A Novel by Kawika A. Stafford

Chapter 13

“No, I don’t usted habla espanol shitass,” Whisper growled. “Now get somewhere.” The man stood glaring back at Whisper, as he stood next to his bicycle near where Whisper had parked his camaro.
“Hablas ingles?” “No,no,no,no,” the man replied quickly. “If I had a check for a million dollars with your fucking name on it, I’m thinking your english would be pretty good right about now my friend.”

Whisper had a wicked hangover, and was in no mood for the little dude who he had seen in the neighborhood for the last couple of years. Whisper could barely talk, his throat hoarse. He knew he needed to quit all of it, partying every night, whoring, the drugs. Whisper was relentless in his attempts of daily destruction.

Alcohol was his drug of choice, but cocaine was his baby.

Whisper just wanted to get something to eat, and then get his ass home, and get out of this hot Arizona heat. The man mockingly held two bags of oranges in the direction of Whisper. “Dude, I done told you, I don’t want your sour ass oranges, entiendes?” Whisper waved his arms, encouraging the man to leave.

The man placed his bags of oranges in his side baskets, and rode away on his rickety bike. When he found himself at a safe enough distance he yelled over his shoulder,

“Your momma likes my oranges you fucking gringo,” the man yelled.

Whisper had to smile. He watched the man ride away as he opened the door of his camaro. Not too long ago, Whisper would have run that guy down, and stomped a mud hole in his ass.

“Getting mellow in your old age, did that little prick call me a gringo?”

Whisper muttered to himself. He had spent the evening partying with two of his stripper girlfriends.

He was a bouncer, and entrepreneur of all things illegal.

Whisper had dubbed himself a broker for the broken.

Whisper was a damn drug dealer.

He had branched out into gun sales as of late, cash only, no background checks. Whisper would often tell Sonny Ray that he was diversifying his portfolio. He had been a professional painter at one time. Residential Houses, lots of commercial buildings.

A severe back injury off the job prevented him from painting. It involved a homeless woman and a shopping cart. Dealing drugs wasn’t as physically taxing, and Whisper enjoyed the rush and risk of it all. Not to mention he enjoyed the residuals of his craft.

He had a butt load of cash, jewelry, clothes, and more ass than he knew what to do with.

Walter was his oldest brother. Whisper and Walter really didn’t get along, never had. Even as kids they argued constantly. However, despite their personal differences; they knew that growing up in Arizona presented its own unique challenges. The one constant that was common for all of them was that they were often mistaken for being Mexican. They regularly heard that comment and or question as to their origin, but more so when they were teenagers. Sonny Ray always got the bonus.

Sonny Ray and Whisper both had curly wavy hair, but Sonny Ray was about four shades darker than everyone in his family, and easily a foot taller than them as well.

The neighborhood kids would often tell on their parents by revealing what they would say in private. Their neighbor Irene revealed that her dad once told her, “We like Walter, and Whisper, but that Sonny Ray is as dark as nigger.”

Whisper had waited for the heavy traffic to clear, and pulled out onto Speedway Blvd. He headed west, bound for Barrio Hollywood. Whisper had a craving for some of Pat’s spicy chili dogs, and some curly fries with lots of ketchup, and a large sun tea.

Although he had tried hard to curtail his temper Whisper had a propensity for violence. He had used drugs and alcohol daily for years. Cocaine, and alcohol seemed to be his catalyst; which would often propel him into acts of physical force, for one reason or another.
In the 70’s, bonfire parties in the desert on Friday night was the thing most teenagers did, especially during football season. Whisper was no exception. One Friday night after the Santa Rita football game, Whisper was on the east side of Houghton road partying with his friends from high school. In the 70’s the desert in Arizona was vast, and wide open.

Whisper left the desert party about 3am. He headed back in town to get something to eat. He sat in traffic, a few cars back from the red light. A couple of dancers he had recently met at the strip club pulled up alongside him and sat next to him in their convertible, talking back and forth.
Of course being inebriated, Whisper hadn’t been paying attention to his spacing, and he ended up tapping the bumper of the car directly in front of him.

This big guy, who was with a woman, presumably his girlfriend, jumped out of his car. He began yelling and cursing at Whisper as he approached his vehicle. Whisper, as was mentioned earlier, was half in the bag.

However, his only thought was to get to Jack in the crack before he perished from hunger. At this time of the morning all he had on his mind was two greasy tacos and a large Coke. Whisper smirked at the guy with muscles, and quietly told him to get back in his car before he said something he was going to regret. Mr. muscles persisted,
and made the grievous error of wagging his finger in the face of the now silent Whisper.

The big man had misinterpreted his quiet demeanor.

Whisper slowly opened his car door, his eyes fixed intensely on his antagonist, as he exited his vehicle. After locking eyes with Whisper for the first time it left the big man unsettled. He decided that retreating back to his vehicle was in his best interests. Although Whisper was only six foot, and two hundred and fifteen pounds; it was his menacing eyes that kept people from getting overly familiar. Whisper now approached the obnoxious muscle head.

In so many words Whisper informed him that he had let his alligator mouth overload his hummingbird ass.

Faster than you could say: whisperwillbeatyourass.com

Whisper shot an arm to the guy’s crotch, grabbed the man’s shoulder with his free arm, and slammed him down hard on the hot Arizona asphalt.

Without a word Whisper turned back to his car, as the concussed man lay quietly on the pavement. All Whisper wanted to do now was to get the hell out of there before the cops showed up. He reached for his car handle when he felt a sharp pain across his lower back. He turned to face his attacker, and lo and behold, it was a woman perhaps five foot four.

Whisper had no misconceptions about what a woman was capable of.

She was defending her man. Whisper was cool with that. Nevertheless, the fact remained she should have not put hands on Whisper. She had smacked him good with that short piece of chain.

Truth was, it hurt like hell.

Whisper advanced on the woman. He side stepped her as she swung the chain overhead. He crotch shot her as well, and delivered her unceremoniously hard on her back.
She lay still, chain in hand. She was unconscious, lying on the road not too far from her semi-conscious, and moaning boyfriend.

Now he really had to get the hell out of there.

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