Who Am I?… The Excerpt
27 May

Who Am I?… The Excerpt .

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Have A Sneek-Peek Before You Download or Buy…

Who Am I? The Chronicles of Cain

A word or two beforehand…Note that this book will have your head spinning in circles if you can decode the many hidden messages within. As the author of this work. I really enjoyed writing this book, and when I tell you (the readers) that this book is more than a novel; it really is. It’s an adventure that will take you to places where most will never dare to go.

Who Am I? Will be one of the most unique books you have ever read. Even within this chapter there is more than meets the eye… If you like to read more than just your everyday run-of-the-mill urban fiction novel, this book is it.Yes, the topic is familiar but the way the story is told, and the angles that are measured out have remained untouched that I can assure you.

Next, you may be asking yourself,  If this book is so good then why haven’t I heard about it sooner?  It’s because you don’t know who I am. But when you are finished reading my novel, the name; Dion E Cheese will be one you remember.

Enough said. Ciao bitches!

Not the original format…

Everyone from here to Toledo claims to love their momma

But they still fuck with me knowing I bring the drama . . . Cain


Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm clock sounded off, awakening sixty-five- year-old Kindra Heralds from a pleasant sleep. Showing the time to be about 6:15 am, the alarm clock continued to ring, but she did not move. Instead of getting up, she lay lifelessly in her bed, allowing it to ring for another minute or so, knowing that it would automatically stop on its own. Having her head resting on a soft pillow, she began stretching her arms and legs a little before finally turning her head to the right. Looking across her bedroom through her window, she watched outside as the sun’s radiance began permeating the partially darkened skies of early spring. From her years of amassed knowledge built upon her intricate wisdom and experience of growing up on a farm in Birmingham, Alabama, she could easily tell that this particular day would be most pleasant. Already, she could discern that today’s temperature would be well above the low sixties because no morning frost covered her window. Ms. Heralds, even though she was in the early part of the sixth decade of her life, had been virtually healthy overall having no major health issues. As an attractive elderly woman, she was extremely pleasant to look upon. She gathered her thoughts while lying inside her bedroom with her full bloom of shoulder-length hair. Natural hair that was as straight as an arrow with its silken texture and shiny luster draping upon the mattress underneath her. Her comely face framed her soft features which still remained mostly wrinkled free except for a few small fine lines that ran across her forehead and along the corners of her mouth that were barely visible to the naked eye. Her beautiful brown skin, which often reminded everyone of the shade of almonds, covering her entire frame had otherwise been ageless and blemish free. She also possessed a bright

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warm smile that spoke volumes about her saying, “I maybe a mother and all that . . . , but I am still a beautifully aged queen.” Her eyes alone spoke of tenderness and compassion, qualities which she had shown toward many others throughout the years in addition to being well renowned for having an open heart that stood as an open testimonial for those who knew her. Many people throughout her neighborhood spoke favorably about her to others describing her as “the pleasant elderly woman who lived across the street.” Gently, she covered her mouth while yawning a bit just before she rose up from under the covers getting out of her bed wearing cozy pajamas. Looking up, she said a quiet morning prayer. “Thank you, Lord, for yet another wonderful day,” she said just before walking her light frame across the carpeted floor enjoying the lush feel of the plush fibrous material between her toes as she ventured toward her vanity mirror where she picked up her silk robe and slipped on a pair of house shoes. Putting on her robe, she began tying the garment’s loose hanging belt around her small slender waist. Afterward, she walked inside her adjoining bathroom to freshen up before heading downstairs out the front door and back inside her house. Down below inside her kitchen, she fixed herself a hot steaming cup of hazelnut-flavored coffee. Having poured the rich-flavored drink into her cup, she headed toward her kitchen table having the cup and a small saucer plate within her hands. She sat the cup upon the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down facing the window which gave her a beautiful view of her lovely backyard. Sitting there at the table, she reached out and grabbed a bottle of caramel-flavored nondairy creamer Coffee-mate and a little Truvia, an herbal sugar substitute which she added to her morning drink. Next, she picked up the cover off of a solid glass cake dish and removed one of the old-fashioned doughnuts, one of her favorites. Dipping it into her coffee, she began eating it. On the table before her was a copy of the morning paper, The Chicago Tribune. Picking it up, she began reading the paper immediately but only after she opened up the crime section first and foremost. Throughout the years as of late, she always found herself reading the crime section first. Ever since her son Mitch disappeared

Who Am I?


without a trace, she’d often found herself worrying constantly about her eldest son Big Richard as she would always call him. She made a habit of calling him that after the birth of her grandson about seven years ago in order to distinguish the two. But he shortened the name so that it would be more reflective of the money he was making and the street moniker stuck. Even though his son had died a few years back after he and his mother Lois Banks were in a fatal car crash when an eighteen-wheeler swerved in the snow along the Dan Ryan Expressway. The commercial vehicle had been loaded with slightly over fifty thousand pounds of office furniture when it hit a patch of snow during an ice storm as Lois and little Richard rode alongside it. The truck jackknifed when the driver suddenly hit the brakes trying not to rear end another vehicle that the operator thereof also unexpectedly hit the brakes after sliding over a black patch of ice. Lois had been unaware of what transpired between the two vehicles at the time as she was talking on her cell phone to her sister Kimberly when the phone suddenly went silent. “Sis . . . sis!” she had called into the phone over and over again only to look up at the television set in her house that played the morning news showing a sky-view picture of the accident from a helicopter live news cam. Several minutes later she saw a close-up of the vehicles involved which left her screaming when she realized that both her sister and nephew had been completely crushed during the fatal accident. The only good news that came out of the incident was that both Lois and little Richard were both instantly killed. Neither suffered any severe pain before dying. What happened then almost caused Kindra to have a nervous breakdown, and ever since the accident the closest person to Big Rich had been Mitch. Within her house, Kindra sat at her kitchen table, recalling her many talks with her only two children on the face of this earth. Constantly, she remembered telling them both on numerous occasions to “stay away from those streets.” As a rebuttal to her words of wisdom, they’d always sing the same old song telling her, “Momma, we’ve got this. Ain’t nothin’ ever gon’ happen to you or us. We be out there workin’ with Cain, and ain’t nobody crazy enough to cross him or us.” After hearing their same old reply again and again, Kindra gave up

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trying to persuade them both to give up on what she termed as “The Life” seeing that neither one of them would listen to her sound advice. Nonetheless, she made them promise to swear to her saying, “Now listen to me. I already know how stubborn and hardheaded the two of you are. You’re just like your daddy used to be . . . , out there loving them streets. Those loose women, the drinking and partying. But the least thing you two can do for your momma is to promise me that the two of you will stop by this house you both bought me at least once a week.” The house she lived in had cost them well over a quarter million dollars and was located somewhere nearby the Country Club Hills on the South Side of Chicago. Despite her acquisitioning of her house through Cain’s and Butters’s involvement with her two sons, she still considered herself to be blessed to live at her present location away from the violence and other hardships of the inner city. But as a loving mother, she couldn’t help finding herself being concerned about the whereabouts of her only living son knowing the fact he worked with Cain. Sitting quietly at her kitchen table reading her morning newspaper she retrieved moments earlier from off her front lawn she couldn’t help but wonder what or where that terrible, awful smell had been coming from. It had seemed as though it appeared out of nowhere. Only moments ago, she had smelled the fresh scents of spring drifting throughout her cozy home. But now—? The smell she smelt throughout her house stank so bad that it began to make her stomach feel nauseated. Although slightly familiar, the smell reminded her of a fatty pork smell mixed in with a sweet, acrid charcoal aroma. The smell certainly was not pleasant in any manner whatsoever, not in any shape, form, or fashion. It was quite unlike anything she’d ever known. In fact it became so strong that she could almost taste it. She began to gag as her tongue forced itself against the hard pallet of her mouth as an attempt to block off her gullet. No longer could she eat as the horrible smell infiltrated the confines of her house. Setting down the uneaten portion of her doughnut on the saucer which sat before her, she slid back her chair in an abrupt manner, stood up, and walked away from her kitchen table wondering, WTF! Is that terrible smell?

Who Am I?


Curiously, she walked toward the direction of the smell. Passing through her living room, the horrible odor became stronger and stronger as she approached her front door. Grabbing the brass handle on the door, she pressed the lever downward and opened it. Her pupils dilated as her eyes widened in fear as she saw her only son’s bodily remains burning within the midst of her front lawn. The sight of her son’s corpse burning in her neatly kept yard had been too vile and terrible as to make her scream. For some odd reason, not a horrid sound escaped from her mouth. Standing on her front porch, Ms. Heralds stood stonelike being in complete shock. Her startled mind became locked in a matrix of horror and fear as the raging fire continued to burn and melt away the flesh on Big Rich’s face making him look like some hideous, despicable, grotesque genre in the making thereof. Watching her son’s corpse burn like a burnt pot roast skewering in the oven being cooked by a terrible chef, Ms. Heralds’s body began to shake uncontrollably as her mind began processing the raw fact that it was her only living son who burned before her very eyes. She knew foul play had been involved just like her son Mitch’s death had occurred even though neither the police nor anyone else ever discovered his body. She knew inside her heart that somehow he had been killed and often wondered if Cain had been involved. When it came to Cain and his lifestyle, which she hadn’t known much about, she knew from her gut instinct that it was best to not ask questions about him. Every time she read the morning paper, she would read something about his name. And yet while others went to jail, he always got away unscathed. In the morning papers she read, the same questions always remained time and time again, “Who was he?” “Where did he come from?” “How much was he worth in the street market places?” And so forth as if he were some hot commodity worth billions of dollars in some illegal industry of some sort. Each time a new article was printed about him, more and more questions would arise such as, “And how much weight was he holding?” “Who else was he involved with?” From her estimates according to what she read she thought that he must be richer than Bill Gates . . . ? And if so, what did he want with my sons?

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Why bother with them or the poor street kids of Chicago? Shouldn’t he be hanging out working with all those rich people in Beverly Hills? Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, or them other rich people who are always getting into trouble? Looking at her son, her heart became laden with a heavy sadness that only a mother could describe. And although she wanted to turn away from the horrible sight before her, she couldn’t. My Richard Henry Herald, Jr., is dead! her mind screamed out over and over again. Having left opened her front door behind her, someone quietly stepped in the back of her small framed figure. The strange individual had been wearing all black. The individual had been someone she had not known. Neither had the intruder covered his face, for he was just passing through. He only stopped by to pay her a brief visit and deliver a message from someone else she knew very well. Standing inches behind her, he reached out and tapped her upon her shoulder. Feeling the cold touch of his body against her back caused her to freeze up. Frightening chills quickly traveled up her spine. Despite being scared to death, Ms. Heralds slowly turned around to see the individual who stood behind her. The one who’s touch felt as cold as ice. It was a touch that didn’t feel quite human. Nevertheless, curiosity had overcome her fears, and she faced the stranger standing behind her although he hadn’t said a word to her. Yet she desperately felt that she had to know who this intruder was trespassing through her property uninvited. When she faced him, he spoke. “Hello, ma’am. My name is—” said the stranger. Oddly to her, the voice didn’t fit the character who talked. The person who pointed himself directly in front of her face sounded very educated, nerdy in a sense. Even his voice was whiny of sorts. While looking at him, her mind reeled backward in time. Although the stranger introduced himself, he needn’t bother, she thought. The stranger had wasted his time with the formalities, for she already knew of him. Heard his name whispered among her sons while they conversed with one another in the past within her presence thinking she had fallen asleep on the couch one afternoon while watching the soaps on the OWN network on cable TV.

Who Am I?


Although she never met him in the flesh, seeing him shoved up in her face the way they were positioned by one another refreshed her memory. Desperately she tried to speak. But fear now consumed every inch of her body like a deadly virus replicating itself on a good day. After a few seconds passed, she reached deep down inside her aged soul and found the courage to finally speak. “I . . . I . . . I,” she stuttered. “I’ve, hear-heard,” she gulped down hard. She then spoke in a whisper that was barely audible saying, “of you,” finishing her sentence. “I know that you have. I know that you have. Everyone knows me in one way or the other,” said the stranger in his uncanny, whiny type voice. “I’ve only been sent here to deliver you a message for someone else.” Who? she thought, but she never received an answer. Pffft! Pffft! were the last two sounds she ever heard as two bullets quietly exited from the barrel . . . of the intruder who violated her personal space. They were the last things she ever saw as the projectiles slammed into her skull piercing the frontal lobe of her brain, causing major hemorrhaging along with massive damage to the back of her skull, sending her into a catatonic state forevermore. On her forehead were two small-sized holes, yet the combination of the two bullets exiting through the back of her skull left a gargantuan orange-sized hole where the parietal bone pallet should’ve been. The heavy force from the bullets reeled her petite, 130-pound frame backward. She fell off her cement porch, down the stairs just before her body slumped to the ground like a lifeless heap. Lying on her back in the coolness of dawn darkness consumed her completely covering her like a warm blanket. Instantaneously, her entire world faded to black. Seeing her dead like her son, the silent killer casually walked over to her lifeless corpse and dropped a note. He stealthily disappeared as quietly as he had come. Roscoe “Baretta” James never stayed in one place too long, for he had a lot of killing to do. He left the scene of the crime, feeling no remorse whatsoever. In fact he loved killing, and he did it well. He strongly felt

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that he was created to kill. It was in his genes from the making, and simply put, he needed no excuse to kill. As a matter of record, he left the scene thinking, Hell, I was made this way.

The Trailer…

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