Trap House

by Sa'id Salaam

  G STREET CHRONICLES PRESENTS

  TRAP HOUSE

  by

  SA’ID SALAAM

  Copyright 2011 G Street Chronicles

  Published by:

  G Street Chronicles

  P.O. Box 490082

  College Park, GA 30349

  www.gstreetchronicles.com

  Fan@gstreetchronicles.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without prior written consent from both the author, and publisher G Street Chronicles, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray or represent any particular real person. All the characters, incidents, and dialogues are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any references or similarities to actual events, entities, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, entities, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author/publisher.

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  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, All Praise is for Allah! The most gracious, who taught the Qur’an, created man and taught him eloquent speech.

  Next, to the woman who gave me life and class…my mother, Diedra, and then the woman who did the same for her…Grandma Rainey.

  To my Ummah worldwide, may the peace, blessing and mercy of Allah be upon us all.

  To Amira, Zakiyyah, Halima, Abdul-Haseeb, Khalif, Khalil and Iyana…we will always be family.

  My children Erv-G, Derrick and whats her face.

  To those of my family who supported me, I can not thank you enough. I have a lot of words in me, but none adequately express what you mean to me.

  To all my dudes trapped in the belly…keep ya heads up. Specifically: Stack (Cascade) Slim, Zaki, Zaid, Kabir, All the Abdullah’s, Sayyid (Sav) Omari, Makeen, Ali Rock, Boon, Signature (Bx), Knowledge, Subur, KG (Albany), Abdur-rasheed (Columbus), Paul (Snoop) Mobley, John Sabir, Hamza (Sweet!), Skeem Aleem, Ketchup, Ali (Brick City), Talib, Sideeq, As-sideeq, Basir, Isa, both Qawi’s, Amir(Young Money) Rafi, Donald, Sharif, 1440, Hakim, Yi, Andrew Mayes, K.O. (Bx) Buckhead, Milk, B-bop, Dex, Bilal and anyone I forgot.

  Also Tariq Khan (Quran and Sunnah), Imam Shamsid-Deen, Bunny, Kimani Chris Barnes (Bx), Lisa Jones (Bx). My ATL people, Terry B-large, Fernando, Dwayne, Tack, Ant, Derrick (Rap City) Tucker, Dondi Gant, Omen (Bx), O-P, King Stan, and the whole city of Atlanta, my second home!

  My dude Sherm…good looking out, putting me on the team. Let’s take it to the next level!

  And finally, all of my brand new fans. Thank you. I appreciate the support. God willing…this is just the beginning.

  Holla Back

  Said.salaam@gmail.com

  Dedicated to:

  Zakiyyah Nix-Salaam

  Laylah (ride or die)

  Trap House n.) A place in which drugs are bought, sold and or consumed.

  Crack (krak) n.) (slang) A highly potent and purified form of cocaine for smoking.

  Junkie (Jun’ ke) n.) 1. A narcotics addict 2. One who is addicted to a specified activitiy.

  CHAPTER 1

  P.I.G. owned and operated traphouses of every level all over the city. Some catered to professionals who liked to smoke their crack in comfort, while others were absolute dumps in the heart of the ghetto.

  His headquarters consisted of a modest one-story brick house on Moreland Avenue. It had once contained three bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen unit, but P.I.G. remodeled it. He closed off the kitchen, incorporating it with the master bedroom. It was where P.I.G. cooked and cut and processed the dope, and he also used it as his living space.

  The rest of the rooms were gutted out into one large area adjoined to the living room. This room was for the smokers. The walls were lined with sofas and large pillows for customers to lounge on. In the middle of the room was a large open area dubbed “the stage.”

  Although his other houses did the majority of his business, P.I.G. preferred to be there where the action was. These were the customers who spent thousands and the ones most likely to entertain. They were the freaks who would do anything if enough crack was involved.

  After petty arguments among the junkies turned violent a few times, P.I.G. started Friday night fights. The affair was complete with weigh-ins and all the pre-fight hype of authentic matchups.

  Most of the time there were sex acts of varying vulgarity going on around the room. P.I.G. kept a state-of-the-art digital camcorder hooked to a large plasma screen mounted on the wall. This way, he could watch all the perversions and save them for posterity.

  * * *

  P.I.G. glanced around at the occupants of the room with disdain. Everyone was feverishly pulling on their straight-shooters, oblivious to his need to be entertained. His curiosity was suddenly piqued by an escalating exchange of words between two junkies.

  “Bitch! Didn’t I tell yo’ funky ass not to push my stem,” yelled Mojo, one of the regulars. He was upset that Kim, another fixture, and pushed his pipe in his absence.

  Crack pipes, known as “shooters” or “stems,” will accumulate a great deal of residue that can be pushed to either end and smoked again. Most junkies use this once their supply runs out, but when Mojo made a beer run, Kim cleaned out his stem.

  “Shit, nigga! You took too long,” Kim shot back.

  “Bitch, it don’ matter how long I took. That’s my shit!” Mojo replied, now standing over her.

  Kim knew the next words out of her mouth meant the difference between getting the shit slapped out of her and possibly getting some more to smoke, so she chose her words carefully. “Aww, chill out, baby,” she purred, rubbing her palm against his crotch. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  P.I.G. saw a freak show on the horizon and decided to help it along. “Go on and give him some of that dome. I’ll set something out once y’all done.”

  “Man, that don’t do shit for them grams she pushed out ma shit,” Mojo complained meekly as he undressed. He was a hardcore junkie and couldn’t care less about a blow job—or anything else, for that matter. He’d long smoked away his job, his wife, his kids, and his home. He preferred to smoke, but he knew a good performance to entertain P.I.G.’s whims would garner more than the reside Kim stole from him. Mojo dropped his pants, allowing his twelve-inch penis to swing free between his thighs like a clock pendulum, the claim to fame that allowed him entry to P.I.G.’s inner sanctum.

  People who knew of P.I.G.’s licentious fetishes would bring freaks from far and wide. P.I.G. was known to pay a finder’s fee for extraordinary sexual deviants.

  Kim, likewise, was kept around for her ability to swallow objects like twelve-inch penises. If not for crack, she could have had a career as a sword swallower or a circus freak. She was said to give the best he
ad in the world. Given the fact that she could not only get a crackhead up but off, the rumor was probably true.

  P.I.G. trained his camera on the couple, filling the fifty-five-inch screen with the action. To everyone’s relief, Mojo got an erection; given the amount of cocaine he’d consumed, that was no small feat. He was “ooh”-ing and “ahh”-ing for P.I.G.’s benefit as he long-stroked Kim’s face. She maintained eye contact with P.I.G., gagging loudly every time Mojo pushed past her larynx.

  P.I.G. began rocking back and forth as if he was the one deep down in Kim’s throat. He had a raging hard-on, but masturbating was out of the question. It was not that he was above it, but he was simply too fat to get a good grip on himself.

  The couple knew that P.I.G. could get excited enough to ejaculate from visual stimulation alone, and they could tell by the looks of him that he was close. Experience also taught them that prolonging the experience was to their benefit.

  Kim pulled Mojo from her trachea and turned around. Mojo entered her from the back, pushing himself halfway up her spinal column. He was pounding away, putting on a great show, until the door of the bedroom opened, dashing their hopes of milking more dope out of P.I.G.

  Blast emerged from the back room and surveyed the situation. She quickly ascertained what was going on and sprang into action. Without saying a word, she made her way over to P.I.G. and knelt in front of him. She removed him from his pants and took him in her mouth. A few strokes of her hand was all it took for P.I.G. to reach a slobbering, air-gasping orgasm. The show was over.

  “Earl, set them out an eight ball,” P.I.G. ordered once he regained his composure. He was up to a half-ounce in his mind until Blast came to the rescue.

  CHAPTER 2

  Blast wasn’t just P.I.G.’s girl, but she also served as his right-hand man and was, in actuality, running the business. P.I.G. was merely a trick; it was because of her that he was successful.

  Although Blast was a shade darker than tar and was completely flat-chested, it was obvious she was once very pretty. She was tall, rail thin with the seductive gait of a runway model. Her teeth had yellowed and were held in place by gray gums, a result of the drug use, but her smile could still melt ice. She rarely smiled much anymore, though, as life hadn’t given her much to smile about.

  Blast grew up in a rundown trailer along the Mississippi delta with her mother and eight siblings. The trailer was one of the many on Mr. Johnson’s vast farm; he rented the trailers out to the help. In exchange for rent and a meager salary, the families all worked the farms in one capacity or another. Blast’s two older brothers, along with a few older boys, did the heavy labor, while the children picked the fields. All of the mothers supplemented their incomes by trading sexual favors to Mr. Johnson for extras. As a direct result, most of the younger children on the farm were the product of that arrangement.

  There were no men on the farm because once they were of age, they left their mothers, sisters, and younger brothers behind to be slaves to Mr. Johnson, mentally, physically, and sexually.

  And that was exactly how Mr. Johnson viewed his workers: as slaves. He knew the younger ones were his offspring, but that didn’t matter to him. He made everyone call him “Mister,” and he trained his ears to hear “Master” whenever they said it.

  Mr. Johnson would ride around the farm on his tractor pretending to be an overseer. “Get back to work, gal!” he’d bark at one. “Cotton’s not gonna pick itself!” he’d gripe to another.

  It was during one of these forays into his modern-day plantation that he noticed young Blast had ripened. At fourteen, she hadn’t grown breasts to speak of, but the amount of butt cleavage peeking out from under her small shorts said she was ready. He had become so accustomed to the overweight mothers that the sight of Blast was too much for him to ignore. “Hey, gal!” he croaked through the sudden lump in his throat.

  “Yassir, Mista? Blast replied meekly, lowering her gaze as she had been taught.

  “Uh, I…well…um…” Mr. Johnson stammered, unsure how to proceed.

  Blast heard the yearning in his voice and knew she was now in control. She knew giving up the pussy kept the older women out of the fields, and she had a pussy too. Like most of the kids on the plantation, she’d spied on her mother either fucking or sucking good ol’ Mista. She’d also seen the exchange after the deed was done.

  Blast looked Mr. Johnson dead in his eyes as she made her way over to where he was seated on the tractor. “I ain’t hardly ‘bout to suck yo’ thang in this hot sun,” she said, climbing aboard.

  “Well, I guess we best go on to the house,” Mister said eagerly as he put the tractor in gear.

  Back at the house, Mr. Johnson explored young Blast’s budding sexuality for the rest of the day, in two-minute increments. At the end of the day, Blast pocketed a couple of bucks for it and was out of the fields for good. Word spread quickly about the arrangement once the jilted mothers began to feel the pinch in their pocketbooks. When the older boys caught wind of how good Blast was in the sack, they all wanted a piece. Since they didn’t have money like Mista to pay for it, they just took it. Anytime one of them caught Blast anywhere alone, they forced themselves on her and into her.

  Once her brothers got in on the act, Blast decided it was time to go. She reasoned that if she was going to be treated like a whore, she should at least be paid like one. The day after her fifteenth birthday, she sucked Master to sleep and then cleaned out his money box. By the time the inhabitants of the farm realized she was gone, she was halfway to Atlanta.

  Blast hadn’t set both feet on the ground when Smooth spotted her. He was a chicken hawk who routinely stalked the bus stations in search of runaways. He liked them young, and with Blast’s lack of breasts, he knew he could pass her off as thirteen. It only took Smooth ten seconds to recognize that she was alone. That wide-eyed gaze around the big city spoke volumes. There was no grandmother there go get her; she was completely on her own. Smooth had to move quick since he wasn’t the only chicken hawk in town. He checked around once more to make sure no one was coming for her, and then he made his move.

  Once he got her to his house, he fed her a steady diet of dick, game, and crack cocaine. Before she knew what hit her, she was standing on a corner, turning tricks with a nasty crack habit to support.

  He pimped her so hard she had to sleep on her feet. If she begged for a rest, he put the rest of his foot up her ass and put her back to work.

  One day, Smooth caught her sleeping on a park bench and wasted no time kicking her ass. P.I.G., who happened to be on the next bench getting a blow job from another crack whore, watched in anger. He frequented the park daily to relieve his sexual frustrations. He had recently discovered that paying in crack was not only cost effective, but also that crack whores always worked harder when there were drugs on the line. Although he was a coward, P.I.G. couldn’t stand the sight of the young girl being beaten.

  Before Smooth knew it, P.I.G. had him in the air, held by his throat. Smooth was hard on a bitch, but he was a bitch himself when confronted. P.I.G. tossed him in the grass once he passed out from the pressure on his windpipe. “Are you okay?” P.I.G. asked the battered girl.

  “Do I look okay?” Blast replied, spitting blood.

  “No, you don’t,” he answered, helping her to her feet. “Where do you want me to take you?” P.I.G. asked anxiously as Smooth began to stir.

  “Take me with you,” Blast said. She was as eager to leave before Smooth came to as P.I.G. was. She went with P.I.G. that day and had been with him ever since, fifteen years and counting.

  Since she was no longer turning tricks and he was no longer buying them, Blast convinced P.I.G. to sell to support both of their habits. It turned out to be a win-win situation. Blast could smoke as much as she wanted, and P.I.G. practically lived in her mouth. He gave her the nickname of “Blast” because of the huge hits she could smoke. Likewise, she privately called him by his given name.

  * * *

  When Bl
ast emerged from the back room, the freak show was canceled. She knew P.I.G. was still a trick at heart and would set out good dope to see the junkies perform. She intervened by giving him a quick blow job to release some steam.

  As soon as Mojo saw her coming down the hall, he lost his huge erection. He pulled himself out of Kim’s intestines and began to dress. The couple then smoked their pay in silence.

  “If anybody else wanna put on a show, y’all can sweep up,” P.I.G. chuckled as Blast cleaned the semen and saliva from him.

  Those familiar with the term joined in the laughter. The ones who weren’t laughed anyway just because P.I.G. laughed. Only one person wasn’t the least bit amused. Wanda, a dancer, had stopped by to smoke a cocaine-laced blunt, and she openly scorned P.I.G. He was a friend of her boyfriend’s, but she loathed the man. “You need to sweep up yo’ damn self, ya nasty bastard,” she spat venomously.

  “Bitch, you’ll be sweeping up sooner or later,” P.I.G. shot back between chuckles. The feeling was mutual. P.I.G. hated Wanda. If it wasn’t for all the money Mike put in his pocket on her behalf, he wouldn’t have dealt with her at all. And if he didn’t have the best dope in town, she wouldn’t have stepped foot in his place.

  “You first, muthafucker,” Wanda said, taking a sizzling pull on the blunt.

  “After you, ya spiteful bitch,” P.I.G. retorted.

  Mike did a lot of business with P.I.G., but P.I.G. longed for the day when Wanda came begging. He knew it would come one day, as it came for all junkies eventually. Yeah, she’s cool now with the fly mouth and all, P.I.G. thought to himself, but you can’t smoke pure cocaine every day like she’s doing and not fall off. He knew the shit was inevitable, and when she did fall, P.I.G. would be right there, broom in hand.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Here we go again,” Tiffany said inwardly as Marcus turned onto Moreland Avenue. She knew he was headed to see “the pig,” as she called him.