Hard White

by Shannon Holmes

  Melquan awoke. Precious was staring at him, her eyes stained red. He recognized the look and it scared him. Melquan had seen it all too often. It was the look of love.

  “Good Morning Mel,” she said.

  Her lips hugged the words seductively. Melquan glanced back over at the clock on the cable box. It was two-thirty p.m.

  “You mean good afternoon, don’t you?” he remarked. “Damn, I didn’t know it was that late. I didn’t mean to sleep that long. Musta been real tired.”

  “Hmm, hmm, you must’ve been,” Precious said. “Plus I did put it on your ass last night.”

  “Oh yeah…? Well, I don’t remember that too well. You can show me better than you can tell me.”

  A devilish smirk immediately spread across Precious’ pretty face. She glimpsed down at Melquan’s manhood showing clear through the white sheet. Precious grabbed as much of it as her hands could hold. She squeezed it so hard that Melquan’s dick suddenly rose from overnight slumber and stood at attention. Repositioning her body, Precious began to slither down to Melquan’s lower body, pausing when she reached the region around his groin.

  “Is this what you want?” She asked.

  Her tongue flickering at the tip of his exposed dick. It was hard with the head pointing directly at the ceiling.

  “Umm honey… Do you, ma.”

  Slurps and moans from sexual ecstasy flooded the room. Melquan looked down at Precious’ angelic like face while her tongue twirled around the glistening head of his erection. His eyes were soon closed. Unable to take anymore stimulation, he prayed not to cum too soon. His head rolled back and his body became lost in the moment. Precious’tongue coiled around his dick and Melquan moaned from the pleasure. She was on top of her head-game all the while fingering her exposed pussy.

  His throbbing member was in her mouth and this brought Melquan to dizzying heights. Precious repositioned herself in a sixty-nine position. Her vagina was warm and when Melquan sucked and fingered Precious’ love box it got so hot, sticky cum juice oozed into his mouth.

  Upstairs in the apartment, sex was already bubbling over. While outside Precious’ room window, the project world below was beginning to heat up.

  “Yo, that’s my custy, son!” One dealer shouted. “C’mon Macho, don’t even play yerself like that!”

  In the Edenwald projects there was no such thing as a drug free zone. Wherever there was money to be made, drugs was sold. Regardless of whose child or parent was around. Dealers would grind all day and night. Hard white was the product primary pushed.

  The 227th street drive known as the horseshoe, also referred to as the shoe, was currently the officially the largest open-air drug market in Edenwald. The shoe was comprised of seven short, three-story brick buildings. This was the prime destination for drug addicts seeking the best crack cocaine. In Edenwald drug money was known to shift from one side of the projects to another. It could go from strip-to-strip, or even building-to-building. There were two factors that dictated this shift, police presence and better product. Right now the horseshoe had both things in its favor.

  School was already out on this unseasonably warm fall day. Temperature of was high, and crowds of kids scattered about the projects’grounds. Drug dealers, drug addicts, and older residents were outside doing whatever it was that they did to enjoy what was left of the Indian summer day. Because of the warm temperature, there were more people out than usual.

  In midst of all this madness, a cat and mouse game was being waged by a single addict against the dealers. He was frail, and shabbily dressed. Everyone knew the African American crack-head named, George, moving almost undetected from dealer to dealer. George seemed like he was on legitimate business to cop crack, just like he had done a couple other times that day. He would closely examine each glassine bag handed to him, tasting the product each time.

  “Nah, I’m good,” George stated and walked away shaking his head. “That shit don’t even taste right. I’ll pass. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…?”

  After rejecting that dealer’s product, he proceeded to another, and repeated the same act.

  “Who got that good shit?” he’d asked.

  “Right here, fam,” another unsuspecting dealer hollered. “These other niggas out here got garbage. Fam, you know me. You’ve copped from me before. Just tell me how many you want?”

  “Slow your roll,” George hastily suggested. “I copped from a lot niggas out here. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…? What makes you so special?”

  The young dealer immediately began to show George a hand full crack rock he removed from a large ziplock bag. The conversation would be momentarily ceased. Silently salivating over each individual bag, the crackhead carefully selected the largest rock he could find. Greed mingled with the sickness of getting high raced through George’s mind.

  “Somebody beat me last night,” he complained. “I bought some shit and the shit didn’t even burn. You believe that? Sonofabitch sold me some synthetic coke! So I hope you don’t mind if I taste this shit. I need to know if this is the real deal before I spend my paper with you. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…?”

  The young hustler gave the man a funny look. There was just something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He remembered something an old-timer once told him, ‘usually when people talk a lot they’re lying’. Despite his better judgment, he let the man do as he had asked.

  Scrutinizing his every move, the dealer eyed George carefully opening one of the packets. George removed the rock, nibbled on it, and handed it back to the dealer. He was awaiting any signs of approval from George.

  “That was good money, right?” the dealer asked.

  George firmly shook his head and continued on about his business as if nothing had ever happened. Unbeknownst to him he was now under the suspicious glare of a young, wild, irate drug dealer. The dealer made a signal to other dealers from his crew.

  Not far away, a group of youths gathered round to witness the current rage of a freestyle battle rap contest. Two of the hottest rappers from the projects who also peddle drugs faceoff in a rhyme fest. The contest was more interesting because they were from different drug set. There was a genuine dislike between the two MC’s and this fact was sure to spill over into their lyrics.

  “Yo, I’m a spit sumthin light fa y’all. Check—check it out, huh…” Young Feddi began.

  Wish a nigga try it, that nigga won’t be eatin’ put ‘em on a diet. I been told niggaz I was on my shit, fuck all these haters man they just on my dick….

  I’m da liviest. I let da nina spit, break ‘em like Kit-Kat, flip ‘em like a Sidekick….

  I’m cheddar getter AKA cheddar flipper, that Bitch you lovin’ ain’t wifey she just lettin’ you lick her…

  “Whoa who-who …” a roar went up from the crowd that had gathered.

  They were still buzzing when Sylk Smooth confidently stepped up. Sylk Smooth spat, clearing his throat.

  Hear my bars prove I’m fire, sickest nigga ballin since Magic retired… When its beef he known to take the track route, threw the car in reverse the only time he backed out……

  Fiends say my dope is Ipod music, once you hear it you gone be noddin’ to it. They like Sylk got that Brett Favre gene. No matter the damn team I stay with green….

  Bars murder shit call it disaster rap, gotta lotta so called MC’s taking casket naps…

  This is sleep you won’t see him wake, tryin’ to put a square in a round hole you outta shape…

  My rhymes piff like haze and jars, this year I’m goin’ Cinglar, I’m raisin’ my bars…

  “Whoa-a-a- whoa…” The crowd really went wild.

  Each of rappers had supporters and they were cheering for their man. The approval from the crowd ignited the rappers passion to outperform the man in front of him. The competition was mild at first, a disrespect word here, and there. Finger pointing, yelling, and offensive body language suggested that the battle could get ugly in a New York minute. For twenty minutes s
traight Young Feddi and Sylk Smooth went bar for bar, with no clear-cut winner.

  Word spread like virus spread through the projects about the rap battle. The infectious performance caused the crowd to grow, attracting the attention of grown-ups as well as the brother and sister tandem of Jose and Maria Torres. Dressed in catholic uniforms, they were on their way home from school.

  “Oh, shit!” Jose cursed. “What the fuck is goin’ on here? I know these niggas ain’t battling?”

  Maria heard the change in her brother’s language and stared at him in disbelief. His attitude changed immediately and she shook her head as if she never heard a curse word in her life. Unlike her brother, Maria was not as adapt to the ways of project living. In her mind she didn’t live in the projects. She pretended to only go there to sleep. Her innocent act always irked Jose. He simply ignored her.

  Jose was curious and excited to see the battle taking place. Glad handing with all around, he seemed to know everybody including the two participants. His Catholic schooling seemed to be the only thing that separated, Jose and his childhood peers. Every free moment he got, he ran the projects with them.

  A latchkey child who preferred to sit in the house and watch TV, Maria, was the opposite of her brother. She was never outside playing with other girls her age. She was Jose’s lil sister to those who knew her.

  Suddenly Jose broke away from his sister and rushed closer to the battle.

  “Jose, what do you think you are doing?” Maria yelled. “You know daddy said we have to come straight home after school. No stopping for nothing! I’m telling!”

  “Maria fallback,” Jose quickly responded. “Stop bein’ a lil’ tattletale… I’m just goin’ to see what’s goin’ on. So chill out, I’ll be right back.”

  Maria defiantly crossed her arms. Infuriated she stood on the sidewalk staring at her brother. He moved closer to where the crowd of teens was hanging. Wading through the crowd, Jose shouted out an abundance of greetings and daps to whomever he knew. He managed to make his way directly into the sea of bodies that were waving with the rappers.

  Meanwhile inside the horseshoe, George was still running his game to perfection. He found no shortage of dealers to hustle. George continued perpetrating his fraudulent game on many unsuspecting dealers. Tasting the crack to test the potency of it, he kept right on turning down product.

  “Rodney,” a dealer called out. “Lemme git dat… I got a custy waitin’ on me.”

  The look on the crowd’s face suggested they were upset that this kid had bust through and straight up interrupted a good rap battle.

  “My dude, dis shit can’t wait?” He barked. “Can’t you see what the fuck I’m doin’?”

  The dealer gazed coldly at the rapper before speaking.

  “Yo, my man, fuck this battle shit right now. This shit ain’t gonna feed you when you broke, nigga… You better snap outta it and make this paper. I’m tryin’ to help you out. I already knocked off my PK.”

  “Aw-aw-aw-aw man, that’s that bullshit!” Someone in the crowd shouted. Rodney abruptly exited the crowd.

  “Just say no nigga! C’mon back and finished what you started.”

  “Loser…! Loser!” The crowd chanted.

  “I got bizness to handle,” the rapper shouted back. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go nowhere gimme a minute. Ya heard?”

  Rodney was clearly bothered by the crowd’s lack of understanding. He couldn’t just go on rapping and not go to take care of his hustle, making drug transaction. The further away he got from them the more furious he became. He began looking for anything to spark an argument with his co-worker. He had to take out his frustrations on someone.

  “And yo, what the fuck is wrong wit you calling out my government like that? Huh?” Rodney roared. “Nigga, out here I told you my name is Feedi. F-E-E-D-I,” he said, spelling his moniker. “Man, save that other shit for school. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

  “Why you spazin’ like that fam?” The other dealer responded. “It ain’t even that serious.”

  “Speak fa delf, nigga! I don’t like niggas callin’ me out my government… Now where da fuck is da custy at? He better be copin’ more than just one joint too… The way I’m feelin’ right now—”

  “Be easy, nigga. He right over there, nigga…!”

  In a rush, Rodney removed a black pouch filled with tiny crack vials from his crotch as if he had just wiped his ass.

  “How many you want?” He barked.

  “Lemme see what you got first?” George impatiently replied.

  “Nigga it’s da same shit you always cop! I ain’t got time for no bullshit, man.”

  Rodney stared intently at the fiend before opening up his black bag and removing a few samples. George studied the vials closely looking for the fattest rock. Once he spotted it, he opened the vial putting the crack to his taste test.

  “This shit ain’t all that, George said, voice his disapproval. “This shit got too much baking soda in it. All you niggas must got the same batch of shit or the same muthafucka cooking up for y’all. I don’t know if you niggas sellin’ cake mix or drugs? I can’t do nothing with that there, man... Here take this shit back.”

  “What?”

  With his teeth tightly clenched, Rodney glared angrily at George who was attempting to hand him back the vial of crack. George shoved it at the dealer repeatedly trying to return the product. The dealer fiercely stared at George, eyeing closely. Something seemed to click. Rodney recognized the fiend from around the area.

  His peoples from Grenada Place, on the North side of the projects, had beaten down a fiend for trying to buy crack with fake money. Now Rodney had come face to face with the same conniving crackhead. Still he didn’t let on to the man’s true identity. He knew the man had a bad habit of burning dealers out of crack, but he wasn’t about to take an L to feed this fiend’s crack habit. Finally he announced, “You ain’t about to play me out. Dat’s yours, money. I don’t even want that back. You bit it-you bought it!”

  The commotions attracted the attention of other drug dealers. A few quickly moved in closer. George felt nervous from all the eyes on him. His speech slurred, and his tongue now moved uncontrollably inside his mouth. Crack cocaine was slowly disintegrating in his mouth and he was trying to reposition it under his tongue.

  “Yo, why da fuck you sound like dat? Fuck is wrong with your mouth?” Another dealer asked.

  “Son, dis nigga on some ol’ bullshit!” Someone else said.

  Unsure of what to do next, the fiend began to take unnoticeable baby steps backwards. He was copping a plea, imploring the dealer to take back his vial of crack.

  “I don’t want no trouble. It’s not like that. And you know me?” George said, pleading.

  “Money, you got about two seconds to produce my bread. I ain’t tryin’ a hear dat other shit!” Rodney interrupted.

  “I think this nigga got something in his mouth. Yo, my man, open up ya mouth for a sec,” another dealer chimed.

  George felt his luck running out. From the screws on the dealer faces, he knew he was in deep trouble. He started looking for another avenue to escape. Rodney struck George with a straight right hand and those thoughts vanished from his mind. The blow landed on George’s jaw, but it lacked enough power to put him on the seat of his pants. He tried to run, but all thoughts of escape came to a crashing halt when several drug dealers pounced on him.

  “Get him!”

  The battle cry rang out and everyone seemed to respond to it. Kicks and punches was George’s reward for his dishonesty and trickery. The drug dealers rained down each blow on him with bad intentions. George’s body exploded with pain as he absorbed the punishment. Soon more and more kids joined the fray. The beating had snowballed to unprecedented proportions in a matter of seconds. Everyone wanted a piece of the action it turned into a feeding frenzy.

  George had no choice but to take his medicine. Finally the fiend fell to the ground and the angry mob stomped him. Sti
ll the man took his beating and refused to open his mouth. The ruckus drew lots of attention.

  Melquan was in the bathroom taking a leak and heard the faint sounds of the scuffle outside the window. He finished letting nature take its course then went to investigate. He heard what sounded like a cry for help from Precious.

  “Melquan! Melquan!” Precious yelled. “C’mere! Hurry up!”

  Shaking off any excess urine, Melquan put away his penis and hurriedly rushed toward the room.

  “Look, they gonna kill that man,” she said, looking out the window.

  “What? Who?” He replied.

  “Come on over here and see for yourself,” she said, inviting him. “Look! Oh God!” Precious said.

  Melquan looked out the window and saw a mob pummeling someone with their feet and fists. He couldn’t identify who was on the receiving end of the beating, but the sight of the mob against one person was a disturbing thing. This would draw unwanted attention. Melquan thoughts turned to business. It wasn’t good for his drug business. He saw his money going down the drain.

  “Mel are you gonna just let shit go down like that?” Precious questioned. “Them niggas about to catch a body out there.”

  “My team ain’t involved, so I really don’t give a fuck what they do?” He deadpanned.

  “That’s beside the point, Mel. You better care. If they kill him then it’ll be too hot out here for God knows how long. Nobody will be able to walk outside much less sell some fuckin’ drugs,” Precious said. “Mel, you do need to look a little bit closer. There’s a few heads out there that’s slinging for y’all and they involved in it too. Shit’s gonna get outta hand and someone gonna call the cops.”

  Precious’ words resonated in his ear. Everything she had said was true. Melquan had to rethink his course of action. He quickly made a decision. Melquan threw open one of Precious’drawers and took out a fully loaded semi-automatic nine-millimeter. Gun in hand, he dashed out the apartment.