CRAP GAME BONZ

Transcription

CRAP GAME BONZ

A
TRILOGY
CRAP GAME
PLAY AT YOUR OWN RISK
Volume 1
BONZ
A Trilogy: Crap Game: Play At Your Own Risk –
Volume 1
All Rights Reserved.
First Edition
Copyright 2008, 2009 by Bonz and
Seven Duce Entertainment, Inc.,
Philadelphia Pennsylvania
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form by any means, graphic, electronic, or
mechanical, including taping, photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage retrieval system, without
the written permission of the author, except that
portions may be used in commentary or review when
attributed fully to author and publisher by name.
ISBN: 978-0-9818754-0-8
1. Record Industry
2. Urban Life
3. Relationships
Cover design by: Bonz and
Seven Duce Entertainment, Inc.,
Pennsylvania Republic Keystone state
Edited by Otu Kwaku and Sakinah Ali.Sabree
Third printing - Printed in the USA.
Publisher: Liberated Mindz Publishers
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Republic Keystone state
LiberatedMindZ@verizon.net
CRAP GAME SOUNDTRACK PRODUCED BY
SEVEN DEUCE ENTERTAINMENT INC.
HOODFAME INC. ~ G – UNIT PHILLY
BADLANDS INC.
SEVEN DEUCE ENT. INC
ARTISTS & AFFILIATES
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KEL
MILYENZ
HASS
NELL DIAMOND
CRANE
S-FIVE
RIK HAVOC
HOODFAME INC.
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G – UNIT PHILLY
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SEVEN DEUCE ENTERTAINMENT INC. STAFF:
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BONZ
FOR SHOWS AND BOOKINGS CONTACT:
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www.72ent.com ~ www.Myspace.com/kelgeez
A
TRILOGY
CRAP GAME
PLAY AT YOUR OWN RISK
Volume 1
BONZ
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to
ME
For all the hard work, determination, research,
studying, commitment, love, and hate I endured to
make this thing happen.
i
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
First and for most I would like to thank all of
my early supporters who bought my book when it was
in raw form. Thank you ladies. Your comments and
feedback are what led me to do more reflection. As a
result I did extensive research and stepped up my
knowledge of how to write memorable novels.
Whether people offer comments about my books or my
music, I tend to listen to and appreciate the people who
spent their hard-earned money on something that I
have put together. So again thanks, with much love.
Please keep your ears and eyes open for my events,
books, and music.
The first person ever to bring the idea of
writing novels to my attention was my old head Mark
“MD” Jackson. We were sitting in his crib in West
Philly, and he was writing some shit on a small yellow
pad, so I was like, “What the fuck you doin?” Much to
my surprise, he said, “Nigga, I’m writing a book.” I
said, “A book? What the fuck makes you think you
can write a fuckin’ book?” He put me onto two urban,
jailhouse authors and some of their titles he had read
when he was locked up. He was like “Nigga, you
never heard of Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim?”
That was the first time I ever heard those names, and it
would be years before I even picked up one of their
books to read.
ii
Disclaimer
This novel is a work of fiction.
Any
resemblance to real people, living or dead, actual
events, establishments, organizations, or locales is
intended to give the story a sense of reality and
authenticity. Other names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or represent pure fiction.
The instruction and outlines of RELIGIOUS
obligation contained in this book are given as far as
possible in correct manner. If there are any inadvertent
mistakes, I seek the forgiveness of the Merciful Allah
for such unintentional omission or commission.
iii
Table of Contents
Dedication ............................................................................i
Acknowledgment ................................................................ ii
Disclaimer ......................................................................... iii
Table of Contents ................................................................iv
Prologue............................................................................. vii
REWIND .............................................................................. 1
PAUSE ................................................................................ 7
PLAY ................................................................................. 11
FAST FORWARD ............................................................18
VOLUME ........................................................................... 31
SHUFFLE ........................................................................... 39
SURROUND SOUND .......................................................45
DUPLICATE ..................................................................... 55
EJECT ............................................................................... 64
MEMORY .........................................................................70
SLOW MOTION ................................................................ 72
TRACKS ............................................................................ 80
TURN TABLES .................................................................84
MICROPHONES .............................................................. 88
COPY ................................................................................ 94
SKIP ......................................................................... 102
iv
REPLAY .......................................................................... 106
BASS ................................................................................ 112
MIXER .............................................................................127
EQUALIZER ................................................................... 135
STAND-BY ..................................................................... 138
DEMO .............................................................................145
ON .................................................................................... 149
OFF................................................................................... 156
SET ...................................................................................159
OPEN................................................................................ 163
TUNER ............................................................................ 168
TAPE ...............................................................................171
RANDOM ........................................................................ 179
CLOCK ............................................................................ 185
CLOSE .............................................................................191
Resource Directory ........................................................... 199
About the Author ..............................................................208
Bonus Chapter of Crap Game-Volume 2
Order Form
v
vi
Prologue
2003 - It was a sweltering August morning when
Trigger thundered down Twenty First Street in his
Carolina blue Cadillac Escalade. He pulled up in front
of 2112, and then quickly maneuvered the steering
wheel away from the curb so that he wouldn’t crack
the Ashanti Custom twenty-two inch rims his truck
was sitting on.
Trigger surveyed the area with his menacing black
eyes and then tucked his weapon in his waistband, slid
from the truck and scurried up the brick steps leading
to Ms Toni Major’s house. When he reached the front
porch, he could hear and feel the bass pounding
beneath his feet, from the music that was booming
from the basement’s studio speakers. He peered
through the screen door and saw Ms. Toni’s plump
frame in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He could
smell the aroma of pancakes, turkey bacon, and cheese
eggs floating through the air.
Trigger tried the knob on the door, and it was
unlocked. He crept in quickly and held the door long
enough so it wouldn’t slam. Then he took the steps
skipping every other one making his way up to the
second floor. Once he reached the room, he peeped
through the keyhole of the old door and saw his target.
Trigger pulled out his Desert Eagle, spun the knob, and
vii
walked up on his sleeping prey and placed the cold
hard barrel on top the victim’s head.
Jordan Major was sound asleep until he felt the
steel sink into his skull. For a few moments his mind
thought he was about to die, but his heart told him
something different as adrenaline reached it. He
sprung up with a controlled motion grabbing Trigger’s
hand and gun moving them away from his head while
at the same time pulling a thirty-eight snub nose
revolver from beneath his stuffed pillow. The thirtyeight barrel landed on Trigger’s neck.
“Yo, how the fuck you get in here, Trigger?”
“Nigga, I walked in like I’ve been doing all my
life.”
“I told Mom Duke to stop letting niggas in here
while I’m sleep.”
“Stop bitchin’. She ain’t let me in. She didn’t
even see me.”
“Oh, okay I see you still up to that prankster,
slippery shit huh?”
“You know it, yah – meen? Now put that gun
away.”
They laughed.
When Jordan removed his gun away from his
childhood friend’s neck, he could see that the barrel
left a red mark on Trigger’s light skin.
“When the fuck you fly into town, Trigger?”
viii
No response.
“Nigga, you could at least let me know what’s up
with you. I ain’t seen you since I’ve been home,”
Jordan continued.
“Real niggas move in silence, ya-meen. You got
that money I sent you didn’t you?”
“Yea but…”
“But nothing nigga, roll this blunt,” Trigger said
while passing Jordan a box of vanilla dutches and half
ounce of skunk weed.
Jordan got up, walked over to a chair in the corner
of his room, and removed a jacket that was covering a
warm six-pack of Heinekens. He removed two bottles
and popped the caps off with the bottom of his lighter.
He passed Trigger one and took a big swig of the one
he had left in his hand. They both sat on the same run
down bed they used to jump on as kids. They sat in
silence, engulfed in their own thoughts.
Trigger cracked and emptied the tobacco out of the
blunt while Jordan crushed and separated the seeds and
stems from the sticky light green weed. Growing up,
this was an everyday ritual for these two, even before
eating.
Jordan took a few moments to search for the
remote control to his CD player. He hit the POWER
BUTTON, and then the PLAY BUTTON. A banging track
came blasting through the cheap house speakers. But it
ix
had a rigorous baseline, crashing drums, and a sinister
piano riff that was topped off with a sweet, sexy voice
singing the hook. Three MCs started going back and
forth with real street tales like music industry veterans.
“Who the fuck is that?” Trigger asked Jordan
after a long inhale of the blunt sounding like he was
about to shit on himself.
“That’s my squad I put together,” Jordan said
while getting up to turn his broken down fan around in
the shabby windowsill, so his mom wouldn’t smell the
weed burning.
Trigger wasn’t familiar with what his young buck
had been up to since he was released from Sleighton
Farms juvenile detention center lock up. Since
Jordan’s departure from the street, Trigger was now
believed to be the head of a 10 million dollar a year
(and growing) drug empire that spanned five major
cities in five states. His team mainly consisted of
down ass chicks that were responsible for sixteen
killings and some thirty-five non-fatal shootings.
Jordan asked, “You remember sexy ass Kelly
from the block, don’t you?”
“Yea,” said Trigger.
“That’s her on the hook.”
Then Trigger asked, “Word? “It’s been years.
What she look like now? She still got a fat ass?”
x
Jordan smirked and said, “Do she? Man listen,
Kelly was always a little sexy muthafucka, but now
she’s thick as a brick house, cute in the face and thin in
the waist. Man, her hips, and lips are thick as a
muthafucka.”
Trigger wondered, “Damn…she still got that long
ass hair?”
Jordan said, “Hell yeah, that shit long and silky.
She rockin'it, dyed light brown to flow wit her honey
brown complexion.”
“What type of measurements you think she
working with?” Trigger asked.
Jordan replied, “I think…I know she workin' wit
34-23-36 all day. I still be hittin' that whenever. I
gotta keep her close to the team.” Jordan took a long
drag of the blunt before he passed it to Trigger who hit
it and chased it with a sip of warm beer.
Trigger looked at his young bol and said, “Did the
young bitch Mia call you yet?”
“Yeah, but I thought you was starting your own
label, so I was keeping her on ice until I got the official
run down from you. So what up wit dat?”
“Nah, I told the young bitch to holler at you
because she came at me on some help her get a deal
shit. But you know I only fuck wit down ass chicks.
She was a little too green for my taste. Plus you know
with what I am into that ain’t a good look.
xi
You remember her from back in the day, right?”
Trigger asked.
“At first when she hit my cell…Nah. But then I
started thinking like…this that young sexy jawn whose
father was in the army.”
“Yeah she use to always be out of town or some
shit like that, right?”
“Right, she would always stay with her grandma
on Twentieth Street every summer and be
freaking off at all the dollar to holler house
parties,” Jordan added before receiving the blunt back.
He inhaled the sticky green and then exhaled the
gray smoke out his nose.
He passed it back, sat back on the bed as his dick
became rock hard just thinking about fucking Mia.
While holding the blunt in his right hand letting it
steam away, Trigger said, “Man she’s one of them
petite chicks with the young ripe thirty six D’s
standing at attention with an apple ass. And that light
skin with that long, deep, dark black cornrowed hair. I
shoulda kept that ass in my stable but you know with
my life style, ya-meen?”
“Sup nigga, pass that fuckin' blunt,” said Jordan.
Trigger handed the herb over and then drowned
the rest of his Heineken. Jordan reached for the sixpack, cracked two beers, and passed Trigger his second
beer. Jordan continued, “I use to see her when she
xii
would come around the way stepping out her pop’s car
and looking like daddy’s little girl, wearing her sexy
private school uniform.”
“Yeah, me too,” Trigger said. “I’ve been peeped
the freak all up in her because of the way she use to tie
the front of her uniform shirt up so niggas could see
that flat ass stomach. Man my dick used to get rock
hard just watching her shake that ass in the house
parties like a stripper.”
Trigger replied, “Nigga, why you ain’t never hit
that back then?
“Trigger, you know like I know the hood rats
woulda beat the shit out of her for fucking wit me.”
“What’s up wit her now?”
“She on some real shy shit but I know she’s an
undercover freak. But fuck all that shit. That bitch can
sing her ass off. Shit, wit a ass like that singing it off
is very unlikely.”
They both laughed.
Jordan snuffed the blunt roach out, took a second
one out his ear, and lit it. He steamed the mini bat up
until he had it flowing just right to give his old head
Trigger their second blunt ritual, “shot guns.”
They would interlock their pinky, ring and middle
fingers while at the same time making a zero with the
thumb and pointer finger. Jordan turned the blunt
xiii
around backwards, stuck the lit end in his mouth, and
then put the other end into his zero. Trigger put his
mouth on his zero and then Jordan blew him a shotgun
blast.
Trigger tried his best to inhale the gush of thick
blunt smoke, but it was too much as he took in what he
could and let the rest hit him in his face. Trigger took
the weed from Jordan and tried to blow his head off to
get him back for the cloud of smoke Jordan left
hovering above his head. They went back and forth
like this until the herb was gone and they were both
stuck.
Trigger then said, “So Jordan, you getting serious
about this music shit, huh?”
Jordan said, “You damn right and nigga you
should get serious about it too man because you
hot as shit on the rhyme tip. Plus your entrepreneur
skill is on one thousand. The shit you doing go hand
and hand with this music game.”
“I’m feeling what you saying, ya-meen, but right
now it ain’t about me, it’s about you young bol. You
dig what I’m saying…who else you working wit
besides Kelly and Mia?” Trigger asked.
“I got O getting it in now.”
“Word? That nigga finally stopped hatin’ and
getting it in, huh?”
xiv
“Yea and I got my man and 'em, Fat Bol and Lil
Big Man.”
“That’s all them on the CD, right?”
“Yeah, and that’s only a smidgin' of what they
can do.”
“I’m proud of you, young bol,” Trigger said
standing up extending his hand to Jordan.
Jordan took Trigger’s hand in his, and then
Trigger pulled him off the bed roughly and they
embraced like they always have because the way
Trigger moved they both never really knew when they
would see each other again. Trigger headed for the
door as his young bull looked on.
Trigger had been a hustler since he came out the
pussy. He always been one of them tall funny looking
dudes with a big nose and big lips. People used to call
him JJ Evans off the sitcom Good Times.
That’s before crack hit the streets of Philly. He
would have to do everything extra hard to fit in and
make girls like him.
After he started to hustle the chunky white
substance, it was a rap for all the jokes. He made it
hard for pretty boys with game and looks but no
money. He would trick money on all the hood rats and
dimes in the hood, buying them trick gifts like
Reeboks, Elite Honda scooters, big gold earrings, and
xv
he would get their hair and nails done. They loved his
ass because he made them look good. Trigger is the
true meaning of a drug dealer turned rapper/
entrepreneur. But what cats failed to realize is he’s
still a major hustler just in a different game.
xvi
CRAP GAME: Play At Your Own Risk … Volume 1
REWIND
The humidity was high by mid afternoon. The
fans were blowing hot moist air throughout Jordan
Major‟s mother‟s house. Many people in the hood
were victims of the scorching summer heat. The
stench of piss mixed with dead cats baking inside of
abandoned houses blew through the air.
Jordan grew up in the same neighborhood and
house that his mother was raised in. Even though his
mother had both parents, her mind was constantly
being pulled in two different directions. Her mother
was extremely religious, and her father was an extreme
alcoholic who collected other people‟s junk and made
it his treasure. So the house was always cluttered with
items that were originally headed for the city dump.
Occasionally he would come up on something
worthwhile like the bathroom mirror with the gold
eagle on top of it.
Jordan loved it. He stayed looking at his image
and telling himself that he would one day be rich and
telling himself that one day he would move out of that
junky house.
He was told stories about how his grandmother
was a devout Christian who believed that Jesus was
God. When his mother, who was an only child, would
behave badly, his grandmother would tie her to a
1
chair in the basement and flick holy water on her. This
would go on for days until grandmom felt the devil had
fled.
Jordan was looked at as a laid back, cool little
dude at a very young age. All the old heads in the
hood used to tell him he would grow up to be a
thoroughbred with a bright future. So he set out to do
just that.
At age nine, his father, Max Major, introduced
him to selling firecrackers to the other kids in the
neighborhood. Max was one of the flyest South Philly
hustlers the city has ever seen. However, he was a
different kind of hustler. Drugs weren‟t his thing. He
worked down at the waterfront since he was seventeen
and sold everything that wasn‟t nailed down, like tee
shirts, coats, radios, fireworks and all sorts of quick
flip items he would get his hands on from the incoming
cargo.
Max now pushing close to fifty, rocks a
baldhead, a full beard that‟s cut close to his chiseled
chin that also matched his chiseled frame. He stood at
five-eleven and weighed in at 200 pounds solid. After
he retired from the waterfront at age 37, he went right
back to work as a recreation counselor for the city of
Philadelphia in addition to building a small real estate
empire. It is believed that he is now worth 3.5 million.
2
When Jordan really started rolling with his
firecracker hustle that his pop Max hipped him to, it
became addictive. Jordan began to step his game up
on his own. Meeting new and local suppliers he began
to buy whole bricks of firecrackers, M80s, skyrockets,
Chinese stars, and a wide variety of other fireworks.
Money was coming in so fast that he didn‟t know what
to do with it. That‟s when his dad had to step back in.
Max always inspired Jordan to do the right
things in life despite how wild and crazy he himself
was growing up before he decided to chill out. So he
took his little man to the closest bank and taught him
how to open his own savings and checking accounts.
Ms Toni and Max Major didn‟t share the same bed or
roof for that matter. They‟ve been separated for almost
seven years now but Max has consistently played a
positive role in his son‟s life. Jordan loved the quick
flips and profits so much that by the age of 10 the lore
of selling weed came naturally. Despite the positive
influence his father had on him, the influences of the
street became stronger.
In no time, Jordan was known as the weed boy in
Leeds Middle School, and all the young girls loved
him. He was from a hood that was considered full of
suckers. So kids from all the way uptown would try
him, only to get punished by his old heads who would
lurk around the school grounds trying to catch freaky
3
little school girls. Tough guys from all over the city
thought West Oak Lane was the suburbs because of the
green grass and garages and different row houses.
Nevertheless, when families from North, South,
West, and Southwest Philly moved uptown and ran
away the few whites that for some reason could not
move out, things changed unknowingly to the rest of
the city. West Oak Lane never was or will be the
same, and the soft label had to change. When Jordan
reached the age of 12, he saw something that would
later have an impact on his life and the lives around
him. He was standing on the corner in Germantown,
where he first learned to hustle coke, with his
Summerville squad. He peeped a scene that forever
changed the way he got his money. The setting was
the fastest type of flow he ever saw.
One of his old heads named Chill was out on the
block selling something that had people running up on
feet, riding up on bikes, driving up in cars, and as fast
as they came, they sped away even faster. Chill was
dressed in a black bubble vest and a pair of Guess
Jeans with the pencil pockets on the side. Jordan took
this all in, and then asked Chill, “What the fuck is you
doin?”
Chill said, “What the fuck I‟m doing? The same
shit your young ass should be doin.”
“And what the hell is that, Big Man?”
4
Chill then reached into his stash he had under his
balls, pulled it out, and showed him a bundle of death.
He had it in small clear vials shaped like bullets
wrapped with a rubber band. That night Jordan got a
crash course about the rocky white substance that was
housed in caps the size of fifteens. That rocky white
substance was the catalyst for the new epidemic that
eventually took the city by storm. A drug that turned
best friends into enemies tore down the hood and
turned men and women into monsters. It also turned
broke dudes into rich players, young girls into young
trick hoes, and left blood stains on the streets of Philly.
Jordan got swept up in the drug game so fast it
made his head spin. Before he knew it, he was on the
block all day and night working for Chill. Chill started
him off with five hundred dollars worth of rocks in a
bundle which eventually earned him one hundred
dollars a day seven days a week. He wasn‟t really
schooled too well in the drug game by Chill.
Therefore, he learned the hard ways from the monsters
that lurked the streets. The fiends that were eventually
termed CRACK HEADS.
Jordan had so many ups and downs in the game
he thought he was at Great Adventure. Bundles would
get crept, stick up boys would make their rounds,
girlfriends would steal money, mom would confiscate
expensive items like jewelry and bikes, and he always
5
had to duck his pops. He went from working for Chill,
to going half with coworkers, to buying weight for
himself, back to working for Chill. It was a seemingly
never-ending cycle.
Then when he thought he had a firm grip on the
game, he got locked down for a petty drug rap and for
not going to school. The block was hot, so Jordan and
one of his co-workers decided to go down town and do
some clothes shopping. Jordan got too comfortable
with carrying bundles of drugs on him. So, on the train
ride down town two school police approached him and
his coworker. They tried to make a break for it, but the
officers were too quick on their feet and subdued the
two young hustlers. Upon searching them, the police
officers discovered the crack, and that was the
beginning of the end.
6
PAUSE
SLEIGHTON FARMS was the juvenile facility
Jordan eventually ended up in after his run in with the
school police. He had to do eighteen months there,
most of which Jordan spent refining his hustle. No
matter where he went, he had to get that money and he
made a way. He began to sell sticks of weed, rolled in
EZ Wider tobacco paper that he would sneak into the
facility hidden in cassette tapes.
He was also determined to get his high school
diploma while he was on lock down so he would not
have to go back to high school when he got out. It was
hard because at the time “The Farms” (as Sleighton
Farms was called) was the only juvee facility in the
state of Pennsylvania to house young girls. The Farms
had five boy cottages but only two girl cottages. It was
an everyday struggle to be locked away with girls,
have them within arm‟s reach and still were not
allowed to put your hands on them. It was pure
torture. So the young boys ran the grounds at night,
met up with the horny young girls in the woods, and
had their way with them. When they were done, they
all would sneak back into the cottages and hope they
didn‟t get caught or ratted on by the punks that were
scared to run the grounds.
7
Many would lose their by-weekly home passes
doing it, but they all felt it was worth it unless they had
a special someone at home. Because of the shortage of
chicks, you had dudes forever beefing over a female.
Coming through the gates, Jordan being the cutie that
he was at age 17 had beef because of a Puerto Rican
mommy named Gloria. Gloria was a sexy redhead,
bad girl, with a coke bottle shape. Her French vanilla
complexion and her slick talking drove the juvees on
the farm crazy.
She was infatuated with Jordan as soon as she saw
his five-eight muscular brown frame dressed in his
favorite color, black. His dark brown hair was cut to a
low wavy Caesar. He had on a black Dickie set and a
pair of butter colored Timberland boots. He had a
black Oakland Raiders fitted hat pulled to the back
with a brown paper bag in his arms full of cosmetics
the juvenile institution provided. Gloria wasn‟t shy, so
she came straight at his neck.
“Hey Poppi,” said Gloria.
“What up ma?” Jordan replied.
“Nuthin' much pa, what‟s the deal with you
poppy?” Gloria replied with a smile.
“You the deal with me, ma!” Jordan said as they
both laughed.
“Really poppy, come holler at me after you get
dug in so I can show you around.”
8
Jordan said, “Slow down shortie. I‟ll keep you in
mind though.” She was shocked because she was used
to having her way with guys on the farms.
“You do that!” She quipped as she walked away
burning up inside. Word of their exchange traveled
fast around the farms and by the time Jordan made his
way into Washington Cottage (the intake living
quarters) it was on and popping.
“That‟s him right there,” one of the inmates
shouted. Then a big Hispanic dude named Loco
approached him. Jordan could tell by his stone cold
grill, buzzed hair cut and tattooed diesel arms, that it
was about to be some drama.
“Yo, you was talking to my girl?”
Although Jordan didn‟t want to get into no bullshit
over a girl, the situation presented a great opportunity.
He searched the faces of the spectators to find all eyes
were on him, so he shot back.
“Nigga, your bitch came at me.” That was all
that was said before Jordan‟s fist connected with
Loco‟s jaw. The rumble lasted several minutes before
the staff broke it up. They both were thrown in the
hole for two weeks. While in there, Jordan got the
whole run down on the Farms including Gloria and
Loco. His celly was in the hole for fighting also, so
they clicked and had mutual respect for one another.
9
“Yeah, sun, dudes always flipping out over that
Spanish jawn. One nigga even tried to kill himself
over that bitch.”
Jordan said, “Word? He can have that bitch.
That‟s nut shit where I come from.”
His roomy replied, “Get used to it. A lot of these
niggas be tripping over these dirty bitches.”
That was only the beginning of many beefs he had
throughout his bid. But, none was over the young girls
of The Farms. That wasn‟t his focus like most of the
other juvees. His was to continue to make money.
Once people realized that, they left him the fuck alone.
He started off selling blow pops and loose cigarettes
for a quarter a piece. He would game female recreation
staff up to bring in his goods on a regular basis. Then
before long, he had jays of weed going for five dollars
a stick.
Jordan was a true hustler. He could hustle
anything and anywhere.
10
PLAY
After his juvee bid, Jordan had to live with his
mother for probation reasons. Miss Toni provided a
lower middle class life style for him and his younger
siblings. They weren‟t the most well to do family in
the hood, but Ms Toni made sure that her kids always
had food to eat and a roof over their heads. All the
kids in the hood hung over her house, and she
welcomed them with open arms.
It was August 2003 in the West Oak Lane
section of Philadelphia. The sounds coming from the
inside of Ms. Toni‟s brick row house were loud as
usual. The smell of breakfast filled the air in the house
on this hot and humid day. The pressure of single
parenthood was kicking in on this particular day, and
Ms. Toni wasn‟t in a very good mood.
At times, she wished that her husband still lived
there so she could shift some of the weight off on him.
However, she was fed up with him and all the other
women he had. Therefore, she decided she would raise
her three kids with or without him. Jordan‟s younger
siblings were in hyper mode. His little brother
Hisheam and sister Nidearah, AKA Hijjy and Ninie,
were eleven months apart which means they would be
the same age for a month before Hijjy, who was the
oldest, would past Ninie in age.
11
Jordan, who had just turned 19 on July 5, was five
years older. They were both 14, wild and crazy like all
the other ghetto kids.
This morning they and their usual company were
running wild, fighting, screaming, and hollering. Plus,
Jordan‟s squad was in the basement using his
makeshift recording studio while he was upstairs, back
to resting, after his morning get high session with
Trigger.
Ms. Toni was agitated by all the noise and
activities going on in her house. In addition, when she
got fed up she‟d begin to yell from the bottom of the
staircase, and her voice would carry like a loud
trumpet.
“Jordan! Get your ass up, come down here, and
tend to your friends. That Goddamn Omar is smoking
that shit again in my goddamn house. He think he
slick tryna blow that shit out the window like I can‟t
still smell it or something.”
Ms. Toni, who is in her late forties, was getting
less tolerable of the riffraff that frequented her house.
Hijjy and Ninie loved when their mom got on Jordan‟s
ass and wanted him to get up. They knew they
couldn‟t wake him without word from mom. When
they busted into his room, Hijjy walked over to the bed
and pulled the thin covers off their older brother‟s
body.
12
“Mom said get your broke ass up,” Hijjy said as
Ninie jumped on his bed. “Yeah, get up 'cause your
wannabe rapping friends are down stairs stinkin‟ up
our basement.”
Jordan sprung up and grabbed his sister. Hijjy
jumped in, and Jordan wrestled with them for a few
minutes before they both calmed down.
Jordan said, “Yeah, just when you thought I was
sleepin‟, I was steady creepin'. Sit y‟all dumb asses
down for a minute so I can talk to y‟all.”
The first time Hijjy and Ninie realized what their
older brother did for a living they were intrigued,
especially Ninie. They both looked up to their brother,
but Hijjy was more concerned with computers and the
Internet.
Hijjy who was light brown skin and wore his
hair in a nappy afro turned himself into a hacker by
aged 10. He weighed in at 150 pounds with a sinister
conman laugh. He loved weapons and running scams
with his computer. He started out just visiting
websites, news groups, and forums for hackers. He
would read about the small things they would do like
taking over web pages and then the heavy stuff like
breaking into bank computers.
He would download software off other hackers‟
sites to sharpen his own skills. Before long, he was
hacking into computers just for the notability and
13
bragging rights. He downloaded more software from
fellow hackers and obtained a program that allowed his
computer to pick up people‟s IP addresses from off the
web. It would tell him the home computer addresses
which would lead him to hacking their computer. It
was kid play for him to find his victim‟s names, home
address, social security number, you name it.
Hijjy finally figured out a way to make money
by hacking into his school computer and altering
grades and then graduating to credit card numbers,
which led to him honing his conman abilities. He
needed to learn to con people because it went hand and
hand with his hacking. Sometimes he would have to
do what hackers call social engineering. Social
engineering or guerilla marketing is the art of going to
public places like malls, parks, and super markets to
talk to people to extract personal information about
themselves and their families. Hackers know that most
people use family members‟ or their own birthdates
and ages for passwords to bank accounts and credit
cards.
So when Jordan asked Hijjy “What you been up
to?” Hijjy responded with his same old reply…
“…Nothin'!”
Jordan responded, “You always say that same
shit, nothing. Man, you turning into a computer freak.
Get off that shit a little bit and get ready to help me
14
start my record company like Ninie is doing.”
Hijjy replied, “I told you I‟ll help.”
Jordan said, “Alright, just be ready nigga.”
Hijjy sighed and said “Whatever!”
Ninie, however, was a whole different story. She
loved her big brother dearly and would ride with him
no matter what. She was very pretty and shapely for
her age. She had long hair she would wear in braids,
her eyes were shaped like small almonds, and she had
a thick bottom she inherited from her mother. She was
very smart in school, which earned her straight As
every year. Her favorite subjects were math and
English, areas Jordan needed badly for his future plans.
Jordan took Ninie‟s education and well being
very seriously. He was molding her to one day be the
heiress to his small empire he dreamed of starting. He
knew his little precious sister had the drive and heart to
take over in case of his untimely demise. And the
controlled killing of her beloved cat solidified her
position as the one between her and Hijjy. One day
Jordan secretly observed her in the back yard playing
with her cat named Snow White. Snow White was an
ordinary domestic house cat that she got for her
birthday. On this particular day, Snow White decided
to scratch Ninie‟s hand when she tried to pick her up.
Ninie calmly picked up a bat that was lying
nearby and smashed Snow White‟s head in. Jordan
15
was in shock, but kept on watching to see what she
would do next. To his surprise, she picked up the
dead, bloody cat and flung it in the neighbor‟s yard
that had two Rottweilers. She then watched the dogs
devour the cat and exhibited no emotion while doing
so. She mustered up some crocodile tears and then ran
in the house for help. Jordan met her as she ran
through the back door crying. He comforted her in his
arms knowing all along what had really happened. He
never said a word.
Over the next couple of years, he honed her
killer instinct. He would find ways to anger her to
keep her murderous tendencies readily available. He
watched on knowingly when she would chase friends
or family members around the house with a knife
really trying to stab them after they had pushed her
buttons. He would instigate the situation until it
escalated to a head. Then he would be the only one
able to calm Ninie down. Everybody would wonder
what was wrong with her, but not Jordan. He knew
that once she got away with her first kill it would be no
turning back.
Jordan asked, “So what‟s been going on with
you?”
She answered, “Same thing, school and lookin‟
out for my brothers.”
“Is that right?” Jordan asked.
16
“Yeah!” said Ninie.
“You‟re not messing around with no boys yet are
you?” her brother asked intently.
“No, not really, but a few of them boys in my
school like me though.”
“It‟s nothing wrong with that, just be smart about
what you do. You have a bright future, so don‟t let no
knuckle head come in between you and success. Plus
if and when you need to talk, me or mom will be here.”
“All right,” she said.
Hijjy looked on with a little jealous glare because
Jordan always took more time talking to Ninie when
they would go through these normal interrogations
from their brother. However, little did he know,
Jordan gave him tough love for a reason. He was
secretly challenging him to dig deeper into his
computer.
17
FAST FORWARD
Moments later, Jordan strolled into the bathroom,
and then after cleansing his face and teeth he looked
dead into the mirror he loved so much growing up. He
had many conversations with himself in the round
cracked mirror with the gold trim and gold plated eagle
on top.
Jordan eyed his own reflection and saw his rock
hard poker face staring back at him. It was time to ask
himself his daily question. What do you really want out
of life? He thought. “Me, I want mines, the game, and
everything that comes with it.” He then dressed in his
favorite designer‟s clothes…a black pair of Sean John
jeans and a black and gray Sean John college sweat
shirt. He stepped into a fresh pair of black high top Air
Force Ones and headed down the steps. When he
reached the first floor, his mother was waiting on him.
“Jordan, would you please feed that damn dog, he
keeps scratching my goddamn door.”
“Alright Mom, damn. Why you ain‟t make Hijjy
feed him?”
“That little nigga don‟t want to do nothing but sit
in front of that computer,” said his mom.
Jordan‟s been continuously hearing that statement
from everybody but he brushed it off and went out
18
back to feed Satan, his tan and white pitbull. He would
talk to Satan as if he was human. It was his stress
reliever. While he poured Satan a healthy bowl of
Purina mixed with Puppy Chow dog food, he began a
one sided conversation with man‟s best friend.
“Yeah boy, we coming in real late in this music
shit. We playing catch up right now.”
Satan began to jump around, hyper from hearing
the sound of his master‟s voice. “Sit the fuck down.”
Jordan said in his clear, controlled voice. “The squad
was bullshitin' hard while I was locked the fuck up.
Now that I‟m home, everybody wants to stress me the
fuck out. It‟s all good though because the whole hood
know I‟m the backbone of this shit, ain‟t that right
boy?” he said pouring Satan some H2O in the bucket
that was used as his water bowl.
“Go head eat.” Satan took a few steps toward his
meal.
“Stop…sit the fuck down.” Satan froze. Jordan
loved to be in control, and he made sure Satan knew
who fed him.
“Go head eat muthafucka.”
When Jordan reached the top of the basement
steps, the music and smell of weed hit him in his face
all at once. He walked down the stairs and everybody
greeted him more with the usual “What‟s up!” and
“Sup niggas!” they‟ve used forever.
19
Mia gave Jordan a big hug and kiss while Kelly
was looking on with jealousy in her eyes. Mia had a
need to belong to a group. She would dress very
freakish to escape the feelings of loneliness and
alienation, but mostly to get much attention. Mia‟s
father being in the army, and her mother chasing the
glass dick resulted in them having to move around a
lot. She was constantly leaving friends behind and got
tired of always being the new girl. Kelly, not wanting
to be out done by the squeaky voice daddy‟s girl, got
up and kissed Jordan on his lips passionately. Jordan
jerked his head back, drawing his lips away.
“Goddamn, Kelly, cut that shit out.”
“You didn‟t say that the other n…” She tried to
reply before Jordan grabbed her by her mouth and
kissed her again. It was only a quick peck on her full,
soft, pink, crinkled up lips. She calmed right down
from the touch of her part time lover. Then out of
nowhere, O started to talk his shit. “Man, fuck outta
here everybody already know.”
“Know what?” Jordan inquired.
“Nothing, man…nothing!” O chumped out.
O had a loud mouth. He was one of those real
crazy acting cats, a hater as they called him. He was
one of them thugged out pretty boys who rocked a bald
head to match his hard head. O stood five-seven with
a washboard stomach, nicely built upper body with
20
thin legs. He had a dark brown complexion with light
brown eyes, and the ladies loved him. He never was
caught dead without the latest fashion or newest team
fitted hats. He never had a real good reason to hate
because he came from an affluent family.
He would hate on people mainly to make his
squad laugh, but sometimes he would go too far with it
and hurt people‟s feelings. O had a need for attention
and recognition. All he wanted to do was to become
famous for his rap skills so he could battle against the
best rappers in the industry.
As young kids, O and Jordan were the average
bucks growing up in the hood doing what boys do, like
playing street games like catch-a-girl freak-a-girl, ding
dong Dixie, and hide and go seek. When they got
older, they started popping, break dancing, going to the
same schools that led them to hookying together. They
would gather all the pretty girls in the school and have
hooky parties over Ms. Toni‟s house when she was at
work. They both been through the same struggles
coming up, even trying to put their peewees in the
twats. They used to have the young hoes butt ass
naked but didn‟t know what to really do with them.
O got hooked on trying to bust their butts all the
time.
On the other hand, Jordan started to gravitate more to
rapping and making beats. However, both began to
21
sell small amounts of drugs together. No matter what
different routes they took growing up in the hood, they
loyally hooked up and made plans to take the street
and music biz by storm. At these weekly meetings, O
would let Jordan hear some of his new raps. Jordan
started to notice that O had some raw rhymes and
knew O was destined to become the star of the duo, so
Jordan decided to fall back and focus more on
producing beats for him.
Life threw both friends many hooks, and they
had to submit to the juvenile system. O was sent to
Glen Mills while Jordan went to Sleighton Farms.
Now that they were back together trying to live out
their dreams, O was a problem. He was now a livewire
with a short fuse, and he smoked entirely too much of
that real good sticky icky green. That shit had him
bugging out, that and his love for his favorite rapper‟s
music, Tupac. That‟s why Ms. Toni stayed on his ass
about smoking that shit in her house. O would have to
learn life lessons the hard way.
Kelly, just like O, has been down with Jordan for
a very long time. She was from the block, she sang
and rapped, and she was very good at both. She and
Jordan lost their virginity with one another but never
became an official item. She was always compelled to
become a famous super star and would have done
anything to reach her goals.
22
Back in the day when Kelly‟s young squad of
chicken heads would come around the way, Jordan
used to have all of them stealing junk food out the
corner store for him and his young squad. Jordan
loved the power he had over them and felt it when he
would watch on as they went to work. Then he would
reward them by pairing his friends off with her friends,
taking them in the dark back driveways and grinding
on them until their dicks grew sore. Jordan always had
Kelly when she was around.
Kelly was the type of chick that was down for
her nigga and down for the block. She was a leader.
Her squad of young girls followed her order to a tee.
She did all their hair and kept them up on the latest
fashion changes. She was also smart in school and
never missed a day unless Jordan wanted her too.
When he was going through his stolen car phase, he
would get her to ride shotgun to keep the heat off him
some.
She was all about adventure and doing new and
crazy shit to impress Jordan. Since her grandmother
was never home, they would use her house for their
second clubhouse. Granny stayed in Atlantic City
spending her dead husband‟s insurance money on slot
machines. Granny also took good care of Kelly after
her mother and father died in a tragic car accident. She
raised her since she was 6 years old, and they loved
23
each other dearly. It was them two against the world,
Granny and Kelly.
Kelly was the hippest young girl around the way
and in school. She used to stash weed in her house for
O and Jordan and smuggle bundles past school police
so they could hustle it off in school. They would pay
her handsomely for her services. And not to mention
all the times she would get tossed a drug pack on the
block when the cops ran down on them. She was a
high school track star that broke all kinds of records.
So when the cops thought they were going to chase
her, they soon found out their thoughts were incorrect.
It was funny to the young boys on the block to watch
her burn the narcs a new asshole.
She earned her stripes early in the game and
when she got older and started to fill out, she had
niggas young and old breaking their necks to take care
of her. She was a coke boy‟s dream girl with brown
chinky eyes, large firm breasts, and a mesmerizing
figure.
She had collected so many pairs of Reeboks,
Polo tennis skirt sets, jewelry, gold bamboo earrings
with her name in them and pink bomber jackets (her
favorite color). All the items and attention made her
feel like a star. So she set out to be just that.
Kelly picked up rapping from the boys on the
block. She always could dance ever since she was
24
little. Now everybody thought she was ripe for
stardom, but who knows what the future held for any
of them?
Back in the basement, Lil Big Man got heated
and said “Yo, if y'all done with all dat soap opera shit,
we got a lot of work to do.”
“Word, son,” Fat Bol agreed.
“A‟ight, a‟ight man, let‟s bang these tracks out,”
Jordan insisted.
Jordan then got behind his Roland VS880 home
recording track machine, while Lil Big Man stepped
into the makeshift vocal recording booth. Lil Big Man
inhaled the city of Philly and started to kill the beat
with a dark and gritty response to all the hate directed
at his hood.
“In reality I’ll murk you niggas!
Fuck you niggas
You think ya a gangster
Chump you ain’t nothing but a prankster
These silly niggas ain’t thinking right
Y’all think West Oak Lane ain’t got no gangsters
And niggas can’t fight
That’s irrational thinking
There’s always a handful of niggas in any town
That will leave your ass stinking
Niggas keep talking
See I get around I hear it all
25
West Oak Lane Niggas are suckers
Uptown niggas can’t brawl.
But when you come face to face with this
WOL wild cat
I’m a break your face with a baseball bat
Then crush you skull with the butt of the Mack
when the feds stepped in
The majority of you tuff silly niggas turn to
RATS.”
Lil Big Man was originally from the bottom of
West Philly before his family moved to uptown. He
and Jordan met in junior high and quickly became
friends. The whole squad called him Big for short.
Big was one of the fattest, blackest cock-eyed products
the bottom ever spit out. He was one of them real
hard, cold, street, hood niggas. He came from a house
full of rats, roaches and pissy mattresses.
His mother and father both were drunks and drug
addicts, but he still was one of the realest dudes out of
the whole team. He stood big and tall at 6‟1” and
weighed over 250 pounds and liked to wear dark
lenses, Armani frames with gold arms. He kept his
haircut to a low shadowed fade and stayed in State
Property gear, because it was cut big and baggy for
large dudes like him. Plus he loved the fact that his
State Property jacket had a sewn in gun holster for his
.44 Desert Eagle.
26
He never went anywhere without it because he
hustled that funny money and carried large amounts of
real money he made from his loyal customers.
Most of his profits went to his family to keep the
lights on and food in the fridge for his little sister
Coco. Jordan respected him more than any baller in
the city, including Trigger, because of the love he had
for his family.
When they were younger and times got tough,
the way Big got things off his chest was through
rapping, and he was good at free styling. Then one day
he just started writing his freestyles down and before
anyone knew it, he was the man on the rap scene.
MCs came from all over the city to either battle
or just hear this fat, dirty dude from the bottom. Dude
was now living uptown kicking it in a cipher on the
corner of 72nd and Ogontz Avenue. Now the only thing
Big and Fat Bol wanted is to be the best in the game
period. Fat Bol and his family relocated from South
America to the U.S. way back in the day. He used to
live in the apartment buildings on the Avenue for six
years, before he had to move down to North Philly.
But his time spent uptown was what fostered his
relationship with the rest of the squad. Fat Bol loved
uptown and was sick when he had to move down
North Philly to live with the rest of his family. It was
too many people already living in the one family
27
house. His mom and pop fell on hard times and
unwillingly had to down grade their living
arrangements.
Fat Bol was a young crazy poppy growing up,
always playing with guns he would steal from his dad.
He had his juvenile friends carrying Spanish break
open style 32s and 38s to elementary school. They
would hide them in their desks unknown to the naïve
teachers. One incident proved who the real gun of the
team was. They were all at the creek behind the
Cheltenham Mall when some older kids trying to steal
their bikes approached them. Jordan pulled first, and
then Fat Bol shot his revolver into the air as the older
kids ran for their lives.
That was the first time any of them bust a gun
off, but it certainly wasn‟t the last time. The feeling,
sound, and kick back became addictive to the young
boys. As time went on, and they got older, they would
pull small robberies on corner stores and then retreat to
North Philly. Once they really began to realize what
Fat Bol's family did for a living, they holstered the
guns and picked up the PCP. Angel was the name.
Dust was the game.
Jordan had drug game smarts from selling coke
up Germantown, so he hipped Fat Bol to the game but
wasn‟t able to stand side by side with his man all the
time. Fat Bol started out stealing ounce bottles of PCP
28
from his uncles that lived in the house with him. They
had so much wet (as it was called) that they never
missed it.
The fact that Fat Bol was now from North and
Jordan went to school with Joe Black from 8th Street,
they both were allowed to hustle on the corner of 8th
and Clearfield. Jordan could only help Fat Bol get dug
in for a couple of days before having to return to his
own block to hustle uptown. When Fat Bol started
buying his own weight off Joe Black, his money and
operation expanded to other locations down North. He
got too big for the corner, and out of respect for Joe
Black, he relocated.
He was down with his Uptown team for life and
would often prove his loyalty. North Philly was a bit
faster moving than West Oak Lane. So Fat Bol would
constantly check on his squad to make sure they were
still eating. When things were slow uptown, he would
have Jordan, O, and Big come down, rake in some fast
cash, and be out.
Between Fat Bol and North, Big and the Bottom
of West, Max and South Philly, Jordan was well
rounded in the game, which made him much more
advanced than the average person from all the way
uptown.
Meanwhile back in the basement it was Fat Bol‟s
turn to enter the booth. Even though he‟s Hispanic, his
29
mic skills are known to be sick and nasty. Fat Bol
doesn‟t just write rhymes, he makes hit songs and he‟s
good at it. His flow is hyped and crazy like his
demeanor. His lingo is mixed with Philly and New
York because of his family, who first lived in NY
before settling in Philly. He now stands at 5‟11”, 275
pounds evenly proportioned over his body. Spanish
speaking mommies love his high yellow complexion
with his thick, black curly hair.
The rigorous bass lines, the crashing drums, the
sinister piano riffs along with the ill lyrics all played a
part in their very near and future success.
30
VOLUME
Michael Blackwell, Jordan’s entertainment
lawyer, was just finishing his conversation with a
major label‟s executive. Jordan only retained him on
an hourly basis, from project to project, but Blackwell
took a special liking to Jordan and his team. Blackwell
(who wore suits and ties off the rack) could sense that
they would be his meal ticket out of his crappy Broad
Street office. At age 42, all his fast talking, moving
and shaking and deal making had led to only mild
success because even though he was well versed in
entertainment law, Philadelphia‟s‟ music industry
market was weak.
Blackwell, who kept his hair in a low salt and
pepper bush, tapered on the sides with the back faded
out, was running out of time. He needed to make
deals, big deals, and quick.
“That‟s great news. I‟m glad we could finally
come to some kind of mutual agreement with this
deal…Great, great, fax me over the revised contracts.
I‟ll go over them with my client and get back to you
this evening.”
Blackwell listened for another brief moment.
“Okay I‟ll talk to you later.”
He then turned to his sexy secretary Ms Bryant,
who was a young chocolate bunny with an outstanding
31
figure, and said, “Get Mr. Jordan Major on the phone
please. We have got some very good news for him.”
Minutes later at Ms Toni‟s house Jordan and his
friends/artists were deep into their recording session
when his cell phone rang. He stepped into the
basement‟s small bathroom to answer it. His cell had
caller ID on it, so he knew that it was his lawyer on the
phone.
Jordan answered, “Yeah, sup Mr. Blackwell,
what‟s the deal?”
“Mr. Major, I‟m happy to inform you that after
only two months, four of your five artists have deals on
the table.”
Jordan replied, “I haven‟t expected anything short
of that from you Mr. Blackwell.” Jordan listened for a
brief moment and then continued, “So out of all the
bidding who we going with?”
“Well that‟s really up to you and your artists.
However, Conglomerate Entertainment is offering Lil
Big Man and Fat Boy the best deals.”
Jordan cut in, “Mr. Blackwell, it‟s Fat Bol,
pronounced like bull.”
Mr. Blackwell said, “Whatever. Also Syndicate
Records wants Kelly and O, and they have offered
great deals for both of them. I still need some more
time for Mia, but something will fall through soon.”
Blackwell listened to Jordan for a moment before
32
saying “Okay fine…I need all of you at my office
today about…let‟s say one a clock PM. Would that be
all right? Okay see you then...Later.”
Jordan emerged from the bathroom with an
egotistical grin on his face. “All y‟all broke ass
muthafuckas about to blow the fuck up.” Jordan
pointed at Big and then Fat Bol. “Conglomerate wants
you two.” He then looked over to O and Kelly.
“Syndicate records wants Kelly and O. Mee Mee,
baby, we still working on your deal, but something will
break for you soon. Don‟t even sweat it. I got ya!”
Everybody broke into excited congratulations.
Mia still joined in even though she was slightly
upset. Being an army brat, over the years she quickly
learned how to overcome disappointments.
“Ok-ok-ok!” Jordan yelled
Silence.
“We gotta be down Mr. Blackwell‟s office by 1
o‟clock. I need everybody to go get dressed, look
presentable.” Jordan looked at his Swatch Watch and
said, “That will give us four hours.” When everybody
was heading out the door, Jordan grabbed Mia by her
soft arm and said, “Sup, where you think you sliding
off to? You still gotta finish up your session. Besides,
I need to holla at you about somthin'.”
Jordan pulled Mia‟s sexy body closer to his.
“Look Mee Mee, keep your head up baby girl. Your
33
chance is soon to come. Theirs came seemingly fast,
but I was working on their shit when I was coming
home on weekend passes from juvee. You‟re so
talented and pretty. I know you‟ll get a deal soon.”
Jordan lifted her head up with his right hand.
“Plus, tonight where I plan on taking y‟all to celebrate
I know my man Crown and his partner Super Fly are
gonna be there. They‟re boss players in the biz. I‟m
sure they can make shit happen for you.”
Mia was visually cheering herself up. Then she
started to smile.
“That‟s my girl…Now let‟s get this track finished
a‟ight. We need this thing tight.”
“Alright daddy, I – I mean Jordan.”
Jordan being the playboy that he was, was now
feeling himself because of Mia‟s slip up. He was used
to having his way with the women.
Mia walked into the recording booth while Jordan
settled behind the track machine.
He pushed the button to fire it up, and the beat
started banging. He then cued her to start singing, and
her sweet voice was heard flowing through the
speakers.
She sounded like a beautiful songbird on a warm
spring day.
After an hour and a half of recording, Mia was
still in the booth singing her heart out. She was really
34
feeling the slow, sensual R&B song she and Jordan
wrote together.
Jordan was a master of the art of seduction, and
his plan to have Mia tangled in his web was about to
come to a head. She started to feel all over herself,
especially her large, soft D-cups, looking at him with
her brown, cat-like eyes in the most seductive way.
Jordan had her right where he wanted her. He
made her believe that she was seducing him, but in all
actuality, it was the total opposite. She motioned with
her finger for him to come in the booth. He
approached slowly. As she continued to sing, he
slithered up behind his prey and began to kiss her on
the back of her neck passionately.
While the music was still playing, she turned to
face him, pulled her sky blue Baby Phat mini dress
over her head, and removed her sexy Victoria‟s Secret
bra. Both garments hit the floor. After delivering soft,
warm kisses to her thick lips, Jordan slide his wet,
drooling tongue down to her nipples and began circling
her areolas one at a time. Mia started to moan and
groan like a wild animal while fiendishly reaching to
remove her underwear.
Jordan got excited and ripped her white laced
panties off, stepped back and dropped his Azure jeans.
In a flash, Mia‟s back was pressed up against the
booth‟s glass window.
35
Jordan had her in a position where she was off her
feet.
She wrapped her long, smooth legs around his
waist, and her arms glided around his neck.
Jordan began gunning the pussy crazy. It was his
first time hitting it, so he knew to beat it real good so
she would come back for it later. After a few
moments, he put her down and then turned her around
facing the booth‟s window. He grabbed her shapely
hips and lifted her slightly off her feet so she was
standing on her tiptoes. He entered her aiming for her
G-spot, and from the way she was screaming he knew
he had accomplished his mission.
The oak window was steamed up from the wild,
passionate sex going on inside. Mia's small hands,
face, and slim upper-body were sweaty and pressed up
against the glass. She tried her best to talk dirty while
gasping for air.
“Fuck me…Fuck me, Jordan…Fuck me.”
His mind started to drift back over the heartache
and pain from the past few years. Juvee hall, just
coming home and running behind in the music biz all
stirred up different emotions. He grabbed her hair
roughly with one hand and by her neck with the other
hand. He pulled on her hair hard and choked her
simultaneously. To his surprise, it turned her on even
more. She started going berserk and jerking wildly.
36
He began smacking her ass like he was beating a
slave. When he was just about to cum, he cursed her
out.
“Bitch, whose pussy, is this?” he yelled.
“Ya-Ya-Yours,” she said in a low toned moan.
“Bitch, shut the fuck up and stop lying.”
The thought of success entered his mind as a
tingling sensation formed at the tip of his penis.
Neither one of them could stand the sexual buildup any
longer as they busted off together. The grunts coming
from the recording booth became lower and lower until
they stopped completely.
Once Jordan pulled himself together, he had the
same feeling that he always gets after he busted a nut.
The feeling that comes from inside that screams, man
fuck a bitch.
Then he said, “Bitch, put your clothes on and get
the fuck outta here.”
“Why are you talking to me like that?” Mia asked.
“Bitch, because I want to.”
Jordan looked at her seriously and then continued.
“Go home, get dressed, and be ready when I come
scoop your stink ass up later on.”
“A‟ight,” Mia replied.
“A‟ight what?” Jordan asked.
“A‟ight daddy,” Mia said sheepishly.
“That‟s right bitch, daddy, I‟m your fucking
37
daddy. Now beat it before I put my foot up your ass.”
“Why are you being so mean to me?”
“Bitch I‟m just joking with you, fuck outta here.”
Jordan wasn‟t really joking with her but he just
knew that he had to smooth shit out with a woman
before she left his presence.
38
SHUFFLE
Four hours later, Mr. Blackwell was sitting in
the back of a Lincoln stretch limousine. He was short
and pudgy at 5‟5”, but he demanded respect from his
young clients.
“Okay everybody listen up, same exact thing like
the meeting earlier at Conglomerate Entertainment,”
Blackwell said. Big and Fat Bol have been signed for
about two hours now and received healthy advance
checks. With $150,000 apiece, things are starting to
look up for the youngsters.
“We already went over these contracts a million
times. We all agreed that they are as fair as they‟re
going to get for new artists. So when we get to
Syndicate Records let me do all the talking. Only
answer or ask questions that are personal not financial.
This guy Boogie we are about to meet with is a piece
of work. So welcome to the seedy business of
entertainment,” said Blackwell.
Boogie was seated behind his enormous sized
antique desk made out of dark marble and glass. He
was smoking on a Zino Platinum cigar while sitting
relaxed in his black leather throne chair with chrome
trim. He weighed 300 pounds with a big solid frame.
He rocked a shiny baldhead with a thin, sharply
39
squared goatee. He stood at an intimidating height of
6‟4” and never cracked a smile.
Being the CEO of Syndicate Records, he lived a
very expensive and lavish lifestyle. Boogie had rare
antiques around his office, a mixture of French and
Italian. But the main piece to let people know that he
played no games when it came to exquisite items was
the Death Mask of Alexander the Great, set in crystal.
If anyone touched it or even looked at it too hard,
they would receive a royal beat down. He pressed the
button on his intercom situated on his desk. His
secretary‟s voice came through the intercom.
“Mr. Boogie, Mr. Blackwell and his party are
here for their four o-clock appointment with you.”
“Well, would you send them in already?” he
requested sarcastically.
Moments later, Mr. Blackwell, Jordan, Kelly,
and O entered the plush office.
Boogie offered them seats on his oversized
stuffed leather furniture. They all accepted and settled
in for the meeting. Boogie began, “I‟m under the
impression that all parties understand and agree with
the terms of the contracts.”
“Yes, we are all in agreement with the terms,”
Mr. Blackwell replied on behalf of his clients.
That‟s when O spoke up for himself, “Hold up,
hold up, I got one question. What up with my
40
publishing? I haven‟t seen or heard anything about it.”
Silence.
Boogie got aggravated and directed his statement
to Blackwell, ignoring O completely.
“You need a few minutes with your clients?”
“Nah…I mean?” He turned his full attention to O.
“I thought we went over this shit before?”
O lied and said, “I don‟t fucking remember.”
Silence.
Blackwell, embarrassed by what is transpiring
said, “Okay, listen fast, quick version. Publishing
deals vary. Co-publishing is for half, generally
speaking. After the math is done, you the writer get 75
percent and the publisher gets 25 percent of the
publishing. How, I‟ll explain later. It‟s two types of
royalties that publishing is paid through, mechanical
and performance. Performance royalties get paid to
you if you write the song and every time it‟s
performed.
This includes radio, concerts, and
wherever the music is played. Mechanical royalties
are paid at a rate per song. Meaning Mr. Boogie‟s
company will usually pay you 9.1 cents a song up to
ten songs. But I negotiated eleven for y‟all, so you
looking at 9.1 x 11 songs which comes out to roughly a
dollar. You got it?”
“Whatever!” utters O.
“Well, let‟s get this under way,” Boogie said
41
sternly.
Mr. Blackwell pulled the contracts out of his dusty
brown faux leather briefcase and handed them over to
Jordan, Kelly, and O.
Boogie passed them all diamond-encrusted pens.
“Keep „em. They worth twenty grand.”
They all signed the contracts with the expensive
pens. When they were finished, Boogie pulled out his
company checkbook, wrote out three checks, and
handed them over. All eyes grew wide upon seeing so
many zeros.
“Welcome to Syndicate Records,” Boogie said
before refocusing his words towards Jordan and
Blackwell.
“Nice doing business with you. I hope we can all
make money in future deals…By the way, Jordan, I
was under the impression that you was staying on as
their manager.”
“I was thinking „bout it, but I decided that I ain‟t
experienced enough to take on such a big
responsibility. I don‟t want to stagnate their careers at
all. As long as the company cop some production from
me here and there, I‟ll be cool.”
“We can manage that,” Boogie replied.
“Furthermore I like the position I play. I find the
artists, build them up, then me and Blackwell find the
labels that want them. Y‟all pay me,” he said holding
42
up his check. “I‟m cool wit dat. We all get along, we
all happy.”
“I like your style kid. I really like it. I need
somebody at my company like you. I think you should
seriously consider my offer.
“Thanks, but I‟m good.”
“A‟ight then…we‟re gonna have a big signing
party this weekend on...Say, Ah, Saturday.”
Everybody began to shake hands, getting ready to
depart. Then Jordan off-handedly said, “A‟ight gang,
time to celebrate.”
However, when he and Boogie shook hands,
Boogie applied a grip so hard to his hand that his face
balled up like a bulldog.
“You have no more power over my artists.
Syndicate‟s artists don‟t celebrate until I say so…Try
your best to remember that. Plus, I haven‟t shown
them around yet.” He let his grip go. “They‟ll be in
touch,” Boogie said villainously.
On that note, Jordan and Mr. Blackwell turned on
their heels and headed for the door. When they reached
it, Jordan looked over his shoulder, saw, and heard
Boogie tell O and Kelly to sit down. “Have a seat.
Y‟all work for me now.”
Yo, what the fuck is up with dude?” Jordan
thought.
43
Back in the limousine, outside the skies had darkened.
“What took you muthafuckas so long?” Big
asked.
“Business and all of y‟all better get used to it.”
Blackwell interjected.
“What you care, you ain‟t give a shit when y‟all
motherfuckers was in y‟all long ass meeting earlier at
Conglomerate,” Mia hated.
“Ah shut the fuck up, mommy. You just vexed
'cause you ain‟t get your stink ass signed yet. But
don‟t worry. I got you ma. I‟m gonna let your sexy ass
sing a hook or two on my new album,” Fat Bol said.
“Me too, Beeyach,” Big shouted.
They popped another bottle of bubbly and
everybody was in a good mood except Jordan.
“So…,” Fat Bol asked. “Jordan what da fuck
eating at you, son?”
“Nothin' nigga…It‟s just that bol Boogie at
Syndicate…Yo, he‟s a straight funny style ass nigga.”
“Kid, don‟t worry „bout that nigga man. Kelly
and O can take care of themselves, on the real.”
“I know man, fuck it, let‟s go party.” Jordan said,
and then turned up a half pint of E & J Brandy and
chased it with a pop of Dom Perignon. The limo sped
down Broad Street and disappeared under the traffic
lights overhead.
44
SURROUND SOUND
It’s Friday, twelve midnight, and Club Déjà Vu is
off the chain. Inside the club, the energy was high, the
lights were spectacular, and the sound system was
booming. The whole atmosphere was exciting. The
thirty-five hundred square foot club was full of big
ballers and glamorous females. The elevated dance
floor was flooded with smoke, and the crowd was extra
hype.
Jordan, Mia, Big, and Fat Bol were sitting around
a table with bottles of Cristal Champagne spread about.
They were all having the time of their lives. With new
money comes new champagne, new women, and new
respect. A few more moments passed before a dark
skinned, tall, attractive server approached the table
carrying several more bottles of Cristal. She leaned
over close and whispered into Jordan‟s ear.
“Excuse me, but Crown and Super Fly sends their
congratulations.”
Fat Bol was ear hustling and said, “Damn, word
travel fast as a muthafucka.”
“This is a fast business. Get used to it,” Jordan
warned.
Jordan addressed the sexy, chocolate server out
loud, “Tell Crown and Super Fly I said thanks, and that
I‟ll be joining them in a minute to introduce them to
45
someone.” Jordan then handed the sister a twentydollar tip for her services.
She walked back over to Crown and Super Fly‟s
table and spoke with them for a minute. When she
finished, Crown looked towards Jordan‟s table, raised
his glass, and nodded his head with a sign of approval.
“A‟ight Mia…This is it, these two cats can make
you or break you. Crown is one of the tightest
producers in the biz, and Super Fly is the best female
song writer/producer there is. She has written for the
best of the best, like Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey,
Monica, Brandy, and a shit load more. So if they ask
you to sing tonight, don‟t clam up on me. Sing your
heart out. I want to see that shit beating out your
chest.”
“Okay Jordan…I‟m ready whenever you are.”
Jordan addressed the rest of his entourage before
departing. “Enjoy yourself. Shortie and me got some
biz to take care of. It‟s gonna take a minute, so I‟ll
holler at y‟all later.”
Big looked past Jordan, spotting Crown and Super
Fly making a mental note and then said, “A‟ight nig,
get that money…later.”
When they left the exclusive VIP area, Jordan
looked back over and saw Fat Bol beckoning for a
small pack of females to join them. Just that quick they
pulled the company of four fine ass, sexy sisters whose
46
complexions varied in several shades of brown.
Jordan and Mia reached Crown and Super Fly‟s
table, yet in another secluded section of the club. They
quickly went through the pleasantries and got right to
the point.
Crown offered them a place to sit, and they both
sat.
“Sup nigga, long time no see…What‟s the deal?”
Jordan began.
Crown jokingly replied, “That what I should be
asking you, pimp. I hear you around here selling off
all the talent.”
“I wouldn‟t say selling…just getting some of my
people deals. You know the business, Crown, just
making a couple of dollars. Finder‟s fee, a few points
off the albums, you know the minimum.”
“Jordan, you know Crown just started this label,
and you ain‟t brought nothing our way…What up wit
dat?” Super Fly asked.
“On some real shit, I just got wind of it. But you
know I saved the best for last…Crown, Super Fly,
meet Mia. Baby girl got a golden voice.”
Crown being the high-powered producer/beat
maker that he was took charge. He had a pudgy body,
pie face with puffy eyes. He wore a low, curly bald
fade haircut and long sideburns. He was casually
dressed in a pair of dark blue single pleat Sean John
47
slacks and matching white and dark blue button up
shirt. On his feet, he wore a pair of square-toed slip-on
gators by Mauri.
He looked straight at Mia and said, “Yeah, let me
hear something.”
“Right here?” Mia asked nervously.
“Naw, let‟s step into my office,” Super Fly said.
Super Fly was definitely hot for a big boned woman
who wore her hair styled in a short fly cut. She had a
very pretty face, long eyelashes, and a pair of big sexy
lips.
She had a smooth, blemish free almond
complexion that matched her silky voice. Her favorite
R&B singer was Aaliyah, so that‟s who she‟d match
new talent up against.
They all got up and headed to the coed bathroom
in the rear of club Déjà Vu. The music was blasting,
and the whole club was jumping to Jay-Z and Linkin
Park‟s single “Encore.” Once they reached the
bathroom and stepped in, Mia got right to it and began
to sing. She blocked everything out around her, and
she sounded like a sweet songbird on a cool, summer
morning.
Jordan closed his eyes and began imagining,
back in the day, when him, Kelly, O, Big and Fat Bol
used to be over his house watching Yo‟ MTV Raps.
Fab 5 Freddy would be showing all the latest music
videos. They would grab combs and brushes to use for
48
mics and act out the roles of the rap stars on the TV
screen.
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous was a lifetime
favorite when they were young kids. They didn‟t
watch your average kid shows like Happy Days,
Lavern and Shirley, and Looney Toons cartoons.
They had their eyes on the prize for a long time.
Who can blame them? They all grew up on the rough
side of the tracks. Not having shit was their biggest
and best motivation. So now that they have the chance
to get to the top, best believe there will be no stopping
these young bucks but death or jail.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Six months passed, and it had been nothing short
of a rocket ship ride for the whole squad. On this
frigid February evening, Mia was in a recording
session with Crown and Super Fly. She was having
the time of her life, singing her soul into the track.
Crown had another session to tend to at a nearby
studio, so he had to bounce. That‟s when Super Fly
normally made her move on the fresh new, young
talent. She got up, locked the studio doors, dimmed
the lights, and approached Mia.
“I love your voice, baby girl.”
“Thank you!” replied Mia.
“You‟re welcome, but sweetie, the music biz right
now is all about the visual. You gotta have a sponsor
49
if you know what I mean.”
“What‟s that?” Mia tittered.
“It‟s someone like me who gives you things until
you can afford them yourself. You know to make it
look good in front of the cameras. This game is all
about fronting. A good sexy illusion will do.”
“How do I get one?” Mia asked intently.
“You will definitely need me…I mean one
because of the small advance you got out of the deal
between Crown, Jordan and I, and I even think Trigger
got a piece of it. You‟ll need some extra help. You
realize that I‟ve guided the careers of some of the best
female artists in the game, right?”
“Yeah,” Mia said while looking in awe at all the
gold and platinum plaques of her idols hanging on the
walls.
Super Fly knowing that Mia was now ripe for the
picking pressed on with her seduction game that had
worked on all her victims trying to get to the top.
“You want me to help you, don‟t you?”
“Yup, I would like that very much.”
“Okay, let‟s sit down, have some champagne, and
talk about it.”
They moved to the studio‟s comfortable, stuffed
leather couches. Super Fly had gathered two glass
champagne flutes, two shot glasses, and several
already rolled blunts. She went in the studio‟s mini bar
50
and pulled out a fourteen hundred dollar bottle of
Louis XIII de Remy Martin, Cristal Champagne, and
her little helpers, pink ecstasy pills.
After smoking and drinking for a while, they were
both extremely intoxicated. It was time for Super Fly
to execute her scheme and Mia to get a crash course in
a business where either you take advantage or get
taken advantage of. Super Fly moved in real close to
Mia, who was laid out on the couch, and whispered in
her ear.
“Listen baby, I got something that will take you to
the top.”
“That‟s where I want to go like…” Mia was
trying to point to the plaques on the wall.
“Huh, take this, and it will get you there,” Super
Fly promised while placing the pink ecstasy pill in
Mia‟s mouth. Super Fly passed Mia some liquor and a
lit blunt. Mia swallowed the pill and chased it with a
shot of Remy and two totes of the blunt. Within a few
minutes, the date rape drug took control of the
nineteen-year-old mind and body. She felt a sexual,
emotional burst fill her warm, moist womb.
She looked down to see Super Fly going to work
on her pussy like a hungry animal. She wouldn‟t fight
it because the pleasure was too overwhelming. Super
Fly knew exactly what to do and how to do it. She was
a pro. She ran her tongue up and down Mia‟s cave
51
entrance like it was an sweet taffy, stopping to take
small nibbles along the way. Before long, they were
tangled in a sixty-nine position, munching away at
each other‟s carpets. They stayed tightly bound
together in their ecstasy passion, for hours, slurping,
sucking, and licking away at the other‟s pink heaven.
The next morning, Mia woke up with a bad
hangover and Super Fly‟s big brown ass in her face.
Last night had become a blur. She looked from the ass
to the plaques back to the ass. She wondered to
herself, I wonder how many of these plaques were
gained like this, she thought with her foggy mind. She
then struggled to slide up from under Super Fly‟s
heavy body. She felt woozy as she searched for her
clothes. She got dressed, gathered her things, and left
the studio, leaving Super Fly butt naked on the couch.
In the music business, many artists sign away their
publishing for a small sum, but Mia just signed away
her pussy for a large one.
Meanwhile, the rest of the gang had been caught
up in their own whirlwinds of success.
Kelly and her girlfriends now live in the malls,
shopping their lives away. They‟re known to buy up
everything that isn‟t nailed down: hats, coats,
pocketbooks, dresses, and the tightest Apple Bottom
jeans made.
52
Boogie kept her and O on the road doing shows
because that‟s where the majority of the money came
from. He wanted them to thrive off road money to
keep them blinded to the industry‟s inner workings.
Across town, O was in a warehouse buying a
bulletproof vest and several firearms: two Glock .9millimeter pistols, a chrome pistol grip Mossberg
shotgun, and his favorite, the all mighty AK47.
Big has been frequently getting his money from
doing shows at Club Explosion, a hot spot in New
York City. Starting out at five-thousand a pop, just
coming in the game was all love. He would bask in the
glow of the crowd for a second before rocking the
hyped patrons. Big would have the women going
crazy and the nut dudes hating. It all came with the rap
game. But little did anybody really know that this was
a small fragment as to where Big was going with his
career and stardom.
At Conglomerate Entertainment, Fat Bol stayed
embedded in the company‟s multi-million-dollar
recording studio laying down hot track after hot track.
He was on a mission to get his first album done and on
the streets.
Big wigs would shuffle in and out, trying to get a
glimpse of the next big thing. This was a time in
which boardroom brass were attempting to make
moves like thugged out street generals.
Being
53
Hispanic, Fat Bol would be able to saturate different
markets: Rap, Latin, Pop, Raggaeton. All the big boys
wanted the recognition for themselves.
While everybody else was doing their own thing,
Jordan was in East Oak Lane showing his mother and
siblings the new house that he purchased for his small
family. With the half-million dollar price tag and
large down payment, Jordan needed to make some
more cash and fast. His hustle initially started years
earlier with his first fireworks sale. Now he was about
to use it to its fullest, legally or illegally. It didn‟t
matter one way or the other.
54
DUPLICATE
June 2004 rolled around, and Jordan and the
team‟s hopes and dreams have come to pass. Jordan
was flipping through the latest editions of XXL and
Billboard magazines. He had begun to make a collage
of clippings of his friends‟ success and stardom. The
bathroom mirror from their old house, with the gold
eagle atop, was brought and placed in his new
basement studio. He kept it for its sentimental and
therapeutic value. Besides the talks he would have
with himself, he used it as the backdrop for his clique‟s
achievements.
He had clippings of Mia‟s hit song, “Baby Girl” at
number one on the Billboard‟s top two-hundred singles
chart, Kelly performing on stage at the Wachovia
Center in front of an colossal sized audience, and of
Fat Bol live on air at 98.9, Power 99 FM. He also had
clippings of him being at a nightclub in the VIP section
with several beautiful women, his neck drenched in
platinum jewels. Not to mention Big on the front
covers of several magazines, Source, Vibe and XXL
and on stage rocking a very large venue while
throwing a big wad of money up in the air over the
crowd‟s heads. To top all of that off he also had
pictures of O and Kelly on their tour bus with a large
entourage tripping out and his favorite photo of Mia on
55
the front of her album cover looking sexy.
They have all blown up in the music business, and it‟s
on and popping.
-------------------------------------------------------------Two hours later Jordan was just finishing up a
recording session with an old customer, who had
become his friend. Jahid and Jordan became friends
quickly after Jahid had responded to some of Jordan‟s
advertisements on production. They bonded first
because real recognized real and secondly because they
had so much in common it was inevitable not to build
on their relationship.
Standing eye-to-eye at 5‟8” and having the same
zodiac sign, Cancer, they had similar goals and
swagger. Jahid was a rapper/barber in addition to
attending classes at the Art Institute of Philadelphia
majoring in recording and engineering. He was a
brown-skinned brother with broad, knock out
shoulders, and pointed gremlin ears. He walked with a
hip bop and rocked his hair braided back with five
inches worth of hang time. He had thin sideburns and
goatee that flowed perfectly with his small Sunna
beard.
Besides talking real slick, he kept the lyrics of his
favorite rapper, DMX, rolling off his tongue. Upon
hearing him in public people would get offended
thinking that he‟d be talking to them, but in all
56
actuality, he loved hip-hop and was just doing him,
rapping out loud. “That‟s a rap,” Jordan concluded.
When Jahid walked out of the recording booth,
he said. “I still want to talk to you about that before
your next session starts.”
Jordan replied, “Yea, bout dat business
proposition you were talking about.”
After the down payment for the new house and all
the extra amenities, home theater system with a 120‟‟
screen with a HD projector, gourmet kitchen,
whirlpool bath and marble floors, Jordan needed to
make back some cool, hard, cash like yesterday. He
was now open to all suggestions, and Jahid had one.
“On the real, from what I see, we can make a
couple mill easy,” said Jahid.
Jordan perked up and said, “I‟m listening.”
“Well, you already know I still work at Burn
Master, part time. Most of the high powered,
independent record companies get their CDs and
records pressed at our plant before they get enough
money to buy their own presses like the major record
companies.”
Jahid was at work when someone passed him a
thick folder across his desk. He got up and walked
down the long hallway towards the printing area.
“I work in the pressing plant. Once I get my
57
order, I take the artwork to the printing department,
and they file it until I need them to start on the order.”
Jahid reached the printing plant and dropped the
artwork off. A worker there filed it for him and then
he left.
“Then I take the music masters to the pressing
plant, get suited up, go to my pressing machine, and
get to work pressing my order.”
He got into his contamination suit, walked to his
work area, and pressed his sub-master copy of the CD.
“Once I make the first copy on my small burner, I
take the original master and lock it in a safe that‟s a
few feet away.”
Jahid pulled the large, steal door of the walk-in
safe, opened it, moved in, and placed the master in a
smaller lock box that required a security code.
“Then I work my normal day.”
He was working just like any other day, pressing
CDs, DVDs and records, laughing with his co-workers,
cracking jokes, and busting on their bosses.
“Then at the end of the day, I creep the first
58
duplicate I made earlier and pocket it. It‟s just as good
as the masters. Then on my way out, I make a pit stop
back at the printing plant. I slide up in there, pull the
file, go into the darkroom, and make a copy of the
artwork. Then I put the originals back, re-file them,
and break out. Even though I got clearance to be in
there, nobody really notices or gives a fuck because
it‟s time to go home. Then I take all the work to my
spot I got down by the waterfront.”
Jahid said then followed his words with a gulp of
the Cristal champagne they had been passing back and
forth while talking.
“At my spot I got a couple small CD and DVD
burners, tape duplicators, color copiers, and scanners.
But that shit ain‟t nothing. So what I was thinking
was, with you financing me we could get in, make a
couple mill and get out before the feds grab us.”
“A couple mill huh?”
“Yessurr, at the minimum…so what‟s up dawg?”
Jahid asked.
“I‟m in nigga. When you want to do this?”
“Come by my shop tonight so I can show you
what I‟m already working with. We‟ll talk math then,”
Jahid wisely insisted, knowing Jordan understood
action and numbers more than words.
Also at that moment, Jordan didn‟t realize that the
trip to Jahid‟s small warehouse would be the change he
59
needed to get a step closer to his future goals.
The end of September rolled around and with it
came a whole new atmosphere, a whole new way to
hustle, a whole new way to play the game and a new
way of thinking. Jordan and Jahid were in the office at
their bootlegging warehouse operation. The illegal
scheme was very successful at this stage, several
months after agreeing on venturing into this new
endeavor.
They were able to get away with doing this
because of their legitimate occupations. With Jordan
now doing production for A-list artists and Jahid out of
school and working as a studio-recording engineer for
hire, they both were getting their greasy hands on a lot
of fresh, unreleased music. They sat across from one
another with a table full of money. They were counting
their profits with four fully digital money adding
machines.
Their hustle took off rapidly, and the soldiers fell
right in place. They had every man, woman, child, and
crack head selling CDs and DVDs all throughout the
tri-state area (Philly, New Jersey, and Delaware) in
addition to wholesaling to small parts of Maryland,
Washington DC, and Virginia.
The product was crystal clear, so it moved like
60
crack did back in the eighties. Their workers invaded
street corners, drug blocks, trains, and bus stops with a
vengeance. They preyed on check cashing stores and
busy shopping areas; everywhere you looked, it was a
bootleg hustler in a customer‟s face promoting their
product as if it was legal.
“Sup nigga? It‟s been months now. What you
plan on doing with your change?” Jordan inquired.
“If I tell you, then I might have to kill you.”
Jordan looked up seriously from the money
machines.
Silence.
“Naw, naw man…I‟m just fucking with you. I
really haven‟t thought too much about it…I don‟t
know, maybe a barber shop with a studio somewhere
in it or something. Why nigga? What the fuck you
thinking about doing with yours?”
“I‟m „bout to start my record label.”
“An independent joint?”
“What‟s my name, nigga?”
“Jordan Major!”
“A‟ight then. I‟m gonna start a major independent
joint. You know a mini major.”
“You got a name yet?”
“Fucking right, No Middle Man Records.”
“Why that name yo?”
“Cause it represent exactly what my company will
61
be all about.”
“How‟s that?”
“Cause nigga, I won‟t be fuckin' wit no middle
man period, for nothing. My company is gonna be like
a one stop, get all types of shit. I‟m trying to do
everything from production to distributing.”
“I feel you, but that‟s a lot of shit to be handling.
If I was you, I wouldn‟t be fuckin‟ around with that
distribution game,” Jahid warned.
“Why, what‟s up with that?”
“Because one thing you got to understand
is…” Jahid paused for a moment then continued
emphatically. “The rap game is identical to the crack
game. Yo, my man, the biggest major record
companies own the strongest distributors, and they all
work together like the commission or some shit. And
if you fuck around and don‟t let „em see a percentage
of that change you plan on making, they‟re gonna try
to shut your shit down and run you the fuck off the
block.”
“Well dig this. A nigga just gonna have to go to
war with these clowns, just like street wars.”
“It won‟t be a street war. It‟ll be a corporate thug
war and them cats play for keeps.”
“I hear you fam. I‟ma let my shit bubble slow
until I get my money right. Then I‟ll be ready for war
with these niggas. I got half my money right now, but
62
I need the rest real soon. Speakin' on that, I got to
meet my man. He got something big cooking right
now for us. Sup nigga, you got everything here for a
minute?”
“Yeah nigga, I‟ll hold it down.”
Jordan stood up, gave Jahid their partnership
pound, and broke out. When he left the office, he
strolled through the noisy warehouse past the new
industrial sized pressing machinery and related
bootlegging paraphernalia. They had several workers
laboring over the illegal operation on this muggy
September evening. He then slipped out the back exit,
jumped into his brand spanking new midnight blue
Mercedes Benz SL600 sitting on chrome twenty inch
factory rims. He sped away and vanished into the
sunset.
63
EJECT
Two hours later, after the sun retired, it was a
wet and gloomy night in downtown Philadelphia. The
smell of damp fall leaves filled the cool evening air.
Trigger and Jordan were sitting at a table inside one of
the most exquisite restaurants in the center city area,
Le Bec Fin.
Trigger had two down ass chicks with him. That‟s
how he rolled. He dismissed them with a wave of his
left hand like as if he was telling a begging peasant to
get away from him. He wore a cream colored, linen
Armani suit over his tall and lanky frame. His hair
was cut to a low dark Caesar just like his young bol
Jordan.
“What‟s been shakin?” Trigger inquired.
“Not much, sup with you, what‟s the deal?”
“Dig it, I got a job I‟m tryna pull off, and I need
some soldiers I can trust, ya-meen.”
“What‟s the rundown?” asked Jordan.
“I got this bol who work over at Conglomerate
Entertainment. He works in the shipping and receiving
department at their distribution building where they
handle all the kickbacks.”
“Kickbacks?”
“Yeah, it‟s plenty of paper in the kickback
business. Dig this, when record stores buy music from
64
the distributors, the distributors have already bought
those copies at wholesale from the major record
companies. In most of these contracts there‟s a
kickback clause, ” Trigger explained.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Jordan asked
seriously.
“It means that if a record store or retailers can‟t
sell all the units they bought, then they can return the
CDs and records and get a full refund, credit, or
percentage of their money back from the distributors.
The distributors return them to the record companies,
and they also want some muthafuckin' money back.
Now the fucked up part is, since the dawn of the music
biz, the industry was designed to keep the artist in
debt, the same way I do my whores, so this is when the
record companies fuck wit the artists‟ royalties and
shit…real cut throat shit, ya-meen. Then on the low,
the record company sells the kickbacks to smaller
companies that deal just in kickbacks. At this point,
they‟re just trying to make their money back with a
small profit for shipping and handling and sucker shit
like that. But now, the small retail companies sell them
to mom and pop retail stores and shit like that. That‟s
why you see them fucking cardboard boxes and
baskets filled with old music, them shits be a buck and
some change. But the newer shit, you see those mail
order forms and brochures talkin‟ about twelve CDs
65
for the price of one.” Trigger explained the value of
the sting.
“I see a bigger picture now, but fuck the history
lesson, what‟s the deal?”
At Conglomerate‟s distribution warehouse the
time clock struck 4:30 am, and the loading docks were
already busied with workers. The warehouse was full
of boxes of kickbacks, crates of CDs and distribution
paraphernalia. Trigger‟s inside connect was in control
and running the whole show. Trigger was explaining
the robbery so vividly Jordan saw it in his mind like he
was watching a movie.
“My man is the supervisor over there. He said it‟s
a twenty truck shipment going down this Saturday.”
Workers were loading trucks that were parked at
the loading docks, and Trigger‟s inside man, a skinny
nerdy looking white boy who wore dark Dickie slacks,
a white shirt, and tie, was giving orders, playing his
supervising techniques to a tee.
“He controls which kickbacks get loaded, shipped,
what trucks, who drives, and when they roll out. He
runs the whole nine yards,” Trigger explained
Trigger‟s mole continued to bark out his orders, as
66
the last of the trucks rolled out.
“He‟s gonna make sure the last eight trucks have
the cream of the crop in‟ em.”
Outside the warehouse, Trigger, Jordan and their
team of stick up boys were sitting in an assorted pack
of black vehicles. They watched as the convoy of
trucks moved out right on schedule from the
distribution plant.
“All we got to do is get that shipment…the cream.
This the plan.”
A few miles up the road eight trucks out of the
convoy pulled into Big Red‟s truck stop.
“Five miles up route I-95 North there‟s a major
truck stop. My man guarantees that the particular
drivers he assigned to the trucks we want, wit da
cream, will definitely stop there to gas up and get their
traveling shit.”
The team of thieves pulled into the truck stop.
They got into position just as the truckers walked into
the truck stop‟s convenience store.
67
“We can do this two ways. We can follow them to the
stop and steal the trucks while they‟re inside, or we can
jack their asses for the trucks when they come out.
Whatever way we do this, we don‟t leave that stop
without the trucks. We come away wit bout $20
million worth of kickbacks. And the icing is that they
are basically already sold on the West Coast.”
The sting was in full swing. All was running
smoothly and according to plan. Trigger, Jordan, and
six other men calmly walked to separate trucks and
went to work pulling the necks behind the steering
wheels. Within sixty seconds, everybody began giving
the signal that they were ready to roll out except
Jordan. He was having trouble with the reinforced
neck of his truck.
Trigger looked at his wristwatch and saw that they
were running behind schedule. He gave the rest of the
team a second signal to start their trucks because it was
time to roll out. The team ignited the roaring engines
and began to move out one behind another in
formation, separating at the exit, going in different
directions.
Trigger laid back to wait for Jordan. Jordan was
still wrestling with the neck of the truck. When he just
about had the truck started, the passenger side door
was snatched open, and one of the red neck truck
68
drivers was standing there.
“What the fuck you doing in my truck, nigger?”
he said with a thick southern drawl. Jordan reacted
quickly by kicking the door. It slammed hard into the
trucker‟s face.
He stumbled backwards and tried to reach for his
weapon concealed in his waistband. Jordan jumped out
the truck with gun in hand and popped him in his arm.
The trucker dropped his weapon. Then Jordan blasted
him again in his leg and kicked him in his chest. He
fell to the ground bleeding from the gunshot wounds
he received.
Jordan jumped back in the big vehicle, started it,
and then he and Trigger just drove away as if it was
just another day on the job.
69
MEMORY
Four hours later, it was a smoky morning on
Delaware Avenue near the river at Penn‟s Landing.
You could smell the smoke a half mile away. Eight
rigs were still smoking from being set ablaze. Police
and fire trucks were all over the place. While
firefighters were trying their best to put the last
dangerous fires out, several teams of law enforcement
were checking out the backs of the empty trucks. The
heat was still present, and the taste of thievery and
arson was in the air. Because of the flames, the clues
would be few. But they still began to process the
crime scene and collect physical evidence. They also
had units canvassing the neighborhood looking for any
witnesses or suspects.
Detectives Thomas Berry and Crater Face were
getting the run down from the initial officers who
arrived on the scene first. Detectives Berry and Face,
two dicks nicknamed by the hood, because they
became characters of the everyday ghetto life.
Berry‟s nickname was Tackle Berry because he
looked and acted just like the character from the movie
Police Academy. He was a white male, age 38, and
stood towering at 6‟2”. He had a short, curly bush the
70
color of dirt brown. He was considered a redneck that
chewed tobacco and carried a Glock .9 mm. When he
got mad, his neck and face would become beet red,
which wasn‟t good because a tough guy built like a
linebacker, a sharp-shooter, and ex-army man together
was a deadly mixture.
Face was nicknamed Crater Face because his face
was covered with deep craters. He was a big muscular
black man with a foot stuck far up his ass. His fellow
officers would call him an uncle tom behind his back.
He wore cheap suits, dark sunglasses, and rocked a
baldhead.
“This looks like this might be connected to that
truck jacking and shooting from earlier this morning,”
Face stated.
“No shit, you think so?”
Berry groaned
sarcastically
“I think we should go talk to that witness at the
hospital.”
“Yeah, the cocksucker should be stable enough for
interrogation,” said Berry.
“He got to be…we need an ID. Ain‟t no finger
prints comin‟ up around here.”
71
SLOW MOTION
Ten AM, all the way across the other side of the
city, uptown, far away from the crime scene down
Penn‟s Landing‟s waterfront, Jordan was in his king
sized bed having sex with Kelly. After he came on her
face, he laid down beside her. She wiped it off with
her well-manicured hand and then licked the milky
white ejaculation off her fingers.
His mind drifted back to the moment when he
crept back in the bed and got back under his Ralph
Lauren bedding. He walked into the room to find
Kelly‟s voluptuous body wrapped in a pink and black
lace bustier by Felina and some handmade black
chinchilla thongs. TLC‟s album was playing in the
background and the smell of her perfume, Live, by
Jennifer Lopez engulfed the room. She was exactly
where he left her earlier before he went on the heist.
Jordan ran his hand over the Seven Deuce for Life
tattoo that was tattooed on her right arm from her
shoulder to elbow. He walked over to the bureau and
readjusted the red, glowing digital clock backwards a
few hours just in case he needed an alibi.
Kelly needed to think it was earlier than it actually
was when he woke her up.
72
He had planned to make this night with her as
memorable as their first time together. He needed her
ready to fry in an electric chair if need be.
Under a red light, Jordan‟s five-eight muscular
brown frame looked exquisite.
Kelly loved to run her pretty hands over his low
cut, wavy dark brown hair.
He laid her down and poured a mixture of
chocolate syrup and melted vanilla ice cream all over
her thirty-four D‟s and the rest of her body. Then he
slowly sucked and licked it off her face, lips, neck, tits,
arms, fingers, stomach, pussy, legs, thighs, and feet.
He made sure to find every erogenous spot her
body owned. Then he made a sundae, using her pussy
as an ice cream bowl. He topped it with peaches,
whipped cream, and strawberries. Jordan began to lick
the kitten like it was a big taffy, then making a circular
motion with his wet tongue while using his hand to
massage her pussy lips and clit.
She was moaning and curled her pedicured toes up
so tightly that they started cracking. Using his whole
tongue, he softly licked her completely clean.
He then pushed both her bent legs and knees up
near her soft chest. He placed one of his stuffed, Ralph
Lauren pillows under her ass and began to lick the area
between her asshole and her vagina. He was spelling
her whole name, including the middle one, with his
73
tongue, then finally tossed her salad real good, while
stimulating her G-spot with his pointer and middle
fingers, making a come here signal.
Kelly continued to moan and scream crazily.
Then she came all in his mouth. Jordan stood up,
looked at her, smiled, and then spit the cum in her face.
At first her face registered surprise, and then lust
overcame her expression. Kelly sat up, grabbed the
chocolate syrup and ice cream mixture, and then
poured it all over his nine-inch dick. She started off by
holding the rod up high and sucking the sweet mixture
off his nuts. She began to hum one of her hit songs
“All Mines” as she held both of his tender balls in her
warm and wet mouth. Then Kelly took his manhood in
her mouth and used her fellatio skills like the pro that
she was. She had gobbled the dick up greedily while
gently caressing the general and the soldiers. She
slowed down a bit, and then started at the top, using
the head of the penis as if it was her lipstick. Then she
pulled the skin down, grasped it tightly at the base as if
she was speaking into a microphone.
She commenced to use her moist tongue in a
swirling motions, as she rolled her tongue over the top.
She used the underside of her tongue to maximize the
oral stimulation. Then, holding her lips together as if
she were pouting, she slowly let the dick into her
mouth. She began to slide her mouth up and down,
74
with her hand movements making the same motions,
constantly stimulating it from the head down to the
base. Then she gulped it down and swallowed it as
Jordan bust off down her throat.
As Kelly started to say something in her low,
deep, sexy voice, Jordan‟s mind drifted back to the
present.
“I miss you,” Kelly groaned sexually.
“I miss you too,” Jordan replied.
“Yeah, whatever playboy, you missed me so much
you went and had a little man on me.”
“I was just fuckin‟ dat broad, then that bitch
stopped taking her birth control pills. She used to take
them shits out and throw „em away because I used to
check her pills on the regular. Bitch tryna trap a
youngin', you know how y‟all do.”
“No, I don‟t…you still fuck wit her?”
“Naw, she fucks wit some wannabe producer ass
youngin‟.”
“Well, as long as I can get mine, I won‟t have to
knock a bitch out.”
“How long you in town, boo?” he asked.
“Why, how long do you want me to be?”
“As long as it takes to stick this dick up in ya.”
“Yeah, so won‟t you shut up and fuck me then,
Jordan?” she commanded.
And with that, Jordan turned Kelly over, pulled
75
her to her knees, placing her in doggy style. He
penetrated her pussy and asshole at the same time with
his lubricated fingers. After fingering her G-spot and
butt hole for a while, he slid his dick into Kelly‟s ass
and killed it for a while. Then he took it out and
slammed it into the pussy.
Kelly was going wild because she loved when he
was in her. Before Jordan reached his full climax, he
pulled out and busted his cannon off on her juicy ass
cheeks, back, and hair. He began to smack her ass
wildly, and in a few short moments, she came and
collapsed onto the silk bedding. Jordan slipped out of
the bed and snuck off to the bathroom where he lit
several scented candles and killed the lights.
He called out to her, “Kelly can you please bring
my pussy in here for a minute?”
She loved when he talked to her like that, so she
got up and strutted to the bathroom with her best
ghetto, runway model, stank walk she could muster up.
Her ass and titties were jiggling like water balloons
with each step. The smell of jasmine filled her nose
when she entered the steamy bathroom.
Jordan pulled her into the warm water, and they
started to shower together, washing each other‟s bodies
sensually. He then lathered up her hair and every inch
of her body. He bent her over and hit it from the back
some, and then turned her back around and lifted her
76
off her feet.
She wrapped her legs and arms around his body,
and he then smashed the pussy up against the misty
shower wall. She began to rotate her hips slowly, then
fast, then faster and worked his loins into a frenzy. He
was thrusting harder and harder, deeper and deeper
inside her slippery heaven.
“Ahhh-h-h…That‟s right bitch,” he moaned when
he came inside her. Being the tigress that she was she
gripped on to his body and began to bounce forcefully
up and down on his stiff, hard groin until she exploded
all over it. Her whole body melted into his. She was
pleased for the moment. Their sexual tension ran high.
They would be right back at it.
They got out of the shower and dried each other
off with his thick Polo towels. Jordan sat down on the
porcelain toilet, and she straddled him, and began
riding his dick like a wild out cowgirl. He grabbed her
full breasts and cotton soft ass and rotated the pleasure.
When he noticed her begin to zone out, he
smacked her face, pulled her hair, and choked her until
they both began to climax together.
Out of nowhere, there was a loud knock on the
big, oak doors downstairs. Jordan ignored it until he
busted off, with Kelly following right behind with
multiple orgasms. The pounding got longer and
louder. Annoyed, Kelly slid off his dick.
77
“Won‟t you get the fuckin‟ door? It‟s probably
one of your whores,” Kelly said.
“Shut the fuck up,” he said.
“Jordan, just get the door, but make sure you get
rid of whoever it is. I‟m not close to being finished
with you yet.”
“Yeah, is that right?” He knew she wasn‟t
playing. She could go on like the energizer bunny. He
threw on a pair of G-Unit jeans and a Versace robe
before he headed to the door. When he answered the
door, detectives Berry and Face were standing there
with several other officers posted behind them.
“Jordan Major?” Berry asked while pulling out
his badge. He flashed it and put it away.
“Who wants to know?” Jordan demanded.
“I‟m Detective Berry, and this here is my partner
Detective Face.” He paused for effect.
“You need to come with us so we can ask you a
few questions.”
“You got a body warrant?”
“Not yet, but we can get one in about an hour.
But if we gotta go through all that, shit gonna get
fucked up for you fast,” Berry stated.
Kelly walked down the stairs in a pink Victoria’s
Secret see through negligee that clung to her delicate
figure. She stood behind Jordan with her hands on her
narrow waist and asked. “What‟s going on, babe?”
78
“I gotta go downtown with these two clowns. I
need you to chill here until I call. From the look of
these muthafuckas I know I‟ma need bail.”
The officers took offense to Jordan‟s comments,
roughed him up, cuffed him, and threw him in the back
of a squad car.
79
TRACKS
Several hours later, Jordan was still in the
jailhouse, a result of his failure to talk after being
booked. He was in an overcrowded bullpen with
thieves, wineos, and crack heads. He used the phone
to call Kelly.
“Hello.”
“Sup youngin‟? I need you to come bail me out.”
“What‟s going on…where you at?”
“I‟m still at the 35th district at Broad and
Champlost. This what I need you to do. Go to the
closet in my room,” he directed her.
Kelly walked over to the closet and swung the door
wide open.
“Inside, on the top shelf, you‟ll see a small black
safe.”
She saw the safe, reached up and pulled it down,
and then placed it on the bed. “I got it.”
“A‟ight, now look in my bottom, left hand drawer.
It‟s a set of keys in there, my car keys and one smaller
key. That‟s the safe key. It‟s close to a hundred stacks
($100,000) in there. My bail is a hundred. Ten
percent of that is ten grand. Bring ten thousand dollars
down here and get me the fuck outta here.”
Kelly cradled the phone on her shoulder and ear;
80
got the key out and placed it in the keyhole, opened the
safe, and then counted out the money.
“See you when you get here,” Jordan said.
“A‟ight, I‟ll be right there…I love you.” Click.
He hung up in her ear. When she tried to put the safe
back, she began having trouble. Something was in the
way. “Damn” she said. Frustrated, she tried to force
it, and a brown leather CD case fell to the floor in front
of her feet. Some familiar looking artwork spilled out.
She picked it up and examined it. To her surprise, it
was from her latest project that hadn‟t dropped yet.
She continued to examine the contents of the case and
found her new CD inside, along with several others
including Lil Big Man‟s, Fat Bol‟s, and Mia‟s.
She was flaming as she stuffed the illegal replicas
back into the case. She grabbed the money, descended
down the steps, and stormed out the front door. By the
time she reached her platinum colored CLK Mercedes
Benz, she was in tears. She hit the automatic start,
jumped in, and chirped off. Kelly was driving
frantically in route to bail Jordan out. While pushing
her whip with one hand, she picked up her cell phone
with the other hand and speed dialed O.
O was at the Marriot on Market Street. He had the
presidential suite with a mirrored ceiling, a martini
glass shaped Jacuzzi, and a heart designed heated
waterbed in the center of the room. He was having sex
81
with a dime piece, punishing the pussy while she was
running her hands over his baldhead. He heard his cell
phone ringing, but ignored it.
Kelly listened for a few more rings before pushing
the END button. She then speed dialed Fat Bol. The
phone began to ring. Fat Bol was in his dressing room
with his Spanish entourage when his cell phone rang.
He answered it to find Kelly rambling on, upset.
“I‟m on my way to get Jordan ass out of jail.”
“Word ma! What happened?”
“I don‟t really know anything yet.
But I
overheard the cops say something about a robbery or
shootin‟ or something.”
“Word!”
“I‟m on my way to the 35th district to get him out
now.”
“A‟ight keep me posted wit…” Fat Bol started to
say before being cut off.
“Fat Bol, wait, it‟s something I gotta tell you.”
“What up?”
“When I was getting‟ the money out of Jordan‟s
room,” she sighed, “I found some foul shit.”
“Word ma? What makes you say that?” he asked
seriously, as a smirk played in the corner of his mouth.
“I found a master CD of my shit and my fucking
artwork. Some of your shit was in there too, wit a
whole lot of other shit. Youngin‟ been rippin‟ us the
82
fuck off. How could he fuck us like this?” she
screamed into the cell phone.
He snatched his cell phone away from his ear as
her voice boomed through the small speaker. “Chill,
just calm down. Let‟s keep this under wraps for a
minute until we see what it‟s really hittin‟ for. Don‟t
tell nobody else, I‟ll handle it.”
“A‟ight, but that pussy…”
“Don‟t worry, I got it,” Fat Bol said before
hanging up.
Damn!…Fuck!...He thought to himself.
He
smacked his flip phone closed and tapped it on his
forehead for a moment.
“Damn...Fuck it!
M.O.B man, money over
bitches,” He said aloud to himself. He flipped the cell
phone back open and speed dialed a number, and then
listened as it rung.
Jahid was tweaking the gothic organs to a beat
Jordan made for an up and coming artist. He was
nodding his head to the bass line as his braids danced
on the back of his neck. He felt his cell phone buzz on
his hip; he jumped because the sudden vibration broke
him from his concentration.
“YO!” Jahid answered the phone in disgust.
“Sun, we got a problem…the jig is up.” Fat Bol
relayed the conversation he just had with Kelly.
83
TURN TABLES
Several miles away, Kelly and Jordan were
walking out of the police station. When they reached
her car, she spun around and smacked the shit out of
him. Her eyes were blazing with fury.
“Jordan, how could you fuck me like this?” she
said with icy, cold hatred.
“Bitch! What the fuck you talkin‟ bout?” Jordan
asked.
“This, muthafucka,” She cried, and then threw the
CD case with the bootlegging paraphernalia in his face.
“We grew up together. I‟ve known you my whole life.
I loved you,” she screamed and began to choke up.
“Let me explain,” he pleaded with her.
“No, fuck no; I never want to see your ass again.”
Kelly scooped the case up and jumped back into
her CLK all in one motion, and then sped off leaving
Jordan standing there looking stupid. Before her
taillights faded, he looked up and saw a husky, black,
tinted-out Suburban ride up slowly.
He kept his eyes on the window. It came down a
bit and he saw that Jahid was motioning his finger
across his throat as if he were slicing it. Jordan nodded
his head yes, shrugged his shoulders, and silently
mouthed M.O.B. Jahid nodded his head back in
agreement, responded with a M.O.B., and raced off
84
after Kelly as Jordan started to walk away.
Jordan made it to the underground subway station,
paid his fare, and hopped on the train. He took a seat
across from a young kid, probably close to thirteen
years old. The kid was eyeing him closely.
Above ground, Jahid followed Kelly as she made
a turn onto a dark wooded road. This is where he
decided to make his move. He pulled around her car
as if trying to pass, and then in a flash he savagely
rammed her car forcing her off the road. She gripped
her steering wheel with both hands as she flew off the
road into the wooded area. Her car slammed into a
tree head on and began to flip over and over until it
came to a halt upside down on its roof. Jahid took an
expressionless look at his work, and then drove off out
of sight.
Meanwhile, back underground, Jordan was riding
the SEPTA train, looking out the window, watching
the dim lights flash by, and feeling tired and run down.
The young kid kept him in his glances admiringly.
Jordan peeped the kid watching him and asked…
“What‟s the deal, young bol?”
“Nothin‟” the kid replied.
85
“Sup, why you keep lookin‟ at me? You know me
or sum‟em?”
“Nah, I‟m just looking 'cause I want to.”
Jordan started laughing then said, “What‟s your
name little man?”
“My name is Kamar, but everybody call me Dog.”
Dog was a young playboy that stood five-three,
light skin, with light brown eyes and a black mole on
his face. He never met his father; his mom was a crack
fiend, so he was raised in many group homes. He was
living the rough life.
“Dog?” Jordan repeated in disbelief.
“Yeah,” Dog replied.
“What you doin‟ riding the train so late?”
“It ain‟t dat late; I‟m coming from a party out
Southwest Philly.”
“A party? What you know about partying?”
“On some real shit, I don‟t do much partyin‟, I
mainly go there to battle cats on the mic.”
“Sup then, let me hear you spit sum „em young
bol.”
“A‟ight feel dis.” Dog began to spit.
“I sprung up as a young bol wit no dad
My Moms made me sad
So da streets I had to grab
My place
Sell rocks and watch smokers free base
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That’s a part of my history
I can’t erase
Down North
Workin’ wit my manz
Wit da red benz
Me and my manz
We make moves down the bad landz
We travel from uptown
Down Seventh and Clearfield
Puttin it down
Runnin' up to cars
Gainin’ battle scars…”
“A‟ight, a‟ight, a‟ight young bol, your shit tight, I
got ya, I got ya,” Jordan said as the train pulled into
North Philadelphia station. Jordan handed Dog a
business card and said, “Here, get wit me, Dog. We
gonna put you in a real studio and see what you really
workin‟ wit.”
Jordan stood up and gave him a pound and a
reassuring look in his eye, and then exited the train.
87
MICROPHONES
Moments later Jordan made it to the surface. He
walked several blocks until he reached his son‟s
mother‟s apartment building. He began to ring the bell
and then a woman‟s voice came over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“It‟s me, Jordan.”
“What you want?” she asked harshly.
“Bitch, buzz the door, I wanna see my son,” he
screamed into the intercom.
“He‟s sleeping.” she screamed back.
“I don‟t give a fuck. Open the fucking door,
bitch.”
She buzzed the door. He pushed through and
walked up one flight of stairs to her apartment door.
He turned the knob, and the door was already
unlocked. When Jordan entered the apartment, his
baby-mom, Dana, was sitting on her couch in a cherry
colored Baby Phat negligee, without a stitch of panties
on. Dana Kindred was a good girl gone bad. She
stood 5‟5”, had light brown skin, long black silky hair,
cute in the face and thin in the waist. She attended
Catholic school from elementary school all the way
through college. She got caught up in the classic case
of the good girl, bad boy scenario. She was in too
deep and invested too much time into the relationship
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so she felt that she had to get something out of the
deal. Preying on the fact that Jordan had the potential
to be great at something, she just didn‟t know what,
but something. She decided to trap him with a child.
She watched him around his little sister and brother
and believed if nothing else he would care for his own
child like he did them.
Jordan despised Dana for what she did, but he
respected her education and secretly loved the fact that
his son was extremely smart and well taken care of.
He wouldn‟t have it any other way.
Dana asked, “How come you didn‟t call? For all
you know, my friend could have been here.”
“Bitch, I don‟t give a fuck about you or your
friend. I pay the rent here. I came to see my son.
Dig this; don‟t start no bullshit wit me right now. I just
got da fuck outta jail.”
“I know. Your mom called me. Plus that‟s the
only time you want to see him, when shit get fucked up
for you.”
“Would you please shut-da-fuck-up!” Jordan
yelled as he walked into his son‟s room. He left the
door cracked open for some light to creep in. He sat
on the edge of his son‟s bed and rubbed his son‟s head
and face, and then planted a kiss on his forehead. He
sat there and stared at him for a long moment watching
him sleep. Jordan‟s son was a junior. He was now 6
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years old.
Jordan Major, Jr. had the right pedigree. He was
advanced for his age. He had street smarts from his
pop and school smarts from his mom. He was
academically gifted. He skipped over kindergarten and
went straight to grammar school. He was the spitting
image of his father, eyes, ears and all.
“No matter what happens, daddy love you. You‟re
gonna be my heir.” Under the watchful eyes of your
Aunt Ninie until we’re sure where your loyalty lies.
With your mother poisoning your mind who knows.
Jordan thought to himself. Then he got up and went
back into the living room with Dana. Jordan looked at
her for a moment and then turned towards the door.
“Jordan, wait…I need some money for your son,”
Dana pleaded.
“Bitch, you know I don‟t put no money in your
slippery hands, because you‟ll spend it on everything
else but what you‟re supposed to. Whatever he needs,
I‟ll get it,” he argued, not falling for her bullshit.
“Well, I need some money for school. You know
this is my last year before I go back to get my
master‟s.”
Knowing he had a weakness for her and his son‟s
education, she played on it often. “That‟s what you
gotta man for, ain‟t it?”
“I know, I know, but…” she couldn‟t get the rest
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out before Jordan interrupted.
“But nothing, I told you „bout fuckin' wit these
broke ass youngins‟. You been wit this clown for five
years now, and he still had you livin‟ at your grandma
house before I got my son this apartment. And I‟m
tired of tellin‟ you bout havin' that nut ass youngin‟
around my seed. Stupid bitch, how much money you
need?”
“Seven-Fifty,” she managed to say.
He walked over to Dana still seated on the couch.
She looked up at him with puppy eyes and knew what
time it was.
“Earn it!” Jordan said.
She unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his huge
penis. Blood rushed to his manhood quickly. She took
it in her delicate hands and began to stimulate it slowly
by rubbing her hands up and down the length of his
dick. Jordan‟s eyes were rolling around in his head
from her marvelous hand job. She looked up into his
face and smiled showing her white, even teeth,
knowing that she had him under her spell. She put his
dick in her mouth swiftly and expertly. She then
immediately took it in her throat and swallowed it.
Her head game was intoxicating.
The hit song “Is That Your Chick?” by Memphis
Bleek was playing in the background on her small
radio. Jordan was loving every minute of it because he
91
remembered how he carefully coached her how to suck
his dick when she was still a good Catholic school girl.
His dick was the first she ever sucked.
After a while passed by, Jordan pulled Dana‟s
sexy, slim, petite body to her feet. He walked her
around to the back of the couch, bent her over it, and
punished her dampness from behind. He believed the
pussy still belonged to him no matter what or whom
she was with. He was being savagely rough with the
pussy because he had a lot of anger built up in him
towards her. He made sure she felt his wrath with
every stroke.
Even though he scorned the very thought of her,
he still loved to fuck her brains out. The pussy was
still good to him. While he was still punishing her, he
began to talk dirty.
“Whose pussy is it?”
“Y-y-You know I‟m w-with s-somebody,” she
stuttered out.
He started to fuck her crazily. He bent over her
body, gripped her hair, and pulled her face around so
he could look at it. She had tears streaming down her
rosy cheeks. He shouted in her ear. “Dirty bitch, I said
whose is it?” he demanded.
“Y-y-yours,” she screamed out.
“Bitch, stop lying.”
That wasn‟t good enough for him. At that instant,
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she felt a sharp, erotic pain explode in her asshole.
Jordan began battering her buttocks like a jackrabbit.
Smack-smack-smack the sound echoed. To her,
it was an unbearable bliss, but she felt she had to deal
with it to get what she wanted. She started to try and
squirm away wildly and almost broke free, but he had
a tight grip around her narrow waist and hips.
He was ramming her so hard in the ass he couldn‟t
hold it back any longer. He busted off all in her onion.
He pulled out, wiped his dick on her butt cheek, and
lifted her over the back of the couch.
Jordan got himself together and pulled his pants
back up from around his ankles, reached into his
pocket, and pulled out a knot of greenbacks. He then
peeled off ten one-hundred dollar bills and threw the
money in her face, and then moved towards the door.
He stopped in his tracks, turned around.
“Make sure you give your broke ass man a couple
of dollars and a nice juicy kiss in his mouth.” He
turned and then broke out the door.
93
COPY
The next morning brought an ugly scene off
Belfield Road‟s wooded area. Detectives Berry and
Face were examining the wreckage at Kelly‟s crash
site. The paramedics were carrying Kelly‟s lifeless
body on a stretcher. It was wrapped in a black body
bag. Crater Face walked up to the men carrying the
body and said, “Hold up.” He unzipped the bag and
examined the face.
“Berry, come here. I think you should check this
shit out man.” He yelled to his partner. Tackle Berry
strolled over to where Face was standing and began to
examine the body.
“Damn, I suddenly got a taste for some tomato
soup, looks familiar?”
“Yeah, that‟s the woman who was at your boy,
Jordan Major, house yesterday when we arrested him.”
“Any ID on the body?” Berry inquired.
Crater Face reached into a clear plastic bag that
was attached to the body bag. He pulled out a Dior
wallet and opened it.
“You‟re not gonna believe this shit.”
“Fuck, what?”
“This is the fucking recording star, Kelly.”
“I thought she looked fucking familiar, but fuck, I
couldn‟t place her face because I‟d never saw her in
94
person before… What fucking else is in there?‟
“…Ah looks like some type of artwork or
something. Then we got a couple CDs with nothing on
them but her name and a few other names.”
“That‟s all?”
“No, something else is in here,” Face said as he
reached his hand back into the clear bag, pulling out a
light green piece of paper. “… and what do we have
here? Looks like a bail receipt for your boy for
$100,000… What‟s that, ten cash?”
“Yup, Looks like our boy got some more
explaining to do.”
Tackle Berry turned to talk to an officer. “Get me
some prints off this car ASAP. I need everything
printed,” he said handing the officer the clear plastic
bag.
“Comb the neighborhood for any witnesses or
suspects, move it, - move it – moovvee iiit.”
No matter how much money Trigger made off the
drug strips he supplied, he still was tall, lanky, and
funny looking. But that was where his power lay.
People would often make the fatal mistake of under
estimating him. That‟s when he‟d bite‟em.
Trigger was sitting behind a glass and steel table
covered with guns, drugs, and money in large
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denominations. Bricks of coke were wrapped in
plastic and bonded by gray duck tape. He had two
down ass chicks breaking down several bricks into
smaller weight for lower level dealers. Both women
were nude and only wore stilettos by Jimmy Choo.
Outside in the distance, Trigger heard his kennel
full of pitbulls about to tear somebody a new ass hole.
His down ass chicks knew the routine. One of them
moved across the floor to the door to investigate the
ruckus. With her small, silver .380 automatic in hand,
she peered though the peephole.
“It‟s your man from uptown wit da six hunid.”
Trigger chicks knew faces but no names. It was a
strict rule.
“Sixty seconds.” He said without needing to say
anything further. He then motioned to the chicks with
a quick wave of his hand.
They removed everything from the table and
stashed it. Then without a sound, they faded to the
back rooms. Another down ass chick appeared from
the back of the stash house with a P.89 in her hand.
Trigger watched her walk over and post up behind
the steel door before he said a word. “Put it away.”
He loved to manipulate them like chess pieces.
The chick placed her gun away in her shoulder
holster and opened the door.
96
Jordan walked in looking like his old self in a
brown Sean John velour sweat suit and a pair of brown
ostrich skin loafers and a fresh hair cut, from Philly‟s
number one barber – Light Foot. He got his swagger
back. He sat silently and waited for Trigger to dismiss
his chick. He dismissed her with a stern look and a
slight side head nod.
“Sup youngin‟? I got a problem that needs taken
care of,” Jordan began.
“The truck driver IDed ya?”
“Yup.”
“Don‟t sweat it. I‟ll take care of it, ya-meen,”
Trigger assured him before he reached in a black duffle
bag and pulled out three bricks of one-hundred dollars
bills. He tossed them across the table with a large
leather bag. He only said two more words to Jordan
before Jordan bounced.
“Three Mill.”
Two weeks later, Jordan entered courtroom
number 1002-A, at the Criminal Justice Center, located
at 1301 Filbert Street, Downtown Philadelphia.
He was flanked by his lawyer Fortunato N. Perri Jr.,
and his immediate family members, Ms. Toni, Max,
Hijjy, and Ninie. It was only a preliminary hearing and
Jordan was showing an aura of confidence when the
97
Honorable Judge Dick Little walked in.
“All rise!” the bailiff shouted. “The Honorable
Dick Little presiding.” Everybody in the courtroom,
except for Jordan, stood up in silence until the judge
was seated. The bailiff shouted again. “Please be
seated.”
Judge Little directed his first statement to Jordan.
“Young man, do you have a problem with your
legs?”
Jordan gave the judge a slick smirk, stood up for
two seconds, and sat back down.
Judge Little‟s next words were to the state‟s
prosecutor, a Mr. James Johnson.
“Will the state open the floor please?”
“Yes your honor, the Commonwealth of
Pennsylvania would like to call our first and only
witness.” When the truck driver limped to the witness
stand, the spectators were quiet as church mice.
After he was sworn in, Mr. Johnson asked him, “If
you will, I would like you to take us back to the
morning of October 9, 2004 at Big Red‟s truck stop
located off route I-95 North, the morning of the truck
jacking.”
The trucker complied and went through the whole
story from beginning to end. When he was finished,
Mr. Johnson asked, “Does anybody, that‟s in this
courtroom today, look familiar to you concerning the
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robbery?” The prosecutor made a quick head nod
towards the defense table.
Jordan and Perri, Jr. saw it but said nothing about
the leading question and head gesture. Instead, Jordan
sat there expressionless and motionless while Perri, Jr.
cleaned the grime from under his well-manicured nails.
“No,” the trucker responded.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“You mean to tell the court that the defendant,
sitting over there, doesn‟t look familiar to you?” asked
Johnson.
Perri jumped to his feet. “Objection your honor,
he‟s clearly trying to lead the witness in his
testimony.”
“Objection over ruled.” Judge Little ordered.
“Answer the question.”
The prosecutor smiled.
In a thick country drawl, the trucker said, “Hell
naw. That‟s not him. I done fingered the wrong
nigger!”
The prosecutor‟s smile turned upside down. He
paced the courtroom floor furiously as the crowd
laughed and hissed.
“You identified Mr. Major‟s mug shot later the
same morning, after you were shot and your truck
stolen.”
99
“Well, all youzzz people look alike to me in them
darn mug shots,” the redneck, hillbilly truck driver
said.
With that last statement, the spectators gasped,
and Mr. Johnson took great offense, being of African
descent himself.
Judge Little crashed his gravel down hard and
shouted, “Case dismissed.”
Jordan and his small entourage walked out the
courthouse, and soon after Detectives Berry and Face
approached him and said through clenched teeth.
“Listen youzzz little piece of shit. You might
have gotten away with this shit here today. But we
know you murdered your little girlfriend right after she
bailed your punk ass out. We just don‟t know why yet,
you fuckin‟ scum bag.” Berry hissed with deadly
venom. “But when we do get a motive and enough
evidence on ya we‟re coming for you best believe
that.”
“Yeah,” Jordan replied.
“Yeah!” Face spat back.
“Well dig dis, until then…I would appreciate it if
you would leave–me-da-fuck-alone.”
100
Several blocks away at 601 Market Street, the
U.S. Federal Courthouse, US Attorney Sweeny was
examining a file that had come across her desk that
morning. It read across the front Jordan Major.
101
SKIP
2005 came and went and 2006 came and was
creeping up on its fourth quarter. Jordan and Dog
marveled at how fast time flew by. After attacking the
streets for a year and a half, with mix tapes, they were
finally putting the finishing touches on Dog‟s first
single for his debut album.
Jordan stepped his game up. He now was
recording in his quarter million-dollar penthouserecording studio. It was laced with comfortable,
masculine, black leather furniture and black mink
carpeting. Dog was in the recording sound booth, and
Jordan was behind the track board when he concluded.
“That‟s ah rap.”
“Yo, dat shit is bangin‟,” Dog snapped.
Jordan was bent on teaching Dog the ropes of the
game. Dog was now three months away from turning
seventeen. He was a day late from being a New Year‟s
baby, and Jordan felt he was ready for stardom.
“Yeaa, but now we gotta hear what the hood has
to say,” Jordan continued.
“A‟ight, I know this strip club around the way
where my man Wax Spinner is the DJ. Let‟s see if
he‟ll spin it. He‟s on straight paper though, he be
want‟n, … y‟know a little payola,”
Dog said
cautiously.
102
“Payola? What da fuck is dat?” Jordan asked his
young bol.
“You don‟t know whut payola is! How was ya
getting‟ your artists spins on da radio and in da clubs?‟
“To keep it ah hunid wit ya, all my artist got
signed before I got into all dat.”
“Well, I‟ma show you how it works tonight.”
At 1:00 AM., Dog and Jordan entered the strip
joint called Night on Broadway, located near the
corner of Broad and Olney, two blocks away from
Dog‟s group home. They were admitted through the
VIP entrance. Everybody, including the brawny
bouncer, knew Dog was Wax‟s man. They treated him
with courtesy and respect.
The music was blasting as they walked though a
back, dimly lit hallway. Strippers were in the cuts
giving ballers personal sexual dances and blowjobs.
Asses, titties, and sweet smelling kitty kats were all
over the hallway.
You had to have long bread to party in this VIP
area of the club, and only thoroughbreds were
admitted.
When they reached Dog‟s man Wax Spinner, Wax
already knew what time it was.
Dog handed him a CD while Jordan pealed from a
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stack- ($1,000) and handed him some cash. Dog didn‟t
know it at that moment, but he had just put his big
homey Jordan onto some shit that was going to blow
both of them up majorly.
Wax slid the CD into the CD player and began to
blend in the dope beats and ill lyrics to Dog‟s single.
After five seconds, Wax gave them his signature head
nod that indicated he was hearing a bona fide hit.
“You know whut I need,” Wax said.
With that said, Jordan passed Dog two freshly
pressed up records. Dog handed them over to Wax and
Wax zoned out and began to do his thing, cutting and
scratching the record up on his Technique TwelveHundred turntables.
Dog‟s song “F.T.C.” was blazing though the
club‟s speakers.
The booty shakers were looking strikingly good
and smelling even better. They didn‟t miss a beat. All
the dancers working the floor started to pick it up a
notch and get their money. They were really feeling
the track. However, the exotic looking stripper on the
stage was really, really feeling it. The beat caught hold
of her emotions. She started to move her whole body
in erotic movements. She began to pop the pussy
wildly. Then one of her co-workers handed her a
Corona beer bottle. She made the bottle disappear up
her pussy like a real pro should.
104
Jordan observed the vibe in the room and was
convinced that Dog‟s new single was a hit. The golden
rule of Hip Hop was, if the women love it, the dudes
will buy it.
From that night on, it was all the way to the top
for these two cats.
105
REPLAY
In no time, Jordan assembled a motivated team of
extremely beautiful, freaky females and some slick,
quick talking fellows. They brought a whole new
meaning to the payola game. G-stack after G-stack, DJ
after DJ, from the program directors to the music
directors, from club to radio and back, it became a
never-ending cycle of pay for play. Jordan‟s new
business became very lucrative.
In 1960, the Federal Communication Commission
passed the Communication Act, which made payola
illegal. Payola revolved around major record
companies that got involved with illegal schemes to
grease the hands of radio stations personnel, via
independent promoters, and that activity jump-started
this music industry corruption. Record companies
would pass off cash to the promoters, and the
promoters would pass off cash to the DJs, radio
personalities, along with program and music directors
in the exchange for spins. Payout ranged in the
thousands for spins of a song because nothing makes a
hit like heavy airplay.
These records, backed by payola, normally get
played late at night because they usually wouldn‟t get
airtime during peak hours. That‟s why listeners
usually notice a new song when they‟re up late night.
106
Nielsen Broadcast Data Systems detect spins, and
the song is moved up the peak hours and more
importantly the Billboard charts.
The independent promoters would funnel cash
under guise of promotion budgets and schmoozing the
radio station‟s personnel.
In the past, major record companies have been
investigated for applying their industry muscle, power,
and dollars to purchase airtime. Paying for airtime is
all too common in the industry. What is illegal is not
disclosing the payment to the public
Jordan named his independent promotion team
Platinum Players. As he stepped his game up, he also
had to play the part as an executive to the tee. He had
nothing but the best Giorgio Armani suits, and ostrich
skin, three quarter boots by Mauri became a regular.
Platinum Omega watches encrusted with canary
yellow diamonds, and expensive minks from Sean
John. Dog was kept clean too. He stayed in that shit,
Roca wear, State Property, Polo, G-Unit and
Akademiks.
The whole team played thick, heated, North Face
downs and platinum Rolexes, Purple Label button ups,
and Evisu jeans. And the women were given VIP
cards for Gucci, Baby Fat, Apple Bottom, Prada,
Fendi, and Dolce and Gabbana.
107
Jordan knew the promotion game was all about
flashing and fronting, so he and his team played the
game extremely well. It wasn‟t nothing to buy out the
bar at club Déjà vu or Explosion when it was an
industry party going on. They would slip the DJ a new
song or album with some cash or drugs and watch the
industry players eat it up.
In a few short months, Jordan and the Platinum
Players had the independent promotion game on lock.
They had more freaks sucking more DJ‟s, Program
Directors‟ and Music Directors‟ dicks than a little bit.
Everybody was coming at Jordan for airtime. Thick
envelopes and briefcases full of money became the
norm. The payola game was beginning to pay off. All
the major record companies CEOs were coming at
Jordan and his team. He had to expand, and his team
became National Independent Promoters, with dealings
that stretched across America.
If you wanted spins on the major radio stations,
you had to go through the Platinum Players. Nobody
in the industry wanted a federal payola beef, so Jordan
and his team played the go-between.
Meanwhile, Dog had been reaping the benefits of
the payola game. He was getting mad spins, which led
to major shows, which led to gold and platinum sales
of singles and EPs, a feat rarely accomplished in an era
where the rise of file sharing had stunted record sales.
108
Boogie and O were the first to use their personal
relationship with Jordan to influence airtime and major
spins.
O, Mia, Lil Big Man, Fat Bol, and now even
Trigger were in a heated battle for the top Billboard
spots. This was a battle that bred jealousy and envy, so
naturally, shit was about to hit the fan.
One week O was in first place, Big in second, and
the Trigger/Mia collaboration song at number three.
Big-handed Jordan two large briefcases full of
money.
The next week the Billboard chart read Big first,
O dropped to second and the Trigger/Mia collaboration
was still at third.
O and Boogie were in the fully digital recording
studio at Syndicate Records looking at a Billboard
magazine. There was a big spread of Big, and he was
still hugging the number one spot. O slammed the
magazine to the floor and stomped on it.
Boogie liked the fact that O was hating on his own
friend, and a slight smirk played on his lips.
109
Trigger was sitting in the backseat of his stretch
Lincoln Navigator limousine. He was looking at the
same Billboard magazine as Boogie and O. He
became mad as hell with a murderous look on his face.
He tossed the magazine out the window as the
limousine driver pulled away and merged with the
traffic.
Between the money Jordan was making off his
bootlegging and promotion operation, his main goal of
starting his own label became closer and closer. He
religiously stacked his money. He was now $2 million
away from his mark of $10 million.
Luckily for him his father Max instilled in him the
importance of stacking and saving because he was
about to find out the true meaning of Jay-Z‟s lyrics
“Shit was all good just a week ago.” It all started with
a phone call.
“Bizzz-bizzz-bizzz.”
“Sup youngin‟?”
“Man you ain‟t gonna believe this bullshit,” one
of Jordan‟s Platinum Players reported into his
cellphone.
“Whut up muthafucka?”
“We having a problem with the CEO of Radio
Uno…”
“Send a bitch over to‟em.”
“That‟s problem number one. He‟s a she.”
110
“You mean to tell me a bitch runs that
conglomerate?”
“Yeah, and she said she's tired of us sending over
sleazy, tramps to take care of business.”
“Well, won‟t you or one of the Players handle
that?” asked Jordan.
“That leads me to problem two. She wants you to
take care of it yourself next time.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you youngin‟.”
“Man, you know I don‟t…”
“Yo, dig this, yo gotta take this one for the team.
She controls forty-three stations in America alone, not
counting overseer so …”
“A‟ight-a‟ight, when?”
111
BASS
Malika Fox was reclining on her white leather
couch in her expensive, luxury suite, located on
Columbus Boulevard. She was sipping on a bottle of
Moet and Chandon while anticipating the arrival of her
young guest. She was in her fifties, but her body was
still proportioned in all the right places, cup size 36D,
waist-22 and her bass line-40.
She complimented both her parents‟ native
countries. She was half-Ethiopian and Trinidadian
with beautiful facials features, long black hair with a
touch of gray, chinky bedroom eyes and luscious
edible lips. She was born here in the U.S. in the North
Philly section of the city. She suffered through the
hard knock life just like all the black sisters of her era.
But, she was a hard worker and determined to achieve
greatness.
She dreamed big. That‟s why when she
approached the first thirty-seven banks with her idea of
starting an independent radio station, she was literally
laughed out the banks.
However, as fate would have it, the Small
Business Association didn‟t deem it a laughing matter
and funded her upstart company.
Now on this warm June evening in 2007 she still
holds the record of being the first black female to have
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her company placed on the stock market, and to be
CEO of one of the nation‟s largest multi-media, radio
conglomerates.
Her parents gave her the name Malika because it
means queen, and that is exactly what she felt like, a
queen.
Jordan strode into her office suit wearing a
charcoal gray Tood Smith business suit, a Geoffrey
Beene dress shirt and tie and a pair of dark suede
Prada shoes. His left wrist supported a big faced,
Jacob, Diamond-encrusted, five time zone watch. He
inspected the plush interior before he sat.
Mrs. Malika Fox‟s panties became wet once she
got a good look at Jordan and inhaled a whiff of the
Polo Double Black fragrance he was wearing.
Her voice was sexy and sensual and he felt
himself being drawn in to it.
“Would you like a drink?”
“That‟d be nice.”
She poured him a glass of Moet and passed it to
him. He drank.
“I understand you had a problem with some of our
female staff,” said Jordan.
“No darling, I just wanted to meet the man. I
don‟t like to do biz with the help.”
“Understandably.”
“So what do you got for me this month?”
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“I brung a little bit of everything today.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes maam.”
She laughed. “Listen sweetie, you can call me
Mrs. Fox or Malika whichever one floats your boat.”
“A‟ight Mrs. Fox,” he said getting tired of her
wittiness.
He began to play track after track watching her
reaction to each song. There was none. Then she
asked, “Do you have any new Trigger?”
“Yup.” Damn I’m glad I finally talked Trigger
into washing up his money through his own record
company, he thought to himself. Moreover, he knew
Trigger was one of the best, in all facets, of the music
industry. He just needed to be led to the golden pond.
Now that he tasted the water, it was on and popping.
Jordan put one of Trigger‟s tracks into the CD
player and watched for some sort of reaction. Indeed
he got one but not the kind he expected.
Mrs. Fox got up, moved over to him with her
jazzy walk, and began to unbutton his pants.
Jordan couldn‟t believe what was happening as his
dick grew rock hard.
She pulled it out and began teasing it with warm,
wet licks over the head. She then gobbled it up in her
mouth with no hands.
Jordan felt her swallow it down her throat and
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almost came instantly. It was murder trying to fight it
and hold back.
She began moving her mouth, slowly up and
down the length of his pipe, with no hands, from the
very top of the head, all the way down to the shaft,
then swallowed.
Jordan grabbed the back of her head and began to
stuff his dick in her mouth faster and faster. Right
when he was about to cum in her mouth, she pulled
away, got up off her knees, and pulled him to his feet.
She led him over to her desk and bent herself over it,
hiking up her Donna Karen business skirt and stepping
out her tight DKNY boy shorts.
Jordan walked up behind her and let his pants
drop to his ankles. When he grabbed hold of her fortyinch ass and hips, he thought, "Damn her shit is as fat
as Buffy the Body’s."
He caught himself, put on a Magnum condom, and
tried to slide his dick in her big juicy pussy. She
protested, “No, the ass.”
“Whut?”
“I said fuck me in my ass.”
“A‟ight, if that whut floats your butt, I mean boat,
then so be it,” he laughed.
Jordan then slammed his dick right in her ass hole
without further delay. Damn this shit feels good, he
thought. He began slowly long dicking her at first,
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trying to savor every minute of seeing her ass make
gigantic waves like an ocean. Then he couldn‟t control
the urge to ram it and see it jiggle like a waterbed. At
full erect he began to slam his torso hard into her
backside. It was a loud thunderous clap echoing
throughout the suite.
Malika Fox had just bitten off more than she was
willing to chew. She screamed out in agony.
Jordan began smacking both ass cheeks with hard,
thrashing blows.
She wanted to scream out, “Stop,” but the pleasure
outweighed the pain, and she began to throw it back
crazily.
Jordan thought he had the old head whipped and
was stunned by the way she was moving. He erupted
and started to jerk wildly, and she followed right
behind, seeming to be having convulsions. That‟s how
hard she was cumming.
She laid out over her desk with Jordan stretched
out over her back.
Jordan knew it was against the playboy rules, so
he got up and got himself together.
It was a few more moments before they both had
their full composure back in order. They were now
sitting back across from each other when he slid the
CDs and briefcase of money across her desk.
She grabbed hold of the music and pushed the
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briefcase back across the desk.
“This one on me, the next one on you.”
Jordan picked the briefcase up and walked out the
office.
If he only knew the future, he would have left that
briefcase of money right there.
Over the next couple of weeks, he wore his
REJECT BOTTON out on his cell phone trying to avoid
Mrs. Malika Fox‟s calls. “This bitch is crazy. She just
wants me to fuck her in her old ass hole,” he thought.
Mrs. Fox was used to getting her way all the time,
and this would not be an exception to her controlling
ways or vindictiveness. She planned to make all men
pay because she was a scorned woman. Mr. Fox who
was twelve years her junior had run off with her young
secretary five years ago. So she planned to settle this
vendetta with one quick blow to Jordan‟s neck with a
sharp, federal sword. She picked up her office phone
and dialed the forbidden number.
U.S. Attorney Carol Sweeny was sitting behind
her desk at the U.S. Federal Building when the call
came in. “Yes, Jordan Major,… yes I‟m well aware of
his activities, we need some concrete evidence
before,…yes, is that so… Let‟s have lunch Mrs. Fox…
Right, I‟ll be there tomorrow at one pm.”
U.S. Attorney Sweeny hunched her scrawny body
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over her desk and peered through her bifocal glasses,
which sat atop of her pointed nose, and stared at the
phone, not believing her stroke of luck. Carol
Sweeny was good at what she did, but not good
enough for the young, savvy criminal with entirely too
many connects.
When word leaked that the Federal Bureau of
Investigation was building a payola case against Jordan
and the Platinum Players, the team went into evasive
actions immediately. Computers were burnt, e-mail
deleted, paper work altered and destroyed, people paid
off and threatened, play list pulled all before the team
gracefully bowed out and shuffled positions around.
The team ducked the jab, but some of their
associates caught the punch.
A nationwide investigation fell, and twenty DJs,
six program directors and two music directors were
noted to have received bribes and were penalized, but
never charged for payola crimes.
But several
independent promoters were charged with the practice
and forced to resign.
Jordan had slipped through the cracks again, and
law enforcement had deemed him a nuisance. He felt
it was time to fall back for a minute and knew it was
time to make the ultimate call.
As the phone rang, he had no doubts as to her
ability to perform the acts he bred her to do.
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“Sup, baby girl?”
“Whut up big bro?”
“It‟s time.”
“I figured that much. I‟ve been watching BET and
MTV news.”
“A‟ight, so what‟s understood don‟t have to be
said. Buzz me when you‟re done.”
“A‟ight bro, fall back. I got it.”
Ninie pressed the END BOTTON on her razor
cellphone, waited two seconds, and then placed the call
to their lawyer F.N. Perri, Jr.
“It‟s time Perri. Shut the company down, activate
the new one, and switch everything over to me. Thank
you.” Click.
Two months later, he stood on the corner of
Eightieth and Ogontz Avenue in front of the Fast Cash,
a check-cashing center. Sweat poured down Ant
Man‟s face. He was dressed in knock off Polo shorts,
tee shirt, and knock off Air Force Ones. He looked up
and down the avenue for the cops and L & I agents
before he reached into his suitcase on wheels and
pulled out the bootlegged CDs and DVDs he was
trying to hustle to the check cashing center‟s patrons.
“CDs, - DVDs, CDs – DVDs!” he pitched. He
had a wide variety of new and old blockbuster movies
119
and the new, hot, latest CDs, some not even out yet.
“CDs – DVDs, CDs – DVDs!” Ant Man shouted
as an eager customer approached him.
“What you working with?” the customer asked.
“What I don‟t got is the question. I got the new
Jay-Z, Nas, Fat Joe, KDL, Mad Flow what you need?
Movies, I got Little Man, Miami Vice, The DeVinci
Code, you name it I got it.”
“All right, can I get a play if I buy four?”
“Five for twenty all day long.”
“All right give me the Mad Flow and KDL jawns
and any three new movies.”
Ant Man passed the customer five bootlegs and
received a fresh new big face twenty.
The customer‟s whole aura changed in an instant,
and he said “Excuse me, but I‟ma need the rest of them
CDs and DVDs.”
“Whut?”
“You heard what I said,” Detective Face
commanded as he reached in his shirt to pull out his
badge attached to a chain around his neck.
“Whut da fuck?” Ant Man said as he began to
back pedal.
“Freez, police motherfucker, don‟t move.”
Ant Man‟s mind froze, but his limbs tried to flee.
But before he got into a good motion, Berry crept up
behind him, gripped him up, and slammed him to the
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hot concrete with a crashing force. Ant Man was so
shook that his shorts were filled with urine and smelly
feces when the detective picked him up off the ground.
“What the fuck is that awful, fucking smell?”
Berry blurted out.
“I don‟t know, but I think my man here probably
shited himself.”
“That‟s you, you fuckin‟ piece of shit.”
They laughed.
”We can‟t put Mr.-shit-stain in the car now can
we?”
“Hell no, let‟s take shitty up in the alley back
here…”
“Wait-wait, whut da fuck do youzzz want?” he
coped out.
“We gonna ask you one time and one time only.
Where the fuck do you cop your bootlegs from?”
“Whut, that‟s what this is about, this bootlegging
shit? Man, you should have just asked me man. Y‟all
don‟t know who I am. Shit, just call my handler,
Agent Boland at the Federal Building. Y‟all fuckin‟
up man. Y‟all blowin‟ my shit up man, fo‟ real.”
When Face got off the phone with FBI Agent
Boland, he had discovered that Ant Man was a highly
paid drug addict who worked as a top echelon,
undercover informer, the highest ranked snitch in the
FBI‟s rat program. He was working on a bank and
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check fraud case at the time the two detectives ran
across him. With permission from his handler, he gave
the detectives all the information they needed along
with identifying several photos including Jahid and
Jordan‟s photos. But they had one problem. They
were informed that even though Jahid and Jordan were
often on the scene, they never made any of the
transactions and furthermore Ant Man‟s help wouldn‟t
be allowed any further. He had work to do.
Three weeks rolled by. Tackle Berry and Crater
Face were staked out – outside of Jahid and Jordan‟s
bootlegging, operational warehouse. It was a humid
and sticky night. They sipped warm coffee and
chowed down on an assortment of pastries from
Dunkin Donuts, just waiting and watching.
The investigation led the two detectives in several
different directions, but tonight the pieces were being
put together and collaborated well.
“What you got!” Berry asked.
“Well, you know that rat we bagged on the Ave
info was good. This is where he said the majority of
the street, bootlegging hustlers cop from,” Face
claimed while pointing to a low key, decrepit building.
Face continued.
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“Furthermore in relation to that tip off, I‟m pretty
sure that‟s why Kelly died. I think she found out who
was bootlegging her shit, or maybe she was involved
and things went wrong for her,” Face said.
“I see where you going with it, because when I
went to her record company, Syndicate Records, to ask
questions, I talked to the CEO, a Mr. Boogie. By the
way, this Boogie character is a straight scumbag.
Anyway, he informed me that she wasn‟t supposed to
be in possession of that material we found in the
wreckage. The only explanation he could come up
with was bootlegging,” Berry explained.
“And the same night she died she had bailed that
punk out. She also had those CD‟s, artwork and the
bail receipt. Can‟t get a better connection than that,”
said Face.
“But, we only got hostile witnesses that will only
testify that they saw her smack him. But, also, that she
pulled off without our boy Jordan, leaving him
standing in front of the precinct. That‟s not good for
us. And to make things worse he‟s on a SEPTA
transit‟s surveillance tape getting on the subway train
eight minutes after the incident in front of the station,
giving him an alibi as to his where bouts at the time
her car was ran off the road.”
“Oh, so it was confirmed to be a hit and run?”
asked Face.
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“Definitely, an extra set of tie tracks cutting over
to her car confirmed that motive. I thought you knew
that. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Right here,” said Face.
Detective Berry looked around the vehicle. His
eyes landed on a blanket, empty Star Bucks coffee
cups, donut wrappers, and surveillance pictures.
“Damn, I can tell, ”he said.
“After the tip from our rat, I‟ve been here staked
out and our boy shows up,” Face said handing his
partner a photograph of Jordan and Jahid strolling into
the warehouse. “Bingo!”
“Fuck man, have you even been to the station to
document any of this work yet?”
“Naw, not yet, but I plan on going in tonight.”
“All right because if something happen to this
intel, we‟re fucked,” Berry noted remembering the last
big case they lost because of Face‟s overzealous
tactics.
“I know, but, now, all we got to do is make a buy,
or catch our boy Jordan red handed with some
bootlegging paraphernalia,” said Face.
At that, very moment before Face could finish his
sentence. Jordan pulled up to the warehouse under the
stealth of the night.
Crater Face pulled out his night vision
surveillance camera. He began flicking away at the
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images caught in the scope of the lens. He captured
Jordan getting out his 600 Benz and walking into the
warehouse.
“What the fuck…” were the last words Berry
uttered before the lights coming from the truck blinded
him. The sound was crashing as metal met metal head
on as a front-end truck slammed into their surveillance
car.
The mammoth size, steel forks smashed through
the front windshield stabbing Tackle Berry in the
throat and knocking Crater Face semi-unconscious.
Like a kid does a rag doll, the truck lifted the car off
the ground and headed toward the murky river as
Crater Face struggled to regain consciousness.
When the truck, carrying the car, reached the end
of the long dock, it released the car, and a loud splash
was heard when the car hit the water. The vehicle
began to sink rapidly while Crater Face banged on the
window. He had the look of certain death written
across his face.
Within minutes, the car along with the two
detectives was totally submerged under the cold, dark
waters.
Back at the warehouse, Jordan got back in his car
and pulled off. Jordan and Jihad‟s large bootlegging
operation was completely cleaned out.
There was no indication that any type of illegal
125
operation ever existed at the location. It was a set up.
With no more evidence or collaborative
information or witnesses, the state‟s case would now
run cold.
Jordan fell all the way back, and Ninie took the
reins and now controlled both operations, the
independent promoters, and the newly moved and
added bootlegging operation warehouse.
In Center City, U.S. Attorney Carol Sweeny stood
in front of a pyramid diagram of a mid-sized criminal
empire with Jordan heading the top of the chart.
She was giving instruction to a special task force of
homicide detectives and federal agents. The task force
involved Philadelphia police, the FBI, and DEA.
Their mission was to bring Jordan Major down
and fast. Killing two detectives, bad move, you made
your move now it’s my turn. Those who laugh last
laugh the best, Carol Sweeny thought as she grilled
Jordan‟s photo atop the chart.
126
MIXER
September brought in all the major music
conventions. They were popping off all over the
country, but wasn‟t anything like the International
Sound Scan Music and Arts Affair held at the
Philadelphia Convention Center located on Twelfth
and Arch Streets. It was the convention of all
conventions.
Hordes of beautiful women poured into the main
ballrooms. Every flavor you could imagine, dark
chocolate, French vanilla, butter pecan, and almond.
They all were dressed to kill and flirted heavily trying
to catch, because all the music industry‟s major
players, shot callers, movers and shakers were in full
attendance.
Jordan, Lil Big Man, Fat Bol, Mia, Jahid, Dog,
Trigger, O, and a sexy assortment of exotic looking
women were all sitting at a big, draped convention
table filled with seafood, shrimp, lobster, big,
Dungeness crab legs, mussels and clams.
The women drank mixed Hypnotic drinks, “Blue
Storm” served over ice in a rocks glass with a lemon
twist, and “Bubbles and Blue,” chilled Hypnotic and
champagne poured into a champagne flute, garnished
with a lemon twist or orange peel.
127
The men drunk Hennessy chased by ice, cold
Cristal.
“What a nice convention,” Mia blurted out
joyously.
O looked at her as if he wanted to smack the shit
out of her because the enmity has grown deep between
the childhood friends.
“What's so nice about a bunch of executive snakes
acting like they got love for the next man?” O
exclaimed.
Silence
“But in reality, they‟ll cut ya fuckin‟ throat in a
heartbeat and leave ya stinkin‟ somewhere. Ain‟t that
right, Big?” O proclaimed.
Big was puffing on a rare Dominican cigar,
exhaled and said. “This business O, ain‟t „bout
friends, it‟s „bout money. You really need to learn the
difference „tween the two.”
“I could see dat. That‟s why you hugging that
number one spot on da Billboards… right?” It‟s all
about that paper, not talent or friendships.”
“Yo, youngin‟, won‟t ya‟ll both shut da fuck up.
This ain‟t the place or time to be talkin‟ „bout that
shit,” Jordan warned them knowing there were CIs
lurking around all the time.
“Naw let dis mu‟fucka vent his hate out,” Big
said.
128
“Yeah, ok then dig this, I‟m tired of you two
muthafuckas paying for my spot.”
He was speaking to Big and Jordan.
“Youngin‟, who got the number one spot? Me,
that‟s who, me, you can‟t fuck with me, O plain and
simple.”
“Youngin‟ who can‟t fuck wit ya, naw you can‟t
fuck wit me,” O fired back.
“Well, we just gonna have to see then youngin‟.
No more, rap out the mouth. Numbers don‟t lie,” said
Big.
“From this day on, Big, it‟s on you fat mu‟fucka,”
O threatened before he got up, left the table, and
walked off with several sexy women following him.
“Since ya got all that built up bullshit off y‟all
chest, I would like to make a toast to Kelly‟s life, not
her death. May she rest in peace and she will always
live in our hearts forever,” said Fat Bol.
Everybody began to toast and mutter short,
sentimental statements. But while they were sipping
on their drinks, Mia got teary eyed and asked to be
excused.
She got up and walked to the powder room.
A few short moments later Big got up and went after
her to make sure she‟d be ok.
Fat Bol went to get some more food from the
Latin buffet, sponsored by Goyo and Jahid turned to
129
Dog.
“Yo Dog, let me introduce you to a couple of
good people you need to know in dis business,” Jahid
said while getting up already knowing Trigger and
Jordan needed to iron a few thing out.
Dog looked to Jordan for his consent.
“Go ahead young bol.”
Jordan directed his next statement to Jahid.
“But keep him away from the sharks. They can
smell fresh blood from a mile away.” Jordan knew
that a bunch of slick hustlers, con men, and gang
members ran the music industry.
“A‟ight,” Jahid agreed.
“Sup wit you my man?" Jordan said to Trigger.
“Man fuck all dat bullshit. Since you started all
this independent promotion shit, you seem to forget
who your fuckin‟ old head is, ya-meen?”
“Not you too…you,…come on man you gotta be
kiddin‟ me man. You gotta be fuckin‟ kiddin‟ me,”
Jordan said in frustration.
“Nah, youngin‟ on some real shit…” said Trigger.
“Look man, when I started this shit, it was just
me. Now, I‟m feedin‟ a lot of mu‟fuckas, especially
now that I‟m not on the front line. It‟s a lot of payouts,
everybody gotta get paid, we all gotta eat. That‟s
where I got to separate friends from business. Because
of the feds lurkin‟ around, the majors are payin‟ heavy
130
paper to keep their artists music in rotation,” said
Jordan.
“Whut, my money ain‟t good?” Trigger asked.
“Your money is always good wit me, but right
now it ain‟t enough,” Jordan replied.
“Yo, I‟m not eatin‟ the way I want wit this music
shit, youngin‟. Your boys Big and O is hoggin‟ up the
block man. They keep droppin‟ hit after hit, getting‟
all the light. Sum‟em gotta give,” Trigger concluded.
“Trigger you got more than enough paper…”
“Fuck dat. This ain‟t about the paper no more.
It‟s about me, it‟s about power.”
“Nah old head, it‟s about fame, it got you,” said
Jordan.
Trigger was now steaming because the truth
always hurt. He flagged down a tall, attractive sever.
He needed a drink. He gripped a golden bottle of Ace
of Spades off her severing tray and gave her a hundred
dollar tip.
She thanked him and sashayed off throwing an
extra switch in it.
“Trigger, it‟s like dis, my man. The rap game is
the new crack game. It‟s like rolling dice for your life,
cello, or craps, once you shake them bones and release
them shits, it‟s all one big gamble. It‟s not „bout if you
win or lose. It‟s all „bout how ya play the fuckin‟ crap
game,” Jordan continued.
131
“You finish youngin‟? Cause I see your mind is
foggy right now, ya-meen. I‟m not eatin‟ the way I
want too, too many crumb snatchers on the block.
Somebody gotta go,” Trigger warned him coldly.
Trigger stood up, towering over Jordan. “It‟s like
dis,” he said snatching Jordan‟s bottle of Cristal off the
table, throwing it smashing to the ground and replacing
it with the golden bottle of Ace of Spade. “Out wit the
old, in with the new, ya-meen.”
“Trigger, don‟t fuck wit my money.”
“Whut ya can‟t see? The shit is already in motion.
Your team at each other‟s neck scrambling over a few
million. All I gotta do is fall back and wait. The block
be clear soon enough. I need dat. I‟m tryna see dat
billionaire club early.”
Before Jordan could say another word, he noticed
Dog‟s presence.
Dog had been there, listening to the majority of
the conversation.
When Jordan turned back to Trigger, all he saw
was his back heading out the exit. He quickly turned
his attention back to Dog.
“Sup youngin‟. How long ya been standin‟
there?”
“Long enough to know that shit about to hit da
fan.”
“Listen Dog, I‟ve been grooming you for this
132
game, but a lot of bullshit comes along with dis music
biz. It‟s a dog eat dog world, real cut throat shit goes
on. These scavengers steal beats, bite lyrics, and ideas.
They‟ll fuck your bitch; get you robbed, shot, black
balled from the industry all for the love of money and
sickness of fame. So no matter whut, you gotta be
willing and ready to take a youngin‟ out to get to the
top, just like on the street. It‟s gonna come a time
when you got to hit the big man. And if you want to
be the big man, you gotta take out the biggest man who
got the block on smash, no matter who he is," said
Jordan.
Dog stood there soaking it all up, every word his
mentor had just relayed to him. It was a hard reality,
but it was true.
One by one, they all had arrived back at the table
in better spirits than when they had left.
Once everybody got back situated, Jordan
informed them that he had an announcement to make
“As of yesterday, you are now lookin‟ at the CEO
and owner of No Middle Man Records and my first
signed artist is my man Dog,” Jordan announced.
Everybody began to congratulate Jordan and Dog.
They all toasted to the new company with their drinks
and took shots of Hennessy including Dog, which
caused the group to eye him curiously. It was his first
drink in their presence. They viewed him as a young
133
boy, but Jordan saw different.
Jordan looked around at his friends and said, “And
our first label party is this weekend, Saturday night, at
my new company‟s building.”
He passed out invitations. The soft murmur among
the group was that at this party everybody who‟s
somebody is gonna be there.
Jordan let the structure of his new company nip at
the edges of his brain and he toyed with the thought of
controlling the game. For years, he had planned each
move carefully and meticulously orchestrated every
move, just like his pop Max had schooled him when
they would play chess.
Jordan gripped the neck of his champagne bottle,
tossed it up, and as he swallowed it down, he noticed
the new diverse taste, snatched it away from his lips,
looked at it, and thought, Fuckin’ Trigger… b-but dis
shit is a’ight though.
Jordan and Dog got up and left the convention
with a new mission, to get more money, power, and
respect.
134
EQUALIZER
Two days later, the meeting was short and to the
point. All head chairmen of the five major record
companies and their CEOs were present.
The
presidents of all the major distribution companies sat
with their peers around a large, mahogany conference
table.
The issue at hand was Jordan Major and his new
record company, No Middle Man Records and its total
independence.
HC, the head chairman of HRM- Hit and Run
Music, his CEO Dave Lexicon and Dapper, the CEO
of Conglomerate Entertainment, headed the mandatory
congregation.
HC was a big, 290 pounds, murderous looking
Jewish man. His pale, white skin made him look like a
dead man walking. He wore his long wavy hair pulled
back in a ponytail, and he had deep, dark, menacing
blue eyes.
“At the convention the other night these invitations
were passed out among the patrons,” HC announced
while passing out several invitations around the table.
A few moments passed before he went on. “Did any
of you sanction this?”
Silence.
“I didn‟t think so. Listen people, we cannot allow
135
independent minded companies to grow deep roots in
or around our infrastructure. Someone needs to go
have a word with this guy before things get out of
hand. We can‟t have these street animals tryna
smarting up on us.”
“I agree.” Lexicon said. He was a short, pudgy,
white man, with a big shot complex.
“I‟ll handle it,” Dapper vowed. “But we should
all consider whut this man has done for each and every
one of our companies as far as radio is concerned.”
“So what do you suggest? one of the other
members asked.
“I suggest that we don‟t interfere with his
operation as long as he agrees to deal with our
distributors on our terms,” said Dapper.
“All right, take him the message, but I‟ll expect an
answer in twenty-four hours and only one answer will
be acceptable. We all know what that is,” HC
concluded.
Outside, Lexicon caught hold of Dapper‟s white
Bentley Continental Flying Spur door before he could
shut it.
“Why the fuck the old man making deals wit
them,” asked Lexicon.
“Wit whut, those street animals?”
Dapper
136
finished angrily being black and from the same streets
as Jordan.
“It‟s business never personal, you just don‟t
forget where your loyalties lie,” Lexicon warned,
knowing that he, Dapper, and the other three CEOs had
a secret organization inside of the industry, with its
own agenda. They believed the head chairmen were
mere puppets while they foresaw the industry‟s real
future.
With that said Dapper slammed his door, started
his car, and pulled off.
137
STAND-BY
Five nights later, it was a breezy atmosphere in
the city of Philadelphia. You could feel the tension in
the air as the industry‟s elite figures were arriving at
No Middle Man Records for its grand opening party.
They were pulling up, driving, and riding in the best
of the best of the high-powered vehicles. On that
night, Bentleys and stretch limousines were the
average. Phantoms, Maseratis, and Aston Martins
were the new toys for the big boys.
Out of nowhere, Boogey drove up in a powder blue
Maybach Coup followed by O driving a jet-black
Mercedes Benz McLaren SLR. All the focus fell on
them as they got out of their exquisite rides. Before
they climbed the front steps, which led to the entrance,
they paused to have a quick chat.
Before long they both spotted Big and his CEO
Dapper looking in their direction. They all locked eye
contact, and everybody could feel the hate in the air.
Inside, the party was in full swing. There were
mountains of hors d'œuvres, uncounted cases of Ace of
Spades, Cristal, E&J Brandy, Hennessy, and Heineken.
Wax Spinner played all the latest hits, and the
party was jam packed.
Jordan was dressed in a camel color Gucci suit
and a pair of Gucci camel leather lace up shoes. He
138
sported a Cartier watch dripping with ice and a threecarat platinum pinky ring on his left wrist and hand.
He was mingling with the guests when Big and Dapper
approached him.
Big gave him a pound and they embraced for a
quick moment.
Dapper was one of those CEOs that couldn‟t settle
for the behind the scenes life. He was young, fly, and
flashy and needed to share the spotlight with all of his
artists. He was a slim, brown skin playboy with a
curly, dark fade. Tonight he wore a cream color, Italian
cut suit from his own clothing line, Dapper Don and a
pair of Cole Han Edwin cap toe crocs. He hid his eyes
behind a pair of Emporio Armani sunglasses when he
spoke to Jordan.
“Jordan, I need to holler at you for a minute,
playboy.”
“Sup, youngin‟?”
Dapper turned to Big and said, “Big, let me have a
minute with your man here.”
“Yeaa, a‟ight, I holler at y‟all later. Then again
it‟s so many honeys in here t‟night, I might holler at
y‟all cats tomorrow.” Big congratulated Jordan one
last time then strolled away to mingle with the live
women.
“You want a drink?” Jordan asked.
“Yeah, I can use one right „bout now playboy.”
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They walked over to the bar and ordered two
mixed drinks. The barmaid mixed them two incredible
hulks chilled over ice; they drank in silence for a
moment.
“Sup youngin‟, ya said you needed to holler at
me,” Jordan spoke first.
“Yeaa, I was sent to bring you a message.”
“From who?”
“From, the very top.”
“Whuts da message?”
“My associates aren‟t too happy wit whut ya
tryna do here. They say ya getting‟ real greedy. Word
is that your company is set up to handle everything inhouse including distribution.
Nobody getting a
percentage nothin‟… not a good idea. Look man, you
can‟t do business like dat.”
“What da …”
“Hold up Jordan, I worked a deal out for you.”
“You worked a deal for me?” Jordan said trying
to stay calm.
“Yeah all you got to do is let one of our
distributors move your product.”
“Never. When I was risking‟ my freedom
pressing‟ these radio stations for every fuckin‟ major
record company in the business, did y‟all complain
then? Fuck no, not once. You know why, because
nobody wanted to go down for a federal payola beef. I
140
got the feds up my ass. Now y‟all gonna try to fuckin‟
extort me?”
“Extort you? Man fuck dat. A few years back
when my fuckin‟ trucks full of kickbacks disappeared
and my fuckin‟ artists‟ music got bootlegged, your
name got whispered often. But, I never came at you
out of respect. But, right now my hands are tied on
this one, playboy, and out of respect for me, take the
deal playboy. You-can‟t win,” said Dapper.
“Win, youngin‟. I was born to win!”
“Calm down playboy, I brought you the message,
and they want an answer in twenty-four.”
“Dig dis, youngin‟, I got my answer now. Tell
them to go and fuck off somewhere.”
“You‟re makin‟ a big mistake.”
“No, they‟re makin‟ a bigger mistake fuckin‟ wit
me,” said Jordan.
Dapper, feeling saltier than ocean water, walked
away without another word said.
Jordan finished his drink, then went back to
hosting his party and began enjoying himself.
Dog slid up on his boss and spoke with him in a
low tone. Then Jordan headed towards the stage. He
passed the reporters that were situated near the front;
he took the stage and grabbed the mic.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies and gentlemen, thank y‟all
all for comin‟ to my company‟s grand opening party.
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But, right now, it ain‟t „bout me no more. It‟s all „bout
my man, my artist, I would like to introduce to y‟all
the next best thing, Dog.”
Dog hit the stage dressed in a pair of blue Red
Monkey jeans and a white Versace button up shirt. His
right wrist supported an iced out platinum bracelet and
the left, a platinum, presidential Rolex watch dripping
with white and black diamonds, all rented from Jacob
the Jeweler. He stepped to the mic wearing black
Timberland boots and gripped the mic.
“Before we get started here tonight…” At that
moment Fat Joe‟s hit single “Make it Rain” featuring
Lil‟ Wayne came banging through the speakers. The
ceiling seemed to open up as money rained down over
the crowd‟s heads.
Dog‟s young dancers took the stage freaking all
the latest dances including the Chicken Noodle Soup,
with a Soda on the side, joint. Dog began throwing
stacks of greenbacks into the crowd, which was now in
a frenzy. After a few minutes of the song, Dog moved
to the front of the stage and got into to a b-boy stance
and basked in the roar of the crowd for a long moment,
then broke into his soon to be hit, remixed song “FTC
For Life.”
The beat caught the hearts and souls of the
listeners, and then Dog started to flip his lyrics like a
young pro. Everybody was feeling the young bol.
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Women were shaking their asses crazy. Even the hard,
rock thugs were bopping their heads. They all were
jamming. Jordan was sitting back soaking it all up and
loving it like a shot of soft sweet pussy.
The showcase and partying went on into the wee
hours of the next morning before people started to
leave.
Outside, Trigger was laying in the cut, waiting and
watching as the party‟s patrons filed out of No Middle
Man‟s grand opening. He was sitting in a black, tinted
out Cadillac STS-V.
Like clockwork, O and Boogie walked out the
building‟s exit and descended the steps. When they
reached the bottom, a black Grand Cherokee Jeep spun
the corner. The thugs in the jeep opened fire with
Mack .11s and AKs.
O and Boogie got caught up in a hail storm of
bullets, and the scene became crazy.
People were running, ducking, dodging the
instruments of death, trying desperately to get out the
line of fire.
The driver quickly increased his speed and the
thugs sped away from the scene.
Once Boogie got his composure back, he looked
up to see O laid out on the ground, motionless, in a
143
pool of blood. Boogie scrambled his big frame over
where O got hit and lifted his head onto his knees.
That‟s when Boogie felt the pain exploded in his own
arm; he ignored it because O was in much worse
condition.
O was fading in and out, coughing up thick blood,
but he was still trying his best to speak.
“L-listen.”
“Whut?” Boogie asked
“L-listen.”
“A‟ight, a‟ight.”
“Did it.”
“Who? Who did dis to you?”
Boogie put his head down close to O‟s bloody,
foamy mouth to hear what he was trying to say. He
looked back up and searched the gathering crowd.
When his eyes fell on Big and Dapper, everyone could
see the look of death in his eyes.
O began jerking wildly as he succumbed to his
gunshot wounds until death seized him.
Trigger calmly pulled out of the cut and slowly
drove off and left the scene.
By the time the paramedics arrived, O was long
gone. The paramedics and the coroner pronounced
him DOA right there on the scene.
144
DEMO
The next night, Trigger and his right-hand man
Dane were totting on a blunt filled with hydro and
passing a bottle of Armadel back and forth.
Trigger pulled Dane and Noop in, and they
formed Rock Solid Records. They sold their souls to
the devil when they got in bed with Dave Lexicon.
Lexicon was known to have his own hidden agenda
when it can to running HRM and the music industry.
Dane was a cock diesel, light-brown skin brother, who
loved to drink and dress fly. He stood at five-nine and
weighed in at 200 pounds even. He had the gift of gab
and used it to his and the company‟s advantage, but in
this case, there was a growing web of deception.
Trigger had planted the seeds of revenge, and
things were running according to plan.
“Shit man, since dat youngin‟ O got hit up,
Boogie thinkin‟ Big and Dapper had sum‟em to do wit
dat, ya-meen?”
“Yeah, thanks to my young jawn Kim putting that
bug in O‟s ear the other night at Jordan‟s grand
opening,” said Trigger laughing.
“Now Boogie gonna be out for blood like a
mu‟fucka.”
“Huh, a war between Syndicate and
Conglomerate, sounds good ta me ya-meen, whut „bout
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you?”
“Shit, with them at war you can creep up on the
charts, and eventually we‟ll take the game over.”
“As soon as they go through it, everybody is
gonna have to choose sides‟ ya-meen. Jordan will get
pulled into it.”
“Fuck‟em.”
“Then it will be an all out war in the industry and
on the streets, ya-meen?”
“Right, and all we got to do is fall back and collect
the spoils of war, ya feel me.”
“Dane, you take care of that other thing wit dat
little bitch?”
“You know it, man, once I told Crown fat ass,
how he had that super head giver right under his nose,
you should have saw his fat ass run up outta the club to
go fine Mia‟s pretty ass. He had it fucked up. He said
that he thought she was bumping kittens with bitches
exclusively. I‟m like naw, youngin‟, she give good
head.”
“Shit, word is, Super Fly is in love wit dat young
pussy, but she feeling some type way because she
made Mia a flyin‟ star, now Mia got her ass up in the
air for all to kiss, ya-meen? Plus Super Fly be
houndin‟ dat pussy, but Mia tryna square up on her
now that she got what she wanted. She fucked and
sucked her way to the top.”
146
“Yeaa, Super Fly was fuckin‟ that little bitch for a
second right.”
“Right, but you know how dat shit goes, ya-meen.”
Silence.
“Dane?”
“Whut up?”
“When dat bol O funeral again?”
“A couple days from now, I think the day after
tomorrow.”
“Yeaa, you know whut ta do… I got another seed
to plant. I‟ma give our main man Boogie a call, yameen.”
The side of Trigger‟s face lit up blue because of
the blue screen from his Motorola Razor cell phone.
The sound rung in his ear before Boogie clicked on.
“… whut!”
“Boogie.”
“Yeah, whut?”
“Man, the street is talkin‟.”
“No shit, I‟ve been hearin‟ the whispers.”
“Da streets talkin‟ „bout Big and Dapper in
connection wit your man O, ya-meen?”
“I‟ve been hearin‟ the different angles.”
“Streets talkin‟ „bout you might even had sum‟em
to do wit dat. Youngins say dat O was tryna leave
Syndicate, start his own shit, you wasn‟t havin‟ it.”
“Trigger! Whut da fuck you talkin‟ about?”
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“Youngin‟ I ain‟t talkin‟ nothing. You gotta
rectify dis shit, ya-meen.”
“Whut ya think I‟m gonna…”
“Man fuck dat, I‟m keep it real wit ya. Youngin‟
the streets talkin‟ „bout you getting‟ a bit soft and shit,
ya-meen.”
“Fuck you and fuck all them bitch mu‟fuckas.”
Boogie responded with venom.
“This ain‟t me sayin‟…”
“Click!”
Trigger was cut off mid-sentence. Boogie banged
in his ear.
„Whut he say?” Dane asked.
“He said he was gonna rip somebody a new ass
hole,” Trigger said laughing.
148
ON
Several days had passed since O’s shooting death.
It was a dim, rainy day, but the turnout at O‟s funeral
was respectfully good. All his family, friends, and
music industry figures came to pay their last respects
to the fallen soldier.
As O‟s funeral was ending, it happened to fast and
unexpected for anyone to react.
Five black Grand Cherokees Jeeps pulled up and
came to a screeching halt, and a death-squad of
masked gunmen jumped out and began firing
Performer 990 sub-machine guns.
All hell broke loose, the crowd dispersed;
innocent people were getting gunned down, bullets cut
through the air harshly searching for targets.
Jordan, Fat Bol, Jahid, and Boogie moved into
action, pulled out steel and returned hot metal. The
masked assassins had the jump on them. They were
pinned down behind a mass of tombstones as bullets
broke chunks away from the concrete shields.
Jordan quickly took aim and let off three rounds
catching one of the gunmen square in the face. Upon
seeing the gunman go down, and Jordan bussing back,
now crouched on one knee, Fat Bol‟s adrenalin began
pumping rapidly. He sprung to his feet and rushed
towards the gunmen, busting his gun fiendishly, like a
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mad man.
“Take dat sun,” he barked. He took another
masked man out, but blinded by rage he didn‟t see it
until it was too late as he caught hot ones on his chest.
His gun flew out his hand when he grabbed his chest
while crashing to the dirt. His body went numb.
The shootout lasted for several more minutes
before the masked gunmen decided to cut their losses,
scooped their dead partners, jumped back in the still
running jeeps, and sped off.
Jordan and Jahid ran over to Fat Bol to see if he
was still alive. Jordan crouched over him to inspect
the damage. He was hit up bad. Jordan shook him
violently,
“Wake the fuck up, don‟t die on me
mu‟fucka…”
In the distance, sirens could be heard shrilling
through the air getting closer.
“Yo, stash the hammers,” Jordan told Jahid.
Jahid gripped up all the illegal guns his squad had
and faded off, jumped into his dark-green Spyker C8
Spyder and drove away calmly.
Once the police and paramedics reached the scene,
they rushed over to Fat Bol, checked him out. “We got
a pulse!” They secured him on a stretcher, placed him
in the back of the ambulance, and raced off quickly.
Two hours later, at Generation Hospital, the
150
surgeon walked out into the waiting area and said,
“He‟s going to make it.”
“Can we see‟ em now?” asked Jordan.
“No, not right now, he really needs to rest. He‟s
in critical but stable condition. He‟ll get better. He‟s a
strong young man.”
“I‟m concerned „bout his safety,” Jordan said.
“You have nothing to worry about. He‟s on a
heavily guarded floor. He‟ll be safe. You all need to
go home and get some rest. Check back tomorrow.
He should be in better shape.”
Right at that moment Big came bursting through
the emergency waiting room doors, brushed by
everybody, moved straight to Jordan, gripped him up
by his suit jacket, lifting him off his feet, slamming
him against the wall and said, “What the fuck is goin‟
on, Jordan?”
“Mu‟fucka, you should be askin‟ your boss
Dapper,” Jordan shouted, grabbing Big‟s hands,
breaking his grip. Jahid and Mia broke up the
confrontation.
Mia screamed “What the hell is all this bullshit,
what are y‟all takin‟ about?”
“At my grand opening party the other night,
Dapper threatened to shut down my label because the
big five, (The five major record companies) are mad
they‟re not getting‟ their slimy hands on none of my
151
business and money. And as we all know,” he turned
to Big, “that you and O was at each other necks,” said
Jordan.
“But you know I wouldn‟t …”
Mia rushed Big and began wilding out on him.
Big wrapped her in his big arms and massive chest and
let her get it all out her system, not saying a word.
Boogie played the shadows before he slithered off
into the cuts. He texted a quick and quiet message into
his Black Berry, before he slid back past the
emergency room waiting area, where they were, still in
a heated discussion. Because there were so many
people in the hospital and so much confusion, nobody
even noticed that Boogie had come or was now
leaving. He slipped past everybody, left the hospital,
jumped in his 2007 Jaguar XKR coupe convertible,
and raced off.
Back inside a calm fell over the hospital.
Everybody came to the mutual agreement that it was
best just go home, get some rest, and wait.
Outside, Jordan, Mia, Big, and Jahid were walking
down the hospital steps talking.
“It‟s a lot of strange shit goin‟ on right now,”
152
Jahid claimed.
“Ya right, I think Dapper, and the big five is
behind all dis madness,” Jordan added
“Whut! Whut about you? Whut about Boogie?
“Every since O got killed, youngin‟ been lookin‟
at me sideways,” Big hissed.
“Both of y‟all talkin‟ real crazy right now. Y‟all
blinded by anger. Y‟all can‟t see or think straight right
now. The powers that be are pitting us against each
other. This shit ain‟t start here. This shit goes back to
slavery, the jealousy, envy and hate is deep rooted.
Y‟all need to look at the people who are in control of
the industry that attempted to guide our music, life, and
culture. If y‟all didn‟t notice, it isn‟t us, black people.
Silence.
“I feel ya shortie, but it can go either way. The
majors could be behind this, but they wouldn‟t shoot
up O’s funeral because too many of their
moneymakers were there. Boogie, on the other hand,
could be behind this bullshit because he‟s thinkin‟ that
Dapper had sum‟em to do wit O‟s death. But he was
getting‟ bucked at too at O’s funeral, it could have
been an act but I doubt it,” said Jahid.
“And just say that we are wrong „bout all this, that
would leave somebody else… but who?”
Mia asked, “Well, where is Boogie? I could have
swore I saw him around here somewhere earlier.”
153
“Whut,” they all snapped simultaneously.
They all paused and looked at each other for some
type of confirmation. No one remembered seeing
Boogie come or go.
Out of thin air, a large entourage of thugs rode up
on black Ninjas ZX11 motorcycles. The sounds
coming from the engines were deafening and
sickening. They opened fire with so much firepower
you would had thought it was New Year‟s Eve or the
Fourth of July.
Jordan grabbed Mia out of the line of fire and hit
the deck. He pulled out a P.89 automatic, but he
couldn‟t get off a shot because he was pinned down
behind a pillar situated in front of the hospital.
Jahid and Big tried their best to duck the bullet
storm, but Big‟s heavy body wasn‟t quick enough.
Consequently, he caught a hail of bullets from a
gunman‟s Uzi in his chest. It exploded as his body
spun to its death; blood splattered the wall and glass
doors. His body hit the concrete steps hard and
tumbled down until the pavement halted it. A pool of
blood quickly formed and death overtook Big in front
of a place that is made to save lives.
Jahid pulled himself together, gripped his Lima
tightly, pointed it at the entourage of thugs, and began
squeezing off round after round.
154
He caught them off guard, because they had
already killed the man they came for. They scrambled
back to their vehicles and road off into the sunset just
as fast as they came.
155
OFF
The fourth quarter came quickly, October, and
through all the drama Jordan was determined not to let
it affect Dog‟s release date because Dog, now
seventeen, was ready to do his thing.
Even though the fog of war hung thick over the
city of Philly, Jordan began to run No Middle Man
Records with an iron fist. Awaiting the repercussion,
he braced himself, ready to fight the dangerous
corporate entities.
No Middle Man Records‟ street team was out in
full force on Ogontz Avenue. They all sported leather
and suede jackets with the company‟s logo embedded
on the back with their individual names stitched on the
front, left chest area. They numbered thirty-seven.
The street team was promoting Dog‟s debut album
titled Get In Where You Fit In. They were hanging
flyers, posters, and applying stickers to any surface
that would support them. They were also passing out
free promotional paraphernalia, bumper stickers,
buttons, hats, t-shirts and sampler CDs and records.
Suddenly in the midst of a great promotional day,
a convoy of vehicles, motorcycles, cars, and jeeps,
appeared on the scene and the windows slowly came
down, GDK's Appetizer five came blaring out the car
speaker.
156
Silence, no movement, everything froze.
The street team finally saw the face of the
deadliest, local thug from West Oak Lane-Storm. He
had been known to mingle with the big five‟s bigwigs
in the industry, mainly as an illegal bodyguard and
hired gun. He had a vicious reputation for going hard
and putting in death work.
At six-one, he was a creepy figure that wore his
hair in dreadlocks. He dressed in dark-green army
fatigues and sported black Oakley shades to hide his
bloodshot red, beady eyes. His skin was rough and
black as the streets. He was a real life hater, and his
whole demeanor was fucked up.
Storm looked at the street team‟s work, smirked,
and gave his thug a signal with his gloved hand. All of
them pulled out strange, but dangerous looking guns
and took aim. Everybody panicked and tried to either
run or take cover.
The manager of the street team, Big Nickels, and
Dog‟s right hand man Shiz were not chumped, so they
stood there and stared Storm right in his face getting a
good look at him.
The thugs opened fire crazily, but all that came
from the weird looking guns were paintballs.
They destroyed ten-hours of hard work in minutes.
Storm and his squad rode off laughing and
shooting paintballs up and down Ogontz Avenue.
157
Moments later, Big Nickels was sitting in the
backseat of a promotional wrapped jeep with Dog‟s
face and album cover on it. He dialed a number,
listened to it ring, and then spoke into his cellphone.
“Jordan, it‟s on. Storm and‟em just paintballed
all the fuckin‟ work we put in t‟day.”
Big Nickels listened for a brief moment before
disconnecting the call and rolling out.
158
SET
On the other side of town, Jordan sat in his
enormous office, behind his black all marble desk
trimmed in chrome. His new office was furnished with
black leather and chrome furniture. The floor was a
mixture of black and gray granite, and his art
collection was sick. The walls were covered with a
half-dozen Picassos, Leger, and Brogues.
He had been on some next level shit lately,
splurging a bit. He figured you only live once. With
money, comes respect and with respect comes power.
He just hung up with Big Nickels, let what he just
heard play on his mind for a moment, and then placed
the call. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Ninie, I want you to call a meeting with your
team. As of today, nobody is to accept no money or
promote none of the big five labels or distributors, or
any companies associated with their conglomerate.
Also, all of your managers are to start their own
independent labels under your company‟s umbrella
today! Sign, then promote your own artists, you got
dat?”
“Yup,” Ninie said already knowing who her first
artist would be, her beloved nephew little Jordan Jr.
Jordan disconnected the call, sat back in his chair
and thought, Storm huh, I remember dat mu’fucka.
159
He’s down wit the big five. It gotta be them cowards.
The buzz from the intercom jarred him from his
thoughts.
Jordan pressed the TALK BOTTON, but it was too
late as Trigger walked though the big oak doors to his
office.
“Mr. Major you got somebody coming…”
“I know, don‟t worry, by the way, you‟re fired!
Get your shit and get the fuck outta here.”
“I would have fired the bitch too. It‟s too easy to
get to ya back here, ya-meen. You got to step your
security game up around dis jawn, ya-meen.” Trigger
warned him pulling out two Cohiba cigars. He clipped
off the butts, lit both, and passed Jordan one.
Trigger took a seat and noticed that Jordan had a
fresh, chilled bottle of Ace of Spades opened, sitting
on his desk.
“I see you do still take heed to some of the shit I
be tellin‟ ya,” He said looking at the golden bottle.
“Youngin‟, your word is still good wit me. In
fact, your lyrics are even better. Word on the streets
and industry is dat you the best lyricist in the game
right now,” said Jordan.
“Yeaa, man, I‟m just pickin‟ up where O and Big
left off at, you know trying to see a Billy – Billion ,
ya-meen…shit wit Dog on my heels, they got him at
second all the way around the board. The best new
160
thing since ice grills and candy paint.”
“Whut „bout the bol NJ?”
“Well, ya know the hood argues all day „bout
who‟s da best, Trigger, Dog or NJ, ya-meen.”
“Yeah, I know, I got my ears to the street.”
“Yo, what I really come to holler at ya „bout, is
how the big five is tryna come at ya.”
“Fuck‟em. It‟s nothin‟ I can‟t handle.”
“Youngin‟ I told you before you got into dis shit,
it‟s a cut-throat biz. The rap game is just like the crack
game remember, and when cats don‟t fall in line wit
the majors, that‟s when shit happenin‟ like frozen
budgets, deals fizzling out, joint ventures not
materializing, artists getting shelved, dropped and
blackballed. Then these dumb ass youngins‟ look at
the next man like he‟s responsible, but all along it‟s the
majors playin‟ youngins‟ like the puppets they are. So
now, we got youngins‟ beefing and hating over small
shit.
Youngins‟ in the game don‟t want ta see the next
black man come up, ya-meen. Can you explain
sum‟em to me? Why don‟t you see rock stars beefing,
country, R&B, Latin, hun…nobody but young black
mu‟fuckas. Dis shit make me sick, a bunch of bitches,
little girls. So I said fuck it, when I see these mu‟fucka
beefing over faggot shit, I knock‟em off, ya-meen.
Get‟ em the fuck outta here.”
161
“Sup, Trigger whut you telling me?”
“Man, fuck what I‟m tryin‟ tell you…you ain‟t
listening. If one of these industry youngins‟ jump out
there with ya, burn his ass up. Knock him the fuck off,
fuck keepin‟ it on wax.”
“Sup, youngin‟, that‟s how you been carrying it?”
“Yeaa.”
“I hear whut ya sayin‟… but I got one thing to tell
ya old head. If I find out you‟re the one behind all
these bodies droppin,‟ ya not gonna be safe around
here no more.”
“Young bol, are you threatenin‟ me?”
“Naw, I‟m not threatenin‟ you, I‟m promisin‟ ya.”
“Yeaa, promises are made to be broken, yameen.” Trigger snuffed out his Cohiba cigars,
snatched the bottle of Ace of Spade off Jordan‟s desk,
and strolled out the office.
162
OPEN
Ever since Dane hipped Crown to Mia’s head
game, she‟s been holding Crown‟s mic more than the
recording booth microphone.
Crown had Mia‟s hair wrapped around his hand
double time, as he stuffed his dick in her mouth rapidly
and bussed off on her tonsils.
The studio lights were dim, as Jay-Z's hit single
“Song Cry” played low in the background.
Crown was in the process of zipping up his
Akademiks jeans as he walked out the studio‟s lounge
area to find Super Fly standing there with a dangerous
look in her eyes.
“What up, Soop?”
“Noth‟n.”
“Damn, whut the fuck is wit you?”
“Nont‟n.”
“A‟ight, then I need you to handle dat session in
there for me. The beat is already loaded up and ready
ta go,” He said and then bounced.
Super Fly been straight tripping over Mia. She
only bumped kittens with her one more time after the
first night when she slipped her the ecstasy. She was
now madly in love with her and obsessed with getting
that pussy again. She gave her everything she wanted,
but Mia using her best hold out skills to get what she
163
wanted, now has pushed Super Fly over the edge of
lust, lies, and deception.
Super Fly walked in the studio to find Mia
straightening her clothes and wiping her mouth. She
settled behind the recording consoles and spoke into
the mic.
“You ready!”
Mia jumped out of her skin, startled; not realizing
Super Fly was in there.
“Y-yeah, damn you scared the shit out of me.”
“Whatever, you ready?”
With that, Super Fly started the track, and Mia
stepped to the mic and began to sing. Right off the bat,
she was having a hard time getting started.
Super Fly stopped the track cold. “Whut the fuck
is up.”
“I don‟t know my throat…”
“Is filled wit cum,” Super Fly said under her
breath.
“What?”
“Nothin‟. Let‟s get this shit done.”
Mia continued to have a hard time getting her
vocals to flow right with the track.
Fed up, Super Fly deaded the music and walked
into the recording booth with Mia.
“You gotta breathe out and hold the same note at
the bridge part…”
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“I know what I‟m doing,” Mia spat nastily.
“If ya did sis, we would be finished by now bitch,
stop singing the fuck off key.”
Mia tried again, this time acappella, but still
couldn‟t seem to get it right.
Super Fly tried to rub her fingers through Mia‟s
cornrows.
“Don‟t worry baby girl. It‟s gonna be a‟ight.”
Mia‟s cat eyes turned to slits as she snatched her
head away. “I told you before, I‟m not your baby, and
I don‟t get down like that anymore.”
Super Fly grew furious and backhand slapped the
shit out of Mia across her pretty face.
Mia hit the floor and held the pain with her hand.
Super Fly stood over her screaming.
“Bitch! I made you into the superstar that you are.
Bitch, I made you and I‟ll surely break you.”
Mia was looking up at her with hate in her eyes.
“Get away from me you butch.”
Super Fly lost it. She began to tear away at Mia‟s
clothes trying to rape her.
Mia was fighting back furiously and managed to
get to her feet and run out of the studio. Her clothes
were ripped, and tears flowed down her face.
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At Mia‟s condominium, she was in her plush
room throwing clothes in one of her Louis Vuiton
suitcases. She felt it was time to take a long trip to get
away from the situation with Crown and Super Fly.
Crown constantly wanted his dick sucked, but
neglected to give her any hit records.
Super Fly had been continually harassing and
stalking Mia, and now she felt as though it was getting
dangerous even deadly. Ever since she bumped kittens
with her, Super Fly has been chasing her down for
another taste of that sweet pussy like a crack fiend
chases that first blast.
It was all good when she was fucking her way
through the industry, but now Super Fly felt like she
owed her something, and it was time to collect.
From her upbringing as an army brat, she had to
constantly give the pussy up to get what she wanted or
stop from being hurt. The older boys used to catch her
and rape and sodomize her when their soldier parents
were out in the fields for weeks at a time. Her father
never found out, and she wouldn‟t tell him out of fear
of what the big boys would do to her the next time. So
now as a grown woman she would use sex to
temporarily pacify her predators. But at this point
Super Fly was out for blood.
Mia rushed out of her building with her Black
Berry pressed to her ear. She punched the UNLOCK
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for her trunk and door locks, the trunk flew
open, she slammed her suitcase in, closed it back, took
a quick look around, jumped in her Lemon yellow
Ferrari F 430 Spider, and raced off.
The watchful eyes of the enemy grew weary from
waiting and watching. As they caught sight of their
target‟s attempt to flee, satisfaction grew deep inside
the eyeball. The call was made. “Make it look like an
accident” And the trap was set.
BOTTON
167
TUNER
Forty minutes later at the Philadelphia
International Airport, a black GV Gulf stream was
warming up in a private hanger belonging to Crown
and Super Fly Production Company.
Moments later Mia came rushing in the hanger.
She found the GV ready and climbed the few steps to
board the expensive jet.
Inside the jet, Mia settled in, grabbed a bottle of
FIJI water, and told the pilot to “Get going.”
“Just a minute young lady, I‟m waiting for my copilot. He‟s running late, but we should still take off on
schedule,” he said as he walked into the cockpit.
He settled behind the controls, and seconds later, a
co-pilot stepped aboard carrying a big, black duffel
bag. He paused to look at Mia and then continued to
the cockpit. Once the co-pilot entered the cockpit, the
pilot looked at him, then did a double take, and said,
“Hey, where‟s my usual co-pilot, Mike, at?”
“The only thing I really know is that the record
company called me and said they needed a last minutes
substitute for an emergency flight, I needed the money,
so here I am. They said the other co-pilot came down
with the twenty-four hour flu or some shit like that.”
“Well, that‟s not unusual; nothin‟ is unusual when
you‟re dealing with these renegade record companies.
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It‟s always some emergency, last minute shit going
on.”
“You ain‟t never lie.”
“Well, anyway, my name is Paul,” the pilot said
extending his hand out to shake the mysterious copilot‟s hand.
“My name is Sam, nice to meet you,” Sam said
shaking the pilot Paul‟s hand.
“Well, let‟s get air born before little momma have
a prissy fit,” Paul said laughing.
They taxied across the tarmac past a small fleet of
Gulf Streams GIV and GVs and several one and dual
engine airplanes that were tied down. They reached
the end of the runway, paused for a moment, made a
slight turn, and moved down the runway. The jet
picked up speed, moving faster and faster, and then
shot down the runway at lightning speed until the
engines hurled the jet into the air. It was a successful
take off.
When the jet leveled out, the pilot put the jet on
autopilot and began to relax a bit.
The co-pilot knew it was time to do what he really
was getting paid for and that wasn‟t to fly a plane. He
got up and said, “I gotta use the bathroom, be right
back.”
He started out the cockpit, but quickly turned back
towards the pilot. He chopped the pilot hard on the
169
side of his neck, and the pilot slouched over the
controls unconscious. He rushed over to his black
duffel bag, took out a black, flight jump suit with a
built-in parachute.
In a matter of seconds, he was fully dressed. He
took the jet off autopilot, opened the cockpit door,
rushed out, made his way to the jet‟s hatch, and pulled
it open, waved at Mia, and jumped out the Gulf
Stream.
Mia was in total shock by what she couldn‟t
believe she just saw. She let out one last piercing
scream before fainting with a horrifying look on her
face as the jet began to fall to the earth.
While the co-pilot was falling rapidly towards the
ground, he looked over his shoulder to see the jet going
down. He pulled the ripcord to his chute as the GV
crashed into an open field as planned. On the ground,
he ran over to a dirt road where a black H-2 Hummer
was waiting for him. He climbed in the truck, and it
rode away into the night.
170
TAPE
Several short miles away from the airport, at
the Philadelphia‟s First Union Center, Dog was
rocking a sold out crowd. He was dressed in a pair of
dark blue Evisu jeans, blue Evisu sweatshirt, a Trucker
hat, a white, crisp pair of Air Force Ones, and a
lightning bright chain with white and black diamond
studded Jesus pendant from Jacob the Jeweler.
The crowd went bananas when he began to flip his
new hits, especially his bona fide street anthem “From
the Hood to Hollywood” off his number one album,
Get In Where You Fit In. Dog was known to spit
authentic, vivid urban stories, the kind street lit authors
write about. Dog took Jordan‟s advice long ago, found
his niche, and ran with it.
The atmosphere was one hundred percent Hip
Hop all the way. Weed smoke filled the air, teenage
girls and women were dancing seductively popping the
pussy and dropping it like it‟s hot, youngins were
getting too hyped and fighting, and true playboys were
drinking and macking honeys all night.
Then at the very height of Dog‟s performance, the
music was cut off in mid-flow.
The sound crew hurriedly did a quick equipment
check to find out someone had sabotaged the show.
Dog tried to calm the crowd as they began to grow
171
impatient and angry.
Then right on key out of nowhere, a large arsenal
of guns was squeezed off into the overhead rafters.
Pandemonium broke out, and the crowd scattered in all
directions. It was a stampede, people were falling all
over the place, patrons were getting kicked in the face,
and bodies were getting trampled on.
Once security brought the madness under control,
nine people lay dead in the venue, and many more
were injured.
HC and Dave Lexicon sat across from each other,
a big marble and steel table held their drinks, Scotch
on the rocks, and Dominican cigars rolled by a master
roller.
Lexicon‟s pudgy frame was dressed casually in a
Geoffrey Beene dress shirt and dark slacks while HC
chilled in a big, long, white robe made of Thai silk to
cover his large frame, and a pair of very expensive
leather and suede Versace slip-ons.
They were both eyeing the big forty-two inch,
high definition, flat screen TV that was mounted on the
far wall of the company‟s loft. The eleven o‟clock
news had their undivided attention as a newsreel,
played a close-up of the newswoman broadcasting the
evening news.
172
“In tonight‟s news, we have two very
disturbing occurrences that will surly
rock the music world and fans as well.
Around nine PM tonight, the beautiful
songbird Mia was killed in a jet crash.
The jet she was flying in took off from
the Philadelphia International Airport at
about eight-thirty.
Within minutes,
something went terribly wrong, and her
jet went down. The FAA suspects foul
play. We‟ll bring you more on the
crash as the story continues to unfold.
This is a very tragic night indeed; No
Middle Man Records recording artist
Dog was in the middle of a show at the
First Union Center when gunfire
erupted which caused a stampede.
Several people are believed to have died
and many injured.
More on these stories later…‟
HC clicked off the TV, sat back in his recliner
chair, loving all the drama. He spoke to Lexicon.
“See I told you all we have to do is give some of
these niggers some money and fame and give the other
niggers nothing and they‟ll kill each other off faster
173
than the speed of sound.”
“You‟re right big guy.” This clown so stupid I
could piss on his head and tell him it’s raining. I’m
behind all this drama. Me muthafucka, me, Lexicon
thought to himself.
Dog pulled up on Walnut Lane pushing a snow
white Mercedes-Benz CLS.55 AMG with three piece
P. Miller 504 wheels on it, chrome-polished, banging
GDK‟s Validation‟s single “Holler Back.” He found
parking and maneuvered in quickly. He jumped out
wearing a black, low-key Dickie jumpsuit, a pair of
black; hi top Air Force Ones, a black New Era 59
Fifty‟ Phillies fitted hat, twisted backwards and a dark
blue, leather Pelle Pelle jacket. He was drinking on a
bottle of kiwi strawberry Formula 50 Vitamin Water.
Dog took a seat on the steps where his squad has
hustled and chilled for years now. He was a member
of FTC (Fuck The Cops). His squad is thirty members
deep and growing, all young bucks, with a couple of
old head advisers.
It was consistently a lot of activity on the block.
Most of the members lived on the two-way street.
Around the clock, young boys would be selling drugs coke, weed, and powder, gambling and kicking it to
young hood rats from around the way. Young bucks
174
would pull up in the latest whips with the hottest rims
and crack heads would be in the alley getting their ass
whooped for creeping packs and doing chronic,
smoker shit.
Dog was one of the smallest dudes out of his
team, but he was eating good lately and got his weight
up. He now stood at five-nine and weighed in at a
buck-fifty. His braids had grown long, and he had a
light mustache on his light skin face.
Ms. Minnie, who lived on the block, was getting
out her Cadillac STS when several FTC members
rushed to her car to help with her groceries. When she
noticed Dog sitting on her steps, she said while
chewing on her gum, “Dog! What are you doin‟ back
around here hanging‟ with these bad asses?”
“C‟mon Ms. Minnie, I can‟t forget where I came
from, it keeps me grounded.”
“A-hen, well, as long as you don‟t ruin your
career, I guess its a‟ight. But don‟t be out here too
long.”
“A‟ight, Ms. Minnie.”
With that, Ms. Minnie climbed her steps and went
in her house. She wasn‟t into rap music and didn‟t
follow Dog‟s career closely. If she had, she would
have known that his career was at its height.
Dog had been blowing up like crazy. He had been
rocking bigger and bigger venues. His face graced the
175
cover of the top magazines. His music was climbing
the Billboard chart nonstop. He and Trigger were in
constant battle for the top spots. Awards, shows,
checks, cars, and women, it was a rocket ride to the
top. But no matter how much he blew, he never forgot
to drop off that fateful briefcase of money to his man
Shiz, who controlled the distribution to his FTC crew.
And he always blessed Fat Bol, who was back in the
hood, knee deep in the game, after the shooting. He
been dropped from his label because he couldn‟t
produce, but Dog kept him straight. Dog been keeping
it real with himself and the hood.
However, in another part of the city a deadly
meeting was in progress. HC, Dapper, the big five
head chairmen and all the members who favored HC‟s
idea of organizing a new powerful union, sat around a
corporate size conference table.
HC opened the meeting by saying, “As you all
know this scumbag Jordan Major and his team of
indies have cut our lines to radio and they have started
too goddamn many independent record companies,
which isn‟t good because it threatens our plans to have
one major multi-media conglomerate control
everything in this industry by us. He thinks he can
open up shop on our block, in our world and not pay us
one red cent. But we all know that no member here
including myself wants to deal directly with the radio
176
stations, period. We all know that the Feds are
definitely onto the payola game.”
Why don‟t we use other indies?” Dapper asked.
“Because all the major independent promoters
and national promoters are in this guy‟s pocket. Plus
he has threatened the radio stations that he‟d start his
own stations in every major market if they play
directly with us,” another member added.
HC continued, “Well, the main reason I called for
this meeting is we have to vote between two options.
But, mind you, the first option has been discussed with
Mr. Major before he went ahead with his company and
it was reported that he was adamant about staying in
control of his company, along with his masters and
handling his own distribution.”
Silence, no smiles, no response.
HC asked, “All in favor of compromising with
this guy please raise your hand.”
No one responded
HC posed another question, “All in favor of
smashing this bug raise…”
Every hand in the room went up.
“OK, it‟s unanimous.” HC gave Storm a villainous
look through the lens of a hidden camera that was
embedded in a picture hanging in the conference room.
177
Above, up in the building‟s penthouse, Storm
clicked the monitor off, turned to Lexicon for
approval. Lexicon nodded yes, and Storm left.
178
RANDOM
The war has been playing itself out against a
backdrop of gunplay and violence with corporate and
street thugs fighting for the reins of power.
Jordan and his team fought hard not to be gobbled
up by the big five conglomerates. While both record
sales and radio spins plummeted, machine guns rattled
across the city. On the street it was widely reported
that the big five were running through their
antagonizing opponents, but in reality, Jordan and his
squad were going hard against the major powerful
union.
Outside of Conglomerate Entertainment, Jordan‟s
retaliation tactics were in full effect. Several men
dressed in all black ran up to the company‟s pressing
and distributing plant, flung cocktail bombs flew
through the windows, and the building burst into
flames. They were losing a lot of merchandise. The
war was in high gear. Bodies were dropping, and the
corpses were piling up. The death toll had reached
seventy-five in a few short months. It was a bloodbath
in the city of Philly.
Jordan and HC‟s horns were locked in a heated,
territorial war. And while the war was going on,
Trigger was transitioning smoothly in the number one
position. It was almost impossible to get at Jordan, so
179
Storm, tied into the streets, and got word on the next
best thing, Dog‟s whereabouts.
Dog decided to fallback because of the war. He
began to play the block hard despite Ms. Minnie‟s
constant warning. He thought the best place to lay low
until things simmered down was among his squad. He
kept his real street team out of the spotlight so they
could move about and get that money without too
much attention. Dog and several FTC members were
chilling on Ms. Minnie‟s steps passing a blunt around
and reminiscing on the past few years which was
tremendously good for the youngsters.
Storm was sitting in an inconspicuous looking van
with a small team of thugs. They were watching Dog
and his crew from a half-block away.
Dog got up and said to his right-hand man Shiz,
“Yo, I‟ll be right back. I‟ma go check da jawn Aminah
at the corner real quick, see whuts goin‟ on wit dat
t‟night.”
“A‟ight youngin‟.”
Dog began to stroll down the block. When he
reached the middle of the strip, Storm and his thugs
started to fallow him, creeping. They cruised past Shiz
too slow, because he noticed that something was funny
looking about the van. Shiz and Storm caught eye
contact momentarily. Shiz‟s mind quickly searched
for recollection. It hit his brain like a freight train; he
180
recalled Storm‟s face from the paintball incident. He
snapped out of his trance and yelled out, “Dog, watch
out! Funny van! Funny van!”
Dog spun around, spotted the van bearing down
on him, froze, unfroze, tried to break for it, but the
thugs jumped out of the van and were all over him like
flies on shit. With guns drawn, they moved in and
snatched Dog up, and then spun off as quick as they
came.
Shiz and the FTC members rushed towards the
van, but the thugs squeezed off thirty rounds in the air
before they took the corner harshly.
The skyscraper is one of the biggest, most
powerful, landmark buildings in the city. It houses
HRM, the mega-media conglomerate headed by HC
and his chairmen. It‟s also the parent company of
Conglomerate Entertainment and many other
subsidiaries that fall under its umbrella.
HC wasn‟t satisfied with just being the head
chairman of Hit & Run Music (HRM) one of the big
five. He had plans on becoming the top-top dog of all
the big five‟s businesses. But first, he had to get a
thorn out of his shoe, Jordan.
Inside the office where Storm, HC, Dapper, and a
181
squad of thugs were holding Dog, who was tied to a
chair with no gag on his mouth or a blindfold over his
light brown eyes. He could clearly see what was going
on. HC spoke directly to Storm.
“Good work, now go bring it down… bring it
down to the fucking ground!”
Without another word spoken, Storm and his team
of thugs left the office to go put in more work.
Jordan was in bed, at one of his hideaway lofts,
with two exotic females when his cellphone began to
ring. He stopped fucking, checked his Movado watch,
and then answered the call.
“Whut!” he shouted as he sprung up and sat on
the side of his heated waterbed.
“Whut da
fuck...when? I‟ll be right down there.”
He pressed the END BOTTON, buried his face in his
hands, wiped it, got himself together, got dressed,
grabbed his keys, and bounced out the door without a
single word said to his female companions.
Jordan pulled his Benz up to his record company
to see and smell a burnt down shell that used to be No
Middle Man Records‟ half million-dollar building.
Fire trucks and police car lights lit the night up as they
were spread out all over the busy street. Jordan
jumped out of his car and tried to rush up to the scene,
182
but Jahid appeared and stopped him dead in his tracks.
He was in a rage. Jahid tried his best to calm his
partner.
“Eazy, easy man, you gotta chill out, playboy.”
Jordan chilled and leaned against his vehicle and
tried to pull himself back together.
“We at war man. Anything goes. You gotta stay
strong, love nothing and think smart. We gotta take it
all the way to the top and…” said Jahid.
The ringing of Jordan‟s cellphone cut Jahid off.
Jordan answered it.
“Sup?” Jordan listened for a few moments. “If
ya‟ll hurt my young bol!” he continued to listen for a
few more seconds.
“Whut, whuts goin‟ on man?” Jahid asked.
Jordan got back in the Benz. Jahid grabbed the
door handle and said, “Man, we came too far for me to
let ya go out like a nut, whuts up?”
“They got Dog! They want ten mill.”
“Hold up. I‟m goin‟ wit ya.”
“No, they told me to come alone, or they‟re gonna
kill‟ em,” replied Jordan.
“Yo man, he‟s dead already; think man think, use
your head. They make billions of dollars a year and
they‟re only askin‟ for ten mill. It‟s a trap. They‟re
gonna kill ya man if you show up. Believe dat.”
“Naw, it was dat youngin‟ Storm.”
183
“So-da-fuck-whut, he down wit them.”
Jordan not trying to hear it, pulled off with Jahid
racing after the car shouting, “A‟least tell me where da
fuck you goin‟.”
“To da top,” Jordan replied with ice, cold hatred.
I know exactly where you goin,’ Jahid thought as he
flipped out his cellphone, speed dialed Fat Bol‟s
number, ran to his jeep, and tore off into the night.
Fat Bol was already on his job at the kidnap scene
with Shiz. Both of their squads were in full effect.
Shiz‟s FTC squad and Fat Bol‟s soldiers from
North Philly‟s Badlands together made a force to be
reckoned with. They were all in their feelings because
of what just happened to Dog. Fat Bol‟s cellphone
rung. He answered it and listened for a brief moment.
“Word sun, I‟m already on it, word… a‟ight I‟m
out.”
Fat Bol disconnected the call and barked out a few
orders before their squads got caked up in a variety of
sooped up, small, fast, Hispanic love cars. Nissan RX7
twin cams and Dotson 2.8s, tinted out with banging,
Bose sound systems. But tonight it wouldn‟t be no
music playing, only guns spraying. Fat Bol gave a
signal, and the two united teams rolled out.
184
CLOCK
Jordan burst into the family’s red brick
colonial house, took the steps to the basement, moved
to the walk in safe, opened it, and pulled out ten bricks
of crisp one-hundred dollar bills, totaling 10 million
dollars. He stuffed the money into a duffel bag and
pulled out a Glock .9mm. He looked at it and thought,
Damn this ain’t gonna do.
“Throw dat shit away,” the voice said coming
from behind the computer desk.
Jordan turned around to see Hijjy‟s nappy bush
protruding overtop the computer‟s screen.
Hijjy prided himself on not being seen until it was
too late for his enemies. He was deep into studying
antiterrorism technologies, guerrilla warfare, and
weaponry. He had hacker friends in Israel who had
access to counter terrorism research companies with
inside people who stole and then sold weapons on the
black market.
Hijjy looked at his big brother and said, “Hun take
these.” He passed Jordan two hand Uzis with infrared
beams, silencers, and shoulder holsters from his ample
supply of weapons. While Jordan strapped up, he
peered at himself in the mirror from the old house with
the gold eagle on top and the collage of his childhood
friend‟s success.
185
Behind the house, he switched up cars. He needed
the right wheels for the job at hand. He pulled out the
driveway pushing his monster car, a black Pontiac
GTO. While in motion, past statements made to him
began echoing through his brain, strong like a migraine
headache.
My associates aren’t happy wit what you’re tryna
do here, Dapper relayed to him at No Middle Man
Records grand opening.
It didn‟t stop there; past statements kept flowing
through his head while he was driving brazenly
towards his destination.
Jordan I told you this is a cutthroat biz, Trigger
had warned.
Jordan was now visibility zoned out. Beads of
sweat formed on his brow and trickled down the side
of his face. His mind wrestled with the thoughts that
he didn‟t take heed to.
When he finally pulled into HRM‟s parking lot
where he figured Dog was being held, he took a careful
look at the tall, dark skyscraper and paused. His last
vision was too clear and detailed to ignore. It might
have been the one to save his life.
Yo, man, he’s dead already; think man think, use
your head. They make billions of dollars a year and
they’re only askin’…for ten mill. It’s a trap they’re
186
gonna kill ya man if you show up, believe dat, Jahid
had told him just moments ago.
Storm and his team of thugs moved into positions
throughout the building once Jordan arrived. They
watched Jordan on the security surveillance cameras
pull into the parking lot. Everything was at a pause.
They were waiting for him to make his move. They
needed him to come inside the building so they could
kill his ass and not have any evidence spread out the
company‟s parking lot.
Storm had sensed that something was wrong
because Jordan should have been gotten out of his car,
like they had instructed him to do. He grabbed Dog up
by the back of his neck, muscled him out the office
towards the elevator. They entered it and began to
descend to the lobby.
Dog‟s face brightened up with hope, knowing that
his boss was there to save his life. When the elevator
reached the lobby, Storm dragged Dog out by his shirt,
keeping his gun trained on him. Dog could see clearly
out, through the big double, glass doors, and colossal
size windows. He didn‟t want to believe what he saw.
His facial expression registered horror as he watched
Jordan‟s GTO pull out of the parking lot.
Fat Bol and Shiz were parked in a Nissan, a halfblock away – watching Jordan‟s back through two pair
of binoculars. They saw Jordan drive away, leaving
187
the parking lot and Dog to die.
From the passenger seat Shiz said, “Bitch ass
youngin‟.”
Fat Bol readjusted his binoculars and focused his
visuals on the lobby area of the dark skyscraper. He
saw Storm pulling Dog away from the entrance. Upon
seeing this, the combined teams got out the cars, they
had parked in the cuts and sprung into action. With
guns drawn, they crept towards the building, bearing
down on the unsuspecting thugs.
Inside the lobby, Storm was asleep on his feet
when the glass doors and windows shattered from a
hail of gunfire. He and his squad of thugs hit the floor
and took cover.
Dog‟s peoples stormed the lobby, hurtling though
the broken glass at a steady momentum to rescue him.
After the initial shock, Storm and his team pulled their
selves back together, and then returned fire. It was an
all out gun battle, men were getting hit, and bleeding
bodies were dropping all over the lobby.
Storm tried to race toward the elevator while using
Dog as a human shield. Fat Bol couldn‟t let that
happen. He jumped up leaving his cover and rushed at
Storm, stopped a few feet away, raised his weapon,
and fired. Storm was surprised by such an all out
move, which cost him the game. He mistakenly let
Dog escape his tight grasp he had on him. Now mad
188
as hell he busted off several rounds into Fat Bol‟s
chest. Fat Bol dropped to his knees, grabbed his chest,
raised his hand to look at the blood, and then crashed
to the hard, marble floor of the lobby as death called
his number.
Storm searched around for Dog‟s whereabouts,
but it was entirely too much gunfire popping off so he
told himself, I’m getting’ the fuck outta here. He
hurried to the elevator, jumped on it, and escaped.
Shiz spotted Dog crouching down covering his
head, he ran over to him, untied his hand, lifted him to
his feet and they both quickly escaped through the shot
out windows.
When the remaining FTC and Badland solders
saw their comrades flee, they began squeezing off a
deafening swarm of bullets. They kept the pressure on
the thugs by firing while backing out of HRM‟s lobby
area.
Up in HC‟s office, Storm popped out the elevator,
feet hurriedly beating the floor. He made eye contact
with HC, who was at his desk leaning over a chrome
briefcase loading his two twin Glock .45 automatics
equipped with beams and sound muzzles. No word
were said because HC already saw through the monitor
what went on in the lobby. They both headed for the
secret escape elevator hidden in the back wall behind a
reverse, full length, body mirror. Once inside the
189
escape elevator, it became invisible to an untrained
eye.
In a private parking lot below, HC and Storm
emerged. They made their way to a very expensive,
fast, mid-night blue Saleen 57. They used it as a
getaway car. But they dropped the ball because they
didn‟t notice Jahid laying in the cut in a dark vehicle,
waiting and watching. When Storm and HC pulled off,
Jahid followed them from a safe distance while he
speed dialed Shiz.
190
CLOSE
Jordan sat in his GTO scoping out Dapper‟s
mansion. It was so dark inside the premises that he
sensed that no one was home. He began to get out his
ride, but noticed a charcoal-gray colored Phantom
pulling up to the estate. He closed his door back
quickly. Once the Phantom came to a stop in the
mansion‟s circular driveway, Jordan got out of his car
and crept around the other side of the property. As he
made his way around the mansion, he peeped Dapper
drunkenly, stumbling out the expensive Rolls Royce.
The driver drove off, and Dapper walked to his large,
oak, wooden, double doors.
When Dapper tried to punch his code into the
keypad for his electronically controlled locks, he felt
the cold, hard steel of Jordan‟s Uzi on the back of his
head.
“Don‟t move mu‟fucka,” ordered Jordan.
Jordan spun him around and put the gun‟s short,
silenced barrow in his mouth. “One peep out of ya and
I‟ma blow your fuckin‟‟ roof top."
Dapper, sober now, totally submitted.
“Let‟s go pay your bosses a visit.”
“I-it-it‟s no‟ „em.”
“Whut, you can‟t talk wit a gun in ya mouth?”
191
Jordan spat pulling the gun out, then placing it on his
forehead.
“Whut da fuck you talkin‟ „bout Dapper?” asked
Jordan.
“It‟s not really them, yeah, HC gave the order for
war, but all the bullshit leading up to that point was all
Lexicon. He got ulterior motives, his own agenda. It‟s
not about this music shit, it‟s about race, it has been
and always will be,… he‟s rumored to be involved
with a cult, a racist group or some shit like dat, the
Patriots they call themselves.”
“Where‟s ya proof?”
“There‟s no proof on these mu‟fuckas…”
“Well shut da fuck up and let‟s go,” ordered
Jordan.
At gunpoint Jordan, made Dapper walk over to
one of the Benzes parked in the driveway. He directed
Dapper to get in and drive while he played the
backseat.
When they drove up to a warehouse, located down
in South Philly‟s waterfront, there were all types of
low-key, luxury rides and limousines parked outside.
Jordan realized he had stumbled onto some kind
of meeting that the major players were having. He
calmly got out with Dapper and told him, “One false
move and you‟ll be the first to die.” Dapper tried to
cop-out to no avail.
192
Jordan concealed his guns in his jacket pockets,
still focused on Dapper; they strolled up to the entrance
of the warehouse. He then ordered Dapper to knock on
the wide doors to get them inside.
Jordan was banking on the element of surprise.
Dapper tapped on the door. A voice was heard coming
from behind the entrance door.
“Yeah.”
“It‟s Dee.”
“Password.”
“Black Rain”
When the door cracked open, Jordan shoved
Dapper through the entrance. The thug posted at the
door got caught off guard. When he tried to reach for
his weapon, Jordan punched him square in his jaw,
knocking him clean out. He hit the ground.
Jordan then walked Dapper over to the makeshift
conference table filled with the very elite of the music
industry. There were twelve people seated already,
with one chair left. It belonged to Dapper.
Jordan was very familiar with the faces of the
head chairmen of the big-five, multi-media
conglomerates and major distributors. They were
caught in the middle of one of the biggest corporate
mergers in music history. They planned to build an
empire that would rival Vivendi Universal.
“Jordan Major, it‟s so nice of you to join us,” said
193
HC.
“My pleasure, now shut da fuck up,” Jordan
replied coldly. He then noticed some documents on the
table.
When HC saw that Jordan was eyeing the
documents, he tried to slip them away into a briefcase.
Jordan stopped him dead in motion. “If ya move
ya hand another inch, I‟ll blow your fuckin‟ head off.”
He put his gun directly behind Dapper‟s head.
“Grab the papers now!” he ordered.
Dapper reached over slowly, picked the papers up,
and handed them to him.
Jordan scanned the merger contract quickly.
“Oh-shit, I guess I‟m right on time to be made the
head of this monopoly y‟all tryna pull off here. Or
should I say gang; the mob would be more like it…”
He placed the documents back on the table.
“Continue, don‟t let me interrupt. Everybody sign
right fuckin‟ now!” Jordan commanded.
After all the chairmen signed the paperwork, the
last spot was to be signed by HC to finalize the deal.
He was to be in control of the largest multi-media
conglomerate in the United States. HC grabbed a pen
to sign. Just before the pen touched the paper, so that
he would be in full control, Jordan blasted Dapper‟s
head wide open, and then unloaded both full Uzi clips
on the table occupied by the head chairmen killing
194
them all except HC. Blood, bones and flesh were
splattered everywhere. It was a gory scene in the
aftermath.
“Now sign everything over to my company,”
barked Jordan
“You will never get away with this. How you
think you gonna explain this, all of us dying and your
company takin‟ control of all of our companies merged
together?”
“Don‟t worry, I‟ll figure it out. Dead men
shouldn‟t try to think so hard.”
Jordan raised his gun up to HC‟s head, and then
yelled, “Sign it over now!”
Unexpectedly Storm came out of nowhere; he
aimed and took two controlled shoots at Jordan. The
first bullet missed, but the second one caught him high
up in the back, cutting through his shoulder. He fell to
the ground in agonizing pain.
HC and Storm stood over him. They began to
laugh at and heckle him hysterically. HC kicked
Jordan in his injured shoulder. Storm lifted Jordan off
the hard floor, shoved him into a chair, and tied his
hands behind his back. Then Storm commenced to
beat the holy shit out of him. HC tried to get his
composure back together, but it was too late as Jahid
stepped through the entrance, raised his steel, and
popped off several shots of hot lead into HC‟s face.
195
His head burst into pieces. His body paused and then
slumped to the concrete floor.
Jahid then tried to turn his gun on Storm, but
Storm spun in time to let off several shots at the same
time as Jahid fired his weapon. They simultaneously
hit each other. Storm took rounds in his neck and
chest, and metal filled Jihad‟s lungs and heart. They
fell to their demise as death engulfed them.
A strange air of silence filled the room.
Jordan sat there tied to the chair, wounded – near
death state – in the quiet warehouse, surrounded by
nothing but gore and dead bodies. The stench of a
morgue was in the steel air.
A few minutes passed before Dog, Shiz, and the
remaining squad came walking in the bloody
warehouse that looked like a slaughterhouse and
smelled like death.
Jordan was still hanging on disoriented. He
looked up and said, “Dog, little man get me da fuck
outta here.”
Dog walked up to Jordan, pulled out a knife to cut
him loose and then paused. Dog‟s mind flashed back
to when Jordan‟s GTO pulled out of HRM‟s parking
lot, leaving him for dead.
“Before I cut ya loose, I got sum‟em I gotta tell
you old-head. A lot of bullshit comes along with this
music business. It‟s a dog eats dog world, real cut
196
throat biz. You gotta be willing to take a youngin‟ out
to get to the top just like on the streets. If you want to
be the big man, you gotta take out the biggest man no
matter who he is.”
Dog relayed Jordan‟s own words back to him
almost verbatim. Dog then positioned himself real
close to Jordan and began stabbing him repeatedly and
violently in his stomach and chest. With the last stab,
he left the knife stuck in his heart.
Jordan was coughing up blood while he tried to
get his last word in. “I schooled ya too well, but don‟t
forget the real treasure.” He motioned his lifeless head
over towards the documents on the table.
Dog looked over and saw the paperwork on the
table. He lowered his head, signaling for Shiz to go
and inspect them. From the size that Shiz eyes grew,
Dog knew it was all good. Shiz examined them a few
seconds more. “Dog, you ain‟t gonna believe this shit,”
he said before handing them over to Dog.
Dog looked at them and handed them back to
Shiz, who tucked them away.
Jordan‟s last words were, “Now you are truly The
Big Man, but trust no one, even Trigger. You gotta
take‟em out.”
Jordan‟s head dropped. He died the classic; you
reap what you sow death, as he let out his final breath
with a loud hiss.
197
Dog, Shiz, and the FTC members walked out of
the warehouse with a completely new goal, a
completely new aim.
The following morning, Trigger with an AR–15 in
hand peeped through his window blinds. He saw
several suspicious looking vehicles. Some were
parked and others were driving past with young,
hungry looking youngins' in them.
Dog and Shiz were parked a couple blocks away
watching the whole scene through hi-powered
binoculars. Dog was in deep thought, The game has
changed. My team and I will never beef on wax.
That’s for bitches. We takin’ all beef to the bricks.
I need the block and I’m not sharing it. Do this
youngin’ really know what beef is?
TO BE CONTINUED
198
KEL
KDL
LITTLE
MILYENZ
199
RIK
CRAN DIABB
200
JOHNNY A.C.
HAAS
201
MAD FLOW
Website: YOUTUBE: MR.MADFLOW215
202
203
RON FOR SDE CLOTHING
SDE CLOTHING
204
SLEAZE
LIL
205
MIZZ
FAM
206
FAM
207
About the Author
Bonz, born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
(Richard Allen City) is a student of life, an artist,
intuitive writer, producer, entrepreneur, and urban
generalist. He is widely known for his gift of telling a
story, be it through musical lyrics that touch one‟s soul
or through words that paint vivid pictures or scenes
that explode off the page. Bonz is also a member of
SEVEN DEUCE ENTERTAINMENT, INC. and
HOOD FAME, INC.
Bonz
208
CRAP GAME: Game Over … Volume 2
A Trilogy
CRAP GAME
Game Over
Volume 2
BONZ
1
GAME OVER
Trigger, with gat in hand, was sweating
madly. He could smell the drama in the air. He was
absolutely right as several hulking figures came
crashing through his front and back colossus
windows. His plush, white, mink carpet was covered
with glass and youngins‟ positioning themselves
behind his expensive furniture. “Blllat, blllat, blllat,
boom, boom, boom.”
It only took one-tenth of a second before
Trigger responded. “boc, boc, boc.” He started
giving it back up to the young boys. Still busting his
gun, he rushed up the narrow steps that led to the
second floor of his Montgomery County mansion. It
began to look like a scene straight out of the movie
Scarface, but it wasn‟t Tony Montana getting shot at.
It was Trigger himself. The air was getting thick
with gun smoke. Trigger was in flight mode, but he
kept firing, picking off FTC members one by one.
They weren‟t letting up on killing him either.
Just when he thought he was getting away, he caught
a slug square in his back. The force from the bullet
spun him around into a three-sixty.
Trigger was from the old school. He had
stamina and plenty of tricks up his sleeve. He ripped
2
off his shirt exposing a bulletproof tee shirt. He kept
it moving, still pulling the trigger of his rifle.
When FTC‟s main hit squad advanced
forward, they saw Trigger dash into a backroom.
They thought they had him trapped. It was a
miscalculation because Trigger being the old solider
that he is, was also sly as a fox.
FTC‟s squad members crept up the long, dark
hallway confidently, letting off rounds into the closed
doors. One of the gunmen ran up to the room door,
kicked it in, and went inside. He caught one right
between his hairline and eyebrows. His brains
painted the door and walls. The sight of it made the
rest of them hesitate a second too long. Then when
anger overrode fear, they all madly rushed the room‟s
entrance. By the time the shots stopped, they had
squeezed off hundreds of rounds; the door looked
like a beehive. They slowly moved to the closet
door, snatched what was left of the door off the
hinges to find an empty closet with a secret escape
hatch, but no dead Trigger.
Below the mansion in his seven-car garage
Trigger was frantically putting on his Teflon vest and
midnight helmet that shielded his eyes. He jumped
on his Ducati 999R and brung it to life all in one
motion. He knew that at this point it wasn‟t nothing
more to do but make a run for it. He revved the bike
3
up as one of the side escape hatches opened up. He
planned to go hard as he lifted his motorcycle up and
out the hatch. Bullets were flying from all angles. It
was as if the DC snipers were camped out in his
backyard and decided to open fire on him and him
alone. His swift maneuvering only brought him a
small head start on Dog and the FTC gang.
Trigger roared out like a madman, lifting his
bike up, balancing it with one hand while bussing a
Glock .45 with the other hand. He lived for drama
like this. That‟s the only thing Dog didn‟t bank on
and Jordan didn‟t get a chance to hip him to.
Trigger narrowly escaped the home invasion.
Adrenalin rushing, he weaved in and out of the line
of fire and gunned his bike down the block. Wind
gushed under the bottom of his helmet making his
eyes water. The feeling of revenge was in his heart
and mind, and he knew exactly who would have to
pay for the intrusion.
He began to giggle, and then slightly laugh,
then more and more until it turned into the laughter
of a madman.
“I‟m kill them little mu‟fuckas, kill them dead
I mean dead!”
Back at the scene, Shiz asked Dog, “Should
we run dat bitch youngin‟ down?”
4
“Nah, let dat sucker ride fo‟right now. We
caused a big enough scene as it is without chasin‟ dis
clown all over Philly,” replied Dog.
“Then let‟s get da fuck up and outta here.”
Hearing the police sirens getting closer Dog
agreed, “I‟m wit ya. Let‟s be out youngin‟.”
Shiz put the car in drive, and they burnt the
road up.
5
TWO
One month passed by, and the pressure was
on to find him, the only person that could pull off a
scam of this magnitude.
Dog had every member out seriously trying to
find him.
Jordan tried his best to keep him shielded
from the evils of the streets. However, by sheltering
him, it turned him into one of the best computer
hackers and conmen in the world, and he held
underground hacking titles to prove it.
It had been years since Dog last saw him.
Dog‟s team had searched the whole city for Jordan‟s
younger brother Hijjy, without the slightest success.
He was like a ghost and had been for years. Just
when Dog had begun to think of using the drastic
move of grabbing Jordan Jr., his cell phone began to
buzz. “Bizzz – bizzz – bizzz.”
“Yeah.”
“Looking fo‟ me champ?” Hijjy said laughing.
“Yup.”
“Why would ya be doin‟ somethin‟ stupid like
that. You know that‟s impossible. I‟m invisible.”
“Yeah, I fully understand that now, but I need to
holler at ya „bout some biz,” said Dog.
“A‟ight, meet me at the river at night fall.”
6
“I‟ll be there.”
The wind blowing off the Delaware River was
both calming and threatening at the same time.
Dog and Hijjy could smell the death in the
night‟s air. The city of brotherly love is also the city
of death and destruction. The walk along the docks
was very important to Hijjy as well as Dog. Dog was
explaining to Hijjy about the past murders especially
about his older brother Jordan. He gave up all tapes
except the most critical part of him finishing Jordan
off so he could gain control of the Crap Game.
However, the purpose of the meeting was so that
Hijjy could come up with the ultimate scheme to
legitimize the transfer of the new and one of the
largest multi-media conglomerates the world had
ever seen.
“No problem.” Hijjy agreed.
“When?” asked Dog.
“You‟ll see it, soon enough.”
“And whut is dis shit gonna cost me?”
“Ten-mill, and my brother‟s killer.”
“Hijjy, from my understanding, the killer was
dead right along with Jordan. All the bodies
were right there and all the players were
dead,”
replied Dog.
7
“That‟s bullshit Dog…that‟s my deal. Take it or
leave it.”
“A‟ight, a‟ight man I got ya, it‟s ah deal.”
“Do ya have the paperwork wit you?”
“Nah, you think I‟m crazy?”
“Well, send it to me through cyberspace.”
“It‟s on its way right now.”
“How did you get my…”
“Hijjy, you didn‟t think you was the only
ghost in town did ya?‟
“Right, right Dog and don‟t think you are as
slick as you think you are big man. Just find my
brother‟s killer and have my money.”
With that said Hijjy began to walk away, long
black trench coat blowing in the wind, as the
documents started to roll up on his handheld
windows Mobile PC.
The next morning brought the smog of
Philly‟s tall buildings, Hispanic bodegas, Chinese
stores, breakfast spots, and steak shops located on
various corners. Within it all, the best was the smell
of cheese steaks with fried onions from the Hoagie
Factory at 72nd and Ogontz Avenues.
8
But the talk of the morning wasn‟t about
Philly‟s best cheese steaks. It was what was going on
at the newsstand across the street from the Hoagie
Factory.
The front pages of the Philadelphia
Inquirer and Daily News read:
HC, the Head Chairman of
HRM, and his constituents
have formed a multi-media
conglomerate that had not been
named, but was sold to a
mysterious, offshore company
named LUV, which was
represented by a lawyer from
the
Grand
Caymans.
According to the contractbackdated way before the
gruesome murders about a year
or so, the company offered HC
and the board of director
billions
for
the
U.S.
conglomerate. The company
retained all artists under
management contracts for a fee
equal to 100 million dollars a
year.
9
When Dog awoke to the good news, he felt that
his new mission was only halfway accomplished, but
he knew that he still had a lot of work to put in.
First on his list was to find Hijjy and kill his ass
because he had an eerie feeling that Hijjy was
planning to kill him to revenge Jordan.
10
THREE
In the cut lies a small peaceful
convent, hidden right off of West River
Drive. He awoke to find himself strapped
down to the bed. What the fuck is going on?
He thought to himself through a foggy mind.
After viciously struggling to break his
restraints to no avail, he gave up his fight for
freedom. His beaten and battered body forced
his struggle.
Detective Face looked around frantically
trying to assess his surroundings.
His
assessment became a horrifying intense
feeling of repugnance and fear. As the terror
subsided a little, he began to think about the
events that led up to this moment.
Lying on a broken down hospital bed
with arms, feet and body restraints, deep
down in the damp dark dungeon type
basement of the convent, Detective Face
thought back to the night that his partner and
himself were staked out – outside of Jordan
Major‟s and his partner in crime Jihad‟s
bootlegging operation warehouse. His mind
drifted back to the thought of seeing two
headlights, “no maybe one perhaps four.” His
11
mind searched in hope to find some kind of
recognition. Then it hit him. “I‟m dead, no
I‟m alive, no I‟m supposed to be dead. No I
was drowning!”
Panic started to sink in. “No I‟m Detective
Carter Face and I work for the Philadelphia
Police department.”
The meaning behind that thought brought
him back to his senses. His mind went back
to the night when a front-end truck smashed
into his unmarked car killing his partner. He
also remembered the car filling with water
like a fish tank. The feel of certain death
started to overwhelm him, but an incredible
surge of anger and adrenaline rushed though
his body. He reacted by kicking the window
out and swimming furiously for his life. He
was fighting the cold murky water of the
Schuylkill River all the way to the top.
When he reached the surface, he began to
fight against the fast moving current.
Struggling to survive he had to rumble against
the mighty waters and lost. In spite of his
efforts, he submitted to fatigue and passed out
letting the water have its way with his
weak and weary body. Moments later, his
12
unconscious body washed up onto the banks
of the Schuylkill River.
In the distance, he heard women‟s voices
approaching getting closer and closer. It was
sister Betty and her two goons approaching
the detective‟s bruised and batter body. They
picked him up and carried his limp body to
his doom.
As he lay in the dark dungeon, his senses
started to recognize the sounds and smells
from his surroundings. It was hard to make
out, but he couldn‟t get that one sound out of
his head. It was the sound of speedboats.
“Yes, that‟s what they are,” he concluded.
Moreover, there were several speedboats.
And the smell of the Schuylkill River filled
his nose. His mind raced to put two and two
together. “A search party, I know the hum of
the department‟s speed boats,” he said in a
low tone. For the first time in a while
detective Face heard the tone of his own
voice. In addition, it gave him the confidence
that he needed to remain alive.
13
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A Trilogy: Crap Game:
Play At Your Own Risk- Volume 1 by Bonz
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PO Box 9201
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CRAP GAME BONZ

Transcription

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