“Raheem, boy you need to calm the fuck down because you’re going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time one day and there won’t be anybody that can save your black ass. It won’t matter whether you are indeed guilty or not because you’ll be considered guilty by association anyways!”
That same shit has been said to me so many times that it makes me wonder if the real reason for most every bad story is that people have been in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time. Well, if you don’t know, let me tell you.
It was about three o’clock in the morning when my Trio 700 cell phone rang and my dumb ass just had to go and answer it. Now, thinking back, if I had known what I now know, I would have never answered the fucking phone or got up out of bed for the bullshit I went through... Truth be told, the only reason I wanted to answer my phone was because I was laid up with this broad named Italy.
Now, don’t get me wrong, this bitch was bad! So bad that she was laying on my silk pillow case, so that she wouldn’t fuck up her good ass hair, and she was wrapped up in my silk sheets and cashmere blanket, which kept her looking good... Any true playa knows exactly what I’m talking about. That’s not some shit that you let just any ole’ bitch lay on.
See, the problem I have with Italy is that she’s the type of chick that thinks she lives here just because I beat the shit out of her pussy when I let her come over. Yeah…she likes it rough and I give it to her just like she likes it. She’s one of those classy ass chicks that are freaks behind closed doors. You know, one of those in-the-closet freaky sistas. Guess what though, that’s just the shit I like in a woman, a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets.
The only thing is that I’m tired of telling this chick the same shit over and over again, “My fucking you does not give you any more privileges than any other ordinary, everyday chick. A fuck has changed nothing. Sure, your pussy is good and my dick gets happy at just the thought of that pink pussy and those juicy lips swallowing my dick, but I live alone and that’s exactly how it will remain.”
Italy was pissed that I had answered the phone while she was lying beside me buck naked. She looked at me, got up out of bed, sucked her teeth and walked out of the room.
So, back to my story, my dumb ass answered the damn phone, out of spite, in hopes that it would be another one of my many bad ass broads wanting to come over. That wasn’t the case though, not by a long shot. It was my boy, Mo’ Betta. Actually, he's not my boy. He just gets busy for his and we’ve done business together in the past. He’s one of those Ole’ G’s that people still talk about. You hear things like, “back in the day he used to do this and he used to do that.”
I’ll tell you what I know about him. I know that he’s old school, but he still has some hustle in his blood. I’ve been involved with a couple of business ventures with him but nothing as large as the major power moves that I had been told he frequently makes. I had just been waiting for my time to be a part of one of those moves, but this is one time I actually wished I hadn’t answered my fucking phone. I should have let that shit go straight to voicemail. That probably wouldn’t have worked either because I would have just listened to the message, called him back, and still been caught up in the same damn situation. Then again, I might have thought things through carefully. I’ll never know what would have happened if I had ignored the call because I had fucked up and answered the shit.
I listened while Mo’ Betta told me how he has a chance of a lifetime to make some easy ass money. Now one thang we all know about black people is that when they tell you something like that, there is always some type of risk involved. That’s no problem, but the risk is never a small risk, it’s huge! The type of risk that will leave someone dead, locked up, or holding all the weight when the police get involved and have begun to ask mother fuckers questions. All you can do is hope that the “someone” isn’t you.
