Free Infinity House by Shane McKenzie

“ What you need, fool?” Mike squinted but couldn’t make out the face on the other side of the screen door.
    “Let me get a zone.” Two twenties and a ten slid through the cut-out square in the screen, and Mike pulled it away, clicked the wooden door shut. He dashed across the room, lifted the loose plank from the floor, dug the pre-weighed Ziploc full of weed out, jogged back to the front door. He swung it open, went to slide the weed through the square hole, but it was blocked. By the barrel of a shotgun.
    “If you slam this door, I’ll blow a hole through it, you feel me?”
    “Fuck you, man. What the fuck you want?” Mike’s hand curled and uncurled, longing for the pistol that was tucked in his couch cushion behind him. But too far to make a grab for it.
    “Nigga, you know what I want. Open this motherfuckin’ door ‘fore I get mad.”
    Mike bit his lower lip, clenched his teeth. He opened the screen door.
    The man shoved the door in, cocked the shotgun. He was Mexican, had a shaved head with tattoos all over his face and neck; he wore a baggy red hoodie and a backpack. He stomped across the room toward Mike, swung the butt of the shotgun and hit him in the side of the face. The impact brought Mike to his knees; his eyes watered and he bit his tongue, filling his mouth with blood.
    “Where it at, homeboy?”
    “Chill out, man. Shit.” Mike wiped his hand over his cheek, looked at the blood coating his palm.
    “Oh, you got a mouth, huh?” He looked around the room, over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll make you suck my dick ‘fore I leave. You like suckin’ dick, motherfucker?”
    Mike’s eyes bulged from his face, ready to burst, as they swept from the intruder’s face to the couch. He wanted the pistol so bad, his hands shook. Then his eyes landed on the space in the floor, the plank lying on its side.
    The man saw it too. “Oh, shit. That’s sloppy, homie.” He kept the shotgun on Mike as he rounded the couch, peered into the opening. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
    “That’s all I got, man. Come on,” Mike said. “Take the stash, leave me somethin’.”
    The backpack hit him in the face.
    “Fill that shit up. And if you leave anything out, I’ll paint your walls for you, you feel me?” He thrust the gun at Mike. “Hurry the fuck up.”
    Mike glared into his hiding spot. He’d been filling it for years. It was all he had, everything. With every handful of cash he stuffed into the bag, he thought about James and Grand-mamma, thought about how the fuck he would feed them now. The old woman coughed from the other room, loud and wet, and Mike winced.
    “Who the fuck is back there?”
    “It ain’t nobody but my grandmamma,” Mike said. “She can’t even walk, man. Don’t fuck with—”
    “Shut the fuck up,” the Mexican said. He jammed the barrel of the gun to the side of Mike’s head. “Come on, nigga. You got about another minute.”
    Mike finished with the money, then grabbed the stash, tossed it into the bag.
    “There, man. Now get the fuck outta my crib.” Mike’s voice cracked, and he swallowed the rest of his emotions down, held his breath to keep them there. The room blurred, but he blinked the tears away.
    “You gonna cry, motherfucker? I can’t stand bitch-ass niggas like you.” He grabbed the backpack, slid it on. “You cry, I swear to god I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”
    “Fuck you. Get the fuck out!”
    The Mexican smiled. “Yeah, I’ll go. But I’ll be back to see about that mouth, you feel me?”
    Mike wanted him to turn his back. If he did, Mike was going straight for the couch, straight for his 9mm. His dick got hard just thinking about pumping this motherfucker full of hot shit.
    But the intruder just smiled, walked back-ward, kept the shotgun aimed.
    Then the door swung open, bounced off the Mexican, and James flew in. The boy had a smile that looked too big for his face. And a wad of cash in his hand. He had it over his