by J-Blunt
A figure dressed in black blended in with the darkness as he moved through the door quickly and quietly. At 11:00 PM on an overcast night, there were no stars or moon lighting the sky. A mile from the gate was a 4,000 square foot mansion. Big windows covered the house. When the curtains were drawn back, marble floors, expensive furniture, and rare art was shown off. But tonight the curtains were closed, and the man in black didn’t care about interior decorating.
Inside the mansion, The Weeknd’s voice crooned through expensive speakers. A loud sniff cut through The Weeknd’s lyrics as Boss dropped the $100 bill onto the plate filled with cocaine. He brushed his nose with his index and thumb, taking several sharp sniffs. “Oh, hell yeah!” Sniff, sniff. “That’s what I’s talkin’ ‘bout!”
Boss was a yellow-skinned, slim nigga with close-cropped curly hair. In Atlanta, he was big fish, third in command in S.O.D, short for Stacks on Deck. The light-skinned mulatto had a thing for dark-skinned women. The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice was his favorite saying, and next to him was the blackest, sweetest berry. He couldn’t wait to peel off her pink bra and thong to savor the taste of her sweet fruits. “G’on, getcha some o’ that,” he said, passing the plate of cocaine to his guest.
The woman took the plate, grabbing the c-note in her manicured hand. A long line of cocaine disappeared when she ran the currency over the powder. After setting the plate on the back of the tub, she grabbed a shot glass of Remy and downed it.
“Yeah! That’s how you do that shit!” Boss encouraged.
“Oh, yeah, baby! That’s that good shit!” she moaned as the cocaine raced through her brain.
“Now, scoot on closer to yo’ boy and let me finish tellin’ you my plans on startin’ a porno company,” he said, opening his arm and motioning for her to snuggle up.
“And you sayin’ I can star in yo’ first movie? How much you payin’?” Queenie asked, sliding next to him and running a hand over his chest.
“Five hunnit for three scenes.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I wanna do it, but I gotta talk to my man about it first.”
“Why? You a grown woman. Do you. This about a career.”
“But he gon’ eventually see it. I mean, he ain’t no hater. He know I be chasin’ coins. He the one that told me to get it by any means.”
Boss looked surprised. “Oh. So he cool wit’ chu fuckin’ otha niggas?”
“As long as it ain’t for free, yeah. It’s all about getting the job done. He understand.”
“Damn, shawty. What kinda nigga you got? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wanna fuck. You sexy and thick. But if you was my bitch, ain’t no way I be lettin’ you fuck these dirty-ass niggas out here. I know y’all trynna get a bag, but it gotta be limits on what you do to get it, especially if you got a nigga you love and who love you. You sure this nigga got yo’ best interest in mind? ‘Cause it don’t sound like it. Sound like gettin’ money more important than you. You fuck wit’ me and you don’t even gotta do this porno shit. I’ll make sure you good.”
The words hit Queenie harder than she allowed to show. She thought back to the look on Pop’s face when he told her she could fuck Buck Wild. He was only a few feet away, but didn’t care about her giving her pussy to his enemy.
“You good?” Boss asked, noticing the look on her face.
Queenie snapped back to the moment and mission. “Yeah. What you said made me think. But I need the money. What kinda scenes is you talkin’ ‘bout. Describe ‘em.”
Boss eyed her tattooed black skin and perky breasts before running a hand over her curves. “Shit, we would start off in my Jacuzzi, like we is now. Have you come over to my bed where I would be waitin’. You tell me how horny you is and how bad you wanna suck my dick. Then you gimme some sloppy toppy. After I bust in yo’ face, lemme fuck you in yo’ pussy and ass.”
Queenie looked unsure. “I don’t know. I never did a porno.”
Boss knew he had her where he wanted. All he had to do was drive a little harder. “It ain’t nothin’ but fuckin’ on camera. Tell you what, I’ma give you eight hunnit and a Gucci bag. What you wanna do?”
The extra pay made Queenie’s eyes light up. “Shit, we can do that right now. You got a camera?”
“Hell yeah! I’ma go get it!” he said, getting out of the water before she could change her mind.
“You got some chocolate or honey?” Queenie asked.
Glee passed over Boss’s face when he realized what they could do with the sweet condiments. “Yeah. Go downstairs and look in the ice box.”
This was Queenie’s third time in the house, so she found the kitchen easily, but she bypassed the fridge and went to the back door. Pop Somethin’ walked in wearing a serious look.
“Where he at?”
“Upstairs, settin’ up the camera for our porno,” she grinned.
When the bedroom door opened, Boss was setting the camera on a tri-pod, angling it toward the bed. “Where that chocolate sauce? You didn’t find it?”
“Nope. But I found him,” she said, opening the door wider.
When Boss seen Pop Somethin’, instant fear gripped his body. The size of him along with his powerful aura made him seem supernatural, like he had mutant powers. When Boss seen the big, black Desert Eagle in his fist, a fart escaped his body.
“Where it at, nigga? You know what up,” Pop barked.
“C’mon, brah. I don’t got no–”
Fifteen feet separated the lion from his prey. Pop closed the distance in a millisecond, backhanding the half-naked man across the face with the 50 caliber hand cannon. Boss crashed to the floor and Pop stood over him, pointing the gun in his face. “Lie to me again, nigga, and you gon’ die.”
Boss lay on the floor trembling, holding the left side of his bleeding face. “Behind the El Chapo picture.”
Pop and Queenie’s eyes found the picture at the same time. Near the bed was a framed poster of the Mexican drug lord. After a nod from her nigga, she covered her hands with the bed sheet and removed the frame. Behind it was a medium-sized wall safe.
“What’s the combo?” Pop demanded.
“9-05-02.”
Queenie punched in the numbers. When she felt the door unlock, she nodded to Pop. The Desert Eagle coughed, sending a bullet exploding into Boss’s face. The back of his skull opened when the metal slug burst through brains and bone. Pop walked over to examine his handiwork and noticed the red light on the camera. “Damn. He recordin’ us.”
“Freaky-ass nigga was ready,” Queenie laughed.
“Anything in there?” Pop asked, pulling the flash drive from the camera.
Queenie pulled out seven stacks of banded bills, two iced-out watches, and a diamond-encrusted chain. “I like Atlanta already,” she smiled.
“Fuck wit’ cho boy. I told y’all this was a good move. How much money in those stacks.”
“It look like ten thousand. Damn, baby. Every move you made since I been wit’ you been the right one. I’m wit’ chu, baby, all the way to the end,” Queenie expressed. She wanted to say more, but didn’t. Now wasn’t the time.
Pop noticed her reaction. “You got somethin’ else to say?”
“Nah. Not really. But somethin’ Boss said made me wonder how you feel about love.”
Pop gave her a look. “It’s a dead nigga on the floor and I got a video of it in my hand. You holdin’ the bag. Why the fuck is you thinkin’ ‘bout love when we makin’ moves?”
“Because he just said it. And I been thinkin’ ‘bout it a lot lately. And this powder got me trippin’.”
Pop walked over and grabbed the money and jewelry. “Get dressed so we can get the fuck outta here.”
Pop’s gait was fluid, his strides long and purposeful. Queenie struggled to keep up with him, happy she put the running shoes in her bag. They had been walking for close to five minutes, neither of them speaking. A few minutes later the gate came into view. Their getaway car was on the other side. Thoughts of a mission complete
d gave Queenie the courage needed to ask the question that had been burning a hole in her mind. “How do you feel about love?”
Pop cut his eyes at her and let out a deep breath. “It’s the most powerful emotion we got. And it can make you weak. Make you see shit that ain’t there and have you doin’ shit you know you shouldn’t be doin’. That shit can blind you and fuck wit’ cho emotions. Somethin’ that strong, I don’t want no part.”
“Damn, Pop. You make it seem like love is a bad thing.”
“Didn’t you just hear what I said? It is a bad thing, which is why I’ma stay away from it.”
“But what about the lovin’ families wit’ parents who love they kids? What about the people who been married for ten or twenty years? The Obamas. Jay-Z and Beyoncé. Having black love. I want that with you.”
Pop huffed and puffed. “Stop, Queenie. That fairytale ain’t for me. Or for us. We out here trynna run it up. Can’t be worried about love and kids doin’ what we doin’. That shit gon’ make us slip. I want a million dollars and to go back home. That love shit wasn’t never in my plans.”
“So you don’t think or dream about it?”
“Nope,” Pop answered flatly.
Queenie studied his face. He clenched his jaw several times and wouldn’t look at her. Queenie had never caught Pop in a lie until now. “Why not? What happened?”
Pop took his time answering. “My uncle Ro, Shanice daddy, died because of that shit.”
Queenie looked surprised. “When? How?”
“When I came from Jamaica, Ro took me under his wing and eventually introduced me to the jack game. I was still a shorty, but we was hittin’ niggas. That’s how he kept food on the table. What my Aunty Dorothy didn’t know was Uncle Ro had a side bitch, and the side bitch had a main nigga. Ro started fallin’ in love wit’ her and wanted her to leave her nigga. She wouldn’t, so one day my uncle got drunk and got in his feelin’s. We went over the bitch house unannounced and her nigga was there. I was sittin’ in the car when the nigga answered the door. Him and my uncle got to arguin’, and before I could get out the car, the nigga pulled out a gun. My uncle tried to run, and he shot him in the back. I was so shocked I froze. When the police came, the nigga said my uncle tried to rob him. And even though my uncle had bullets in his back, they believed that nigga because my uncle was a known jacker.”
“Damn, Pop. That’s fucked up.”
“I know. Which is why that love shit ain’t for me. I got love for you, Queenie, but not the way you love me. Princess, too. Y’all my partners. My bitches. I ride for y’all. But all that romance and black love shit ain’t for us. I wanna check a bag and fall back and live a good life. You and Princess wanna come wit’ me. Cool. We a team. But if you ever wanna find that black love shit, I won’t stop you. I understand what you want, and I won’t ever stand in the way of that. Just don’t expect me to get down on one knee.”
“See, it’s not that easy for me, Pop. I never felt like this before. I can’t just leave. I’m in this ‘til forever. I don’t want nothin’ wit’ nobody else. I only want you, Pop. And whatever it takes to stay by yo’ side, I’ma do it. I love you, and I’m in love wit’ chu. You got my whole heart, and ain’t no room for nobody else.”
“How you feel is cool, and I’m glad you told me, but I don’t feel the same. All I want is loyalty, Queenie. Nothin’ more. Nothin’ less.”
“Do you love Shanice?”
A scowl crossed over Pop’s face as he looked over at Queenie. “Why you ask me that? That’s my cousin. Yeah, I do.”
“But do you think about her as more than a cousin?”
Pop’s body temperature rose along with his anger. “Fuck type of question is that?”
“I don’t think it’s nothin’ wrong wit’ it. I mean, look at me and Princess. But I just want to know. You had a dream about her a while ago. You was fuckin’ the mattress an sayin’ her name.”
“We ain’t finna do this, Queenie. Not now. Not ever. That’s my li’l cousin. I love her like a sister. You my bitch, and I want you to stay my bitch for as long as you want. All that extra shit ain’t for us. That’s all I got to say about this love shit. Text Princess and see what she got.”
Queenie decided to leave well enough alone. He expressed how he felt, and that was enough. For now.
***
Gus Johnson was the man in Atlanta. He stood 6’8” and was long and lean. His style of dress screamed ‘Look at me, nigga! I got money!’ Ice cubes in his ears, designer gold-rimmed frames on his face, an icy chain and watch, and Billionaire Mafia clothes from head to toe. Gus also had a warm and inviting demeanor and the smile of a movie star. And since he was a local celebrity from his high school hoop days, everybody in the state of Georgia knew him. That was both a good and bad thing. Bad because privacy was a luxury he hadn’t known since middle school since there was always somebody watching. The good part of his celebrity was the connections. Because of his status, everybody wanted to be around him. Put the right people in the right places and magic happens, like it did when he met his partners and co-founded S.O.D. In five years the clique of drug dealers had morphed into an organization that owned businesses, real estate, and controlled almost half the drug trade in Georgia.
“B-Real, you ain’t neva seen nuttin’ like this!” Gus yelled from the fluffy mink pillow of the gold cabana being carried on the shoulders of twelve women. He had hand-selected the women from a local modeling agency, all of them fine enough to turn heads when they walked in a room. But put them in gold two-piece bikinis and gold body paint with Egyptian symbols drawn on their skin and they got what Gus hoped for. All eyes on him!
“Head honcho, my nigga!” B-Real called. “All rise! Stacks on Deck!” To show his point, B-Real dug into a Coach backpack filled with singles and threw them in the air before the cabana like he was throwing rice at a wedding.
Wettest was the hottest club in Atlanta. Professional athletes, rap stars, pimps, and drug dealers frequented the party atmosphere to have a good time. And by showing up on a gold cabana being carried on the shoulders of twelve women dressed in gold, Gus put everyone on notice that the party was about to begin. He and the entourage were led to a large roped-off section of the club. After climbing down from the bed, Gus began greeting the party-goers, exchanging daps, hugs, and pictures with everybody who was somebody. Champagne flowed like it was water.
Another member of Stacks on Deck was in the crowd. He was just as important as Gus, if not more, but he had long ago learned being in the background had its advantages. Mecca had been in the state of Georgia for ten years. For most of that time he lived and experienced the best life had to offer. Fuckin’ bad bitches, living in mansions, exotic cars, trips out of the country, enough jewelry to make a rapper jealous. Short and chubby with a small potbelly, Mecca didn’t have the intimidating or charismatic features of the leader of a drug organization. His receding hairline and dark skin made him a CeeLo Green look-alike. Mecca knew he wasn’t handsome or physically imposing and he probably wouldn’t win many fist fights, but what he did possess was an ability to work numbers and make them grow. He came to Atlanta with sixty thousand in cash and ten kilos. Today he was a millionaire and did what he wanted when he wanted and how he wanted. And if he ever needed something done, thousands of people would kill to do his bidding.
“Where the fuck is Boss?” Gus asked as the men exchanged hugs.
“I don’t know. He said somethin’ ‘bout a porno bitch he was fuckin’ wit’. Nigga think wit’ his dick too much. But he prolly show up before we leave. And I see you tried to outdo yo’ last club entrance,” Mecca said, eyeing the twelve gold women.
Gus took a drink from a bottle of Aces before speaking. “Comin’ in wit’ a marchin’ band was a’ight, but you know how I do. I’m over the top. Next time I come, I think I’ma walk in wit’ some Komodo Dragons or sumthin’. Won’t I fuck they heads up wit’ that?”
Mecca laughed. “You too much, dawg. Way too much.”
> On the other side of the club, mixed in with the party-goers who didn’t have VIP access, were Born Ready and Buck Wild. They wore dark clothes, no jewelry, and in the parking lot was a black Buick LeSabre. Tonight their goal was to see everything without being seen. And even though Buck Wild had a looming presence, nobody seemed to notice him. All eyes were on S.O.D.
“I wanna rush that nigga and squeeze off so bad!” Buck Wild groaned, the eagerness to do violence sounding in his voice.
“We gon’ get what we got comin’ to us, li’l brah,” Born Ready said coolly, watching Mecca sip champagne and live the life.
“I can’t believe that nigga ain’t reach back. All this time he been out here runnin’ it up.”
“Don’t look at it like that. It’s all about perspective. Nigga been out here gettin’ it up so he can put us on. All this is for us,” Born Ready smiled.
Princess sat at the bar sipping a watery drink, looking bored. A text on the phone got her attention. It was Queenie letting her know their job was done and they were on their way to the club. Pop also wanted an update, so Princess typed back that she was still waiting to make contact. After slipping the phone in her purse, she went back to nursing the drink. Then a man approached the bar to her left.
“We need a hunnit bottles in the VIP. S.O.D.”
Princess turned to see who ordered thousands of dollars worth of liquor and got a wink from B-Real. He was a little man, 5’5”, slim build, low hair cut, dark skin, designer glasses, and a diamond studded S.O.D. chain around his neck.
“Why you over here lookin’ like you don’t wanna be here?”
“’Cause I don’t.”
