I Can Touch the Bottom

Ms. Michel Moore
and
Marlon P.S. White

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

 

Ms. Michel Moore—This journey is never easy to make; however, this time, I made the trip with my husband and coauthor, Marlon P.S. White. I thank him for his patience with me and continuing support. My mother, my daughter Author T. C. Littles, my family and friends, and, of course, the readers who've supported my endeavors since 2005, it's nothing but love! A special shout-out goes to Yolanda McCormick who holds me down at my spot, Hood Book Headquarters, every week. You're more than my homegirl; you're a blessing!

Marlon P.S. White—My wife, Ms. Michel Moore aka Michelle D. White, thank you for sticking by me and always having my back. We been doing this thing here since '99. To my parents, my children Mercedes White and DeVaughnta Dunlap, I always will love you all; unconditionally. My day 1 out here; Ty Toles, my brother, we can do anything we want in this world as long as we are thinking. You already know what it is. Kamel Mitchell, we both made it out of the belly of the beast. Salute. My family and especially all the nonbelievers, yup, yup; WIN! WIN! WIN! I WILL NOT LOSE! Of course, God, who never left my side even in my darkest moments, I pray you keep blessing me. And to Mr. Carl Weber, Chances Make Champions; thanks for the opportunity for me to make history—
YOUNG & HUNGRY
—Coming Soon!

Years up in that motherfucker; straight wasted. Caged up like some wild animal that's used to roaming the streets. Alienated from my people like a nigga had the plague or something. I swear, I hope the garbage-mouthed rats that sold me out rot in hell. You don't turn your back on a real one like me; we a dying breed, and that's on everything. Yup, hell, yeah, them bastards tried to hold me up. And yeah, they slowed me down, that ain't no lie. But fuck outta here. I'm back on the block in full swing on some O. G. shit. On top of my game where a guy supposed to be. Now if that ain't God blessing my hustle, then I don't know what the hell you call it.
Stack was tipsy, feeling good as he turned up the sounds in his truck. For him, everything was lovely. He'd done his time in the penitentiary, and now it was time to live like a king; stress free.
Yeah, tonight was a good-ass night for me! Matter of fact, the entire day was off the chain. The streets was acting right with my money, and them dusty females at the club was acting like they never seen a dude as polished as me. Shit can't get no better. Now all I need to do is get my stomach off craps, and I'ma be all the way a hundred.

Stunt profiling in the butter-soft leather seats of his truck, all was well with Stackz as he reminisced. Blasting the rhythmic sounds of jazz, the music flowed out of the custom-installed speakers. Each beat of the multiple instruments seemed to be felt deep in his muscular built bones. Content with life, his fingertips tapped on the side of the steering wheel. Off into his own world, the semiwasted young-style gangster with an old-school mentality wanted and needed something hot to put on his empty stomach. After throwing back several double shots of 1738 at Club A.F.S.C., short for another fucking strip club, he was about spent.

Fighting the beginning numbness of a slight headache, he felt the rumbling movements of his ribs trying to touch his spine. Realizing he couldn't fight the need for food to soak up some of the liquor in his system any longer, he knew he had to get right. Stackz finally turned the radio's volume down to focus. Slowing down, he hit his blinker and busted a quick U-turn. Knowing relief from hunger was only minutes away, he pulled up to a local favorite late-night spot. They served breakfast twenty-four-seven which always came in handy when the pancake and scrambled eggs with cheese munchies kicked in. Stackz and his close-knit crew were semiregulars at the greasy spoon. They often stumbled in there to get their grub on after clubbing or getting wasted. But this time was different. Stackz wasn't crewed up with his team of menacing cohorts. He was rolling solo.

Looking through the huge neon-lit window, he immediately took notice that the “hood” restaurant was unusually empty for that time of night; a perfect setting for the impossible to be made possible. Any and everything was subject to jump off after 2:00 a.m. in Detroit, and no one, not even the toughest gangster, was exempt from getting got if caught slipping. Being cautious, Stackz had second thoughts of even stopping at the hole-in-the-wall, yet his stomach growling once more made up his mind for him. Stackz wasn't scared of the crime-plagued city at all. Matter of fact, he felt the city oughta be scared of him. He'd just come home after serving time in prison and was still on parole. But that wasn't going to hinder him from being the man he was on the streets or handling business on a daily basis; legal or not. And on that note, Stackz reached over to the passenger seat, grabbing his pistol. After putting one up top, he placed it on his lap.

Fuck that ho, a motherfucker don't wanna act a fool tonight bullshit; a nigga straight hungry as hell. Chili fries with cheese is just what a brother need to get me back right
, Stackz thought as he pulled to the side of the building.

Stackz put his vehicle in park. With no worries, he jumped out of the triple-black Jeep Commander, gun in hand. Like a hawk hunting for prey, his eyes searched the general area, being mindful of his surroundings. Tipsy not drunk, the trained street soldier was on high alert and on point. Pausing momentarily, he tucked the rubber-gripped .45-caliber thumper in his waistband, adjusting it. He was a hood sniper when it came to automatics, so the fact he had his “li'l act right” with him, he was all good. Pulling his shirt down in an attempt to conceal the illegal peacemaker, Stackz reassured his still-disgruntled stomach that satisfaction was shortly on the way.

Shutting the truck door, he hit the lock button on his keychain. Checking the lot once more, he headed toward the restaurant entrance. As he made his way past the window, Stackz took notice of the people inside; three guys who appeared to be silly and harmless and two young females. Listening to their laughter from the outside, he assumed they were here on the same buzzed mission he was: needing a greasy fix.

With confidence, Stackz pushed the glass door wide open, stepping inside. It was whatever. On some Martin Luther King shit, tonight, he was fearing no man. As if on cue, all the laughter he'd overheard while walking up abruptly ceased. It was as if Jesus had jumped off the cross or Tupac's ghost had appeared for a final farewell concert; all eyez were on him. After a few brief seconds of uncomfortable silence, the three initially-perceived-to-be-harmless dudes took on the form of pure thirstiness. Although Stackz felt he was outnumbered when it came down to it, he knew he was good with the hardware and would put in work, if need be. Maybe it was the 1738 flowing through his bloodstream making him paranoid—and maybe not. But whatever the case, Stackz immediately felt like the trio of guys possibly had some bullshit brewing and put his game face on.

Making eye contact with both of the girls, Stackz had the ability to quickly study people's body language and act accordingly. It was a gift that his grandmother passed down to him; one he often used to his advantage. The lighter skinned one with all the weave appeared to be wild. Smacking on her gum, sucking her teeth, and talking loud, she was everything that Stackz didn't like in a woman. He might have been locked up for some years, but he knew she was out of order. Her clothes were too tight and definitely too revealing for his taste. Whoever she was, Stackz could tell she was trying too hard. Not wanting to stare at the group of people too much longer, he quickly glanced at the other female. Immediately with ease, he read something in the caramel-complexioned female's mannerisms that said she wasn't down with the clown antics her group was into. Stackz made a mental note that although she was cute in the face and had potential, she was dumb as hell for hanging with dudes that appeared to be bottom-feeders.

“Hello, there, can I help you?” the girl behind the security glass asked, pen in hand as he approached the counter.

“Umm, yeah, dear, let me get some chili fries with bacon, Swiss, and American cheese, along with fresh chopped onions,” he calmly responded, still being aware of the eerie silence since he'd come inside the building.

“Will that complete your order?” she leaned closer to the bulletproof glass, getting a whiff of Stackz's cologne that had somehow floated through to the other side.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That's it,” Stackz replied, taking his money out of his pocket. While waiting for the total, he stared down at her name tag which read Tangy. He thought he knew her but couldn't call it for sure. Although he and his boys were semilate-night regulars, the virtually unskilled cashiers working the graveyard shift changed like clockwork. Waiting for the female who seemed somewhat familiar to give him his total, it suddenly hit Stackz where he remembered her from. She was T. L. people; his young soldier who he'd raised from a youth. He ran with a lot of chicks, but this girl's cat-shaped eyes were what he remembered.

Tangy had run with Stackz's protégé a few summers back and easily knew who he was. As soon as he had walked through the door, her heart raced. Tangy hoped her hair was on point and wished she'd worn her good push-up bra. She always had a secret crush on Stackz, like most females from around the way, even if they were banging one of his boys. Stackz always dressed nice, stayed driving good, and most importantly, was rumored to have a big piece of meat between his legs he knew how to work. She wanted nothing more but for him to sit in the dining-room area and eat his food, but with the three stooges and their girls still tucked away in the corner of the restaurant acting a fool, Tangy knew that would never happen. She was disgusted, constantly giving them the side eye as she rang up Stackz's order.

No rookie to the streets, Stackz peeped her unease and body language. He felt like something was up and knew right then and there he should get ready.

“That will be $5.37, please, Stackz,” she quietly announced, seductively licking her lips.

Like Stackz thought he knew who she was, the fact she called him by his street name confirmed he was right. Tangy did, in fact, used to run with T. L. Nevertheless, Stackz was used to females openly flirting with him so he paid her no mind, especially at this moment. Without hesitation, he pealed a twenty-dollar bill off his medium-size knot and slid it to her, insisting she kept the change. Just then, Stackz overheard the biggest of the three guys posted in the far corner try to go hard.

“Who in the fuck this pretty-ass nigga think he is! All fly guy and shit with his red Pelle on and rocking them overpriced Robin's Jeans. He must not know where the hell he's at. He gonna mess around and get all the shit ran, plus that truck he drove up in.”

Stackz clearly wasn't moved by his hating punk-ass comment. He knew just where he was; in the heart of the city; the city that he got hella money in. Stackz had already killed the nigga with all the mouth and his homeboys eight different ways in his mind before he could blink twice.
Got me a few to go, I see. Any sign of fuckery and they people ain't gon' be able to sell enough fish dinners or raise enough money in a GoFundMe account to bury they asses quick enough.

“Stackz, you heard that right?” Tangy asked on the sly.

“Yeah, baby girl,” he grinned, winking his eye. “I know where I am; just where the fuck I wanna be.” Casually, he turned, looking over his shoulder at the trio, especially the one with the big mouthpiece. “Listen up, you ho-ass nigga; this ain't what you want. This right here ain't what you looking for tonight; none of y'all. So fall back with them bitches and relax. Don't tempt me to show out.”

Overly intoxicated, the three drunk wannabe thugs huddled together, obviously getting their courage up to attack. With ill intentions of going for bad, each kept looking over in Stackz's direction, hoping their intended target was just talking that ballsy shit to convince himself he wasn't about to get got.

Stackz had already sized the dudes up when he first stepped inside the restaurant and knew if and when the time came, he'd lay all they asses down; the two groupie skanks also, if need be. In Detroit, females were known for having “gangster moments” too. So fuck all that “I'm innocent and was just with him because” bullshit. In Stackz's eyes, everybody could bleed blood if they jumped into the murderous street arena; hoes included. Holding his own, like the O. G. he was, Stackz stood by the counter. With his phone in one hand and the other ready to whip out his .45 and go to work, he was hyped.

“Dang, why y'all always stay on some unnecessary crap?” one female remarked loud enough so Stackz would hopefully hear. What she was really doing was dry snitching on the always drunk, belligerent clowns she was sitting with. She'd been around them long enough from time to time to know they were seriously out of their league where this guy was concerned. The way he stood and carried himself, Ava knew dude was right; trouble with him was definitely not what they wanted. “Look, Leela, I'm ready to go right fucking now. Fuck this dumb shit! Y'all tripping!”

“Naw, Ava, slow down—chill; we good. You always acting like you too good to hang out with me and my friends,” Leela smartly replied with a look of disdain.

“Yeah, and creeps like these right here is the reason why I don't fuck with your ass on the regular.” She stood to her feet, leering over at the plotting haters with disgust.

“Creeps, huh?” Mickey had been called worse in his life so he let that little insult roll off his back like water but took offense to her trying to cause a scene. “Yo, Leela, shut your sister the fuck up,” he urged in a hushed tone as to not be heard by their soon-to-be victim. “Calm her uppity-acting ass down; all loud and shit. She gon' spook dude before we even get a chance to run his pockets.”

“Oh hell to the naw,” Ava loudly clapped back at Mickey, not caring who heard her. “I'm out of this motherfucker for sure! I ain't into catching no cases or bodies for the next dummy; especially your thirsty-trapping ass. Y'all do y'all!”

“Dang, sis, hold up for a few,” Leela cut her eyes. Reaching over in an attempt to grab her little sister by the arm as she tried heading toward the door, she knew things were about to get out of hand.

“Yeah, hater, listen to Mickey and your sister. We on to something big right now, so chill! You can break out when we done and not before.”

“Fuck your bum ass,” Ava instantaneously snapped on Devin, the biggest in size of his wannabe tough crew; the one with all the mouth Stackz had overheard. “You might run Leela's simpleminded self 'cause y'all fucking around, but you ain't running nothing this way. You can bet that much.” Still protesting her readiness to leave and the fact she wanted no part of whatever they were on, she pulled away from her older sibling's grip.

Devin grew heated. He hated to be contradicted, and hated even more for Ava to talk down on him and his boys. She had a bad habit of behaving like her shit didn't stank and she wasn't born, raised, and still posted in the same part of the city as he was. He didn't want her hanging with them anyhow tonight, but in between Leela wanting female company and Mickey always hoping he could one day get on, here Ava was; going against the grain, as usual. “Look, girl, I swear on everything I love, I'm straight bulldogging and skull tapping that ass if your people blow this lick for me with that bad luck mouth of hers.”