show up at a funeral full of GDs, you feel me? ‘Specially since Pops got killed in a Vice Lord neighborhood. That’s why them lil niggas got shot up on Ogden the other day. Shit, that’s why most of the shootings that done happened in the past week been in yo’ hood.”
I dropped my head back and blew out a perfectly circular ring of Kush smoke. Scrilla’s suggestion that I not attend our father’s funeral made me grind my teeth in anger, but I held it in like the next lungful of smoke. Pops had been a Board Member, the highest rank given in the Gangster Disciple Nation. Yesterday his wake had been packed full of GDs from all over the Midwest, and I had been the only Vice Lord.
Scrilla and Rose were also Gangster Disciples.
“Baby,” I said to Kisha, turning my head as she sprayed me with the Gucci cologne, “grab those two bricks out the suitcase, and start countin’ that money.”
For a while a grim silence filled the room. I sat there in the soft white chair and smoked my blunt watching Kisha as she began counting the cash on the bed. I wondered if my brother thought my hood was soft or something, like we were afraid to show up at a funeral full of the opposition. I didn’t give a fuck if every gang in the city showed their faces there, I was still going.
“Pass that good shit, nigga,” Scrilla Man said. He walked over and got the blunt from me. “Just for the record, if something does pop off, I’m knockin’ heads off for you. But I think it’ll be better to avoid that kinda situation… unless you’re tryna do forever in the joint.”
I stood up and started removing my suit piece by piece, holding the Glock and opening the suitcase. I left the suit scattered across the floor and pulled out a brand new True Religion outfit—a white t-shirt and baggy blue jeans. I put on the outfit, added a gray pair of Louis Vuitton sneakers with a matching belt and visor cap.
“Shit,” Rose said, “that nigga ain’t gon’ need our help. You see dat drum? What’s that, a fifty?”
“Hell muhfuckin yeah, nigga, and it’s filled all the way up,” I said, buckling my LV belt. I knew that Scrilla Man and Rose wore Gucci because they felt the double G symbol represented Gangster, as in Gangster Disciple. So I wore Louis Vuitton’s LV symbol for Vice Lord, and all my niggas on 15 th and Homan had done the same.
Scrilla tapped my shoulder and passed me the blunt just as Shay came sauntering into the room wearing a short black strapless dress and the six-inch Louboutin heels I’d bought at the same time I bought Kisha’s heels. Shay was flipping through a stack of hundreds, fifties, and twenties.
“Here’s your money for that Kush,” Shay said, handing me the cash. “Fifty-five hundred. If you can hit me with another pound, I’ll have it gone tonight. My lil bro want one, too.”
“I gotchoo.” I was already counting the bills.
“It’s sixty thousand,” Kisha interjected from the bed. She dropped the two kilos—which were wrapped in clear cellophane and stamped in the center with the letters KR—into the McDonald’s bag and tossed it to Scrilla.
“I take it you’re still goin’ to the funeral,” Scrilla said as he glanced from the pistol in my hand to the brand new Louis Vuitton duffle bag on the other side of the easy chair. “Gangbanging ass nigga.”
“Hell yeah I’m goin’,” I said assertively. “Pops wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m ready to die right there in front of him if I have to.”
Kisha and I packed hurriedly. Ten minutes later, we followed our guests out of the Hilton suite.
~Chapter 17~
“You’re gonna need some more dope soon, and I know just the person to contact. This girl I met at the strip club introduced me to him the night I started dancing there. I think his name is King-Royce or somethin’ like that; a Latin King wit’ connections to the Costilla Cartel. She said Royce had been sellin’ bricks to the Breeds for fourteen racks apiece.
I dropped my head back and blew out a perfectly circular ring of Kush smoke. Scrilla’s suggestion that I not attend our father’s funeral made me grind my teeth in anger, but I held it in like the next lungful of smoke. Pops had been a Board Member, the highest rank given in the Gangster Disciple Nation. Yesterday his wake had been packed full of GDs from all over the Midwest, and I had been the only Vice Lord.
Scrilla and Rose were also Gangster Disciples.
“Baby,” I said to Kisha, turning my head as she sprayed me with the Gucci cologne, “grab those two bricks out the suitcase, and start countin’ that money.”
For a while a grim silence filled the room. I sat there in the soft white chair and smoked my blunt watching Kisha as she began counting the cash on the bed. I wondered if my brother thought my hood was soft or something, like we were afraid to show up at a funeral full of the opposition. I didn’t give a fuck if every gang in the city showed their faces there, I was still going.
“Pass that good shit, nigga,” Scrilla Man said. He walked over and got the blunt from me. “Just for the record, if something does pop off, I’m knockin’ heads off for you. But I think it’ll be better to avoid that kinda situation… unless you’re tryna do forever in the joint.”
I stood up and started removing my suit piece by piece, holding the Glock and opening the suitcase. I left the suit scattered across the floor and pulled out a brand new True Religion outfit—a white t-shirt and baggy blue jeans. I put on the outfit, added a gray pair of Louis Vuitton sneakers with a matching belt and visor cap.
“Shit,” Rose said, “that nigga ain’t gon’ need our help. You see dat drum? What’s that, a fifty?”
“Hell muhfuckin yeah, nigga, and it’s filled all the way up,” I said, buckling my LV belt. I knew that Scrilla Man and Rose wore Gucci because they felt the double G symbol represented Gangster, as in Gangster Disciple. So I wore Louis Vuitton’s LV symbol for Vice Lord, and all my niggas on 15 th and Homan had done the same.
Scrilla tapped my shoulder and passed me the blunt just as Shay came sauntering into the room wearing a short black strapless dress and the six-inch Louboutin heels I’d bought at the same time I bought Kisha’s heels. Shay was flipping through a stack of hundreds, fifties, and twenties.
“Here’s your money for that Kush,” Shay said, handing me the cash. “Fifty-five hundred. If you can hit me with another pound, I’ll have it gone tonight. My lil bro want one, too.”
“I gotchoo.” I was already counting the bills.
“It’s sixty thousand,” Kisha interjected from the bed. She dropped the two kilos—which were wrapped in clear cellophane and stamped in the center with the letters KR—into the McDonald’s bag and tossed it to Scrilla.
“I take it you’re still goin’ to the funeral,” Scrilla said as he glanced from the pistol in my hand to the brand new Louis Vuitton duffle bag on the other side of the easy chair. “Gangbanging ass nigga.”
“Hell yeah I’m goin’,” I said assertively. “Pops wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m ready to die right there in front of him if I have to.”
Kisha and I packed hurriedly. Ten minutes later, we followed our guests out of the Hilton suite.
~Chapter 17~
“You’re gonna need some more dope soon, and I know just the person to contact. This girl I met at the strip club introduced me to him the night I started dancing there. I think his name is King-Royce or somethin’ like that; a Latin King wit’ connections to the Costilla Cartel. She said Royce had been sellin’ bricks to the Breeds for fourteen racks apiece.
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