by Nikki Turner
Soon the clubgoers start gathering around the Hardee's parking lot. The parking lot is well lit, so niggas is all in my face and shit while I'm stretched the fuck out. The lights make it seem like sunshine but suddenly a dark gloom comes over the crowd. It starts to drizzle; small droplets of rain fall on my face, and Nessa's saliva slides down my nose. I can hear bitches crying, “Somebody call for help,” and niggas saying, “Man, that's Dyke Demetria from Nine Mile.” Then it starts pouring, the rain drowns out the lights and niggas start running 'cause they soft asses is scared of getting wet. I'm wondering where my nigga Rome at 'cause by now that nigga should've come blasting. Shit, man, niggas ain't never round when you need 'em. But I'm jive all right, 'cause a nigga like me ain't 'sposed to be scared to die. I'm glad that it's raining on these fake-ass muh-fuckers that's out here looking down on me. I arch my back, take in a deep breath and yell out, “That's right, niggas! Ain't gon’ be no muh-fucking sunshine when I'm gone!”
Then I close my eyes and take my last breath.
Written by The Ghost, experienced by many
ONE
IT WAS THE LAST NIGHT of bike week at Myrtle Beach and the scene was off the chain. The hotel parties were off the hook and the women were fascinating. There were phat asses in thongs all over the place. Everybody was out trying to get their last night of riding, drinking, smoking, and fucking on, but not necessarily in that order.
Cojack and his partners, Maniac, Fisher, and a couple other dudes from the hood, weren't any different. They had spent the entire week partying and acting a fool in Myrtle Beach. Myrtle Beach, with all the half-naked women running around and niggas willing to spend cheddar to get the women fully naked, was surely something to write home about. Cojack and his crew must have spent well over $5,000 on pussy alone. But that was nothing to a true baller. Most cats were there to trick up some dough anyway.
The Strip was one of the biggest attractions. This was the spot where some of the best motorcyle riders performed remarkable stunts. If a person's skills weren't up to par, then they were definitely out of place.
It was the last night of bike week and Cojack was determined to go out with a bang. Cojack, his best friend Mason, aka Maniac, and his crew were all up in a strip club ballin’ out of control. Although they knew it was all part of the business, broads talkin’ shit in order to get cats to buy them hundred-dollar drinks, their attitude was “Fuck it!” They were all sipping bubbly with Mr. Cheeks from The Lost Boyz and paying strippers for lap dances when two cats from Atlanta approached Cojack about buying some weight. Cojack slipped them his digits and told them to hit him in a few days. Co-jack was typically leery of dealing with strangers and ol’ dudes from the ATL would be no exception.
After giving out his digits, a few minutes later Cojack made note of Mason leaving the table and chatting with the ATL cats. Cojack wondered what Mason was telling them, but he didn't care too much. If they fell for Mason's game, then that was their bad luck.
After leaving Magic City, Cojack, Mason, and the crew rolled up to Solid Gold. The place was jam-packed and the music blasted through the speakers. A gang of stars lounged in VIP. Shaq and Alonzo Mourning were at a table having drinks while being entertained by a group of cuties engaged in an ass-shaking contest. There was a group of rappers at a table in another section of the club smoking purple haze. Cojack knew one of them personally from a show his partner promoted a few years back. After a brief conversation earlier out at the races where bikers were going over a hundred miles per hour, Busta and Cojack planned to hook up later at the club and have a few drinks.
That's exactly what they did, drank half the night while flirting with beautiful females. By the time they reached the hotel it was five A.M. The crew crashed out in their suite for a few hours and woke up ready to head back home. Just one hour before they were about to leave, Mason's cell phone chimed.
“I won't be but a minute,” Mason said before answering it, heading out the door. He was followed by Fisher, flashing one of his characteristic smiles.
An hour later he came back, flashing a roll. Cojack figured the guys from Atlanta were raising hell right about now. Mason was known to sell one brick of coke along with a couple of other bricks that were just old videotapes wrapped up in plastic. Mason was as grimey as they came with a million-dollar smile and an awesome talk game, in total contrast to his ace, Cojack. He was a baller in the truest sense: a regular pretty boy who not only had his way with women but knew how to stack that paper. Cuties were entranced by his six foot three towering frame, dark wavy hair, and the hypnotizing brown eyes that complemented his smooth chestnut skin.
As Cojack and most of the crew rode in the trailer with the motorcycles attached behind, Mason and Fisher followed. Along with Fisher, Mason was pushing a cream Q45 with eighteen-inch Pirelli wheels. Mason knew his friend would disapprove of his actions, which was why he drove his own ride instead of riding with everyone else in the trailer. He didn't realize that Cojack knew all along what he was doing. But Cojack wasn't the type of person to push too much into someone else's business, especially someone who would kill at the drop of a dime for him. Friends that had your back like that were hard to find.
TWO
THE VERY NEXT MORNING Cojack opened his eyes to find his mother standing over his bed. He wiped sleep from his face as he took in her small frame adorned with her usual pink-and-white housecoat. She held out the cordless phone and said, “Telephone.”
“Tell whoever it is I'm sleep, Ma,” Cojack replied with a yawn.
“It's Mason, boy,” she said, tossing the phone on his bed. “He said it's important.” Then she walked out of the room.
Cojack sighed, watching his mother turn and head toward the door. Then he picked up the receiver.
“Yo, what up?” he said after clearing his throat. He listened for a few seconds. Suddenly, he was wide awake. “I got you. Just calm down. Give me a minute and I'll be there. I said I'm coming!” Cojack hung up.
“Shit!” he mumbled as he jumped from his bed like a firefighter going to put out a blaze.
Ten minutes later, Cojack was racing down the stairs. The pleasant aroma of bacon and eggs hit him instantly as he flew to the kitchen to say bye to his mother.
“Smells good, Ma, but I gotta run,” Cojack said, stealing a slice of bacon off of the paper-towel–covered plate.
“What that boy done got himself into now?” she asked without even turning around.
“I don't know, Ma. I gotta go get him, though.”
“You not gon’ eat breakfast first?”
“Gotta go, Ma. I'll see you later,” he said, and shot out of the kitchen.
Outside, Cojack hopped in his Lexus and sped away. In less than twenty minutes he was rolling up in an apartment complex. It was just a little after nine in the morning. Cojack dialed a number into his cell phone as he slowed for a speed bump. He passed a swimming pool and then drove ten or fifteen yards down, turning left into another duplex. Before he could park, he caught sight of Mason rushing toward the car. Mason was wearing a black velour hoodie, blue jeans, and tan Timberlands. What really got Cojack's attention was the bandanna covering his face. What the hell was that about? Cojack immediately became alert, lifting the .40 caliber from under his seat. Something about this scene just didn't look right.
As Mason approached the car and got in, Cojack's gaze swept the surroundings. He turned and looked at his partner. “What was the bandanna for? What the hell on your mind?” Finally, Mason removed the scarf from his face. Cojack wasn't prepared for what he was seeing.
“What the fuck?” Cojack asked in shock. Mason's face was lumped up, both eyes swollen and a trace of blood on his lip.
“Give me the pistol right quick,” Mason instructed him excitedly.
“Hol’ up, nigga. What the fuck going on?” Cojack said, twisting up his mug at the sight of Mason's face.
Mason took a deep breath, then told Cojack how he had been asleep in some chick named Kenya's place wh
en her jealous baby daddy snuck inside and caught him there. He described how the guy punched his lights out and slung him around like a rag doll.
“I was sleep, man,” Mason said bitterly. “Nigga caught me out, Jack.” Mason had tears in his eyes. “Give me the gun, man. The bitch still in the crib and his sister in there, too. I swear to God I'ma slump both of them bitches.”
Cojack watched as tears fell from his boy's eyes. Mason never cried. And he knew without a doubt that if he gave up the pistol he'd do exactly what he said. Cojack did a quick evaluation of the situation. It was nine-thirty in the morning and he was driving a hotass Lexus. There was no way he could go out like that. Mason was obviously not thinking clearly.
“You don't wanna do that, playa,” Cojack said, giving Mason a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Trust me.”
Mason knew Cojack was right, but he was still mad as hell. He pulled the hoodie back over his head.
“I'ma take you home,” Cojack said. “That fool will have his day.”
Cojack threw the car in reverse and backed up. He peered out the corner of his eye at Mason and thought, Damn! My nigga is fucked up. It was not a laughing matter, but Cojack couldn't help from smiling on the inside. Time and time again he had warned Mason about playing these broads so close. First of all, Mason didn't have his gun, which was unlike him. Fisher had his car. The reason for that was because Mason didn't want it parked at the apartment complex. He had a girlfriend, Trina, one of those who, if he stayed out, would undoubtedly ride around searching for him. As they rode in silence, Cojack thought of the two girls back at the apartment. They had not a clue as to how close their lives were to being over. Cojack felt pity for them all. The guy and the two females. Mason would not forget.
THREE
THREE DAYS LATER, as Cojack cruised the Richmond streets in his 'Bama Ford pickup truck, he couldn't help from reflecting back on the spectacular time he'd had at bike week.
In the back of his truck was his dog, Killer, a red nose pitbull whose specialty was sinking teeth. Killer was a nutcase and would bite anything in his reach. Whenever Cojack made his moves, he would bring along his dog.
Cojack pulled into an Amoco gas station on Broad Rock and was relieved to see his customer, Rob, already there, parked in the end car wash. It was dark, and the place was crowded as usual. Music blasted from a SEL 500 Benz, royal blue with chrome eighteen-inch Lorenzos. Porsha, the cutie behind the register, had her weed customers in and out all night.
“What up, partna?” Rob said as he hesitated at the sight of Killer standing upright and sizing him down.
“He tied up, cuz,” Cojack said to Rob.
“You sure he can't get a loose, man? And why the fuck he so mean anyway?”
“He supposed to be,” Cojack said, then, getting down to business, “Ay, you know that thang was five hundred dollars short last time, right?”
“Damn, that's my bad, Jack. I'll straighten it on the next one.”
“A'ight,” Cojack answered, holding the dog as he growled at the stranger. “Look in the passenger floor. You can weigh it, too. The scale beside it.”
Rob crept past the dog and got in the truck. Cojack played with Killer while watching the street. He surveyed the entire scene and saw nothing that looked unusual. For over a year now, he'd been serving cats at that same spot and so far had no problems. Cojack punched numbers into his cell, spoke a few minutes, and hung up. He restrained his dog as Rob exited the truck.
“Everything good, Jack. The money in the floor,” Rob said.
“A'ight, playa. Holla back, shit should be smooth for a minute.”
“Good,” replied Rob. “I'ma step it up next time anyway. A half a bird or somethin'.”
“Just give me a ring.” Rob attempted to shake his hand but saw Killer's teeth and changed his mind. Cojack laughed as Rob walked off, got in his car, and drove away. Just as Cojack hopped in the truck, his phone chimed. He rapped for a minute then sparked his Black & Mild. After he pushed end on his cell phone, he turned up the volume on his radio and the sounds of All Eyez on Me by Tupac filled the speakers. With a brick and a half left and two more people to see in another thirty minutes, he'd be on his way.
It was after eleven P.M. when Cojack left the gas station. Forty-five thousand dollars in an hour; he couldn't complain. He drove back to his house in Northside. After he put Killer back in his pen, he pulled out his LS 400, all black with smoke gray tint and factory wheels. His first stop was the projects, where he'd find his boys shooting the breeze about their weekend. Mason was also among the crowd. The swelling around his eyes had gone down, and he now had a black ring under the left one. Cojack had been talking to him ever since his unfortunate incident, trying to prevent anything drastic from happening.
You could never tell what was on Mason's mind. He was unpredictable. Still, Cojack loved the crazy muthafucka. How could he not love someone who would kill for him at the blink of an eye, no questions asked?
Actually, now that he was thinking about it, Cojack knew exactly why he was so devoted to this lunatic. It happened long ago when they were just teenagers. Even as a youngster, Cojack was someone who all the little shorties looked up to. One day he and a group of guys were shooting dice when a royal blue minivan pulled directly across from them and opened fire. The bullets weren't intended for Cojack but he was shot once in the back along with two others. One guy died at the scene from a single shot to the head. While Cojack was in the hospital, Mason, one of his young admirers, saw one of the guys involved and shot him on GP. Cojack and Mason hardly knew each other before then. By the time Cojack was released from the hospital, he'd learned what Mason had done for him. After that incident, they became the best of friends, bonded for life.
“So what you gon’ do about Kenya's baby daddy?” Cojack asked Mason as the two stood away from the crap game, in between two buildings. Cojack was smoking his Black & Mild and Mason his blunt.
“You know how I get down,” Mason said, taking a pull. “You don't even have to ask me that shit. Muthafuckas gon’ pay. You can best believe that.”
“I know how you can get sometimes. You be doing some ol’ unnecessary shit, so check this out,” Cojack said. “Only go after the guy responsible.”
“Fuck that!” Mason said, looking at Cojack as if he was crazy. “That bitch, Kenya, could have woke a nigga up, warned me or something.”
Cojack sighed. “Promise me, just the dude who did it.”
Mason didn't respond. He just twisted up his lips as if to say, Yeah, whatever, man.
“Cool?” Cojack said. “You wit’ me on that one?”
Mason just stood there for a moment, then agreed. “Yeah, yeah, I'm wit’ cha and shit, dawg.”
“I don't know why you give a shit bout that bitch Kenya, anyway,” Mason said. “You got a soft spot for the females, huh?” Mason began to snicker. “Speaking of females, that cutie, Robbin, rode through earlier and asked about you.”
“Oh, word?” Cojack said, nodding his head, thinking he'd have to catch up with her.
Before Mason could respond, the conversation was cut short as a squad car came cruising by with two white officers flashing what they hoped were intimidating stares. Police got a kick out of the fear they saw in the dealers when they arrived. That was Cojack's cue. He jumped in his ride the minute they were out of sight. He was constantly harassed by the law, especially the ones who knew him by face. The ones who often stopped him just to say hello.
Cojack decided to go check out Robbin. It took him twenty-five minutes to reach Willow Oaks Apartments, where Robbin lived. As Cojack punched in the code, the gate ascended into the air. He drove through, made a left, slowed for a speed bump, and then rode another ten or fifteen yards where he parked beside Robbin's gold J30.
Cojack got out of his car and headed toward Robbin's apartment. He immediately noticed Robbin standing on the balcony. The mere sight of her brought a smile to his face. She was absolutely stunning, standing five feet six inches
with skin the color of cinnamon.
“Hey, sexy,” Cojack yelled up to her.
“Right back at ya,” Robbin said. She walked into her apartment and went to the front door so that she could greet Cojack. By the time he got to her apartment, she was standing in the doorway waiting on him. Her skimpy shorts and sports bra, revealing a set of firm nipples, aroused him instantly as he stepped toward her and kissed her gently on the lips.
They had met six months ago at a party Mason hosted at Pier 7 Night Club for Cojack's birthday. It was in the VIP section that Mason led the attractive female to his friend and introduced them. They hung out a few times and had been good friends ever since. Robbin was real cool, and out of all the women he was involved with, she was the most fun. For one, she never asked for anything other than his time, which was a plus. She had her own car and her own place. Baby girl had it going on. Plus she had the prettiest smile, not to mention a body that could stop traffic.
She led him into her bedroom. The only light came from the television. Robbin smiled as Cojack kicked off his Wallies and sat down on the bed.
“Did you have fun in Myrtle Beach?” she asked, standing there smiling at him.
“Yeah, it was a'ight,” he responded as if it wasn't a big deal.
“How many hos did you fuck?” Robbin had a way with words and always spoke her mind.
“Girl, you say anything out yo mouth. Why you gon’ ask me somethin’ like that?”
“Stop frontin'. I know how y'all niggas do. Bike week ain't nothin’ but a freak fest.” Robbin had seen a lot in her twenty-seven years and had been to the event on numerous occasions. She knew all too well about the nude women and freak parties. But none of it really mattered to her. She did her thang on the side every now and then and she figured the less fuss she made with Cojack, the less fuss he would make with her. But she enjoyed teasing him nonetheless. Cojack was her boo.