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Monday afternoon, gasping for breath in an intense state of excitement, Sean Mason, had rushed to his cell from mail call at the state penitentiary in Graterford, Pennsylvania. He gently tore open the envelope with the words PICTURES DO NOT BEND written on it. He chest rising and falling. Thumbing through the pictures, he couldn’t believe that he was looking at the second group of photos from his daughter, Nikia. He touched the edge of a photo, his eyes zeroing in on a particular woman, his baby’s mother, Kesha. He hated her. The years had been good to her, though, as she remained a beautiful woman, somewhere in her mid- to late-forties. She had a short auburn hair style and chocolate-brown eyes set closely together above defined cheekbones. Despite her physical attributes, he could not wrap his mind around her denying him fatherhood.
“Look at my lovely, young lady.”
His head hung low, his mouth opened, and a look of pleasure spread across his face. He kissed the photo.
“Til death,” he said, cutting Kesha’s face out of the picture.
He pulled out his photo album and placed the pictures inside amongst the hundreds of pictures he had collected over the past twenty-two years. He flipped through some photos reminded of his pals, Mossberg and Roc Wilda, who he ran with before his arrest. Mason didn’t like how they had let his hard work building the block go to waste; and, he couldn’t wait to get back out to reclaim his fame and his block from the young punk, Lambchop. A man that he’d never met or even seen.
He was pressed to get his block back as if he had another twenty years in him.
Frowning, he made his way out to the bank of phones in the center of the long C-block—there were four hundred cells on the unit. He placed a call to Mossberg, hoping that he had answers for him.
“Whassup with the paper y’all said y’all had for me?” Slam asked after Mossberg accepted the call.
Mossberg was one of Slam’s loyal soldiers and had been during his entire time incarcerated. “Aye, man, shit tight out here, dog. Them young niggas got the area all sewn up out here. The smokers ain’t got nothing but love for them, Slam,” said Mossberg. “Even, Neta.”
“Kick Rocks?”
“Yeah, man.” He sighed.
“Fuck them, young niggas. How the fuck can’t y’all make no money? That’s our hood.”
“As I told you, this dread-head, young buck, named Lambchop, got a team of cannons that’s about they work. He even got Crook on his roster. We can’t make no paper out here. I’m definitely not trying to be out here shootin’ every day with these crazy ass li’l muthafuckas over no projects.”
“You sound like a straight bitch.”
“Man, I’ll be fifty next month, and ain’t got time for this dumb shit you talking.”
“Listen to yourself, Moss. Go around there and take my shit back!”
“And sell what? I don’t trap any more, nigga. I drive for UPS.”
“This some shit.”
“Look, man, we had our run. You shoot one of the niggas and they’re telling,” Mossberg said, blowing air. He didn’t have time for this bullshit.
“Listen,” Slam said annoyed. “We done took the most vicious niggas to war in our time.”
“Emphasis on our time. It’s November-fucking-2008. Not the eighties.”
“I ain’t scared of no snotty ass kids, and I know my homie Mossberg ain’t either. When I get out it’s on?”
“Man, you got years to go.”
“You wouldn’t bet on that. I’m waiting for my green sheet from the parole board. I have been down twenty-two years without a misconduct. I got this LT in the pocket and has been since I helped him bust these faggots trying to escape back in 1990. They gonna let me outta here.”
“And when you get out we can rap then. I’m done with this talk over the jack.” Mossberg was stunned at how Slim casually admitted to being a cheese-munching rat. He hung up the phone. Good bye, you hot-ass has-been.