Rakim's P.O.V
"What I'm saying is, what do you know bout this nigga?" Ferg questioned as he took another sip of his hennesy.
I scoffed. "What do I know? This wack ass nigga stole my shit, that's what. Shiet. Had me thinking he was a homie too, only to find he's been stealing my stash, valuable shit /and/ spreading my name through out this hood."
I half yelled, through gritted teeth as I began plotting this nigga's death.
"Jaxon done fucked up." Ferg added.
What I loved bout my nigga Ferg was he was a real one, if I blast this nigga, Fergestein's in on it. Shiieet, he'd even do the deed. But what would be the fun in that?
"While the real niggas die, fuck niggas gon' multiply. But unfortunately for him, his bitch ass ain't finna multiply no more."
Ferg laughed, flashing his gold grills as he raised a knuckle, colliding mine with his.
"Around 6 tommorow, at his crib you and the boys meet me there and we'll sort shit out." I said, a small smirk now evident on my lips as the thoughts filled my mind.
You could call me heartless, maybe even insane to kill. But it is what is. Because in Harlem you're either the shooter or the one at the end of the bullet.
Think we all know which one is more preferable.
YOU ARE READING
No Love Allowed.
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