Synergy Publications Presents…
Anything 4 Profit
By Justin “Amen” Floyd
© Copyright 2010 Justin Floyd
Synergy Publications - All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher and author, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages to be printed in a newspaper or magazine.
Publisher’s Note:
Sale of this book without a front cover is unauthorized. If this book was purchased without a cover it was reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this stripped book.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, establishments, organizations, and/or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9752980-7-7
Written by: Justin “Amen” Floyd for Synergy Publications
Edited by: Caroline McGill for Synergy Publications
Dedicate to my lil’ sister, Jazz
I love you “Baby Girl”… Unconditionally
THE INTRODUCTION
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The hail of shots fired from the .44 caliber cannon pierced the silence of the hot, humid summer night. It was dark, but for brief seconds, the flash from the muzzle of the gun illuminated the horrific scene taking place. A body dropped to the ground, and two figures dressed in black from head to toe fled as fast as their legs would carry them.
Left behind on the asphalt was another lifeless body of a young, Black man. He was lying face down in a pool of blood, so his white Nike Air Force Ones slowly turned crimson. His new Coogi jeans were now filled with the stench of piss and shit. And his face was so badly disfigured from the gunshot wounds that if not for his teeth, his body would have remained unidentified. Needless to say, at his funeral the casket would remain closed.
This is the story of three friends from the bottom, born into poverty, pain, and despair. Those same conditions plague Blacks like a disease in inner-city neighborhoods. And they are especially severe in the racially oppressive atmosphere of the Deep South.
Backs to the wall, and tired of being pawns in the White man’s proverbial chess game, the friends made a vow amongst themselves to get money…by any mothafuckin’ means possible! Murder, robbery, extortion, kidnapping, or fraud. They would do anything for profit. And any opposition to their goals was met with savage violence. Only those also raised in the gutter would understand or relate to their mentality. Either you rolled with them, or you got rolled the fuck over. It was real simple. No mercy, no remorse.
Like I said, this is the story of three friends, and their struggle to rise above the squalid socio-economic conditions they were born into. Me? My name is AMEN. I’m just the vessel being used to bring this story to you. Letting you see life through their eyes. Come take a glimpse into their world. A place where the rules and morals of American society cease to have any meaning. To understand these characters, you have to first see how they came about…
Greenville, S.C. - Summer of 1985
“PUSH, PUSH!” The doctor yelled at the young girl lying on the bed in the delivery room of St. Francis Hospital. “Come on Tracy, he’s almost out. I can see the head! Push, Tracy!”
“I can’t Dr. Smith, I can’t, I can’t… I’m just so tired,” said Tracy exhaustedly.
“Tracy, listen. Give me one more good push, okay?”
Tracy pushed with all the strength she had remaining in her young, frail, weakened body, and out came a brown, wrinkled baby boy, crying and screaming at the top of his lungs. It was like he was protesting the fact that he was forced into such a cold, callous world.
“It’s a boy, Tracy, it’s a boy,” Dr. Smith stated as he clipped the umbilical cord. The nurse cleaned the baby off, wrapped him in a light blue blanket, and then handed the bawling infant over to his mother. As she stared at the life she had just brought into the world, the smile on Tracy’s face illuminated the entire delivery room.
“What are you going to name him?” asked the nurse on call, as she gently took the baby back.
Tracy was totally exhausted from being in labor for more than 18 hours. She whispered, “Michael. His name is Michael.” She named the newborn baby after the man whom she had naively given her virginity and her young heart to. The man who had gotten her pregnant. The man who had said he loved her. The man who had said he would die for her. The same man had deserted her the moment she told him that she was pregnant with his child. And yet her heart still ached at the mere thought of him.
“Doctor, Doctor!” yelled the nurse. “She’s hemorrhaging! Losing too much blood here! She’s going into cardiac arrest! We’re losing her!”
“Code Red! Code Red, we’ve got a code red in Delivery Room #2!” yelled Dr. Smith. “All available medical personnel report to Delivery Room number 2 stat!!” the voice blared out over the intercom.
Delivery room #2 filled with nurses and doctors, all attempting to revive the young woman who lay dying on the hospital bed, bleeding to death. But their heroic efforts were in vain. At the tender age of 16, Tracy Denise Dillinger was dead.
Her parents, who had been sitting in the waiting room throughout the entire ordeal, broke down and burst into tears when the doctor came out and delivered the heartbreaking news that their only child—their baby girl, had died while giving birth to a son that was fatherless… a bastard.
Unable to deal with the constant reminder of their teenage daughter’s sexual carelessness and subsequent death, her parents looked into the nursery at their grandson for the first and last time. After talking it over, they made the decision to put the child up for adoption.
So on the same day the world gained a new life, two were also lost. One lost to the grave, the other to the system. The date was June 16th 1985, and that was how Mike came into the world. All alone.
Greenville, SC - Summer of ‘85
The crack epidemic grew out of control during the Reagan Administration. It had already begun to devour the impoverished inhabitants of the ghettos of most major cities in America, but it had yet to reach smaller cities in the south like Greenville, S.C. So fiends were still freebasing their coke in glass pipes, aluminum cans, or whatever other object that could stand the intense heat of the fire used to turn the coke into smoke, so they could inhale it and get a blast. Smoking the cocaine instead of snorting it up their noses gave them a more intense high.
The acrid smell of freebase smoke filled the air of a house, which was really nothing more than an old boarded up shack where smokers and fiends got high. A strong gust of wind could’ve probably blown that shit down like a piece of cardboard. Outside in the front yard, there were several old beat up Chevy’s and Fords, whose best years were long behind them. The unkempt grass and weeds were slowly devouring their rusty remains.
Inside, there were several base-heads indulging in their habit. Most notably was a young woman by the name of Gloria Davis, affectionately called Glo by her friends and family. Gloria was the epitome of the word sexy. She had size 36 D breasts, a 22 inch waist, and an onion cut to make grown men cry. With a caramel complexion and big, brown, bedroom eyes, Gloria was what men in her day would consider a “Brick-House” like that Commodores song.
But Gloria had a habit. And she would stop at nothing to support it. Over the years she’d been using, Gloria had quickly slipped and hit rock bottom. She had done everything from sell her furniture, to sell her body to get high.
“Mmmmm, Gloria, there it is, baby! Suck that di
ck, girl. Yeah baby, just like that, just like that! Damn Gloria, you give the best head in the fuckin’ world, gurl.”
Gloria was on her knees with some random dude’s penis in her mouth, sucking on it as if her life depended on it. And in a sense it did. She needed that trick to get high. That’s all she lived for. With one hand working the strangers’ shaft, and the other gripping the cheap dresser for balance, she worked her head back and forth like a pro, humming and slobbering all over his dick until he released his hot seed into her mouth. Gloria pretended to swallow, and licked her lips. In her sexiest voice, she said, “Damn baby, yo’ milk sho’ taste good.”
The stranger laughed, and gathered his clothes and got dressed. He left a small bag of white powder on the dresser as payment for the excellent service he had just received, and was on his way.
As soon as the trick left, Gloria spit his thick semen onto the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. For a brief second, she wondered what she had become. She thought of the way she had been raised. She was from a pretty decent home.
Any reasoning in her mind was quickly overpowered by her urge to get high. She hurried over to the bag of white the trick had left on the table and fiendishly grabbed at the bag. She tore it open and placed the contents inside an empty aluminum can she had nearby. She grabbed her lighter off the dresser, and put flame to the can until the coke turned to thick smoke, and then she took a good hit. The blissful effect was almost immediate. Gloria closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling. The drug provided her with an escape. She had a lot of demons, and they haunted her when she wasn’t high.
She was sitting there in a drug induced haze when two men entered the small room. In the room, there was nothing more than an old dresser and a filthy mattress, soiled from numerous men’s semen, sweat, and other bodily fluids. The two men began to aggressively fondle Gloria, grabbing at her firm ass and tits. One of them leered at her, and said, “You gon’ let us get some of that good pussy, gurl? Huh?”
Glo was nervous, but the crack whore in her said, “How much y’all gon’ pay me?”
“Bitch, fuck that,” the shorter one slurred, with the scent of liquor loud on his breath. He pulled out a 6 inch blade, and said, “This one’s gon’ be on the house.” He then grabbed Gloria by the neck, and threw her down on the dirty mattress.
“You know what time it is,” said the taller, lighter skinned hound. “Either you gon’ fuck, or you gon’ die. It’s yo’ choice, bitch. What’s up?”
Filled with fear, Gloria closed her eyes, opened her legs, and let the men have their way with her. They violated her young body every way they knew how. One of them choked her hard as hell while he pounded her, until she blacked out.
When she finally opened her eyes, the men were gone. They left her lying in a pool of sticky semen and blood. She gathered what little strength she had left, and attempted to walk to the bathroom. Disoriented and weak, she staggered down the hallway. Before she could reach there, her legs gave out and her mind went blank again. Gloria fell to the dirty, hard and splintered wooden floor. She lay there naked and unconscious for hours.
Nine months later, Gloria gave birth to twins. They were a little underweight because she had continued getting high throughout her pregnancy, but they were beautiful. She named the girl Tameka, and the boy she named Anthony. When asked who their father was, Gloria hung her head in shame. The nurse didn’t see the silent tears she shed. The date was March 9th, 1986. That was how Meka and Ant-D got here.
Fast forward twenty years…
Chapter 1
The Ville…August, 2006
A woman’s voice came blaring from a cheap television that was bolted down to a dilapidated nightstand. “Tonight on the Fox 10 0’clock news… Police have found an unidentified body brutally murdered in the Kennedy Park section of Greenville. The body has suffered numerous gunshot wounds to the face and chest areas. Authorities believe that this murder was the result of a drug transaction gone bad. If you have any information pertaining to this crime, please call 1-800-crimestoppers, or the Greenville county sheriff’s office. More details to follow…”
“A yo’ Ant, did you see that nigga’s muh’fuckin’ face when I pulled the pistol on his monkey ass, my nigga!?” asked Mike animatedly. He and Ant sat in a low-budget motel room, reliving the murderous events that they were responsible for. They had committed the crimes just hours earlier.
“Man, that nigga’s eyes got bigger than a deer’s caught in the headlights of an 18 wheeler!” laughed Ant D.
“But do you think he shit on his self befo’, or after I peeled his shit back?” asked Mike jokingly.
“Probably befo’, dog. Er’body know Tremone was more pussy than four dykes havin’ an orgy. I’m surprised that old Sideshow Bob, Homey the Clown ass nigga was even out here tryna hustle, dog.”
“You ain’t even bullshittin’. That was the easiest, quickest 30 G’s I ever done made in my fuckin’ life, my nigga.”
“Damn right,” Ant D said. “Thirty for you, thirty for me.”
“Man, look here, over the past few months we done licked muh’fuckas for ‘bout 250 grand…”
“At least!” yelled Ant D.
“That’s my whole point though, my nigga. We just blowin’ that shit, homey. We ain’t doin’ shit wit’ it. We robbin’ muh’fuckas, killin’ niggas, riskin’ doin’ a fuckin’ bid, and then we just blow that shit, and do it again! Man, we gotta slow down, and start tryna make this money do gymnastics for us! We gotta get it, then figure out how we gon’ wash it without them boys gettin’ on our ass. I ain’t tryna go in and do no mo’ time. You know them alphabet boys like flies on shit once they figure they got a case.”
“Maaaaaan, don’t even stress that shit. I’m already on it,” said Ant D. “You remember my Uncle Bug, right?”
“Yeah,” Mike chuckled. “I remember that ugly ass mothafucka’. Man, they gave that nigga the right name too. Dude look like a fuckin bug for real! Big, black, ugly ass muh’fucka! I know he be paying for pussy, ‘cause I swear, that’s ‘bout the only way he gon’ get his dick wet...except fo’ when he wash. And shiiiiiit, the way that nigga be smellin’, I ain’t even sho’ he do that,” Mike said, cracking up.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But all bullshit aside tho’, peep game, Mike. He was tellin’ me ‘bout this building that’s on sale in the Burg for ‘bout 400 G’s. He said it used to be a storage facility, but that shit shut down. All we gotta do is buy it, fix it up, and open up our own shit. You always talkin’ ‘bout having your own strip club and shit, right? Well this the spot, my nigga. Now yo’ ass can stop talkin’ ‘bout it, and start being ‘bout it and make that shit happen. We can put our paper through the fuckin’ cleaners, and at the same time, have the baddest bitches in the south workin’ at our club!” said Ant D enthusiastically. “Nigga, we’ll be the youngest, flyest niggas in the Upstate with our own spot… gettin’ it!!” he yelled excitedly.
“That sound like a muh’fuckin’ plan,” Mike stated. “But as of right now, we only got ‘bout 100 saved up to play with. We gon’ need at least a good 8 or 900 to make that shit pop like its ‘posed to. So you know what that means.”
“Mo’ money, Mo’ murder,” they said in unison. The two trigger happy pals both laughed. They were young, fearless, and foolish, so they both thought they were invincible.
“Ant D, go ‘head and stop bullshittin’. Roll up some of that sticky we got from Trap,” Mike said passing Ant D a clear plastic baggy filled with big buds of purple haze.
“Yeah, I better roll this shit, ‘cause I swear, yo’ non-rollin’ ass will have that shit fallin’ apart. Weed fallin’ all out the blunt, and all type of shit!” Ant D took a bud out, broke it down, and rolled a blunt that looked like it was about 9 months pregnant. He grabbed a lighter off the dresser, lit the blunt, and took a deep pull, savoring the way the smoke filled his lungs.
“Take two and pass, nigga. You already know what it is,” said Mike.
Ant
D passed the blunt to Mike, already beginning to feel a little buzz from the potent, exotic marijuana they were smoking. The pungent aroma of the “exotic” permeated the small motel room they were in. To avoid some nosey ass, potential do-gooder walking by and smelling the smoke, and possibly calling the law, Mike got a towel from the bathroom. He wet it, and placed it at the crack of the bottom of the door. That would help keep the smell from escaping. That was a little trick he had learned during one of his numerous stints in The Department of Juvenile Justice.
The Camelot, the motel they were holed up in counting their blood money, was nothing but a hole in a wall. It was owned by some immigrant Indians who were exploiting the poor economic conditions that black people were plagued with in the south, getting rich off their sweat and blood. “The Lot” was where the hoes came to get fucked, and the heads came to get high. Dope boys went there to trap, and the jack boys came to catch a lick.
So when they heard a woman outside screaming at the top of her lungs for the police, Mike and Ant D looked at each other. They were thinking the same thing. It was time to get the fuck outta Dodge!
“Let’s get light, Ant D. Ain’t no point tryna explain to the police what we doin’ in here with 60 stacks of cash money.”
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I was thinkin’ the same thang, my nigga.”
They both grabbed what few belongings they had, and hurried outside to Mike’s candy painted, money green, box Chevy Caprice. It was sitting high on 26 inch chrome Giovanna rims, wrapped in low profile Pirelli tires. Mike started the car up and put some old shit from Tip’s “Urban Legend” album on blast.
“Ride wit me nigga, let me show you where we kick it at - Where hustlers get them chickens at and T.i.p be chillin’ at…”
ANYTHING 4 PROFIT (ANYTHING FOR PROFIT) Page 1