It's a fuckin' miracle that me and my girls got our ass out of Da Club alive. None of us are a stranger to war, but that shit last night cut way too fuckin' close.
Looking back on it with 20/20 vision, I'm thinking that hit bordered on stupid more than brass balls. My nigga, Lynch, ain't stopped bitching since we rolled our asses back home. Instead of a good dicking down for a job well done, I'm sitting on the edge of our bed wired and sleepy as hell from his bitching all night.
In the light of day, I think he, like the rest of the niggas on our block, is jealous and mad that they weren't the one that rocked the CLs' second-in-command to a permanent sleep. Those bullets are gonna put me and my girls in the streets for years to come. All I can say is that muthafucka got caught slipping. Grape Street Crips are true players in this game for real. Lynch stops pacing and mushes me in the head.
"Are you even listening to me?" I can't even take his mean-muggin' seriously no more and start rolling my eyes.
"No. The. Fuck.You. Didn't." His fists ball at his sides like he wants to get something jumping.
My twin babies start whining from the back room. I stand up only for Lynch to shove me back down at the foot of our bed.
"Lynch, I'm tired of this shit. I know you hear them boys." Knowing my boo, my twin boys are probably still sitting in the same diapers I put on them before I left out of the house yesterday.
"Let Momma take care of them. I ain't through hollering at you. We still have a few muthafuckin' things to get settled."
"Like what?" I yell. "What's done is done. Me and my girls got paid, we squashed another roach and everything is everything. What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that you're busting way too many moves without my sanctioning the shit. Niggas are talking. You need to know your place. I'm the muthafucka swinging the big dick up in here. I ain't down for feasting off a bitch who thinks she has bigger balls than me."
Outside our door, I spot Lynch's cranky-ass mother shuffling extra slow tryna ear-hustle on our conversation. Lynch follows my gaze and spins around. Seeing his nosy-ass momma, he strolls to the door and slams the shit in her face. I smile because I know that shit pisses her off. My nigga sees me grinning and gets more irritated.
"See. Your ass is worried about the wrong damn thing."
"I hear you talkin'," I tell him. You just ain't saying shit.
"Dammit, Shariffa. What the fuck are you and your five-dollar crew tryna prove? Hitting a Cartel Lord club for that bullshit take?"
"Ha!" I bounce up from the bed and dodge his ass in case he's thinking about pushing my ass back down.
"My five-dollar crew, as you put it, is putting in work. Mad work-and we getting shit done. I fail to see what the muthafuckin' problem is. Did you declare war on these muthafuckin' slobs or not?"
"Yeah. I declared war. This shit is for real soldiers. Grape Street ain't blasting behind no iron skirt like those black-and-gold, faggoty flag heads. You wanna hit some trap houses for some pocket change? Fine. Do you. But a real battlefield? What the fuck was you thinking?"
"You know what? We better squash this because I can't believe half the shit that's coming out of your mouth right now." I turn toward the door, but Lynch grabs my wrist and jerks me back.
"The shit is squashed when I say shit is squashed, dammit." This nigga's face is so fuckin' close, his nose is bumping mine and I swear to God that I see steam rolling out of his ears.
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Memphis Streets 3: Revenge
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