Microphone Fiend

by Sa'id Salaam

  “Thanks. You, too,” the bartender replied with a knowing smile and nod, since he had picked out and purchased them both.

  Carlton squinted at the two men, who stood side by side in similar suits, and figured out the inside joke. Looking at them, you couldn’t help but noticed the resemblance. They both stood an impressive 6’2” and had the same chiseled, milk-chocolate faces. Now that Steve Walton, A.K.A Pops, had shaved the scruffy beard from his face, he and his son were the spitting image of one another.

  Pops being Breeze’s father was something that everybody in the hood knew, but nobody dared speak on. In the hood, paternity secrets were guarded just as closely as secrets of who killed whom.

  Breeze took notice of Pops upon his return to the hood after doing a twenty-five-year bid. He noticed not only did they look alike, but they also had a lot of the same mannerisms — for instance, biting their bottom lips when in thought and wringing their hands when nervous.

  When he questioned his mother about it, she flat-out denied even the possibility of it being true by insisting she had never slept with the man. Her denial wasn’t technically a lie, since she really didn’t remember if she had or hadn’t. In her defense, she did do a lot of fucking back then — hell, she still did — so it was hard for her to remember some of the names and faces.

  Breeze checked Pop’s pedigree and found the older man was official, the real deal, and he had taken his time like a man instead of snitching. Breeze decided to put his dad on payroll to help him get back on his feet. Nothing major. No dope or guns. Instead, he put him on watch. His only jump was to keep an eye on the projects and keep Breeze informed of what was going on in the hood.

  It was the older man’s support that encouraged him to open the club. Breeze agreed to it and put him through bartender school, and that was the beginning of Club Illusions. Now, here they both stood on opening night, looking dapper and ready for show time.

  “Looking good,” Breeze told Carlton, nodding in approval as he surveyed the club’s surroundings.

  He was right, too, because the place was spectacular. There were half-naked dancers atop pedestals sprinkled throughout the club, and the lights seemed to pulse in sync with the thunderous beats pulsating from the high-tech sound system.

  “I got DJ Rondell,” Carlton announced proudly. He should have been proud, too, for snagging the hottest celebrity DJ in the nation at the last minute. DJ Rondell was highly sought after. He came with a huge following, and cost a pretty penny because of it. Since it wasn’t his money, Carlton didn’t flinch at the ten thousand dollar ticket it cost to book the DJ for the weekend.

  Breeze followed him outside to the front as part of his on-the-job training. He was intent on learning the ins and outs of the business — that’s why he had hired the best. Once the club was on and popping, Carlton would move on to the next city and club, and it would be up to Breeze to keep his club up and running.

  “And, time!” Carlton shouted as the watch on his wrist struck 11:00 p.m. The free period had expired, and the price of admittance was now raised to twenty bucks a head. “Remember, allow two people every five minutes.”

  “Ok,” Coach replied in the same condescending tone he had been spoken to in.

  “Why?” Breeze wanted to know, since the club was nowhere near its capacity and had a line stretched up the block and around the corner.

  “We reduce admittance to a trickle so those passing by can see the long line and assume this is the place to be. Some of the people in line will never make it inside, giving them an excuse to try that much harder next week to gain entrance. Getting inside will become their mission.”

  “I see,” he nodded at the lesson. It made a hell of a lot of sense to him. In theory, it was like adjusting the temperature of the club up higher than necessary to make people hot and sweaty. Hot and sweaty people bought drinks, and drinks were expensive — really expensive — at Club Illusions.

  “Those four,” Carlton stated with authority as he discreetly pointed at the group of four men standing in line wearing sagging jeans, baseball caps tilted to the side, and the latest pair of retro Jordans.

  “On it,” his assistant Billie replied while heading toward the group.

  Billie was a very pretty girl who dressed with the swagger of a Tomboy. Her complexion and short curly afro suggested she was a product of biracial parents. She looked more like a teen boy in her loose-fitting pantsuit than a grown woman.

  Breeze watched curiously as she struck up a conversation with the unwelcome young thugs. He was impressed with the way she deflected their crass come-ons and stayed focused on the job at hand. She tactfully handed each one something they initially frowned at before sniffing it, getting out of line, and walking away.

  “She offered them a blunt of loud each in exchange for them finding somewhere else to par-tay.” Carlton explained, answering the questioning look on Breeze’s face.

  “Tell him about the steakhouse coupons for the big girls,” Coach snitched as he worked the V.I.P. entrance.

  “No one likes a tattle-tale,” Carlton huffed back.

  “No one likes lawsuits, either. Or jail, so no more weed,” Breeze countered. “Besides, I happen to like my women thick.”

  The two adversaries turned their noses up at one another as the boss turned and went back inside. A couple of V.I.P.s arrived, and Coach got back to work. The Very Important People’s entrance was right next to the one for common folk. This allowed them to pull up to the valet and make a grand entrance for everyone to see. Those in V.I.P. paid handsomely — a hundred dollars a head — for the privilege of being among the privileged.

  A-listers from not only the music and sports industry, but also the streets, began to trickle in and cause a buzz among club-goers. Coach would lift the velvet rope and let them inside. The night was going really well until Alice showed up.

  The fifty-year-old woman could easily pass for thirty-something in the skintight, leopard-print cat suit. Even after five kids, she still managed to maintain her figure.

  “Fuck you mean, I can’t come in? Nigga, you must not know who I'm is!” Alice shouted when Coach refused to lift the rope and allow her admittance to the V.I.P. section.

  Seeing the commotion, Billie quickly reached over with a bribe to handle the situation before it got out of control, but things didn’t go exactly as expected.

  “Nigga—I mean bitch, I ain’t finna go no damn where!” Alice reiterated as she snatched the offered blunt and stuck it down into her ample cleavage. Luckily for all involved, Breeze stepped back outside at that moment.

  “Let her in,” Breeze demanded over the ruckus.

  “But she—”

  “But, nothing! She’s my mama, now let her in,” Breeze said, cutting Carlton off before he could finish what was sure to be something offensive.

  Breeze was fiercely protective of his family, including his mother, despite the fact she hadn’t been much of a mother to him or any of his siblings. However, he had been taught paradise lies at the feet of your mother — even those who wore loud, orange stilettos.

  “Thank you, baby,” Alice purred and kissed her son’s cheek.

  “You’re welcome. Where’s your daughter?” he asked, knowing the two usually partied together. No sooner had he asked the question than the answer came running across Peachtree Street.

  “Hey, Mama. Hey, Brezel,” his sister Damita yelled and waved as she crossed the busy street. She almost got hit by a car and screamed a mouthful of curse words as if it were the driver’s fault instead of hers for crossing in the middle of the street from between two parked cars.

  “Why didn’t you use the valet?” Breeze asked, shaking his head at the cat suit she wore, which was identical to their mother’s.

  “I ain’t finna give no stranger my car,” Damita insisted, even though technically it was Breeze’s car, not hers. Both women also lived in homes paid for and maintained on his dime.

  “Well, have fun, ladies, and please, please no
fighting,” he pleaded. “Mama?”

  “I’m a be good,” the older lady giggled, showing off the polished gold tooth sitting front and center in her smile.

  Chapter Five

  “Damn, Ju-baby, look at all them hos! Classy bitches, too,” Wesley shouted as they crept past the long line in front of Club Illusions.

  Every radio station in Atlanta had been advertising the new club every few minutes. V-109 was even broadcasting live from inside, telling everyone in the city to come out and stop by. They even had a huge spotlight, similar to Batman’s bat signal, shining the club’s name on a neighboring high-rise for all to see. With all the hype surrounding the club’s grand opening, Ju-baby and Wesley had to at least drive by and take a peek.

  “They do got some bad-ass hos,” Julious Johnson, A.K.A. Ju-baby, nodded in agreement as he clutched the wood grain steering wheel of the car he slowly drove. He took one look at the women and knew he was out of his league. Hell, even the thots were dressed to impress.

  “We need to fall up in this bitch!” Wesley cheered, not realizing they didn’t stand a chance at getting inside. There was no sign posted, but the club didn’t allow jeans, tennis shoes, braids, guns, or drugs. In other words, the club didn’t allow thugs, which excluded them on every level.

  “Nah, ain’t my type of party,” Julious said, not admitting out loud what he already had to himself. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed entrance, but he resolved one day not only would he be one of the ones partying inside Club Illusions, but he would also be getting one of the classy hos inside. It wouldn’t be tonight, but it was going to happen. “Let’s hit The TRAP.”

  “That’s what’s up,” Wesley eagerly agreed as Ju-baby turned towards I-20. The custom Chevy floated along on its 30-inch rims with its music pumping loudly through its sound system. He lit a blunt and leaned back for the ride.

  Julious Johnson was a pretty-boy thug. He stood 6’2” and had caramel-colored skin. He had the refined good looks of a model with the swag of a common thug. Not one second of his 25 years on the planet was ever spent working a job, at least not a respectable one. A portion of it — three years, to be exact — was spent in prison. He spent the majority of his bid toning up his physique by doing pushups and sit-ups while most of the rest of the time was filled with brushing his hair, which explained the rings of waves cascading around his head.

  The morally bankrupt man had a penchant for the hood’s finer things, but didn’t want to work hard for them. Drug peddling had been his means of getting those things at first, but that’s what caught him his prison time, so he had sworn off it. Instead, he was a dope boy turned robber of dope boys. He found pulling a pistol was a whole lot easier than sitting in the trap house all day.

  The TRAP nightclub was a straight-up hole in the wall catering to the lower echelon party-goers. Here, the second B in B.Y.O.B not only stood for bottle, but also for blunts, bitches, and bulletproof vest, if you had one, because this particular juke joint was dangerously violent. In The TRAP, someone got their ass viciously beat every hour on the hour, it seemed. Not only that, but there was at least one murder a month in the establishment. As a matter of fact, a bouncer was just killed last week for not letting a man bring his gun inside.

  “We gon’ bag us a couple bitches up out this bitch,” Wesley said upon seeing all the hood-rats in the parking lot. The parade of barely-dressed women wore an array of colorful wigs and weaves like it was a contest whose hair could be the brightest color from the rainbow.

  “But, of course,” Ju-baby nodded. He may not have worked a day in his life, but he always had at least one bitch, gal, ole lady, grown-ass woman — but never a lady — in it.

  The parking lot looked like a car show was going on along with the hair show. Old school Chevys and Olds dipped with candy paint, with enough bass coming from their trunks to make them rattle, were on display. A haze of weed smoke hung low around the rims and tires like Beijing smog.

  They had their choice of fights to watch as they passed through, and chose to stop and check out a girl fight. Two chicks who shared the same baby daddy squared off and beat one another savagely. While the two baby mamas disrespected and degraded not only each other, but themselves, their babies’ daddy was already inside slow dancing with his next baby mama to be.

  “Always bet on black, shawty!” Wesley shouted enthusiastically when the darker girl overcame her lighter-skinned opponent. “Now, pay up!”

  “That’s some real Planet of the Apes type shit,” Ju-baby laughed and paid up. Wesley used the five to pay his way into the club.

  The dance floor was packed with men and women dancing nasty. They were dry humping and grinding all over one another. One happy camper smiled as he rode a big ol’ booty so hard he ended up busting a nut in his baggy jeans. Another man quickly took his place when he slinked away to go get cleaned up.

  The aging club was full with patrons of all ages, ranging from teenagers to young adults to middle-age adults. There were even a couple of grandparents who were too damn old to be in the club. The TRAP also had a V.I.P. section, but since no one of importance frequented the club, the sits inside were filled on a first come, first served basis.

  “Let’s get us a booth,” Ju-baby suggested, leading the way.

  As soon as they got seated and lit a blunt, here came La-La and Shrimp sashaying their fine ghetto asses over.

  Shrimp was a 4’11” ghetto superstar. She stood on a pair of bowed legs that carried a fat ass, a set of big titties, and not a shred of moral decency. Her tiny blue dress allowed a view of the jet-black skin at the cuff of her voluptuous ass cheeks. Her blue weave, picked to match her dress, was piled high on her head like a camel’s hump.

  La-La had two humps atop her head and was dressed just as skimpy as her friend. Her daisy dukes were cut so high the lining of her pockets hung longer in the front than the actual material of the shorts, and in the back her round brown cheeks hung out. She wore a belly shirt with them, despite the raisin wrinkles that stretch across her stomach.

  “Smoke one,” Shrimp demanded as she stood back on her legs, her hands resting on her wide hips.

  “Fuck somethin’,” Wesley shot back. As they say, a fair exchange ain’t no swindle.

  “That’s what’s up,” La-La agreed for them both and slid into the booth. It really wasn’t much of a decision to make, since they had all previously had sex with each other.

  The blunt made one full rotation before trouble began in the spot. Two groups of men met in the center of the dance floor. The foursome couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music, but the looks on their faces said it wasn’t a pleasant exchange.

  “Mont stay in some shit!” La-La griped as the tension in the air escalated.

  “That’s yo’ baby daddy,” Shrimp laughed.

  “Yours, too,” La-La reminded.

  “He don’t do shit for neither of our kids. All that damn money he getting and his ass stingy as fuck!”

  Ju-baby and Wesley shared a conspiratorial glance at the mention of money. The cash from their last caper was dwindling, so it was time to catch another lick. Within the blink of an eye, the situation on the dance floor went from bad to worse — from them trading insults to trading punches to pulling pistols.

  “Let’s bounce,” Ju-baby urged as the place erupted in gunfire. The foursome ducked low and scrambled for the exit. Once they made it outside, they sprinted to Julious’ Chevy.

  “Let’s get a room,” La-La said once they were safely on the expressway headed away from the commotion. Ju-baby just nodded, since that’s where he was headed anyway.

  The raggedy motel located on Moreland Avenue had seen better decades, let alone better days, but it was still standing, so that’s where they went. The T.V in the room may or may not work, but that was okay, because no one came to watch T.V., anyway. This was a spot where smokers came to smoke and women with low self-esteem, little self-respect, and no morals came to fuck.

  Wesley walked across
the street to the liquor store and grabbed a six pack of beer and a box of cigars while his partner got the room. He figured they would be even, since the price for the room and drink were about the same.

  He dodged traffic back across the street and rushed up to the room. Once the weed and drinks began to circulate, the men pressed the intoxicated women for information on their mutual baby daddy. By the time the blunts and beer were gone, they knew all they needed to know to plan their next lick.

  “So what’s up, La-La” Wesley asked, beating his partner to the punch. Ju-baby wanted to sex her himself, but was slow about asking.

  “Whatever you want to be up,” she boldly proclaimed. To prove her point, she stood and began to strip her clothes off.

  “Hell, yeah!” Shrimp agreed as she followed suit, since that’s what they came to do. They could have smoked a blunt anywhere. They got a room to fuck, and she was ready.

  La-La had a slight lead in the race to get naked, but Shrimp had the advantage and took the lead when she pulled the tiny dress she wore over her head, being careful not to mess up her weave. Neither girl’s panties matched their bras, but in a twist of fate, La-La’s bra matched Shrimp’s panties, and vice versa.

  Julious hit the light, casting the cheap room in a blue glow from the cable-less T.V sitting atop the rickety old dresser in the corner. Both men unbuttoned their pants, causing them to fall to the floor, making it easier to step out of them. It really wasn’t much of a drop, since they wore them hanging below their asses, anyway.

  Once they were naked, they climbed on top of the petri dish-worthy comforters and prepared to handle business. Ju-baby rolled a condom on his growing erection while Wesley, on the other hand, decided to go bareback. Unlike Ju-baby, Wesley was a daredevil, a thrill-seeker. Some people got their thrills from climbing mountains, riding bulls, or skydiving, but not Wesley. He got his from having unprotected sex with loose women and even looser vaginas.