“Girl, I’m tellin’ you, your ass needs to call the man before another bitch grabs him,” LeLe told her girl Bellda.
LeLe was also Haitian with a phat ass like Buffy the Body. She and Bellda had niggas on their heels everywhere they went, trying to get their numbers and booty call hour. But they were adamant, taken, and loyal. Though Bellda’s patience with Pat had run completely out, it had been weeks since she had sex.
Maybe she’s right, Bellda thought while helping LeLe bring in her groceries, along with her bad-ass kids.
“You asked me ’bout him, and I told you, his ex is the bitch, Lala. Her baby daddy just got killed.”
“In Indiantown?” Bellda asked curiously.
“Yeah, don’t be a fool and let her get what could be yours. The bitch is vulnerable, and they have a past,” LeLe said while taking the food from the Publix bags and putting it in the refrigerator.
“How do I know they not creepin’?” Bellda asked.
“They not! That nigga be on the run and ’bout his money ever since T-Gutta been fuckin’ with him. T-Gutta been bringing in bankroll,” LeLe said.
“Remind me, the nigga put $9,500 on a bitch he don’t know from Adam and Eve!”
“A bitch he wants to know. Now call him, girl, and stop playin’ bitch!” LeLe persisted.
Darkness had just fallen, and the streets in East Stuart were still shaken by the murders that had occurred the previous night. Since seeing him at the mall and dropping off T-Gutta, he never knew that she was inside the house. Bellda had been thinking about Mr. Handsome like crazy.
“I guess it won’t do nothing to call him!” Bellda said.
“Bitch! Call that man!” LeLe exclaimed.
“Alright, damn! How much he payin’ you?” Bellda asked.
“Enough to get you off of Pat’s sorry ass and get with a nigga who ain’t trapped in no relationship,” LeLe retorted.
Damn! She’s so right! Bellda said as she pulled out her iPhone and dialed Real’s number.
* * *
Real was conversing with his cocaine connect that he had finally met up with to get shit popping. His connect was the uncle of an old friend who he had met in prison, who was never hitting the streets again unless he succeeded in an escape.
“So, Chucky tell me that you are good, my friend. He rarely introduces people to his uncle. But when he does, I know that me nephew trusts him,” Pablo spoke in his best English.
He was an old-school Mexican, who, unbeknownst to Real, took ownership of 65 percent of the cocaine distribution in Florida. He resided in West Tampa in a luxurious mansion and stayed in Florida only six months of the year. He then went back to Mexico City.
“Chucky is a good friend of mine, Pablo,” Real said.
They were dining at the five-star restaurant Capital Grill in Palm Beach Gardens. It was a place no nigga looked fit to be. But Real had come correctly dressed in business attire. He wore a costly cream Polo suit and 14 karat gold rimmed glasses that were not prescription. The twosome ate a delicious, expensive meal and drank the most delicious wine Real had ever tasted.
“Son, listen to me good,” Pablo said, holding up his index finger with a serious look on his clean-shaven face.
“One time only, my friend, will I allow you to mess up. You continue to bring me money, my friend, and cop faithfully, and then we’ll have no problems. I have a lot of people trying their best to play Pablo’s numbers. But without me, no plays at all,” Pablo explained to an attentive Real, who had no clue that the same Haitians he was preparing to run off his coast were Pablo’s contenders and enemies of one of his client’s—Polo.
“A kilo, my friend—28 single, whole, if less than ten. But when you purchase more than ten, we deal faithfully at 17.5 a piece.”
Damn! Real thought, bridling his excitement and holding a poker face with Pablo. Bottle’s on me! Real thought as he felt his iPhone vibrate in his slacks for the umpteenth time within the past hour.
Real assumed that it was a persistent Lala, who he had been avoiding since Joc’s murder. He knew he should be consoling her instead of avoiding her, but he had more important matters to take care of, such as taking over the city, buying his kilos for 17.5 a piece, and letting them go under Pat’s 25.5 for 20.5 until he had the dope game’s attention on their knees.
“Pablo, we will always purchase more than ten,” Real informed him.
I know them Haitians ain’t copping 17.5 a brick, Real thought.
“Good, my friend. In a few days, I will call you. Whatever you ask for, Pablo will front you on behalf of my nephew Chucky,” Pablo retorted and then clicked champagne glasses with Real. “Welcome to the Mexican Snow Cartel II, my friend. We treat you like family from here out. Any problems you have, we have, and we will clean them up for you.”
“Gracias, Pablo!”
“No, gracias, my friend, for lookin’ out for me nephew. When the COs sent a man to kill him, you saved me nephew,” Pablo said, remembering a time when Real fatally stabbed an assassin in prison who was attempting to stab Chucky from behind in the recreation yard.
Chucky was an M-13 gang member leader who stood five and weighed 185 pounds. He wore a clean bald head and was tatted everywhere. At forty-six years old, Chucky was well respected and known for taking the big dawgs out to stand on top. At the time of Real saving him, they had become good friends.
When Real saw the Mexican CO set the stage for Chucky’s assassination, he intercepted the hit and quickly stabbed the assassin six times, instantly killing him. When chaos erupted on the recreation yard, Real moved up on the Mexican CO and stabbed him to death and got away with it as well. Since that chaotic day, Real, Chucky, and Kentucky were brothers with real bonds. Though Chucky slept in a different dorm than the other two, the trio hung out every day in the rec yard.
Feeling his phone vibrate again, Real decided to briefly excuse himself. “Pablo, I’ll be a minute, please,” Real said as he stood up and then strutted off to the men’s restroom.
When he got inside and pulled out his phone, he saw an unknown number.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Hi, Real. It’s me!” a female voice said that was not Lala yet sounded familiar.
Real just couldn’t come straight off his head to place the voice with a face. He was perplexed. “Me who?” Real asked the stranger.
“Damn! You have that many, huh?” she said.
“Man, a nigga ain’t got time fo’ games. Call me back when you can state yo’ name.”
“Boy, shut up! This Mookie, and I need to see you when you can.”
What the fuck she want? Real thought, more perplexed.
“Is this ’bout Lala?” Real asked.
“No,” Mookie said as he got quiet for a moment. Real could hear Keith Sweat playing in the background on low and a soft moan from Mookie. “Lala has nothing to do with this and what I need from you tonight,” she retorted seductively.
“Is that right?” Real asked, catching the drift.
“Yes, Real. It’s been right since our first kiss.”
Mookie reminded Real of their childhood crush that didn’t go past a kiss in middle school. When he had gotten with Lala, no woman was able to break his attention from her. She had him hooked and deeply in love.
“Where you at?” Real asked.
“I’m in Palm Beach at the Holiday Inn. Room 302. I just came here to get some me time, and I just couldn’t get you off my mind. I’m not looking for no obligations. Just one night, Real,” she said in a low purr while playing with her phat pussy.
“That shit wet?” Real asked as his dick became erect.
“Yes, Real. It’s so wet, tight, phat. Please come. Ummm! Real, I’m coming, uhhh!” Mookie moaned out as she came to an orgasm.
“Holiday Inn on Military,” Real asked.
“Yes!” Mookie moaned.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Real said as he hung up. “I been wanting that chocolate bitch for a long time,” Real stated while looking at another unknown number on his phone.
Who the hell is this? he thought.
But he decided to hit the number in the morning when he was done with Ms. Gorgeous Mookie. For all he knew, the whole Ms. Gorgeous clique wanted to fuck.
If so, I sho’ ain’t ’bout to spare shit just ’cause of Lala, Real thought as he returned to Pablo to conduct further business.
* * *
Lala was exhausted at waiting up for Real to come in. She showered and got changed into her sexy pajamas. She then sat in the living room with her sleeping two-year-old baby girl, who would never know her father other than seeing his life in pictures. Joc’s death pained her deeply, and she cried her well dry from grieving.
For a couple days now, Lala had distanced herself from everyone, even her clique of Ms. Gorgeouses, while handling funeral arrangements for Joc. But now she needed comfort, and she only wanted comfort and love from Real. She wiped her eyes, catching her tears while rubbing her daughter’s back, who was comfortably asleep on the sofa. Looking at the picture of Joc and her daughter, Destiny, on her iPhone, Lala broke down into hysterics. She tried calling up Real again, but once again it was to no avail.
“Please, Real, come home!” she softly cried.
* * *
Real was in paradise with Mookie and was loving every moment of sexing her. The bitch had all types of tricks up her sleeves, and she made sure she outdid Lala’s performance. At the crack of dawn, Mookie was sucking on Real’s dick as a good morning greeting. She was a superb dick sucker and knew how to make a nigga’s head spin, toes curl, and ass cheeks lock up.
Damn! Real thought, watching her swallow his length while slightly gagging.
“Umm!” she moaned as she slowly sucked Real’s dick.
When she came up, she made a loud wet popping sound with her mouth as she pulled his dick out while beginning to stroke him.
“All these years and this is what you’ve been missin’. You knew Lala couldn’t fuck with me, especially a bad bitch like me. But you still overlooked me!” Mookie exclaimed as she climbed on top of Real and slowly descended down his rock-hard dick.
“Don’t worry ’bout the past. Let’s focus on now and enjoy every moment unregretfully,” Real retorted.
“Trust me, Real. I don’t regret, ummm, nothing about, ummm, us. Just fuck me and appreciate me!” Mookie purred as she sped up her pace while riding his dick.
“I will,” Real promised while he watched her chocolate titties bounce as she rapidly rode his dick.
* * *
Pat was furious about what was occurring in Martin County, and so was Black. The moment that Black had discovered the devastating news from Pat, an emergency meeting between the two was summoned.
“Pat, I want Shamoney brought to me alive.”
“I seriously don’t think he’s behind it.”
“Pat, stop being stupid, son!” Black exploded.
He’s possessed. He doesn’t see the face of the enemy, Black thought.
“Martin County is the gold mine. It has made us millions, Pat, and someone is clearly saying ‘get the fuck out of my town’ by killing our men. Polo is not the man claiming the wrath; however, he is another problem, Pat!” Black angrily spat in Creole.
“Find T-Zoe, B-Zoe, and whoever it’s gonna take to bring Shamoney to me, and watch how I break his ass!” Black retorted.
I knew we made a mistake cuttin’ off Shamoney! Pat badly wanted to tell his superior but thought otherwise.
“I got you, Haitian,” he replied instead.
* * *
Whip!
“Please! No more! I tell the truth!” T-Zoe shouted in devastating pain after being struck with a horse whip by Su’Rabbit.
Su’Rabbit had brought T-Zoe to an old warehouse he owned that was deep in the woods in Hobe Sound, another section of Martin County along Bridge Road. They were deep out west where no one could hear a sound. Su’ inherited the land from his great-grandfather Buck, who once ran a farm on the patch of land. It was Su’Rabbit’s land to do with as he pleased. He chose to utilize it as a human butcher shop. T-Zoe had been beaten to a bloody mess with horse whips by Su’ and Johnny. He literally looked like a tiger had gotten a hold of him.
T-Zoe hung from the warehouse joist a foot off the ground from his wrists that were bound by a rope. He was talking and giving Su’Rabbit, Johnny, Real, and Shamoney the entire scope of the inside of the Haitian mafia. To Shamoney’s surprise a lot had changed since the first man had been lost. Real knew that he had to go after Pat to get to Black, something that Shamoney persisted telling him would be formidable.
Nothing in my plans to take over was planned to be easy, Real thought as he watched Su’Rabbit and Johnny continue to beat T-Zoe.
Real was sure that T-Zoe had given up everything.
Whip!
“Awww! Man, that’s it! Please! Please stop!” T-Zoe begged not to be struck again with the whip.
“Su’! Hold on a minute!” Real halted him as he walked up to a bloody and naked T-Zoe. “Where do I find Black?” Real asked a wincing T-Zoe.
“Miami!” he could barely get out.
“So, B-Zoe killed my niggas, and he lives in Ft. Pierce, you say?” Real inquired.
For the umpteenth time, T-Zoe voraciously replied, “Yes. He was paid a lot by Pat!”
Real turned around and looked at his brother Shamoney.
“We go after Pat now. I thought I’d enjoy seeing him defend his establishment. But I’ve had a change of heart, and I want to see B-Zoe myself,” Real said before a brief pause. “Su’Rabbit,” Real spoke.
“What’s up, homie?” Su’ responded.
“Feed this nigga to the gators,” Real ordered as he stormed off with Shamoney on his heels.
“I got ya, my nigga,” Su’Rabbit exclaimed as T-Zoe mumbled something indiscernible in Creole.
“What was that T-Zoe?” Johnny asked him, who again mumbled in Creole.
An hour later, Su’Rabbit and Johnny had driven to Ft. Pierce (Killa County)—to the infamous Taylor Creek where thousands of souls had been taken—and fed T-Zoe to three adult hungry alligators, alive.
The gators tore his body into fractions, completely erasing him from the face of the earth.
“Now that’s how a swamp boy gets off!” Johnny exclaimed.
“Swamp boy get off!” Su’Rabbit shouted, reciting the lyrics to his cousin Thead’s hit single that went gold and got him signed with Slip-n-Slide Records.