The next night, me and Shell pulled up to the Waffle House on Hillsborough Rd. at eight o’clock. The Waffle House was probably about two or three hundred feet from Miami Subs, which was perfect. From where we sat in Shell’s moms beat up Ford Tempo, we had a bird’s eye view of the entire Miami Subs parking lot. We showed up an hour early to have time to lay and watch. Just in case Hood was playing pussy, and wanted to get fucked by showing up on some snake shit. We’d also brought along some of the tree we’d taken from Fletches freezer, to smoke out and calm our nerves while we waited and observed. The tree turned out to be some flame! By the time we watched Hood pull up in Miami Subs at eight-thirty, we were high as a motherfucker and ready to handle business. Patiently we watched as Hood stepped out of a Honda Accord wagon, and headed into the food joint. Looking around cautiously, he quickly made his way to the back, took a seat in a booth and picked up a menu. He didn’t look shook and he didn’t have anybody with him, so at nine o’clock we pulled across the street, got out and went in.
“Yo bru, I tried my best with them thangs but we got a problem now.” Hood confessed as we slid in the booth across from him. This definitely wasn’t the shit we were trying to hear. And tonight; I won’t having it! I was all set to crank up and rip into Hoods scheming ass, when Shell pulled out what I now knew, was his shiny Desert Eagle .45 and placed it on the table.
“What kinda problems you talking bout nigga?” Shell’s voice dripped venom. “If you think you about to shit us, and walk outta here alive, then think again nigga!” It was Shell who’d said we could trust this nigga to have the bread tonight, and now this shit! Hell no! It was a good thing that Miami Subs was packed and filled with noisy customers. Nobody noticed Shell’s gun laying on the table pointed at Hood’s chest. “I’m not stupid like my sister motherfucker!” Shell snarled as he reached up and ratcheted a bullet into the chamber.
Hood’s eyes stretched like a deer caught in the headlights, and his hands shook like leaves on a tree as he threw them up in defense! “Wait! Wait a minute Shell! It ain’t that kind of problem!” Hood’s trembling voice pleaded! “Everything is still good. It’s just that my man I told you about, got bagged by the FEDS last week on a gun charge. I had to go another route and I couldn’t get off but three of em. I got forty - five thousand, and one brick left outside in the car.” Hood seemed exhausted after he pushed all that out in one breath. Everybody knows that the streets talk. Word had already gotten around that we were the ones who’d offed Fletch. Fletch was dead and we had bricks to burn. Calculation in street terminology. Our stomachs were growling and niggas knew we had killed to be able to eat. Hood and any other street nigga knows to play it straight with a nigga wit an itchy trigger finger. Rules to the game.
“Why the fuck you didn’t just say that to start with nigga!” I asked Hood as Shell pulled his gun off the table and rested it in his lap.
“Shit man yall aint give me time.” Hood answered, lowering his still shaking hands and wiping huge balls of sweat from his face with a Miami Subs napkin.
“Well I ain’t hungry so let’s get the fuck outta here,” I stated. “Get in yo shit and follow us.
“Aight man lets go. Damn yall niggas crazy.” Hood sighed with relief as we stood to leave. If only he knew exactly how crazy I was willing to get. The world I now lived in, there was no turning back.
Twenty minutes later we arrived at Shell’s crib. His moms, Ms. Tina was upstairs with some nigga as usual. From the sound of the squeaking bed springs, and all the moaning and groaning, we knew she wouldn’t be coming down anytime soon. Sometimes she’d be in there for days! The only ones coming in and out, would be lame ass nigga after lame ass nigga. Latonya was out in the streets somewhere. Probably with one of her slut BFF’s. They had a whole crew of easy to fuck, dick sucking gold diggers. I ain’t judging though. All I can say to you, is whatever you do, always try to be the best. Do you ma. After counting up the bread and confirming that it was all there, Shell and I took twenty bands a piece and left Hood with the other five.
“So what the fuck we gonna do with this?” Shell asked pointing to the brick of coke sitting on the kitchen table.
“Well, if you give me another day or two, I know I can get yall another fifteen stacks. But if you ask me, I think yall should cook that shit up and hit the block wit it. Then I can show yall how to get some real paper! From the dirt!” Hood had already sold the other three bricks for twenty apiece, and even at that price, he was letting em go cheap. The shit he did was nothing. At that price, the birds practically flew outta his hands. At the time, in Durham, whole birds were going for anywhere between twenty-five and twenty - nine thousand, depending on quality and availability. The shit he was spittin sounded good, but I was still skeptical. We didn’t know shit about selling no CRACK! Of course, we knew hustlers and crack “HEADS,” but knowing and actually being a part of that life was a completely and altogether different world. That’s where 90% of your urban novels come from. People who’ve never sold a drug, shot a gun, been in the trap, or none of that shit a day in their life. But they’ve watched it from afar and try their best to imitate what they’ve seen. There’s no way in the world you can tell me what pussy tastes like if you’ve never eaten any. Just because you’ve watched Pinky get fucked sixty ways from Sunday, doesn’t make you a scholar on how to make a woman cum. She’s faking. It’s what she gets paid to do. Entertain. Just like all these “gangster rappers” screaming about how many bricks they’ve sold and niggas they’ve murdered, yet haven’t ever spent even one night in jail; they’re entertainers. They say whatever sells records. To put what I’m trying to say plainly, there’s no way you can watch the streets from a safe distance, and tell me about the streets. You have to be in them to know what’s really real. That’s why although most urban novels are products of fiction, too many are absolutely too fictitious, and only believable if you’ve never lived that lifestyle. Not to offend anyone, because there still are a lot of writers, who’ve actually lived what they write about, and even some that haven’t, who still write ear to the ground novels. Much respect. But this is the untold truth. So, if what I’m saying is causing you to get all up in your feelings, then you’re not real anyway, and I don’t care what you think. I promised to bring the truth, and the untold truth will be told. Hate it or love it
“How much can we make?” Shell broke the silence.
“Well if you sell it in ounces, you can get em off at a stack a piece. That’s thirty- six thousand, not counting the extra you’ll get back once we cook it.”
“We? Who said something about we? What the fuck you got to do with it if we cook it ourselves?” I was curious to find out just what Hoods angle was. Shell might trust him but I didn’t.
“Come on bru, it’s rough out here in this jungle. It’s a thousand niggas out here selling rock. I can show yall how to carve out your own space, where nobody can stop your flow. Any dumb nigga can sell drugs, but not everybody knows how to grind. It’s a science to this shit dog.”
I had to admit, the nigga talked a good game. “Keep talking nigga.” I said as I sat down.
“Well, I think yall should break all the shit down after “we” cook it, then hit the street with a vengeance. Instead of doubling, I can show yall how to triple that paper.”
I knew I had to do something. My school days were over. Mama didn’t know it yet, and I knew it was gonna break her heart. I was hoping to be able to ease the pain, by putting her in a new house. Something she’d been talking about since I was small enough to be carried on her hip. I had twenty - two thousand dollars. I’d never seen that kind of money, yet still I wasn’t stupid. I knew that it wouldn’t last me the rest of my life, especially with the plans I had. Finally, I took a deep breath and stood up. Exhaling I said, “Let’s do it