Street Tales, page 16
Po-boy got his name as a skinny child but never changed it even he got his weight. His financial weight, that is, because the six-footer was still rail thin with large eyes that made him look like a cartoon character. He really was poor coming up and couldn’t afford to keep a chick. He made up for it now by tricking almost every night.
“Her name is Meoshi, but she ain’t gon’ fuck,” Diamond replied and shook her ass a little harder. She couldn’t stand Dyme’s pretty ass since she had to fuck and suck these salty dicks to compete with what the pretty girl could make just from dancing. She had to wear so much makeup and wigs to fake being pretty that she resembled a transvestite. A few guys actually thought she was a dude when they took her home, only to be disappointed she was really a girl in boy shorts and not a boy. This was Atlanta, after all.
“All bitches fuck if the price right! Call her over here,” he said and shoved some cash at Diamond to send her on her way.
“Bitch-ass nigga,” she fussed as she went to carry out her mission. She stepped back into her boy shorts and rushed to catch up. “Yo, Dyme. That nigga with the ice want you. We can take this nigga to the motel and work a band outta his ass!”
“We?” Dyme laughed at the attempt to be down. The veteran stripper made it known she wanted a taste when Dyme first started working here. Either she or the owner Ant got to sample all the products. All except Dyme, that is.
“I’m saying, though. You know these trick niggas be wantin’ to see some freaky shit! They spend more money to see two gals,” she explained. She and Ant had a standing bet to see who fucked her first, so she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Hell naw,” she said since the regular no didn’t get it. She looked over at Po-boy and scrunched her face up like he was ugly, then turned away. The snub drove her stock even higher.
“Told you she be on that bullshit. Shit, I’ll grab any other one of these hoes to come with us. We’ll freak yo’ skinny ass out!” Diamond dared and lolled out her tongue to show off her well-used tongue ring. It touched as much pussy as dicks since she went both ways and sideways. She was a true trisexual who would try almost anything sexual.
“Her!” Po-boy cheered, pointing at Desire. She was his first choice until Dyme sauntered by. He may not have gotten her tonight but vowed he had to have her.
Dyme threw up one finger toward her man as she entered the dressing room. He understood it to mean “one minute” as she dressed in her street clothes. He hoped it didn’t take much longer since the club was closing, and he had one last thing to do before they retired for the night.
“You ready?” Dyme asked as if it were she who had been waiting on him. She looked just as sexy in the short skirt as she did in stripper clothes.
“Yeah, come on!” he urged and rushed her toward the exit. He spotted who he was looking for just as they pulled from the parking lot. Dyme saw them too and smiled. People always talk about the murder but not the fuck shit that prompted it. These dudes were disrespectful and were about to get disrespected in the worst way.
“You drive!” Dolla said and went to retrieve the long bag from the trunk. He came around to the passenger seat, but Dyme had beat him to it. He could only shake his head and handed her the bag. “Here.”
Dolla came back around and jumped behind the wheel. She pointed left in the direction of their prey, and he pulled out after them. Meanwhile, she got the grill ready for the cookout.
He smiled at the sexy sound of her racking a round into the AR-15 submachine gun. It had a modified stock that let it rip almost fully automatic. It could empty the 100-round clip in seconds. She removed the safety and waited on her shot to take shots.
“We’ll catch ‘em on Griffin Street,” he said as they bent a corner. She rolled down her window as he closed the distance between them. They made it easy when the driver pulled to a sudden stop when he saw a crack addict called Rabbit waving at cars. Her head game was the stuff of legend. She could make quick work of the four dicks in four minutes and get another blast.
“Suck a nigga dick or something,” the driver proposed. It was his car which meant he had first on her tongue. Rabbit opened her mouth to name her price until she saw Dyme rolled out the passenger window and up the rifle. The men all turned to see whatever made her eyes go wide as a hit of the city’s finest dope. None of them liked what they saw.
“Oh—” would be the last words the driver got to utter in this life before she blasted him into the next. The shit that was to follow would have to wait until he got to hell.
The gun looked more like a flamethrower as it threw round after round into the car. The men in the back tried to duck behind the door, but the heavy 5.56 rounds didn’t give a fuck about a car door. They ripped through it, and them, and out the other side. The front passenger made a break for it but didn’t get far. He only made it a few feet before a shot to his back knocked a lung out of his chest. She gunned Rabbit down as an afterthought so she could never testify.
“Yo, that shit was dope!” Dolla said as he pulled from the curb. He mashed the gas and put some distance between them and the murder scene. “That shit made my dick hard!”
“Nuh-uh!” Dyme dared and reached for his crotch. Sure enough, it was as hard as a scorned woman’s heart. She knew just what to do with a hard dick and leaned in to do it.
“Shit,” Dolla said as her hot mouth welcomed him inside. Her slow stroke, kiss, lick, suck, had him fucked up, and he knew they wouldn’t make it good.
He reached under her skirt and played and played in her puddle, and they both knew they wouldn’t make it to their suburban hideaway. Dyme giggled when he snatched the car to a dark street. He pulled her on top of him and slid her thong aside. She shoved her whole tongue into his mouth as he wriggled himself inside of her.
“Shit!” she cussed from the pain his pleasure always brought. She decided to make him feel it, then took, and bit his bottom lip.
“Grrr,” he growled from the taste of blood in his mouth. He palmed the basketball-sized cheeks and bounced them up and down on his dick. The smell of fresh gunpowder mixed with the sounds of her splashing juice box drove them both wild.
“Mm, that’s it. Get it,” she urged even though he was hurting her. His guttural grunts signaled the end was near. She gripped the headrest and threw her hips into overdrive.
Dolla’s whole body seized and shivered when he began sending a torrent of semen into her. He leaned up and matched her kisses until the spasms of orgasms subsided.
“Whew!” he exclaimed when his breathing returned to normal. He patted her ass signaling her to get up. She did and fell over into the passenger seat. His dick was still too hard to put up, so he drove off with it still out.
“You know I ain’t done, right?” she said wickedly.
“I’ll pull over again if you want,” he dared, but she declined.
“Nah, I need some space,” she said and leaned back for the ride. She rode him backward once they got back to the room.
They made love until the crack of dawn and then finally got some rest. They were going to need their strength for their next lick.
Catching licks is a lot like eating pussy. You do it once, and you’ll do it again.
All Hail the Street Kings
Written by
Hood Chronicles
All Hail the Street Kings
by
Hood Chronicles
All Hail the Street Kings is my submission for your Street Tales anthology. It’s centered on the vicious Blake family in Macon, Georgia. Dealing in drugs, prostitution, and every facet of the criminal underworld, the Blakes have a no-tolerance policy for disrespect. When Jamar aka Hotspitta attempts to leave the family behind for hip-hop stardom, he pays the ultimate price. The leading character, Trevonte, then migrates from Atlanta to avenge his cousin’s horrific death. In doing so, his plans lead him to infiltrate the Blake organization and destroy them from within. I hope this story is acceptable and to your liking.
Sincerely,
Hood Chronicles
1
The Blake Brothers
“You already know what it is! Drink ‘til you throw up in this bitch,” Jamar exclaimed, causing a stampede at the bar.
Geronimo and his brother sat in the back of the jam-packed venue shaking their heads in disgust. Jamar had taken notice of his one-time business associates, yet attempted to pay them no mind. He was well aware of what they were in the building for and was determined not to let them ruin his wonderful event. After all, everyone in the club was there to party hard and commemorate a dream come true. Not just anybody’s dream, but Jamar’s dream of finally hitting the majors!
Nothing more than a repeat offender, convicted felon, and drug pusher, Jamar was known to the streets of Macon, Georgia, as a menace without a cause. That is . . . until Geronimo brought him into the family and gave him purpose. Now, everybody in MacTown was well aware of the Blake family tree. There was not one branch on that tree that you wanted to cross.
The Blake family had their hands in every illegal activity taking place in every single hood in Macon. Eerie stories of workers committing suicide rather than come up short with the family’s money began to circulate through the projects like old Negro fables.
Geronimo and his only brother, Julian, were of a special kind of crazy. The brothers never did anything without adding a new meaning to the word OVERKILL. Severing heads, burning bodies, and the like was normal for the two. To make matters worse, they never did anything behind closed doors. All of their brutal and horrific murders were done in broad daylight for public display.
Jamar wasn’t a fool. He knew what they were there for, but he turned up his bottle of Cristal and prepared to take the stage. Inking a major deal and signing to one of the hottest record labels in the hip-hop world, Jamar aka Hotspitta was enjoying his local support and throwing a bash to celebrate.
“Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen of the MacTown, I bring to you the man of the hour to perform his smash hit ‘Let ‘Em Know’ . . . our very own . . . Hotspitta!” the club owner Money announced.
With his microphone in hand, Jamar took the stage. The patrons went wild as the music began to play. With his dreadlocks tied back into a bulky ponytail, the six-foot chocolate rapper let the vibe take over as he bounced from left to right.
“Look at this ho-ass nigga,” Julian said.
“Don’t worry about it. If he thinking a little fame can save him from us, then he got life fucked up,” Geronimo added while downing his Hennessey.
“Somebody better let ‘em know who they fuckin’ wit’. I’m a nigga comin’ straight up out that gutta bitch. Glock cocked with them hollows in the chamber. Cross me wrong, then you know I’m gon’ pain ya!” Hotspitta chanted to the hypnotic beat of the 808 drums.
Pushing each other from side to side, the partygoers were in a frenzy. Amused by the sight of women twerking and guys throwing up gang signs, Hotspitta knew he had everyone in their own zones. Sweat poured from his head as he went set by set until he had completed all the songs in his catalog.
Once the music stopped, reality returned. Jamar enjoyed the love that everyone showed him but knew that the time had come for him to address a bigger issue in order to let the world know where he stood.
“Check this out . . . Y’all calm down ‘cause I got some real shit to say,” he began. The crowd began to simmer as Jamar awaited pure silence. “Okay, peep this . . . Every muthafucka in here know my background. In and out of prison since a teen, flooded the streets with the work, fucked half y’all niggas up for being mad that I was fucking half of y’all broads,” he teased.
The entire audience burst into laughter. Geronimo and Julian weren’t the least bit amused as they moved toward the front of the stage.
“On some real shit, I ain’t up here glorifying what I done in these streets, but damn it, I did it! Any lyric you hear me spit, you gon’ be able to vouch for a nigga and say, yea, he did that!”
Again, the crowd erupted in a thunderous roar and applause.
At that moment, Jamar saw his two former business partners surface. An evil smirk spread across his lips as he continued. “Yea, it’s a lot of muthafuckas out here that don’t wanna see a nigga doing good . . . but I say . . . fuck ‘em!”
Holding the mic out to the crowd, he smiled at the Blake brothers as the audience exclaimed in unison, “Fuck ‘em!”
“No matter what, I got the Mac on my back, and my success is our success. Real niggas never forget where they came from. Y’all enjoy the rest of the night and know that you got a real nigga riding for the city!” he finished while making his way off of the stage.
Ladies swarmed him as he moved through the crowd with two huge bodyguards keeping them at bay.
“Say, bruh, I think you need to holla at us,” Geronimo said, stepping in front of Jamar.
His two bodyguards jumped in front of him, immediately shielding their boss from any imminent danger.
“It’s all good,” Jamar acknowledged as he headed to the VIP section with the brothers and his bodyguards.
Seated in the glass room lounge, Jamar could still view the party people as they continued to dance their night away.
“What’s on you boys’ minds?” he asked the Blakes.
Julian chuckled before responding. “My brother took you in when you didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw that shit out of. Now, you rapping and shit, and the same muthafuckas that put you on, you just want to up and abandon?”
“Last time I checked, the Blake family didn’t need nobody. I hustled plenty of work for your family, and now I’m going legit! That’s that,” Jamar spat defiantly.
Geronimo turned his head to two partygoers positioned directly outside the glass room. With a head nod, the signal had been given. Rising, Geronimo moved toward the corner with his brother.
“Muthafucka,” Geronimo spat vehemently, “the Blakes don’t need anybody, you ungrateful piece of shit!”
At that moment, Jamar and his bodyguards hopped to their feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Jamar saw the two partygoers draw weapons on the VIP section and squeeze.
“Shit!” Jamar yelled.
The bullets came at a rapid speed—only to be halted by bulletproof glass. After unloading their clips, the shooters were dumbfounded as everyone raced to the exits. A stampede of frightened patrons rushed out, trampling over one another.
Drawing his weapon, one bodyguard went for the door while the other covered Jamar. Pulling his firearm, Geronimo sent a hollow tip into the back of the bodyguard’s head. He instantly collapsed at the door. Unleashing his twin Glocks, the other bodyguard rolled over and fired on Geronimo who quickly took cover.
Attempting to retrieve his weapon, Julian was a tad bit too slow. Jamar charged toward his enemy and tackled him through the frigid bullet-riddled glass. As they tussled on the dance floor, Jamar knew his best option was to get lost in the crowd. He leapt to his feet while Julian fired at any and everybody. Narrowly escaping outside, Jamar followed a female to her vehicle and jumped inside.
“Thank you,” he said, looking out at Geronimo and Julian as they angrily scanned all of the faces in the parking lot.
Jamar ducked his head down as he rode right past the furious brothers. Realizing that it was a lost cause, the Blakes raced to their vehicle where their two shooters were waiting. The quartet spun out of the parking lot, making their way to a junkyard. Confused, the two shooters were instructed to exit the automobile. Doing as they were told, the pair stood eye to eye with the seething brothers.
“You two fucked up in a major-league way tonight. You do know that, right?” Julian questioned, unleashing his .357 Magnum.
“We didn’t know the glass was bulletproof,” one of the boys uttered.
Geronimo instantly kneed the guy in his crotch and wrapped both of his hands around his neck, attempting to choke the life out of him. The other turned to view the scuffle in tears. Taking the butt of his weapon, Julian began to pistol-whip him as well. Finding themselves bound and gagged, the two boys knew that they would never see their families again.
Geronimo and Julian placed tires around the boys’ necks and doused the tires with lighter fluid. The two sobbed uncontrollably as they were forced to await death in one of the most horrific fashions. Striking two matches, the Blakes each set a tire on fire. The dual pain of melting tar scorching their flesh while burning flames engulfed their skulls produced an agony beyond belief.
As they headed back to their car, the brothers realized that they had worked up an appetite.
“I’m feeling like a chili cheese pup. What about you?” Julian asked.
“Krystal’s it is,” Geronimo agreed while pulling away from the burning bodies.
2
Fuck the Blakes!
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! I wanna thank you for waking up with us and tuning in to 97.5 radio! Today, we have a special guest. The MacTown’s very own Hotspitta!” the radio host announced while he sat comfortably over his switchboard.
Directly across from him, Jamar sat with a scowl on his face and a visible expression of anger in his red pupils.
“What’s good, world?” he greeted the listeners.
“Okay, let’s hop right into this interview because I been watching your come-up for a long time and got nothing but respect for the real hustlers.”
“Right . . . right,” Jamar agreed.
“Let the people know your current situation, Hotspitta, and what’s the word with this new deal?”
