Beads of sweat glistened P. K's forehead, a testament of his steamy session with his best friend's girlfriend. His breathing had became heavy and short, it wasn't in sync, at the exact moment the cubicle's door was pushed open, he began to experience a severe case of tachycardia—which was caused by his short-lived lust and gradually-brewing shame, guilt and trepidation.

How fast the table can turn; not so long ago, he'd caught Tariq red-handed and now, he's all covered in that same shameful red paint. He was so shock that his hands were frozen around Cindy's waist.

Cindy on the other hand didn't seemed to be surprised, she still had her trademark hot-bitches demeanor on, like what they were doing was part of a cleansing ritual, like it's all in Tariq's mind—like it's normal for both of them to be curious about how eachother's lips taste.

With a hunched posture, PK released his grip around Cindy's waist, putting his sweaty black hands back into his pant's pocket. He couldn't even look up at Tariq, who was still dumbfounded by what he had just witnessed.

"T. . . bone." He began with a slight stutter. He tried to say another word but just couldn't find the right explanation, unlike Tariq, he wasn't an expert liar.

Cindy giggled gleefully, "and we meet again, Tariq." She whispered in coquettish manner, tapping him on his shoulder.

Tariq gave her a once-over. "What the. . . not the bathroom cubicle, that's debasing. Even for y'all." He finally said something, after minutes of standing in silence and shock.

"It's not what you think—" PK tried to explain but was interrupted by Cindy's raised finger.

She cleared her throat, "couples are poly nowadays, y'know that. Greek gods are." Unfazed, she explained with inexplicable calmness.

Tariq's gasped, his eye brow popping up. "So, you mean to tell me that Saint knows you're hooking up with Patrick?" He leaned on the door, inching closer to Cindy, "tell me—huh, he knows y'all are poly?" He pressed.

Cindy sucked her teeth and pushed Tariq out of the way. "We did nothing bad. . ." she stepped out of the stuffy bathroom, "besides, me and Saint ain't married. So just drop it!" She snapped, storming out of the restroom, her anger was palpable. As much as she tried to suppress her emotions, her anger came seeping out—or maybe it was just guilt.

"Mah broda from anoda mother, right?" Tariq gave PK a brotherly tap on his shoulder and PK flinched slightly. "Look at you, all calm and collected like a deer in front of a headlight," he added, giving him a sharp slap on his shoulder again—this time it was hard.

PK pressed his lips into a thin line, took a deep breath and then looked up at Tariq. "So, what if you caught me kissing Cindy? It's not as if Saint will believe a word you tell him."

"Oh man," with a dramatic gasp that echoed through the restroom, Tariq clutched his chest and staggered backwards, "you don't know how good I am when it comes to the defamation of my nemesis." He said with a sly grin.

"Man"—PK removed his hand from his pockets, running them across his hair concurrently—"can't you keep your fellow brother's secret. . . we black dudes, we've gotta watch out for one of our own, right?"

That ignited a spark inside Tariq—an angry spark. He couldn't believe Patrick Kwame; someone who made hating him his life's mission was regarding him as one of his own, because they're both black. Tariq might be a liar but he isn't clueless, he knows PK didn't fancy him one bit—he could even notice whenever PK's deathful glares lingered on him—now he was talking about how they're supposed to have eachother's back because they both happened to have melanin-packed skin.

Tariq gave out a dismissive scoff, "so now you know we both African-American, huh?" He inquired and PK shrugged. "It's a pity Nigerian and Ghanaian don't get along so well."

"Oh, save me the lecture Mufti Tariq. With your all high-and-mighty bullshit, it takes a liar to know another. As if you've not been living a lie ever since Cole invited you to hang out with us. You act as though you're squeaky clean, we all have secrets you know?"

Tariq's head tilted slightly as his fingertip draped on his lips. "I've got no secrets boy, my father works in the University of Wyoming, and I'm here as a punishment, it's the truth, you should try it someday." He said the truth for the first time, and the feeling of guilt that ate him up relieved him a little bit.

His father indeed worked at the University, and he was working at the pizzeria as a punishment—a punishment he'd reckoned upon himself, for living an expensively delusional life.

"Y'know what fucker? Do as you wish. I'm done here." PK said, giving Tariq one last deathful glare before walking towards the door.

"Tell Saint I said hi, and don't forget to wipe off that black lipstick stain on your neck." Tariq teased, chuckling at his own wit.

PK raised his middle finger in the air as he exited the restroom.

"The feeling is mutual broda." Tariq retorted, chuckling even more.

At that fleeting moment, he knew his lie was safe for now. There was no chance in hell PK would tell the others about him working at Marcello Pizza Place when he also was sucking Saint's girlfriend's face in said pizzeria's restroom. The only thing left for the both of them was to tolerate one another, till they eventually finish highschool—it'll be a win-win situation. No secrets revealed.

$ $ $

In other to invoke his ancestor's spirit from the realm of the dead, PK didn't need any spiritual rites, nor did he need some sort of blood ritual or whatnot, all he needed to do was exactly what he was doing: constantly pacing from one corner of his room to another to another—speaking to himself like a lunatic—soliloquizing like a virgin in love. His loud footsteps pounding on his room's floorboard was enough to do the trick.

Patrick Kwame was no murderer—in fact he thinks the TV show; How to Get Away With Murder is for deranged fellow who plans to kill someone in the nearest future—but lately, one certain Nigerian boy have been making him question that fact—making him more fascinated about true crime podcasts. Making him question facts like; if killing one pathological liar (Tariq) would actually save Earth from global warming.

Every smirk, every sly grin, every smoulder he got from Tariq—every wee bit of his lies made PK want to strangle Tariq till he eventually joins the invisible choir in heaven—or probably hell, he didn't care, all he wanted was to get rid of him. All he wanted was to kill the Nigerian Prince.

Getting rid of someone who has a running mouth as Tariq can be hard, so he needed an accomplice who hated Tariq as he did. That was why he have been spamming Saint's phone with messages, voicemails and phonecalls, which Saint haven't responded to. His trepidation only multiplied due to Saint's silence, he could feel it deep inside his stomach that Saint already knew he was hooking up with Cindy.

"Fuck! I'm so gonna kill Tariq." He whisper-yelled, almost punching the wall. "Pick up, reply my message, just fucking do something bro." He ranted, running his hand over his hair. "Hey man. . . can we talk? Call me or just send a message." He sent another voice message again. "Fuck!" He yelled, flinging his phone at the wall. He perched on his bed in a boneless manner.

The silence was eating him up, consuming him. He couldn't understand why he was the only one suffering from such guilt. Cindy just seemed to be chill about everything. She haven't called or at least even tried to form a united font with him to get rid of Tariq—maybe some people don't have murder on their mind these days. PK knew they had a plan, but he was sick and tired of waiting, he just couldn't stand Tariq anymore—his confidence, his regardless attitude, his all-high-and-mightiness—all of it.

"Pat, dinner's ready." Naomi, PK's sister's voice jolted him out of the psychotic reverie he was in.

"I'll be downstairs, in a minute." PK said, sitting up on his bed as he rearranged his squeezed cloth.

Naomi raised an eyebrow, "why are you acting weird?" PK was about to answer before his sister cut him short, "—I don't care anyways, you're always weird. Just so you know, we heard all your yelling—you're not killing nobody—Jeffery Dahmer."

PK frowned even more, "can you please leave?"

Naomi shrugged, scoffing. "I don't wanna see your insufferable face anyways, loser." She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Get the fuck out, Naomi!" P. K yelled.

"Ohh ohh, he's getting mad. Lord knows what he'll do to me now," Naomi teased further as she walked towards PK's smashed phone. "You broke your phone. . . weird." She added after taking a look at the phone on the floor.

"I won't repeat myself again, bitch!" With pronounced veins, PK jumped out of his bed and stood face-to-face with his sister.

Naomi also leaned in, pouting at PK's face. "Do your worst, dick-head!" Unfazed, she uttered with courage burning inside her eyes. She glared into her brother's vexed eyes. Her fist was already clenched tightly, like a vixen ready for a brawl.

"Y'all better not start another wrestling match today, get your asses down here!" Their mother's voice cut the intense air in the room.

"You're a weirdo, just so you know." With that finishing touch, Naomi surrendered and she majestically walked out of P. K's room.

"Fucking bitch." He repeated as he picked his phone from the floor.