by Noire
Williams’s cousin, Carl Williams, aka Pimp-A-Licious, who was one third of the former rap trio known regionally as the ’Licious Lovers, has planned a lavish funeral procession that will travel through the Harlem neighborhood where Williams was born and raised. His mega-hits, “Just the Head, Please,” and “How Deep U Want It?” will be playing on loudspeakers during the procession, according to an unnamed source.
In addition to Carl, Williams is survived by a second cousin, Todd Williams, aka Smoove-A-Licious, who is currently serving with the Marine Corps in South Korea, as well as eight children that he allegedly fathered with eight different women.
Five years ago the ’Licious cousins were questioned in a brutal murder/robbery at a gambling hall in Harlem called T.C.’s Place, but formal charges were never filed. Williams was preceded in death by his mother, his infant daughter, and his younger sister. He was rumored to be engaged to wed his childhood sweetheart, who is a small business owner in their old Harlem neighborhood.
On Friday, a public wake was marred by the stampede of a restless crowd who had been gathered outside for hours waiting to view the rap star’s body. Later in the day, select mourners attended a small private service in a chapel of Carter’s Funeral Home.
A literal Who’s Who of the entertainment and sports industries are scheduled to turn out for the funeral inside the Flip T. Carter Funeral Chapel on Convent Avenue. Jay-Z, Reem Raw, Carmelo Anthony, Jermaine Dupree, Beyoncé Knowles, LeBron James, Stephon Marbury, Maurice Taylor, Larry Brown, and Michael Jordan are among the high-profile mourners expected to attend.
Minister Lani McCombs, Williams’s former girlfriend and the mother of his son, Dante, will lead the choir at the service, while former college roommate David James will deliver the eulogy. As family and friends grieved, the Daily News quoted unidentified police sources as saying a thirteen-year-old boy was arrested immediately after the incident for suspicion of Williams’s stabbing. A motive is unknown at this time.
Already hundreds of fans are crowding the blocks where Williams was known as Harlem’s black prince. A makeshift memorial shrine consisting of photos, mixtapes, throwback jerseys, flowers, basketballs, CDs, and overturned beer bottles were left at the scene.
Several members of the Knicks Kids youth team stood outside of the funeral home Friday afternoon dressed in Knicks jerseys bearing Williams’s number. They were holding up signs that read THE FUTURE NBA STARS OF NEW YORK ARE BEGGING YOU TO STOP THE VIOLENCE.
America seems to agree.
And at the end…
The final championship game was being played in Thug’s honor.
His teammates had been so shook by his stabbing that they went on to lose that critical game, and tonight they were planning to redeem themselves.
Carmiesha was dressed in dark colors and sitting next to Coach Brown’s wife in a VIP seat on the floor, but she knew the real action was gonna be taking place in the skybox overhead.
Her cell phone vibrated, and she pressed it to her ear.
“Everybody set?” she asked calmly.
“And you know that!” Rasheena said. Carmiesha could hear how hyped Rasheena was, and while she looked composed and cool on the outside, inside she felt the same way.
Shit was about to get started, and not just on the court. Dre hadn’t been a perfect man, but he had been her damn man, and she was gonna see to it that the person responsible for his death got what was coming.
Carmiesha had been so proud of her boo when the commissioner dedicated this game to his memory. Every playa on his team had reached out and touched her with love. They told her how strong and ambitious Dre was, and how much star quality and promise he’d had. He woulda gone straight to the top, Carmiesha knew. On the rap scene and on the basketball court. Her man had dominated everything he touched, and he woulda made it to the top.
But none of that mattered no more. Dre was gone, but he was lucky in a way. At least he’d gotten a chance to taste his dreams. He had reached a lot of his goals and climbed up high to take a seat on his throne. Even if he didn’t get to stay there for long.
Carmiesha gazed up at the skybox and nodded to herself. All of the sistahs had come through for Dre and did their part. Remy had helped her convince the other girls that if they wanted their kids to get some of Dre’s royalties and insurance money then they had to get down on the program.
“Look, y’all. Muddah is secondary on Dre’s shit. They was planning on getting married, but they never got that far. That means all Thug’s money is going to that motherfuckin’ Pimp unless we do something about it. If you down, stay. If you ain’t, step! But don’t come asking for shit later on when we all paid.”
Nobody had left. They were all down to do what needed to be done.
Paula had made sure the special invitation was printed up and delivered to him by a courier. Vikki knew a guy who drove a limo, and she had arranged to get him picked up and delivered to the Garden on time. Kathy had a fourteen-year-old sister named Pinkie who looked like a baby in the face, but had a vicious body that was stacked with devastating curves.
And Rasheena. Carmiesha almost laughed. However much money they ended up getting, that girl deserved a bonus for real. Rasheena had gotten down on her knees and given the white guy who managed the skybox a def blow job. She’d sucked his dick so good he agreed to let her fill in as the VIP waitress for the night. And now, everybody was set and ready and had done their part to make sure shit went down smooth tonight.
Carmiesha touched her stomach, but her mind wasn’t on the baby she was carrying inside of her. Her mind was on that other baby she had carried thirteen years ago. The baby who was sitting up in jail right now. The baby who had cried in jail when he told her exactly why he ran his ass outta the stands and past security and stabbed the Knicks’ marquee rookie in the back of his neck.
“He had all a them with him, Carmiesha! All a his kids was with him except me! I seent him on TV the day of the draft. Why he wanna be with all them little kids and babies and not wanna be with me? Huh? I’m a baller too, Carmiesha! I’m just like him cause I’m his first son!”
Carmiesha had wanted to spread herself out on the floor and close her eyes.
“No, baby,” she said, crying softly as she realized how much damage her lies had caused. “No! He’s not your father, Jahlil! He never even knew about you.”
“Stop lying!” Jahlil had jumped up and screamed. “His cousin already told me! Carl told me every fuckin’ thing about him! Carl said that niggah didn’t care nothing about me! That’s why he left me! And you told me too! You said my father was a rap star and a baller! You said he was in college and that one day he’d be playing in the NBA! You told me that, Carmiesha. Yes you did! You did!”
The pain Carmiesha had felt was indescribable. Not even watching her mother get her brains blown out and splattered all over the wall had hurt her this bad. But Jahlil was right. Pimp mighta filled his head up with hate, but she had hinted lies to Jahlil about his father’s identity his whole life. All she had ever wanted for him was for him to have a good life. She’d hinted that Dre was his father because she didn’t want him to know what kinda rotten-ass tree he had really fallen from.
Right now they were holding Jahlil on Rikers Island, but if her plan worked the way she planned it to, she was gonna get her son a lawyer who could help him get through the legal system and get the help he needed.
And yeah, Carmiesha thought, crossing her legs and smiling at something the coach’s wife said. Jahlil was her son, and she was finally ready to admit that shit to the whole damn world. The first person she told was Mere’maw, and it broke her spirit the way that old lady sat there and cried like her heart had been cut.
“That goddamn boy was rapin’ you? And you didn’t tell me? Don’t you trust me even a little bit, Muddah? We got us a baby out there that I ain’t never held in my arms? And now he done did something like this, and I can’t even help him?”
Carmiesha had dropped to her knees and pu
t her head in Mere’maw’s lap and cried.
“Lil’ Muddah, you shoulda brung this to me, darling. I’da accepted you and that baby both. God bless Miss Lady, and I hope she restin’ in peace, but me and you”—Mere’maw wiped her eyes and stroked Carmiesha’s tears—“we coulda raised that baby boy and got through this thing together.”
Next she told her sistahs. The mothers of Dre’s babies.
“Oh, goddamn!” Kathy had cried. Carmiesha ran it down to them just the way it had happened. She told them all about how Pimp had shit all over her life. How he had made her suck his dick, then fucked her on a pissy elevator floor when she was just a child, how Miss Lady helped her get to a hospital when she went in labor, and about how it felt to give her son up to strangers and not be able to tell anyone about him, especially Thug. She told them about the shakedowns and all the money she’d been paying out, and about those dirty-ass cops who had tried to beat her ass to death. She told them about her brothers, Justice and Rome, both deaded on the word of that grimy-ass bastard. She told her sistahs exactly who had gotten Ya-Yo smoked too, and how his mother blamed her for his death, and how she had wanted to kill herself just to escape the evilness that was Pimp.
To her relief, she found herself wrapped in five pairs of arms. Even Remy was crying when Carmiesha finished talking, and all of her sistahs told her they loved her and would be down for her, Jahlil, and the baby she was carrying, for life.
And now Carmiesha and her sistahs had work to do.
The game was deep in fourth-quarter action when they made their move. Carmiesha sat back and pictured that shit like she was watching a five-star movie, a cold smile spreading across her lips.
She could see it now. Rasheena up there wagging that gangsta booty in Pimp’s face as she served him drinks from her secret stash of Thug Passion and St. Ides. Pinkie, switching around the skybox looking young and fresh and hotter than hell. She would know better than to look Pimp in the face or talk to him too much. Nah, that would be acting too grown, and Pimp liked his victims young so he could put fear in them and dominate their baby minds.
Right about now, when there was five minutes left in the third quarter, Pinkie would get up and announce that she had to use the bathroom. She would switch her firm young hips out of the skybox and walk across the hall to the private bathroom where Remy, Paula, Kathy, and Vikki would be waiting in a stall, feet up, standing on the toilet.
That niggah Pimp would be real high offa the scent of all that young pussy, and it wouldn’t take him long to follow Pinkie into the bathroom. And when he did, they’d all be waiting to serve him. To give his monster-ass exactly what the fuck he deserved.
A shiver ran through Carmiesha as she pictured him knocking Pinkie to the floor and making her get on her knees. She knew what kinda look would be on his face as he pulled out his dick and leaned against the stall door. She saw him put his head back and laugh right before he pushed himself into her mouth.
He’d make little Pinkie suck that goddamn dick.
He’d yank her by the hair and slam her head down on it over and over.
Pinkie would be called all kinds of bitches and stank-ass hoes as he slammed it into her mouth, swinging his fists and punching her like she was a goddamn man.
Carmiesha shivered again as she pictured Remy. Hiding in the stall. Standing on the toilet, then leaning over the door and slipping the rope around his neck.
Oh, that niggah would put up a good-ass fight.
He would grab at that rope and try to yank Remy’s ass straight over that door. But Remy wasn’t going nowhere. Because her sistahs had her back.
Paula and Kathy, Vikki, they were crouching on that toilet seat too. Just waiting to reach up and help Remy handle that niggah as he dangled by his scrawny-ass neck.
They’d all get some. Especially little Pinkie. After all, she’d had to take a beatdown and suck that niggah’s dick, so it was only right.
Together, they’d hang their weight on that rope until that niggah’s feet was off the floor and he was pissing on himself. They’d make sure his dick was limp and he was foaming at the mouth before they even thought about easing up….
And when he was stretched out helpless on the floor, hurt but still conscious and struggling to breathe, they’d really fuck him up then. They’d kick the hell outta him. Punch that niggah everywhere. Dent his forehead with the heels of their shoes. They’d take turns stomping that evil motherfucker. Kicking his teeth in until his mouth filled up with blood, and he started choking on that shit. They’d beat that niggah’s ass until his eyes rolled up in his head, and he begged those bitches for mercy.
But there wouldn’t be a drop of fuckin’ mercy in them. They’d beat that niggah until his life was riding on his next breath. And right before he went out for good, Rasheena would step through the door. She’d be carrying an ice bucket. With something special inside.
Carmiesha shuddered in her seat. Her leg jerked as she saw the kicks sinking into his body. Her fists stung with satisfaction as she helped deliver every punch. Her mouth was watering, and she was breathing hard. She listened closely as Rasheena squatted down close to that niggah’s face and laughed. “For a shit-talking wanksta who got such a little skinny-ass dick, your breath sure stanks!”
And then Rasheena would take her surprise out the ice bucket and jig him twice. Real quick. Once through each eye. Then she’d grab his pointy dick with two fingers and slide that icepick down deep into his pee-hole….
Maurice Taylor scored a sweet three-pointer, and New York fans roared. The noise was so loud Carmiesha wanted to stick her fingers in her ears. But instead, she jumped up right along with the coach’s wife and the rest of the Knicks fans and screamed and clapped her ass off.
“Yes!” she shouted, throwing her fist in the air. “Yes! Yes! YES!”
Thirty seconds later Carmiesha sat back down and waited for her phone to vibrate.
“Hey, Ma-Ma,” Rasheena said sounding happy. “The Garden is live tonight! All kinds of fine-ass ballers up in the house. They dropping dollas up in this skybox too, but you know some hater aways gotta spit shit in ya’ face. I just had to toss some stank-breathed, skinny-dicked niggah a peppermint! Nah, make that two!”
Carmiesha breathed deeply. It was over.
Now the dead could rest, the babies would be taken care of, and she could concentrate on trying to save her son.
She closed the phone and put her hands on her belly. A tear slipped from her eye as she looked up toward heaven and whispered, “Everything for our family, Dre. Everything for our family.”
A Voice from the Grave….
Thoughts of a Thug
This is just a thug’s thoughts For all my real niggahs it was never love lost Just get it at all costs Just tryin to make a dollar turn over again But when it’s over you can never do it over again
I been steppin over stones/runnin reckless with the chrome going hard in the booth every session when I zone
Bad break, too late/fuck tryin’ta throw a bone Can’t beat it/got defeated/now I’m never coming home
I guess it’s what God predicted Outta sight/outta mind/outta time Nigga’s nonexistent
I was riding to the top/but the tides done shifted Now I’m rotting in the box/and the grave’s my prison
All due to a life full of crime and mischief lies and bitches Life in these times is vicious highly gifted That’s why I grind persistent So live that even niggas that died can dig it
And I guess the hatas already knew I’m so thug
And the hood showed me love like I already blew Son of the slums Fresh from the heart of the zoo You get money/they get funny/start targeting you
My crimes/you break ’em down to the simplest fact And then assemble them back And you will really know that it’s realer than wax
So use your sense/when you pitch On that strip Number one rule: Suckers and success don’t mix!
This is just a thug’s thoughts For all my real niggahs it was never love lost Ju
st get it at all costs Just trying to make a dollar turn over again But when it’s over you can never do it over again…
Read an excerpt from Candy Licker by Noire!
Chapter 1
Money, Lust, Fame
It was a little after one on a Friday night and mics were on fire at the House of Homicide. Junius “Hurricane” Jackson was Homicide’s CEO, producer, and all-around king niggah in charge. Hurricane commanded mad respect on the streets of New York City, and even the most thugged-out criminals feared him like the badass hustler that he was.
The House of Homicide was located smack in the middle of Harlem, on a block that stayed live twenty-four hours a day. It was originally built as a neighborhood movie theater, but when Hurricane started running things, he converted it into a hot nightclub/recording studio that attracted hundreds of ballers, rappers, and hopeful wannabe artists looking to get on a stage and get paid.
Every superhead in Harlem wanted to be down on Homicide’s tip. The crack fiends, the teenage baby mamas. The video hoes who were lost and turned out.
“That Cane niggah is hard!” they’d laugh as they lined up half-naked outside the studio, posing and shivering in the cold, just dying to get a spot on his latest video shoot. “Let that rich motherfucka put the camera on me. I’ll rock my ass so hard he’ll forget his mama’s name!”
Yeah, Hurricane was a living legend in Harlem, and he had his House on lock and under total control. He was a genius when it came to recognizing raw street talent, and he dominated the music industry so viciously it made those cats over at Crunk Cuts and Ruthless Rap look weak and broke-down.
Hurricane was in deep with the Mafia too, and they gave him a lot of rope. He strong-armed a bunch of small businesses and laundered Mob money through almost all of them, especially the corner liquor store he owned and his rib joint that was right next door. He played the role of a community leader and all that too. You know, giving out free turkeys during the holidays and sponsoring bookmobiles and things like that for the kids in the hood. He had fat knots in his pockets and was even known to organize street cleanups and pay people’s bills when they got too far behind. But nothing went down in Harlem that Hurricane wasn’t involved in. No deals got made, no pussy got sold, no dice got tossed. Nobody so much as rolled a blunt unless Hurricane got his cut.