Free Resurrection by Treasure Hernandez

Petey, an old junkie in the back, and the owner, who stood behind the bar.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Rube?” Malek said as he sat at the bar, wiping off the counter.
    â€œMalek! My man! What’s going on, youngblood?” the overweight Rube said. Rube had owned his establishment for years and was known and respected in the community.
    Malek remembered when Rube sponsored his youth team’s jerseys when he was in middle school.
    â€œWhat’s up, Big Petey?” Malek asked as he watched Petey down a shot of Hennessy.
    Petey didn’t respond. He knew that Malek came to his spot to ask him about the money. He also noticed how Mitch was ice-grilling him. Big Petey instantly felt disrespected. Without even acknowledging Malek, he signaled for Rube to pour him another shot.
    Rube, sensing the hostility, looked at Malek and then went over to pour Petey his shot.
    Malek disregarded the blatant disrespect from Petey and continued to attempt to converse with him. “My man Mitch says that you owe me a li’l something.”
    â€œYou got some nerve, coming to my block with some tough-guy shit. I been hustling since you been pissing in yo’ diaper. Like I told that stupid mu’fucka, I’ma hit you off when I get it. Damn!” Big Petey said as he downed the shot.
    â€œWell, when do you think you going to have it?” Malek asked cool, calm, and collected.
    Mitch moved his hand to his waist, where his pistol rested, and Malek quickly shook his head, signaling Mitch to fall back.
    â€œI’ll get it when I get it!” Big Petey yelled in a drunken slur.
    Malek slowly got up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of money. He gently placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and then, without any emotion on his face, looked at Petey. He said, “I am going to pick up my money in one week. One week exactly. The drinks are on me.” Then he signaled Mitch to follow him out.
    Malek winked at Rube and began to walk out, but before he reached the door, Big Petey said something under his breath—“Ol’ bitch-ass nigga”—just loud enough for Malek to hear him.
    Malek stopped dead in his tracks and, without even turning around, said, “Yo, Big Petey, you don’t have to worry about that little bread you owe me.” Malek walked toward the door, not to exit, but to lock the place up. He didn’t want anybody to walk in while he was taking care of business.
    Petey was so busy drinking his glass of Hennessy, he didn’t notice Malek come back into the bar. Before Petey could react, Malek struck him over the head with a beer bottle. Petey awkwardly fell onto the floor, and without hesitation, Malek pulled out his gun and squeezed a round into Petey’s face.
    That was surely not the first time that Malek had to lay a person down for coming short on his money. He wasn’t for games, and it was a new era. He was sending a clear message. It was a new sheriff in town. A sheriff with the balls to kill, and just like Malek had made it a point to up his street credibility by telling key street niggas that he had murked Mimi and Maur y, he was sure to let the hood know that he had also dropped Petey. But Malek knew he had to be careful because with too much bravado came snitches, murder investigations, and jail time.

Chapter Seven
    A t the beginning of Game One of the NBA Eastern Conference finals between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Detroit Pistons, it wasn’t LeBron James or Rasheed Wallace who received the loudest applause from the sold-out Detroit Pistons crowd, but Malek Johnson.
    Malek’s face flashed on the big screen located inside the arena, and then the words Michigan’s Finest Is in the House flashed underneath Malek’s name, which was followed by highlights of dunks from Malek’s sensational high-school career.
    Malek loved every minute of the attention as he sat courtside with Halleigh. He had more than ten