After tonight, she won’t have to worry about this nigga.
I type in the code to the apartment and let myself in. It’s furnished aight; Nut would do a better job on a budget. I hear snores coming from the bedroom in the back, but I take a detour to the kitchen.
I take out my signal jammer and power it on before placing it on the counter. The kitchen looks clean enough, and I can’t help but smirk when I open the fridge and see all the makings of a fire ham sandwich.
“This what I’m talking about,” I mutter, grabbing everything and placing it on the counter.
She got white bread, but fuck it. It’s not finna kill me one time. I put two slices in the toaster and check my phone while I wait on that.
Mace is stuffing her face with her lactose free ice cream watchingHairspray. Damn… I knew I’d piss her off by leaving, but I didn't think it would get this bad. Thank God I locked up before I left, or all my shit would be–
Nevermind. I switch to the garage feed and see my corvette tires are definitely slashed.
I grab a plate out the dishwasher and shine my phone flashlight on it to make sure it’s clean. After I set that down, I go to my texts.
Me
My tires Mace? Fr?
I switch back to the live feed of the TV room and watch Mace grab her phone. After staring at the screen, she looks up at the camera and flips it off with a menacing grin planted on her face. She types something on her phone then chucks it clear across the room onto a chair.
Mace
Be lucky I didn’t rip up your seats
I pocket my phone when the toaster goes off and get to work. Mustard on one slice, mayo on the other. Lettuce, tomatoes, relish, and hella slices of ham. Salt and pepper, then smash it together and cut in triangles.
“This shit look fye.” I take a fat ass bite of a corner and moan my satisfaction.
The lights turn on, but I don’t stop chewing. I’m hungry as fuck.
“The hell are you doing here?!” That nigga Dan bellows.
I turn and take another bite. “What it look like? Asking dumb ass questions… Ain’t you a doctor?”
I take in the good doctor, shaking like a pit bull with a bat in his hands. Nigga ain’t even put on no pants.
I finish that half of my sandwich and dust my fingers off as his side bitch eases out the hallway.
“Honey, call the police,” Dr. Enoch says.
“The phones aren’t working,” she whispers back, but her eyes are trained on me, and I smirk when I see the lust in them.
I take my gun out my side holster and aim it at her. “I suggest you go back in yo room and lock the door, sweetheart.”
Her eyes stretch and I hear that bedroom door slam and lock in less than a second. When I aim at the good doctor, a wet stain starts spreading on his boxers, and that’s when I notice the pink scar on his shin.
“Take a seat, nigga. I’m not done with my sammich.”
The good doctor’s face furrows but he eases onto the island stool. When I hold my hand out, he gives me the bat, and I set it next to me and grab my other sandwich triangle.
I take my bites extra slow, holding his gaze. He’s getting more and more antsy, fidgeting and shit. His old ass doesn’t recognize me, which works out in my favor. That’s the one drawback of mycelebrity status, being recognized. It’s why I have over a dozen programs that scour the internet and wipe off any photos and videos of me anywhere. It’s why all my pictures are distorted, and my music videos are more focused on the leading ladies or my niggas.
I’m not finna be walking around with a mask, but if I ever do need to do some dirt, like now, it won’t be front page news.
The only people who know what I look like foreal are my fans that come to my shows. And even then, my signal jammer fucks up anyone trying to upload anything on social media.
“This sammich fire. I wish y’all had some chips, but no one eats regular Lays anymore. Muthafuckas be wanting fancy shit, when simple is always best, to me at least.”
