Juici Couture & the Suga-Hill Gang

By Ghetto English Rock's and Kenny Attaway's

juici couture & the suga hill gang is a cinematic street tale of six victims from various regions of the world coming together as one the suga hill to get back and retaliate against their oppressors in ways none of the hood/world would ever forget. Led by their cold hearted and unforgiving leader Juici Couture and sidekicks Sweets (Sweet & Low) and others not only go on a major string of deadly payback, but gets involved in a knee deep of organized and not so organized crime; including money laundering racketeering, prostitution, murder and drug smuggling/selling. The Suga Hill Gang were very successful with first five successful retaliations on their oppressors but the sixth and seventh (and supposedly last) the gang stumble on the emotions of love verses hate and the deadly elements that make up HATE/REVENGE; resentment, a broken heart, confused admirations and misguided secrets that possibly separate the gang forever. A must read novel on how and why revenge is never that sweet & how wishing one a better life than yours is the key to true happiness

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491840191

Ghetto English Rock's

Kenny Attaway, author of Nuthouse Love, Slum Beautiful, In the Arms of Baby Hop and a slew of others currently lives in Eastwick, PA. He is currently penning the novels Mrs. Emmaculate’s Handbook, Juicy Couture/Keturah and Creed from a Kitchen Sink with his c0-author Ghetto English Rock.

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© 2013 Kenny Attaway’s/ ghetto english rock’s. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

juici couture, the novel, has no affiliations or connections to the clothing line Juicy Couture. None of the characters, authors or publishing companies has any affiliations with the clothing line Juicy Couture. Juicy couture is a separate and non-related entity

Published by AuthorHouse 11/20/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4021-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4020-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4019-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921518

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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juici couture is based on true stories/events, but the views, stories and opinions of juicy couture don’t reflect the personal opinions and views of the authors Kenny attaway & ghetto English rock.

juici couture:

& the suga hill gang"

CHAPTERS

01   beautiful heart, & criminal minded

02   kisses from the barrel-house

03   godfather’s wife buried alive

04   suga hands & sweet triggers

05   the cup-cake culture

06   exotic birds flying through the city

07   a militant romance

08   guns, butter, hugs and drugs (addictions)

09   hard kandi

10   raw suga

11   blueberry waffles in a plastic bag

12   breakfast at tiffany’s

13   milkshakes in a snow storm

14   last of the dying breed

15   sweet-nothings

What’s this shit about:

juici couture & the suga hill gang is a cinematic street tale of six victims from New Orleans & Texas coming together as one the suga hill to get back and retaliate against their oppressors in ways none of the hood/world would ever forget. Led by their cold hearted and unforgiving leader Juici couture and sidekick Sweets (Sweet & Low) the six not only go on a major string of deadly payback, but gets involved in a knee deep of organized and not so organized crime; including money laundering racketeering, prostitution, murder and drug smuggling/selling. The Suga Hill Gang were very successful with first five successful retaliations on their oppressors’ but the sixth and seventh (and supposedly last) the gang stumble on the emotions of love verses hate and the deadly elements that make up HATE/REVENGE; resentment, a broken heart, confused admirations and misguided secrets A must read novel on how and why revenge is never that sweet & how wishing one a better life than yours is the key to true happiness . . .

A MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR a

Hustler’s prayer

To the higher to bow to and for forgiveness

Silently asking why we have to live this

And sometimes for peace and serenity

And for this life to be what is supposed to be

Not violently we ask to leave

Although we share the shame air our enemies breathe

Under your clouds will live out alike

Not always proud.

Cruel and wrong is what they name us/

Not even the most beautifulness skies could tame us

But do you just blame us?

Please still forgive us and resurrect us

What we do is wrong, but protect us

And if there is fire and we are the first leave

Send us to the place where in love we could believe

beautiful heart, & criminal minded

Chapter-1

the sad start

Life’s a bitch or do we make a bitch our life? Point blank. But god forbid the bitch cross me, leave me or deceive me, but shit happens and bitches and will deceive you too, but that was over ya head!!. In my hard withered and fucked up life a bitch became more than a nasty trick, disrespectful chick or a pregnant dog. A bitch became man. My man became a bitch. Not just any ole man, but my man. REAL man could never be anyone’s bitch. Not the kind of bitch that toggles at your knees, bite your ankles, shit in your yard and that’s after your feed, the kind that gossip or cat up on me, but no kind of bitch… . At least I thought. I’d never think for a second I’d give my heart to a bitch, my soul to a bitch, let a bitch fuck me, desert me or mistreat me. In my past life I laughed at bitches, disrespected bitches and did everything possible not to become a bitch. But the world is made up of bitches and at one point and time in everyone’s life it becomes just that; a bitch… a cold rotten, backstabbing, unforgiving, uncontrolled substance thing or ism that god sometimes don’t understand. BITCH! For the sake of time and getting on with my life or my bitch, I will abbreviate the pain and slow up the rain. Sometimes I rhyme when I talk, other times I just cry, but it’s not my fault; my life is a bitch. It does whatever it wants to me. What would you do when your brightest light turns dark and your last candle is afraid of flame it is the fire or candle you blame. But anyways, before I formally introduce you to my bitch… life, man or whatever, I I’d prefer to introduce you a shitty little ex pup (my ex) or K-9 mutts Cougar.

Cougar was a rotten no good motherfucker originally from somewhere in Alabama or one of those other BAMA ass shit holes in the deep south that rats, mice and other wild shit they crawl in and out of the shit traps in search of love hate or hate love. Before being chopped down to a mini midget of a man, Cougar was a tall ghetto missing tooth motherfucker that covered it up with a buncha overpriced as grills. He was a fly dressing red Cadillac painting, young girl getting player that loved to trick his favorite girls and cars out in the best shoes money could buy. But with more than a few deals gon bad and caught more than few times scheming he was retired and downsized to a pair of size 22 chrome shoes (wheelchair). He was a real money getter/pussy digger. Bitches loved his mink cuts (his wavy hair) and deep dick strokes. Word on the street was that he played with 11 inches of dick and few pounds of balls to go with it your order. Cougar was Ishmael aka Sandman’s right hand man before he was left paralyzed from being shot up in a coke/heroin deal gone bad and other gang of shit that nobody knows about but Cougar and the hell boys that kicked him in his ass with chrome shoes. Those hell-boys left him to die on the steps of his mother’s house. Drug dealers in the hood life fall off all the time; especially after jail or prison. Those cold corners don’t hug none of those sucka for love ass niggaz back when they come home from that big belly bitch (life’s a bitch) expecting a kiss, some ass, cash or being treated the way the use to be treated. Sadly, that corner dun fell in love with those new hell boys that set up shop, keeps her pussy wet and tingling and brag about her with pride. Those cold corners don’t give a fuck about the old guy… . your old news and every motherfucker knows that old papers go in the can. And old men rarely wear the right jackets/coats on those cold corners. Cougar’s downfall started a lot before he found a corner or setup shops with Ishmael. Like most sidewalk executives, Cougar’s momma or dead beat ass gave a fuck about him. He was raised by his father’s second wife Elba, who was a hash and heroin junky, but loved Cougar or at least thought she did. Elba like many scorned bitches wanted to prove a point to his dad’s third wife that she was that bitch and could hold a house and man down better than she could. Nevertheless his dad was fucking both bitches and saying FUCK YOU TOO (like fuck you too) to both babies; Cougar and his half-brother Max were later raised by the streets. But when the dad’s a drug dealer/user and the mothers are hash and heroin addicts; she could only birth a few bags of hash harlots with optimum eyes and a cracked heart. The hood and the rest of the world refer to them as crack babies. I am not preaching, just some shit in right from the start. And in the hood a fucked-up start most times leads to a fucked ending.

I am not a holy chick at all and only skipped over a few psalms when my grandma nudged my face into the bible when she and I were in the Church of Righteous Pastures. She always say the bible is basic instruction before leaving earth. But depending or your religion and decision; maybe it’s just a beautifully written folktale that continues to BS billions. But of all the times I missed church or used the place to just please grandma/grandpa I always respected the page where it says the children will have to revisit the sins of their fathers came to be so GODDAMN true for Cougar’s fate. Can you relate? Shit happens to the good and bad. Sometimes lighting strikes no one in particular; just whatever spot you standing in could lead to you being struck. Anyone from a drug dealer to a priest could get hit. But on with things… . On a rainy cold evening while a few of Ishmael’s mutts or dogs with no bites were bagging work and spreading pizza he was forced to ask me to pick up a few thousand from one of his slumlords, Cougar. Sandman would always refer to workers and buffers (money collectors) and the bigger G’s as slumlords or spokespersons for the corner, hash house or whatever made money under his umbrella. Cougar and I were never friends, close associates or anything between, but was cordial and respected each other’s element or position of powder (yes powder). Although I was the Bosses Bitch and he was just the slumlord… . most of knew the power and understanding of the streets Cougar once held in its right pocket right next to his dick. Cougar taught Ish the game, set him up his first real piece of pussy, with his first good car and set him up with his first brick of coke and later a ring of keys; janitor style. For a long while he remained in the dark shadows of Cougar, being his sucker boy, side kick while sticking dick to Ish’s then main chick. He hated Cougar for it, but if it wasn’t for Cougar force feeding dick to my man’s ex bitch, he and I would have never met (thanks for nothing Cougar). Long story short, before Ishmael became the Sandman the don or any of that other shit he claimed to be he was just a skinny bucked tooth yellow fucker that knew how to count money and hustle a dollar into 20G’s overnight and bitches knew it. He was a lollipop G that was liked by the streets. Not many of the 26-34-26’s were impressed with his then bucked ass goat teeth or mechanical Billy goat walk, but his first real love Gina. Gina was a drug’s dealers dream. She was streetwise, hood classy, eyes of blue emeralds and had the prettiest face in the hood, but like all bitches in the game… she wanted that cheese and dough quickly. At that point in time… when he was a standup dude he owed the block, community and every corner and every sidewalk executive’s bitch that worked for him. Gina and Ishmael had genuine love so he thought… but Cougar’s power, swagger and ball juice proved differently. In a heated private argument between the two… Cougar exposed to Ishmael to the truth that he had been fucking Gina for over three years, and for two of them she was Ish’s girl. Ishmael was crushed. He burned up all her clothes, attempted to slash her face with keys and blow up the LEXUS coup he brought for her, but did nothing to Cougar, but bowed his head to his street majesty, but what would you do. Can’t do shit with a kingpin, but watch him, adore him and hope someday to be him. In those days fucking with Cougar meant tongue kissing the barrel of an UZI, swallowing a grenade, sucking on a blade of a knife and burying your family if you played him to close for comfort. That fucker had power. HAD!

After a few stints in prison, a love affair with the pancake & syrup romance, losing his legs for chrome shoes and fucking up millions of dollars; those cold hearted corners that he once owned gave him a middle finger in the ass and a hard disrespectful fuck and the WE ARE DONE TALK (the streets). He adored her and still has several tats to prove it. A big part of me hated Cougar for his fast talk country ass ways, but another loved him for bringing Sand to my beach (he broke up he and Gina) Nevertheless, being a ride or die bitch has its good points, but bad ones too. Being down for whatever has to be proven. It’s usual for a kingpin to directly involve his bitch in his shit, but sometimes you gotta ride and do wild crazy shit to prove you that BITCH or That Nigga; in these streets everyone on edge and thinks the other motherfucker is a snitch. I always assumed since the Gina incident I would have always had to prove myself to Ish… for he trusted no one. He always had somebody watching somebody. He had a lawyer for his lawyer, bitches watching other bitches and had trust issues with his heart, mind, body and soul (always separated them). In his hustler’s manual; you’d never allow your heart to rule over your mind. When he asked me make a few pickups I assumed it was just out of frustration of not being able to trust a slumlord or buffer or simply a test trust for me. The sky was thickening with clouds, the wind picking up, but he needed and wanted his pizza from Cougar. OK baby… I will make the pickup Driving 30 minutes uptown was bad enough, fucking up my $200 hairdo from the wind was bad, but meeting up with a wheelchair riding fucker with stinky breath, an attitude and still talking about what he used to do, be, drive, fuck and live at was 1000 times worse. After waiting more than 15-20 minutes in a company car with broken windows; which left me soaked I was furious with the rain, my fucked up do, Ishmael and especially the paraplegic rat face fucker. Cougar where’s the motherfucker money? You bullshitting and a bitch got to get home Hold the fuck up Juice, I think the flying pigs landed in a pig’s play pin. Back in the early days I’d turn these flying pigs into a motherfucking breakfast sandwich, but these chrome shoes gotta nigga stranded on death row. Now wet and irate… Cougar you not making no fucking sense and I am feeling really funny about the night for some strange reason. You stalling and over-talking. Handover the shit and let me be on my way… It’s cold, dark and this heavy drizzle in turning into drenching fuck n rain. Hold tight and let’s wait a few moments before I give you anything. How was your day? Cougar fuck all of that. I need the pizza right now. You stalling too motherfucker much, I hope you isn’t up to no-good cause Ishmael will fit the rest of your family in some matching chrome shoes and then you could have other motherfuckers to roll around with you if you playing. I a bitch got to keep it pushing Damn Juice you a mean ass decrepit bitch for saying some shit like that. Now handing over the money with a frown That’s $25,000 and Sandman knows the other $10,000 is for re-up. What re-up, I was supposed to get $35,000 from you and I am not leaving till all 35,000 dead motherfuckers are in this bag Look you dumb non-hearing complicated bitch for nothing. I already explained to you that the other bread and cheese is to make bigger slices of pizza and set up Dominos all up this motherfucker… . Stop yapping so motherfucker much… you stinking the air with ya bullshit. That’s the problem with your dumb bitches all you know is the flapping of your lips. If you flapping the bottom ones from fucking… you squirting other shit with the top ones. Shut the fuck up and listen sometimes. You might finally learn something dumb ass bitch.

I assumed Cougar was drunk, intoxicated off his pain killers, fed up with Sandman’s right hand mutt shit, mad about his downfall and becoming peasant to the KING or if slipped on his pride in the rain and ready to die and wanted me to take part in the killing. But for the rest of my life I’d always hear the echoes of Why you acting like you that top chick or the real bosses bitch. Just like me you are Sandman’s right hand flunky. Only difference between you and I is that he’s fucking you in all positions, and fucking me financially, but you in love with the tampon wearing ass fucker, I’m not. What motherfucker kingpin drug dealer you know has his main bitch/wifey collecting his dough and meeting up with niggars in strange places where rats and mice shit and piss at. Huh bitch. You ain’t shit, but his main sideline hoe that ain’t watching the game right. Are you a cheerleader, baller or motherfucker fan/spectator like all the other dumb goat mouth bitches that want a drug lord dick in their mouth Think about where he takes you to eat, fuck and shop at Those words always had a hold on me for whatever reason and I could only respond with a few bullshit words that didn’t mean shit to a dead man that was ready and willing to die. You always calling somebody or something a bitch. You the bitch motherfucker that’s not walking… talk that tough Tony shit to the nigger that took you out of those ugly ass gators and put you in the chrome shoes for life. You hurt and mad at the game because ain’t shit and nothing in this level of the game… . You just talking shit because the truth hurts… You not even balling in the game, you a sideline ho cheerleader ass side chick. Deal with it and enjoy the game… I am no love hater… I will bring you some popcorn and beer to help enjoy the game, but you a cheerleader… So Coug will get ya dumb ass some fresh pom poms and I am not a player, but now a coach. What part of the game you belong to or play for" Hurt and angered I pulled out Keisha kool (22 pistol) from my JC bag and was more than ready to empty all of her hardcore kisses into his lifeless ass cruddy body, but his words had already emptied on me and left a chick cold, shaken and broken. I died for the moment and no one or nothing was available for the funeral and viewing but Cougar’s stink n ass and god’s eyes. What a place to die at… a deserted ass alley where rats, snakes and hell boys set up shop and where the rock stars play their guitars and bagpipes at. Where’s god when you need him? As the winters of my mind hit sub below zero I could see his cold body shake and snake skin shed right before me. The corners of his emotion and salvia of his tongue was freezing up as his words formed icicles. No matter what lines or mean words I conjured up to blast back had no effect.

What the fuck are you talking about Cougar? I responded in a face-full of tears. It’s just like I said sideline ho… you standing there with a little ass 22 readying to shoot a niggar because he hurt your feeling. How many times Sandman hurt ya motherfucking feelings so mother-fucking what, but did you pull a gun out on him? (Now tearing up) Coug… tell me what the fuck you know or I am popping off… That’s snitching; so I ain’t saying shit, but as for the other $10,000 the shit is invested in pizza shops (other corners) to make his cheese and dough stretch, but Sandy already knows that. Don’t take the bitches and sideline ho shit personal. Life can be a traitor and painful for even kings and queens. Look how the devil did god. No one has a bulletproof soul. I am riding around in chrome shoes as you tell it, but I ain’t pitching a bitch. I am getting ready for hell, but trust with all your heart the devil and I will have plenty bitches to eat /drink and smoke with and bitches to fuck and get head from. Take these 25G’s, but take a G off or two and get a top notch shit Juicy Couture shit is for second class bitches. You know Wednesday… Thursday laundry or let me run to store with right quick bag I been in the game a long while. I’d never had my main bitch sporting that corny ass factory glue together Wong-tong made as bags. Those aren’t top echelon bags… Like I said peep where you eat at, fuck at and shop at and even where and what your boss man (sarcasm) has you eating, doing and wearing Holding back tears was a motherfucker, but time was ticking, flying pigs were ready to land and Ishmael was expecting the $35,000 in an hour and to be able to TRUST ME (I assumed). Cougar defiantly sense he was dying soon and simply didn’t give a fuck about having earth spread over his face. He didn’t have the courage to kill himself, but instead murdered a few innocent bystanders in the progress; like my feelings. Three days later Cougar was found riddled with 17 shots with is chrome shoes lying next to him upside down. The hit men left $5,000 worth or ripped up dollar bills was stuffed in his eyelids, asshole and ears, but a large chuck of cheese stuffed in his mouth. The police nor anyone else cared or did anything about for a awhile. To the cold unforgiving streets Cougar was a snitch, rat, fag-boy and all other low-life shit. For not only was he a snitch for telling on other motherfucker’s to lessen his jail time (rumor), but a snitch for telling me the truth and a hater for losing his power to his onetime errand boy Ishmael/ Sandman. Sandman doubted every inch of the truth ratted out by Cougar."

How could you listen to a cripple cheese stealing snitching rat barn motherfucker like that? He’s telling you all that BS because he took those 10 G’s, got high and was wearing a fucking wire (a lie). He was trying to take me to hell with him; so he had to be dealt with. In these streets the mice get eaten by the rats, the rats gets eaten my sewer rats and the cycle continues, but you already know. How could you believe a rat-face motherfucker like that; who would do anything for cheese. Remember rats would do anything for cheese. Trying to win, battle or anything between with Sandman or Ish was always a no-win scrimmage; Cougar’s point was becoming ever-so clear. A cheerleader can’t scrimmage or ball with a baller. She has to just cheer for her shining amour win or lose. I remember that creepy night too well. Cougar was not wearing wires. The winters of my mind kept those imagines stored in the coldest places. Cougar knew he was going to die and was very brave about it. He hated the cops/flying pigs and saw no purpose in allowing a cop, detective or any law enforcement fucker to believe he needed them for protection or anything else. He didn’t want to lose to Ish in any kind of way, but losing to a pig to him was worse than dying. Ish was lying, but what could I do? He had a bitch by the tits with a grip. He was paying all of bills, supplying me with the love I needed and desired, his had the streets in the palm of his hands and his thug loving and stretching dick kept a chick in line. Whenever I’d become moody or uneasy he’d buy expensive SHUT THE FUCK UP gifts, fuck the shit out of bitch or snap the fuck out; throwing shit, loud screaming and storming off threatening to leave; which I didn’t want to happen. He was my every-thing, my man, my love, my king. To the one I’d surrender and open up, his strips, blocks and trap spots had fiends, but I was the one he was dope n ‘in up the most. I was sniffing crack, having shit syringed into my veins and getting what I thought was the best drug or earth (LOVE), but I’d learn sooner than later that drugs and highs vary per user. And more fucked up… the world don’t survive off real love anymore… highs vary per junky. At times I ate at the sky with wishful spoons and guilty folks Damn I hope Cougar didn’t die because of me and the mess I partly stirred up, but I’d swallow the same ignorant pills the rest of the hood was swallowing. Fuck em, rats can’t survive in the trap

No one attend Cougar’s funeral, but his mother, the preacher and his half-brother Max. But Max only attended the funeral to see his he was really dead, the two had a love hate relationship. Due to no insurance and a broke family Cougar was buried in a pine-box and the family’s pass-over was spend at McDonald’s ordering a few big Mac’s and shakes. Word on the street was that Ishy leaving the 5G’s was his cocky smug gesture of paying for the funeral, but the police kept the money as evidence/part scene of the crime particles. Somewhere inside of me I wanted to pay for the funeral out of my private stash, donate flowers or something nice due to fighting guilt. Maybe I should have lied about losing the 10G’s or keeping my mouth closed about some of things Cougar said that night, but I was angered and heartbroken. Despite calling me a bitch more than a few times and being a rotten niggar at times, his truth or ratting opened my eyes to the very truth I somehow closed my eyes to when the shit became too much for me bare. Cougar and I were never friends or close, before or after the fitting of his chrome shoes, but unlike most dealers in the TRAP or struggle in my parts of town he cared about woman and treated them accordingly. He would always tease that he never dated a real woman since becoming a sidewalk executive because good woman don’t deserve this and he’d never have the time to give them what they needed, desired and deserved. In short, he only fucked bitches, hood-rats and the few lost souls between. The where you take your side-bitch to eat, shop and fuck hit me like a ton of bricks and no matter how many times he left my ass wet, pussy tingling or threw cash around for my bills and bags habit, the comments weighed me down and force me to do a little uneasy detective work, but as life had it the detectives Benson and Bangle (nicknames for detectives James Herricks and Dennis Rector) (later informants beat a chick to the point. Sandman had trap-spots all over the city for bagging, mixing, selling, sharing, fucking and running his games on the dealers and his other side-bitches whom he claimed were workers, but those bitches like me were making more than a few baggies to keep the sandman happy. He’d pick up $10,000-$20,000 easy along with a dick suck, hot home-cooked meal and whatever he desired in/from the pick-up. He had an appetite for pussy, money, fame and destruction and it had to feed constantly. The fucked reality is that those dealers become more addicted than the junkies at times. Once in that sad clumsy circle you’d learn that they/we all become addicts. The proud junkies feed their wrist, veins and mouths with that high in front of a crack house, church, sewer or anyplace other that allows them to light the flame, but in denial junkies and addicts fail to realize until the end that we were getting just as high off the game and just as foolish as the hash, heroin, dope, wet, syrup and other druggies for we are just as high as they are off the high-life. The high life isn’t just plugging your arm with a syringe or snorting nose candy, but owning the feeling that what you have, doing or wearing makes you higher than the rest. If the rich and poor could buy the same shit there would no honor and prestige in being rich. It’s the highlife, but whatever goes up must come down. Nothing or no one stays high as God, whatever in the sky and the price you pay for fucking with the high life After Ishmael’s death sentences, I’d often bitch and moan why couldn’t we live together, but he’d run the game of if he ever got caught he didn’t want me to get locked up and that he was getting his mind/money right for us to move away to New Orleans so he could spend more time with the family. Juice, stop bitching about the small things… that fuckin condo cost $500,000 and those Juicy pillow sets, sheets and other shit ain’t cheap, look what the fuck you are wearing and smelling like, and you get whatever the fuck you want. Why are you allowing some dead rat’s story to fuck with what we got? As Always the arguments began with me shouting, pouting and crying, but when it was over I’d find myself lying in a pile of money, butt-ass naked clinging to the sheets with an aching pussy from the passionate pleasure of ruthless dick. Whenever he was upset with me; he’d take out on my raggedly wet lips. I was a sucker for that ruthless dick and the daydreams of it. But how soon does a dick become a nightmare.

Full of dick and his unhealthy lies; I’d swallow everything he delivered to me that easy, but all fools in love do. Word on the street was that Sandman’s trap houses shacks, corners and other business ventures were being watched and was on the verge of being infiltrated. Detective James Herrick’s had a hard-on for Ishmael and everybody that worked for him. Herrick’s pride gotten in the way of the $10,000 payoff, he was no longer interested in the money. He wanted Ish ass and head on a stick; for he was receiving a lot of heat from his partners that Sandman was running the streets and not his team. Everyone felt the thick humid fog that Herrick and his followers had to make an example out of somebody from Sandman’s team. Ish was warned several times, but everything is a joke to a kingpin that swears he’s untouchable but anything and anybody can be touched, no matter how close you are to the sky. Ishmael’s then right-hand man, Davito, received word from a reliable source that all of the drug cabins, trap houses and snabber shacks were going to be hit by the narks and other law enforcement on the same day and same damn time. Davito’s cues and inside information was never taken lightly. Although Davito only stood 5'3 with boots; he understood the game and stood tall among the ballers, knew how to stretch dough/cheese for blocks and how to swoon a chick out of her stilettos within a few hours He fucked all of my closest game associates just off his stance, stretching tongue and get rich attitude. Bitches, whores, harlots and average working chicks loved him. His scent was crisp, his walk was that of some king of short and like other members of the crew his stroke game was impeccable (so I heard). Bitches loved his dick, but the boy and men respected his mind. Sand we got to ship all the work out and leave only small things in those spots. Nadine, the crooked cop that I fuck on the side hit me on the jack a few days ago and informed me that they want at least one of us. So before I fuck the police again (with a laugh) we gotta move out before they fuck us… ménage style. We gotta get the fuck out of the way quickly Sand… Some of those pigs don’t give a fuck about Cougar per se, but since it’s been uproar in the city that we have taken over and that we need to be shut down. The law is not going to be happy if they don’t get one of us some serious time to take the heat off their asses. Killing Cougar meant nothing to Herrick, but leaving the money, cheese and stuffing him like a turkey with it didn’t sit right with some of the bigger wigs. I am paying these pig slop fucks 5G’s a week almost and they still want more… I do you know about this anyway DaVita?’ I just told you Nadine give me the scoop on shit like that. She got one of the lead detectives on the Cougar murder sprung off that pussy and head checks. That sucker motherfucker is paying her mortgage, car note and readying to leave his wife for that good pussy. Is it that good? Yes, she has the kind of pussy that gives your dick a new heart beat, the kind of pussy that makes your dick call out sick to be with her and the kind of pussy spreads sunlight and kills clouds with a few shades of sun. Her brain game is insane too. You know my dick only fucks smart pussy. Fucking dumb pussy makes your dick dummer. (with a loud laugh) You can’t be serious… are you playing with this dumb dick shit… ? No, but later for the pussy-dick talk. We got to give up somebody to cool shit off and get back to making money; it a secrect trade off and everyone knows it. It’s your call. Shut down all the corners and trap spots and we will give them nobody for now. Less than five hours later all but three of Sandman’s spots were raided, hit-up and shut down. No one was caught with any drugs, mixing equipment or substantial cash, but UZI or as the streets sounded off the dumb ass water pistol, for he’s no real gun".

Andres, aka UZI the Mexican Cartel leftover (word in the street) that was webbed in Ishmael’s bullshit, but was unable to get untangled; before the spider’s bite torched his skin and chewed up his veins with snake’s venom. UZI’s family originated from Columbia, home of coffee beans, clean air and cocaine galore. After dropping out of college by freshman year, then staying with his older Brother Riel in Mexico moving weight and other illegal shit his family casted him away with stones. Vito never liked UZI. Ishmael and Vito always believed UZI would rise to power and move both of their asses out of the way Mexican Border style. Even if the hood had jokes that water pistol isn’t no fucking UZI, he really, had ties in Columbia and Mexican Cartel drug lords and had the skills to crush a brick into sand, milk it down and brick it up again within seconds. He was an amazing dude, but like all motherfuckers that know too much or is feared; he had to go. Every rat, fiend, heroin addict and trap mice knew of the hit, but UZI. When the feds raided the midnight oil they found three bricks, two handguns, $100,000 in cash a dumb nigga UZI with two priors. Sticking the codes of the streets (not-snitching), but knowing the decoding/maze (he was being used) UZI took the hit on the chin along with the 3-5 year plea. Sandman left a street promissory note that he’d make sure UZI’s family was taken care of for playing a pawn in his game of chest. The DEA’s, Feds and others involved needed a pigeon and UZI was thrown in the bird’s nest head first. Still bitter, confused, but wiser I paid more attention to how Sandman really operated verses what he wanted everyone else to believe. In the street he was that he was loyal, respectable and took care of his LA Costa Nostra (family), but like most ignorant black motherfuckers that want to be gangster or portray the lives of an Italian mafia gangster he didn’t know the codes or play the script out as it suppose to be played of a true mafia gangster. But a MADE man is honest with his team, does not rat and takes care of home with principles. Not obliging the code of the streets or code of the family causes all major drug empires or street corner empires to crumble like hot cake… leaving nothing but dead rats left in their traps. He was generic wannabe that cared nothing for anyone or thing, but his fame, respect, power and money. I’d later learn that many so-called Italian mobsters no longer respected the Costa Nostra pledge neither when it came to money and power. Rats don’t know or care of respect, morality and taking care of family. Rats only see cheese and ways to dodge traps.

After giving UZI’s mother $6,800 in cash and paying for a few visits he was done with UZI; he allowed him to burn in the flames from the depths of hell blow torch. No water, no icepacks or whiff of a cool breeze, he was left to fry. UZI was getting into a lot of trouble and taking a lot of flaming heat for things done poorly by Ishmael’s ex workers, connects and even CO’s at New York’s Correction facility; where he was staying. Ishmael was ordered to pay $10,000 to have the gun protected, but he shrugged it off I am not paying those fat face fucks a dime, they bluffing to get money from me and the water pistol got goons up there on his team anyhow that’s ready to spray. Two weeks later UZI was found in his cell murdered from several stabs from a shank (a metal rod from the ceiling) to the neck, face and eyes. The Mexican, Rios that murdered him stood over holding his right eye in his hand urinating on his face screaming some shit in Mexican shit before being tackled to the ground. Two days later Rios was found hung in his cell upside down with several shank wounds in his head and neck. The autopsy report said that UZI was butt fucked several times become being killed. Many wondered how did the offenders/accused got into his cell, why wasn’t he placed into the hole or something after the killing and was it out of revenge or something totally unknown to the rest of us; did Rios have help in the cell. Uzi was 300 lbs plus. It was said and known that UZI had ties to the Mexican Cartel, but to what point… was he a Ishmael or Cougar to the cartel. Needless to say Vito and Ish laughed it off as shit happens. The skid marked tears that stained my fucking face found none of it funny or left as shit happens. More than ever Cougar’s shit talking lingered out of control and owned the scent of something scary, but predictable; like real life walking bullshit. Sandman was a user, liar and owned very little loyalty. Looking closely I realized that those late night pick-ups and business moves were bogus and I might be that sideline Juicy Couture bag carrying bitch Cougar was making so much noise about. But when you in love with a motherfucker those lies become truths in the ahhhh, ooo and 3am dick sucks and pussy licks… Mmmmm and Ahhhhhh were sadly mistaken for love. But when engaged in a lie, you’d never marry the truth. The money brought more Couture bags to place those lies, mistruths and hurtful away in. I’d look my pains in the mirror daily and chant shut the fuck up bitch, you have bags, money, clothes and a man. Get that bullshit out of your head and straighten up . . . you the boss’s bitch/ you the boss’s bitch/ (sarcasm). He’s not loyal friends, family and rock-stars/base-heads, but he’s loyal to you and the money… I’d chant over and over trying to swallow a hard ass bitter lie. Grandpas always said watch how your friends and associates treat everybody. Good people treat everyone good. Those one to one’s with a smoking mirror, new bag and now a new pink interior Benz allowed that truth escape me and more thoughts of enjoy the moment, enjoy the wealth, enjoy the ride, the dick and the new lavish apartment we supposedly lived in together became a part of the bag I carried around my lies in. Take a good look into your bag and see how many lies and bullshit you carry around with.

kisses from the barrel-house

Chapter-2

die bitch, die

Our new living arrangements found us deep in the good side of town in an elaborate condo with three huge bedrooms… one for clothes, one for us and a decked out third kids room for my little sister Prada. My biological mother overdosed on heroin when Prada (nickname) was only three months old, Aunt Portabella aka Porta cared for Little Prada the best way possible, but had her own hang-ups/issues too. She loved putting a dick in whatever hole opened first of the three available. Whenever a new man presented himself correctly in her eyes there was a warm place to stay, get fucked and drunk at courtesy of Aunt Porta. Determine not to allow Prada to be placed in a boarding home, foster care or stuck in the middle of nowhere like my other nine brothers and sisters I fought hard to take care of Little Prada the best way possible when Aunt Portia decided that a down syndrome fucker was too much for her and was disturbing Melvin’s grooves. I’d admit a Down syndrome child could be a lot to bear for anyone, but regardless of what grandma and grandpa taught us to love, respect and honor family our family no matter what. But that honor, love and respect shit was buried right next to grandma and grandpa. Life has a way of dealing some fucked up hands, but alone in Vegas… you either play to your win or fold and go home. Now more than ever I needed Ishy, not only for the love, comfort and support, but a place to raise Prada into a mature respectable woman. In my heart and mind things were figured out from the smallest to the largest. Still gashed off the off day of promises, possibilities and not to forget the new car… (Not that he brought the Benz, but he finally remembered pink was my favorite color) . . . . In my mind and hearts of hearts we were supposed to raise Little Prada as ours, take the dirty drug money, clean it up and get married and leave that life in the streets like a mailbox, fire hydrant or smoke free ex smoker’s last cigarette, but when you in love you always think backward ass… I meant ass backwards (see what I mean). I was to be left in the streets, not in his life.

For every code/ there lies a maze. Before turning four Prada had become a full time job/handful. Neither of us knew what mental health problems really meant, but only one of us was trying to figure out what would make my Prada grow so slow and at times not have a quiet place for her thoughts to go. She threw fits of the slightest change. She played with the same red fire truck; and if anyone tried to pull the truck away it was all hell, all of her animal crackers had to line up neatly before she’d chew each one by one, there was a 30 second delay in his responses and motor skills were fucked up and challenging. She’d walk into walls, slip and fall and couldn’t grasp the game of the catch the ball no matter how hard she tried. My little sister was like a misfit monster to some, a retard to others, but to me she a little lady that needed extra help. I assumed that help would be my immediate family, Ishmael and me. Through his stops at home Sandman seemed to sometimes genuinely care about Prada and respect her queen gangerism. Stupidly, he found some of the low points of her mental health disease cool or gangsta; such as Prada’s problematic with looking people in the eyes, her cold reactions and her sometimes not wanting to be bothered or interacting. That little chick is gangsta he’d laugh, not knowing I was hurting inside knowing I was following in the footsteps of my mother and aunt in failing her. As more lies from the Sandman began to compile, the more Prada and I became dependent of him. I was the bosses bitch (his prized passion) which meant I could stay home in our condo count money, take care of OUR home/family and find out as much as possible of the disease to help my little sister. Ishmael’s nights out extended from his usual 2:30am (ish) coming home to 7am and later a few days then weeks. He’d always have an alibi, different story or some wild made up shit the cops were following me and I can’t let the pigs know where I sleep, I had to make an important visit out of town and the cops had my phone tapped. I can’t bring you and her on those runs. Stop bitching and be happy. The bills are paid up, food is always in this motherfucker and Vito makes sure you are protected, looked out for and taken care of when I am not around. I don’t know what’s the fucking problem? You know this culture and life we live is crazy and hectic. Bitch don’t change up on me now. Are you mad because you need dick, lips, money, time I am lost? Upset, crying and even more confused I lashed out I can’t hold, talk to and fuck Juicy bags and talk to diamond rings and bracelets about real life shit. Prada is a handful, I have no one to talk about anything, my family isn’t tight, I need a special therapist or doctor to help with Little Prada and I am bored, lonely and horny all the time. You are not here for me like I need you. Money can’t solve everything fucking thing Mr. Sandman the fucking don. Don’t forget you don’t want me to have any friends, because bitches aren’t any good, right . . . RIGHT??? ". I was left alone to argue with mirrors, myself and god.

No matter what problem or logic presented, the battle I’d never win it, he talked out his ass or assume his money was the shit and the toilette. I meant it and didn’t need or want my his money to talk for or represent me When you mature up and realize there is no real cure for a broken heart and down syndrome you start to look at shit from another eye. Hurt, lonely and dejected (I felt), but somehow those empty kisses left a chick protected. Our love would die at times, but with his heartbeat and 5am fucks of no love would somehow resurrect a dying heart. Don’t worry about shit, Marquette (his sister) will stay with you for a few days and Vito will be here to take care of a few things, but I got to head out of town again to The Big Easy(New Orleans) tomorrow for a big connects on some Dominos and Pizza Huts. When I get back we going to take a trip somewhere special… I promise. Like a sick bitch in love… his words and empty promises were delivered on the spot, injected and place next to my silly ass heart. For him my heart was always silly, immature and ready to love 24-7/365. STUPID BITCH! I hated his sister Keeta at times; for she would co-sign any and everything her no good ass brother would say and do. Her