I hit up Lim’s and went stupid! I copped damn near the whole line of True Religion shit, threw in some Sean Jean, two Gucci belts and a pair of Prada loafers. Before I knew it, I’d spent over five bands! Hell, the shit would have cost me considerably more, but the Asian cat who owned the joint, cut me a deal since I was buying in bulk. My next stop was Foot Locker. You know I had to keep my shoe game sick. Just because I was about to put my legal hustle down, didn’t mean I wasn’t still gonna stay fly. I’m a fly nigga. Can’t help it. While up in Foot Locker, I snatched up two pairs of Timbs, two pairs of Jordan’s, two pairs of Uptowns, and a pair of Delta Force that were so sick I had to have em. I dropped almost a stack in there, and then took off to the jewelry store. I had so many bags, I needed Shell to help me carry em. Not without him talking shit of course.
“Nigga you need to hurry the fuck up so we can bounce. I aint feelin this carryin yo fuckin bags shit like I’m yo bitch.”
“Here nigga, just take the shit to the car for me.” I threw him my keys so he could stop bitching. The Arab manager standing behind the display cases in New York Jewelry recognized me as the one who’d dropped all the bread on the ring for Monique, so of course he was showing all thirty - two teeth when I stepped to the counter.
“My man! Wha’ts up?” He asked trying to sound hip. I just laughed at his ass. I still had a chain, so all I really needed was a piece to help it hand down to the dick. It was longer and heavier than the one Big Joe had snatched from my neck. Along with other obvious reasons, he’d died for that chain. I hope he got his money’s worth. Shell walked in behind me returning from the car, and as soon as I glanced over at him with his mouth turned down like he was sad, and him scratching like he was a dog with fleas, I knew he’d been snorting that shit. Probably in my damn car!
“You didn’t leave no bags in my car did you?” I asked him.
“Yeah I put em in the trunk.” He answered looking in a ring case.
“I aint talking about those bags.” I stared his simple ass down, letting him know I was hip to his bullshit.
“Hell no man! Quit trippin. What you getting bru?” He asked, about to scratch the skin off his arm.
“I need a piece for my chain.” I told him, shaking my head with disappointment as I turned back to the display cases.
“Can I help you sir?” The dark-haired owner asked me smiling.
“Yeah. Im looking for a nice piece with some ice in it.”
“Ohhh… I remember you sir! You’re a man of great taste! I have exactly what you’re looking for. Step this way please.” He spoke as he led me to the back corner of the store, pulling a black velvet box from underneath the counter that wasn’t on display. The tray was full of gleaming iced out pieces. Crosses, money bags, Jesus pieces, and all kinds of other shit. He even had an iced-out microphone. His selection was abundant, yet only one piece called out to me. It was a piece
made up as the angel Cupid. Iced out bow and arrow and all. The entire piece was iced the fuck out!
“How much for that one?” I pointed to the angel. He looked around, pulled me to the side and whispered like it was the world’s biggest secret.
“For you my friend, give me five thousand.”
“I got three.”
“Oh, my god! You’re trying to put me out of business! I tell you what, give me four thousand and promise me you’ll be back with more business.”
“I got thirty - two hundred dollars to my name. If you don’t want that I’m gone.”
“Alright, alright sir. Thirty-four hundred dollars and I promise you my kids are going to have nothing for Christmas.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the motherfucker. “Aight man. Thirty- four. Wrap it up.”