Black Media Enterprise Presents
KING
A novel by Tremayne ‘GS’ Johnson
‘‘KING” CREDITS
Written by: Tremayne ‘GS’ Johnson
Edited by: TaCoya Dalton
Cover design by: Bakari Hasson
Category: Fiction/Urban Life
Copyright © 2011 by T. Johnson
This work was printed in the United States
ISBN-13:
978-1460913345
ISBN-10:
1460913345
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Praise for ‘‘A Drug Dealer’s Dream”
An Action-Packed Urban Fiction Thriller
A Drug Dealer's Dream is an action-packed novel with a plot filled with so many twists and turns that the reader has no choice but to stay glued to page after page until the very end. The characters have a natural vibe, and Johnson does a remarkable job of bringing them to life. The characters, in turn, pull readers in, making them personally invested in their fictional fates. Tremayne Johnson may be a debut author, but he will be a force to be reckoned with in the Street Lit genre.
Brooke Carleton
Apex Reviews
The Streets Love Me
A Drug Dealer's Dream is a fast-paced, drama-filled book that will have you looking around corners and staying away from dark alleys on your way home. Power-packed and under one hundred and fifty pages I read this in one sitting and was amazed that Mr. Johnson could cram so much information in such a short book. I recommend A Drug Dealer's Dream to readers of street-lit and readers who are looking for fast action.
Cheryl Hayes
APOOO Book Club
Great Book
A Drug Dealer's Dream is a well thought out and detailed book. As a reader, I can put myself in all the characters shoes and envision and feel all the emotions they were going through. A Drug Dealer's Dream is an easy read. Once you start reading you won't be able to put it down. I'm ready for part II.
Amy M. Taylor
Can't wait for the sequel
I have to admit; I put down my last urban-lit novel a good 4-5 years ago due to the monotony of the genre, as well as lackluster editing in some. HOWEVER, first time author Tremayne Johnson's new book "A Drug Dealer's Dream" is without a doubt, a standout. From the opening scene's chase down 95, I was hooked and could not put the book down. The book was well thought out with details so intricate; you felt you were there. The subplot in DR alone could be its own flick. I highly recommend this book and once again, cannot wait for the sequel.
LeoBaby78
Fast Money Equals Death
One way to learn why drug dealers get so caught up while selling drugs is to read a book from someone who has experiences from the streets and who played the game. A DRUG DEALER'S DREAM gives you good insight about drug dealers and the problems associated with walking on the wrong side of the law.
Tremayne Johnson has written a fast-paced drama-filled story about drugs, murder, retaliation, and walking on the wrong side of the law. This book shows how playing with fire burns because there are no easy ways to sell and distribute drugs without paying a high cost on your life. Although this book has plenty of drama and is a quick read, the narration was confusing. A good editor would have eliminated this issue as well unnecessary Ebonics that was sometimes hard to follow. Even with these two issues, I found A DRUG DEALER'S DREAM hard to put down and completed it in less than three hours. This book shows why one should find a legitimate job because with fast money comes many more problems.
RAWSISTAZ
Reviewers
AVAILABLE IN STORES WHERE BOOKS ARE SOLD!
Note:
Sale of this book without an official front cover may be unauthorized. If this book was purchased without a cover or a duplicated cover, it may have been reported to the publisher as ‘bootlegged.’ Neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for the sale of this book.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, living or dead, actual events, establishments, organizations, and/or locales are intended to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, as are those fictionalized events and incidents that involve real persons and did not occur or are set in the future.
This book is dedicated to God first. My mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and close friends. Without you all there is no me. Thank you for the support and love you’ve shown me…
~GS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tremayne ‘GS’ Johnson was born in New Rochelle, N.Y. Raised in the projects during the mid-‘80s, Johnson has seen his share of the streets. Succumbing to the pressure of wanting the finer things life could offer, he immersed himself in an illegal lifestyle. Although his artistry abilities are very wildly ranged, he chose to take what some might call the easy route.
Penning his first fiction title ‘‘A Drug Dealer’s Dream” while incarcerated, he looked to embark on a future in literature. Not settling for the conventional publishing deal, Johnson, an entrepreneur, made a decision to self-publish his work. The urban fiction market has grown rapidly over the past few years, and this strategic move is only a mere fraction of what to expect from this young man.
In 2010, Johnson founded Black Media Enterprise, a New York -based media organization that handles music, film, and now publishing. To say the least, Johnson is a creator of profound arts, a role model to the next generation, and a stand-up guy. Alongside writing urban fiction, music and video/film production are some of the many talents he possesses. Johnson is currently working on his next novel.
‘‘It is not a question if you win or lose. It is a question whether you survive.”
~Prince
For more information contact:
[email protected]
www.facebook.com/tremaynej
www.myspace.com/tremaynejohnson1
www.twitter.com/GS914
Black Media Enterprise Presents
KING
A novel by Tremayne ‘GS’ Johnson
Black Media Enterprise Presents
KING
A novel by Tremayne ‘GS’ Johnson
‘‘The ultimate objective of the game is to capture the “King” Having said this, the “King” will never actually be captured.”
~Deon “King” Toure
Chapter One
The wind ripped at my face on this cold winter evening, as I sat on a milk crate in front of my building watching the fiends scurry up and down the block. Even though the weather was below temperature, I was a hustler; rain, sleet, hail or snow, I was going to be out there getting my money. Right beside me sat my black Sony radio pumping my favorite Infamous Mobb Deep tape. I love hip-hop and couldn’t imagine going one day without it.
From up the block, I observed a tall, slim figure approaching me. I couldn’t recognize the person, but I could see he sported an all-black hoody, black sweat pants, and dark-colored boots; in my neighborhood at this time of night, that could only mean one thing.
As he pulled a chrome pistol from his waistline, I heard him yell out from under his black ski mask,
''You already know what this is nigga,'' he said. ''I want everything...make a move and I’ma put your fuckin’ brains on the concrete!''
I stood up without making any sudden moves in case this stick-up kid was the nervous type.
I threw my hands to the sky and said, ''I don’t want any problems. Take it all.''
The gunman moved within striking distance and pushed the barrel of the gun into my chest. He searched me and snatched a
thick wad of cash from my right front pocket. It was my day’s earnings, about twelve hundred dollars. Once he saw it was a large amount of money, he looked satisfied and began to back away from me. All of a sudden, he raised the pistol in the air and brought it down on the side of my face with smashing force. The blow caused me to stumble backwards. I felt a stream of blood trickle down my cheek and my vision on one side became blurred. I reached for the railing on the steps, trying to gain some balance.
''Where the drugs, motherfucka?''
''I ain’t got no drugs. You already got everything I had on me.''
I heard a shot. A thunderous bang so loud and felt so close that I could feel the vibration through my whole body. I was still breathing. I was still standing. I turned and saw the black hooded stick-up kid sprawled out on the frigid concrete.
''What the fuck, nigga!'' I said, wiping blood from my face. ''It took you long enough.''
My boy Jay-Roc stood still between two parked cars. In his hand was a smoking .45 caliber handgun.
''You know I got you my nigga...you ok?'' he asked, shifting his sights up and down the block for any witnesses.
''Yeah, I’m good. I can’t say the same for this stupid motherfucka!'' I replied kicking the lifeless stick-up kid over on his back.
I dug my hand inside the pocket of his hoody and pulled my money out. The blood seeping through his sweatshirt stained the bills.
''This is what you call blood money!'' I said, holding up the large amount of bills. I stuffed the money back into my jeans as Jay-Roc and I jetted from the crime scene. I was only 15 years old.
***
That’s how shit went down in Do or Die Bed-Stuy. Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn: my hood for the last 20 years. With a population of over two million people and a massive land area of 71 square miles, Brooklyn is the most populated borough in New York City.
My mother and I moved from Guyana in 1985 when I was only six years old. My father had been a general in the Guyanese militia, but once his problems started to carry over to our home front, he decided it was best for us to migrate to a safe haven. A few of his associates lived in the United States and suggested we come to America and live amongst some of our own. They owned real estate in Brooklyn and they let my mother rent an apartment at a very cheap rate.
My parents met in 1972 when my father moved from Venezuela back to Guyana. He was originally born in Guyana, but his parents moved to find better work when he was young. When he finally made it back, he ended up staying. My parents got married six months after their first date. The story that I was told was that it was love at first sight, but by the time I was born, there wasn’t a lot of love in the air.
In June of 1979 on a cold, stale kitchen floor, my mother Suhati Toure pushed me from her womb. Deon ''King'' Toure is what they named me. Well, when I got older, the streets crowned me ''King'' -- you’ll find out why.
It was always a mystery to me how two people who fought and argued so much could stay together for such a long time. When I was 4 years old, my parents had an argument that resulted in my father having to get nearly two hundred stitches in his abdomen from a severe knife wound. That was the first time I ever saw blood leak from a human body. Being so young, I didn’t know what it was about until I became older and confronted my mother. She told me she had caught him cheating on her with another woman for the second time. After the first time, he made a promise that he would never do it again and if he did, she said she would kill him. And that’s exactly what she tried to do.
My mother was far from a weak person, so I could never understand how she let my father get away with all the bullshit he put her through. As I got older, we talked more and she would always tell me, ''Deon, don’t ever let anyone take advantage of you because once they see they can get away with something once, they’ll continue to make you look like a fool.'' That was one of the many lessons that didn’t go in one ear and out the other.
Before my mother and I left for America, my father spent every precious moment instilling the morals of being a ''man'' in me. He explained to me that I would one day be the ''man'' of my own household and that I would have to take on all the responsibilities that come along with it. Being a ''man'' in his words was taking care of your family. He believed the ''man'' should go out and work hard each day and return home to provide everything the family needs. In his eyes, the woman’s work should only be to take care of the house duties like cleaning, cooking and things of that nature. He taught me early on that the value of a dollar goes a long way, but money isn’t everything. In the beginning, I was too young to comprehend the line of work my father was into. It wasn’t until after we left Guyana that I figured out what exactly he was doing.
Right before our departure from our country, I witnessed a side of my father that I had never known existed. If I recall correctly, it was an early afternoon in late July of 1984. The sunlight was beaming through our living room window and I could smell the scent of fresh flowers in the air. My mother had been out all day shopping, which was something she always loved to do. My father and I were sitting on the sofa watching the soccer game when someone began pounding on the front door.
''Who is it?'' my father asked in a deep, monotone voice. He looked through the peephole and quickly started to undo the locks on the door. As he opened it, I recognized a familiar face. It was Mr. Williams. Mr. Pasha Williams was one of my father’s best friends, or so I thought. He was always around our house back then. Mr. Williams was a sharp dresser. He sported funny-looking hats with feathers sticking from the top with different linen outfits and nice, shiny shoes. I would say to myself ''When I grow up, I’m going to dress just like Mr. Williams.'' His tall frame was slender and frail as if he didn’t get much to eat, and he kept a pair of dark shades on so you couldn’t see his eyes as his long cigarette sat perched between his lips.
''Sincere,'' he called out, extending his arm for a handshake.
My father ignored his gesture of faith and left him standing, looking confused.
''Sincere, why so much hostility towards such an old friend?'' he asked, taking a seat beside me on the sofa.
My father’s friends called him Sincere because of the way he treated most people he came in contact with. He was a humble and respectable guy on most occasions. His birth name is Rafi Sultan Toure, which means high-ranking, noble king.
Mr. Williams laid down a leather briefcase on the top of the coffee table that sat in the middle of the living room, and plucked the ashes from his cigarette into one of my mother’s ashtrays.
''Pasha, put the goddamn cigarette out in front of my boy,'' my father insisted. ''Is that all the money?'' he asked, pointing to the briefcase.
''Not all, but it’s a majority of it.''
''Majority? I explained to you not to come unless you have all the money, Pasha.''
Mr. Williams popped the latches on each side of the briefcase to reveal the contents. I had never seen so much money in my young life. He started to remove stacks of bills from the case, but I noticed these bills were different from the bills I would normally see.
''This is two-hundred thousand American dollars, Sincere. Is this not enough to settle my debt to you?''
My father stared down at the stacks of money as if it was something that was bothering him. His top lip curled up and he reached for a pile of the money.
''Where would a piece of trash such as yourself get two-hundred thousand from, Pasha?'' He asked, fingering through the crispy bills. ''Since I’ve known you, you’ve never had more than fifty-thousand at the most.''
''Business has been picking up for me, Sincere...what can I say?''
My father began to pick up the stacks of bills and place them into a machine that sat on the table. I sat in amazement and watched the machine sift through hundreds of bills at a time. After he was finished, he wrapped rubber bands around handfuls of money and tossed them into a big, black plastic bag.
''I guess this should be enough to cover your debt for now. How mu
ch do you think you can move this month, Pasha?''
Mr. Williams removed his shades from his face and for the first time ever; I realized why he always kept them on. His left eye was entirely white and he had abrasions across the top and side of his eye socket. It looked as if his eye was made of glass because of the way it shined when the light hit it. When he turned in my direction, I got goose bumps. I never saw anything like it.
''Give me three for now,'' he said, fixing the buttons on his designer, linen dress shirt.
Looking closely, I could see a small bead of sweat dribble down the side of Mr. Williams’ face. I turned to my father and could see that he noticed the same.
''Listen, Sincere, is this the same product from the last time because they loved that batch?'' He asked, as his eyes shifted from my father’s face to the front door.
''Yeah, it’s the same,'' my father answered, retrieving a dark-brown, leather bag from underneath the dining room table. He unzipped the bag and tossed three clear plastic baggies filled with a white powder onto the coffee table. Mr. Williams pulled a knife from his back pocket and poked a small hole in the bag. He put a half-a-fingertip sized amount of the powder on the tip of the blade and put it up to his nose.
King Page 1
