I stroll into the Fat Monkey, unrecognizable in a leather skirt so short that both my ass cheeks are poking out the bottom of the muthafucka. My long legs are greased with the right amount of baby oil and cocoa butter while I glide on a pair of six-inch heels like I was born with the damn things on my feet. Every nigga up in this grimy-ass hole-in-the-wall damn near twists their heads off tryna get a good look at my brick-house curves. No. I don't like dressing like this, but it's not like I don't know I'm blessed with a banging body. I do-and for tonight's mission, it's going to come in handy.
"Goddamn!" One nigga approaches, having a hard time tryna decide whether to focus on my perky 34C-cup titties or my hypnotizing onion booty.
"Please, please, please tell me I ain't dreamin'."
"Depends," I tell him with a fake smile.
"Is your name Treasure?"
"My name is any damn thing you want it to be." His gaze rapes my frame while his face twists like he's about to bust a nut at any second.
"Then why don't I call you Get Ghost?" I step past him.
"Aw, shawty. You ain't got to be like that."
He places his hand on my shoulder, and before his ass can even blink, I have that muthafucka on his knees with his arm twisted behind his back.
"Did I give you permission to touch me, muthafucka?"
"Ow. Ow. Shit. Damn, shawty. I'm sorry."
"Keep your muthafuckin' hands to yourself." I twist his shit harder.
"Owwww. Shit. All right!"
I reel in my urge to break his shit but give in to the impulse to plant my heeled foot in the center of his back and kick his ass to the floor. Niggas at the bar hoot and holler at the extra entertainment. A few of them even wave dollar bills in front of my face. I just roll my eyes and work my way over to the bar.
"Buy me a drink," I tell this big Mufasa-looking muthafucka with dreads.
He turns his huge, dusty head toward me, and though his eyes are hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses, I know his ass is checking out the goods.
"A'ight, Ma. I'd say a peek at those sweet titties is worth seven-fiddy." He signals the bartender.
"What will it be, Ma?"
"Martini-apple."
"You heard the lady."
Not only is this muthafucka allergic to soap and water, but also apparently he has never met a toothbrush or mouthwash his ass liked. Somehow I manage to smile and not throw up.
"So where you from, baby? You work here?"
"Not yet. I'm hoping to get something, but I ain't been able to catch up with the owner yet," I lie.
"Humph. You might be waiting a while," he laughs.
"Why you say that?"
"Shit. Where you been at-under a rock? There's a fuckin' war going on, Ma. Those fake paper gangsters are gunning for our man. The streets are hot. That nigga gonna be ghost until we got this shit handled with those grimy Cartel Lords."
"We? You VD, too?"
He tosses back his head and laughs.
"Fuck. You better act like you know. I stack that long green all day and pop caps in those CL pussies like it's a part-time hobby. You feel me?"
YOU ARE READING
Memphis Streets 2 (Urban)
Ficción General**READ MEMPHIS STREETS FIRST** Revenge is now a sweet opportunity. Le'shelle is still gunning for the number one spot in her man heart Snake, no matter who she hurts in the process. After years of being together, will she finally have what it takes...
