One Hustler's World

by Nikita Stewart

  Her moist loins accepting KT’s thickness Candance’s swayed along upstroke. Her arms around his neck, she hurled him into a slow, sensual kiss. Moaning passion against his mouth, she treasured his inability to withstand her sexual dominance.

  One with KT’s inevitable climax, Candance climbed from atop his lap. She kneeled between his thighs. Slow stroking his length, she caressed his stout, mushroomed helmet against her chin. “Where my stuff at?”

  With lightning quickness, KT retrieved a plastic-wrapped, ten baggie bundle. He tossed it onto the coffee table. “Show me yo deep throat game.”

  Candace placed his left hand at the back of her head. Taking him into her mouth, her jaws stretched from his sheer thickness. Her saliva trickling, she relishes his manly groans serenading her near-total deep throat. Candance bobbing upon his length, spied her front door slowly opening.

  Without knocking, a tall, dark brown complexioned man stepped inside. Spying the activity on the sofa and the crack cocaine on the coffee table, he slammed the door.

  Candace sprung to her feet. “Hey there, boo-boo.”

  “Don’t boo-boo me! Didn’t we talk about this?”

  KT, conceding to the incensed man’s interruption, quickly got himself together. “What’s good, Dynamo? I had no idea you locked Missing Link down for-self.”

  “Nawh phew, I’m just tripping cause she left the door unlocked again. That shit gone get her stupid ass robbed.”

  Candace eyed him earnestly. “Is that all you care about?”

  Dynamo spat. “What else should I give a shit about?”

  She pulled him to her. Her mouth en route to his, she tensed from his refusal. “If you only upset about the damn door, kiss me.”

  “Not after I saw where them lips just been.”

  KT spun Candace towards him. “I don’t think my ace gotta problem with us sharing yo top-flight ass. So, you need to put them sexy stuffs back where they were.” Unsure of what to make of his friend’s steeled silence, he focused on Candace again, unbuckling his jeans.

  Candace took him back into her mouth. Mini dress hoists back around her waist; she tensed from her thong being torn away. The suddenness of Dynamo’s agitation hardened masculinity aggressively, taking her from behind, sent erotic fire coursing throughout her womanhood. His pelvis slamming against her buttocks, his long-stroke thrust her head upon KT, sexing her mouth. Every time Candace deep throated KT’s length, Dynamo levied an intensified stroke.

  KT’s manly groan meeting Candace’s manhood cluttered yelp; he kept her head still. Howling in surrender, he unleashed a burst of semen into her mouth, down her throat. Exhaustedly he stepped aside. Dynamo tossed Candace onto the sofa.

  Candance on her stomach was trapped beneath Dynamo, angrily taking her from behind. His forceful suckle attacked the nape of her neck. Surrendering to his masculine dominance, a climatic whimpering Candace spied KT heading towards the door. “Don’t leave... I want both of yawl inside me.”

  KT was taken aback noticed Dynamo’s faint sneer. Though unsure why his friend would disapprove of them sharing a sexy cokehead, he declined her invite.

  Leaving Candace’s apartment, he retrieved one of the bundles he stashed throughout his Wakefield Avenue-Trice Terrace trek. Just inside his Trice Terrace courtyard distribution hub, he approached his long-time runner. “I hope you ready to get it popping.”

  An overly excited Steve Regal nodded happily. “How long you out here?”

  “Eight, nine hours,” KT recalled what Candace said about his competitors flooding their slice of the crack cocaine distribution pie with low-quality merchandise. He gave his crack-addicted employee a free nickel baggie. “Pin this Steve Regal, we bout to switch it up. After you pipe up, round up all the runners you can find. I don’t care who they run for. Tell em if they want a free blast, they better be here in an hour.”

  KT, pleased by the steady stream of customers thus far, had a dozen runners gathered around the lone courtyard oak tree. “Give or take, the dudes yawl work for throw you a dime every $50 yawl bring em. I’m thinking yawl not feeling them numbers one bit.”

  One woman opined. “Yeah, it’s some horse-shit.”

  “You gotta freebie for us too?” Another woman inquired anxiously.

  KT shrugged. “Depends. Right now, you need to pay attention. I’m working witta WMD, and I got mountains of it. Work with me. Every time you bring me a sell, damn the amount, you leave witta lookout. How that sound? Not quite a dime, but a straight shot that’ll keep you going all day.”

  A small, slightly twitching man shot back. “That bullshit sounds too good, so it probably is bullshit.”

  The crowd reluctantly concurred.

  “If all I wanted yawl to do, it would be,” KT affirmed. “The price for my offer is this... yawl work for me now, so no side hustles. Damn, who you worked for, you either in or out. If you in, every time you bring me a sell of $25 and up, I double the work. Give the spender his half. You keep the other half. Work together and combine sells; each one should be at least that or close to it.”

  Another would-be runner asked. “What if you not around?”

  “Outta sight, outta mind. Take the bread where you need to. But if I see you do it... even if I’m just coming out here or been trapping all day... fuck ya.” His warning heeded, KT gave everyone two free baggies.

  By nightfall, he had ninety percent of the neighborhood’s drug-addicted runners working on the agreed-upon commission. As a result, he was able to siphon customers from the competing crack dealer’s clientele base. Easily surpassing an ounce (28 grams) per eight-hour workday. Each time grossing no less than $2,160, often exceeding it.

  How, when KT gives each runner a free baggie per transaction made? The answer comprises the fundamental concept of hustle-nomics. First, KT is the only person privy to the $3 retail price. So, when a runner brings him, say, for example, $10, the runner receives three nickel baggies. Believing they cost $5 per, the runner gives his/her customer two nickel baggies for the allotted $10 while retaining the third as commission. All the while, KT just sold $9 worth of crack of $10—a $1 surplus.

  Three Fridays later. After an exhausting twelve-hour trap session. KT, pleased by the obtained $4,400, spent thirty stress-relieving minutes with Candace. Stepping from her apartment, he nearly collided with two men. Blue bandanas were around their necks. KT glimpsed the tank-top, jeans, and blue New Balance sneakers adorn man. Prison ink decorating the man’s muscle-defined arms.

  KT gave the man a handshake and a manly embrace. “What’s good, Ski-Beau? Good to see you back in circulation.”

  “Da fuzz couldn’t keep the big loc down forever.” Ski-Beau acknowledged his companion. “Meatball told me about dis dime diva shawty who’ll suck the poison from ass cheeks.”

  “Missing Link something special.”

  “That’s her gov’t?”

  KT chuckled in disbelief at being asked such a stupid question. “Nawh ace, shorty girl a young, cutie pie gold digger. Now and then, she’ll swallow you whole for some get high. Her fuck game so vicious, dudes can’t help throwing her whatever she want... the Missing Link.” He caught Meatball’s faint scowl. “Everything good, ace?”

  Meatball, assessing KT’s attire, close the distance and replied. “Don’t you think it’s time yo dress code aligns with ours? You out here, so what’s the holdup?”

  Ski-Beau chimed in. “KT, you know I been holding OG loc rank for the longest. Even on lock, word got to me, YOU, Big Suge, and a few other cats still on the outside looking in. Ingleside has been Crip nation for a minute, so what’s good with ya staying outside the circle?”

  “Look, if I rock witcha, I rock witcha. Damn the color or flag a dude wave. Plus, I’m better off doe-low. Less so-called friends, fewer problems, fewer people in yo business, less chance somebody can take the stand on you. No disrespect, but just cause a dude rep Crip doesn’t mean he a thoroughbred.” KT pointed out matter-of-factly. “Real talk, most dudes join cause they too
pussy to stand alone. The same dudes yawl let ride cause they can take a 30-second ass-whooping. It might be the same ones get you ass 1,000 years. Cause taking a punch ain't shit compared to staring life in the face. How many gone hold up against them punches?”

  “You got it twisted, every loc gotta position to play. We a family organization.” Ski-Beau affirmed.

  KT stalled the primed marketing presentation. “Let me ask you the same question I asked everybody who tries to get me to join... what do I get out of the deal? What benefits can I expect?”

  “Family and everything that comes with it. We all eat.”

  “Bullshit! It’s a bunkhouse stampede out this bitch. Yeah, yawl locs flagging and all that. Yawl might even trap from the same spot, but the bread not going into the same pot. Everybody trapping for their own gain. That shit ain't family Crip or Blood. If yawl ate from the same plate, yawl would probably force my hand. But you not, so again, what’s the benefit?”

  Incense by KT’s disrespect, an incredibly stern Meatball interjected. “Since you spoke on it, what’s up with yo ass cutting into the locs clientele with that bullshit you doing wit the runners? Yo backward ass trap skills fucking up the order of shit.”

  KT chuckled. “Let me find out yawl on some fake ass Armenian mob shit.”

  Meatball raised his shirt, displaying the handle to a black semi-automatic. “Keep talking, you’ne gotta worry bout being quoted in.”

  “Watch who the fuck you flexing on! Cause unless you gripping yo hammer, yo ass might as well be unarmed.”

  “Show me you go stupid hard, so I can scalp yo melon... slob.”

  Ski-Beau glimpsing his friend’s righthand inching ever closer to the gun in his waistband, stepped between the men. “I been home one day, so this shit definitely out the question. Especially when we all from the same hood.” He eyed his battle-primed subordinate. “Meatball, you Crip, but I’m OG Crip. So, I say what moves you, or any other loc make. And you not moving against KT... ever.”

  Once the agitated Meatball went inside Candace’s apartment, Ski-Beau led KT down the walkway and said, “I’ll straighten him out. But once I get settled, me and you will yap bout what it’ll take to get you quoted in. You original Ingleside, so you get a pass on a lot. But the time will come when you gotta either ride or step aside. For now, think about giving back some of the locs clientele.” Before KT could respond, Ski-Beau made his way to Candace’s apartment. The discussion was over.

  KT, comforted by the cold steel nestled at the small of his back, wiped his brow. Into the evening darkness, just as he stepped into the street, a cherry red, fast approaching Chevy Camaro blocked his path. The driver’s alluring smile filling the marijuana smoke clouded interior, he climbed into the passenger seat.

  KT passed a modified, half-smoked Philly blunt took a deep, anger dispelling drag. Driven out of the Ingleside Apartments, he broke the silence. “Slim Goodie, I’m glad you came through cause shit liable to get real, real soon.”

  Yolanda glared at him derisively. Keep piping down that Missing Link, pipe-head bitch, you and every other character out here gone be pissing hand grenades.”

  “I might get her to suck the pipe now and then. That’s about it.”

  She asked. “What was Meatball and Ski-Beau talking to you about? Whatever it was didn’t seem friendly.”

  KT still privy his Slim Goodie, Yolanda ‘Yolanda’ Walker, to the primed altercation. He spoke about the likely consequences if he continued to refuse to join the Insane Gangsta Crips.

  Yolanda said, “If you choose not to get quoted in, stand by it. They came to you with that nonsense instead of Big Suge. Your brother and Hot Rod would have dealt with their asses right then and there. KT, you can be reasoned with, don’t ever lose that. Just don’t let one loc trying to impress his OG daddy get you into a lose-lose situation.”

  Yolanda cruising through the neighborhood, pulled in front of her Trant Avenue, Ingleside home. She extinguished the blunt roach then back-slapped KT. Her stern glare withstanding his fast accumulating rage, she said. “That’s for fucking Maxine behind my back again! How many times I gotta tell you, just ask me. We share everything... pussy no different.”

  KT though royally upset, couldn’t help warming to her brilliant, double dimple smirk. He snatched her across the seat. “You smack me like I’m some lil bitch, you getting that ass whoop. How I do it is yo call.”

  “Stop fucking Maxine behind my back.”

  “Sneaking around adds spice. Plus, I like pissing you off.”

  “If I let her step out of bounds, other bitches get bright ideas.” Yolanda finally snatched away from him. “I might can’t physically whoop you, but I can hurt you in other ways.”

  “Cut it out, Slim Goodie. Your sexy self knows you need to reeducate your shorties from time to time. All I’m doing is giving you a reason to. Next time, I’ll kidnap Honey. That way, she can get reeducated.”

  “Oh, trust me, when one steps out of bounds, they all get punished.”

  KT asked. “How many shorties in yo stable anyway?”

  “That’s not important. Just know, I stay informed... about everything.”

  ∗

  Yolanda, six years KT’s elder, followed in her deceased mother’s footsteps. She was renowned for her ability to educate women on how to harness the power of their sexuality. One afternoon she finally grew tired of KT’s non-stop pursuit of her chastity. She finally gave herself to the inexperienced adolescent. She was not pleased.

  Responsible for shattering a fifteen-year-old’s fragile male bravado, she offered KT a free education. Step by painstaking step, over several months, she tutored him on the pleasure of pleasing. She reiterated her teachings until it became habitual for him to place his partner’s happiness above his own. KT learned how to truly look at a woman.

  Her entire body exudes sexual dominance, from her split ends to her toes. Material possessions may garner a woman’s companionship, but total fulfillment conquers her sexual existence. The more a man makes a woman feel desirable outside of mere intercourse, the more intercourse she craves. The greater the sex becomes. The greater her commitment to that man’s every whim becomes.

  Yolanda’s lesson plans consisted of cunnilingus. What stimulates, how to locate it, the hidden power of the tongue, you name it. If it involved sexual stimulation, he was schooled until it became habitual. KT giving hot oil massages was educated on how every spot on a woman’s body could spring forth stimulation. There were lessons on intercourse.

  Lastly, Yolanda merged her teachings into the realm of everyday life. Enabling KT to apply his confidence and masculinity beyond mere sexual gratification. Empathetic to the pitfalls of addiction made him a better hustler.

  ∗

  KT retrieved the last modified blunt from the Chevy Camaro armrest. He set flame to it. Taking a slow drag, he passed it to Yolanda and said, “Slim Goodie, you scooped me up, so what we need to talk about?”

  “I was just waiting to hear why you haven’t been to see me lately.”

  “About what?”

  She slowly blew smoke in his face. “Sometimes, I forget you come to me for almost everything.”

  KT plucked her chin then snatched the blunt. He took another drag, blew marijuana smoke into her deep inhale, then replied. “You got connections I can’t imagine having, plus you the only hustler I can honestly say I trust without question.”

  “I appreciate you too. So, explain why we haven’t done business in the past few weeks. Our business has been good for a long time, then you suddenly stop. I’m guessing you found a new plug and didn’t know how to tell me.”

  “If that was the case, I would’ve got you to research em first. That way, if I rock with this so-called plug, we both rock.” KT assured her.

  Electing to forego the specifics, he explained to his long-time supplier and friend that he acquired 45 ounces of powder cocaine at a discount. It would take him at least another month before they could resume their usual busin
ess dealings. When the time comes, instead of the nine ounces for $6,500 KT was accustomed to purchasing, he would now be looking to execute a bulk purchase. Most likely 2½ to 3 kilos depending on the price discount given.

  Jovially, Yolanda jabbed his shoulder. “About time you decided to upgrade the hustle. Trapping hand to hand brings in a bigger purse, but you also take a much bigger risk. The cops, robbers, and everything else. So always remember... the key to longevity is limiting your exposure as much as possible. So, if you serious about upgrading, get ready to hand your clientele over to somebody you know will keep the money coming to you.”

  It takes one hen to lay an egg,

  but seven men to sell it

  CJ Dennis 1877-1938

  CHAPTER 4

  Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man

  -anonymous

  Norfolk State University

  Corprew Avenue, Norfolk

  11 am following Saturday morning

  KT, driving his Nissan Pathfinder into the late morning, passed the half-smoked cigarillo to his passenger. Dynamo took a long, slow drag. Savoring the intoxicating aroma, he broke the brief silence. “Pin this ace... I gotta deceit piece of change coming through my trap spot. You made the whole Trice Terrace strip a gold mine. If we double down, nobody can stop us.”

  KT stared at him. “So, you wanna bring yo business where I’m at, consolidate our clientele and force out the competition?”

  Dynamo returned the cigarillo. “I’m coming to you straight, no hater-ration. Yo clientele bigger than mine, but we can lock the whole hood down if we link up. That’s what we both tryna do, might as well do it together.”

  “Say we do... you willing to deal the problems it’ll create from all sides?”

  “Money the only broad I’m loving. Whatever comes, it is what it is.”

  KT pondered what Yolanda said about eventually turning over his hand-to-hand crack distribution business to someone who would keep the money coming to him.

  Eighteen months ago, a slew of fatal overdoses had the local, state and federal authorities rounding up narcotic dealers, large and small. Forcing KT to put his crack dealing ways on hold for a spell.