Hard Candy Saga by Amaleka McCall

most of the responsibility for Broady’s care fell on Junior.
    Broady ignored his mother’s calls and walked calmly down the small hallway of their apartment to the front door. He took the project stairwell down, holding on to the cinder block walls so he could skip down the stairs two at a time.
    Outside, the cold air stung the inside of his nose and made tears leak from the sides of his eyes. Broady was huffing and puffing, causing a steady stream of frosty breath to escape his lips. “You a dead bitch-ass nigga now,” he said out loud to himself. He had already made up his mind about what he was going to do. There was no backing down or turning back now.
    Broady continued the pep talk with himself until he reached his destination. He banged on the raggedy wooden door three times.
    â€œWho?” a man’s voice boomed from the other side of the wood.
    â€œJunior!” Broady called out, lying about his identity. Broady figured that after the earlier dust up at the spot, they wouldn’t let him back in. He also knew his brother was well respected in the streets of Brooklyn, so saying he was Junior could get him into many places.
    When the door swung open, Broady placed the end of the pistol in the man’s face.
    â€œWhoa, cowboy! What the fuck is you doin’?” Shamrock said, putting his hands up like he was being arrested.
    â€œWhere is that nigga, June Bug?” Broady huffed, his hands shaking fiercely.
    â€œHe back there still playin’,” Shamrock murmured nervously. Shamrock had gotten his nickname because he was no bigger than a leprechaun. Standing five feet tall on a good day, he was no match for a hulking, young cat like Broady. “C’mon, man, you ain’t gotta do this shit here,” he pleaded.
    Broady grabbed Shamrock’s arm and dragged him along with him to the back of the small basement. The local illegal gambling spot was usually always packed, but it was three o’clock in the morning, and most of the dudes who spent their days there had already lost their money and dragged their sorry asses home. But June Bug just so happened to be playing his last hand of ghetto poker.
    â€œEverybody, stand the fuck up!” Broady screeched, placing his gun against Shamrock’s head.
    Shamrock pleaded with them with his eyes. One false move and he knew his brains would be all over the floor.
    â€œYoung’un, what the fuck is you doin’? Your brother know you here?” an older man at the poker table asked.
    June Bug stood stock-still. He instantly regretted slapping Broady earlier in the day and taking his money back from him at gunpoint. June Bug was a notorious sore loser, so when Broady beat him in a game of cee-lo, he took it back by force. June Bug swallowed hard because he knew he was Broady’s intended target. His gun was strapped to his ankle, so he knew he couldn’t reach it without being noticed. Any sudden movements from him and his ass was as good as dead.
    â€œNobody fuckin’ move!” Broady screamed.
    The room went still. The only sound came from the small black-and-white TV that sat on top of a milk crate in the corner.
    â€œEverybody empty y’all fuckin’ pockets on the table now!” Broady barked.
    At first, nobody moved.
    â€œOh, y’all think this is a joke?” Broady crinkled his face into a scowl and let off a shot into Shamrock’s left foot.
    Shamrock shrieked, his body buckling to the floor and blood soaking through his sneaker. Suddenly, all of the gamblers were emptying their night’s take onto the table with quickness.
    â€œYo, Broady, man, we can discuss this shit,” Pops said.
    With his gun still trained on them, Broady walked around the table and grabbed up as much of the money as he could handle with one hand. He was sure he got his money back and then some.
    â€œYou slapped me in my fuckin’ face like I was your bitch, right? You pussy!” Broady