IBO by Brian R. Lundin (the best books of all time .txt) 📕

with the smell of male discharges that she had not washed away. She leaned over him and the sickening sour smell of last night booze, and sex funk hung over him, he wanted to turn his head, but was too late, she kissed him, and the darkness returned.
The nightmare returned and the pain. The smiling man whom he didn’t recognize standing over him and the pain. He dreamed about his little half/sister Joyce and what had happened to her and his life as a gang member and drug dealer.
Malik’s troubled sleep was constantly disturbed by the nurses that kept coming in and out of his room for something – changing the bedpan, switching IV’s, drawing blood, monitoring his vitals, etc.)

Chapter 3

In his drug induced state Malik had nightmares about the shooting-the cold, the pain and the darkness. He saw the shadowy figure slowly walking towards him dressed in a black leather coat, a black hood was on his head and the predatory smile.
Malik Johnson was in the ICU Unit when he awakened his gown and face was wet with sweat.
He immediately recognize the tall man in the white coat standing at the foot of his bed with a folder in his hand, but not the other heavy set black man, Malik slowly opened his eyes.
“I’m Doctor Raymond Westbrook,” the man in the white coat said.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still sore and thirsty, where am I?” Malik responded.
“You're in Cook County Hospital,” the doctor said while fitting the blood pressure cuff over his arm.
”Cook County Hospital, how long have I been here?” Malik asked surprised.
“You were brought in three days ago, with gunshot wounds,” Doctor Westbrook answered while removing the cup.
“This is a detective from the Chicago Police Department, he wants to talk to you, but I’ll be back later.”
The doctor fished an ice cube out of the sweating carafe on the nightstand and gently placed a cube into his mouth.
“Don’t chew it let it melt,” the doctor said.
As the cool water slowly trickled down his throat, Malik felt, better. As the doctor was leaving, he turned and said to the detective, “Not too long detective.”
”Ok doc. Hi Malik I am Detective Joe Clark of the Gangs Crime Unit, what's up my man?”
Malik nodded his head.
“I want to ask you a few questions, and then I’ll let you get some rest, what happened?”
Malik studied the very dark skinned, broad shouldered rocklike man who was overweight and balding with the monotone voice and a nervous tick in his left eye. The detective was wearing a cheap light brown suit that needed pressing and a soiled white shirt and brown tie. The front of his shirt had became unbuttoned probable because of the strain of trying to cover his large belly, the result of eating too many free donuts, Malik amusingly thought to himself.
“I got shot,” Malik said calmly.
“I know that,” the detective said sarcastically. What I want to know is who shot you and why.”
“Man, I don't know, it was dark and I was I on my way to the crib, when all of a sudden someone popped me, I don't know how many times, he didn't say a word, just started blasting.”
“Did you see his face, do you know him, how old was he and how tall?”
“Man I don’t know,” Malik said in an agitated tone.
“It was dark and I couldn't see his face or nothing, that’s all I know.”
“That's it?” the detective asked.”
“Yeah, that's all I know.”
“The word on the street is that you got popped because of what happened to Lobo and Paco after they raped your sister, Joyce.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, yeah I wanted to pop them for raping my little sister, but I didn't do it,” Malik responded.”
“You know who did?” the detective asked.
Angrily Malik said, “I don't know anything; you should be out there looking for the guy who popped me instead of hassling me.”
“That's exactly what I’m trying to do, but I need your help.”
Doctor Westbrook enters the room, “I’m sorry detective, but that's it for today. Malik got to take some tests and his medication.”
”Ok doc, here's my card, Malik,” the detective said laying his business card on the table, “I’ll rap with you later.”
After Detective Clark leaves the room, Doctor Westbrook checked the monitor and IV.
“You're a very lucky young man, when you came in you, was in very bad shape, we thought we were going to lose you. How are you feeling?” Doctor Westbrook asked.
“My arm and shoulder hurts a little and I can't move my legs, what's happening.”
“Like I said earlier, the police ambulance brought you to the hospital’s emergency room Thursday night, five days ago, you was unconscious and seriously injured. You had been shot three times: once in the right shoulder, left arm and lower part of your back, we were able to treat the injuries to your arm and shoulder but we couldn't operate on your back, the bullet is lying too close to your spine that’s why you can't move your legs; you're partially paralyzed.”
“Paralyzed, you mean I won't be able to walk again?” Malik asked.
“I didn't say that, we don't really know right now, let's hope for the best, but for now we're going to concentrate on your other injuries and when you get stronger, we'll see about the back, ok, you try to rest now, and I’ll see you a little later,” the doctor said leaving the room.
Doctor Westbrook left the room and Malik felt the fear. Many of his friends had been shot in the back and were quadriplegic, confined to a wheel chair for the rest of their lives and could not walk, nor do anything for themselves. Friends and family members had to push them around in their wheelchairs, feed them and even had to wipe their asses.

Chapter 4

Malik was depressed as he thought about the conversation with the doctor as the tears started to run down his cheeks and into his mouth. He looked down at the harness covering his body and wondered what would happen to him if he were paralyzed. His mother was a crack head, she could not help herself, and he did not have anyone else. It seemed to him that all of his life had been a struggle; struggling to go to school. He remembers before joining the gang how ashamed he felt going to school with worn out clothes and always being hungry. He remembered how anxious he was to be accepted by the gang he felt like an old man not a seventeen year old Some of his friends, who were paralyzed because of being shot, had gotten motorized wheelchairs; maybe he would get one also. He remembered a self-improvement book he had read, he couldn’t remember the name of the author, but he did remember the central tenets which were to think positive and always look for the bright side of any situation, to ignore the negative and focus on the future, not the past or even the present. The future was the key and look at everything on the bright side, and do not trade hope for despair, “I am alive and I will get better,” he said quietly.
Malik Jackson was born on September 26, 1983 in Chicago, Illinois. He had an athletic built; was close to being six feet tall and had smooth, tight long muscled legs and a small upper torso. He was dark brown skinned, and like most of the young boys wore his coarse black hair cut short. He was a senior and on the Honor Rolls at DuSable High School the public school directly across the street from the Robert Taylor Homes, where he and his family lived. Their apartment had three bedrooms: his mother and little sister, Joyce each had a room and he shared a room with his younger half brother John. Malik slept on the top bunk of the bunk bed and John slept on the bottom, his mother had gotten the bunk bed from neighbor she had given a blowjob. The twins shared the third bedroom, when they were not in jail. The apartment had just the essentials; a large cloth covered couch, a green chair, a folding card table surrounded by four metal folding chairs, and a 15 inch color television. On his mother’s dresser in her room were dozens of old black-and-whites and even older sepia-and white pictures of people with stern faces dressed in suits and after-five dresses. The only picture Malik recognized was his grandmother, Lill. Malik had two older twin brothers Ralph and Bennie, who were twenty-one years old and were currently serving a five years sentence in Statesville Penitentiary for drug violations, and his younger brother John, who was nine years old, and a younger sister, Joyce who was ten years old. Malik never knew his father and wondered if Winston, who his mother said was his father, actually was or if she actually knew whom, his father was.
Malik was a neat dresser and always made sure his clothes were always clean and his pants pressed when he went to school.
Surprisingly, his mother and little sister kept the apartment clean although his mother seldom cooked and most of their meals were micro waved or fast foods.
Malik thought about them little assholes, Paco, and Lobo. Malik and Paco grew up together and they were both born in 1983
They were seventeen years of age and classmates at DuSable High School, although Paco very seldom attended school. Paco lived with his mother; Jackie, sister, Brenda, the same age as Joyce, and an older brother; DB who was twenty-two years old in the same building as Malik on the fifth floor. Paco was short and thin with a square face and ferret-like teeth and dark beady eyes. He spent most of his time drinking 40 ounces, smoking marihuana and crack cocaine. Paco was devious, cunning and cowardly. He surrounded himself with younger boys that he could intimidate and control. He was violent and delighted in bulling the younger boys and girls who lived in the building and they had to pay him protection money, usually their lunch money twice a week. Paco really did not need the nickels and dimes he got from them, he just liked the fear they had of him. He encouraged and bullied some of the younger boys to snatch old women purses and roll the many drunks in the area and give him the money. Paco very seldom took a bath and because of his addiction to drugs, mainly crack cocaine had a foul body odor.
He had been sanctioned for not being at his assigned blower post on time and for being too high to perform his duties that resulted in not receiving his food stamps.
Their mothers grew up together in the Taylor Homes and use to be best friends until Barbara got strung-out on drugs. Joyce and Brenda were best friends despite their mother’s differences.

Malik