The sign says: Welcome to Oakland like the city itself is our last stop. Yet, after a quick trip to Conoco's 76 on Telegraph Ave––we are back in the USPS cargo truck speeding down the damn near empty streets of the city under a full moon, Justice’s hand now covering mine on her leg. We both stared forward with that dangerously heated calm. Cargo bay door slightly cracked, Ieisha's form just visible in the halogen taillight glow.
Hours in that mail truck rattling up the five, stops that felt like scenes from a John Singleton movie—carnival lights, arguments that tasted like old blood, Chicago’s hand cracking across Ieisha’s face like a starter pistol. We left him on the side of the road somewhere past Sacramento, or thought we did.
Now here we were in the parking lot, the air thick with bay fog like the ghost of Markell, Chicago’s cousin, the one whose name Justice still carried in her chest like a locked drawer.
I watched her from the passenger's side view mirror, her back straight, braids swinging as she unloaded the last of her expo cases from the cargo bay into Jessie’s car trunk. Justice moved like poetry trying to be cold—deliberate, guarded, that black hat pulled low the way she always wore it everyday in Jessie's salon.
My hands still remembered the shape of her waist from the night before, when the truck had felt too small for all the things we weren’t saying. Single father, postal routes, half a rap career, and still I couldn’t stop wanting her. Horny, hopeful, and scared all at once—that’s the only way I know how to be.
Inside the motel room that Jessie had already claimed, Iesha sat on the edge of the bed in a grey worn hoodie, bruises blooming purple across her cheek and collarbone like bad watercolor. Jessie dabbed ice with the same steady hands that shaped heads back in Crenshaw. “Hold still, girl. That fool ain’t worth the concealer,” Jessie muttered. Iesha winced but didn’t cry. She never did.
I stepped out, mailbag slung over my shoulder out of habit, and that’s when the shadow moved.
Chicago came out the side of Jessie’s car like a bad memory that refused to stay buried. He must’ve hitched or jogged the rest of the way—eyes wild, shirt dusty, reeking of road sweat and service clerk piss.
“You black bitch! You plotted the whole thing! Set Markell up!" he growled lunging toward Justice.
She froze.
I flicked my cigarette, the cherry lighting up my postal inspector badge on my waist. I was moving boots eating pavement.
He lunged.
Justice spun fast—tire iron cracked across his jaw with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed across the “EXTENSIONS – DO NOT BEND” box.
Chicago staggered, but came up swinging.
We again grappled there in the motel lot, two postal workers turned gladiators under muted street lights, while Justice watched with those wide brown eyes that had seen too much already.
I got him in a choke, dragged him to the truck’s cargo bay, rope-tied his waist with my messenger bag straps like it was the most natural thing in the world. He spat blood, cursing my name, Markell’s name, my whole bloodline.
“You don’t know what you doing, Lucky. She mine —by grief, cuh.”
“Grief don’t own nobody,” I said, before I drove my knee into his chest, shoved bubble wrap deep between his teeth until he gagged and choked on it. I Paused. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, skin splitting from the clove hitch knot. I leaned in close, like at his ear.
“Square as ne-guh.”
I tucked his 200-pound Black ass into the cargo bay like a sack of priority mail. Hatch slammed. Lock clicked. And the USPS cargo truck interior lights dimmed on him.
Up Next, Lucky Lawrence: (Issue No. 2)
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
I am a semi-retired investigative journalist with an array of pen names, but I am also a film producer writing this fan fiction series issue by issue here on X articles as inspired by John Singleton’s film Poetic Justice, the events in each issue are fan fiction. You are welcomed to follow and share feedback or suggestions via DM @imluckylawrence.
ILLUSTRATOR'S NOTE
An anonymous artist, illustrator and designer from San Francisco is responsible for the art panels and brand assets. The work was completed with the use of an Apple pen and Affinity Designer in 2025-26. His past & present work is available on demand.
