Dope Girl 4: R. I. P.

by Sa'id Salaam

  “Last night? Only thing got kilt last night was that coochie!” he shot back proudly. Men take pride when they know they beat it up properly. The way he put it down there was no question. Meisha curled up like a baby with her thumb in her mouth and passed out once they finished. Then practically raped him in the morning.

  “You did yo’ thing baby!” Cameisha admitted jovially then got back to the business at hand. “He claims his mother said me and her argued and she came to see me.”

  “What y’all was beefing about?” Trigga asked.

  “Nothing! That bitch is lying! It don’t even matter now. He killed my girl and I’m going to kill him for it. His lying ass mother too!”

  “Ok, so what we gon’ do after you kill the connect? I just moved into another apartment complex. I’m finna sew up the whole west side,” Trigga announced, switching back to dope boy mode.

  “Sew it up then cuz the east side is mine! I just came across a gold mine. Once I lock Eastwyck down, the city gotta come on in! And I ain’t selling no weight, you wanna trap, trap for me,” she greedily agreed. She of all people should know better than to try and stop other people from eating. She had put a slug in Munch’s ass up in the Bronx for the exact same thing.

  “Only…you fucked up the connect,” he reminded

  “So! He ain’t the only nigga in the city with 100% pure Columbian cocaine for the low! …Yes he is...Fuck we gon’ do now?” Meisha moaned.

  “I got a brick left. The way Oak Tree be popping that ain’t gon’ last but a minute.”

  “I got 12…no 13, so we good for a week or two. I’ma let the shorties test the waters tomorrow in Eastwyck. Once that catch it’ll burn through a brick a day,” Meisha surmised.

  “What you gon’ do ‘bout them?” Trigga asked. “Aqua can sleep in here with you and I’ll hang out with them lil’ dudes.”

  “Just for the night!” Meisha shouted. She was thinking with her vagina and wanted her own personal plumber lying next to her at night. “Real talk, I gotta find a spot to get my girl out of the line of fire. Gotta set up shop in Eastwyck too.”

  “I gotta give it to you shawty. You’re a Dope Girl fo’ real!”

  Chapter 8

  “Man this is not what I bought these expensive ass pots for!” Cameisha grumbled as she worked. Cooking up all that cocaine was a lot of work indeed. When she pulled her surgical mask over her mouth and nose, Trigga and Self did the same. Bad Ass just leaned in with his mask still around his neck.

  “May as well get you a shooter and take a blast shawty,” Trigga warned muffled from under his mask.

  “Huh?” Bad Ass shot back reeling from the disgusting notion. A crack pipe cost him both his parents and put him on the streets. No way would he ever use the dangerous drug.

  “He right. You keep breathing these fumes and yo’ lil’ ass gon’ be strung out,” Cameisha co-signed. That was why so many dealers ended up being users. They go from tipping the doorman to being the doorman.

  “Oh!” he said and covered his mouth and nose like everyone else.

  The kitchen was thrust into complete silence as the three dope boys watched the dope girl work her magic. The only sound to be heard was Aqua laughing at cartoons in the next room.

  Beef or no beef, Cameisha didn’t plan to give the streets a break. Even without a connect; she had to get her money. The plan was to cook and sell all the remaining coke retail. That was an easy half a million dollars but still not enough for the greedy girl. She searched her memory bank while she worked for a replacement supplier. Cameisha cooked four ounces at a time and the finished product was pure butter.

  “Damn shawty, this shit gon’ knock they socks off!” Trigga grimaced. They had been talking shit about who was the best dope cooker all night. They agreed to a cook off, but Trigga just conceded after the first batch. “You got that.”

  “I know I got that!” the cocky girl boasted and popped her invisible collar. “Now y’all niggas get to choppin’!”

  Every time a batch was cooked and dried, it was transferred to the long glass table in the dining room. The boys had set up an assembly line for the product. Lil Self cut nicks for the Eastwyck trade and Bad Ass stuffed them into tiny blue bags.

  Trigga kept his remaining kilo separate. He cut it into ten-dollar increments, and then combined the thousand-dollar bomb known as G-packs. Each one represented seven hundred and fifty dollars after paying the trappers. He would end up with 70 of them for a total of over fifty thousand dollars. He intended to flip his as soon as possible and get more before they were all gone.

  “Say shawty, I’ma hit you with the first 36 I brang in and cop two more of them thangs!” Trigga called into the kitchen.

  “They twenty bands now. We at the bottom of the barrel,” she called back not even turning in his direction. Both Self and Bad Ass’s eyes grew wide as she instantly raised the price on her own man. They didn’t understand, but he did.

  “Dope Girl fo’ real!” Trigga laughed heartily. He immediately began cutting the dimes a hair smaller to absorb the price increase. Dude was a dope boy for real. The law of supply and demand applies to all industries including selling dope. Once Trigga’s kilo was cooked and cut, it was time to hit the trap. He alerted Troy to meet him at the apartments.

  ****

  “That’s fucked up shawty! What we ‘posed to do now? Ain’t nobody got no good dope in the city ‘cept the Mexicans!” Troy lamented when Trigga relayed the news of the lost connect.

  “My girl working on it. Shit she from New Yawk, you know they got that work up there. They got all kinda Mexicans from all over,” Trigga replied proving he wasn’t much on geography.

  “This shit look different!” Troy declared when Trigga showed him the product. He stuck his nose in the bag and pulled away with a happy frown. “This that butter! Straight glass! Pure…”

  “Ok, ok, it’s straight,” he said twisting his lips. Cameisha won the cook off, no need to rub it in. “That Oak Tree money was straight?”

  “Every cent! Them niggas is on point,” he answered. Lil Shock and company brought back $750 on each G-pack just like they should have. It was all good money too, fifties, twenties, even a few c-notes and tens.”

  Any time a trapper pays with a bunch of ones and fives it means he struggled to get it up. He was a problem waiting to happen. You might as well shoot him then and save a couple bucks.

  “Let’s hit Oak Tree off first,” Troy suggested oddly since they were already in Westfield.

  Trigga knew his friend long enough to smell an ulterior motive. He shrugged his shoulders in agreement so he could see what it was. He had a feeling and he was right.

  Every ghetto apartment complex in the world has its own dope boys. Any time you have dope boys you have hoes that love them. That shit goes together like peanut butter and jelly. Generally, dudes from other spots didn’t mess with the local hoes. They were too much trouble, and might set you up to get robbed or murdered. Better to stick to your own hoes, safer. But now that Troy and Trigga were supplying the dope boys, they had access to their hoes. It’s in the rulebook. To the victor goes the spoils. Booty.

  Once they pulled into Oak Tree, Trigga pulled his pistol and laid it on the center console. Guns might not talk but they do speak for themselves. Troy arrived at the track lighting up the faces of the dope boys.

  “Sup shawty,” he greeted as his window slid down.

  “You tell me!” DQ said excitedly. He nodded a ‘what’s up’ to Trigga and the pistol, but neither said anything in reply. Nonetheless, he along with the other trappers, were happy to see the men. Without a steady flow of dope, the dope boys were broke. If they were broke then the hoes were broke. The only thing worse than a broke dope boy is a broke hoe.

  “Same as before,” Troy said and began handing out the G-packs. The ten workers represented 7,500 bucks while they were off doing other things. Both had other things to do.

  Trigga had to go downtown to formally identify his mother. That w
ould set the funeral process in motion. The fire had started the job, but Ms. Jackson would still have to be cremated.

  Still, it was better than how his brother Keith made out. Since no one claimed him, he was still in the morgue a few drawers down from his mother. Eventually, he would end up buried in a pulpwood box in a potter’s field. A plain marker reading John Doe number something would be on the grave. A fitting burial for the piece of shit that he was. America should build a big ass toilet so they could just flush people like him.

  Troy had something to do too, and she was headed his way.

  “Hey Trigga, hey Troy,” Nita-Boo sang as she switched her fine yellow ass towards them.

  No one would ever accuse Nita-Boo of being pretty, but she was a fine motherfucker. She had a beautiful mulatto skin tone and long sandy brown hair. Her full lips had a purple hue to them due to menthol and blunt smoking. She had her short shorts pulled into her crotch so no one would have to wonder if her vagina was fat or not. It clearly was. The other hoes fell in behind her since she was the head hoe in charge. The spokes-hoe.

  “Sup,” was all they got out of Trigga who turned away to prove he was not interested. Nita-Boo knew he was the boss so she tried him first. She registered the snub and turned her sights on Troy.

  “Sup with you then Troy?” she asked making sure to show off her tongue ring. She lolled out her tongue and licked her purple lips. It was body language for ‘I’ll suck your dick right here.’

  “Shit, I’m tryna cut something. You then her, her, and her,” he said laying out his plans to run through the crew.

  “That’s what’s up,” Nita-Boo agreed while her hoes nodded behind her. They all fucked the same dudes anyway. All of their children were somehow related. Except for Nita-Boo who didn’t have any. She had plenty of abortions, but no children.

  “Get ready. I’m finna drop my people off and fall through,” Troy ordered and pulled away without waiting for a reply. It’s not like she was going to say no, she’s a hoe.

  “So you ain’t tryna fuck nothing but yo’ ol’ lady huh?” Troy asked as they left the apartment complex.

  “For what? I got a good woman at home, why would I fuck around?” Trigga replied with the million-dollar question. No one can answer it because it just doesn’t make sense.

  The drive back over to their apartment complex was quiet as they contemplated what was next. After breaking off ten more G-packs to ten more trappers, they went their separate ways.

  ****

  Trigga had been so deep in thought that he drove as if on autopilot. He was so familiar with the Atlanta streets that he made the turns without thinking about them. Before he knew it, he was at the morgue. He deliberately drove a few extra blocks so he could walk back and get his mind right. After showing his ID, he had a brief wait until someone came to escort him to the rear.

  “Mr. Jackson? I’m Anna Flores,” she introduced herself with a warm smile and handshake. Neither had any idea that they were on opposite sides of the war that was brewing.

  “Hey,” Trigga greeted stoically and looked down. Anna had a thing for black men but never acted on it due to the powerful clan she belonged to. Still, she admired the handsome thug in front of her.

  “Due to the extent of damage from the fire we can’t actually show you the body,” Anna offered as she led him to the rear. “We’ve already verified her identity so you’ll just have to sign and arrange for burial.”

  “My momma burned to death?” Trigga lamented as the full weight of it landed on his shoulders. Anna hated to break protocol but felt his pain.

  “No, there was no smoke in her lungs. She had a heart attack and died before the fire could kill her,” she admitted. Of course, she left out the fact that his mother was added to the list of people who had died from bad Salazar dope. A problem that should have been fixed when tiny pieces of Squeal came through her office.

  “Oh, ok,” he said feeling a little better. “Guess I’ll call Clayton and Sons to pick her up.”

  “Ok…if you need anything else…give me a call,” Anna said surprising herself and passing her card. The tone was very personal and Trigga heard it.

  “What you Mexican or something?” he asked surprising himself when he accepted it.

  “No, not all Hispanics are Mexican!” she giggled. “I’m Columbian.”

  “Columbian!” he cheered. Trigga might not know much about geography, but he knew Columbia was where the best cocaine came from.

  ****

  When Trigga pulled out Troy was right behind him. Instead of left, he turned right and headed back to Oak Tree. Trigga laughed knowingly when he saw him in his rearview mirror. He could only hope the boy had some condoms because he was sure the girl had a petri dish in her panties.

  “Here go my ride bitches,” Nita-Boo announced triumphantly when she saw Troy pull in. She had won first place in the dope boy sweepstakes. Sure, he was going to fuck all her friends, but she was first. She hopped off the hood of the hooptie they were perched on and tugged her shorts back up into her crotch.

  “Put it on him girl,” Ta-Ta cheered. She was second on the hoe-tum pole and would fuck him next. Shay-Shay and Meeka would follow.

  Troy pulled over and popped the locks so she could get it. Once her round cheeks hit the leather he hit the gas and passed her a smoldering blunt. “What you drankin’ shawty?”

  “Boy you know I fucks with that Real Nigga 9000!” she cheered.

  Real Nigga 9000 was the latest high alcohol content concoction manufactured and marketed to inner city blacks. It only came in big 60-ounce bottles to make sure you’re good and fucked up. The neck of the bottle was made like a handle to make sure you could fuck somebody up with it.

  Even though it was produced by a white supremacy group, they hired a popular rapper to push their poison. A dumb ass rapper who went by the name Verb got the call. He put it in a song and video and sales skyrocketed. The group produced Trailer Park Potion for poor whites and Tonto 2000 for the reservations. All they had to do then was sit back and watch the news.

  Troy pulled out of the complex then pulled over at the corner store. He peeled a five from the inside of a large roll of cash and sent her inside for her drank. When she returned he bent a few corners and stopped at the local fuck hotel.

  The one star motel was very rarely slept in. Most people went to either fuck or smoke crack. No one would actually sleep with the class of female that would let you fuck her in there and crack heads never sleep. They stay wide-awake stealing, smoking and burning bridges until they die.

  Since it was established that they were there to fuck, the couple began undressing as soon as they walked into the musty room. Undressing is actually foreplay and Nita-Boo knew it. The pro-hoe had worked enough strip clubs to know how to make undressing an adventure. And she didn’t have many clothes on to begin with.

  Troy unbuckled his belt and let the heavy jeans fall to the floor. He stepped out of them while pulling his shirt over his head. He climbed atop the sweat, cum, blood, beer stained comforter and lit another blunt to watch the show.

  Nita-Boo guzzled 20 of the 60 ounces and sat the bottle down. She slowly lifted her shirt over her head and unfastened her bra. When the big yellow breasts capped with wide brown nipples came out Troy felt his erection begin to rise. She turned around and bent over to remove her cheap sandals. When she came back up, she peeled the tiny shorts along with her panties off in one movement. Troy smiled at the pleasantly plump, shaved vagina.

  He held out the blunt as she joined him on the bed. She took a heavy pull from between his fingers and got to work. Nita-Boo made his whole dick disappear into her mouth while smoke billowed from his nostrils, and that was some sexy shit. She worked her lips, tongue, head, and tonsils in magical harmony. A few minutes later, she was sucking cum from his dick like a milkshake. She kept right on sucking too; to make sure he stayed hard. He did so she came up and prepared to mount him backward.

  “Hold up shawty! Put some rubber on
that wood. Grab them out my pocket. My back pocket,” he specified to keep her away from the cash in the front pocket.

  Troy got another show when she bent over to retrieve the lifesaving latex. Not lifesaving as in she had AIDS but as in, if she got pregnant she would kill it. She had so many abortions she should get a tattooed tear under her eye like other killers do.

  Nita-Boo was really putting on when she put the condom on with her mouth. She let it touch her tonsils once more then put him inside her and rode him backwards. She made sure to lean forward so he could see every slow, squishy wet stroke. When she started making circles with her yellow ass, he grabbed his phone to record it just like he was supposed to. The freak show would have went on all day if not for text messages coming in from both complexes.

  “Damn the trap poppin’!” he exclaimed seeing trapper after trapper’s urgent plea for more dope. “We gotta bounce!”

  He flipped her over on her back, scooped her legs onto his shoulders, and pounded. Luckily, she got another nut before he did because the second he did, he pulled out and got up. They quickly got dressed and rushed out to the car.

  “Put this in your pocket,” Troy said handing Nita-Boo a hundred dollar bill. See it’s only tricking if you pay before you fuck. Pay afterwards and it’s just breaking bread. He made his rounds and collected 15k, then passed out another twenty G-packs. Today was going to be a good day.

  Chapter 9

  “A-yo, y’all lil’ niggas go slow. Don’t step on no toes. Just feel the shit out, feel me?” Cameisha coached as she drove Self and Bad Ass out to Eastwyck. She gave them each half a G-pack to test the waters. She had repeated it three times already to make sure it sank in. It didn’t.

  “Go slow? I’ma go hard! Yo we ‘bout to eat out that bitch!” Bad Ass shouted from the backseat. Self just shook his head knowing Cameisha was about to snap. She did.

  “Damn it!” Meisha grunted and snatched the car recklessly across four lanes of traffic. She came to a violent stop on the shoulder of the highway and turned in her seat. “Look here lil’ nigga! You go in there stepping on toes and you gon’ fuck up everything I got planned! It’s my way or the highway! You can get your ass on a bus back to New York right now! I…”