by AP Jermaine
“No please!” She cried and begged. I cocked the hammer of my .44, put it to her forehead and screamed once more.
“Bitch open yo goddamn mouth! And you better drink it or you’re dead!” Crying hysterically, she reluctantly did as I commanded, as I kneeled down over her face, snatched her head up by a handful of her hair, and pissed right down her fuckin throat! “Swallow it!” I screamed insanely again as she cried, choked, and gagged, flopping around like a fish outta water while trying her best to drink down the hot stream of urine! I looked over at Azar to make sure that he was watching. His face was filled with blood, sweat, and tears as he tried to mumble through his taped mouth. “I told you not to fuck around wit me nigga!” Any and all signs of a sane human being were now gone as I jumped up like a madman, dick still swinging! Stomping over to the kitchen counter, I grabbed a bottle of vegetable oil. Enraged as I sped over to where Azar lay, snatched down his sweat pants, and poured the cooking oil all over his ass! As soon as he saw me reaching for the broomstick, his screams could be heard even from beneath the tape, while he jumped around on the floor as if he were on fire! “Be still nigga! I told you not to play games with me!” I pressed my gun to the back of his head and slid the broomstick between the crack of his ass as he cried like a schoolgirl. “I told you I won’t playing no games, didn’t I?” I screamed just as I shoved about six or seven inches of broomstick up his vegetable oil slicked ass! He screamed something from behind the tape, just as his bowels broke and he shitted all over the floor! The smell was disgusting! “Uh ha. I bet you ready to tell me what I want to know now aint you?” Azar, almost unconscious, weakly nodded his head. “Aight nigga last chance. I’m gonna take this tape away from your mouth, and you gone tell me where the shit at right?” Azar nodded again as his eyes started to roll to the back of his head. I yanked the tape off his mouth making sure to inflict pain. “Aight where it at nigga? Or do I gotta push this broom in all the way to the straws?”
“Und…. Un… Under the frig….” He was going into shock
“Under the refrigerator?” Slowly he nodded his head. Immediately I jumped up, ran over to the refrigerator, and slid it over a few feet. Bingo! Cut into the floor was a small door about the same width as the refrigerator. Reaching down, I pulled the square handle, and the door swung open. A safe! Built right into the floor. Slick motherfucker. Hurriedly I walked back to Azar. He was drifting in and out of consciousness so I tapped him on the forehead with the butt of my ratchet to get his full attention. “What’s the combination!”
“Ten…. Fourteen…… ni… nine….” Azar pushed out with all he had. Rushing back to the safe, while Rosa stared at me wide eyed with terror, I entered the combination, turned the latch, pulled hard, and the heavy door opened up. Lord have mercy. Just what the doctor ordered. Scooping up their trash can, I quickly dumped all the trash onto the kitchen floor, snatched out the Hefty trash bag, and filled it with the contents of the safe. Quickly I snatched the telephone cord from the wall, took Azar’s cell phone and threw it in the pot of boiling water on the stove, told Azar that Shell said what’s up, and made my graceful departure. Racing to the awaiting Bentley coupe, I snatched open the back door, threw in the trash bag, slammed the door shut, and slid into the passenger seat. Right on cue, Tamia dropped the car in low gear, and punched the gas down to the floor!
“Everything okay baby?”
“Yeah everything’s lovely,” I answered while wiping the sweat from my brow.
“Did I do good Teddy? Did I play my part okay?”
“Girl you were Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball! I got an Oscar for yo ass too,” I leaned over and kissed her passionately while we sat at the red light. A small reward in itself.
“You know I love you Teddy. I always have and always will. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“I love you too girl.” Shit even if I wasn’t “in love” with her, I was damn sure loving her right now! She earned it today!
“So, am I down by law?” she smiled hopefully.
“Yes Tamia. You are down by motherfuckin law. Now quit talkin so damn much and drive.”
“Okay baby.”
Chapter 72 “Unplugged”
“Yo turn that music down, this my man,” Shell told Flame as they rode by N.C. Central. “Yo what’s good my nigga?” Shell answered his phone.
“You dead motherfucker! You hear me you fucking junky! You dead!” Azar yelled as spittle flew from his mouth like a rabid dog!
“Yo Azar you know who…?”
“Nigga fuck you! You gone send somebody to rob me! After all I did for yo junky ass! I’m gonna murder you motherfucker!” Azar laid in bed on his side popping Percocets like candy.
“Yo bru, you need to pipe that shit down some.”
“Fuck you bitch! You dead motherfucker!”
“Ay yo bru, I don’t know what the fuck going on but you aint gone do shit to me.”
“Watch yo back, you fucking dopefiend. Your days are numbered bitch!”
“Nigga fuck you! I don’t know what the fuck you on, but you need to chill.”
“Die slow motherfucker,” were his last words before Azar disconnected.
“Yo Azar?… Azar….!” Shell hung up and dialed Azar’s cell number, only to be told that the number was disconnected or was no longer in service. “What the fuck?” Shell hung up and looked over at Flame confused.
“What is it dog?” Flame asked pretending that he hadn’t been locked in on the entire conversation.
“Man, that nigga Azar tripping.” Shell’s face still showed confusion.
“You talking about the plug?”
“Yeah. That motherfucker screaming about I sent somebody to jux him, and what he gone do to me, and all kinds of dumb shit.”
“Word to life son?”
“I’m telling you the nigga bugging! Fuck that ho ass nigga. I don’t know what the fuck he smoking but he come at me on some sideways shit, he better be ready to meet Satan.”
“Damn bru. What the fuck we gone do about work if the plug on some other shit?” Flame’s face showed concern.
“Fuck it. Now I don’t owe his ass shit. We got paper, we can find a plug. Know what I’m saying?” Shell spoke the words although he really wasn’t that confident.
“Yeah bru, we’ll find a way.” Flame answered hoping this shit was all just a big misunderstanding. He knew that without Azar for a plug, shit was gonna get real ugly real fast.
Chapter 73 “The Sweetest Joy”
The time for playing games with Shell had come to an end. The disrespectful comment he’d made about Monique and my child she was carrying, was undoubtably what sealed his doom. The hold card I’d been saving, was the simple fact of knowing exactly where his punk ass arrogance, livelihood, lifestyle, and anything else the nigga possessed came from. A so called rich nigga named Azar. His plug. As told to me by Shell himself, Azar lived in Charlotte, drove a Grancabrio Maserati, had a Spanish wife, and hung out every Saturday at a local hood car wash, where niggas came from all around to stunt and try to pick up new pussy. More than enough info for a nigga like me. I was almost willing to bet my left nut, there weren’t too many niggas pushing Maseratis and hanging out at the spot Shell had described to me. Even though Charlotte is considered a big money city, with pro football, and basketball teams, most cats with legit paper tend to try and stay away from the hood hang outs in the daytime. Bad publicity is something they can do without. Not to mention the threat of getting robbed. Twitter and Facebook can be a celebrity’s worst nightmare these days, and possibly end their careers. Straight like that! My plan for ending Shell’s career was simple. Kill the head, and the body will die. A cardinal rule of life. In the days following the club, I spent $45,000 on 18 inches of diamonds for my neck, that you usually only see on rappers; and another $9,000 on an iced - out timepiece for my wrist. All in a backroom deal, with New York Jewelry’s owner named Ahmad. Another $125,000 I’d placed on the Bentley Azure as a down payment, from a dealership named Exotic Imp
orts of Cary. A dealership that had treated me like the King of England, once Ishmeel called ahead and told them to be expecting me. His resources were endless. I was coaching Tamia every day on the part I needed her to play. She wasn’t bullshitting either. She was outstanding in her role. Kiss, kiss babygirl. The New York plates I’d ahhhh…, “borrowed” from a money green Jaguar parked in front of the Carmike Theater the night before we took our little trip to Charlotte. I’d actually only placed the New York tags on the Bentley, just two minutes prior to pulling into the car wash parking lot. All these things; the car, the ice, Tamia, the New York plates, were all mere stage props for a scene that I needed to create. Just like baiting a hook to catch a certain type of fish. As I’ve told you before, no piece of pussy in the world is more enticing to a nigga getting money, than the next get money niggas bitch. Especially if he feels like the nigga is getting more money than he is. Be it baby mama, wife, or wifey; as long as he knows the nigga cares about her, it’s like a trophy piece if he can knock her off. An ego boost that only fucking a bigger niggers bitch can give. The ultimate piece of new pussy. “Exclusive.” So, I baited my hook, threw out my line, and Azar bit. Since the beginning of time, pussy has been a man’s downfall. And this day was no different. A piece of pussy had cost Azar, $273,625 dollars in cash, two bricks of heroin, four bricks of coke, a woman’s tennis bracelet with diamonds the size of skittles, a pair of platinum diamond hoop earrings, a German 522 min. SD Assault Riffle with a 25 - round clip, a Glock 19 semi auto 9mm, and 426 grams of what I soon found out to be the infamous “Molly.” All the things I removed from his floor safe. Shell was right about one thing. He had a helleva connect! Preciate ya! Why the nigga had the guns in his safe, instead of somewhere he could get his hands on em is beyond me. I guess he figured he was untouchable. Always remember folks, nobody’s untouchable. Not even me. I know better. I slid Tamia a hundred stacks and the diamond earrings for playing her part. The tennis bracelet I gave mom dukes for her birthday. Two weeks ago, they’d found Azar in Corpus Christi, Texas decapitated. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a result of all the money and drugs he was unable to replace of Rosa’s brother’s. Fuck it. Life’s a bitch and then you die. He had a good run.
Six Months Later… Kill the head and the body will die. Aint no way around it. As you probably coulda guessed, with no more Azar around to titty feed his bitch ass, Shell fell off quicker than Ike without Tina. Any and all that he’d ever acquired was now a distant memory. Except for his out of control dope habit of course. No trap spots in the east, no dopehouse in the North, no cars, no houses, no bitches, no money, not shit. His fair - weather followers have moved on to leach off the next sucker. Flame, now calling himself getting his own weight up, recruited two or three young cats to move “boy” for him in the projects. Now that Shell was dead broke and greasy, none of his former flunkies came within a zillion - feet of his dumb ass. Them was his homies though. Don’t laugh too hard at him yall. The niggas a nobody. A junky. Just like so many other so called hustlers that fell from grace by becoming their own best customers. I’m loving it! Now he’s one of the best boosters in the projects! That is, when he can get somebody to take him out with them to boost. He’s not too well liked by most of the local dopefiends, because of the way he’d treated people when he had the dope. When he wasn’t out stealing shit to get high, he was bumming around the projects, running errands and being a do boy, washing niggas whips and shit like that. Anything for the dope. Rumor had it, he’d even sucked a dick or two. I don’t know for sure, I’m just telling you what I heard. He’d been shot twice in the last six months. Both times by niggas he’d robbed when he was on. Without drugs or money, he’s got no friends and nowhere to hide. To kill the nigga now would be a mercy kill. It’s so much more fun, sitting back and watching the nigga suffer. Pac was dead on point when he said, “Revenge is like The Sweetest Joy Next to Getting Pussy.” As much shit as he boosts outta the stores, the nigga still doesn’t even have a decent pair of shoes, let alone nice clothes. Everything he steals he’s got to sell, because his habit is so out of control. One or two bags aint gonna do it for him. He needs bundles! A result of having unlimited access to dope, and being able to do all he wanted when Azar was alive, and shit was sweet. On more than one occasion I’d rode past him standing in the dopefiend hangout on the side of Town and Country mini mart, hugging his ribs with a snotty nose and tears in his eyes, because he was dopesick and in pain. Heroin addicts describe being dopesick as feeling worse than death. Like your whole body has been put into a meat grinder, one fiend told me. Once or twice, Shell had even tried to flag me down. Yeah right nigga. Die slow motherfucker. Fuck that lame. He’s getting exactly what I planned for his ass. Misery and pain. I hope Monique is watching and smiling. But fuck him. As for me, I’ve still been playing chess, trying to stay three moves ahead. The game is to be sold not told though. And I’ve already told you enough for free. Just know that “I put miles on that hoopty, and put hours in that kitchen, put that on whoever the fuck you want, this is fact not fiction.” I got a lotta legit paper on my side now, thanks to Ishmeel. I owe him a lot. Tika too. Oh yeah. I know I held off on telling yall about me and Cookie but I meant to. Our experience is gonna take a minute to run down and I gotta get ready to get up outta here, so I promise to hit you back later with that one. It’s worth the wait trust me. But anyway, you know there’s more than one opening in a chess match. Actually, there’s hundreds. You just gotta figure out which one works best. I’ve got $161,000 in my savings account, and two safety deposit boxes in two separate banks with over a hundred bands in each. I also keep seventy- five thousand in Lauryn’s bank account. All this, legit money I can touch and use without suspicion. After all, I am a licensed buyer and seller of cars. You never know when I needed to buy or sell something. And my taxes are up to date. That’s all the feds really care about anyway. Their cut. The biggest crooks in America. But hey, it is what it is. Now, as far as my extracurricular bread is concerned, I’ve got money stashed in safes, storage units, houses, cars, apartments, shit I been putting money in so many places I’m starting to forget
where the fuck I’ve left it. A hundred thousand here, eighty thousand there, fifty thousand underneath this, forty thousand behind that. Nah, I’ll never be able to get hit like I did before. But you live and you learn. Or you die a stupid motherfucker. Speaking of Lauryn, some funny shit happened about three weeks ago. Lauryn called me pissed off and upset, asking me to come hurt her pussy so she could let off some steam. Some young nigga from Laurinburg had given her a $25,000 retainer, on an agreed price of $50,000; to represent him on charges of Trafficking Cocaine, Firearm by Felon, and Assault with a Deadly Weapon with Intent to Kill. Lauryn, not wanting the case to drag out, because of more pressing issues, had called in a favor; and had the charges reduced to misdemeanor possession, and carrying a concealed weapon. All dude had to do was pay a fine and he was free. But after finding out that his charges had been all but dropped, the young nigga ducked outta paying Lauryn the other $25,000, even though they’d signed a contract. I calmed her down, met up with her, and fucked her till she was exhausted. As she lay across my chest weakened and satisfied she reached into her pocketbook and handed me a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“It’s his name and address baby. The kind of car he drives, his mothers, and baby mother’s addresses are on there too. He’s got plenty of money baby. I’ve represented him twice before,” Lauryn told me with her head now resting on my stomach. Hmmm. I wondered how well Lauryn really knew this cat. Fuck it, it wasn’t my business. This shit was worth looking into though.
I laid and watched the nigga for two weeks, and the first time I caught him slippin, I duct taped his ass up, pistol whipped him into compliance, then relieved the trunk of a 1986 Cutlass parked behind his baby mom’s house, of $126,000 cash, 37 pounds of Kush and 1,263 Excasty pills. I gave Lauryn $50,000, and the rest was profit. My baby Lauryn, was a little more gangsta than I thought. If you’re wond
ering why I’ve put her name and business out there like that, then you’re an idiot if you think her real name is Lauryn Laddell. Or that her husband is a cop. Close maybe, but not exactly. Some names and places have to be changed, in order to protect myself and others from federal prosecution. So yeah, some things you’re just gonna have to use your common sense on. With that in mind, I am now the proud owner of a $293,000 three bedroom, two bath, three car garage home, located in Orange County. The deed was signed over to me as a present from Olivia, once I agreed not to answer any more calls from the phone Mishka given me. The gift phone. Another shocking revelation I’d found, was that Mishka, was only 39 years old! She’d had her son Muhammed when she was just 13. That’s another story though. Olivia, I now knew, was 54 years of age, and not only was her husband stinking rich, but also was she. Even before he and her met. Her father was a U.S. Congressman from South Carolina. Their family’s money was old, and long. She’s my cougar, sugar mama. She spends money on me, like I’m the crown prince next in line to the throne. Her husband whom is 68, and no longer really cares about the freaky sex that Olivia so much enjoys, all but gave her permission to seek out her satisfaction however she pleased. Even though she’d been raised in a typical southern family, (racist) she’d always held a secret fetish for big dick black men. And now at her age, much younger big dick black men. I don’t judge her. That’s my cougar boo. I, can make her cum. Hard. My gift and my curse. It’s what I do. I’ve accepted it. A woman adores a man whom is smart, charismatic and can get her off on command. Ladies please stop me right here if I’m lying. Olivia’s also cool as a fan. Although she had taken me, a big dicked brother, on all expense paid trips to Las Vegas and the Bahamas in the last few months, she knew better than to try and act like she owned me. She knew and understood that I lead a shall I say…. diverse lifestyle. But as long as I spent a little time with her at least once a week, she was happy as a bee swimming in honey. Yet and still, for some strange reason, she just did not want me meeting anobody else off that phone. I think she was scared she might lose me to another cougar. But fuck it. For all she does, I considered it a small request, and put the phone away for now. I hit Mishka off with ten stacks, and she was content being able to say “I told you so,” with that crazy laugh of hers. The house, Olivia informed me, was one of hers when she just wanted to get away. Her husband, she assured me, knew nothing of the residence that was now my own. Parked inside the garage, was a cocaine white Rolls Royce Corniche Convertible that I’d recently traded the Bentley Azzure in to obtain. Sitting right next to it, was an ocean blue Aston Martin Vanquish. Both vehicles that I’d not only had the urge, but the means to make my own. Both also purchased from Exotic Imports of Cary, that I’d also discovered months ago, was owned by none other than Ishmeel. The extent of his finances was scary, but I’m glad I’m on his team. So yeah, I did catch a small break on the whips, because I think we can all agree, that it’s not what you know, but who. And I know the man, behind the man. Another small piece of information I’d learned from Ishmeel, is that he’d never did any illegal business, with anyone neither black, nor white until me. And still hadn’t, outside of me. He said he did it for Tika, and was now glad that he had. I was like the son he’d always wished Muhammed to be. I gotta respect him for keeping it gangsta. But anyway, you know the streets of Durham never see me in any of my big boy toys. I only pulled em out when I was ready to hit the highway. Sometimes for pleasure, more often for business. My everyday car now, is yet another BMW 535I. Just like the one I had before. Latifah’s job at the D. M. V. once again proved to be a major asset, while at the same time I finally found a way to put that stupid phat donk of Peaches’s to work. Every city in America has a hustler hang out. Be it car wash, liquor house, beachfront, club, Waffle House, whatever. Though I will say most of my action came from the cities hottest clubs. A drunk motherfucker aint on point and the liquor makes his lips loose. My method was simple. Hopping into my Beemer, I’d head out, scoop up Peaches and we’d hit the highway. Whatever city we stopped in, that’s where it jumped off at. Seeking out and finding the current cities most popular hot spot, most time all we’d do is parking lot pimp. While politicing in the parking lot, I’d casually scope out the most expensive whips, being driven by niggas that I knew had to be getting trap money, in some shape, form, or fashion. Talking on the phone with Latifah, I’d relay the license plate numbers of the whips I’d chosen, which in turn, she would punch into her computer, then jot down the addresses of where the cars were registered to. Peaches in the meantime, would latch on to some get money nigga, looking to show off, for some new pussy with a pretty face and a phat ass. Most time I’d leave her, although she’d always call to inform me of where she was, and with who; even down to the make, and color of their whip. The next day, I’d return in my Plymouth Reliant, and check out the addresses of the whips I’d scoped out. There was two ways that I’d usually strike. I could call Peaches and check her status, and lots of times she’d say, “Come on and get me I’m ready.” Automatically I knew, that meant that she had the niggas guard down, with enough information for me to scrape em. Sometimes it would take her as little as over the weekend, sometimes as long as a week. But in the end, the nigga almost always got robbed for loving that pretty phat ass. If I had to wait on Peaches to do her thing, I’d just lay on one of the niggas from the addresses I’d gotten from Latifah. Sometimes the address would be mama’s house, sometimes baby mama, or sister, or on some rare occasions, it would actually be their own. To put it plain. I can thank Shell for one real thing he’d hipped me to. “Aint shit like that free money!” It’s a rush you get. Just like when you trappin. So, do I consider myself a stick - up kid now? Nah. I’m just a hustler. In every aspect of the word. Another method I’d use to scrape niggas, was also quite simple. On these occasions, I’d also use Keisha. Partly because she was gonna scratch Peaches’ eyes out of her head if I didn’t. These jobs required the big boy toys. Say me and Peaches hit up some clubs, then showed up at the after - hours hangout. I’d pull up in the Rolls or the Vanquish, hop out ice blinding, and prepare for the onslaught of sack chasers, that would undoubtably be gracing me with their presence. Peaches would already have her victim set up from the club, and would go meet up with him, while I laid back and parking lot pimped. Wherever I was at parking lot pimping, I’d almost always make it a point of letting my gun be seen peeking from my waistband. Just to let the stick - up boys and haters know that won’t shit sweet. Not saying that I was immune to getting robbed, because I knew that I could. But even the realest niggas will admit, that once you see the next niggas got a ratchet within his reach, you tend to think twice about how you come at him. I never stayed out there long enough for niggas to devise no plans against me anyway. Nor did I fuck with any of those sack chasers that threw their pussies, mouths, and asses at me constantly. A lotta times we’d hit small cities where I knew the prices of work would be high. Peaches would leave with her sucker of the night as usual, only this time, during pillow talk, Peaches would non chalantly answer the undoubtable questions dude would have about who I was. Casually she’d tell him that I was her brother and that I had the best work, for cheap. Sometimes this method worked, sometimes it didn’t. In the cases where it did work, Peaches would inform dude that although I was very cautious and didn’t fuck with many new faces, with her blessings she could probably set up a meeting with me. A day or so later she’d pick dude up and bring him to me. Alone. By this time, the nigga would be being led by his dick, hypnotized by Peaches’ good pussy, phat ass, and mean head game. The difference in this hustle, is that I’d actually use dude to help me move work. Far away from the nosey eyes of those who knew me in Durham. I’d give him superior cocaine at a cheaper price than anyone. He couldn’t lose. All my real niggas know, that once you find a sweet connect, the last thing you want to do, is let someone know who it is. Plugs are too hard to come by. Even still, Peaches would always bring him to meet me at different locations, while Keisha followed a
t a safe distance to make sure they weren’t being followed. Number one rule is never underestimate anybody. You can NEVER be too careful. I’d let the nigga build up his money and cliental, probably by then getting all his homeboys to throw their money in with him when it’s time to re - up, then as soon as he came to me with enough money, say fifty, sixty racks, I’d rob the shit out of em. He’d leave with no coke, and no money, and we’d haul ass back to Durham with his paper and his pride. The only connection he’d have to Peaches, whom he always had to come through to see me, would be a #10 prepaid phone that would get tossed out the window as soon as we hit the highway. Whatever paper I gave Peaches, I’d always split down the middle with Keisha first. It was never more than a couple thousand, even though they both did have cars now, and Keisha had moved into a two - bedroom house right across the street from the projects. The money I hit Keisha with, even if she wasn’t with me and Peaches on a scheme, held down the inevitable catfight. No need to fuck up a good thing. Not to mention the fact, that she did end up receiving the fifty thousand - dollar life insurance policy from her grandmother’s death; and readily handed forty - seven thousand, right over to Big Papa. Now, I know a lotta niggas probably out there reading this right now like, “That son of a bitch!” or maybe, “That slut bitch!” Yeah it was me that got you. Don’t blame the girls. They’re just victims of my gift. But I’m gonna tell you like this. Don’t try to be no hero. I don’t play by no rules. Your girl, your mama, wife, daddy, whoever. They all fair game. Nobody knows what happened but you, me and the girls. Let it go. You can get more money, but dead is dead. I coulda killed you but I didn’t. Respect that.
