Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

The taste of metal in his mouth didnt tally. Like when you drink juice after brushing your teeth. Total confusion. But nowactuallyit did tally. Mixed with fear. Panic. Mortal terror.

A grove. Mahmud on his knees in the grass with his hands over his head, like some fucking Vietcong in a war flick. The ground was wet; damp seeped through his jeans. Might be nine oclock. The sky was still bright.

Around him stood five blattes. Each one = model lethal. True soldiers. Guys whod sworn to always have each others backs. Who chowed on small-timers like Mahmud for breakfast. Every day.

Khara.

A chill in the air, even though it was nearly summer. Still, he could smell the sweat on his skin. How the fuck had all this gone down? He was supposed to be living Life. Had finally caged outfree as a bird. Ready to grab Sweden by the balls and twist good. Then this. Could be game over now. For real. Every fucking thing.

The gun was grinding against his teeth. Echoing in his head. Light was flashing before his eyes. Scenes from his life. Memories of whiny social-service hags, pretend-to-give-a-shit counselors, half-baked racist teachers. Per-Olov, his teacher in middle school: Mahmud, we dont do things like that in Sweden. Do you understand? And Mahmuds responsein a different situation, the memory wouldve made him smileFuck yourself, this is how we do in Alby. More movie clips: cops in the concrete who never understood what Sven Swedens shitty urban rearing did to guys like him. Dads tears at Moms funeral. All the buzz with the guys at the gym. The first time he got to put it in. Hitting bulls-eyes with water balloons from the balcony on dog walkers down below. Shoplifting in the city. The chow hall in the pen. Him: a true Millionaire, a housing project kid from the Social Democratic Million Program high-rises, on his way up, like a deluxe gangster. Now: free fall. Wipeout.

He tried to whisper the Shahadah despite the gat in his mouth. Ash-Hadu anla-ilaha illa-Allah.

The dude holding the piece in his grill looked down at him.

You say something?

Mahmud didnt dare move his head. Glanced up. He couldnt say shit with the gun filling his mouth. Was this dude slow or something? Their eyes met. The guy still didnt seem to get it. Mahmud knew him. Daniel: on his way up, becoming a name, but still not one of the big blattes. Thick eighteen-karat gold cross around his necktrue Syriac style. Right now he might be the one bossing. But if his braind been made of blow, the sales price would hardly cover a candy bar.

Finally: Daniel understood the situation. Pulled the gun out. Repeated. Did you want something, or what?

No. Just let me go. Ill pay what I owe. Promise. Come on.

Shut it. You think you can play me? You gotta wait till Grhan wanna talk.

The piece, back in his mouth. Mahmud remained silent. Didnt even dare think of the Shahadah. Even though he wasnt religious, he knew he should.

Pounding thought: Was this it?

It felt like the woods around him were spinning.

He tried not to hyperventilate.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fifteen minutes later. Daniel was getting bored. Fidgeted, looked unfocused. The gat was squeaking worse than a rusty old subway car against Mahmuds molars. Felt like he had a baseball bat in his mouth.

You think you can do whatever you want, huh?

Mahmud couldnt respond.

You really think you could boost from us, huh?

Mahmud tried to say no. The sound came from far back in his throat. Unclear if Daniel understood.

The dude said, Bottom line: nobody boosts from us.

The guys farther off seemed to sense that things were buzzing. Came closer. Four of them. Grhan: fabled, fatal, fat cat. Inked all the way up his neck: ACAB and a marijuana leaf. Along one forearm: the Assyrian eagle with wings spread. Along the other forearm, in black Gothic lettering: Born to Be Hated. Vice president in the gang with the same name. Southern Stockholms fastest growing gang. One of the most dangerous people Mahmud knew of. Mythic, explosive, insane. In Mahmuds world: the more insane, the more power.

Mahmudd never seen the other three dudes before, but they all had the same tattoo as Grhan: Born to Be Hated.

Grhan gesticulated to Daniel: Pull out the gat. The VP took it himself, aimed at Mahmud. Half a yard away. Listen. Its pretty simple. Get the cash and stop dicking around. If you hadnt made a fuckin mess to begin with we wouldnt have to play this game. Capice?

Mahmuds mouth was dry. He tried to respond. Stared at Grhan. Im gonna pay. Sorry I tripped up. Its on me. Heard the tremble in his own voice.

Grhans response: a hard slap with the back of the hand. Exploded in Mahmuds head like a shot going off. But it wasnt a shota thousand times better than a shot. Still: if Grhan flipped out, he was really screwed.

The dudes neck muscles were stretching out the layered texture of the marijuana leaf on his skin. Their eyes met. Locked. Grhan: huge, bigger than Mahmud. And Mahmud was far from a twig. Grhan: infamous psycho-bandit, blood-loving violence addict, gangster Olympian. Grhan: eyebrows more scarred than Mike Tysons. Mahmud thought: If its possible to see someones soul by looking in their eyes, then Grhan doesnt have one.

It was a mistake to say anything. He shouldve lowered his eyes. Groveled for the VP.

Grhan yelled, You cunt. First you fuck up and get collared. Then the five-oh confiscate the goods. We checked the court sentence. You didnt think we were gonna do that, huh? We know there were over ten thousand ampoules missing from what they got. That means you boosted from us. And now, six months later, you start trippin when we want back the dough you owe. What, you gonna play hardball now cause you done time? It was three thousand fucking packs of Winstrol you lifted. No one steals from us. You a slow learner, habibi?

Mahmud, panicked. Didnt know what to say.

In a low voice, Im sorry. Please. Sorry. Im gonna pay.

Grhan impersonated him in a shrill voice: Im sorry, Im sorrystop speaking gaylish, you fucking fairy. You think thats gonna help? Whyd you start messing?

Grhan grabbed hold of the revolver with both hands. Cocked the top break. The bullets fell out, one by one, into his left palm. Mahmud felt his body relax. They could smack him around. Beat him bloody. But without a gatthey probably didnt plan on ending him.

One of the other guys turned to Grhan. Said something curt in Turkish. Mahmud didnt get it: Was the guy giving orders or showing appreciation?

Grhan nodded. Pointed the gun at Mahmud again. Okay, this is the deal. Theres one bullet left in this cylinder. Im gonna be nice to you. Normally, Id just pop you. Right? We cant be tolerating a buncha clowns like you who bitch as soon as things sour. You owe us. A lot. But Im in a good mood tonight. Ill spin, and if youre lucky, its meant to be. You walk.

Grhan held the cylinder up against the pale sky. Clearly visible: five empty chambers and one with a bullet in it. He spun the cylinder. The sound was reminiscent of the wheel spinning on a roulette table. He grinned widely. Aimed at Mahmuds temple. A clicking sound when the hammer was pulled back. Mahmud closed his eyes. Began to whisper the creed again. Panic took over. The flashes of light in front of his eyes returned. His heart was pounding so hard his ears almost popped.