Authors: Tranay Adams
Me and My Hittas (20 page)
Avenue turned back around and saw the MC barreling
their way. The back passenger window rolled down and the
murderous scowl of a coldblooded killer came into view.
He had a blue bandana tied around his head 2pac style.
Supacrip stuck something out of the window long, black
and deadly. It looked like it could clear a block of fifty
niggaz.
“It’s murrrdaaa!”
Spit
flew
from Supacrip’s big
chapped lips as he chanted and held back the trigger of his
automatic weapon. The assault rifle chattered laying down
pedestrians, shattering the windows of parked cars and the
window of Ms. Turner’s Barber Shop. Some of the patrons
managed to take cover when the shooting started, but those
who weren’t as quick on their feet ended up lying on their
backs in a pool of their own blood. The barber shop’s walls
and floor were splattered with their insides, pieces of their
skulls, and brain fragments.
With lightning fast reflexes, Avenue freed his .357
Magnum from his waist and swung it around, finger fucking
its trigger. He let off four quick shots; two went wild and
the other two married the back passenger door of the MC.
Avenue continued to fire on the approaching hoopty. It
wasn’t long before he heard the sound that all street niggaz
dreaded in a shootout.
Click!
The missile shaped bullets from Supacrip’s assault
rifle chewed up Avenue’s face and chest, blowing chunks
of
bloody flesh out of
his
ass.
He hastily
stumbled
backwards and fell over onto the sidewalk, resembling
bloody hamburger meat. His life’s blood ran off of the curb
and dripped down into the gutter.
The MC came to a screeching halt at the center of the
block outside of Ms. Turner’s Barber’s Shop. Supacrip
looked over the sidewalk at all of the bodies he had laid
down for his main target, O.G Booby Loc.
Nike asked from behind the wheel of the hoopty.
“I’m not for sho, I laid a couple down though,”
Supacrip spoke honestly, still looking over the bodies on
the sidewalk.
“Fuck,
Cuz, I always gotta clean up yo’ mothafucking
mess!” Nike sucked his teeth and grabbed the mini M-16
assault rifle resting in the passenger seat. He swung open
the driver side door and hopped out. Approaching the
sidewalk, he could hear police sirens approaching in the
distance.
out from the backseat.
Stepping upon the sidewalk, Nike fired rounds into
the bodies of the pedestrians squirming about on the curb.
Their blood splattered and specs of it clung to his pants legs.
There was no way he was leaving any potential witnesses
alive. He looked to his right and found Pavielle lying
underneath Avenue.
His eyes were staring out of their
corners and his mouth was ajar. He was dead. Nike smiled
wickedly and retreated back to the car. He slid in behind the
wheel, threw it in drive, and floored it away from the
murder scene.
With the competition now eliminated, Nightmare
moved to find a new cocaine connection and severe ties
with Omid. As predicted things didn’t go over too well with
the big man; Omid was a notorious hothead who had to have
it his way, or no way at all. So when Nightmare told him he
was going to be taking his business elsewhere, he went ape
shit on the phone and promised on his dead mother’s soul
to have every member of his family tree murdered.
Before Nightmare could get another word in edge
wise, the dial tone was going off in his ear. The gangster
crip knew he was a walking dead man; Omid had enough
money and resources to wipe his entire hood off the map.
So he’d have to get to the Arabic drug lord before he got to
him.
Nightmare had his little homeboys, Domino and
Wacko, tail Omid for a week. During their investigation
they learned that Omid didn’t have a daily routine, but he
did have three vices he couldn’t live without: food, fine
cigars, and black pussy. One of those three would be his
downfall.
“Ah! Ah!” Omid shouted in sensual bliss. His eyelids
fluttering as he balled the sheets up into his meaty fists. His
wide, fat hairy ass was bent over in the doggystyle position.
Pumping the twelve inch clear purple, see through strap-on
dildo in and out of his asshole was a curvaceous, busty,
African American Dominatrix in a Cleopatra hairstyle wig
and violet contact lenses.
She was
fucking
the hefty
easterner like a man would fuck his woman, and he was
enjoying every minute of it.
A film of sweat had formed on Cleopatra wig’s
forehead, she wiped it away with the back of her hand, and
continued to handle her business. She pushed and pulled the
freakishly large fake cock from Omid’s rectum, smacking
his bare ass as she did so.
“Uh
hh, faster, baby! Faster!” Omid cried out, his face
a mask of pleasure. “Ah, right there, here daddy comes…”
he trailed off as he approached his orgasm. His penis
stiffened and oozed with semen right before he collapsed
onto the bed. Cleopatra wig collapsed right beside him,
panting out of breath. He lied on the bed sucking his thumb,
something he always did after sex. He then crawled over to
the dominatrix, grabbed her by the strap-on penis, and
began sucking on it, sloppily. As he deep throated the
rubber cock, he stared her dead in her eyes. She grabbed
him by the back of the head as he bobbed up and down her
strap-on.
“Yeah, that’s it, suck my dick, bitch,” Cleopatra wig
egged him on, sweat dripping off of her brow. She hissed
like a snake and sucked her teeth, holding the back of his
head as he slobbed up and down her artificial dick. “Deep
throat this big mothafucka.” She told him forcing his head
further down the strap-on, causing him to gag and become
teary eyed.
Although the dominatrix acted as if she was enjoying
herself, she was actually very disgusted. But since she was
getting paid top dollar
for
the sickening
act being
performed, she quickly pushed her judgmental thoughts to
the back of her mental. Still, she couldn’t get over the fact
that the rich and powerful man before her was a closet
homosexual. When he rolled up on the ho-stroll looking for
some late night action, she overheard him talking trash into
his cell phone in Arabic. He was in boss mode, barking
demands and orders so she knew he had to be in a position
of power. His
walk, talk, dress,
his
whole
demeanor
screamed it. So she was caught off guard when he told her
the homoerotic acts he wanted her to perform on him. Not
to mention, she was surprised by the $5,000 dollars he
offered her to do the things he wanted done. This entire
scenario is why she always reminded herself to never judge
a book by its cover. She lifted Omid’s head back from her
strapon and said, “I’m not done with you yet, ho. Get your
ass in that bathroom and get cleaned up.” she harped up
some phlegm and spat it in his face. The warm goo slid
down the side of his face and went over his lips.
and sucked it from his fat fingers like it was barbeque sauce.
“Oh, youz a nasty ass mothafucka,” she said, sucking
on her left breast’s nipple. She smacked him on his ass as
he hurried into the bathroom to freshen up. She then took a
small key from her patent leather jacket, unlocked the lock
on her chess, and lifted its lid. She removed a black leather
bondage suit, a cache of sex toys, gadgets, lotions, oils and
creams and lined them up on the dresser neatly.
Omid disrobed and drew the shower curtain back,
meeting a series of flashes from a photography camera.
“What the fuck?” He cursed, using one hand to block the
flashes and the other to shield his privates. “Nightmare,
who let you into my home?” he asked with a thick accent.
“I did,” Bobby Blue said from the doorway, where she
was clutching a sexy chrome, pearl handle .38 pistol with
both hands. She pulled the Cleopatra wig off and tossed it
on the floor. Beneath it she was wearing a wave cap over
her hair, which was in cornrows.
“Fucking bitch,” Omid snapped, turning red in the
face and around his neck. He was so pissed off that a vein
began pulsating in his forehead.
“That’s Queen Bitch to you,” her eyebrows dipp
ed
and she twisted her lips, training her small caliber weapon
on him.
Omid barked on Nightmare without a trace of fear. Most
men in his position would be shitting bricks, but he wasn’t
afraid to die. He embraced death. There was nothing to be
scared of as far as he was concerned, dying meant starting
life over from scratch to him. “What the fuck do you want?”
He asked wrapping a bath towel around his waist.
“The question isn’t what I want, it’s what are you
willing to pay for what I have?” Nightmare asked. “I have
some photos of you in some very compromising positions.
I have to tell you, fat man, these dirty lil’ secrets wouldn’t
go over to well with your business associates. A man of
your caliber hunched over with a twelve inch rubber dick
being jammed up the brown-eye,” He shut his eyelids and
shook his head in shame. “You’d be the laughing stock of
the underworld, and what about your folks? From what I
hear your people aren’t too fond of homosexuals. Do you
think they’d be down with taking orders from a faggot?
Fuck naw!” he answered his own question. “They’d
probably have you killed. Now,tell me I’m not right?”
“Fu
uuuuck!” Omid shouted, bringing his hands down
his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and massaged
his chin as he thought to himself. “Alright, cock sucker,
you’ve got me by the balls here. What do you want for this
thing to go away?”
“200k and four bricks of raw,” He told him, sitting
down on the commode’s lid. “It’s in the safe inside the floor
of my closet.”
“You might as well have t
old me you had two
hundred grand and four bags of fertilizer. That coke you got
is some old bullshit.” Nightmare kicked him hard as fuck in
his side causing him to holler out and clenched his aching
ribs.“The fuck is the combo, Cuz?” he told the gangsta crip
the combination to his safe and he sent Bobby to retrieve
the goods inside.
“Baby, are we happy?” N
ightmare called out to his
lady, keeping his attention on Omid who was clutching his
side grimacing. Worry was plastered on his face and fear
poisoned his heart. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the
gangbanger to uphold his part of the deal.
back out jovially.
of
minutes
later she returned
to the
bathroom with a loaded pillowcase slung over her shoulder.
“Yep,” she smiled with satisfaction. He gave her a
nod and she spun around to Omid, lifting her .38. The
chamber turned when she pulled the trigger, releasing a shot
that went right through his thigh and echoed throughout the
bathroom. The Middle Eastern drug lord fell off of the
commode, clutching his thigh and howling in agony, face
tightening feeling the fire in his limb.
Nightmare kneeled down to him and raised his chin
with his finger to make sure he was looking him directly in
the eyes before he began talking. “Heed my words, you tub
of lard, if anything should happen to me or my bitch, those
pictures are going to make it into the hands of your
associates, capeesh?”Omid nodded yes as he gritted his
teeth in pain, grunting his excruciation. “That a boy.”
Nightmare smiled pleasantly as he patted him on the cheek
like a mafia wise guy. He then stood erect and exited the
bathroom with Bobby in tow.
Nightmare could have easily rocked the fat man to
sleep, but it would have brought a lot of heat down on him.
The Middle Easterndrug lord’s associates didn’t trust the
gangster crip one bit, so if Omid were to have gone missing,
he would have beenthe first one they’d come looking for.
Handling the
situation
this way
was
smart,
with the
photographs Nightmare could bribe Omid for whatever he
wanted.
men could win.
“Daddy we’re here,” Bobby a
nnounced,
shaking
Nightmare from his dozing as she pulled into the Del Amo
Mall Shopping Center’s parking lot. She parked four rows
down from the Marshall’s department store and executed
the engine. Her man glanced at the digital clock in the
dashboard, it was 2:29 P.M, one minute before he was
supposed to meet the man who could be his new cocaine
connection.
As soon as the digital clock struck 2:30 P.M, a black
H2 Hummer on sparkling “28 inch chrome rims pulled into
the parking stall five stalls down. Spanish music spilled
from the cracked tinted windows of the hog along with
heavy tobacco smoke. The driver side door swung open and
the bodyguard stepped out, one designer shoe at a time. He
closed the door behind him and surveyed his surroundings,
keeping his hand inside of his suit near his pistol. Julio was
a five foot seven Dominican cat with the complexion of a
walnut and a left-eye that slightly twitched. He had a pencil
thin mustache and he wore his hair in a tapered fade. He
was decked out in a purple fedora and suit. A crocodile belt
held up his slacks and his feet adorned a pair of crocodile
skin shoes.
Julio stepped around back and pulled the door ajar for
his boss. An older Latin gentleman slid out from the
confines of the backseat. He planted a snake skin shoe on
the asphalt and pulled himself into view, adjusting his tie.
Looking from left to right, he took pulls of his cigar. Smoke
billowed from his nostrils as he spat what was left of the
cigar to the ground and mashed it out under his heel.
