Tales from da Hood Read online

  ALSO BY NIKKI TURNER

  The Glamorous Life

  A Hustler's Wife

  A Project Chick

  Girls from da Hood

  The Game: Short Stories About the Life …

  (contributing author)

  THE BIRTH OF STREET CHRONICLES

  FIRST, I WOULD LIKE to thank God for giving me the strength and patience to put such a powerful project together. Having a dream is one of the hardest things to sell to someone else because at the end of the day, it's your dream and your dream alone. But sometimes, dreams do come true, such as going from a career as a travel agent to becoming a bestselling author.

  There were only a few people who genuinely believed in me, and those are the folks who I continue to thank in every book. Getting people to look outside of the box is hard. I know firsthand the stress it takes to break through any industry's door. So when those who have supported me asked me for a chance to let them shine by publishing their work, and giving their dream a chance to come true, I knew I had to do something. But what?

  The letters and the calls kept pouring in. Upcoming authors had stories that needed to be heard through a vehicle that the streets respected. There was nothing for me to do but pray, and that's when God gave me the vision, the Street Chronicles series.

  To the many authors in the various volumes, I came to you with a vision and each of you embraced it. In one single phone call you were just as excited about the manifestation of this project as I was. The enthusiasm rose like a tidal wave even though I didn't know how I was going to fund the book, print it, or get distribution for it. Having come to you with nothing but an idea, I thank you all for believing in me, in my potential, and in the editorial process from the beginning.

  From conception to birth, I knew it wouldn't be a smooth ride. There were some authors with me early on who, when the waves got too high, didn't have the patience to hold on and fell by the wayside. I wish you the absolute best in your future endeavors. But to those of you who rode it out with me on the high tide to the calming still waters, taking pride in your work by accepting any input I shared with you about your story, you make me proud to be able to put my name on this project. Thank you! Together WE DID IT, BABY!!! We're in the major leagues, being published by Random House, the same publisher that published Bill Clinton's books. If that isn't God's grace and mercy, I don't know what is.

  All in all, this is only the beginning for you. You're not diamonds in the rough anymore. Continue to shine as stars do. The sky is the limit for you!

  Craig, you will never know just how much I love you. You were the first person I shared my desire with and you stepped up to the plate, offering to fund the project for me without even knowing anything about it. You always keep me afloat, whatever the storm is in my life. Marc, my agent, I love you simply for being you. Melody, thanks for being one of the first professionals to assist me with this idea. You gave me a safe and sanitized place for the labor and delivery while you continued to encourage and believe in me. Thanks! Nicey B, my secretary from day one, thanks for only accepting Red Lobster lunches as payment for all you do to keep me organized. Kells, my best friend, for being there around the clock for me. Wayne, Drack, Robinette, Cool, Chelsea, Claudie, and Dre for reading through all the submissions. Pat, thanks for listening to all my tantrums and introducing me to yoga to escape from it all, but most of all, just for doing what you do best, be you! Joy, the official godmother, consultant, prayer partner, et cetera, I am sending you some black dye for all the unwanted gray hair I might have given you. Thank you for always holding me down or picking me up as you do. I know the industry hasn't been nice to either one of us but somehow we always seem to make it through with a smile and a laugh. My Shay-Shay, never think I don't see you or appreciate you. To every one of you reading this, I cannot thank you enough for being avid supporters of my work. I appreciate you taking my babies (novels) into your home and loving them, and introducing them to as many people as you have. This is a book of short stories, so I need to keep this short and sweet. I apologize if you are not mentioned here, but I would like to thank everyone who played a part in the prenatal process, delivery, and nurturing of this baby. Charge it to my head, not my heart.

  Peace and Love,

  Nikki Turner

  WORD ON THE STREET

  A Note from Nikki Turner

  Introduction by Kwame Teague

  Big Daddy BY SEVEN

  360 BY THE GHOST

  No Mercy BY AKBAR PRAY

  Thicker Than Mud BY Y. BLAK MOORE

  Gotta Have a Ruffneck A NIKKI TURNER ORIGINAL

  Acknowledgments

  A NOTE FROM NIKKI TURNER

  NIKKI TURNER, NUMBER-ONE BESTSELLING AUTHOR, looked long and hard, high and low, in every prison, ghetto, ditch, crack, and crevice all over the world for the hottest street writers on the planet to assist her in composing this masterpiece exploring every aspect of street life. With a powerful introduction by Kwame Teague, “Big Daddy,” “360,” “No Mercy,” “Thicker than Mud,” and “Gotta Have a Ruffneck” make up the first volume of an ongoing legacy guaranteed to change the game of urban fiction as we know it. These five uncut and uncensored urban tales chronicle subject matter that has yet to be told and are penned by five authors whose original voices demand to be heard.

  The Queen of Hip-Hop Fiction presents a Nikki Turner Exclusive, the first volume of a series, Street Chronicles: Tales from da Hood.

  INTRODUCTION BY KWAME TEAGUE

  Diamond in the back, sunroof top …

  Digging the scene with a gangster lean.

  FOR MANY, this is the summation of the American Dream, that piece of the pie that young men and women everywhere aspire to obtain. They are raised with the ethic that if you work hard, you will succeed. If you go to school and get an education, you'll get a good job, a beautiful wife, and a picket fence surrounding nice green grass to water on Sundays.

  But what happens when your school is a war zone, nothing more than a fashion show, and the only education you get is from a teacher who doesn't see you as a person, but as a problem, and therefore treats you as such? What happens when your job pays a slave's wages but the cost of living is a king's ransom? And even if you do have a degree, a piece of paper confirming you've been educated, just the fact of being young and black is considered a liability instead of an asset. Under these circumstances, the only fence a man's wife sees is the one around her project complex or the prison her man is bidding in. So, by the time you see that nice green grass, it's in the manicured lawn of the cemetery, your final resting place.

  The American Dream has been deferred, so those who realize this have chosen another avenue to success, another road to riches, a darker but parallel path. This is the way of the gangster, the one who makes his own list of rules and enforces it. His word is his gun and his silence is law. Violations are dealt with swiftly and, by the code of the streets, justly. This is the world where loyalty and honor really mean something because anything less can cost you your life.

  D.B.D … TWIN …

  (DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR)

  THE GANGSTER KNOWS he isn't living the American Dream, he is a part of the American reality. He knows that this country was built on the same principles that he ruthlessly enforces. He knows the pilgrims were pillagers who conned the natives out of their country, and when the natives got wise, those pilgrims raped, burned, and slaughtered all who stood in their path. So while you eat turkey on Thanksgiving, the American tradition, the gangster celebrates the biggest takeover this country has ever seen, a real thug holiday.

  But it doesn't stop with what the English took from the native. The Americans took from the English with common thug tactics and a “fuck you” attitude. When Patric
k Henry said, “Give me liberty or give me death,” he might as well have screamed, “Ride or die!” Because that's what he meant by today's terms. The Americans ran England off their block and we celebrate it every Fourth of July. We even sing its praises before major sporting events and salute it around the country. The American flag, its colors, red and blue. These same colors have split the streets, literally ripping them in half, making half our hoods Bloods and the other half Crips. Yet, however you cut it, red and blue are the American colors, but white … is the American Power.

  The gangster sees this, understands it, and so he applies it to the world in which he dwells. He turns the UN into the five families, the Geneva Convention into a gang peace treaty, and instead of invading countries, he invades neighborhoods, spreading the same violence, poison, and corruption on a smaller scale. He destroys lives, creates illusions, and sells dreams. All the while profiting, until one day the very law he created backlashes and destroys him. Then another man, disenfranchised by the mainstream, steps up, being even more ruthless, violent, and cunning than his predecessor. And the cycle continues. But don't blame the man. Don't hate the game because, you see, it's the American way. We are products of our environment so the only question left to ask is “How far are you willing to go?”

  Following is a collection of stories that tell you just how far some people went how far they continue to go, the results, and the lessons to be learned. These are not fables. They are not fairy tales. They are not manufactured commercial gangstas that BET, the source of Clear Channel Communications, tries to create for your entertainment pleasure. The set is Harlem, Compton, Chicago, or Newark not Universal Studios. There are no stunt doubles or rehearsals so no one will cry out “cut” because these are the uncut versions. They are stories by men and women who lived the life, who live the life, and who have starved and bled, took it in the blood, won or lost. In short, these are the chronicles of gangstas that lived them.

  Yes, these are only a few of the eight million stories, and tomorrow there will be probably eight million more. What we present is like various snapshots of a continuous riot, some faces laughing, some crying, some bloodied in the custody of the police, some fleeing the scene, arms wrapped around a stolen plasma TV set. Nevertheless, the riot continues and it will continue until we realize that we have two options. Either we play the game all the way out, or get all the way out the game. Take the hustle, the grind, and the gangsta to a whole new level.

  The Street Chronicles are a testament to that whole new level the writers in this book are examples of, and of what the power of expression can do. We as artists, as writers, are using our voices in diverse ways to articulate what the streets are feeling. This is for the beautiful women who do ugly things, for the intelligent brothers who make dumb decisions, and for the next generation of ghetto kids who need someone to look up to and an ideal to believe in. From the streets to the books, from books to beyond, the world is for those with the courage to claim it and the wisdom to maintain it.

  HOW FAR are you willing to go?

  IN CLOSING, remember to take what you see and hear, use what you can, and discard the rest. But by no means allow yourself to become just another story to tell, just another name to be remembered on walls or T-shirts, just another face lost in the riot that is the streets.

  I've said all I'ma say. Turn off the lights and close the door when you leave. One Love!

  Kwame Teague,

  Author of The Adventures of Ghetto Sam

  Penned by Seven, but lived by many

  ONE

  IT'S A SLOW NIGHT, not too many cars cruising up and down Second and Broad for a Friday. This is partly due to the fact that NASCAR is at Richmond International Speedway, and most of my clients are old white men who enjoy that type of shit. I'm slowly losing my patience with Vanessa; the bitch is walking at a slow, nonchalant pace instead of strutting her phat ass up and down the block like I've taught her to do. I'm standing with my back and one foot up against the wall by Eggleston's Restaurant, thinking about how badly I'm gonna choke the shit out of her if she don't make me at least $300 tonight. Tonight the stakes are raised because business has been slow due to the races: I'm charging $40 for blowjobs, $50 for ass licks, and $125 for the total package. Golden showers are going for $30 'cause Nessa's piss makes a nigga ass feel warm and fuzzy.

  Twenty minutes ago I made up my mind that I wasn't gonna give her tired walking ass anything. Can you believe it? The bitch had the audacity to turn down a trick because he was Mexican. Talking about she could smell bean burritos and shit on his breath. I punched the bitch hard enough to frazzle her, but not hard enough to bruise her—couldn't chance having my moneymaker look tore up. I told her ass I didn't give a fuck if she smelt dog shit on his breath, she better had fucked and sucked his dick until the mutherfucker couldn't come any longer. This lazy-ass ho of mine ain't getting shit, not one copper penny tonight. She's lucky if I still take her ass to get her wig smoked, but it wouldn't benefit me if I don't. There's money out here to be made, and I got to keep my bitch looking good at all times. Right now, I've got to go remind this trick bitch who's in charge.

  “Bitch, you better pull that goddamn skirt up over your ass and stop these mutherfucking cars out here. You think I'm fucking playing with you?” I get up close and personal in the bitch's ear, like she is deaf or something, but she needs to hear loud and clear that I'm not on joke time.

  “Daddy, I'm tired, my feet are hurting and so is my back. I told you not to buy these cheap-ass shoes from Payless,” Nessa cries, as she stands with one hand on her hip while the other hand holds her strappy patent leather $9.99 buy-one-get-one-free high-heeled hooker shoe.

  “Bitch, don't you ever back-talk me,” I say, raising my hand like I'm gonna backhand her ass.

  “I'll buy you whatever the fuck I want your ass to have. I run this show. You will wear, eat, say, and do whatever the hell I say. Is that understood, bitch?” I scream at her as I jack her ass up by the collar of her shirt.

  It suddenly dawns on me: What the fuck is she doing wearing an oxford shirt in fucking July? I let go of her shirt and stand back to get a better view of her attire. Then I realize the bitch don't look like a hooker. Her ass is out on the ho stroll looking like a goddamn Sunday school teacher. I grab the ho by her hair weave, yanking her to my chest.

  She cries, pleading, “Daddy, let go of me, please, Daddy, don't do this.” She covers her head with her hand 'cause she knows I am about to go upside it. Man, I am mad as hell. Here it is hotter than the Fourth of July and this bitch is on the ho stroll in a mutherfucking long sleeve, pink oxford shirt, revealing absolutely no cleavage. I smack the bitch so hard, she falls to the ground. I stomp her ass with my black Timbs. I never rock the butter ones when I'm working 'cause I don't wanna scuff them shits up. Vanessa's ass is balled up in a knot, crying about how much she loves me and asking why am I treating her this way.

  Then the bitch jumps up and begins running toward Broad Street. I know that if she gets away, I won't see her ass for a minute. Oh, she'll stay gone for a day or two, but she always finds her way back home to Daddy. The bitch needs me like a crackhead needs crack, like Kool-Aid needs sugar, and chitterlings need potato salad. Nessa couldn't survive the streets of Richmond without Big Daddy, 'cause for real, every ho needs a nigga like me. I made that bitch who she is today. If it wasn't for me, she'd be homeless, hungry, and ugly as a mutherfucker. Truth be told Nessa ain't all that pretty, but the bitch has the baddest body in Richmond, and she sucks a mean dick. She's five feet seven inches with a caramel complexion and a 36-24-36 shape. Yeah, she's a straight brick house. Her ass is so phat, I like to hit it from the back, doggy style, and man, oh man the bitch's pussy is vicious. Granted, Nessa has a white liver and loves to fuck, but nobody can hit that g-spot like me.

  Nessa is running in and out of traffic. Beep-beep-Beep, cars are blowing their horns for her to get out of the street. The bitch is running like Flo Jo in the Summer Olympics. Then I realize
she's heading toward the Slip at Shockoe. I don't know why but I keep running behind her. Since we aren't the type to hang in the Slip, I can't understand why Nessa is willing to die to get there. Maybe she knows a nigga there she can turn a quick trick with; whatever the reason, I ain't gonna stop chasing the bitch. Besides she's wearing the skirt I bought from Rainbow and the track of weave I got her ass from Ruby Red. If I have to snatch my shit off her ass, I will. The bitch is straight up disrespecting me; the more she runs the hotter I get.

  When we get to the front door of the club, the bouncer motions for us to go in. Nessa is about two people in front of me, but he knows we're together. He's a big fat mutherfucker from Nine Mile Road. He used to do security at the convenience store over there, so I just nod and he knows what time it is. You see, he's tricked with Nessa before and he knows she's my ho. I give his fat ass a half smile as I look at him. I remember Nessa telling me how that nigga wanted her to put her finger in his ass. She told me she was able to get two fingers in at one time. She said that big nigga moaned in sheer delight as she shoved them shits in his ass. He must've been used to taking it in the rear. He paid Nessa $35 for a finger fuck. Now he standing at the door, acting like he the mutherfucking man and shit. I got no respect for da nigga. Nigga lets us in for free, 'cause he ain't want his secret to get out.

  By the time I get in, Nessa is sitting at the bar. Her shoes are back on and her shirt tail is hanging out. I walk over to the bar and whisper in her ear, “It's okay, baby. Go fix yourself up.” Nessa stands and walks toward the back to the restroom. I scope the room, seeing wall-to-wall drug dealers, a couple college cats, and a bunch of low-life bums who ain't doing shit with their lives except throwing them away. You can tell who the niggas from the streets are because they never dance; they just flex their gear, represent their hood, and nod their heads to a few rap songs. The college niggas is up dancing around to house music, that shit that Baltimore gets down with, and the slum-ass niggas, man, they whack asses is always on the dance floor at the Slip, dancing harder than the broads. Me, I just sit back and chill. I order me and Nessa a couple Alizés, and wait to see what's up.