The second week in October will mark the two year anniversary that my best friend Buddy was shot dead in a local nightclub. As I read the 40 word paragraph at the end of my local newspaper about the culprit pleading guilty to my friend's murder, an overwhelming sadness filled my body because his life meant more than that.
When most men who are insecure about whether they like vagina or penis would frown upon this, Buddy was the only guy that I know who would allow me to vent about the harlot of the day that broke my heart. It wasn't in his nature to be a black doctor Phil by any means, but the mere fact that he sat through my "Ok, her vagina suddenly has more room than a mansion and she calls me other names during sex. Does that mean she's cheating?" rants just showed me that he was the best friend a guy could have. His life meant more than the 2 for 1 shoe coupon that was above his article that I read on D3.
When most people would allow someone to waste their talents like DJ Premiere on a Group Home album, Buddy would always call me and ask "When is the last time you wrote a rhyme??" Even years after I had given up my dreams of standing behind a microphone, he would basically blackmail me into writing a decent 16. I still remember him saying, "HC, I'm throwing this party this weekend where there will be a slew of girls with loose morals. The only way you can come is to not only write a rhyme, but battle people every motherfucker there!!" Of course I would do it, because free booze and available vagina's are my kryptonite, but I appreciated his undying love for Hip Hop, and his confidence in my abilities. I'm saying, people wouldn't expect that based on his article that I read, the one right beside some bullshit ship getting decommissioned.
Buddy had a motto that I soon adopted when it came to getting involved in each others physical altercations: "Regardless of the circumstances, when I see you in a scuffle I'm landing some key shots in your honor. If you are in the wrong I'll tell you about yourself later, after we kick that guy's ass!!" Suffice it to say I was wrong a lot, and Buddy saved me from getting my ass handed to me on a few occasions. Those Bikers in North Carolina, those Frat guys in Norfolk, those muscle bound Transvestites in New York.(Don't ask) I really don't think folks will get how loyal he was based a 40 word article on the bottom of a newspaper page.
Hell, I'm no thug, and going to jail and getting my anal security breached keeps me up some nights. But right after he passed I went around town, asked questions, and made threats like I was Shaft's dread-locked illegitimate son to find my friends killer. Even though my arrest sheet is as bare as George W. Bush's military record, I hoped that I would find the bastard who killed Buddy, point a weapon at him, and say some corny catchphrase before I sent him to his maker, possibly going the cool route by quoting Kool G Rap on some "Your begging and your pleases only getting your closer to meeting jesus" shit. It never happened, apparently the guy high tailed it to New York immediately, but my loyalty for my friends surpassed any brief mention of my friend in a Virginia Beach publication.
Shit man, Buddy even came to me in my dream and simply said, "It's not your fault!", the motherfucker is even a pal beyond the grave. See, since the night he died I have had nothing but conflicting feelings to be totally honest. On one hand I wish I was there to protect my friend, maybe if I was in attendance I could have stopped that motherfucker from killing my friend. But on the flip-side I realize that that could have easily been me, and as much as I'm not trying to die yet, I just wouldn't want to do that to my mother. But Buddy reassured me, like always, a level of friendship that you might not understand by reading a snippet of a article in the back of a goddamn newspaper.
Rest in Peace Fletcher Parker III