A Hood Nigga's Blues

CHAPTER ONE2005 It was a beautiful day in the hood. The sun was shining brightly, the birds were chirping, and squirrels were running up trees. Two big speakers, which were sitting just outside the picnic tables, pumped Montel Jordan’s This Is How We Do It. There was a domino game going on, kids were running back and forth, and people were walking around with beverages of their choice. The alcohol at the function was plentiful, and the air was thick with weed and nicotine smoke. Folks were laughing and chopping it up, having themselves a good old time. It was safe to say that St. Andrews Park was alive with activity. Marquan manned the grill. He was wearing a backwards Hoyas fitted cap and an apron, which read Tip The Cook. Occasionally, homie would take a casual swig of a Corona and hold it down at his side. He’d turn the cooking meat over on the grill. He had ribs, hot dogs, chicken, steaks and hamburgers simmering. The meat looked juicy and delicious. Every now and then one of his homeboys would try to steal a piece of meat, but he’d smack their hand away. Some of the women there would try to sweet talk him into giving them a burger or a hotdog, but he wasn’t falling for their weak ass game either. Seeing someone at the corner of his eye as he barbequed meat, Marquan looked up to see his comrade and best friend, Apocalypse, treading across the park. Apocalypse was a dark skinned cat that stood a solid six feet. He weighed all of two-hundred and thirty pounds. He had a face that always appeared to be fixed with a frown and a body covered in muscles. He was a ruthless killa that was about his money, and anyone standing in front of that would find themselves staring down the barrel of his gun. Marquan cracked a smirk seeing his homeboy approaching, and he returned the gesture. Once Apocalypse reached Marquan, he sat his Corona down on the small end table of the barbeque pit and turned around to him. “What’s cracking, cuz?” Marquan gave Apocalypse a gangsta hug. Marquan was a brown skinned nigga that stood a full six feet, two inches. He had an athletic body of lean muscle and it was covered in tattoos. He rocked a close fade that swirled with waves and a goatee. Homie was menacing in appearance and his aura screamed gangsta. When it came to looks he mirrored the Compton rapper, Game. The only difference was while the Hub City rhyme spitter was a Blood, that nigga Marquan was a Crip. “Ain’t s**t, I see they got chu onna grill and shit.” he said, watching his homeboy turn over the meat on the grill. “Yeah, you know my get down. Ain’t too many that can f**k with me on the grill.” “Yeah, I know that if I don’t know nothin’ else about my nigga.” He continued to watch his man work the grill. Marquan finished flipping the meat and shut the grill. He sat the fork he was using to flip the meat down on the small end table of the barbeque pit. He then picked his Corona up. Turning back around, he was about to take another swig of his beer until he noticed the glassy look in Apocalypse’s eyes and the dry tears on his cheeks. “Yo’, you good?” Marquan’s face wrinkled with concern for his right-hand man. “Yeah, I’m straight, why’d you ask me that?” Apocalypse’s forehead indented as he wondered what he was talking about. “Cause you look like you been crying.” “Hell, naw, nigga, I just haven’t been sleep. I was stretchin’ and yawnin’ and s**t so tears came out. A nigga been up all night gettin’ to that paypa. And I was freakin’ off with Juanita’s fine ass last night, too.” He smiled and pretended to be f*****g someone doggy style and smacking their ass. “Oh, I was about to say, boy, nigga make my right-hand shed tears and I’ma shed blood. You know a nigga don’t play that s**t about mine. Come sit with me over here, come on,” he motioned for Apocalypse to follow him over to a vacant table and bench. They walked side by side talking to one another. “You wanna beer or something?” “Nah, I’m straight, cuz.” he sat down on the bench and Marquan was right behind him. “When that meat finishes cookin’, you can hook me up with a plate though.” “Don’t wet it, I got chu.” “G lookin’, cuz.” “Don’t mention it. You know how we do.” “Sho’ you right.” “Yo’, man, I gotta go holla at my plug tonight. Niggaz knocked off all of that s**t, that last re-up is gone.” “For real?” his forehead crinkled. “Yeah.” “That’s the fastest we ever finished off the work.” “I know, right? I ain’t complainin’ though. Shiiit, I’d be a mothafuckin’ fool to be sittin’ up here complainin’ about gettin’ money,” He spat on the ground and looked around the park, spotting some children running, laughing and playing like they didn’t have a care in the world. “You need me to strap up and roll out witchu when you go see this fool, man?” “Naw, I got it handled, shitta be quick.” “You sho’? This will be like the first time I don’t roll witchu, cuz. You know when you switch s**t up that’s when things go left. The last thing we need now is for something to go wrong, especially with us being on top now and getting to these bags.” “I’m sho’, I can’t always have you comin’ with me to baby sit. Besides, I been doin’ business with Popeye for a minute now. Cuz all about his paypa, he ain’t on no funny shit.” “You sho’ you wanna go solo?” “Positive. Trust me, loc, I got this s**t. I’ll hit chu just as soon as I’m done with homeboy.” “I don’t know, man,” he placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forth, letting his Corona dangle between his legs. “I feel realllll funny about this one. I’d feel better if you let me accompany you.” “Naw, I’ll be fine. I’m bringin’ my thang-thang with me,” he patted the bulge on his hip which was where his gun resided on his waistline. “Alright, since you insist, I’ma let it be.” He took a swig of his Corona. “Good. ‘Cause I was gettin’ tired of yo’ worrisome black ass.” he chuckled and patted his homeboy on his back. “Come on now, you know you my man, eighty-three grand. Nigga f**k witchu, it’s gone be a lotta slow singing and flower bringing. That’s on everything I love, you my brotha, cuz.” He lifted up his sleeve and showed off the ink on his forearm. It read My Brother From Another, Apocalypse; From The Womb ‘Til The Tomb. The inscription was over a very lifelike looking tombstone. “All day,” Apocalypse replied as he lifted the sleeve of his shirt and showed off the same ink on his forearm as his right-hand man. The only difference was he had Marquan in place of his own name. The two best friends turned to each other and dapped one another up before hugging. “That’s true love for a homeboy, cuz.” “On some real s**t, you ever get tired of the game, Poc?” Marquan asked his main man as he looked him in the eyes. A serious look was written across his face. “Hell, naw, man,” he shook his head. “This all a nigga know, Quan, the day I’ma stop hustlin’ is the day I’ma be doin’ life or layin’ face up in a coffin’. I ain’t even finna front fa you, bruh, I’ma street nigga through and through.” Marquan looked away from his homeboy and across the park at nothing particular, taking a swig of his Corona. “I ain’t mad at chu, homie. It’s a whole ‘notha thing witcha boy, though. I’m telling you, soon as I reach my million dolla goal, I’m taking my family and I’m getting the f**k outta the hood. I know if my black ass stays here, I’ma either end up murdered, or locked up for the rest of my life. I sho’ don’t want Antonio growing up here. The last thing I want for my boy is for him to be gangbanging tryna be just like his goddamn daddy. That would kill me, I mean really f*****g destroy me. You know what I mean, cuz?” “Yeah, I know what chu mean. For me, there ain’t no place like home, I’ma live and die in L.A. Ain’t no shame in my game, loc. Ain’t no shame at all. I been hustlin’ in these streets since I was knee high to a caterpillar. s**t, you rememba how I was gettin’ it.” It was a 72 degree day in South Central Los Angeles. People were coming and going, kids were laughing and playing, and stray dogs were wandering throughout the streets. A young Apocalypse was posted up underneath a telephone pole serving the occasional fiend that shuffled past him. He’d give a cautious look around for the police before making the exchange and sending the crackhead on about his business. Afterwards, he’d go back to watching the streets until another crackhead would come ambling up for some rocks. Apocalypse head moved on a swivel watching the traffic. He was none the wiser to the pigeons above his head on the phone line moving about. It wasn’t until some pasty white s**t splattered on his shoulder that he looked up and discovered the birds there. “f**k, cuz!” Apocalypse scowled as he looked to the s**t stain on his shoulder and then back up at the birds on the line. He looked around for something to throw at their asses, and when he found a couple of rocks, he quickly picked them up. Heatedly, he launched the rocks up at the pigeons; hitting one and making the others flap away hastily. “Damn, cuz, they got chu good.” A young Marquan, with a blue bandana around his neck, came waltzing out of the liquor store with a lemon Snapple in one hand and a couple of paper towels he’d gotten from the cashier in the other. He rocked a George Town Hoyas cap backwards. “Here you go,” he passed the paper towels to Apocalypse. He drank from his Snapple as he watched him clean off the shoulder of his shirt. “Thanks, man,” Apocalypse said after balling up the paper towels and letting them fall from his hand. “Don’t mention it, homie. Well, check it, cuz, I know you out here doing yo’ thang, so I’ma let chu do you. We’ll get up later, I’m sho’ of it.” “Cool.” They dapped one another up and Marquan went on about his business. As soon as Apocalypse turned around from talking to Marquan a police car pulled up in front of him. He started to run, but the mothafucka had the drop on him. Whomever the cop was behind the wheel was too close up on him for him to try to make a mad dash for it. Not only that, the cops around that way were known for shooting niggaz in their backs when they tried to run, armed or not, them mothafuckaz didn’t give a f**k. Seeing the cop hop out of his car and approaching, Apocalypse decided to play it cool. He folded his arms across his chest and pretended to be watching the traffic. You know, acting as if he was waiting for someone to pick him up or something. He thought by doing this he could possibly throw the cop off, and make him think otherwise of his presence, but that s**t didn’t work at all. “Do me a favor. Turn around, place your hands on the wall and spread your legs.” The cop ordered. “What?” Apocalypse frowned up and looked him up and down like he wasn’t s**t, “Man, gone somewhere with that bullshit. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ out here, but waitin’ on my cab, I’m straight, officer!” “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. I’ll advise you to do like I said.” The cop’s face tinted red and a vein bulged at his temple as he placed his hand on his holstered handgun in a threatening manner. Apocalypse looked the law enforcer up and down with a disgusted look on his face. “Mannn, f**k you,” he spat on the cop’s black pattern leather boot and saw his face in it. “Alright. That’s it, you little s**t!” Seething mad, the cop grabbed Apocalypse by his arm and twisted it around his back, causing him to howl in pain. The cop walked him to his police car and slammed the side of his face down on the hood of his vehicle. The impact of his face hitting the hood caused him to wince and grit his teeth. A vein bulged at his temple as the cop talked s**t to him and bent his other arm around his back, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists violently.