Carl Weber Presents Ride or Die Chick 2

by J. M. Benjamin

  “Sorry,” she whispered with a genuinely sympathetic smile right before she hurried out the room. Teflon knew that would be the last time she would see or hold her son again. On the day she was sentenced to 480 months in a West Virginia federal prison, she also signed her son, who she named Treacherous Antwan Freeman, Jr. over to the State of Virginia.

  Chapter 3

  Four years later

  Teflon had just completed her last set of calisthenics, consisting of twenty sets of ten pull-ups, twenty-five push-ups, and twenty dips. She then made her way over to the royal-blue plastic mat to get in her ten sets of a hundred-count crunches before she made her way to the back for her cardiovascular workout consisting of a two-mile daily ritual that she had been following religiously for the past three and a half years. Since being at West Virginia Federal Institution, Teflon had diligently thrown herself into working out. The end result: She had a built body to die for. Her arms were muscular in a feminine way, and her traps and shoulders were toned. Even through the sports bra and the short T she wore, you could see the separation and perkiness in her breasts despite how muscular she was. Her mid was flat and cut and the perspiration that glistered over her entire body enhanced the definition in her stomach and highlighted the tattoo she now had of the mug shot of Treacherous she had gotten from a newspaper clipping during her trial, along with the words The Last American Gangsta replacing the scars she bore from the C-section and gunshot wound. Her waistline was smaller then she could ever recall it being, but her hips and ass had spread like smooth butter in hot toast, compliments of the squats and thrusts she’d incorporated into her workout regime. When she worked out, her ass checks protruded and cuffed underneath with each exercise set. Straight women envied from afar, while gay women lusted from a close distance. They either all wanted to be her, be with her, or be around her, but Teflon didn’t allow none of those luxuries. She had made it perfectly clear—or rather showed those who thought it was a game that she was to be reckoned with and was not there to make friends.

  During Teflon’s first three weeks on the compound, a six-foot, dark-skinned, 200-plus pound manly-looking butch from Philadelphia tried to enter the shower with her. At the time, Teflon was preoccupied with washing her face and the butch slid in undetected. But the foreign touch around her waist and body pressed up against her own wet flesh from behind was enough to trigger her off, instantly causing her to spring into action in record-breaking time. Before the brawny woman could realize she had made a fatal mistake, Teflon had already slipped out her grasp and spin around with rapid speed. In one motion, she head-butted the butch. Because of the height difference, Teflon’s blow was delivered to the woman’s nose. You could hear the crunching sound on impact as blood sprayed the shower walls. By the time the facility rovers arrived, Teflon was sitting on top of the whale of a woman, strangling the life out of her with her towel. Because of the Philadelphia woman’s history of similar incidents, she was transferred to Danbury Federal Correctional Institution in Connecticut and Teflon served six months in lockup, then was returned back to general population.

  The fact that “Big Bertha,” as she was known, was the most feared and highly respected on the compound, and word had gathered out that Teflon was the one who they had all heard of or read about as being the female who stood trial for the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde case, she had now earned and gained that respect and fear from her peers.

  Teflon dressed in her khaki prison-issued uniform after she had groomed up for the day and made her way toward the dayroom. Count for the facility had just cleared moments ago like clockwork and Teflon had hurried to be one of the first who made it in and out of the shower before mail call. For the past three and a half years mail call had actually been the highlight of her days in the women’s prison. It had been the letters she had been receiving faithfully over the years that had kept her sanity intact and given her a reason to want to continue to live. Teflon had entered the dayroom just as the officers began pulling the rubber-banded stacks of mail out of the big beige mailbag. Teflon played the background, posted up against the dayroom’s wall, while the officer sounded off with her mail call. This was where she had stood day in and out. All the other female inmates became accustomed to Teflon positioning herself to the section by the dayroom door and made it their business not to invade her spot or space.

  “Teflon Jackson,” the officer called out. “Right here,” Teflon answered, making her way to the front of the room. The dayroom parted like the Red Sea as she navigated her way to the officer. Normally in the back, but no one besides the officer ever touched Teflon’s mail and that’s the way she wanted it. Teflon got her letter and made her way to her room. She sat on her bottom bunk, removed the staple out of the envelope that held it together, and began to read.

  I greet you with the highest salutations of peace and wish you many blessings upon receiving this missive. Teflon always smiled at the opening remarks. They had always been the same from day one. No other man had ever made her smile like that other then Treacherous, up until now. She continued to read the letter.

  So how is my daughter–in-law? I know it’s a question I already know the answer to but it’s always a beautiful thing to hear it in your own words. As for this ol’ man, I’m as strong as an ox and not just physically, and smart as a fox, sharper then a nail, with patience like a snail. The Creator continues to bless me to live to see and fight another day, just as He is doing for you. By the time you receive this letter, it will officially be my twenty-second year behind these walls, and still my health and sanity are intact. I’m getting closer and closer to seeing daylight at the end of the tunnel. Five and a half more years to go. That’s a small thing to a giant like myself. You know the only reason I speak about time is not to get you to monitor it, but to motivate you to beat it. Don’t let ’em win. If I can do it, so can you. We are cut from the same cloth; same fabric, same texture. Utilize that time wisely. When you walk out that door, no matter when it is, because you will, I’ll be standing right there waiting for you with open arms, and you can take that to the bank. Smile.

  Teflon couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. It never failed. He had always slid a joke or pun in reference to a bank in all his letters.

  Speaking about utilizing your time wisely, I just finished reading the last four chapters you sent me of the book. Man, sister, you sure can write. I know you got some more for me, so I’m waiting. It’s not only enjoyable, it’s also powerful, yet emotional, three things that comprise a good book and I’m not just saying that because you’re the writer and it’s about you and my son. I know I’ve said it before and you tell me to stop saying it, but I appreciate you sharing your past with me through these chapters, and for allowing me the opportunity to know things about my son that I never knew and he would have never offered to share. The two of you have indeed been through hell and back. You two remind me so much of Teresa and me. I know you were thinking about changing the title of the book but I think it’s appropriate for it. It doesn’t get any better then The Story of Treacherous and Teflon. It wouldn’t make sense to name it anything else. I hope you reconsider and keep that. Still no news about the whereabouts of my grandson? The system is crazy. Don’t worry, though. As promised, the first foot I step outside these walls I will be on my J-O-B getting some answers. Like I told you before, I gave you my word that I will find little Treach if he’s anywhere in the State of Virginia. With that being said, until our pens meet paper again, which in our case will be the following day, stay strong, stay focused, and stay blessed.

  Always yours truly,

  R. Robinson.

  Teflon ended the letter and placed it back in the envelope.

  Six days a week for the past three years and some change she had been receiving letters from Treacherous’s father. She remembered how skeptical and hesitant she was when another female inmate from out of Virginia Beach had approached her with the letter that was not to her though a letter from the girl’s boyfriend who
was in Petersburg Federal Prison with Richie Gunz. The first time it was brought to her she refused to accept. Two days later she sought the girl out and found that she’d still possessed the letter. When she read the letters it brought tears to her eyes. It had taken her a week to respond back. When she did, it opened up a line of communication and a bond that Teflon knew would last forever. Sometimes when she read Richie’s letters his words reminded her so much of Treacherous. She could see where Treacherous had gotten his strength from and how he naturally commanded respect. She enjoyed hearing from him just as much as she enjoyed writing back. It was him who had suggested she write about her and Treacherous’s relationship and how their bond was formed. It seemed like a crazy idea at first, but a year ago, one mysterious night, she dreamed about her and Treacherous’s lives from the time they’d first met in the Norfolk Detention Center up until the time of his demise. It was that very same night she had gotten up and her emotions poured out and onto paper. Teflon put the letter in her locker and retrieved her Walkman, along with her notepad and pen.

  She had been thinking all day about writing the new chapter she intended to write this evening. Each chapter she had this far written had been emotional for her because they involved Treacherous, but it was the ones like she had to work on tonight that made her miss and long for her other half the most. She opened up her notepad and began to write.

  Chapter Fourteen. For the Love of Riding.

  Bikes all shapes and sizes and colors, from Ducatis, Hayabusas, R1s CBRs, Suzukis to Yamahas flooded the streets of Richard Gold Bowl weekend. Male and female riders displayed bike trucks and stunts, such as indos, burnouts, 360 pop-up wheelies, standing up, and bunny hops with and without backseat passengers. Asses twice the size of mine with mere G-strings and thongs rode on the backs of their boyfriends’ and girlfriends’ street machines as they raced and performed for onlookers and fellow bikers.

  Treacherous and I blended in like chameleons as we rode alongside of one another with our customized bikes with helmets to match. Combined with all we had invested into our babes, they were estimated valued a hundred grand easy, between the chrome pipes, alloy rims, customized seats, and original bodies, our bikes were a sight to see. This was our first time Treacherous and I had bought the particular bikes out. We normally used our R1s or Ducatis when we were putting in work, but because the distance between Richmond and where we lived in Tidewater, Treacherous wanted the most powerful bikes we possessed to pull off the score. Our bikes had parts from the Hayabusas, R1s, and Ducatis. We called them hards. We scanned the area for at least three hours before we finally zeroed in on some potential prospects, and potential they had. Next to us, they definitely had the hottest bikes out that night. Not to mention the fact that they had the most jewelry on and most females flocking around them. To us, that meant money. The way these jokers looked there was no doubt they were packing paper, judging by the type of females that lingered in the area. They were posted up on the side of Virginia Union Stadium, rotating at least ten blunts in the cipher of bikers and groupies, while throwing back cans of Bud Light and white liquor.

  It was six of them total. Their bikes had Texas plates. It was plain to see that the largest of the six with the opened leather biker vest, with no shirt on, revealing his Chia Pet chest and one too many kegs of beer belly, was the head man of the crew. Both Treacherous and I gave each other knowing looks. We had come across hicks like this countless of times, so how we handled it would be no different.

  “Ready, babe?” Treacherous asked, already knowing the answer to his own question. He knew I hated when he asked me that and did it on purpose to get a spark out of me. As always, I ignored his question and shot it right back at him.

  “You ready” He smirked and drew one of the two silencer weapons he possessed behind him. I did the same as we rode up on the small bike party.

  Poom poom poom. The first shot Treacherous delivered split the leader’s head like a cornrow part. The second and third ones tore into his mid in succession like darts in a bull’s-eye. The groupie nearest let out a loud scream only to be silenced by the barrel of my Glock 40. Thanks to the loud music and other partygoers, her cries went unnoticed. Before anyone could make any sudden move, Treacherous and I had already secured the perimeter. Everyone was oblivious as to what was taking place over the blindsided area the Texas bikers were posted up in. “If you don’t wanna end up like this fat mu’fucka here you better come up off of every mu’fuckin’ thing you got from your neck down. Think it’s a game?” Treacherous growled.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I told the groupie. “You ain’t got shit we want.”

  Out of fear they silenced themselves. Quickly, the other five bikers began un-assing themselves of all of their prize possessions and monies, and started dumping it in the knapsack Treacherous had pulled out. The shook bikers were pulling shit out their ass. When Treacherous told them to put their guns in the bag too, I couldn’t believe my ears. “We ain’t packin,’ he the only one dat was strapped, cuz,” one of the bikers volunteered, referring to the one Treacherous had made an example of. Here it was these jokers was out here in VA trying to get their ball on, knowing we played the murder game in Virginia, especially in Richmond when it came to anybody that came from out of state, and only one of them traveled with a burner between the six of them. I had to laugh at that one.

  “Y’all some dumb asses,” Treacherous spit as he pulled out his Rambo knife. Eyes widened at the sight of it. One by one, he plunged the knife into the front and back tires of each bike. We then back-pedaled to our own bikes. Before we pulled off, Treacherous shot each biker in the kneecap. “Next time bring back up,” he clowned the injured bikers and then we were off and in the wind. It always turned me on to see my man in action, just as I know it did the same with him whenever I got gangstress with it. As we darted up Chamberlain Street and then onto I- 95 north, twenty minutes up the interstate Treacherous signaled for me to pull off onto the exit. When we reached the enter section and he lifted his helmet up, I was not surprised by the words that came out his mouth.

  “Babe, that shit got my dick hard as hell the way we just took them Bamas.”

  “I know, my shit was drippin’ watchin’ you handle them clowns,” was my response. I knew it turned him on even more when I talked just as dirty and rough as him. “We gotta do something,” he then said. I knew what was coming next. We rode for another fifteen minutes through town before we found an open field. I followed as Treacherous did 120 miles per hour through the open land. Once he had come to a complete stop, he was off his bike, tossing his helmet before I was able to fully park mine. He approached and prevented me from exiting my bike.

  “Nah stay right there,” he ordered. I took my helmet off and tossed it near his. He leaned in to kiss me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and passionately returned his. He reached down and unfastened my black 7 jeans, then I wrapped my legs around him to make it easier for him. He reached back and snatched off one of my riding boots and slid my left leg out while holding me up in midair, and did the same with the right, Then sat me back on my bike. I hurried, unloosened his belt and pushed both his jeans and boxer briefs down to his thighs. I looked down and saw his rock-hard pulsating. Instantly my inner thighs moistened, enhanced. He hiked me up and slid his hardness inside my wetness. I arched my back and embraced him, all of him. He held me by the waist and bent my back over the seat of my bike. His strength enabled him to sex me in mid-air, having my back barely touching the seat. His thrusts were hard and deep. I know he was totally turned on when he sexed me like this. I couldn’t do anything but to enjoy it. With each thrust my inner walls creamed. When his pace increased and his strokes became rabbit-like, I knew my sex muscles had gotten the best of him. He sprayed me inside with his love juices until he had no more left. He was winded and I was pleased. Pleased that I had satisfied my man and he had satisfied me.

  “I love the fuck outta you,” he said, still trying to gain control of his breathing. />
  “You better,” I replied. Afterwards, we made it back to Norfolk in record-breaking time. When we got home we were both surprised to see that each bankroll the Texas bikers had tossed in the knapsack was full of hundred-dollar bulk no less than ten stacks each. That night we had come off with seventy Gs, not including the jewels.

  Teflon closed her notepad and returned it to her locker. Her sex was both throbbing as well as wet. She could feel her inner thighs dampening as she relieved one of her and Treacherous’s capers and heated sexcapades. She locked her locker and made her way to the bathroom. There, she pleasured herself to images of Treacherous in her mind. Once she brought herself to an orgasm, she re-showered and responded back to Rich’s letter before she took it down for the evening.

  Chapter 4

  “The library will be closing in ten minutes, please return all typewriters,” the law librarian announced. Rich took his ribbon out of the word processor and unplugged it. He then packed up his belongings, turned the typewriter in, and made his way back to his housing unit. During his seven-minute walk from the library to his unit, Rich was greeted with respect by his peers, young and old alike. It was like a gift and a curse, felt Rich, about the amount of respect he had in the facility. He appreciated the love and respect shown throughout his incarceration, but some he could have done without. Everyone that day nearly five years ago, when they televised his son’s and his girlfriend’s last moments of freedom and announced his own past street activities, every wannabe and upcoming thug or gangsta wanted to befriend him, hoping to find out what he knew. It was the type of attention Rich didn’t particularly care for. Even some of the old-school gangstas and bank robbers invited him to join them in their reminiscing sessions of their heydays. Each time he respectfully declined. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it, that was just how it was. Those from the streets and intended to return back to them respected those who had put work in them and played the game to the fullest, and Rich knew that he was viewed as one of those individuals. But after twenty-two years, Rich had seen the game change ten times over, just from the breed and caliber of inmates that came and left behind the walls that had been his place of residence for over two decades. Through that he became all the more wiser and now he wanted no parts of the new generation that ran the streets now, not unless he wanted an express one-way ticket right back to the penal system once he got out. After all these years, prison hadn’t broken him or scared him up. They only made him smarter and more cautious, two things he knew would keep him out in the real world. Rich reached his unit and made his way to the dayroom.