Real awoke the next morning in a guest room at Shamoney’s opulent four-bedroom home that he shared with his wife, Chantele, who was a gorgeous swimsuit model who had helped Shamoney stay under the fed’s radar. Despite her dislike of Shamoney’s dealings in the dope game, she loved him and would do anything for him. Her net worth was a million dollars, but was certain to increase in due time.
Real turned to his left and saw the gorgeous brunette named Kimberly, who was a friend of Chantele’s. She enjoyed the pleasure of being the first to fuck Real, and she did everything in her pussy power to break him.
“Good morning, handsome,” Kimberly said in her Mexican and British accent.
“I’m coolin’ it,” Real said, scratching his stubbly chin. “What ’bout you?” he added as he grabbed her five foot three, 125-pound frame into an embrace.
“I’m lovely,” she said, smiling brightly before she quickly immersed beneath the covers and took Real’s erect dick into her mouth.
“Damn, ma!” Real purred from her pleasure as she sucked his dick slowly while moaning as she worked up to a rapid pace.
As she sucked his dick, Real’s thoughts went back to Lala. He recognized how much she had grown and how gorgeous she still was. He couldn’t believe that she was now a mother of a pretty little girl fathered by Joc. It took Real a lot of self-control not to pounce on Joc the day before. When Joc tried to calm him down, Real knew that Joc wouldn’t last in his wrath.
Nigga, I’ll fuck yo’ bitch in front of you if I want! Real thought.
“Mmmm!” Kimberly moaned as she continued to suck the shit out of Real’s dick.
Not wanting to spoil her chances of feeling Real inside her wet, sultry pussy, she came up and straddled Real before slowly sliding down his dick.
“Yes!” she exhaled, biting on her bottom lip as she began to ride him slowly.
“Damn! This pussy is grippin’, shorty,” Real exclaimed.
Despite seeing Kimberly, who was a straight dime piece diva, Real still thought strongly of Lala from the swamp.
Shamoney had put him up on everything that was going on in the streets. He knew of the ballers and bitches that were getting paid. What disturbed Real was that every hustler came back connected to Haitian Black, a nigga who had come out of nowhere and regulated the Treasure Coast. Even his brother Shamoney was connected to Black.
No man is their own man, Real thought conclusively.
Real wasn’t down for serving for no man but himself, and he was about to wake up Black’s million-dollar drug-lord ass with a surprising left hook. Real was determined to take over Black’s turf and regulate by all means. It was a plan that he had thoroughly thought about while in prison, and he was about to make it a reality now that he was home.
“Uhhhh, Real! I’m coming!” Kimberly moaned out in ecstasy as she came to her orgasm.
Real artistically reversed her, balling her little ass into a missionary cannon ball and vigorously pounding away at her tight pussy.
“Uhhh! Shit! Real! Uhh!” she shouted as he slammed his dick into her excessively wet pussy, just like he was about to unmercifully drop lead into any nigga who didn’t get down with his regulation.
* * *
“Hurry up, pussy-ass Arab, and empty that register before I give yo’ ass something to hesitate about!” Lunatic screamed at the trembling man behind the 7-Eleven counter in Port St. Lucie.
Lunatic had been on a robbing spree, holding up convenience stores early in the mornings. The stores were randomly picked, so the police had not yet discovered the three men in masks.
“Bitch, I said hurry up!” Lunatic barked again, growing very impatient by the ticking seconds.
“Man, I got something to make his ass hurry up!” T-Gutta yelled as he turned his Glock .40 on one of the store clerks who was lying on the ground.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Okay! Okay! Okay! Everything man, take it!” the Arab screamed in panic after seeing T-Gutta blow the brains out of his sister-in-law’s head.
T-Gutta was a slim, six-foot-tall red-skinned twenty-one-year-old who was from Martin County, from a hood called East Stuart. He and Lunatic were codefendants on a lot of robberies, and both were made for each other.
Lunatic gathered the money and then prepared to leave the store, when he noticed they were running over on time. On most occasions, the duo was in and out in under two minutes. Hearing the sirens approaching, Lunatic aimed at the Arab’s chest and then fired.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Let’s go!” Lunatic shouted, grabbing the bag of money as he stormed out the front door with T-Gutta on his heels.
They both made the getaway to where their third comp-
adre awaited them behind the wheel of a stolen Dodge Ram pickup. His name was Alleycat, a superb getaway driver.
As soon as the duo hopped inside, St. Lucie County sheriff cruisers swarmed the 7-Eleven from a back entrance.
“Roll, Cat!” Lunatic yelled to Alleycat, who smashed on the gas and merged into traffic on US Highway 1 and initiated a chase. The police cruisers immediately pursued the black Dodge Ram, simultaneously calling in the stolen plate numbers.
“Shit!” Lunatic exclaimed.
Out of all the damn times they had hit stores and successfully gotten away, a minute too late had caused them to be in the trouble they were in now. Fortunately for them, Alleycat was an artistic driver when it came to eluding the police in times like this. He swiftly maneuvered through traffic, running red lights at intersections, and caused a wreck behind him.
Damn! That nigga sho’ knows how to handle that wheel! Lunatic thought as he held onto the support bar above his head.
“Shoot ’em off, so I can duck us off!” Alleycat shouted.
Without any reluctance, Lunatic dropped his window and grabbed a MAC-10 that was resting on the passenger floor for backup. He racked it and then sat out the window. While holding on to the support bar with his right hand, he simultaneously fired at the pursing police cruisers, causing them to swerve and wreck. T-Gutta pulled back the Ram’s sliding back window and stuck his twin Glock .40s out and participated in the fusillade. Every police cruiser that came in view was knocked off by the duo.
Alleycat made a right onto Port St. Lucie Boulevard, going west, and vigorously accelerated through more traffic lights. When the trio made it to Bayshore Boulevard, Alleycat turned right and then abruptly made a U-turn, causing Lunatic to almost lose control, but he held onto the bar like a raging bull’s ropes.
“We about to dump!” Alleycat said as he turned into a Publix store parking lot, upsetting the pursuing cruisers who were trapped in the wreckage behind them.
The trio quickly exited the Ram truck and carjacked the first occupied vehicle they saw. Alleycat pulled the old white woman from the driver’s seat of the tan Dodge Grand Caravan and blew her brains from her head.
Boom! Boom!
Alleycat put the Caravan in drive and inconspicuously drove away from the plaza, in the opposite direction. He quickly found the first I-95 ramp and traveled southeast until he was in Martin County again.
Damn! That was close, Lunatic thought.
Selling dope for Black was unprofitable when every man was doing the same thing. He wasn’t fortunate like a handful of niggas, who had become prestigious dope boys and were seeing big numbers in the dope game.
Robbing had become his main hustle. Although it was petty change, it was money in his pockets that the dope game wasn’t bringing in for any of his compadres.
I think it’s time for us to hit a bank, Lunatic thought.
* * *
When Shamoney and Real pulled up to their mother’s beautiful home in Port St. Lucie about thirty minutes west of Shamoney’s crib, they saw that family had already arrived for Real’s welcome home cookout.
“Ma done popped off early, I see,” Real stated.
When he emerged from the conspicuous Chevy and smelled the BBQ cooking on the grill, he was ready to get his grub on.
Their mother had married a devoted Christian man named Migerle. He was a Haitian man and had loved their mother, Michele, since childhood. When their father caught life in the fed, Michele had moved on and given her life to Christ, ultimately giving up on the street niggas.
“Hey, Cousin Real, it’s good to see you home,” Real and Shamoney’s fine-ass cousin Tiffany, exclaimed giving Real a hug.
Damn! If she wasn’t family, I’d try her all day, Real thought.
“Thanks, Cuz. I’m home now,” Real retorted.
“Stay home, okay?” Tiffany said to Real as she looked over at Shamoney.
“What’s up, big money? Let Cuz get a couple dollars?” she asked Shamoney, who had become the bread and milk winner to the family.
Before Shamoney could pull out his wad, Real stopped him.
“I got it, Cuz. What you need?” Real asked Tiffany after pulling out his wad of cash he had accumulated from all the niggas who broke him off.
“No, Cuzo, I can’t! You just came home. I should be giving yo’ ass something!” Tiffany spoke.
“I’m cool here, Cuz,” Real said, placing three $100 bills in her hands as he walked off.
“Thanks, Cuzo,” Tiffany said.
“Welcome,” Real turned around and said, then proceeded into the house past little kids who had no idea who he was.
When Real stepped inside his mom’s luxurious home, his little sister, Precious, who was fifteen years old, ran up to him from the crowded den of kids. She hugged her brother tightly, obviously glad to see him.
“Jermaine, I’m so glad you’re home.”
“What’s up, lil sis?” Real asked Precious, who was growing into a model too damn fast and developing like a mango.
“Daddy called, and he wanted to talk to you!” Precious exclaimed.
“Yeah, nigga, you missed pops. He’s calling back at five o’clock,” Real’s baby brother, Johnny, said.
Johnny was twenty years old, a mixed breed, and the only child who had a different father than Real, Shamoney, and Precious. Real’s mother and father had briefly separated, and during that time Michele slept with an Asian man, from whom she got pregnant. Despite Johnny never knowing his biological father, who instantly disowned him, Real’s father, Rob Bass, took in Johnny as his own.
“Where’s Ma at?” Real asked Johnny.
“She’s in the back helping out Migerle. You know that Haitian can’t cook!” Johnny exclaimed.
Johnny stood five foot six, weighed 165 pounds, and had strong Asian features. People called him Chyna Man on some occasions because of his slanted eyes.
He looked like a straight pretty boy, but he was a straight killer who was quick to slang iron on any nigga that looked like a threat.
Fort Pierce City, or Killa County, in St. Lucie County was known as the murder capital, and it was Johnny’s stomping grounds.
“So we going to the club tonight?” he asked.
“Y’all need to be going to church instead of a club, mister,” Michele sternly said to Johnny as she walked in from helping Migerle and met all her kids in the living room.
“Ma, I do go to church,” Johnny answered.
“Try coming tonight, tomorrow, and on Wednesday. Migerle preaches good,” Michele said. “Shada, when you coming back?”
“Ma, you know I don’t do no church now. I only came that one time because of your birthday,” Shamoney retorted and then stormed off past his mother and walked outside where the family was gathered.
“Son, don’t get out here and get caught up in them streets again. Neither of your brothers has experienced prison, and by the grace of God, I hope they never have to. Jermaine, get you a job and find you a good woman.”
Real was vaguely listening to his mom, but deep down inside, he knew that he was far from letting go of the streets. Not a day had passed for him in prison that he hadn’t thought of coming back to the streets to regulate.
“Do you hear me, son?” Michele asked Real, whose mind was attentive somewhere else.
He was deep in the streets, and now he was about to make his name ring like bells.
“Yeah, man. I hear you,” Real said as he looked over at Johnny and Precious, who saw the nonchalance in his eyes.
“Come, your Auntie Betty wants to see you and Grandmother Dot is here too,” Michele said as she grabbed Real by his arm and led him out back.
* * *
Killa County (Ft. Pierce City)
“So this is how we gonna play, huh, T-Bo?” Haitian Pat asked the bloody-faced man from 23rd Street.
Pat was a ruthless Haitian and right-hand man to Haitian Black of the Haitian mafia. He was the most feared Haitian on the Treasure Coast. When he came for his money, he came with an entourage of other vicious Haitian men. Pat stood five eight, weighed 195 pounds, and had a menacing swarthy complexion. One look at him was the epitome of death.
Tonight he had finally caught up with T-Bo, a dope boy who had just turned eighteen, who was in serious debt with the Haitian mafia. He was caught slipping, leaving the Elk’s Club with his bitch. He had nowhere to run when Pat’s five Haitian men boxed him in by his car in the parking lot. His bitch was dome-checked by one of the men’s Glock .40s. T-Bo was knocked out, snatched up, and kidnapped.
When he awoke, it was the most pain he had ever endured in his life. Pat continued to mercilessly torture T-Bo by cutting off his nose with a hand saw. Naked in a chair, bound by heavy-duty rope, he was feeble and begging to die quickly.
“You’d rather die for $40,000?” Pat said in a heavy Haitian accent. “Big Chub, hand me the bolt cutters,” Pat ordered his 300-pound right-hand man, who stood five nine, with a swarthy complexion.
Big Cub wasted no time walking over and grabbing a bolt cutter from the garage wall.
“Mmmm, mmmm!” T-Bo tried speaking behind the duct tape.
“So you know where my money’s at?” Pat asked as Big Chub handed him the freshly oiled cutter.
Pat vigorously snatched off the duct tape, allowing T-Bo a chance to better sign his fate.
“Speak!” Pat barked at T-Bo, who was wincing in pain.
“Man, I can explain everything. These niggas robbed me for the bricks, Pat. So I’ve been trying to catch them.”
“What niggas? Who robbed you,” Pat asked.
“Some niggas from Martin County in East Stuart. I don’t know all of them, but I know one from beef, Pat,” T-Bo explained.
“Who is this nigga you got beef with?” Pat asked as he lifted up T-Bo’s chin with the bolt cutter.
T-Bo looked up at Pat with his one open eye, unable to use the other because it was closed shut.
“His name is Shamoney,” T-Bo lied.
Pat began to laugh hysterically, causing perplexity to fall upon T-Bo. He had no idea how stupid he had just made himself look.
“So, Shamoney is the man you beef with, and he robbed you?” Pat asked him.
“Yeah, he robbed me, man! Agghhhhh!” T-Bo screamed out in pain as Pat rammed the bolt cutter through his good eye, and twisted it. “Aggghhhh, Lord!”
“Nigga, you take me for a dummy, huh?” Pat shouted as he then clamped the bolt cutter around T-Bo’s dick and snapped it off in one clean snap.
“Nooo! Lord!”
“Finish him, Big Chub!” Pat ordered, throwing the bloody bolt cutter to the ground as he stormed away.
Boom! Boom!
As Pat walked outside the garage side door, Big Chub stuck the shotgun into T-Bo’s mouth after hitting him in his chest. He then squeezed the trigger twice more.
Boom! Boom!
When Big Chub caught up with Pat inside the Suburban, Pat had just gotten off the phone with Black.
“Big Chub, call Shamoney and tell him to meet me in the morning at the trap in Lake Park,” Pat ordered Big Chub as they made their way back to Palm Beach County.