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Smoking Backwoods filled with sour diesel and haze, Hamma, Trap, and Gunna sat on the block chilling, waiting for Lamar’s command to move. They sat on the front lawn of their building having a good time cracking jokes and enjoying life. They didn’t even peep the car that coasted down the block at a slow creeping pace. The car reached a building away, and Hamma rushed off for cover with a duffle bag across his shoulder, storing an AK-47. The weed had him paranoid.
The car stopped and the passenger’s window came down. An arm came out holding a .45. Bullets chipped the tree as Hamma dipped down and pulled the AK from the bag. Trap and Gunna rushed to the pavement and threw shots at the car. Their Ruger and .44 tore the car to pieces and one of them—or both—killed the driver attempting to exit the car.
Before they knew it, Slam and Roc Wilda came from the opposite direction aiming at them.
Hamma was up and ran into the middle of the street, jumping on the hood of the car, and spraying up the passenger. The impact sent the passenger soaring into the back seat. He hopped off the hood, trotted around to the driver’s door and pulled the driver all the way out. He kicked the dead body, snatched his gun, and then shot him in the face with his own weapon before tossing the gun to the ground. Bitch ass, nigga.
Trap and Gunna battled with Slam and Roc Wilda who had occupied them while Hamma went to work. Trap ducked behind a car, peeking out when he could fire a round. Roc Wilda emptied all seven shots from his .380. He grazed Trap’s arm and caused him to throw the gun in the air.
“Ah, shit,” Trap screamed, grabbing his arm. “This pussy shot me.”
Gunna watched Trap go into hysteria as shots continued to come his way. Slam was desperately trying to take Gunna out; he had to. He was unable to get a steady shot due to Hamma’s AK slugs rapidly making their way in his direction.
“Aye, Hamma, watch my body, homie,” Gunna shouted, making an effort to run and cover Trap.
Hamma did as he was asked, forcing Slam and Roc Wilda to retreat, while Gunna sprinted to pick up Trap’s gun. Just as Gunna sent five shots from Trap’s Ruger, Slam turned around firing. A bullet cracked Gunna in the shoulder of his good arm and caused him to spin in a complete circle. The next two jumped into his chest. Hamma was behind a car reloading the AK, and Slam took advantage of that. He hit Gunna a few more times before it was a wrap. Gunna fell face first to the ground.
“Gangsta shit, I lived for it,” Gunna said, choking on his words before taking his last breath.
“No man slaps my daughter,” Slam said, dipping back up the block with Roc Wilda in tow.
Hamma roared, “Arrrggghhh,” spraying bullets in Slams direction. He had no chance of hitting his foe, but it felt good.
“Come on, li’l nigga. He dead. Grab ya gun,” Hamma told Trap rushing to his truck.
Trap grabbed the Ruger from Gunna’s dead grip, then they hopped in the Range Rover and split.
“Get Lambchop on the phone. I want these niggas ASAP,” Hamma said, speeding down Kingsessing Avenue.