Thou Shalt Not Kill by Job Darcy
I wasn’t nothing but a two-bit petty drug dealer with a seriously bad reputation. I worked alone, and if you ever saw me out, I would always be in the company of two or three different girls. Truth is I sold drugs to support my habits and everyone else’s with a cute smile and nice ass. I was absolutely certified in all forms of lawlessness and foolishness. One time I walked into a bar and said ouch! Okay that was a stupid joke. Anyway, one time I walked into a barroom and pulled five grand out of my pocket and set it on an empty table. I spread the money out nice and evenly for everyone to see, then I walked into the restroom and took out a baggie of ICE (crystal meth), crushed it up, and fixed myself a nice fat line, which I then snorted. As I came up holding my nose, seeing myself in the mirror, a thought popped into my head, “Hey, Man, what if somebody takes your money?” I busted out laughing at the thought, answering myself, “Yeah right! Wish a motherfucker would!” I then walked out of the restroom and over to the table and picked up my five gees and left.
I had been selling to this guy BA (Bad Ass). He was a member of the motorcycle gang called Banditos. He was a tall thin guy with a big nasty scar that ran straight down the right side of his face. I sold him an eightball of meth once a week like clockwork. I’d meet him at the bikers’ bar on the river. After five or six months of dealing with him, he tells me, “Hey Job. Man, I’ve been talking with my brothers and we’ve been watching you. We like your style. Matter of fact, you remind me of me when I was your age. We want to bring you in as a prospect.”
I said, “Yeah, that sounds cool, but I don’t ride bikes.”
He laughed and said, “You don’t have to ride bikes to be a prospect. We want you to make money for us.”
I said, “What you mean?”
He said, “Buy our drugs; sell our drugs instead. You’ll get a hell of a lot better deal, and we’ll always back you if anything ever happens.”
Shit can turn real sour real quick in the dope game, so it’s never a bad idea to have some solid support. The only real backing was my brother Jack, cousin Josh, and Boomy. I could count on them no matter how serious, and they could count on me. But why get them involved in my shit if I didn’t have to?
I said, “If you got such a good deal on dope, why is it you’ve been buying from me?”
He said, “Job, we’re hearing nobody moves so much so fast. We just want in on the action. What I buy from you is for my own personal use. We’re not pushers. We’re real drug dealers. We make our money off of people like you.”
I said, “Okay, what’s the deal?”
He said, “Whatever you buy from us, we’ll also front you. You buy a pound; we’ll front you a pound. If you want to start smaller, just a test run, nothing is wrong with that. I’ll sell you a quarter pound for twenty-five hundred and front you another for the same price.”
The math added up quick as dollar signs started flipping through my mind. I said, “Bet.”
He said, “Meet me at Escapades tomorrow night ten o’clock.”
This is what I’d been waiting for for a very long time.
Ten o’clock I’m walking through the doors of Escapades. I look around and don’t see him. Next thing I know, an arm is thrown around my shoulders, and BA slaps me on the chest. “Man, I’m glad you made it.”
I said, “Yeah, what’s up?”
He said, “Let me buy you a drink.”
We sit at the bar and he buys me a shot and he says, “Just give me the money, and I’ll be back in one hour.”
I said, “Okay, look Motherfucker, you run off with my money, and I’m going to find you, and then I’m going to shoot you!”
He responded, “Hold up, Man. Calm down, Job. Bro, the only thing you gonna do is fall in love with me tonight. It’s nothing like that. The only thing this is is about is making money. That’s all.” (If you come away with anything from this story, let it be: don’t ever split with your money.) BA left and never came back, nor did he answer his cell phone. I didn’t know where he lived or anything else about him. It was my ego and his lies that got me out of my money, but I wasn’t lying when I said I would find him and shoot him. Murder in my mind is of the innocent. If a man wrongs you, his blood is on his own hands.
I found out there was a trailer house in Walker where all the Banditos hang out. It took me all night to find it. I searched high and low, and only by sheer luck did I find it. Turning around in somebody’s driveway, looking into the rearview mirror, I saw parked behind a trailer underneath a fenced-in carport that ran the whole length of the trailer fifteen or twenty Harley-fucking-Davidsons. It was daybreak. I was tired but even more pissed off. I parked out front and got out of the black Eddie Bauer Explorer I borrowed from my sugar mama Carolyn. I walked straight up to the trailer armed with a 9mm throwaway tucked away in the front of my pants. I knocked on the door, and it sounded like a herd of buffalo stampeding in some old western flick. The blinds would flicker open as they would peep out to see who was knocking. Then the stampede would begin and then stop as the window blinds flicker some more. Ten minutes I stood knocking on that door without an answer.
So I got into my truck and left. I drove to a nearby Waffle House and ordered some food as I contemplated my next move. “Fuck it! Go back and knock until one of them fools answers the door!” When I drove back—to my surprise—there wasn’t a single motorcycle left under the carport. I got out and walked up to the door, and before I could knock, a man I guess in his mid-fifties with long gray hair and beard opens the door. His leather vest with all the patches reveals to me at once he’s a Bandito. I said, “Look, my name is Job, and I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, sure, come on in. What you need to talk to me about?”
I said, “First, do you smoke?”
He said, “Cigarettes?”
I said, “No, meth.”
He said, “Yeah, I love meth.”
I loaded up my pipe with some beautiful stuff, so beautiful you could feel his desire at once. We sat there smoking. (I figured it would loosen his tongue.) Then I went into the spiel about BA and what had taken place and how being BA is a member, prospect, whatever of the Banditos, that they all share responsibility for his actions. I said, “I only want BA, but if I can’t get him, one of you will pay!”
He said, “BA is a real piece of shit. I hope you kill him.” Then he gave me his address, told me exactly where he lived in Baton Rouge.
I went home and slept for two days straight. That’s how I worked: I would sell drugs for two or three days straight, then I would sleep for two days. When I would wake up, I would always have to recalculate all that had transpired, and my phone would always have ninety-nine missed calls. This time when I woke up, there were still ninety-nine missed calls, but there was nothing to recalculate. BA was fresh on my mind, and I was going to give him exactly what I promised.
I called Boomy for backup, and we drove to check out the address in Baton Rouge the old man gave to me. Sure enough, BA’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway. I was surprised to see he lived in a nice big brick house in a really nice neighborhood. I told Boomy we would wait for the cover of night. 12:00 AM: we pulled up to his house, bike still parked out front. We parked down the street and walked back to his house. We started checking for any unlocked doors or windows, and—bingo—a bathroom window slides open. I tell Boomy to give me a boost up to the window and then to go get the car and wait out front. I said, “Boomy, I’m going to kill this motherfucker.” He said, “Do what you do.”
I stepped down from the window into the bathtub with one leg as I pulled the other leg out of the window. I turned around and saw that the bathroom door was wide open. It’s dark but there’s a little light coming from the hall. That’s when I heard the growling—a low deep growl. I looked, and standing in the doorway was a full grown boxer growling at me. I slowly reached for my pistol and pulled it out. I thought to myself, “Fuck it. It’s whatever!” I effed at the dog—uh—and that sorry cur bitch took off running. I said to myself, “Oh shit, I’m going to enjoy killing this motherfucker.”
I walk out into the hall and there’s a nightlight plugged into the socket. I hear the TV playing as I walk into the front room. I see four little kids all lying on the sofa sound asleep. In a flash I saw four Darcy kids sleeping just like that in front of my daddy’s TV. I knew right then that I wouldn’t be killing anyone if I didn’t have to. “These four little sacks of shit ain’t did me nothing.”
I started checking rooms and finally opened a door, and there he was lying completely naked in his bed, legs straight out, lying on his back, hands hanging off both sides of the bed—just as if he’d been nailed to a cross. There was a little lamp on in the corner of his big pink room, so my view of him was clear. I walked up, standing over him, I lightly tapped him upside his head with my pistol. Blood started immediately running down his face. I took a few steps back keeping my pistol aimed straight at his chest. Once he realized what was going on, his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. I held up my finger to my lips and said, “Shhh, don’t want to wake up the kids, but if you don’t give me my money, everyone’s going to wake up in hell! Do you feel it? Can you feel it? I’m not alone. Get up and get me my money before I show Death and all his angels what they’ve come here to see!”
“Job! Job! God! Please Job! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, Man! I got your money! I got your money! I got your money! I wasn’t going to jack you! I promise! I fell asleep! I fell asleep! Don’t kill me!”
BA gave me back all of my money. After that I ended up bumping into him on four or five different occasions on which he’d always reach into his pocket and pull out $200 apologizing as he gave it to me.
Amen.
I had been selling to this guy BA (Bad Ass). He was a member of the motorcycle gang called Banditos. He was a tall thin guy with a big nasty scar that ran straight down the right side of his face. I sold him an eightball of meth once a week like clockwork. I’d meet him at the bikers’ bar on the river. After five or six months of dealing with him, he tells me, “Hey Job. Man, I’ve been talking with my brothers and we’ve been watching you. We like your style. Matter of fact, you remind me of me when I was your age. We want to bring you in as a prospect.”
I said, “Yeah, that sounds cool, but I don’t ride bikes.”
He laughed and said, “You don’t have to ride bikes to be a prospect. We want you to make money for us.”
I said, “What you mean?”
He said, “Buy our drugs; sell our drugs instead. You’ll get a hell of a lot better deal, and we’ll always back you if anything ever happens.”
Shit can turn real sour real quick in the dope game, so it’s never a bad idea to have some solid support. The only real backing was my brother Jack, cousin Josh, and Boomy. I could count on them no matter how serious, and they could count on me. But why get them involved in my shit if I didn’t have to?
I said, “If you got such a good deal on dope, why is it you’ve been buying from me?”
He said, “Job, we’re hearing nobody moves so much so fast. We just want in on the action. What I buy from you is for my own personal use. We’re not pushers. We’re real drug dealers. We make our money off of people like you.”
I said, “Okay, what’s the deal?”
He said, “Whatever you buy from us, we’ll also front you. You buy a pound; we’ll front you a pound. If you want to start smaller, just a test run, nothing is wrong with that. I’ll sell you a quarter pound for twenty-five hundred and front you another for the same price.”
The math added up quick as dollar signs started flipping through my mind. I said, “Bet.”
He said, “Meet me at Escapades tomorrow night ten o’clock.”
This is what I’d been waiting for for a very long time.
Ten o’clock I’m walking through the doors of Escapades. I look around and don’t see him. Next thing I know, an arm is thrown around my shoulders, and BA slaps me on the chest. “Man, I’m glad you made it.”
I said, “Yeah, what’s up?”
He said, “Let me buy you a drink.”
We sit at the bar and he buys me a shot and he says, “Just give me the money, and I’ll be back in one hour.”
I said, “Okay, look Motherfucker, you run off with my money, and I’m going to find you, and then I’m going to shoot you!”
He responded, “Hold up, Man. Calm down, Job. Bro, the only thing you gonna do is fall in love with me tonight. It’s nothing like that. The only thing this is is about is making money. That’s all.” (If you come away with anything from this story, let it be: don’t ever split with your money.) BA left and never came back, nor did he answer his cell phone. I didn’t know where he lived or anything else about him. It was my ego and his lies that got me out of my money, but I wasn’t lying when I said I would find him and shoot him. Murder in my mind is of the innocent. If a man wrongs you, his blood is on his own hands.
I found out there was a trailer house in Walker where all the Banditos hang out. It took me all night to find it. I searched high and low, and only by sheer luck did I find it. Turning around in somebody’s driveway, looking into the rearview mirror, I saw parked behind a trailer underneath a fenced-in carport that ran the whole length of the trailer fifteen or twenty Harley-fucking-Davidsons. It was daybreak. I was tired but even more pissed off. I parked out front and got out of the black Eddie Bauer Explorer I borrowed from my sugar mama Carolyn. I walked straight up to the trailer armed with a 9mm throwaway tucked away in the front of my pants. I knocked on the door, and it sounded like a herd of buffalo stampeding in some old western flick. The blinds would flicker open as they would peep out to see who was knocking. Then the stampede would begin and then stop as the window blinds flicker some more. Ten minutes I stood knocking on that door without an answer.
So I got into my truck and left. I drove to a nearby Waffle House and ordered some food as I contemplated my next move. “Fuck it! Go back and knock until one of them fools answers the door!” When I drove back—to my surprise—there wasn’t a single motorcycle left under the carport. I got out and walked up to the door, and before I could knock, a man I guess in his mid-fifties with long gray hair and beard opens the door. His leather vest with all the patches reveals to me at once he’s a Bandito. I said, “Look, my name is Job, and I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, sure, come on in. What you need to talk to me about?”
I said, “First, do you smoke?”
He said, “Cigarettes?”
I said, “No, meth.”
He said, “Yeah, I love meth.”
I loaded up my pipe with some beautiful stuff, so beautiful you could feel his desire at once. We sat there smoking. (I figured it would loosen his tongue.) Then I went into the spiel about BA and what had taken place and how being BA is a member, prospect, whatever of the Banditos, that they all share responsibility for his actions. I said, “I only want BA, but if I can’t get him, one of you will pay!”
He said, “BA is a real piece of shit. I hope you kill him.” Then he gave me his address, told me exactly where he lived in Baton Rouge.
I went home and slept for two days straight. That’s how I worked: I would sell drugs for two or three days straight, then I would sleep for two days. When I would wake up, I would always have to recalculate all that had transpired, and my phone would always have ninety-nine missed calls. This time when I woke up, there were still ninety-nine missed calls, but there was nothing to recalculate. BA was fresh on my mind, and I was going to give him exactly what I promised.
I called Boomy for backup, and we drove to check out the address in Baton Rouge the old man gave to me. Sure enough, BA’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway. I was surprised to see he lived in a nice big brick house in a really nice neighborhood. I told Boomy we would wait for the cover of night. 12:00 AM: we pulled up to his house, bike still parked out front. We parked down the street and walked back to his house. We started checking for any unlocked doors or windows, and—bingo—a bathroom window slides open. I tell Boomy to give me a boost up to the window and then to go get the car and wait out front. I said, “Boomy, I’m going to kill this motherfucker.” He said, “Do what you do.”
I stepped down from the window into the bathtub with one leg as I pulled the other leg out of the window. I turned around and saw that the bathroom door was wide open. It’s dark but there’s a little light coming from the hall. That’s when I heard the growling—a low deep growl. I looked, and standing in the doorway was a full grown boxer growling at me. I slowly reached for my pistol and pulled it out. I thought to myself, “Fuck it. It’s whatever!” I effed at the dog—uh—and that sorry cur bitch took off running. I said to myself, “Oh shit, I’m going to enjoy killing this motherfucker.”
I walk out into the hall and there’s a nightlight plugged into the socket. I hear the TV playing as I walk into the front room. I see four little kids all lying on the sofa sound asleep. In a flash I saw four Darcy kids sleeping just like that in front of my daddy’s TV. I knew right then that I wouldn’t be killing anyone if I didn’t have to. “These four little sacks of shit ain’t did me nothing.”
I started checking rooms and finally opened a door, and there he was lying completely naked in his bed, legs straight out, lying on his back, hands hanging off both sides of the bed—just as if he’d been nailed to a cross. There was a little lamp on in the corner of his big pink room, so my view of him was clear. I walked up, standing over him, I lightly tapped him upside his head with my pistol. Blood started immediately running down his face. I took a few steps back keeping my pistol aimed straight at his chest. Once he realized what was going on, his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. I held up my finger to my lips and said, “Shhh, don’t want to wake up the kids, but if you don’t give me my money, everyone’s going to wake up in hell! Do you feel it? Can you feel it? I’m not alone. Get up and get me my money before I show Death and all his angels what they’ve come here to see!”
“Job! Job! God! Please Job! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, Man! I got your money! I got your money! I got your money! I wasn’t going to jack you! I promise! I fell asleep! I fell asleep! Don’t kill me!”
BA gave me back all of my money. After that I ended up bumping into him on four or five different occasions on which he’d always reach into his pocket and pull out $200 apologizing as he gave it to me.
Amen.
