Street Rap

by Shaun Sinclair

  Reece whispered, barely audibly. “Yeah, well, I’m serious, too.”

  Doe spoke louder as if Reece wasn’t getting it. “Yo, I’m serious, cuz. This shit ain’t no joke.”

  “So whadda you want me to do!” Reece exploded. “Stop? Hell naw. I didn’t start this shit! But I will end it. Oh, yeah, I will end it.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” pleaded Doe. “You can take a break, man.”

  Doe tried to convince Reece to chill, because in his mind he knew the system wasn’t going to let anyone get away with injuring one of their own. They believed that one of their lives was more precious than anyone else’s, especially a black one.

  “How?” Reece scoffed. “How can I take a break from destiny?”

  “You can come with us tomorrow. Get on that bus and leave all this shit behind.”

  Reece leaned back in his chair, as if contemplating the offer. Then, he reached into his desk and pulled out a blunt already rolled. He took his gold lighter and lit the pine, inhaling deeply. Reece stood, walked over to a shelf in the corner of the room. He removed a fourteen-carat gold crown from the top of the shelf and placed it neatly on his locks. Then he returned to address his cousin.

  “See, cuz, I’m a king. Destiny has ordained me to be a king. So, I accept!” Reece crossed the room and slid right up in Doe’s face. His eyes bulged from his head as he continued. “As a king, I must defend my kingdom against infiltrators! They crossed me. Now they shall feel my wrath!”

  Doe didn’t know if it was the drugs or what, but he was certain Reece had lost it. The nigga was talking crazy! All this kingdom shit. What Doe couldn’t possibly know is that once you stare a man in his eyes as he takes his last breath, it empowers you with an unparalleled feeling of omnipotence. Reece had done this several times in the last few weeks. So the drug that intoxicated him at the moment wasn’t weed. It was pure power in its rarest form. The power of holding life and death in the palm of your hand.

  Doe attempted to pacify Reece again. “Look, cuz, all I’m saying is you can take a break. Go with us on the road. Hell, even that li’l broad you been kicking it with can go.”

  Reece smiled at the mentioning of Destiny. Every moment that he wasn’t in the field, he was spending with her. Rarely would a woman keep his interest that long, but Destiny was truly special. She was wise beyond her years. Reece enjoyed spending time with a woman who could match him wit for wit. Plus it seemed like they had known each other forever. She could read him so well.

  Reece stayed focused on the conversation at hand, though. “Cuz, by the time y’all come back from tour, I plan on having this shit wrapped up. Hell, we planning right now to get them old heads. We gon’ get the Blood Team, too.”

  A thought occurred to Doe, so he had to ask. “Aye yo, this isn’t just revenge, is it?”

  Reece paced the room, dragging the blunt deeply. “Hell, naw. I’m a businessman. I’m always thinking about business. With these niggas out the way, the Crescent Crew will run the streets. No competition. I would have done it sooner, but I didn’t want to transgress bounds. Now they left me no choice.”

  “Nigga crazy,” Doe mumbled.

  Reece heard him and stopped pacing. He looked at Doe with the coldest look he could muster, and told him, “Nigga, when I say I’m a king, I mean that shit! I AM A KING! And all of Carolina will be my kingdom!”

  It was official. The nigga had lost it. Doe knew there was nothing he could do but sit and wait for life to humble Reece. So he took the easy route.

  “All right, I just came to holla at you before I leave. I’m ’bout to dip. I don’t gotta kiss your ring or no shit, do I?” Doe joked.

  Reece didn’t think it was so funny. “Laugh now, but I’m telling you: The way we gon’ bring the heat to these niggas, it’ll go down in history, watch!” Reece walked Doe to the door. “Tell Qwess good luck. Who all going?”

  “You know we travel light. Me, Qwess, Hulk, the kid Flame, and his man 8-Ball.”

  “That’s it?” asked Reece.

  “Yeah, you know the label gon’ send some scrubs wit’ us, but we self-contained.”

  Before Reece opened the door, he touched his cousin’s shoulder affectionately, getting his attention. “Hey, cuz, I’m proud of you. I always knew you had it in you. Fuck slaving for them crackers. This ain’t 1803 and shit. Doing for yourself, that’s what’s up. It feel good, don’t it?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “I know. Let me tell you something. And think hard on this while you on the road.”

  “What, nigga? You act like you bout to give me the Holy Grail or something.”

  Reece chuckled. “Something like that. Here goes.” He paused for emphasis. “You are a king, too. All you have to do is accept it and demand mu’fuckas treat you like a king. Remember, power concedes nothing without demand. So, when you realize it’s only one greater than yourself—and he ain’t never been here—then you on your way.”

  Doe looked at Reece, expecting more. “Is that it?” he asked.

  Reece was offended. “Yeah.” He sucked his teeth. “Don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll show you what I mean. Watch. By the time you get back, I’ll show you how a king supposed to live.”

  With that, he opened the door to let Doe out. Then he returned to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bag of cocaine. He placed it on the desk, separating the fine white lines of the powdery substance. He dipped his head twice, ingesting all of the drug into his system. He then replaced the bag in the drawer, wiped his nose clean, and met Samson in the hallway.

  Samson regarded Reece speculatively. Reece just responded with a shrewd look and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  Reece chuckled. “On to our destiny.”

  Part 2

  The Next Level . . .

  Chapter 13

  The auditorium was wall-to-wall packed. All of the lights were off in the building except one: the lone spotlight highlighting the emcee on stage. There was a constant murmur in the crowd that steadily rose as the emcee fell further and further into his verse . . .

  I drop jewels, but this an ode to the streets

  For cats carrying that heat trying to make ends meet

  Righteous men at heart, playing the cards they dealt

  On a mission for that paper trying to stack that wealth . . .

  As Qwess continued to work the crowd into a frenzy, Flame waited at the side of the stage waiting for Qwess to call him on and introduce him.

  They were in Houston, Texas, performing at a Memorial Day concert. They were initially supposed to be an opening act. But thanks to AMG’s fierce promotions department, they were added to the list of performers straight-up and as a result earned a fee for this concert.

  Doe couldn’t believe how helpful AMG proved to be. Much to the chagrin of Qwess, Doe agreed to let AMG re-promote Qwess’s album on an international level. The result was remarkable! They had been on the road for a little over a month, and when they drove into every town west of the Mississippi, they were greeted with posters of Qwess. Radio was playing Qwess’s single, “Street Life,” religiously. In fact, it was averaging 350 spins a week in some places. They were even hearing it was huge in fickle New York City.

  So far everything was going well and problem-free, with the exception of an altercation they had had with a nationally known Mississippi artist, who had his goons surround the tour bus they were riding on. The situation was quelled when Hulk pointed his shotgun directly at the artist, who miraculously humbled himself instantly. Other than that episode, the tour was operating successfully.

  For Flame, he had never known tired like this! They were hitting two, three major cities a day. And in some instances, they were taking groupies on board the bus with them to the next town. The boy had never had so much head! It was unbelievable what chicks would do to and for a rapper. Even 8-Ball’s fat ass was fucking every night. They were blowing the best weed money could buy, fucking every chance th
ey got, and shopping like money was water. This was definitely the life he envisioned. Plus, to top it off, the niggas he was down with were cool as hell, though he wasn’t too comfortable around the big dude by himself. He was too quiet for Flame’s taste.

  On stage Qwess was continuing to command the audience as he said his last chorus:

  Street life everywhere is the same

  The only thing that change is the everyday slang

  You got thugs pumping drugs

  No holds barred busting slugs

  One struggle, one blood, to all my brethren . . . one love!

  On cue, fireworks exploded. Qwess motioned for Flame to join him on stage.

  “Yeah, yeah! This my li’l nigga Flame repping Fayettenam. Show some love, H-Town!”

  DJ Technique, who was the tour DJ, busted into an instrumental by a legendary Houston rapper named after a drug kingpin in a movie. The crowd erupted just from the mere playing of the record from their hometown legend. That is, until Flame started freestyling off of it. At first the audience was apprehensive. Then as the smooth flows gushed through the speakers, they had to give up props. Hip-hop was definitely in the house!

  Flame went to the edge of the stage and attempted to pull a young lady on stage. Security denied him, so Flame jumped into the audience himself. The spotlight moved with him. He wrapped the thick Houstonian into a tight embrace and began rapping seductively in her ear . . .

  I been peeping you all day

  They way them hips sway got me fiendin’ for a day

  That I could touch you, and see what’s really going on

  Tease you until I make you saturate your thong

  Then push it to the side as my tongue just glide

  Up and down your clit, then slide inside.

  The young lady was damn near cumming in her skin-tight riding pants. Flame taunted her for the remainder of the verse, then joined Qwess back on stage to raucous applause. There wasn’t a woman in the crowd who wasn’t feeling the brash, raunchy youngster.

  Qwess exhorted the crowd to buy the new album, and they left the stage to a standing ovation.

  A.B.P. had conquered Houston, Texas.

  * * *

  D lay in the hotel bed looking down at the beautiful young lady between his legs. Her name was Vanilla, and she used to be a stripper. D rarely messed with strippers, but this chick was an exception. She had been pursuing him for the last few weeks, coming by his spot all dressed up and shit. All the fellas were dying to hit it and couldn’t believe he hadn’t hit. It wasn’t that he didn’t dig her. He just didn’t like when bitches came on too strong. He felt like they had ulterior motives. However, when Vanilla invited him to dinner—her treat—he couldn’t resist. Never in a million years did he think she would floss like this! Bringing him to a rented villa, then cooking for him in a lace-up teddy with matching thigh-high boots. It didn’t take long for him to decide, he’d rather feast on her rather than what was in the pot.

  Presently she was sucking his dick like she was trying to pull his spine through his dick head, and he was in another world because of it. He didn’t know which aroused him more, the head itself or watching his joint get surrounded by those beautiful lips. Just as he was about to cum in her mouth, she stopped.

  “Aw, damn, girl! What’s up?” he asked.

  “Ay, papi, I want you to fuck me in my ass,” she demanded.

  He wasn’t used to taking the “brown road” so at first he hesitated. Then he reasoned that if he wanted regular sex, he could’ve gotten it at home. So, if this li’l young chick wanted to get her asshole bust open, he’d happily oblige her.

  Vanilla got up and told him to wait while she went and got some Vaseline from the cabinet near the front door. She returned a few seconds later, Vaseline in hand.

  She began stroking his manhood, then rubbed Vaseline all over the condom on his penis. She then lay on the bed on her stomach, with her ass poked up.

  “Go slow, papi. It’s been a while,” she told him.

  As D was spreading her shapely ass cheeks apart, he could’ve sworn he heard a noise. He paused a moment.

  “Come on, papi. I’m waiting!” Vanilla prodded.

  Against his better judgment, he proceeded. When the head of his dick penetrated the tight, hot hole, all concerns were thrown to the wind. His only thought was going deeper into Vanilla’s orifice.

  He was halfway in when he noticed a huge shadow on the headboard. The shadow was more like an eclipse as it darkened one half of the room.

  “What the fuck?” It was all D could get out before he felt himself being suspended in the air. His back hit the wall so hard he almost went through it. When the blinding pain subsided enough for him to see, he looked right into the face of a huge bald-headed black man, who punched him in the stomach as he lifted him onto the wall.

  D attempted to speak, but he had no air. In a brief moment of recognition, he knew what had happened. The broad set him up. Stinking bitch!

  Reece walked into the room, followed by Jersey Ali, Muhammad, and Born. They were all clad in black with masks on. They didn’t even acknowledge Vanilla.

  Reece walked in front of D, and he immediately started copping pleas. Reece literally smacked the piss out of him. It leaked out onto his leg.

  “Stop bitching, nigga. Time to die!” Reece taunted. “Born, get the girl.”

  Born walked over to Vanilla, who was curled in a ball at the corner of the bed. He pulled out a silencer-equipped pistol, which made Vanilla start begging for her life.

  “Please, Reece. I got kids to feed. I know you make niggas bleed. I don’t need that type of shit. Please!”

  “Stop begging!” Reece yelled. “I hate that shit. Now tell me why I shouldn’t kill you?”

  “B-because I did what you asked,” stammered Vanilla. “And I ain’t gon’ say nothing. This shit never happened, Reece. I didn’t see nothing!”

  Born wasn’t convinced. He put the gun to her head, ready to pull the trigger. Vanilla closed her eyes waiting to hear the gunshot. It never came. Instead, she felt a hand under her chin. She closed her eyes tighter. She heard from seemingly far away, “Look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  She did, looking Reece eye-to-eye. It’s funny how a person’s sense of detail sharpens during life-and-death situations, for all Vanilla could think about was how handsome Reece looked in his glowing menace. She thought she was dreaming when she heard him say he was going to let her live.

  “Huh?” she asked.

  “I said, as long as you give me your word this never happened, you got my word nothing will ever happen to you. You go back on your word, I go back on mine,” he explained.

  Vanilla assured Reece he had her undying loyalty and got up to gather her things. While she was in the bathroom, she heard what sounded like a loud cough, accompanied by ear-piercing screams. At first she thought D was dead, then she heard Reece talking to him.

  “It’s not up to me whether you live or not,” Reece said. “It’s up to your punk-ass partner. If he can’t set up a meeting with these Blood Team niggas, you die. It’s just that simple.”

  Vanilla peeked out the door and observed that D had been shot in the knee. He was crying like a newborn baby. She had never seen such a powerful man reduced to tears by another man. In a way, she felt sorry for him. Better him than her, though. She keenly observed how Reece directed his squad as they tied a tourniquet around D’s leg, then bagged and gagged him. To her, Reece was the embodiment of power. Even in his killer black, he still looked . . . regal. His mannerisms were so kinglike. It was like he was a part of the action, but still above it. Frankly, that shit turned her on! The more she studied Reece, the more her pussy throbbed.

  So, when Reece walked to the front, let everyone out, came back and said to her, “V, take a shower and get right. All this bitching got my dick hard,” it was only fitting that she obliged him.

  That night she sucked, fucked, and bucked on Reece like her life depended on him.
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br />   Actually, it did.

  * * *

  New York, New York! Bright lights, big city. The A.B.P. tour had arrived in New York, and everyone was high on adrenaline. It was early December, and they were on the last leg of the tour. They had been all over the United States performing, and were now back on the good ole East Coast. Everyone knew the importance of gaining a following in New York, so after they performed at club Spotlite, they headed to a radio interview. Radio interviews were only done in the most important cities like Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit, and St. Louis. Thus far, there was no official format, so everyone played the interviews by ear.

  On this particular Friday night, as Qwess and company arrived at the Flava 103.1 studios, no one knew how New York radio got down. They would soon find out.

  Diane the Diva was eagerly anticipating her guests. She had been hearing a lot about these Carolina cats from her sister radio affiliates. From what she had heard, they were on point.

  When Qwess and crew walked in, she didn’t recognize them. They didn’t look like southern cats at all. In fact, the light-skinned guy looked like he could be related to her. She was Dominican and could easily spot another Latino. He introduced himself as Rolando, VP of Atlantic Beach Productions, and then introduced the others to her. She recognized Qwess from the advance photos on the Internet, now that she got a closer look. His rose-colored spectacles had thrown her off initially.

  It was nearing prime-time for the night show, so Diane wanted to get everyone situated before they went on air. She ushered everyone to their seats at the mic with urgency. They all were ready just as the show went on air. Diane the Diva opened up.

  “What up, what up, NYC, stand up!” She played the prerecorded drop for her show. Then she opened the show.

  “This ya girl Diane the Diva, and I have a treat for you tonight. In the studio with me I got ya boy Qwess, representing A.B.P., all the way from the Cackalack. Qwess, say what’s up to the people.”