister, Ian’s sister and Larry’s mother, who was fine for her age. What? Did you think I would stop fucking? Michael Jordan plays basketball like I play women. Getting pussy is the only damn thing I do well. Unlike him, I won’t embarrass myself and try to do anything else.
Chapter 1
TWENTY YEARS LATER
I was pushed through the revolving exit door of the office building by two ladies rushing to leave. They stared at me as if I had interrupted their flight into the streets. I smiled, knowing that I could make them walk right back into the building and forget about the kids and the husbands at home. Another day, I would