The Streets Don't Love Nobody

Chapter OneBuzzzzzzz! The huge iron door of the federal correctional facility rolled back. Shortly thereafter, a hulk of a man strolled out. He had a big bald head, and the lower half of his face was covered in salt and pepper stubble. The muscular man smiled from ear to ear and took in his surroundings. At that moment, he realized that freedom was something that the average person took for granted, and he vowed then that he’d never be one of those persons again. Big Meat had butterflies in his stomach the closer his release date came. He didn’t know what to expect with it having been ten years since he’d been from behind the walls. If he was asked to describe the feeling, he’d have to say it was the equivalent of him getting his first brick of coke, or his first time getting some p***y. He remembered both of those events like they were yesterday, and he’d never forget them. Big Meat made his way down the sidewalk until he came upon a Chevron gas station that doubled as a convenience store. He dipped inside of the store and got himself a 35 cent bag of Fritos and a Sprite, to bust the fifty dollar bill he had on him to use at one of the only working telephone booths in the area. As soon as Big Meat purchased his items, he pushed his way out of the store’s glass door and walked to the booth out on the sidewalk. He searched the tattered Pacific Bell telephone book for a listing for nearby cab companies until he found one closest to him. He found himself waiting twenty minutes before a yellow taxi cab pulled up. After discarding his empty bag of chips and beverage bottle, he brushed the crumbs from off his palms and hopped into the back seat of the cab. *** As soon as the cab stopped, Big Meat hit the driver with the bread for the fare and hopped out. A smile stretched across his face as he approached Tam’s burgers, which was a famous ghetto burger joint. He rubbed his hands together hungrily as he feasted his eyes on the menu. His eyes were as big as his stomach, and he’d been dreaming about that double bacon cheese burger and fries for the past week. He told himself that as soon as he was released from The Beast he was going to get a number 4#. Big Meat had spent a great portion of his money on the cab he’d caught to Tam’s, but he felt like it was well worth it. He’d been eating prison food for the entire ten years he’d been incarcerated, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the food on the outside. Although he’d have to catch the bus to his grandmother’s house after eating, he wasn’t tripping off of it. The way he saw it, at least he’d be satisfied with his first meal. “My man,” Big Meat began, massaging his chin as he studied the menu above his head. “Lemmie getta number 4# with bacon, and swap that medium soda out with a chocolate shake.” Big Meat dug into his pocket as he watched the Mexican man jot down his order on a small notepad. The Mexican man told him how much his food would cost and tore off his ticket number, handing it to him. Big Meat passed him the money for his meal and waited for his change. Once he’d paid for his food, he sat down at the table, watching the cars driving back and forth across his line of vision. Before Big Meat knew it, the Mexican dude that had taken his order, called him forth to get his food. The big man retrieved the bag and bid homeboy farewell. He indulged in his chocolate shake as he made his way towards the bus stop bench. He sat down on the bench and pulled out his burger, removing the yellow wrapper. The first bite brought a great, big smile to his face, eyelids shut. Hearing someone approaching from his right, Big Meat looked to find a rather skinny, bearded dude in a wheelchair. The man wore black sunglasses and his hair in five cornrows which were slightly frizzy. He was dressed in a plaid red flannel and Dickies. A thick wool blanket lie over his lap, and his red All Star Chuck Taylors with the fat laces peeked from underneath it Big Meat eyeballed the man curiously, wondering how he’d landed himself in that wheelchair for the rest of his life. He knew it was in bad taste for him to stare, but he found himself unable to look away. Homeboy in the wheelchair didn’t pay Big Meat any mind, as he whipped his wheelchair around and sat it down so he’d be facing the street. He pulled a pack of Newport 100’s from out of the top pocket of his flannel and flipped open the lid of it. He pulled one of the cigarettes out with his lips. Afterwards, he fished a Bic lighter from out of his pocket and put fire to the end of his square. Sucking on the end of the Joe caused the tip of it to glow ember. He blew smoke from out of his nostrils and mouth, watching the traffic in front of his eyes. During this entire time, Big Meat kept his eyes glued on this man, jaws swollen with the cheese burger he’d been munching on. “Go on and take a picture, homie, it’ll last longer.” Homeboy in the wheelchair said, staring straight ahead, blowing smoke into the air. The fact that dude in the wheelchair knew he was staring at him without turning his head startled Big Meat. “My bad, homie,” Big Meat apologized and turned his attention back to the streets. He went back to eating his cheese burger and enjoying his shake. “It’s all good, OG.” Homeboy told him, looking at him for the first time, wafting cigarette pinched between his fingers. “What’s yo’ name?” Big Meat munched the last of the food down in his mouth. He then turned to the nigga in the wheelchair, and said, “Meat…Big Meat.” “I’m Dirty Redd, my nigga.” homeboy in the wheelchair leaned to his left and dapped up Big Meat. “’Sup, Redd?” Big Meat said, and then went back to eating. “Ain’t s**t,” he responded. “You fresh out, huh?” Big Meat shot a frown at Dirty Redd. He couldn’t believe he knew he’d just gotten out of federal lockup. “Yeah, I just came home. How’d you know?” “I been on lock a couple of times, G. You got that look.” “Oh, yeah? What look is that?” He shrugged and said, “Hard to explain, but chu wearing the same look as me when I first left from behind them walls.” Big Meat nodded his understanding and focused his attention back on his burger. “You mind me asking what chu was locked up for?” Dirty Redd asked him. “You see, I got what chu call a don’t ask don’t tell policy.” Dirty Redd nodded, feeling where Big Meat was coming from. He was all up in his business, so he expected that response. “I feel you, my nigga, but chu can’t blame a nigga for being curious. I mean, s**t, you were curious, too. I seen you eyeballing my chair when I was rolling up over here,” he patted his chair lovingly. You would have thought it was his girl or some s**t. “I could tell you wanted to know how I got in this mothafucka, right? Don’t front.” He angled his head grinning, and looking at him like, Come on now, keep it real. “Yeah, you got me there. I was wondering how you winded up in that bitch.” “Well, lemmie be the first to tell you, I for damn sho’ ain’t no Vietnam war veteran.” he assured him with a smile as he blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. What he had said got Big Meat grinning, too. “I tell you what. I’ma tell you how I ended up paralyzed and in this chair, but only if you tell me what chu did to wind up incarcerated. We gotta deal?” he extended his fist towards Big Meat. Big Meat looked at Dirty Redd’s fist for a while, allowing it to linger in the air. He brushed the crumbs from off his hand and made a fist, outstretching it towards Dirty Redd. They touched fists and made the deal. “Alright,” Dirty Redd began with a deep breath, about to tell his story. *** The sun was beaming its brightest with its rays deflecting off everything in the neighborhood. The birds were chirping, children were laughing and playing, dogs were barking and the sound of gunfire had rung out. Shortly thereafter, an ambulance siren and police sirens could be heard far off in the distance. It was safe to say that it was the average day in the hood. Just then, the sound of George Clinton’s Atomic Dog grew closer and closer on the corner of Adams and Griffith, as it was approaching hastily. The noise of screeching tires filled the air and at that precise moment, a sexy ass cherry red ’64 Chevy Impala made a sharp turn at the end of the block, on three wheels. Its gold trimmings and fourteen inch Dayton rims shining beneath the rays of the sun. All that could be seen inside of the old school whip were two heads. One was wearing a red bandana around his head, Tupac style, and was position behind the wheel. While the other wore a Cardinals fitted cap high up and c****d to the side on his head. He was sitting on the passenger side and holding the outside frame of the door, as the Chevy bent the corner in a hurry and threatened to spill him over into the driver’s seat beside his homeboy. Why must I feel like that Why must I chase the cat Nothin' but the dog in me Do the dogcatcher, dogcatcher Do the dogcatcher Do the dogcatcher, dogcatcher Do the dogcatcher “Nigga, you gon’ flip this mothafucka over, slow this b***h down!” Menace complained to his right-hand man, Flocka, creases in his forehead. He was a brown-skinned dude standing five- foot-ten in height and weighing in around 170 lbs. A toothpick was at the corner of his mouth, wagging up and down every time he talked. He filled out a black T-shirt, black Dickies and red All Star Converses. A gold necklace hung around his neck and was attached to his name plate which was in Old English letters: Menace. A plain faced, gold Rolex adorned his wrist. It was simple, but matched perfectly with his necklace. Menace had practically raised himself due to his mother’s death and his father being strung out on dope. He took to the streets early as f**k. He started out holding the guns and drugs for the trap stars around his way. From there, he went to lookout, to slinging crack himself. That was until Big Meat brought him into his organization. Once Big Meat had put him down, he put Flocka down. Now the homies were getting money together. “Fallback, Blood, I got this.” Flocka cracked a smile, showcasing his top row of shiny gold teeth. He favored the late great Tupac Shakur, especially with the diamond nose piercing, long eye lashes, thick eyebrows and mustache. His red bandana matched right along with his throwback Jordan 23 jersey. He had two Jesus head medallion necklaces around his neck; one of which was a size smaller than the other. The Rolex he had on was a little bit flashier than his homeboy’s though. Plus, he had an icy gold ring on every finger of both hands. Flocka’s parents were high school sweethearts; crazy in love psychopaths that harbored a taste for blood and c*****e. The psychotic mothafuckaz went on one of the most talked about robbing and killing sprees on the west coast, taking an infant Flocka along for the ride. The deranged couple eventually met their end when they were cornered by police at a seedy motel out in Austin, Texas. The killaz had a two hour shootout with the law until they were fatally wounded. Flocka, who was still a baby then, was bounced around through the system, until he was eleven-years-old. He ran away from foster care and into the welcoming arms of the streets, where he survived by robbing, stealing, and selling crack. He met Menace by chance when he was just thirteen-years-old. The young thug had saved Flocka’s life. He beat a hustler with a baseball bat that was going to blow Flocka’s brains out for cheating him in a crap game, with a pair of loaded dice. Ever since then, the two of them had been down for each other, like they had been pushed out of the same womb. The ’64 came down on all four tires and sped off down the residential street. Its owner hit the switches on it and made it jump up and down, straight up stunting. Some of everyone out on the streets that day face lit up and they pointed at the flashy car, telling whomever was beside them how hard it looked.