The police had done a ballistics test on all of the guns they’d gotten out of his apartment when they’d kicked his door in a few months back. When the results had come back from S.L.E.D. (South Carolina Law Enforcement Division) the pistol had been linked to an unsolved murder of a man and a woman that had taken place in the Crestwood Apartments back in August.
The funny thing about it was that Mike knew he was innocent of the charges because it had happened on the same night he and Ant D had robbed and killed Twan. But how the hell could he explain that he wasn’t guilty of one murder because he’d been somewhere else committing another one!?
Of course at the end of the day, the police really didn’t give a damn one way or the other. As long as the case was closed and it looked like they were doing their jobs, they were satisfied. So Mike had to wait until the judge got back from vacation to see if he’d get a bond. He seriously doubted it. He was already out on bond to begin with and now he was being charged with two counts of murder in the first degree. Shit!
“Nurse, Nurse…” moaned a white man who was sitting off to the side in another wheelchair. Lost in his own thoughts, this was the first time Mike had noticed him. The man was doubled over in pain and had his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth. “Nurse…” he moaned out again weakly before throwing up some clear fluid. He was obviously sick. Mike could tell from how he looked that it wasn’t from any kind of disease though. He’d been around enough heroin addicts to recognize when a junkie was going through withdrawal. But as long as he didn’t have to share a cell with him, Mike really didn’t give a fuck about that cracker. He had enough problems of his own.
$$$
“Aww man bo! I think I done shitted on ma’self!” Those were the word’s that Mike awoke to on Christmas morning. He was under the covers, but the smell was overpowering. He frowned up his face in disgust. He’d had a habit of sleeping with the covers over his face ever since he was a child. But not even the thick wool blanket he’d been issued couldn’t keep out the foul stench that filled his nostrils that morning. What the fuck!? Mike thought. “Gotdamn it, I think I done shitted on myself, bo!” Mike’s cellmate repeated in his deep twang.
“You think? What the fuck you mean you think!? Ain’t shit to think about you stank, nasty ass muthafucker!” Mike exclaimed from under the blanket. He had protested being put into a cell with a junkie that was sick from the beginning. Unfortunately, there were only three cells that were wheelchair accessible and the other two had already been full.
“Aww man, I couldn’t help it bo. That junk got my insides all messed up. I’m sick man, I’m real sick,” moaned the white man. For a split second Mike almost felt a little sorry for the addict; almost. But his ass was still just laying there in his own feces. Oh hell fuck naw!
“Man, what the fuck is wrong wit’ you!? Get yo’ shitty ass up and call fo’ the muhfuckin’ nurse!” Mike barked out angrily. He held his breath and removed the cover from over his head. He watched his cellmate get off his bed and scurry over to the intercom that was by the door. He left a trail of shit in his wake. He pressed the button on the intercom while trying to keep from defecating on himself again.
“Yes, what’s your emergency?” the nurse’s voice came from over the intercom.
“Uhh, yes ma’am. Well uhh, I think I just had an accident?” he drawled into the speaker.
“Sir, what kind of accident?” asked the nurse, sounding a little annoyed.
“Well, uhh… I kinda doo dooed on ma’self?”
That morning while Meka and Gloria were in another part of the jail being gassed, Mike was locked in a cell with a heroin junkie whose bowels were looser than a porn star who loved anal. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.
CHAPTER 15
While his mama, sister and best friend languished in the county jail, Ant D was at home going stir crazy. It was the day after Christmas and he needed some shit to get into. Ever since his mama’s home had been shot up a few weeks back, he’d just been sitting around the house, getting high and occasionally bringing a bitch over to the house to fuck. He kept an arsenal of weapons on deck and the coke kept him wired and on point. If his enemies did decide to pay another visit, he’d be ready and they’d be in for a nice surprise. But so far, everything had been real quiet; too quiet. Word on the street was that the war with the Mexicans had Zulu’s hands full. M.B.M. was losing a lot of soldiers to the ruthless Mexican Mafia.
So while he was waiting to get word from Meka on how much it was going to cost to bond her and his mama out, Ant made the decision to get away from the house for a few hours. A quick trip to the Mall to blow some cash would do him some good right about now. Plus, it would put an end to the rumors that he was hiding. Ant smiled. Yeah, a trip to the mall would do him real good right about now.
Of course, there were quite a few dollar signs on Ant’s head. Not to mention the fact that there were several warrants out for his arrest. He wasn’t about to let that keep him from going out though. The way Ant figured, if it was going down then it was going down. But he damn sure wasn’t about to let nobody make him a prisoner in his own home. Fuck that! Besides, he didn’t go anywhere without the chopper in the trunk and a Glock on his waist. If the police ran up on him then court would be held in the street over the barrel of a gun. If anybody else ran up on him… then it was whatever. Ant really didn’t give a fuck.
He pulled out a clear plastic baggy that was filled with the purest cocaine on the streets right now. He rolled up a crisp bill with Andrew Jackson’s face on it and took a copious amount of coke up each nostril before stepping out of the house. “Fuck these niggas,” he mumbled to himself.
Ant D pulled up to Haywood Mall in his candy coated flip flop Corvette, with his windows down, blasting that new DJ Khaled, “I’m So Hood.” The baseline from the song vibrated the pavement as T-Pain’s auto tuned voice sang the hook: “I’m so hood/ I wear my pants below my waist and I never dance when I’m in this place/ cuz you and your man are planning to hate…” More than a few patrons exiting the mall had to do a double take at the spectacle Ant was creating with his loud music and even more conspicuous car. He rode slowly through the parking lot relishing the attention he was receiving, before finally pulling into a parking space close to the food court entrance.
The Lamborghini door on the driver side slid up and Ant got out of the smooth black leather interior of his seventy-five thousand dollar customized vehicle. It was a little chilly that afternoon, but the sun was shining, causing the diamonds in Ant’s chain and ring to glisten. He had on a black Pelle Pelle jacket and an oversized thermal. His jeans were designer and of course his limited edition J’s were fresh.
His signature bop made his chain swing as he made his way to the mall’s entrance. Self consciously he patted his waist to make sure his Glocc was there. It was an action akin to a person checking to make sure that they hadn’t forgotten their keys or wallet. Over the past few weeks, Ant’s gun had become the most important part of his wardrobe and he made sure to never leave home without it. The pockets of his designer jeans were bulging with stacks of blood money as he entered the mall.
$$$
Across town in West Greenville, three members of M.B.M. sat in a trap house located at the end of a dead end street known as ‘the cut.’ At night, all types of illicit activity transpired in and around ‘the cut’. Whatever a person was looking for to escape the harsh realities of the everyday existence called life could very easily be obtained here. Coke, crack, exotic, reggie, pills, pussy… whatever. As long as your money wasn’t funny and you were willing to pay to play, you were more than welcome to ‘come on down’ and be the next contestant on the hood’s version of ‘The Price is Right’. Of course, getting killed or ending up in jail were distinct possibilities. However, most of the people who frequented ‘the cut’ tended to overlook those minor details in pursuit of their next high.
It was mid-afternoon right now though. Except for a few fiends wandering a
round scheming upon ways to get their next fix, ‘the cut’ was relatively quiet. Money was slow. Unless it was the first, the fifteenth or tax season, the spot really didn’t start pumping until late. The ‘jump out boys’ had just been through earlier in the week so a lot of customers were still leery about coming out until the darkness of the night could conceal their iniquities. The ‘jump out boys’ were Greenville County’s version of the A-team. They were officers who rode around in nondescript vans before jumping out and arresting anybody who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Tony, Lil G, and Big Cook used the lull in activity to calculate the previous night’s revenue and chill for a minute. Nothing was more stressful than the constant interaction with the animalistic mind of a fiend; somebody who couldn’t see past their next hit. They would lie, cheat, steal, rob or kill you just to maintain whatever their habit was. It was like being in a jungle with a myriad of predators waiting to devour your flesh.
The three M.B.M. goons sat down at a dilapidated table. It doubled as an ashtray when one couldn’t be found. After lighting up a couple of blunts, they separated the bills then began to count the drug money. Close to twenty thousand dollars in an assortment of crumpled, dirty bills and change was the final count. It had been a slow night. In fact, it had been slow for the past few weeks. Zulu had many other trap spots like this in locations up and down the I-85 corridor. From Atlanta to Greenville, to Charlotte, all the way up to Virginia Beach, his operation saw no less than three to five million a week. But as the war raged on in the streets between M.B.M. and the Mexican Mafia, it was inevitable that profits would start to decline.
After the money was counted, it was put inside of a heavy steel vault that was then placed underneath the floorboards in a back room. It would remain there until one of Zulu’s lieutenants made his rounds and retrieved the profits and dropped off the next batch of work to be cooked up and distributed. Until then, Tony, Lil G and Big Cook sat around talking shit and smoking on some weed that was loud enough to make you go deaf.
“Man, y’all see what the fuck them Mexicans did to J.R. and Mario?” asked Lil G as he passed the blunt to Big Cook.
Big Cook took two deep pulls from the blunt, coughed, then passed it to Tony before he answered. “Yeah, niggas seen that shit,” he said while exhaling the potent smoke from his lungs. “That shit was all on the news and in the fuckin’ papers and shit.” Big Cook had gotten the first part of his name because at 6’2, three hundred pounds he was obviously big as hell. The second part of his name came from his uncanny ability to turn cocaine into crack.
A lot of novice hustlers were under the impression that mixing coke with baking soda, adding a little water and putting a pot over a flame was all there was to it. However, when they fucked up a package that couldn’t be sold and niggas wanted them dead, they quickly realized there was a science to making that work come back. Big Cook had that science figured out at a young age. Since then, he had come up with many innovative techniques to turn that soft white into a more potent and lucrative form of crack. In the hood it was known as ‘straight drop’.
“They cut my nigga’s throats and pulled they fuckin’ tongues through ‘em, my nigga!” said Lil G, jumping up from his chair, grabbing his gun. Lil G was the youngest of the three comrades and because of his size always felt he had something to prove.
“Yeah, that shit was real fucked up how they did the homeys, man. But you know we rode through Crooked Creek and put ‘bout a hunned rounds in that trailer fulla Mexicans though,” Tony said nonchalantly. There wasn’t even a hint of remorse in his voice for the lives he had taken.
“Fuck that nigga! Mario was my muh’fuckin’ cousin dog! I wanna put a hole in one of them fuckin’ ese’s head right now,” Lil G exploded, while simultaneously cocking the hammer back on his pistol. He waved it around recklessly. BOOM! The gunshot from the .45 made everybody in the room jump, including Lil G whose finger had accidentally squeezed the hairpin trigger of the gun causing it to discharge a round into the ceiling.
“Sit yo lil crazy ass down somewhere Lil G, ‘fo you fuck around and kill a muh’fucka off in here wit’ that shit,” Big Cook admonished.
“Maaan, this nigga done blowed my muh’fuckin high wit that dumb ass shit,” said Tony, shaking his head at Lil G.
“Aww man, fuck both of y’all niggas,” said Lil G, feeling a little embarrassed. He sat down and leaned back on the only couch inside of the sparsely furnished living room. His pistol rested in his lap. “Man, y’all heard who gon’ be at the Civic Center for New Years Eve ain’t it?” asked Lil G, changing the subject. He took the last few pulls of his blunt before getting up and putting the roach out on the table.
“Naw, who?” Tony inquired, his ears still ringing.
“’Posed to be Plies, Lil Boosie, Webbie and T.I. And they ‘posed to be droppin’ money from the ceiling or some shit like that,” Lil G said excitedly. “That shit gon’ be super packed! All the bad bitches gon’ be in town for that!”
“Yeah, M.B.M. definitely need to be off in that bitch shittin’ on niggas that night,” Big Cook said. He thought for a moment. “Yo, let’s hit the mall real quick and see if they got some new shit out there.”
“Shit dead out here right now anyway,” Tony stated. “Might as well hit the mall up and fuck wit’ them bitches fo’ a lil minute.” Tony looked at Lil G.
“Shiiiit, y’all already know i’m wit it!”
“Say no mo’. Let’s ride then.”
CHAPTER 16
Ant D had been in the mall for the past hour balling like he played for an N.B.A. franchise. He had already dropped more than a few stacks on tennis shoes and the latest designer clothes for himself. He also thought about his sister and mother as he shopped. They hadn’t been home for Christmas so he wanted to make sure they came home to a house full of presents. For his mother, he bought a necklace with a pink diamond encrusted heart pendant and a matching tennis bracelet. It was expensive, but classy. For Meka he had a girl in one of the high end shoe stores pick out the latest, most fashionable styles in a size five. Knowing Meka’s picky ass, she would probably take them back and order some exclusive shit from offline. It was the thought that counted. Whenever Ant’s arms would get tired, he’d take the bags to his car and go back into the mall for another round.
Since he’d been in the mall, Ant had seen more than a few people he knew. He could tell by the looks on their faces that they were shocked to see him out and about. After the initial shock wore off, some of them would approach. Females smiled, said ‘what’s up’ and gave him hugs. The dudes gave him dap and nodded their heads in respect. Others avoided him like he had the plague. Ant just laughed to himself and kept it moving. He was having a good time being out, but he was definitely on point. If he felt like somebody was looking a little too hard, he wouldn’t hesitate to let his Glocc .40 have an in depth conversation with them.
After a couple of hours of blowing money fast, Ant was making his way out of the mall with both hands full of shopping bags. He made his way halfway through the food court. His appetite had diminished with his coke use, but the many different aromas of food hit him like a Mike Tyson uppercut to the gut. He decided to stop and get something to munch on at one of his favorite spots real quick before he left. “Welcome to Chick-fil-A, can I take your order?” asked a smiling teenaged white girl in a chipper voice. Before he could get his order out, Ant heard a female call his name.
“Hey Ant, Wassup?” It was LaBreya and her funky ass home girl Kyra from Oakview. Breya, as she was known in the streets was the girlfriend of a clown ass nigga named Turk B. Turk was an imaginary player from up north who had a penchant for wearing bootleg designer clothes and bragging about how much money he was getting. It was rumored that he had contracted HIV from this slut named Abby, but nobody knew for sure.
Mike had robbed Turk several months back and humiliated him by making him strip down to his shit stained boxers. Then Mike had pistol whipped him and c
hased him out of the projects. Ant hadn’t been with Mike on that lick but when Mike had told him about the incident they both shared a good laugh at Turk B’s expense.
Breya wasn’t a bad looking girl at all. She even had a college education. She was far from stupid. Unfortunately, her choice of men automatically put her in the category of just another piece of pussy to be fucked. It was really over for her once word got around in the hood that she had fucked one of her bosses knowing he liked the boys just as much as he did the girls. After hearing about that, a lot of dudes just started coming at her any kind of way. There were orgies, threesomes, trains... Some of her exploits had even been filmed on camera phones and had been passed around and put on the internet. When Turk found out about these indiscretions, he’d often beat the shit out of Breya. But instead of just leaving, he stayed with her like the sucker he was.
Ant D wondered what the fuck she was calling his name for. He’d heard Turk was locked up for setting somebody’s car on fire or some dumb shit like that. There was actually an ongoing bet on the streets as to how long it would take before Turk would get turned out and become somebody’s bitch. Ant had put a stack up that he wouldn’t last 6 months.
Anything for Profit 2: Nothing to Lose Page 12
