A Taste for Blood

My brother George ran upstairs to our apartment one day, shut himself in our room, and didn’t come out for two days. When he finally came out, he paced the hall like a caged animal. I saw a crazed look in his eyes and knew something was wrong.

“What’s going on, George? Why are you not acting right? Talk to me,” I said, my voice coming out stern.

George avoided eye contact and kept pacing. “It’s nothing, man. Forget it.” “I said talk to me—maybe it’s something I can help you out with.”

My brother snorted contemptuously. “Nobody can help me out of this, man. It’s just . . . you know, I’m having problems with the guys on the corner over money, which I never took. Now they’re trying to blame me for it, and I didn’t do anything. They’re hunting me down like an animal.”

With his words something clicked in my brain and rage consumed me. Now I started pacing back and forth. “Didn’t I tell you not to hang out with these drug dealer losers?” I shouted. “All I’m gonna end up doing is going to your funeral. You’re a loser just like our dad.”

“Yeah, well, we’re all losers one way or another,” George shot back.

The next morning George finally decided to go outside. As he approached the corner of the building where we lived, a guy jumped out of a parked car and ran up behind him. As my brother turned around, the guy shot at him five times. All five bullets missed him. When I heard the news, I knew that the demons I catered to—the demons I served—protected my brother. In that instant I also understood my mission and assignment from hell was to put my brother in jail, where he would be safe, not stand by and watch him end up in the cemetery. That day my powers increased in the demon world, and I set out with a vengeance to destroy the life of the person who tried to kill my brother.

I challenged the devil, yelling out loud, “You better do something or else! That person better die! Do you hear me?”

His answer came quiet my spirit: “I will avenge my fury and anger on that person, and you will hear all about it. Then you will truly know that I am your dad.” A few weeks later, the person who tried to murder my brother was killed in the street like the dog he was.

Unfortunately, drug dealers run in packs, and I knew the dead guy had buddies who still wanted their money—or my brother’s life. Jail was the safest place he could be, so I summoned the demons to inquire what to do to put him there. The demons sent me to the four corners of the neighborhood to collect dirt from the place where my brother used to hang out with his boys.

I went and got two roosters and chopped off their heads because I needed the sacrificial blood for the power to cast this spell on my brother. It gave me pleasure to chop the struggling roosters’ heads off, wishing they were my brother’s enemies instead. Next I wrote his name on the inside of a brown paper bag, wrapped it up, and put it in a dark bottle with the dirt of the four corners. Finally I turned it over to the devil and placed it in the cauldron—a cast-iron pot where the devil and his demons meet. Strangely turned on by the killings, and watching the blood drip from the roosters’ necks, I knew my witchcraft powers were increasing all the more. Within twenty-four hours my brother George was in jail.

But not everyone I knew escaped death so easily. Several months later, two cousins who made their living selling drugs got into a territory fight that ended in a bloodbath. One of the cousins was better at the game than the other. Late one night, Gary decided to make extra money while his cousin Ron was away. He decided to go into Ron’s turf and sell drugs to his customers. To Gary’s surprise, across the street a cab suddenly pulled into the curb and out of the cab came Ron. As Ron spotted Gary, he pulled out his 9mm gun and fired away, spraying bullets until Gary hit the ground. Ron crossed the street and finished him off.

Early the next morning my brother George ran upstairs and told us the news. As soon as I heard, I ran out to where the killing took place. A cluster of police cars blocked the crime scene, but as I peeked through the swarm of officers and medical personnel, I saw the bloodstains on the pavement.

Oddly, in that moment, the only thing that crossed my mind was the pool of blood that was wasted—blood I could have used for witchcraft. How I regretted not being there to collect that blood before it seeped into the asphalt.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 578