The Tobacco Roadhouse, more commonly known as “The Tobacco,” was the new hot night spot in Durham, N.C. The city more infamously known as “The Bull City.” The club had been packing the house since its opening seven months prior, and the fact that in that time no one had been stabbed, shot, or murdered; the spot had already beaten the odds. Normally clubs in the Bull City would stay open no more than three or four months, tops, before somebody ended up with their shit pushed back and the spot would have to shut down. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to The Bull City. The Bull City of Durham is the unchallenged, unmatched, cocaine, heroin, and murder capital of North Carolina. Think “The Wire” times fifty! I made my way through the large crowd of party goers on my way to the bar, I spotted a few cats that I knew were holding what some would call “old paper.” A few cats that I knew were up and coming in the game before I got locked four years ago, looked as if they’d finally succeeded in getting their paper up. For a cat like me it was pretty easy to recognize who’d actually elevated their status, by the number of loose booty chics they had in their midst, giggling and laughing at any stale ass joke the nigga might be telling, while all the while keeping their main focus on trying to juice the nigga outta money or free drinks. Don’t rule out simply trying to straight up sell some pussy. The Untold Truth. Money always draws pussy. Like bees to honey, the two just go together. The selection of chics in the club that night was actually pretty decent. Of course, I peeped your overweight baby mama types hanging around here and there. These are the ones that act as if they don’t realize that the outfit they’re wearing is two sizes too small, with shit hanging out everywhere but the right places. These chics are usually good for a cheap after the club fuck and some smoking head, but you always park around the corner from her crib, and make sure to slide out before daybreak so nobody knows you were there. Trust me, she won’t trip. As long as she gets fucked and doesn’t have to fall asleep drunk with a wet pussy, she’s more than satisfied. The Untold Truth. Of course, on these occasions, you also know not to show up your pistol with you. Just in case baby daddy shows up while his baby mamas got your balls stuffed in her mouth. As I continued my survey of the club, I also saw a lot of your “wanna be cute but aint got no money” chics. The best thing they got going for them is a cute face and a phat ass, which they use in any way that they can. Unlike the baby mama broads though, the wanna be cute bitches had on form fitting outfits made by Prada, Gucci, Fendi, or anything else that was supposed to make them look “high priced.” Their clothes fit them perfectly although they might be “bootleg,” and the probability that they’d had to suck dick, get fucked, or anything else to buy a hot outfit for club night on Saturday, was extremely high. Real talk. If the shoe doesn’t fit you, then don’t put the motherfucker on. But for those of you that it does, you know who you are. And I damn sure ain’t mad at cha. Get yo money girl. Next up, I see some of your, right on point chics; scattered around here and there. These are the ones most cats refer to, as “dimes.” Their beautiful faces, plump breasts, freshly done hair, apple bottom asses and perfectly manicured fingers and toes, make them an exception to the rule. And, they make niggas wanna spend money. But don’t forget to keep in mind at the same time, that if a chic is that damn sexy, is over the age of twenty - five and still doesn’t have no man, chances are she’s either a drama queen, or she’s psycho as a motherfucker! But who gives a fuck? She’s a dime! Before my four - year incarceration, I probably would have stepped up in the club, had four or five double shots of Hennessy and been out the door with one of these dimes. Prison had opened my eyes to some shit though. I’d made up my mind to leave the bullshit alone. I know this shit aint gonna be easy. I’m street bred and street fed so I know the streets is gonna be calling my name at every corner. But I refuse to be a slave for the system again. I was supposed to be gone for at least sixteen years, and my wifey had vowed that she was gonna ride or die with a nigga. Whether she would have, I guess I’ll never know. And I’m glad! She definitely rode hard for the four years though, without knowing that I’d be giving a lot of that sixteen back. And now, unexpectedly to everyone, including her, I’m back home.