Something wicked this way comes as the bloody moon fills the room with the foul scent of red rum. I didn’t say my prayers before I passed out. I’m living in this grand dragon’s layer protected by a glasshouse. Now, as I’m creeping into these stages of sleeping, this drinking got me numb, and I’m hearing sounds like Vietnam. We weren’t warned about the shit that would follow. I woke up scareder than that nigga Ichabob Crane in Sleepy Hollow.
Am I insane, or is this fate? I was wiping the sleep out of my eyes when I felt the ground vibrate. Oh shit! It’s an earthquake! Wait! That’s a mistake y’all. Ain’t no earth shake in South Atlanta, Ga.
We called them paranoid veterans when they preached about the plan. It wasn’t televised, so I’m still up in my underpants. I’m desperate, and I’m sweating like it’s summer heat, but it’s cold as hell, and the snow is red out there on the city streets. I gotta think, but this drinking got me dragging, sluggish. But it’s either shake it or kick the bucket, or watch a new republic. I strapped on my boots and my lucky tooth, put on the war paint. Looked up towards the roof, sniffed ootin’, and then I give the lord thanks. I looked out the window. You wouldn’t believe what I saw. In the streets of despair, they declared martial law. I see coppers with choppers chasing niggas with triggers, but they ain’t gone get docka. I’m too quick for the killers.
I gather courage as I progress. I don’t fear it. No stress. Taken over by my spirit, now I’m feeling possessed. “If we must die, let it not be like squealing pigs,” but screaming like madmen intent on splitting wigs.
I’m chilling in the bungalow, thinking about the aftermath, as we lay, as we play, possum in disaster’s path. Thinking about the distant past. I ain’t trying to be no road-kill, but how long will resistance last out here in these battlefields. My peers, we live where X marks the territory. It’s time to use these killing skills and project sparks to get the glory.
We set up shop in the sewer. After three days, I resurfaced camouflaged in manure. Fire in the hole! There she blows, bitch. I think I see that nigga. Somebody hit the light switch. My trigger finger itched. I dived in a ditch. Bullets were whizzing by my head. Will I survive this shit?
Now it’s time to get, but I’m cornered by some sirens. But I can’t see the driver because I’m blinded by his high beams. He stepped on the gas. On the intruder, I let my Ruger blast, but he is still coming fast. I believe it’s time to haul ass.
I jumped off the bridge into the murky Chattahoochee River. I plopped like the kids Wayne Williams swore he didn’t dismember. It seems like he did because I hear them singing London Bridges. And in the fizz, I can see them pointing at his figure. And when they did, I swore I heard that nigga giggle. And when he did, I aimed the Ruger at his liver too. But when I did….hit him, I started bleeding too. The scent from my ribs smelled like Johnny Walker Blue. Now, I’m swimming through the deep blue chased by water moccasins. These niggas must be see-through because it ain’t no stopping them.
Back on land, I kissed the ground and headed back to town. Gat in hand, I’m about to lay these mutha fuckas down. I ran through quicksand and took a right at the crossroads. And there I saw a man who had my brother in the chokehold. He was singing acapella, some ole negro spiritual. He wasn’t even struggling. Just pouting, looking pitiful.
So I ran and tried to help the fool, but I’m feeling skeptical because this may be a trap. As I approached, the scoundrel bailed out. I couldn’t make his figure out. He dipped into this white house. I snuck around the back, clipped the wires, cut the lights out. I ran up on the enemy, cock the heat, and yelled freeze. And this you won’t believe, he turned around, and it was me. Soul under Siege.