Is the Bitch Dead, or What?

1 The beige Nissan pulled slowly down 213th Street. It was a quiet, treelined neighborhood, where most people had manicured lawns and minded their own business. That's what Jacob Reese loved immediately about the neighborhood and that's why he decided to rent a onefamily home on the block. Here he could blend into the background of the clapboardand aluminumsided homes, with their playing kids, their azalea bushes and maple leaf trees. Jacob was ready to start a new life. But what happened just a few hours before could possibly upend all of his plans. He pulled into the driveway of his home. With the engine still running, he just sat in his car. Beads of sweat were still forming on his brow, threatening to run streaks down his face. The adrenaline rush was beginning to dissipate, and Jacob was tumbling downcrashing down. It was like coming off a crack high. He sat motionless for a moment, then grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing it so hard he started to feel pins and needles running up his forearms. He embraced the sensation. As he gripped the steering wheel, Jacob shut his eyes as hard as he could. He wanted to stop the shaking. He wanted to squeeze out the guilt that was rushing through his body like a roaring rapid. "That bitch! That bitch! That fucking bitch!!!!" Jacob cried out at the top of his lungs. One neighbor next door turned off the light to his front room and peeked out the window through the blinds to see what the screaming was about. In typical New York fashion, he decided the screaming was not quite piercing enough to rate a call to 911. He closed the blinds and went to bed. Jacob put on the black baseball cap that was in the passenger seat and prepared to go inside. He sat for a minute and reflected on what he had just done. He already regretted it. But it was over. He was mad at himself, but he was FURIOUS at Ritz Harper for being such a dumb bitchsuch a smarmy, moneygrubbing bitchthat people would gladly pay to see her dead. He hated being so desperate that when the call came and the money was offered he jumped at the chance. Jacob Reese was a lot of things, but he was no killer. He decided to do the thing he did best. He buried the thoughts he was having. Jacob was cursed with an uncanny ability to be totally delusional. He could fool himself into thinking anything he wanted. As a result, he didn't have many friends and he hadn't achieved anything in life. Jacob wanted to be a megaproducer in the music industry. He believed he could be the next P. Diddy or Rodney Jerkins. He could see it. He knew it. Of course he could. He was delusional. The closest Jacob had ever come to living his dream was when he contributed eight bars to a new artist's first single. The first time he heard the finished product, Jacob convinced himself that he was the next Quincy Jones. Jacob was always "on the scene"hanging in the right places, going to the right parties, trying to hobnob with the right people. He partied like he owned Motown in 1968. He dressed the part. He looked the part. But the fronting was wearing thin on his psyche and his wallet. A woman can tell if a man is brokeit's in her DNA, like the mothering instincteven if you give her all the X she can handle. Jacob had a steady supply, but not an eternal supply. One day, the keg of ecstacy would run dry, and he knew it. That was why he was desperate. Jacob was determined to get to "the top"whatever that meantbut he wasn't going to get there by being on the bottom of some powerful man. He was not going to be that new bitch; he was going to scratch and claw the hard way and make it on his own. Being aWilliams, Wendy is the author of 'Is the Bitch Dead, or What? ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780767924870 and ISBN 0767924878.