The Wallet That Killed Tupac

The Wallet That Killed Tupac

A Story by Isaiah Moorehead

A short story that I had fun writing. It was originally for my English class in college and my teacher loved it. The title will make sense once you're finished, I promise!


I’m sure you’ve heard of the late great Tupac Shakur. I mean, who hasn’t. He was arguably the greatest rapper of all time. Unfortunately, his life was cut well too short, as he was gunned down in Las Vegas September 7th, 1996 and died 6 days later at the age of 25 years old. Now, why am telling you all of this information you probably already know? Trust me, I know, I’d be confused too. But bear with me and sit tight, because you don’t know the real story of what truly happened. But I do, and I believe it’s about time I tell my story of what really went down and led to the assassination of Mr. Shakur.

The Wallet That Killed Tupac

“Yo what’s taking so long, man?” said my best friend, Osaze, in a very annoyed tone. He wasn’t the type to keep his impatient outbursts to himself. And I was always the one to tell him to calm down and relax when he brings attention like that.

“I think there’s an old lady in the front of the line,” I answered. “She looks like she can’t find her ticket or something.”

“See, that’s why you should take it out and have it ready before you even get to the station. What is this her first bus trip? Amateur,” said Osaze under his breath. The date was September 6th, ‘96, Osaze and I were getting on a Volt Bus, a bright orange and not so big intercity bus, going from San Bernardino, California to Sloan, Nevada, and making a final stop in Las Vegas. My pal and I were getting off at the Sloan stop to catch a celebrity basketball game. There were about 10 people in total getting on the bus, but we were the last few ones in line because we were in group C (the cheapest group to be in. Group A was more expensive, with the only upside being you got on the bus first and had better seating options.)

“‘Bout time,” said Osaze with relief, as the line started to move again. Then he whispered “Yo man, you smell that?”

“My bad,” I said slightly embarrassed. “I thought it was one of those harmless and non-smelly ones.” I was lying. I had a plate of beans beforehand and was prepared to let it rip all day with no remorse.

“ Ew no, not you. Peep the dudes in front of us,” replied my friend, motioning his hand up and down in front of his nose and making a disgusted face. I leaned forward a bit and sniffed, only to be uppercutted by a stench my nose wasn’t ready to handle.

“Oh yeah, I see what you mean,” I said, copying his hand gesture over my nose as well.  

The men in front of us didn’t seem like the type to have such an odor, you know? They were dressed rather neatly in similar black jackets and dark jeans and black gloves. In fact, the only thing on them with some color was a grey watch one of them had on and brown belts. They were tall men, one with a beard, both dark skin and talking amongst themselves with their ticket in hand. Both carried light luggage. Behind us was another man, who looked around 65 with a raincoat on and a cap.

“How are you young men doing today?” asked the raincoat man. “Headed to Vegas to get your gambling on?” He asked while chuckling. Osaze and I looked at each other first, preparing ourselves for pointless small talk and corny dad jokes.  

“Haha no sir,” I replied with my fakest smile. “We’re going to Sloan to watch the celebrity game. It’s supposed to be a good game and we hope to meet Will Smith while we’re out there.” In my peripheral, I saw Osaze roll his eyes, probably because Will Smith was my favorite entertainer and all I do is talk about him.

“Oh, that’s nice, very nice. I’m going to Vegas to visit old buddies I fought with in Vietnam. We’re gonna go into the city and catch up.”

“Really? You fought in the war?” I asked, slightly interested, as I felt as if I was talking to a piece of history.

“Yes, sir I did. Crazy, crazy times that still haunt me. Hopefully, you’ll never have to experience it, lad.” It seemed like his whole mood changed when he said that. Like he went from cheerful small talk to dead serious. As if he were saying, “this ain’t funny so don’t you dare laugh,” but in a “I seriously mean it,” sort of way.

Osaze and I both talked to the man very briefly about the celebrity game and ended by thanking the Veteran for his service. By now we were almost next in line. The two tall men were walking up the bus steps to give their ticket and take a seat. I observed the two men shortly, watching the way they stepped, spoke and looked around, it was obvious they were from out of town.

The bearded one gave his ticket and proceeded to a seat in the middle of the bus. The other one, before giving his ticket, decided to bend over and tie his shoe. His shoes didn’t look familiar at all. They weren’t Nikes or Jordans or any other popular brand. It sorta made me snicker to myself. However, my thoughts were interrupted once I realized what was in front of my friend and I. Since the man in front of us was at the top of the bus steps and we were behind him a few steps down, his whole butt was pretty much in our face.

“Whoa, come on, man!” We said, simultaneously but quietly, as we slowly leaned back so we wouldn’t be so close. I grabbed the handrail next to me and remained leaned back until the man finished his business. Finally, Osaze and I gave our tickets and headed to the back, since most seats were taken anyway.

“How long do you think it will take to get to Sloan,” Osaze asked the driver.

“About 4 to 5 hours, kid, so get relaxed,” he replied. Then we made our way to sit down.

“Thank God,” I said sitting in my favorite place, the window seat. “These seats are nice and comfortable. I could just go to sleep right now. Wake me up in Sloan.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window, but the engine of the giant vehicle made my position sadly uncomfortable, causing my head to vibrate along with the window.   

“Whatever, Zay,” said Osaze, pulling out a book to read.

I open my eyes and sit up, annoyed with my failed attempt to relax. “I don’t know how you can read while on a bus, man, I would get carsick in a second.”

“You always getting motion sickness, fool, that’s why it’s never any fun getting on roller coasters with you.”

“Yeah sure. I only threw up twice last year on the rides, remember?” I said while looking around on the bus. “Is there a bathroom on this joint, I gotta go. I knew I should’ve never drunk that bottle of water on the way here.” Osaze just raised his eyebrows as if to say “Duh.”

I got up and sure enough, not far behind me was the bathroom. I went in, unloaded my bladder and exited within minutes. I opened the door to leave and get back to my seat, but not before stretching my back and surveying my fellow passengers. I noticed a 20 something-year-old brown skin dude up front, doo rag on, backward cap, and nodding his head to music. He was tattooed all over and had his pants low. All I thought was “these white folk are probably terrified right now” and laughed to myself. The two out of towners were sitting in the middle, about five or six seats in front of Osaze and I, still talking quietly to themselves. Across from them was a middle-aged woman with a lot of luggage, probably more than anyone else on the bus.

Before I could make my way back to my seat, I heard a voice call me over.

“Hey again, young man,” it was the Veteran, motioning me to come over. “Keep me company for a little bit. I still have much to tell you about the war.” I didn’t want to say no the old man, so I sat in the seat next to him, hoping my flatulence will be too much for him to handle. Thus keeping the convo short and sweet. Osaze looked back and saw me. He chuckled and pointed at me, basically saying “a ha ha, that’s what you get.” As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what he was probably saying in his head because I’ve known him since Elementary school and he always does that, point and laugh, when I get caught in a situation like this. I simply made a face at him and listened to old man go on and on. I learned that his name was Tim O’Brien. He apologized for talking about Vietnam and explained that it helped him cope with his painful memories. Once he said that, I felt so much empathy and sorrow for him, and showed more interest in what he was saying, even if I wasn’t really that interested.

“Wait! Wait, don’t go yet!” Yelled a voice from outside. It was a woman and her child running to catch the bus, which was moments from pulling off. “Wait I have a ticket, don’t you dare pull off yet!” The woman entered the bus with her child and thanked the driver about 100 times. From the look of her, you can tell she was poor and probably homeless. The first thing she did when she got on the bus was quietly ask people for any money or spare change. Most people said no or ignored her or used the “I’m sorry I don’t have anything” line. Mr. O’Brien, Osaze, a couple others and I, however, gave the woman a few dollars. And to every person who gave money, she thanked, once again, 100 times. She and her daughter, who was probably around 6 or 7, sat in the middle, behind the 2 out of towners.

Finally, the bus pulled off and we were on our way. I sat with Mr. O’Brien for about 20 minutes listening to his war stories. He told me all about his friends Jimmy Cross and a guy named Sanders. He did get slightly emotional as well when he talked about the death of a soldier named Kiowa. I felt so bad, seeing how such a gruesome event can linger in the minds of veterans for so long and so heavily.   

Once his story was over, we chatted briefly about current events. Then I made my way to my seat.

“How was your time with grandpa?” Asked my friend.

“Shut up, Saz,” I said. “He’s a cool dude, and his story is pretty rough.”

The ride, for the most part, was pretty smooth and calm. I didn’t get much sleep because of the constant bumps the bus hit, but Osaze definitely did, snoring here and there, until I had to nudge him to stop. We were approaching Sloan Station when the bus hit a hard bump and jolted violently. No one was hurt and the bus never stopped or anything, but people’s luggage went all over the place, sliding and falling on top of other people stuff. Most of the luggage mess came from the bags that were placed on the ceiling shelf and fell to the ground. For a few seconds, passengers were standing up and retrieving their stuff, making sure they do not grab the wrong possessions. And this is when everything began to happen...

“Hey that’s mine!” yelled an older woman to the homeless lady, who seemed to be “looking for her things” rather carefully, considering the fact she came on the bus empty handed. “You didn’t even have any bags, dirtball! Get away from my stuff!” The homeless mother sat down quickly and looked out of the window, slightly embarrassed.

Osaze and I didn’t have much with us, so we sat and watched people gather their things. What caught my eye, however, was the two men from the line. The two out of towners. They seemed bothered, still talking to each other with concerning looks.

“What do you mean it’s not in your pocket?” said one of the men loud enough for some of the bus to hear. At this time, passengers were settling down and the bus was about a mile from Sloan Station. Before you know it, the out of towner with the beard, pulled out a pistol and shot it once in the air. Everyone shouted. I was so scared I couldn’t tell if I let out a fart or a little more, but all I knew was, I didn’t care at the moment.

“Driver!” He screamed. “Do not stop at the next station. Continue to drive.” He then went to the front of the bus. “One of you stole my wallet which was in my jacket pocket and no one is getting off until I get it back!” He shot another bullet in the air. “My partner and I do not want to hurt anyone, so whoever has it please step forward...or else.”

“Look man just be easy,” begged the brown skin man up front with the door rag. “Maybe it fell on the floor during the chaos.” It was hard to tell if he was scared or not. However, if he was, and they gave out money to people who hid their fear well, he would be filthy rich.  

“Already checked,” said the gunman strictly. “Now, unless you have the wallet, NOBODY SPEAK, or I’ll blow your head off. It is very, VERY important that we have that wallet, for what’s in it is life changing!” The bus was extremely silent, with light cries from the terrified passengers. The driver passed Sloan Station like he was told and continued to drive calmly and steadily.“Ok so, this is how it’s gonna go. I’m going to tell you all who I believe may have taken it. And my partner and I will thoroughly search you. Starting with you.” He demanded, pointing at the poor and less fortunate mother and daughter.

“No please!” Cried the mother, putting her arms around her child. “Don’t hurt my baby! We have nothing of yours, I promise!”

“You better not,” he said “Search ‘em, Donny”

“Sure thing, Anders” replied his partner. Donny had a pistol of his own and forcibly searched the family like he was told. Anders had a look. A look on his face like he didn’t care about life at all, whether his own or anyone else’s. He looked as if he’ll seriously blow someone's head off if they stepped forward and said they had the wallet or lied about not having it. Osaze and I looked at each other, shaking, and I noticed tears filling up in his eyes.

“They’re clean,” Donny said, walking down the aisle, looking everyone dead in the eye.

“Ok my next suspicion is this thug right here,” said Anders, pointing the gun at the doo-rag man up front.

“Aye, man, get that out of my face, I don’t got nothing. I ain’t a thug either!” he said with confidence. Osaze and I simply stared at each other with a surprised look that said: “Bruh, this negro got balls!”

“Get tough again and that’ll be the last thing you ever do,” said Anders, now cocking the gun and placing it on the doo-rag man’s forehead, obviously not bluffing. “Now are you gonna let my partner search you while you’re alive or does he have to do it while your body lays lifeless?”

The man agreed to let Donny search him. Donny was extra rough and handsy since the man was causing him and his partner trouble. “Stop feeling on my butt!” the man repeatedly kept saying.

“Clean,” said Donny.

“Told you!” Yelled the doo-rag man, directly looking at Anders, obviously trying to call his bluff. Anders looked at him calmly, smiled, and fired a shot into the man’s right arm.

“Go ahead, tell me again,” said the heartless Anders with a smirk. The doo-rag man held his arm and groaned loudly, but never screamed or showed fear.  After the screams from other passengers came to a silence, Anders said “anyone else want to act big and bad? No? Ok good” He walked slowly down the aisle. With each person he passed, a shiver went down their spine, as terror filled the bus.

“Next on my list is you, my man,” he said, pointing directly at yours truly. I have never been so scared in my life. I heard Mr. O’Brien in the back begging that he’d spare me. “Shut up old man, or you’re next to catch a hot one. Now back to you kid,” making deadly eye contact with me, “you’ve been eyeing me and my partner this whole time. Do you have something that belongs to us? Or maybe your friend here does,” referring to Osaze, who at this point had tears flowing.

“No, please” I begged. “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.” Just as Donny made his way over to me, the bus hit yet another hard bump, slightly harder than the last one. The bump made Anders pull the trigger, just missing my head and shattering the window next to me. As the passengers screamed and Anders stumbled, I thought quickly, quicker than I ever had in my life. I smacked the gun directly down and out of his hands. It landed on Osaze’s lap, and I grabbed it like it was the last slice of pizza and I hadn’t eaten all week. Without even thinking, I picked up the gun and aimed it at Anders. Donny had fallen from the hard bump and got up rather slowly. He looked at the current situation of Anders and I and began to raise his gun. But before he could fire at me, I had already aimed it at him and fired a shot into his chest. He dropped instantly and adrenaline took over my body, being that I never shot a gun before, until now. Anders, seeing how the tables had turned, stared at me from about 5 feet away with his eyes wide, and a gun aimed at his forehead. However, when I looked at him, it seemed like he already had no soul, like he was begging me to do it, accepting his fate. In a flash he sprinted forward and fear pulled the trigger for me, putting a bullet in the brain of Anders. Right after the shot was fired, I dropped the gun and rubbed my wrist, since the gun had a mean kickback.

The bus came to an abrupt stop when the driver realized the bad guys were dead. I believe we were about 8 miles from the Las Vegas stop. Passengers were traumatized as they exited the bus, and a few even thanked me. I tried my hardest to look brave and heroic, like Will Smith after his shootout in Bad Boys. Although, the brown stain in my draws reminded of how terrified I truly was.

“Now that’s what I call a sharpshooter,” said Mr. O’Brien, winking at me as he exited the bus.

“I’m telling ya mother on you,” said Osaze, still shaking but overtly relieved.

“And I’m telling everybody you was crying like a little girl,” I said laughing but shaking as well. Eventually, the police cars and ambulance trucks came and took care of the bodies. I was almost sure I was gonna get twenty-five to life, you know, being that I’m black and all, and I pleaded to the cops that I was defending myself. Luckily, the cops were already caught up on the story told by the bus driver and I was not in trouble. All the passengers were transported to the next stop in Las Vegas. Osaze and I missed the celebrity game, but we didn’t care because after what we went through, a game was the last thing on our mind.

Now I know, you’re probably wondering, why was the wallet so important and where did it end up being? Well, remember when Osaze and I were getting on the bus and the man bent over to tie his shoe? When I leaned back to grab the handrail, what object did I see hanging out of the man’s jacket pocket? Nothing other than a wallet with hundred dollar bills sticking out. So, ever so covertly, I used my amazing stealth skills (I don’t mean to brag but what can I say) and took the wallet and put it right into my backpack. Now obviously, I would have never done it if I knew what was gonna end up happening. It seems odd to hold up an entire bus over a few hundred dollars, doesn’t it? Which is exactly what I was thinking, too. But you won’t believe what was inside the wallet behind the money. There was a letter in there, a rather short letter. And on it read:


Dear Tupac Shakur,

You must read this carefully and do as it says


Instead, go to 460 West St George Ave for an important meeting


You’ll thank us later


The Men In Black

© 2018 Isaiah Moorehead

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Added on January 13, 2018
Last Updated on July 15, 2018


Isaiah Moorehead
Isaiah Moorehead


Hi, I'm Isaiah. I love to read suspense books and write short suspense stories. Please feel free to tell me what you think about them. I'm hoping to get more publicity and gain a larger audience. more..