So America I try not to talk about my deals as much as possible because some of these people are still alive and still have guns. But as life strangles my past to death and kills off more and more of my acquaintances I can talk more. Back when I was a coke dealer I was very much the new kid on the block(excuses the reference). I was straight off the farm, my Dad had just turned grey, slipped into a comma, and died in front of me so I figured “why not” from then on. Any risk, or experience I was the first one in. Cops, dealers, strippers, Hoes, DEA, and the NSA were in my phone. I did everything a 22 year old could get his hands on except a fat chick. On everything but roller blades I became a city boy with pavement under my feet and lights on my streets. Six month before this I had had my own horse and a living parent.
Any who one day on far to many drugs I came across my business partner. A 350 lbs six foot tall black man, who made the most awkward partner in crime a 5,7 150 lbs wet cracker runt could have. How we first met frankly I have no idea. I started writing because one day I realized I had no idea what I had done the month before. Maybe it was a year. Total drug, sex, drunk over load blank. For christ sake I forgot a stripper threesome. Who does that? I figured I needed to write my story for either my memory or eulogy whichever was cool with me. So me and the dude had a meet. He said meet him at the barber shop (name omitted). I suit up and let the dice roll. I roll up in a suit, hidden gun, and bullet proof vest under my cloths. Which led to my alias Kevlar. I was cool with dying, but gut shot me and I’m returning fire. I enter the barber shop and everyone stops talking. Do I have to mention I’m not only the only white person in their I’m rocking a coke suit? The dude comes out of a door in the back and calls me in as everyone starts talking again, pegging me for the next mark. I follow him down the darkest hallway with dark doors on both sides. Anything or anyone could have snuck up on me. We walk down this hall which enters a chop shop in the back of the building. Saying to myself, “God hates a coward” I lay out the doe in a oil drum in front of 16 (quick count) criminals. 10,000 reasons to kill me and throw my body in the river. The dice came up snake eyes. No sooner had the money hit the greasy oil drum then 16 guns were pulled on me. A quick count showed 4 Aks, 3 macs, and god knows what else.
Like a cocky farm fuck who has broken horses and sailed hurricanes I smirk and say, “We doing this or not?”
Speechless they all look at the dude, awestruck by my brazen disregard of their shock and ah shit tactics. The dude looks at me for any sign of weakness to see only a farm boy with nothing left to loose. I’d of taken six of them with me, as I shout I’m from a farm bitch boooooooom head shot, but I only had six. A reload with 30 bullets in your body is tough. Shit, scar face couldn’t even bust a reload or hold onto his gun.
The dude looked me up top and bottom. Suit, obvious body armor since I’m so small and my chest was so big and a suspicious bulge in my pants and jacket. Yes my gun can be fired with an erection. The dude looked at his boys who looked at him completely taken back and a little nervous to see what made me so cocky. Why was this suit wearing runt so self assured? They lowed their guns and me and the dude make 500,000 each over a two year period becoming such good friends he saved my life once. My fair city was never the same. And of them all I was the last man standing.
Long Live the Writers
Link to my book on amazon below. Rated a 4.6 out of 5.