Suicide Drills

Chapter 1

"So you wanna be a baller, shot caller, brawler..."

That ringtone causing Drill's Samsung Galaxy 4 phone to vibrate only meant one thing.

Andres Beckingdale, known to the world other than his mother as Drill, stretched his long 6 foot 6 frame off the couch and grabbed the cell phone that was doing the Harlem Shake on the end table by him. He yawned as he clicked the green button to accept the call.

"Hello," he answered groggily.

Drill had just finished basketball practice and he was tired as hell. Not to mention his body was sore as hell.

"Drill, you ready to make some money?" his boy of fifteen years, Money Talks, asked him.

Money Talks lived up to his moniker. He was a dark skinned 6'4 tatted up hoodlum with gold fronts in his mouth that loved money. He was the poster child for the thug generation of America. He was slick with his mouth and even faster with his hands, even worse if he had a weapon in either one of them.

Money's real name was Leon Ritchie but Drill couldn't remember a time when someone called his best friend by his government name except for a teacher or some adult that didn't know him. Money Talks, or just Money for short, was all about the hustle and getting that paper with the federal seal by any means. Drill was lucky to have him as a friend because when Money came up with a hustle, he was always trying to put Drill on.

Money's motto was simple, "Two things I don't share is money and pussy but I will help you get your own."

And Money lived by those words to the letter.

"Sure," Drill said letting go of another yawn.

"Nigga, you sleeping and there's money out here to be made?" Money laughed.

"Nah, my gee, I'm just tired," Drill yawned again. "I just came from basketball practice."

"I don't want to hear that corny shit, get your bitch ass up," was Money's reply and Drill was used to Money's remarks.

Money didn't care much about playing basketball even though he had skills. He would rather bet on a professional game or rob the street ballers that played in the neighborhood basketball court. He wasn't about playing on a team or doing anything work related that didn't involve money coming from it. Money barely even came to school except to see what the latest word on the block was. He just paid off or threatened the teachers to pass him. Money was crazy like that.

"I'm tired," Drill emphasized with a third yawn. "And I think I got bunions on my feet from all those drills we did."

'Quit your belly aching, you want in or not?" Money was already done with the excuses.

Drill shook his head. "I don't even know what I'm in for?"

"The big leagues, my nigga, I told you I got you when I got the call," Money said grinning through the phone.

"You don't mean..."Drill perked up too.

"Yes, my nig, we are going to the show," Money said. "Nigga just put me on and you know I had to put in a good word for you. He heard about you from living your little hoop dreams lifestyle and was acting unsure because he figured you was soft and just wanted to play ball. I had to tell him that you far from just banging niggas on the court, you bang them in the streets."

Drill laughed. Money was always so dramatic.

"Yeah," Drill said.

"Yeah, my nig," Money said. "So get dress, brush your yuck mouth and meet me outside in thirty. We are meeting the boss man."