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"Poppin' slat," Harlem dapped his boy Fredo up, his gold Cuban link chain shimmering in the moonlight, "you stay on this corner like a mothafuckin' ho or some shit." Fredo waved Harlem off nonchalantly, ignoring the wide smirk plastered on his face.
"You know what it is, lil bro, rain or shine—ain't shit stopping me from getting to the pape, ya heard? Tryna eat out this bitch just like everybody else. I got a son to feed, B."
Harlem nodded, pressing his back against the cold brick wall before tilting his green tea Arizona to his lips. He fucked with fredo. Not cause he knew real struggle, but because he had ambition. He wanted out these streets just like Harlem did, but once you in the game it's impossible to get out. See, once you're in the drug business it's like an addiction. Worse than any drug Harlem sold, once you got a taste of the lavish life there was no turning back. That was Fredo's problem, he just couldn't stop dealing—and that's why Harlem fucked with him, cause he couldn't either.
"Wassup with you and shorty? What's her name, Charlie, Wendy—"
"Cindy," Harlem pulled a freshly rolled backwood out of his Tommy Hilfiger bubble coat pocket and lit it up, taking a pull after. He shrugged, exhaling.
"Great pussy, crazy broad, Man. Not really fucking with the vibe. Cut her loose, you know how shit be."
"Wassup, Harlem," a young voice called behind him, knocking him from thought. Harlem squinted, exhaling another thick pull before sizing the young boy up.
"Aye lil man, didn't I tell you keep ya young ass From around these parts? What you doin' out here? It dangerous."
Ahmad smacked his teeth, waving him off as Fredo chuckled lowly.
"Man I'm on my way home from practice. Caleb and 140 nem was around my normal way so I took a detour, damn. Get off my ass," he smirked. Harlem smiled, shaking his head as he took another pull.
"Ya hard head ass gone learn one day."
Ahmad was only twelve years old, but had seen a lot. He lived in Harlem's building right across from his in apartment 6B with his mom, who just so happened to be one of Harlem's best customers. Because she was such a feign, Ahmad wasn't too well taken care of. Sometimes they didn't have shit to eat and none of their bills were paid, so Harlem looked after Ahmad like his own; a part of him wanted to stop selling to his mom because he knew it was wrong, but the other part of him knew he couldn't stop eating because of some other bitches decisions. The grind don't stop.
"Aye, you coming to my game Saturday?" Ahmad cheesed, gripping tightly onto his book bag straps. Harlem noticed the fringed straps and the duct tape across the front to hold the bag together. He frowned.
