by 50 Cent
“Was you and your pops smoking weed when he told you that shit? Sounds like that weed philosophy,” Butter commented.
“That’s real talk, man, from a man who’s doing life in the pen.”
“That’s why you gotta watch everybody.” Butter blew out a huge smoke ring, pulled the gun out, cocked it again, then kissed the barrel. “I’m ’bout hit a lick tonight, man. I needs some money in a major way.”
“I ain’t got shit myself, and that motherfuckin’ baby mama is nagging the shit out of me. My son is two and can’t walk—he needs physical therapy. The bitch ain’t got no insurance.” Seven thought about his boy and other problems he was having. He hardly ever had money. Sometimes he would detail cars for hustlers but he didn’t have any real paper—not like he was used to—hell, before he’d gotten locked up he had thousands of dollars on him at all times. Now it was down to this petty-assed car washing—he felt like a sucker.
Butter sat back on the Impala. Young Jeezy was now coming from the Chevy. “You know what? I thought you were locked up three years ago in Virginia. Right.”
“Yeah.”
“How the fuck did you get her pregnant, anyway? I mean, I was thinking about that shit one night. I was high as fuck, sitting outside, looking up at the sky and shit. You know that’s when you high; you have the strangest thoughts.”
“Now that’s got to be a weed-induced thought.”
“I was on that purple haze and my mind was just racing and shit, and I was thinking of all kinds of stupid shit.”
“Well, Adrian was actually a guard that I met while I was on the inside. I started banging her and the warden got wind of it. Fired her and put me in solitary confinement,” Seven said.
Butter’s eyes grew wide. “Nigga, quit lying.”
“I’m serious. One thing about me, man, is that I’ve never had a problem with the ladies, I’ve always been able to pull them.” Seven was indeed a ladies’ man. Very attractive dark smooth skin, wavy hair; his body was well-defined and his teeth were eggshell white. The women loved him.
“Damn, that’s an amazing story,” Butter said.
“Yeah, man. That’s how the shit went down. I got her pregnant. We kept in touch while I was in prison and she moved to Charlotte, N.C., so that’s why I relocated here.”
“Why did you relocate here?”
Seven inhaled the blunt. “Damn, nigga, you a news reporter? Motherfucker, why so many questions—you the FBI or something?”
“Naw, just making sure you ain’t FBI,” Butter replied.
“I mean I got three sisters and three brothers in New York, but I ain’t really fucking with them like that. I mean, the whole time I was down only one of my sisters came to visit me so I ain’t really have no reason to go back to New York and I ain’t going back to Virginia cuz all my niggas locked up.”
“Damn. You came all the way down here not knowing anybody.”
“I wasn’t afraid. The only thing I was worried about was that bitch tripping, and she tripped and put me out. But it’s okay, I got my own room in the boardinghouse and I got some pussy, so I’m good.”
“Nigga, you must not be used to having money.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong at. I made a lot of money. Ran with a fucking crew—and most of them niggas that I ran with are either dead or in jail.”
Butter rolled another blunt, lit it and inhaled, then blew another smoke ring before coughing loudly.
“What the fuck were y’all doing?”
“Coke, heroin, e-pills…all types shit.”
“I can’t believe that shit, man, cuz it just seems like you are so content with being an average motherfucker.”
“Nigga, you average,” Seven said.
“But I ain’t never got no real money, nigga. I bet y’all seen millions.”
Seven thought back. A few years ago he was driving Porsches, BMWs and shit with expensive rims. Ever since he’d been released from prison a year ago, it had only been a bus pass. He really wanted money too, but he didn’t know anybody who would give him drugs. He was in Charlotte. Nobody knew him. This was both good and bad. It was good because he didn’t have a reputation to keep, but it was bad because he couldn’t get anybody in Charlotte to supply him.
Butter passed Seven the gun. “Got this motherfucker for two rocks, nigga, it was brand-new in the box.”
“What you mean you got it for two rocks, you ain’t no hustler.”
“I know but I have drugs because I’m the type of motherfucker that takes shit from the dope boyz, you know, if they making money I’m making money because they have to give me money or else I’ll rob they punk ass. I actually took the dope from a nigga, gave it to another motherfucker for the gun and when I got the gun I robbed the nigga that sold me the gun and got my rocks back…that’s how ya boy Butter gets down.”
Seven laughed but he really didn’t think that was funny. He’d been around niggas like Butter before and knew he could only trust him as far as he could see him.
“So—do you want to help me with this lick?”
“So, who is this cat, Caesar? And does he have money?”
“He has a Colombian plug, and word in the street is he gets those bricks for thirteen five. He just bought this stripper bitch a Benz for her birthday.”
“How can we get at him?” Seven wanted to know. He remembered the days when he was dealing in Richmond, Virginia. He knew that the streets talk, especially in the South; news spread like wildfire. Things that were just ordinary conversation could be made into major news. He also knew that whoever Caesar was, it wasn’t going to be easy to get to him.
“One thing you have to always remember is that most of these major drug dealers are cowards. You don’t have to worry about them. It’s the niggas around them that you have to worry about; the enforcer-type niggas. Those are the hungry mufuckas that will do something to you,” Butter pointed out.
“Exactly. I know this. I mean I ain’t never stuck nobody up, but I know the fuckin’ streets. I know legendary stickup kids in New York. I’m talking about kidnap-your-mom type niggas, son.”
Butter chuckled to himself. He never understood why New Yorkers called everybody “son.” A motherfucker could be seventy years old and still be called son.
“I know what ya mean. But—back to the business. You with me or not?”
Seven thought for a moment and took a puff of the blunt. He knew that if what Butter said was true, he would be doing a lot better than he had been doing. Hell. He lived in a boardinghouse with twelve other sweaty men and one crackhead woman. He wanted out of that place more than he did prison. He envisioned taking kilos of coke from the drug dealer with the Colombian connection. “Yeah. I’m down, son.”
Butter tossed him a pair of gloves and a ski mask and a sawed-off pump shotgun. “Let’s get that money the fast way the ski mask way.”
“The ski mask way…Hell yeah,” Seven said. He and Butter high-fived.
The subdivision was called Peaceful Oaks. A quiet neighborhood in the southeastern part of Charlotte. It was predominantely white, which meant they had to be very cautious. White people called the police at the slightest bit of suspicion. Two black men rolling through suburbia after midnight was not a good look. Butter and Seven rolled through the neighborhood looking out for Good Samaritans—people that wanted to be on the news saying that they tipped the police.
Caesar’s street was Peaceful Way Drive. Butter went one street over, to Peaceful Pine Drive, and parked the car in the driveway of an abandoned house. He and Seven hopped over the privacy fence in the backyard into Caesar’s backyard and looked around, but didn’t see anybody. Then Seven saw the sign that read ADT in front of the door.
“He has an alarm. Man. What do we do about that?”
“He has a baby, too.”
Seven looked confused. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t worry about this shit. I’ve done it before. I got this player.”
Seven put on the mask and the gloves. He thought about prison; the sick old men there, the perverts, the liars and the snitches. He didn’t want to go back to that place. They went around front. Nobody noticed them and the street was dark.
“On the count of three, I’m going to kick in the door. I want you to go in one room and I go in the other, just in case there is somebody else in the house.”
“Nigga, you’ve done this shit before for real?” Seven said.
Butter’s face hardened. “This ain’t no fuckin’ game to me, man. I need to eat.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Butter kicked the door in and ran into the first bedroom.
Seven ran into the second bedroom and found a man and a woman on the floor, naked. He pointed the gun at the man. “Okay, I need you to get the fuck up and your bitch to stay on the floor with her hands on her head.”
The man was shaking and it looked as if tears were in his eyes. Damn, what a bitch-assed nigga, Seven thought.
“Nobody is going to get hurt as long as you do what the fuck I say.”
Butter walked into the room with a little boy wearing Elmo pajamas.
“Look what I have.”
The little boy began to cry.
The alarm went off. Caesar said, “The police will be here soon. You don’t want to go to jail, do you?”
Seven said sarcastically, “Yeah. That what we came here for…to get caught and go to jail.” He slapped Caesar with the barrel of the gun.
“Don’t you say a motherfuckin’ thing.”
He walked Caesar into the hallway to the alarm keypad.
“Disarm the alarm,” Seven ordered.
Caesar punched in the code.
The telephone rang. Butter picked it up without answering it. The caller ID said ADP.
“The fuckin’ alarm company.”
“Well, we knew they had an alarm,” Seven said.
“Don’t worry,” Butter said, and he walked the phone over to Caesar with the infant still in his hand, crying. “Tell them everything is okay,” Butter said. “If you try some slick shit, I’ll blow your fucking block off, nigga.”
“Hello,” Caesar said.
A female voice said, “This is ADP. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine. I just didn’t get to the alarm pad on time.”
“Okay. What is your password?”
“My password?”
Butter clenched his teeth.
“Tell the bitch your password or else it’s going to be a fuckin’ bloodbath in this motherfucker. I promise you, man.”
“The password is rubber.”
The little boy started crying louder.
“Okay, sir. Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yes; everything is fine, ma’am.”
“Do I hear a child crying?”
“That’s my son. The alarm scared him.”
“Okay, sir. You have a good night.”
Butter snatched the phone out of Caesar’s hand and terminated the call.
“Okay, man. Where the fuck is the dope, nigga?”
“Ain’t no dope here, man.”
“Okay, motherfucker. You think I’m stupid?” Seven said through clenched teeth. “You think I believe you worked for this house and that fat-assed Benz you got outside? You think that I think this fine-assed bitch is with you for you good looks?” Seven looked at the female, who was still facedown and shaking nervously.
“Where the fuck is the cash?” Butter said.
“I’m telling you I ain’t got shit.”
“Nigga, you ain’t gonna have no fuckin’ son if you don’t give us what we want.”
“Please don’t hurt my baby,” the woman said, then stood.
Seven pointed the gun at her.
“Bitch, get back on the floor.”
“Where the fuck is the dope?” Butter repeated.
“There ain’t no dope here.”
Butter walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back. “I’ma count to three. If you don’t give me some dope or some money, this little boy is going out of the window.”
“Put the child down,” Seven said as he thought about his own little boy. He never had a soft spot for kids until he had brought Tracey into the world.
He and Butter made eye contact before Butter said, “Nigga, you don’ tell me what the fuck to do. I’m telling this motherfucker if I don’t get what the fuck I want, this little boy is going out of the window.”
The woman stood and Seven aimed the gun at her again. “Get your ass back on the floor.”
“No. Please, please don’t hurt my baby. I’ll tell you where the money is.”
Seven cocked the hammer of the gun. “Well, tell me where the godamned money is, then.”
“Please, put my son down first.”
Butter put the child on the bed.
The woman went into the closet and pulled out a large green gym bag. Butter unzipped the bag and saw bundles of money. He zipped the bag back up.
“Okay; where’s the dope, bitch?”
“There really ain’t no dope in here. I swear to God,” the woman said.
“Okay.”
Butter stepped out of the closet.
“Bring him to me,” Butter said to Seven.
Seven walked Caesar over.
“Okay, nigga. Where ya fucking car keys at, and ya guns and shit?”
The woman got the keys from the nightstand and handed them to Butter.
Butter duct-taped Caesar’s hands and feet together and handcuffed the woman to the bed.
The baby was still crying. Seven walked over to him, ran his fingers through the toddler’s hair and said, “It’s going to be okay.”
They left with the money.
DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR
By 50 Cent and Nikki Turner
As Trill cruised through the little hick town of Ashland, he consciously abided by all the laws. It didn’t matter, though, because the sheriff was sure he had hit the lotto when he spotted his mark: a young black male driving a $60,000 truck. The Hummer happened to be Sheriff Bowman Body’s dream truck. A truck he could only dream of having with his salary, and he despised the fact that some punk who probably never even finished high school was riding around in it.
Trill could have been wearing a priest’s collar, but as far as Bowman Body was concerned, he was a drug dealer and a prime victim of the monthly driving citation quota. Before Trill could think twice, the sheriff’s blue lights were bouncing off of his rearview mirror.
“Fuck!” Trill shouted. He beat his hand on the steering wheel as he spat the word out. He quickly looked down and, after making sure that his secret hiding place was secure, then pulled over. He watched from his side mirror as the small, thin-featured sheriff approached the car. His walk was like Forrest Gump but his look was the Terminator, coming to devour.
“License and registration, boy!” the sheriff said with authority as he knocked on the driver’s side window.
Trill rolled down the window halfway. “No problem, Officer,” he responded, and leaned forward to the glove box to retrieve his registration.
“Freeze!” The sheriff drew his gun and stuck his hand inside the car.
Stunned, Trill slowly eased back into the driver’s seat until he felt the tip of the sheriff’s revolver at his temple.
“I was going for my registration, man,” Trill said slowly. “Don’t most people keep their registration in the glove box?”
“You trying to get fresh with me, nigger?” The sheriff cocked his gun.
Trill could feel his blood boiling. Given the opportunity, he would leave the racist redneck stinkin’ on the hood of his own police cruiser for his fellow officers to scrape him off.
“You would think that you niggers would know the drill by now, and have these things prepared,” the sheriff drawled boldly. “As much shit as y’all stay in, you’d think y’all would pin the damn registration to your collars. Now slowly,” Bowman Body
said, “open the glove box and retrieve the registration.” He paused before adding, “And I said slowly, not like you grabbing for the last piece of chicken out of a bucket of Colonel Sanders.”
Trill smelled the scent of trouble like shit from a three-hundred-pound man who just got an enema. He knew Barney Fife was gon’ fuck with him until he came up with a reason good enough to stick him. Trill was fully aware that the four thousand grams of crack cocaine in his hiding spot was 3,400 grams more than enough to get him a mandatory life sentence in a federal penitentiary. His instincts told him that he didn’t want to trust his life on the chance that this hillbilly didn’t impound the truck and stumble upon the stash box. He had to make a move. His next move would be crucial. A convicted felon caught with four kilos of crack cocaine was not a good look. He couldn’t take that chance; that was reason enough to give Bowman Body a run for his money. And he intended to do just that.
Trill grabbed the registration from the glove box and turned to hand it to the sheriff. When the sheriff reached inside the truck with his free hand and grabbed hold of the registration, Trill quickly hit the switch to roll the window up while he floored the accelerator at the same time. The powerful Hummer snatched the sheriff off his feet so fast he dropped the pistol, screaming while Trill put the pedal to the metal.
“Who the fuck reaching now? Get yo’ hand out the chicken box, cracker!” Trill screamed at Bowman Body. “Get yo’ shit out my chicken box, motherfucker!” His adrenaline was pumping, having the upper hand. He knew if he was caught he was gone for life. So he was going out like a real-live gangsta—with a mean fight.
He drove the Humdinger like he was on safari in Africa; the sheriff hung from the side of the car, holding on for dear life, slamming into the door every now and then as the truck dragged him at sixty miles an hour down the road. He went from Barney Fife to Barney Rubble as he ran alongside the automobile.
Bowman Body was swinging from side to side, praying and calling out every scripture in the Bible he’d ever known from his childhood days of going to Vacation Bible School. Once Trill felt like he was deep enough in the sticks and had room and leeway to run and hide, he pushed the window’s button down to release the sheriff and slammed on the brakes, throwing the sheriff face-first to the ground.
