Hood Misfits, Volume 1 (2 page)

“Stop fuckin' struggling,” I growled low next to li'l shawty's ear, my knee dug deep into her back as I pressed her hard, her cheek sandwiched between my foot and the floor.

I licked my lips in a scowl before looking up at my boss Dame. I pushed my hand against li'l shawty's head to keep her there and waited for my next command, gun ready to bust at any moment. This shit was my birthday present—my rise as Dame's main killer—and the shit had me on a rush.

All around me was niggas thirsty for my new position, and fuck if I was gonna let another nigga take my shit. So, I kneeled there, holding down the shawty who fucked up my face with that shit she pulled. Bitch cut under my right eye good. I knew I was gonna have a scar there, but I didn't care; I just wasn't digging how shawty got at me. The broad had to be stupid. She should have stayed where she was, and her life would have been much better, but that was her bad. Now her bitch-ass parents' debt was hers. And she was still fighting me. I hated when I had to introduce people to who I was.

Every nigga had a sob story, had the tiniest violin playing and shit, waiting to spill their secrets like bitches. I didn't. My life was simple as it was, and this broad was about to find that out. My name was Trigga. My finger was always itching to grip that Glock, and my right hook ready to connect to any nigga's jaw. I didn't mess around and play games. I had no time for that shit. So I sat and waited for the command from the boss.

Life in “the trap” was like that. Li'l shawty was tapping on my black box, reminding me of that shit. Like I said, it was my birthday. A nigga eighteen now. People in my past would say I was a man now, but that shit ain't true. I became a man the day my mom handed me a Glock and told me to take down the killers who'd snuffed both my parents out. Yeah, simple as that. Who I was then died, and Trigga came out of the shadows. A li'l nigga educated by a revolutionary NGE/New Black Panther from Brooklyn and his Assata Shakur protégé wife, both of whom went to one of those HBCUs around here in ATL but lived in the trap. Yeah, Trigga got education but was raised on the streets of the trap. Went from house to house once my parents got popped. Stopped caring about my situation when I touched the blood of my pops, mom, and little sister. Stopped caring when I watched my mom get raped by some niggas who wanted what my pops had. Had took him down just to get her.

Yeah, in that shit, my pops taught me a man who was king was never a nigga unless he wanted to be, and a king always took care of his throne to survive. My throne was gone the moment they got popped, so I had to survive by becoming a nigga. Feel me? My moms taught me that day that a queen was a jaguar and a jaguar could never be made pussy. She lived that truth even as she got ran through and then, in turn, snuffed a couple of them niggas out as she lay choking in her own blood. I finished off the rest I could get to as she schooled me on her and pops' rules in surviving the game. She told me where their stash of paper was hidden with her and my pops' book of thoughts then she took her last breath. Her glossy amber eyes were the last thing I remembered.

I took it and hid all that shit before five-O ran through. I watched as they lined the place with that dust and said my parents were drug runners.

People forgot about my fam and me. My name disappeared that day, and I became Trigga.

I watched in silence as they threw me in the system, where I went from home to home until I met Dame. You know, same story every little black kid got. In my black box was all that shit. All emotions died in those moments. I was ten then. So, like I said, every nigga got a sob story, but mine never made me cry, so I ain't got shit to sob over.

Dame gave his approval from behind me. “Trigga nigga, good look. Now pick that pussy up, and let's roll out. I got better shit to do.”

“So we ain't cappin the bitch?” one of the homies asked.

Nigga was sweating and shit, dick print visible, and it pissed me off. Sloppy killers always got caught and snitched, and this fool was just that type. He killed 'cause shit made his dick hard. Sewer-ass niggas like him always had to find some way to get his, and by the way he was sweating and shit, it looked like he needed to get him some molly too. Weak-ass niggas, I swear.

I yanked hard and lifted li'l shawty's head to slam it hard against the floor, knocking her out easily. Then I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder, and locked eyes on Dame.

“Did I say cap that bitch yet? No, I didn't. Let's be out. Got uses for that pussy,” Dame said and walked out.

My eyes narrowed, I pulled my fitted down to shield my eyes, reached back to tuck my short locks into my hoodie, and pulled it over my head. As we walked out the apartment, I made a mental note to come back and holler at each broad and nigga in the complex that may have wanted to talk. Everyone knew that you didn't fuck with Dame and you didn't fuck with his product. This broad's people had done just that. Never take from the hand that feed you. Feel me? That was a straight OG rule right there.

Throwing her in the back seat, I watched some of the niggas grab their dicks the moment li'l shawty's legs fell apart and showed her pink panties. Typical-ass niggas. Pussy always on their minds no matter where they could get it. Me? Fuck that shit! My pussy knew where to stay and knew not to be fucked with outside of me. I stayed getting my dick wet, so being hungry for random pussy, especially fresh pussy, wasn't even on my mind. My throne was on my mind.

My throne always equaled staying tight in the street, my money, my kills, and then pussy. Ain't no order to that shit either.

“Ey yo, pretty boy Trigga, we got some shit ready for tonight for your day.” TooTight, another nigga in the crew, flashed his gold and laughed while watching me. “Li'l nigga going to get mad pussy and dough, right?”

Nigga always called me pretty boy, because of my brown skin. Broads stayed thirsty from that alone. They said I had eyes that look lined with eyeliner or some shit. I hated when they said that crap, but it always made their pussies wet at the same time. Said my brown skin looked like red clay and you know the broads loved my short locks and smile. They loved the way I licked my lips and rubbed my jaw too. So, yeah, a nigga was pretty to them. Always had me pullin' pussy for Dame and the crew. Always. But TooTight's words went over my head as he asked me again.

So, I said nothing. Why? Because I didn't talk. But I did smirk and swipe at my nose, closing the door to the car behind me. Yeah, party was going to be swagged out, but I couldn't give two shits about it really. I just wanted my cash and wanted to push more product. Was done with school, so I had to hit up my block on the regular now to push out Dame's goods. Yeah, a nigga had his high-school diploma. I really don't know why I cared about that, just reminded me of what my pops always put in my head, I guess. Either way, it kept me close to anyone that needed some dust, as well as our enemies on the street.

Climbing into the car, I dropped my head back as the other goon niggas started clapping at the mouth, talking 'bout dumb shit. This was the time I usually always go into my black box and pull out the teachings of my pops and one of the books on being a samurai that I found in his closet. But right now, that shit wasn't even possible. Niggas kept talking, asking me about when I was going to get inked up.

I mean, I didn't know how many fuckin' times I had to tell them that shit wasn't happening. I mean, I thought about that shit, but my mind was always ten steps ahead of niggas. What was the quickest way to be ID'd in the black streets of ATL? Ink. You got ink that stands out and shows, then how you gonna hide in the hood? Naw. I wasn't going to do any visible shit, and if I did, you would have to get up on me to ID that shit. That wasn't going to happen.

I sat back and just laughed as they asked me questions, like bitches.

“Yo, li'l homie is getting inked up just right tonight. My gift,” Dame said to us from the front.

Of course he would throw his weight around.
Damn!

When Dame said something, it was law around the
A
, and since I didn't feel like hearing that nigga's mouth, I had to oblige. Now I had to think about how to do the shit smart. I mean, yeah, I had an idea of what kind of ink I wanted to get—something dealing with who I was—which made me smile inwardly. I knew getting a tat went against everything I'd just said, but I had to show loyalty to Dame's word or he would start to fuck with me. It was all good though because I was a different kind of nigga. So, what I got would be something I drew—two shackles on my wrists with the chains disappearing into my veins. That was it. They'd think it was some hood shit. I didn't care. It would be what I wanted it to be.

So the day came close to night, and li'l shawty started whimpering on my lap. We had run some product all the while she laid in the back of the ride tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. Every time I got in, I made sure to knock her out with a quick squeeze near her neck and behind her head, something I learned in my pop's book that I had been practicing. Made shit easier in these situations, and I didn't want another Band-Aid on the side of my eye.

The trap was thick with niggas and bitches in the streets. As we made it to Dame's spot, we got out and flanked him, watching for any enemy that might try to get at dude. My fingers began to itch, which let me know we were being watched. The situation got so tense, it had me pacing with one hand in my pocket, and the other tugging on my fitted hat.

Behind me, I heard, “What you see, Trigga, nigga?”

I said nothing because I was in my zone. I'd learned how to listen to the streets long ago after being homeless and hiding from DFCS, Division of Family and Children Services. It was a certain vibe you got when you knew shit was about to pop off. Some didn't listen to that shit, but I did. Stepping backwards, I slapped the top of the car to tell the driver to get Dame in the house.

Walking slowly to the locking gates, I tilted my head up at a set of young cats watching from across the street and adjusted my Glock before yelling behind me, “Nothing, my nigga. You know how shit gets.”

“
Hahaha
. Yeah, that's why Dame got you where you at, li'l nigga. Forgot how you read the Trap,” some random nigga said to me.

Walking backwards, I moved past the new niggas that ain't know about me and how I worked without saying shit and went inside. One of the rules of the street was, you always protect the boss. Protect him and you protect that profit you may get later. How did you turn your back and trust that everything was good in the crib? You didn't. That was how niggas got taken out, turning their backs with guns always pointed their way.

Inside, I heard li'l shawty screaming again and fighting. I threw back my hood and rubbed my hands together. Wasn't my place to even check on that shit. I was just the gun, not the right hand. So as she screamed, I watched her kick and slam her balled fist against Big Jake's broad shoulders. I knew that shit had to hurt her because he was one solid fat-ass nigga. All his beef was nothing but muscle, which people didn't know, but I did. See, we niggas in the streets always had to have an ace. Mine was my mind, my eyes, and my always clean-shot takedowns.

Big Jake was making people think he was a big, dumb, fat-ass nigga that always had to eat. He was the bodyguard, and I always trained with that nigga on the low to get our strength up. See, he was the one who told Dame to get me when I met them in the streets long ago. Back then I was just a runner with good eyes who could tell when people were ready to gun for them. That was how I got in, and me and Big Jake had been like extended fam always. Nothing more than just a cool dude.

Anyway, I dropped back on the couch and watched as li'l shawty planted her feet against Big Jake's chest, pushing, and swinging. She balled her fists up and connected them to each side of his skull. Big Jake laughed at each blow.

Something about her fight reminded me of some old shit. I kept my amber gaze on her, following and laughing when Big Jake dropped her on the floor with a loud bang. The broad's body bowed up then went straight as a board when her head hit the wall, her dark hair covering the wooden floor.

Kicking my feet up on the table, pushing weed, and empty cans out of the way, I kept watching while she fought and tried to kick at Big Jake, until he picked her up by her head and threw her into the closet and locked the door. Laughter had me dropping my head back against the couch and picking up the game controller to start up some Madden.

This side of the bossman's property was for his goons. Here we did whatever the fuck we liked, which was why there was shit everywhere. That irritated me. No matter the fuckin' way I grew up, a nigga still liked to have at least a spot where it was clean and roaches and shit weren't trying to come through and say whaddup. Bossman was the same, so though shit was everywhere, it wasn't dirty to the point of roaches and mice.

“What you laughing at, nigglet?” Big Jake's booming voice rumbled behind me.

Shrugging my shoulder, I reached into my pocket and pulled out some candy. Just as I popped it in my mouth, the other niggas in the house came into the room.

“A big-ass bear getting fucked up by some pussy.” I smirked.

“Little nigglet, you should talk. She got you too. Get the fuck up and get ready for this party,” Big Jake boomed.

I laughed as he gripped me by my hoodie and threw me off the couch.

The party. I had forgot about it that fast. Bossman Dame was serious about this shit, so I knew I had to get ready. We all did. That meant the street pussy he always called in to clean the house was already working on one side of the house and about to come this way. All I had at Dame's was a backpack and some shoes, so I needed to go to my own place, which was over an abandoned firehouse.