The Last Hit

I just finished a flash fiction story (under 500 words) just to see if I could do it. It is about a battered woman that finds herself.

It all seemed to be in slow motion-like one of those cheesy movie scenes where the bad guy clips the jaw of the hero. His blazing fist strikes him right above the cheekbone causing his head to jerk sideways. His mouth jarred open while saliva mixed with blood drip all over the floors and splatter on the walls. He’s knocked silly, shocked by the blow. Unsteady. He staggers to catch his balance but ends up falling anyway.

Somehow it didn’t seem so cheesy anymore as it played over and over again in my head. It seemed more like abuse. I hated that word though. Mentally, I could never see myself…he’d been doing it for so long-I always thought it was normal. We were normal. And that I could change him.

It wasn’t cheesy anymore because the person who was getting punched was me. He got me right in the kisser. Again. Before I even seen the red stuff I could taste it in my mouth. Tasteless but thicker than my own spit. I opened my jaw a few times to see if it was broken. It wasn’t. This time.

My whimpers turned into a low chuckle. I was just as surprised as he was. As he grabbed my hair and dragged me backwards they became loud sniggers which enraged him even more. “Oh, this is funny to you?” He tightened his grip, tossing me like a raggedy Ann doll to the couch. “We’re going to see about that,” he growled.

A familiar grin flashed across his face. The same kind he had when he had a good hand when he played poker with the boys.

He pounced on top of me and slapped me a few more times. My eyes were tightly shut as I laughed some more. The tears were gone. My body was numb from all the years of pain he inflicted. I was soul-less. It left me a long time ago. I’d just never noticed it till now. I couldn’t feel the supposed stings of his palm or the pound of his fist.

And he didn’t like that. He got off on the pain. The control- well, the control he once had.

His nostrils flared like an enraged bull, his chest heaved up and down rapidly. And I looked down upon my physical body from way above and saw the back of his head and my bruised face. I opened my swollen eyes partly, bleeding but still smiling. It’s the first time that I’d seen fear in his eyes. The tables had turned. I was in control now.  

My smile faded. “Get off of me.” He puffed his chest then his lips thinned. He got off abruptly, obviously frustrated. I sat up slowly. It was over. Now I laughed on the inside. It was finally over. The thick metal chains he’d wrapped around me didn’t seem so strong anymore. I had the key too. And I was never turning back.            

Short Story: The Other Man

I wanted to write a short story from a man's perspective. So here is my first short story. Its a suspense, thriller and fiction ofcourse.

So here it is:

It’s that smell again. That same smell of Aqua Velva and Axe body spray…and cigarettes. Connie didn’t even smoke. I gritted my teeth, throwing down her sheer blouse onto the side of her pink Adidas duffel bag- the one she used when she went to the gym. Why would a sheer blouse be in a musty gym bag? I felt my eyes water but not one god damned tear fell out. Not one. I continued the search-what else was I going to find in her big bag of tricks?

The rough hairs on the back of my neck, right near the hairline began to prickle like popcorn kernels on a hot, greased skillet. The black panties-lace, delicate- became squished in my not so delicate fist. I rammed it up my nostrils and took a whiff inward. I closed my eyes, wondering-imagining how the other man looked. How good he made her feel when he yanked these off her dove smooth skin and desecrated her by ramming his…

“Daddy?” Pooky called out to me.

I opened my eyes to look at the angel we’d created together. I saw Connie in her tiny little face, Pooky wasn’t there anymore. She stared at the panties painfully clenched in my fist. I hadn’t even tried to conceal it. She needed to know that Mommy was a whore.

She pointed accusingly. “Why are Mommy’s panties in your hand?”

Why, sweetheart? Well, Mommy hasn’t been faithful to Daddy. She’s been too busy putting other men’s dicks into her mouth.

She was only six for goodness sakes! What was I thinking?

“Go to your room,” I said instead.

“But I’m not sleepy,” she whined, rubbing her eyes. Just like her jezebel mother, always fuckin’ whining.

“Go to bed,” I ordered slow and controlled.

She started jumping up and down as if she were on a trampoline. “But I don’t wanna’.”

“Go to your fuckin’ room,” I barked. She stopped; her eyes were wide and teary. She sped off like Speedy Gonzalez and slammed the door. This pushed me to the brink. My own daughter hated me. Why? Because her stupid mother couldn’t be monogamous. I stood up and put my hands on my face. I began to weep like a fuckin’ little girl who’d just scraped her knee on the sidewalk. For what? That bitch wasn’t even worth it. All she did was deceive me. Cheat on me. Make me look like a damn fool! My hand quickly progressed into my hair. They clamped on and pulled.

I was transforming into a monster. I had no control over it. It pulsed through my veins like some ruthless serum. It even came out in breath with the carbon dioxide. I wasn’t me anymore. I’d turned into the one with no conscience. No feeling. I balled my fist and smashed it against the mirror. My back was hunched, my heart beat was wild and I was treading on the page of sanity. I raised my work up to eye level. It was bloody of course. A few nasty cuts. I waited for it to throb-hurt even.

It never came.

I heard her jeep pull up into the driveway, I began to laugh uncontrollably. I had no idea what was so funny. I wiped the sweat from my forehead (with the good hand) and held onto my sore stomach with the other. The door downstairs opened. Then closed. I heard her toss her keys on the end table. I calmed myself down and watched the door. She probably would want to know why my hand was bleeding and why glass was everywhere.

“Hey-” she paused, studying the room then going straight to my self-injured hand. She rushed towards me. “What happened? Let me see,” she said grabbing my hand. Aww. She was all worried about little old me.

I needed to do one thing and one thing only. I opened up my arms silently. Reluctantly, she came inside and wrapped her arms around me. It was familiar. Something I kept telling myself not to love. I dug my face into the shoulder of her shirt and in her hair.

Aqua Velva, Axe body spray and…cigarettes.

“Hey.” She struggled. “Your-your hurting me.”

I hadn’t known that I was doing it with all my strength. I was trying to unconsciously squeeze the life out of her for all the turmoil she’d caused me. The fear, shock and pure surprise in her familiar eyes were actually comical. I felt myself smiling.

She managed to get out of my grips and run to the door. My reach was too long; I grabbed the back of her shirt. We both ended up tumbling down to the ground. I landed on top of her. She scratched me. Punched at me even. I bet she didn’t do all of that to her lover, I imagined.

Both my hands crept up to her flimsy neck. They fastened onto it like a snake to its prey. It told me that she’d deserved it. It told me to feel no pain. It told me that she didn’t deserve to live. Her tongue popped out her mouth and her eyes bulged as my thumbs dug deeper into her throat. My lips were dry and pulled over my teeth, my sweat pattered on her face while her struggles became weak and her soul crept halfway from her body.

But I stopped. It was sudden. She gasped. I slid from off the top of her body and sat up against the bed frame. I laid my head back. Silent and thoughtful. After she was done coughing and choking, she cursed me and tried hitting me. I don’t remember much after that. At that point I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted it all to go away. I wanted us to go back to what we were. I wasn’t quite sure if after this I could still believe that any of that was ever true.           

          

      

  

Wearing Skinny Jeans (Big Girl Style): The Juicy Details on the New Trend

Wearing Skinny Jeans (Big Girl Style): The Juicy Details on the New Trend

Skinny jeans…are they for a specific person or sex? Are they for the scantily skinny- the flamboyantly gay? So many questions. Not enough answers. Oh, the horror! We see them everywhere…and on everyone: celebs, models and even, ugh, kids? Yes, I did see them on three-year olds (a couple of times).

I’ve researched the topic as well as had some, ergh, well run ins with some skinny-jeans-gone- wrong-victims. First off, I’d like to address the “juicy haters”. I’ve read a few blogs that were just bashing anyone of thicker descent who wore skinny jeans. Me no likey that. Don’t get me wrong some plus sized gals shouldn’t wear certain cuts of jeans but by no means does it have to do with their weight. It all has something to do with the person’s body type.

I wish that people would get this out of their mind. Not all skinny people can wear everything. Period. Sorry. It is a fact. The same goes for medium people with big boobs, short people with stumpy legs, stick figures with no curves and so on. People need to dress for their bodies. True? Just because something is a fad- like said skinny jeans- doesn’t mean that you can be a part of it. Yes, I know it hurts. But you’ll get over it.

So, I will show you how (and how not) to do a skinny jean.

Always have to start with the bad first:

 
This girl looks like a hot mess (I do give her props for trying though). First off, she pairs these jeans with a frumpy dress shirt and a pair of “fugly” shoes. Her body type seems to be fairly pear shaped as well. This might not be a good cut for her. She needs a jean that will balance her top (hips) and bottom (calves and legs) out. I would recommend a boot cut jean, dark denim.

Now let’s go to the oh-so-fab Marie Claire fashion columnist, Ashley Falcon:

Love. Love. And loving it some more. There is nothing that I can say badly about this outfit. She has great angles and proportions to give her a slim line from the top of her head down to the bottom of her shoe. Her legs look super long and slim. The skinny jeans work perfectly in proportion to the boy cut blazer. She adds a pop of color with her blouse peeping out from underneath. Not too many embellishments with the necklace and clutch.

See. Skinny jeans can go right if you know what you are doing. Know your body and work it all together with a large heaping of confidence. A juicy girl’s most coveted asset.

xoxox

The Juicy Details

   

Long time no See

I am almost always constatly working on my book...its an obsession! Eeeeeck! That's why I have no time for anything else. Good thing or bad thing. I dont know. I am definately thinking about the self publishing route. How much longer can I go getting rejected by agents! The horror! But yeah, somethings gotta change because I can't keep doing this. I've edited three times, researched, bought books, read blogs and testimonies.

Whew. That was alot. Lol. But yeah. I need to look at some other ventures. I didn't want to self publish but im leaning that way. It will be alot of work. But I have to get my book out into the public. They need to read this cool, kick ass story!

On another note, my allergies are whooping my ass so I am going to get off!

Peace out!

Facebook m3!

lol.

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit: Episode #4 Abia Abdullah

How could I let this happen? I’m Muslim. I was supposed to be the smart one. The one no one thought could be so weak. So stupid. At the end I just wanted to get it over with and for them to find out. Without me having to tell them. I didn’t have the courage to have those words come out of my mouth.

It was too embarrassing. Shameful.

I remembered it like it was yesterday. I’d been working part-time and just began my freshman year in college. It was my first semester. I knew what it was like to taste freedom. My parents home-schooled me as well as my other two sisters. I was the baby of the family and the last to leave the nest. I wanted to follow in their footsteps and make it in college smoothly as they had.

That was my parent’s goal. Islam and education. Marriage was last. My Abu wouldn’t accept anything less. For that we were sheltered. We’d be in the basement while my Abu worked and my mother taught. We’d sneak and talk about how it would be cool to go to a “real” school one day.

Since I was the last one, it was hard. I mean I had friends but I needed to be out in the world. I’d speak with my sisters everyday and ask them what it was like to be living the college life. They’d never answer but I found out soon enough. When I got out there.

I was out there.

And quickly was overwhelmed by the world as it rushed me all at once. I was a guppy in a sea full of sharks.

At my first class I met this guy. He was a year older than me and always sat next to me in class. One time he asked me about my scarf and told me how beautiful it was. He told me that I wasn’t anything like these other girls. I was different. That’s where the conversation began. Then it led to him showing me around the school. He was easy to get along with and very cute. I trusted him. We began to hang out every day at school in a group of course. I didn’t want to be with him alone. Not yet anyway.

One day he asked me over to his house to study. We did the most horrible thing. He kissed me. I thought I was going to go to the hellfire immediately. How could I’ve been so stupid to be alone with a non-Muslim man? Or any man for that matter. I knew better than that. At the same time the kiss excited me. I’d never kissed anyone before.

I had all these mixed feelings about it and ended up just not talking to him for a while. I tried to hide at school but on one occasion he found me. Then I let myself go. I began to see him, sneaking out of the house and even lying. My feelings were so strong for him that it engulfed anything else that I’d ever thought. I made myself think that no one would understand our unique love.

That’s what I thrived off of. That was my justification.

We ended up doing it. I was ashamed but couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t know the person it was I’d become. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even my sisters. They would judge me. I didn’t need that. I needed someone to comfort me and tell me that it was ok and it was natural. And that everyone did it and it was no big deal.

I was his Muslim girlfriend. I was proud of the title around all of his non-Muslim friends. Even though some of his ex’s referred to me as the Muslim bitch. I was ok as long as I was going to get to be with him. Even though on the outside I was happy, the Muslim girl on the inside was always talking. But I told it to shut up. And went on about my business. I continued my horrid ways for six months.

I began having morning sickness. And immediately took a “pee” test from CVS. It was positive. And I was screwed.

They were going to kill me. so instead of telling them, I left the test in the trash bin in plain sight and went into my bedroom and waited. I thought about nothing in particular. Only what the hell I was going to do.

Just ten minutes later, my mom bursts into the room, in tears, holding the test in her hand. my Abu came in from behind, his eyes as big as anything I’ve ever seen. My mother shook me, cursed me and even slapped me across the face. I took it. Because I deserved it. I deserved more than that. My father stood behind her, tears coming down his face saying softly “Why?” over and over again.

It was like an outer body experience as I watched the events unfold from above. My mother shook me again until I snapped out of my trance. “Who is the father?”

Every person wants to know that question when someone turns up pregnant. I looked up and told her that it was some guy from school. She dropped down to her knees and asked what every Muslim parent would ask their child if they ended up pregnant. “Is he Muslim?”

I shook my head from side to side. My Abu caught her as she fell backwards, fainting.

For the first few months my belly grew hard and large. My parents barely spoke to me. my sisters were disappointed but spoke to me uneasily. My family and friends found out through the grapevine as Muslims love to talk. Some of the storied they made up were ridiculous but I didn’t care.

I was six months pregnant and as hungry as ever waiting on dinner to come. My mom was making my favorite, tacos. “So, Abia, what are your plans?” my mom asked as I stuff a taco in my mouth. I swallowed hard.

“About the baby or my living arrangements?”

She dropped a spoon and it clinked on the plate, her bottom lip began to shiver. She covered her face and bowed her head. My father’s eyes bored into my soul. I could silently hear the words he wanted to utter. Instead he sighed and shook his head. My mother regained composure. “About everything.”

That’s all I had time to think about were my plans but it always ended up at a dead end. “I wish I could tell you.” I jumped back in my seat when my Abu’s hand slammed down on the table making the utensils and plates rattle. “Oh, Allah, give me the strength not to hurt my child. Oh, Allah give me the right words to say because this is either a test or punishment.”

“Ameen,” my mother and I said lowly.     

 “Ask her again,” he looked at me but was talking to my mother.

“What are your plans, Abia? For yourself and the baby?”

Episode 3-From Christina to Yasmina

My name used to be Christina but as of ten months ago they call me Yasmina. That’s my Muslim name. One with a meaning. It means Jasmin flower. Beautiful. I am now a part of a huge Muslim community that spans all over the world. And no matter what, it’s still growing.

I started out as a non-Muslim going to WSU with a major in Social Work. My parents were Christian and me; I didn’t really have a so-called religion. Since I lived in such a diverse community and there was such a huge Muslim population, I was familiar with them but never really looked into it. That is until I became close friends with Aisha. She asked me to accompany her to this thing called an Eid gathering.

She explained to me that after the holy month of Ramadan which entailed all Muslims to fast for 30 days, sun up to sun down, they had a huge celebration afterwards. Muslim sisters and brothers would come together and join in all kind of festivities. I’d never seen anything like it before.

Aisha put this beautiful sari on me adorned with sequence and beading, she also put a hijab (scarf) on my head to cover my hair for respect. I felt good to be dressing up like everyone else. After prayers is when I first saw him.

Amin was this fine chocolate man, tall and gorgeous from head to toe, with a dazzling smile and wavy hair. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he greeted brothers. I elbowed Aisha in the rib, “Who is that?”

She squinted through the crowd and then smiled, “Oh, him…”

Aisha asked her older brother about him and one thing led to the next. He approached us outside just as we were leaving. “Asalam’alakum, sisters,” he looked at me with a shy grin.

I was glad to know the Islamic greeting and replied, “Wa’alakum a’salam.”

Later I found out that he was a student at WSU as well. At first we’d talk online and then we’d go on campus for lunch or sit and talk in between classes.

A few months later, I decided to convert and I never looked back even though my family detested it. It didn’t matter though. I was still going to school and working. Being Muslim didn’t change any of my goals and eventually they’d come around.

Like most female converts I didn’t choose to be Muslim because of a man. I didn’t do it do “go with him” so to speak. I did it because something inside was calling me to the truth.  I couldn’t deny anything that the Quran said. I couldn’t deny that the bible which my parents taught me from had fallacies. I did believe that everything we did had its weight and that we all weren’t going to heaven. But instead would be judged on the good and bad things we did on life. I enjoyed being around positive Muslims and I felt clean for the first time in my life. Even though I’d talk to Amin about Islam I didn’t learn everything from him. I went to my local mosque to get information about Islamic rules. Or if I couldn’t figure out a verse then I’d try and talk to my Imam for clarification.

For me Islam was great but I was human and like humans I had my weaknesses. A few of mine were the way I dressed. I wasn’t ready to make that leap yet. Of course I covered my hair but my clothes weren’t as modest as they could’ve been. And some sisters would turn their noses and scoff whenever they seen me.

I couldn’t believe that Muslim sisters could be so cruel but as time went on, I reminded myself that every religion and culture had its bad apples. And that Islam wasn’t exempt. It was ok because I was a new Muslim still and I was working on myself first. So no matter what they said or didn’t say, I kept it moving. They wanted me to get ghetto, they wanted me to lose my cool. So I killed them with kindness.

That saved me…and them.

There was a group in particular that hated my guts. They were angry that I was associated with Amin. From what he told me, they stalked him on fb and he denied them. They even went as far as trying to get other brothers to convince him that they were a better pick. How thirsty was that? I thought. I listened and didn’t say anything. But he did tell me that they were going to target me, spread lies and all that good stuff. “So they are basically Muslim equivalents to hood possums?”

We both had a good laugh at that one.

At some points they went as far as texting his phone. The messages were about me of course, calling me every name in the book. So Islamic I thought. If I had met this broads before I converted I dreaded to think that I would’ve even converted after seeing the way they acted.

One day at Jumah they got real bossy and cornered me after prayer. It was funny to me because most of them were all abaya-ed up and one even wore a veil on her face. Still as ghetto as they wanted to be. “Salams,” one said, I think she was the ringleader her name was Amenna.

I slipped on my shoes, “Wa’alakum asalam.”

“So, sister,” she said with emphasis on sister. “How do you like being Muslim?

“What kind of question is that?” my eyebrows scrunched together.

“Well we just wanted to know how it was going, you know with how to dress and everything. We saw you were having a hard time with dressing correctly.”

They all giggled simultaneously while I stood there in shock. Did she really just insult me?

The veiled one spoke up, “How long have you been Muslim anyway?”

“Long enough,” I pushed past.

 They laughed and one yelled, “Just because you put a scarf on ya’ head don’t mean you Muslim boo!”

The other shouted, “Hey convert, he needs a real Muslim woman!”

I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly. They weren’t going to disrespect me in the mosque like that. Who did they think they were messing with? These hood Muslims in black were about to get a beat down, New Muslim style. “What did ya’ll just say?  I unpinned my scarf and tied it up in a bun. I plucked my earrings out and put them in my pocket. All I could see was excitement in their eyes, they were about to get what they have wanted all along.     

  

    

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit- Episode #2- The Glamorous life of Nabila Shareef

I am sitting in a conference room downtown at a big ass wooden table across from my soon-to-be ex-husband, Wakil Bashir, with my lawyer, Beth. His old butt is sitting across the table in a suit and tie, looking like one of those Nation of Islam brothers. Who dressed him this morning? This is what I mean, that is why we are right here, right now.

I really don’t remember how or why I was even attracted to him in the first place. And I don’t even know why I let him drag me to this messed up state anyway from Atlanta. He was all promising me the world and stuff. I should’ve known that once a Muslim nigga’ always a Muslim nigga’, he didn’t give me nothing that I really wanted. Shoot, I just turned thirty years old last month and I could still can beat out all the little young things that be sprouting up everywhere. Always asking if my man had a woman. You know what? I am going off of topic.

But anyways, I looked good for my age. I was fit, I was thick and I was a strong Muslim woman that held it down. I was always independent, that’s what my momma’ taught me. Never trust a nigga’ and hey that’s been my motto for like ever.

And it’s worked for me so far. Well except for right now. I am getting divorced. But you know what? Life goes on. I will find something bigger and better. Preferably not in Michigan. Everybody knows everybody and everybody has been with on the low-low or married to everybody. And that wasn’t my thing. I had a little bit more class than that. And I didn’t want people to be up in my business. Because I had a bad temper and I didn’t want to have to beat somebody’s wife down or slash someone’s tires.

Beth leaned over to my ear and whispered, “His lawyer is here now so let us do all the negotiating.”

“Uh, I know that. This is the second time you’ve told me that,” I whispered back a little louder.

She cleared her throat, “Ms. Shareef, I am letting you know again because you know what happened last time.”

I looked around sheepishly, “Yeah, yeah. Your right.” I sat back up and zipped my lips straight across and through away the key.

I believe she was referring to about a month ago when the property negotiations began and he had said something disrespectful about I shouldn’t get anything from the condo in Birmingham. I went off. But not this time. I was going to be good. The longer we argued the longer it would take to get him out of my life.

His lawyer took a seat and I crossed my legs and waited for the BS to begin. Every word out his mouth was a load of horse sh…

“Good evening, everyone. Shall we get started.”

I looked at Wakil and then crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I have been over him since way back when. Honestly, I don’t know where we went wrong. I know I wasn’t the best Muslim but dang he wasn’t spending enough time with me and he wasn’t providing me with mental stimulation. All men should know that woman are emotional creatures and we have to be stimulated mentally and emotionally first before you can even reach the physical part. That’s psychology 101. Duh.

Wakil was in his late 40’s but he could hang like a young cat. And he knew what he wanted in life. He wasn’t on that illegal trip like most young Black Muslim men that I knew. I wasn’t into all of that. I wanted to be taken care of, that’s what I deserved. I mean I was living good in Atlanta; I had a nice job and a nice house. Then he came along and promised me the world.

I would’ve been stupid not to take him up on that offer.     

He owned an import/export business that originated in Georgia and then he opened up one in Dearborn. He treated his business like a baby, he wanted to be near it as it grew large and boy did it grow large. Allah blessed him with a successful business and a loving wife. What more could he want?

I was still down south and missing him when he called me up one day. He told me that if I moved to Michigan with him we could spend more time together and wouldn’t have to live worlds apart anymore. For him I made that sacrifice. And I would soon regret it.

He came up to me one day and asked me how I felt about a second wife. I went off on him. Because he’d never asked me about that until we moved here. So I could only speculate that “those” brothers, yeah the broke ones with no money that have two or three wives had gotten into his head and planted an ugly seed. After that day he never brought the topic up again. But out bliss didn’t last long. He then started pressuring me about a baby. I said “oh hell naw, who you been talking to now!”

Again he didn’t tell me who put that idea into his head but I could sense that it was one of them no-good brothers that got five kids and six baby momma’s and don’t pay for none of them. I wasn’t about to mess up my body or my lifestyle for no rugrat. I wasn’t ready. I was still working on myself and my Islam, although it was taking longer than I thought.

“Asalam’alikum, Nabila.”

My upper lip went up and I muttered, “Wa’alakum salam…brother.”

He smiled, “Oh, I am a brother now?”

I didn’t make eye contact and snorted, “If it quack like a duck then it must be a duck.”

Beth looked at the both of us probably thinking they’re about to get started again. “Ok, hey, can we start the proceedings.”

The other white lawyer quickly agreed. To them all we were was time. And time to them equaled money. He began by opening up his manila folder and pulling out sheets and placing them in a row. “So this is what we got concerning the condo.”

Beth took the papers and looked them over, she then handed them to me. I seen some pie charts and then at the bottom was an amount. I whispered in her ear. “Ms. Shareef wants to know what this bottom number is supposed to represent.”

He cleared his throat, “Oh, well, that’s the sum she would be settling for.”

My eyes bulged out of my head. Beth put her hand on my lap to keep me from getting up. “Let me handle this… uh, the condo is worth over 100 grand, this number is less than 1/5 of the market value. How did you come up with this figure?”

“Well,” his lawyer began. “We factored in a multitude of things.”

“Like,” Beth motioned with her hand.

“Like for instance, who paid the real estate agent, who paid the utilities and the mortgage, who furnished the home.”

I felt myself getting heated. Heated beyond words. I couldn’t hold myself back. How dare he not give me half of what I helped him earn. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wakil!”

Beth put her hand on her forehead, “Here we go again.”

“Oh, so I am not a brother anymore?” he grinned.

“You conniving, trifling, son-of-a…”

“You know what,” Beth stood up and gathered her papers. “I quit. I can’t deal with the constant bickering and fighting going on between you guys. When you get it together call me.”