by monice mitchell simms
“Corn! Mr Blackie! Stop!”
But Corn and Mr. Blackie were too far gone to hear them. Like two niggas in the street, they kept thrashing each other around the living room, tumbling over Excellent’s good furniture, stomping on her valuables, heirlooms and whatnot. Hand steady, Excellent pointed the gun at them, cocked it. Corn and Blackie froze, turned, starred at her.
Corn, his eyes focused on Excellent’s stood slowly. He swallowed, spoke quiet and calm.
“Baby, what you doin’ wit that pistol?”
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