David Mackey was a junkie, there was no two ways about it. At the time, he was just a lowkey Junkie who sold guns to niggas and promptly turned his profit around and snorted it up his nose or shot it in his veins -- Marcus didn't know the specifics, just knew that nigga fucked around with the chemicals. There was a rumor on the streets, a rumor that David Mackey had become known as the CIA Junkie with the way he had dropped the dime on the Johnsons. The hood never kept quiet long and once Blake, Billy Belfast, and just about every other motherfucker associated with Blake was dead and buried, Mackey started talking. He built his cred in Harlem on the basis that he was that nigga that brought the CSK down. Shit, he'd even claimed he took Blake down, too. Wasn't a cat alive that didn't know it was Darius Jones rollin' with the Soundview Disciples that did Blake.
So that left Mackey. The final piece of the puzzle that was Marcus' life. He couldn't fully begin his new life until he did right by his fam, by his brother. David Mackey was responsible for it all, or so he claimed. Regardless, the man should have known to keep the CSK's name out his mouth. Legends never died, afterall. That was what brought Marcus to Manhattan, a quest for revenge. David Mackey wasn't known to keep his mouth shut and just about every nigga in New York City knew where this fool was posted up selling pistols and whatever scraps the Mafia left behind for him. He was a small fish in a pool full of predators, and he was about to get got. To his credit, David had lived far longer than he ever should have.
Marcus was going to do this one personally. He popped the car into a parking spot and hopped out, leaving the engine running. It was night by now so people couldn't get a good look at Marcus as he strolled up to that near abandoned basketball court. David Mackey was posted up on a light post and his eyes went wide when he saw Marcus lifting his piece. He squeezed the trigger, the quiet of the night being filled with 'pop pop pop pop'. Marcus squeezed, and kept squeezing, until the magazine ran dry and all he heard were silent clicks. David Mackey collapsed into a pool of his own blood, shit, and piss. He was dead, and the world wouldn't miss him, best believe that. Marcus quickly hopped back in his car and dipped out while the panic was still fresh. Niggas ain't say shit in the hood, anyway. How the fuck else would this cat be posted up selling merchandise every night?
-The Death of David Mackey, the Junkie Gundealer that was used by Anthony Blake 7 years ago to find the Johnson Brothers and launch the attack on Club Futuristic.