Drillmington: A Snitch

The Channel 30 reporter stamped out a cigarette and grabbed her microphone. She was Fatima Berm. Her brown hair and hazel eyes and ebony skin formed to make a thing of beauty. She readied for the shot. Her producer, Hightower Cott, looked pensive.

“Alright we’re rolling live in five, four, three, two….”

“As I stand here at the scene of another grisly murder in the city of Wilmington, Delaware, it is important to note that this could have all been prevented.” A package ran.

“On the corner of West Third Street, a young boy was shot down along with his mother. Shell casings are all that were left in the wake of this tragedy,” Fatima acknowledged.

The package included people on the street interviews.

“It’s crazy. What did they call this city not too long ago? ‘Murder Town USA’? It’s just getting too out of hand. We have a chance to make this city better but nobody’s doing anything,” Rob from the same neighborhood announced.

“In all of our efforts to keep within the ranks of good citizenry, we have failed these young people,” Canada Dermott pointed out.

After the brief package, Fatima spoke again.

“There seems to have been no witnesses to either slaying. If you have any information regarding this shooting you are asked to dial 302-555-4757. Reporting live from West Side Wilmington I’m Fatima Berm.”

The funeral for the mother and son involved having the five year old boy in the casket with his mother. During the service, a local drill rapper named Nat “Top Shelf Liquor” Sutton rapped a verse.

The flow seemed effortless, though real pain existed in his bars. He felt the sting but kept rapping for nearly six minutes. He spoke of the way that he had experienced this death as the victims were his sister and nephew.

Each word punctuated through the air and everyone listened closely. He called out other rappers and challenged them to run from their corrupt ways. Not a tear fell from his eyes as he stood out against the white wall with his all black suit. He finished to applause that lasted nearly two minutes.

Top Shelf Liquor became an informant at that time. A snitch. A rat. A stool pigeon. Everything that had been negative about these terms became positive as he considered the impact behind them.

He wasn’t trying to avoid jail time, even though he felt that would be okay. He wasn’t afraid of the penitentiary, he just didn’t have time. He focused on his rap career. He would put the name of his sister, Alanas and nephew, Trustan, on a ring made of diamonds and platinum.

He was a mid level rapper but he had earned six figures doing shows. He paid for the funeral. He talked to his girlfriend, Starla Yerkey. She had skin the color of alabaster and eyes that looked sapphire had stuck in her skull. She was about five feet eight inches tall.

“I know what you did was a good thing, babe. You did right by Alanas and Trustan. There is no God but thank God that you are still here making music for the people.”

Top Shelf Liquor just leaned in and kissed Starla. They resided just a few blocks away from where whomever gunned down his family.

The apartment was four bedrooms three and a half bath and spoke of modest opulence.

Top Shelf Liquor cursed himself. He was in the process of getting his sister and son out of one of the roughest sides of Wilmington.

They looked around the apartment and Top Shelf Liquor changed into his clothes for a concert.

“You’re doing a show?”

“It’s what pays the bills, right?”

“No one would fault you for missing one show, Top,” Starla admonished.

“If we want to keep this place going with us in it, I’ve got to grind.”

“Just be on alert,” Starla stopped at the door. They kissed again.

“I’ll be alright. Security’s tighter than sushi rolls.”

It was the first time since the murders that either of them smiled.

“I’ll be back.”

Starla considered her work especially important although she didn’t get as much money from it. She was a bartender at the club Hot Spot. She was the one who gave Top Shelf Liquor his name.