Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  “I want a business space here in the tower, two talented tailors, a sewing room with top-of-the-line equipment. Fine fabrics, ten drawing pads, thread, and all sewing supplies. I want a music system in my design room. I want to be the only one who has codes or keys to my business space. I want to change the code on our bedroom space, and you and I will be the only two who know the code in here. I want my own secretary. I want to develop a partnership with you where my designs can be sold wholesale and retail, maybe in your spa building, but in other places as well. I’d even like to design an incredibly better garment for the nuns at the convent and the people who they believe they are rescuing. Because that’s business too.”

  “Is that it?” he asked, as though my requests were not troublesome.

  “Should I continue?” I asked and licked his balls immediately afterwards.

  “Please continue,” he said, but I knew he was not meaning with my list of wants but with satisfying his wants. His joint was poking me in the eye. So I licked and sucked some to build up the tension. Then I stopped to torment.

  “For your nightclub, I think I would make a great promoter. I could bring in talent and stylize each night to draw the right crowd to match the music.” I began sucking again.

  “Stylize,” was all he said and I could barely even hear that. He was in the sex zone.

  “Yes, like the music the night me and my friends went was not the kind of music line up that I crave to hear. So if we have pop night, hip-hop night, R&B and soul night, rock night, jazz night, throwback night—you know, like that—then the crowd would come based on their favorite kind of music and performers.”

  “What about my mascot, the DJ. Did you like him?”

  “I like only you,” I told him, then took the last powerful pull. I’m no amateur and I wasn’t ever going to be saying I like some next nigga when I’m with another nigga. Real bitches know better. That shit backfires.

  After he busted, he said, “You’ve never been inside my nightclub. How can you be sure about being a promoter there without having seen it?”

  “Well, let’s go see it,” I said.

  “Today we will go walking throughout the landscape of my labyrinth, as your friend calls it. We will choose the best space for your fashion design business. However, allow me to caution you and give you a choice. This way we both live without regret,” he said, sounding way too serious. “I don’t normally mix business and pleasure. Same as I never mix sex and negotiation.” He smiled. “I find myself at a disadvantage, a position I normally never willingly place myself in.” He kissed my forehead. “But let’s say this tigress has captured me and held me locked between her jaws and I like it…” He was caressing me. “There still has to be rules that we stand by.”

  He was over me now. I was lying beneath him. “Number one.” He penetrated me. It felt good. “I’ll allow you to be a tiger, roam freely around my territory, like no other beast does in the penthouse. But you must be only my tiger. Pledge allegiance to my dick.” He pushed in once more, then pulled out. He was teasing me with a very-too-slow stroking. “Number two, I will allow you to be the only one to know the security codes to your new space and to change the code here to my master domain, only for you and I to know. Number three, I will provide you with the inventory for your textile business and introduce you slowly”—he pushed in and grinded for a bit—“to buyers and retail markets I currently either control or access.” He pulled out. I had already cum. “However, my nightclub, I have decided, is off limits to you. You can tell me your promotion ideas and suggestions. If they are good, I will use them gratis,” he said.

  “Gratis?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a gift from you to me. An enticement for me to agree to all else. And number four, you will only own and control and profit from your fashion business. Everything else that I already have belongs only to me. Number five—”

  “Is there more?” I laughed to lighten up the mood.

  “Yes, it’s always better to do things in groups of six,” he said strangely. “Complete confidentiality in all of our affairs, personal and business. You will not discuss with anyone except me what we do or how we do it, or about our business techniques, contacts, and associates.”

  “But what about my secretary?” I asked softly.

  “Good you brought it up now. After the negotiation, after we are agreed on all the terms, you cannot bring up anything outside of what we agreed.”

  “Is that number six, the last rule?” I asked.

  “No, that’s standard business practice. Once our contract is executed, it’s locked in place unless we both decide it’s in our mutual interest to reopen.” He looked at me.

  “That’s fine with me. So I get to have my secretary?”

  “Yes, we will form a three-way confidentiality agreement. She will have to be someone who is bonded to all of the terms of our agreement with the exception of ownership and profits. She will receive a salary and benefits.”

  “Okay, number six—let’s hear it.”

  “Number six, anything you deny me, I will supplement, bargain for elsewhere,” he said, sounding like he knew this placed him at an even greater advantage.

  “That again. That’s personal, not business. You’re talking about bringing in other bitches to fuck in the ass?” I got tight.

  “That’s way too specific.” He laughed. “When I say ‘anything you deny me,’ I will supplement, it means anything.” He sat up. His eyes looked completely alert. He was excited by clause six, I could tell. I was thinking. I needed to turn it in my favor at least a little.

  “You may supplement. But you cannot bring any other bitches into this tower. I am queen of the Light House. You fuck those bitches in the ass in the streets. Or somewhere where I don’t have to see it. And make sure that they don’t ever misunderstand that they are ass and that’s it.” I had on a stern expression. He smiled.

  “So you agree to rule six?” he asked me again.

  “Yes, if you follow my attachment word for word exactly,” I demanded.

  “Exactly, word for word, our six rules. Deal!”

  “Yes, plus don’t forget my two tailors. Deal!” I said, and leaped with excitement.

  24.

  Someone was tapping on the steel doors to our master bedroom with what sounded like a sharp object. I nudged him awake. He jumped up like a person accustomed to responding to surprises and emergencies. He threw on his black silk robe and stepped to the door. I though his penthouse needed security screens in each room so that we could always see who was standing on the other side. It’s fine to have a security room with cameras, but a camera in each room would be more convenient and up to date. Then I thought twice. Maybe, because we are dead humans and have no reflection in the mirror, we also have no on-camera presence? But I wasn’t sure.

  He pressed the button to draw open the door, unfazed about any enemy possibility.

  “Have you changed your password?” Olga asked, without any polite morning greetings.

  I pulled back my blanket and walked naked to reach for my baby-blue silk robe. I needed her to see me, a permanent feature. I put it on and struck a pose. Then I walked back and sat on the bed where she had no choice but to see me as she spoke to him.

  “Yes, it’s changed.”

  “What is it? So I can update my mental,” she asked.

  “We will meet in the penthouse office moving forward,” he said. Inside of myself I was cheering. That’s right! Let that bitch know.

  “What time? You’ve been so busy. I haven’t even given you all of the new codes since the security breach yesterday,” Olga warned. He looked back at me. By the time he did, I had on my innocent expression and remained seated quietly.

  “A family fool throwing a poorly planned tantrum is not called ‘a security breach.’ But it’s good that you changed the codes. I’ll get dressed and meet you shortly in the office,” he told her, and reached for the button to draw the steel doors closed.

  She said swiftl
y, “Your son is disappointed at the changes.” Then she looked my way. “And this time I think he’s right. He has a point. Oh, and I scheduled the three ladies’ nightclub visit for tonight as per usual,” Olga said.

  “Cancel it. She won’t be going to the nightclub at all,” he responded solemnly.

  “And her friends?” Olga asked.

  “You can take the one who’s rooming with you. The other has been hired as a secretary. You know the protocol. She won’t be attending the nightclub events either.”

  “Secretary! She’s been in her room writing a book, you know,” Olga said, as though he should feel threatened by Pretty’s dusty-pink diary. He wasn’t. He pushed the button. The door closed on her tight face slowly. Victory! Now all I needed to do was to mesmerize him for long enough that she would be stood up while waiting for him in the penthouse office, wherever that was. After that, she would get it through her mind that there had been a change of power in the Light House.

  Leaving the Light House for even a small thing like shopping for fabric was a major maneuver. I styled my hair. It was easy since I had just got the dope cut. Today I am Chanel. I’m wearing black lace, blouse and pants that Chanel tailored and stitched so mean that it concealed everything and revealed everything at the same time. I acted like I didn’t know he could see my nipples through the small openings. I’m carrying a Chanel clutch. My feet magical in black Louboutins, which caused my legs to look longer. I put my chunky diamond necklace that he gifted me basically as soon as we met in his safe, which I now know the combination to. Why not? I’m wearing the new diamond set that he presented me with after a few more rounds in his Egyptian cotton sheets and on his white marble bedroom floors. I had received so much so swiftly, I couldn’t wait to find out what more would be coming my way. Since I chose black, he also wore black. He was Giorgio Armani, in a mean tailored suit. What blew it up big time was his subtle but sparkling, silver bespoke Battistoni dress shirt and diamond cuff links. Waist and feet, black crocodile belt and shoes. His silver dress socks blew me away. He looked fucking smashing.

  When Pretty emerged, she was in purple Pucci, not Gucci. She looked good in anything. Her purple open-toe high heels showcased her lavender French pedicure. We had discussed her role as my new secretary and that I would take the fashion lead. She would dress like a fashionable executive secretary whose outfits would elicit certain business advantages. She had her hair wrapped in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  Olga showed up strutting like a supermodel, not a professional executive secretary. She already had the chiseled supermodel face, green eyes, and model body. She wore a white lace mini and white Converse. She seemed a little conflicted fashion-wise, but I’m not about hating on fashion, so fuck it. Besides, I was vexed that she wore lace same as I did. But hers was post-death Versace and mine is eternal Chanel.

  Bridgette arrived last, her blonde hair swept into an attention-grabbing topknot. Her Betsey Johnson–designed light blue mini matched up nice with her blue eyes. Like Olga, she chose to wear kicks with her dress. I couldn’t figure them out. But I could see they definitely liked each other. That’s their business.

  We traveled in a motorcade, one security car in the lead, one security car in tow. In between was Olga pushing his white Porsche with her and Bridgette inside. Him and me and Pretty rode his white Bentley that was the opposite of his rose-red Rolls. The Bentley had a white exterior and red leather captain seats inside with white piping. It was reeking with richness. Screaming, fuck the world! As soon as I found out that all of the cars in his underground garage were his, I chose this one, naturally.

  I stayed looking out of the window for the drive. Speeding through the continuous blackness of the Last Stop Before the Drop, the roads and streets are the opposite from my streets up top. I started to feel a little sad. The only reason to rock these high fashions and flaunt these whips was to be seen in them. Diamonds glisten to catch eyes. In the blackness, if anyone was seeing us, I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t until we got close to the block that he owned that we saw faint light. The spa was lit up and the adjoining stores of all kinds were as well. On one side there were tall torches and flames. On the other, there were telephone-pole-type pillars with one powerful streetlight atop of each. Wondered why he had flames on the left and lampposts on the right. Thought if he had access to utilities, why not just light up both sides brightly? Maybe he preferred the dimness of a flame? I don’t know.

  All I do know is out of the left side suddenly something hit us hard. Rammed into the Bentley severely. I had been looking to the right out of my window so I never saw it coming. Oh fuck, I thought to myself as my head banged hard on the side window at the same time that the airbags blew up. Why? Why? Why? I thought to myself. Every time I’m about to make it big, something fucked up occurs and snatches it away from me. I was in a type of shock. I think I felt my head bleeding but my brain froze and would not order my arm to move so that my fingers could feel if there was warm moist blood trickling or not. I could not turn to the left or sit up straight, or turn to the back. I could not see if he was hurt or if he was saved by his airbag. But of course he was hurt. It was his side of the car that was impacted the hardest, I thought sadly. It turns out I had caught real feelings for him. Furthermore, under our contract, if something happened to him, I would not be entitled to anything except my fashion company, which was just getting started. And would I live in a tower without him? Impossible, his nasty-ass son who I threw up on would probably be there to seize all of his things, including the Light House. Yep, he’d show up before his father’s body was even cold. But then I felt my body falling as though someone had opened the front passenger door where I had been chilling enjoying the drive. Now someone was pulling me out.

  “Keep your hands off of her,” I heard him say.

  Good, he is not dead, I thought, excited on the inside. I didn’t know if my eyes were filling up with blood and that was why I could no longer see. But I could hear. A scuffle occurred. Oh shit, men are fighting over me. They were so into the fury of it, however, that one of them dropped my body in the street right next to the Bentley. I heard fists breaking bones. I didn’t hear Pretty. Was she dead? I felt my eyes crying. Or was it my blood leaking? My voice wasn’t crying though. I could feel the heat of a pileup of men wrestling or dragging each other right next to where my body lay.

  “She’s my bitch! You knew! Iblis told me he told you.”

  “Son, I told you. Everything is mines.”

  “That’s fucked up,” another voice said. I heard the struggle of multiple bodies.

  “Security, get these young fools out of here,” he ordered. Next I heard what I guess was security trying to move the men who were attacking him. I heard a lot of sounds of injuries being given and injuries being received. Then someone picked me up from the ground. It was the scent of a woman. I could smell her Obsession perfume. She dragged me to the back, opened the door, and pushed me back in the Bentley. I was helpless. But my mind was still on. It never ever shuts off. I was thinking about the time that I was outside of the rent-a-car fighting Simone. Bullet came to so-called rescue me. He put me back into the vehicle. It was because I was seated in the rental car that I caught the charges and the responsibility for all of the drugs and weapons. Recalling, I tried to reach for the Bentley door handle to open the door. I would throw myself out of this vehicle if I had to. The ignition started just then. My arm would not lift high enough or follow my demands. The Bentley pulled off as though the driver pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. My arm fell. When it did, my fingers grazed Pretty. I could smell her Estée Lauder. But I still could not see. Apparently she could not speak. She didn’t react to my touch or this crazy accident scene. Then I heard and felt something smash into the Bentley again. The half-million-dollar powerhouse vehicle spun some. Seemed we were being chased by another vehicle whose driver was fucking determined to crash us until we were all dead… again.

  “You motherfucker, motherfucker, mo
therfucker!” Bridgette screamed out. I was like, Oh no! The crazy white bitch is driving the car with me and Pretty knocked out in the back. Just then we were hit on the left side this time. Did the one who hit us on the right fall back and come up on the other side, I wondered. Or were there two cars chasing the Bentley now? I was worried about crashing again. Could I survive another violent impact? Did Bridgette really know how to drive or was she in the midst of a wild outburst?

  “You’ll never catch me. Never, never, never!” Bridgette screamed. “You wanted to send me to the nightclub alone. There’s nothing inside that nightclub building except a raging inferno! You wanted to throw me to the fire like I was trash. And you murder people that same way every night, every day! People who loved your club and the beautiful red DJ and the music! You have some fucking nerve. You are worse, worse, worse than the serpent in Pretty’s story. You are the real son of a bitch. No! Not son of a bitch. Son of a motherfucker. You, your sons, and your whole goddamn man-empire. I will never, never, never, let you murder me and my friends! Not after us three bitches all survived death!” Then she smashed into something extremely hard. Or something extremely hard crashed into her. It was the last I heard of her and the last I heard of myself.

  25.

  “We forgive you.”

  Oh no. The frightening faces of three old bitches all crouched over and way too close to my face is what I woke up to. The last place I wanted to be on Earth or after Earth was the convent. What was I wearing? Please, not the straight gray garment.

  “Back up,” was all I said to them at half volume.

  “Welcome back.” One of them smiled at me with her crooked beige teeth.

  “Where are my clothes?” I asked. I could now see that, yes, I was in their gray garment. “Where are my jewels?” I asked. “Where are my Louboutins?!” I screamed. These bitches had the nerve to put those cheap sandals on my feet while I was knocked out.