All Money Ain't Good Money-Episode 4

Damon
 

Third day on the job, and it feels like normal; like I never left this shit. Today, I have to find someone who owes Duval money. You know, shake it out of them no matter what. I go to his house and knock on the door. No answer. I go around to the back of his house and the door is open, so I let myself in, knowing damn well that this sumbitch is either hiding or he's gonna come at me, and I'm ready. I creep quietly as I can through the kitchen, through the living room towards the stairs, then I hear it.

Good old fashion love making, the rough kind, coming from upstairs. I grin to myself and make my way up the stairs, hearing her scream and shit, knowing I don't have to be quiet. You know the bitch is faking it like a bad ass porn star.

I reach the top of the staircase, I open the door to the left of me, nothing. I open the door to the right of me, peeking in, and there they are. She's on top and riding him like a wild mustang. I don't think I've seen anyone that fucks that fast or hard. I step back out around the corner, pull my 9mm out, attach the silencer, and rush into the room.

Before they can make a move, I grab her by the hair and put the gun to her head. “Not a sound from both of you, understand?” I turn my attention to dude; “You owe someone a lot of bills. Where is it?”

He looks at me with a wild eyed expression, and I'm really hoping his stupid ass doesn't try to attack me, I'm not in the mood.

“I-I-I have some of it, but understand I have bills too! I got--”

“Whatever, nigga! You don't have it, end of story! I'm gonna take a piece out your ass. It's just business.” I back off slowly from the bed, dragging his bitch with me by the hair and keeping her close. She's smart as she doesn't fight back or makes a sound. He thinks I haven't noticed him slowly trying to inch a hand under his pillow to grab his gun. And I'm thinking to myself, how do you let someone know you're not fucking around?

I shoot the fool in the shoulder, and he screams like a bitch.

“I told you not to fuck around, nigga! Get your ass off the bed and get on the floor!” He does as he's told.

“Don'tshootmeagainmuthafucka!”  Great, now he's going into shock. I throw his bitch next to him on the floor and make myself comfortable on a chair that's by the bed, my gun never leaving him.

“Let's try this again, fool. Money, where, and now.”

“It-it-it's in the closet.” By the sound of his voice, the sumbitch is going into shock. By the way he's grabbing that shoulder, and bloods pouring out, I'm surprised he hasn't. “Take that shit and go!”

I prop myself on my knees, still aiming the gun at him. “You raising your voice at me, nigga?”

“I said take that money and get the fuck outta here mutha-”

I pump another bullet into the same shoulder, blood splatting the wall and sheets behind him, but this time he doesn't scream. He gets an expression of pure pain on his face, and he finally passes out. That's what he gets for disrespecting me, then it hits me; I'm enjoying this. That thought and feeling turn my fuckin' stomach upside down, and I know it's time to go.

I walk past them to the closet. I see the only shoe box sitting on the top shelf and find lots of money in it.  I take the whole damn thing and point to his bitch before I leave.

“Not a word to anyone. Don't make me come looking for you.” She nods frantically and I'm out the door.

I'm out the front door and walk back to the front where Duval's youngins from Cafe Loco are waiting for me to make a getaway; tall ass Miller, short fuck Shawn. I toss the box to Shawn as I enter the car. Miller takes off.

“ 'Bout time, thought we were gonna have to come save yo old ass! Get the money or what, nigga?” Miller as usual with his big ass mouth. Gonna have to show him who's boss, soon.

“Bet this mu'fuckas a-a-a-a-arithis kicked in n-n-n-nigga”. This from Shawn. Miller points and laughs at me. Now I know why his ass kept quiet this whole time. He stutters so bad sometimes I think he's gonna have a seizure. They're both pure comedy, but I know how to check Shawn.

“You mean arthritis, Shawn? You're gonna hurt your damn self someday trying to talk, fool, then Duval is gonna blame me for how fucken r-r-r-r-retarded yo ass is.” Yes, I mock him and Miller laughs, all the yellow crust showing on his teeth, and yes, Shawn shuts the fuck up, mad as hell, but they're not what's irking the shit out of me right now.

It's me.

Can't believe how easy I've fallen back into this lifestyle. I'm frustrated and I'm taking it out on others. Wasn't supposed to be this way for me. That's the first time I've shot someone, where before, I'd just beat their ass. But shooting someone? Believe me when I say that I surprised myself back there.

The monster was back in a worse way, and I'm enjoying it.

All Money Ain't Good Money-Episode 2

Damon

Two weeks have passed, and thanks to scary ass corporations' fear of a black prez, there's no jobs. Pussy ass people are pulling money out of investments, banks, and what- have-you, because they think their money isn't safe.

What the fuck ever.

I'm grateful that my last check covered the rent and bills, but very little for food. Good thing I still have a mom who likes to help her kids out now and then when they need it. Believe me, it gets to my pride and fucken ego whenever I have to ask her for help, because she's still taking care of a kid at her house in the form of her husband. And I've been on the job hunt since I lost my last one.

Nada.

Places like Target and Starbucks have flat out told me they're “reserving jobs for returning students”. Ain't that a bitch!

My hope picks up when I come home in the afternoon from job hunting and see the flashing red light on the phone. It's a message, and hopefully with good news for a half-breed. It's a message from my uncle Duval (that's all I've ever known him as) with an offer for work, but I'm not sure if it's what I want. Duval is into “shadier” dealings, which usually means cops and trouble. Duval asks me to meet him at Cafe Loco at five o'clock for drinks and to hear him out.

I take a deep breath, look at the ceiling, and exhale. It's only for a minute, I mumble to himself. Only until I find a job, and I'm done. Call it desperation, call it stupidity. Hell, call it both, but damned if I sit back and lose my house for lack of a job or stupidity. My fault for telling my boss exactly how I feel about my job, the company, and his manager skills. Then again, the half-pint bitch asked me, so I obliged his ass. I loved my job, but didn't like his impersonal Napoleon dictatorship. You don't make your employees feeling like a bunch of niggers, working for a slave wage without any thanks. Whatever, I'll show their asses.

I look at my cellphone, it's ten til five. I go to the closet and pull down a red shoebox from the top shelf. My 9mm sits pretty in its holster, and I get flashbacks of all the dirty shit I did with this gun. Shakedowns, shootings, pistol whippings. I take the gun out the holster, and stick the gun in the small of my back. It's like welcoming a friend who you kicked out your life, knowing you shouldn't let their that sorry mu'fucka back in, but stupidity and pity clouds your judgment.

I'm out the door and headed to the car in a rush. I don't know what the fuck for, because I know what this nigga is gonna ask me to do. I'm just wondering who the fuck let him know I'm not working. I feel like I'm sixteen again. He did this shit to me when my brother and I were kids, asking us to do “favors” for him. And we did our job well, and he actually didn't have to twist our arms much, with the money he paid us.

We made bank for his black ass, and we stayed with fat pockets. Not to mention little hoes who did anything we asked them to for a hit, money, or dick. We had it like that.

Times were easy back then.

Rolling up to the club, I keep telling myself this will only be for a while until I find a new job. If I know Duval's game, it hasn't changed...make your hustle, make that money, keep your mouth shut. Same formula that's worked for years for him, but everyone else pays the price while he stays free. Following his rules are easy.

Then I remind myself, that things in my life are never that easy.

All Money Ain't Good Money-Episode 1

Damon

It's the day after Christmas, and this bitch—aka the Wife-- has just given me the best mu'fucken present ever! She tells me she doesn't want this marriage no more. There's no point in having a relationship with no romance, no sex, no trust. Hell, how the fuck do you trust someone who's lied to you from day one about who and what she was?

This bitch suckered me in with photos from the past: a body with curves that would make a Lowrider model envious; long brown hair with full lips; cat-like eyes that would make you stumble over your fucken feet if she batted them at you.

That was the past. What was standing in front of me now? A two hundred fifty-plus pound, baby-voice talking, insecure sack of overweight piece of shit who's sucked the fucken life out of me for the past 3 years. And now it's done.

The only thing I don't like is the way she's talking shit to me in front of my son, calling me all kinds of no good son-of-a-bitches. Honestly, I'm glad she's letting her true feelings out. She tells me how she wasn't ready to take care of another husband, much less his kid.

His kid.

And here Lamar loved her like there was no other woman in his life. He'd push his nana to the side to spend time with her and now he sees he was nothing more than “my kid”. I could smash her damn face in right now, but the look on Lamar's face lets me know he needs me by his side more than me getting knee deep in her ass.

She goes on for five minutes, and I stand there and take it. She goes on talking about my son like he isn't there, saying Lamar will never be shit in life, and he'd end up just like me: a no-good bastard who can't express his feelings. She must've seen the look on my face, seeing how fucken pissed off I was, so she grabs her shit and waddles to the door, and without a look back, she's gone. The apartment is finally quiet, thank fucken god. I don't know how much more of that damn whining I could take.

I look at Lamar, his head hanging and hands balled up into fists at his side. I put my arm around him and hug him. What's to say at a moment like this?

“Merry Christmas, mijo”, I tell him and kiss him on his forehead. He raises his head and looks at me with tears in his eyes and I remember he's only a kid who loved my “wife” with everything he had, and didn't deserve this. I feel like such a damn punk right now. He finally gives me something, that smile. The one that tells me that everything is okay, and hugs me back.

“Merry Christmas, daddy.” He stays hugging me for a few more minutes, which is cool with me. He's been my light since he was born, and I've forgotten what my purpose was in life: to protect him, provide for him, and make sure he has a good life.

Thanks, wifey. You pulled my head out of my ass and you gave me my freedom. That's twice I owe you.