The Last Real Nigga Alive

By Tranay Adams

While most kids want to be a basketball player or a police officer when they grow up, LAFAYETTE wanted to be a hustler. He became just that too, but he finds out that it isn't what it's cracked up to be. Sick of slinging nickel and dime crack rocks, Lafayette can't wait for his shot at being Top Dawg. He gets his chance when his plug, SHAMEEK, blesses him with his first kilo.
Lafayette wastes no time parlaying the key into his own budding operation and solidifying his reputation in the streets. But with money and power comes jealousy, hate, envy and wolves who want the young dopeman's spot. 
With his homies turning against him and his woman's loyalty coming into question, Lafayette realizes he may very well be...THE LAST REAL NIGGA ALIVE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Oct 16, 2018

Book preview

The Last Real Nigga Alive

A Novel by Tranay Adams

The Last Real Nigga Alive

Copyright © 2016 Tranay Adams. All rights reserved.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

All names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Last Real Nigga Alive / Tranay Adams-1st ed.© 2016

Formatting: Renee Lamb

Editor: Ghost

Cover Artist: Sunny Giovanni

Publisher: Tranay Adams

Chapter 1

This nigga is willing to pay fifty a brick? Are you sure this cat isn’t a fed? Carlo asked King from the front passenger seat, where he pressed the red safety button on and off on his Beretta. He wore a Sacramento Kings snapback and a matching jersey.

Nah, this nigga not one of the alphabet boys, King said from behind the wheel. He wore a pair of designer shades with maroon lenses, a wife-beater and tan cargo shorts.

You sure? Carlo asked for reassurance, Nigga willing to pay fifty a bird…smells fishy to me. He gotta be one of them people to let chu beat’em over the head like that. That nigga Carlo shook his head disbelievingly. He was looking to get off the blocks that they were sitting on, but the ticket price these fools were looking to buy them for sounded too good to be true for him.

Nah, this nigga from outta town, he’s from New Orleans. It’s a drought out there. King told him. He didn’t know this new cat from a hole in the wall. In fact, he’d just met him at some dump over on the eastside called The Bar Fly. The dude got to talking about how he was looking for a new plug because he was getting hit over the head back home with prices. Niggaz had kilos going for sixty, but he wasn’t trying to lay down that kind of gwap for a brick. So he took a drive out to California hoping to find someone that could set him straight with some decent work at a cool price. When King gave the cat the quote for fifty a bird, he jumped at it. The cat said he needed ten of those bitches ASAP. Hearing that was like music to King’s ears. All he could see were dollar signs before his eyes. He didn’t waste any time shooting to his stash spot to get his birds.

You sure about this fool, King, man? he looked to his homeboy for reassurance. That small voice at the back of his head was screaming at him ‘Naw, nigga, fallback’ but the hustler in him was screaming back, ‘Nigga, you betta get this money.’ He was indecisive, so he needed his right-hand man to sway his decision.

Positive. He glanced from the windshield to his main man, as he drove through the streets. He gave him the reassuring look that he needed and nodded. That was all his nigga needed.

Alright, let’s get it.

Let’s get it. He took one of his hands from off of the wheel and dapped him up. My nigga, He chuckled and smiled.

***

Say, bruh, how’d you come across this nigguh here? Cortez asked Mar’vel in a New Orleans drawl as he casually sipped on Hennessy over the rocks, licking his big ass lips. He was a skinny cinnamon complexioned nigga with short dark brown dreadlocks and a cross tattooed between his eyes. This mothafucka looked like a knock off Lil’ Wayne.

I saw homie at the bar I was chillin’ at, Mar’vel answered, glancing at his Rolex trying to see if it was time for his plug to arrive yet. He looked like a get-money type a nigguh, so I hollered at’em on some ol’ small talk shit, ya know? At some point or another we started talkin’ ‘bout hustlin’ and I told’em it was a drought where I was from. Nigguh started boastin’ ‘bout how he’s doin’ it big out here and how he got unlimited keys and shit; straight stuntin’. Said he lettin’em go for fiddy a piece. I told’em I wanted ten of dem bitches, ya heard me? Now here we are.

Nigguh, bit da bait, huh? Ol’ greedy muddafucka, he gone learn today, though, Cortez said, picking up his semi-automatic handgun and checking the magazine in it. Once he saw that it was fully loaded, he smacked it back in and cocked it.

CLICK! CLACK!

Fiddy bands a square? Mar’vel shook his head, like it didn’t make no goddamn sense. Dem fed prices, muddafucka so money hungry he didn’t even stop to think that he maybe dealin’ wit dem people, or headed for a double cross. These Cali niggaz prolly think we’re just some dumb country bwois. That’s okay, ‘cause we ‘bouta put these bitches in a blender. He was a baby face dude with a Lil’ Boosie fade.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

That’s dem, Bruh, get into position, he told his main man before tucking his banger into the small of his back and heading for the door. Mar’vel unlocked and unchained the raggedy door before snatching it open. What’s happenin’, bruh? he slapped hands with King.

What that shit do, my nigga? King replied.

Who dis? A frowning Mar’vel asked him.

This is my brotha, Carlo. King answered, looking from his man to his brother.

What’s up, lil daddy? Mar’vel raised his calloused hand to greet Carlo.

Carlo looked at homie’s hand as if it were dripping wet with piss and then asked, You the feds, Homie? he inquired with a hard-face.

Mar’vel laughed and looked to that nigga King. Is this nigguh serious? he asked with a chuckle. King shrugged. Nah, I ain’t no muddafuckin’ fed, I’ma bitness man, play bwoi!

Carlo brushed past Mar’vel into the motel room. He checked the lamps and telephone for bugs, but couldn’t find anything.

You satisfied? Can we get to bitness now? Mar’vel asked him.

King looked to his little brother and he nodded.

Where the paper at? King asked Mar’vel.

I got it nearby. Mar’vel said. Let me test out one of dem bricks, though. King nodded. He unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out a brick, handing it over to him. Mar’vel hacked off a chunk of the brick and dropped it into a boiling Pyrex pot of water. The chunk of cocaine bubbled in the liquid and succumbed to a harder form. It was now a crack rock. He smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. The chunk conforming to a solid rock so quickly meant that the cocaine was pure. He could come up off the work that King had on deck.

You fucking with me or what, baby? Let a nigga know something.King smiled, looking at him like he knew he had the best cocaine in the world.

I want all ten of dem bitches. Mar’vel smiled, boasting a grill filled with shiny gold teeth. Ya heard me? All ten, He said louder.

That was Cortez’s signal; he sprung up from the side of the bed like a Jack in the Box, wearing a T-shirt over his head. All that could be seen were his terrifying eyes through the neck-hole as he pointed the AK-47 between King and Carlo. Drop it like it’s hot, nigguh! Lay that shit down, ya bitch! he barked. Carlo cursed himself for falling for the set-up as he pulled the banger from his waistline and laid it down at his feet. Mar’vel, who had his banger pressed against the side of his dome, snarled at him. Cortez kept his choppa trained on King and his brother as he approached them with a roll of duct-tape. He handed it to King and told him to tape Carlo’s wrists and ankles together. Once King did like he was told, Mar’vel tucked his banger and taped his wrists and ankles with the duct-tape. After he was done he checked the duffle bag and found a total of nine blocks of cocaine wrapped in cellophane.

They’re all here. Mar’vel said before zipping up the duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Toss me that pillow, nigga! he told Cortez. Cortez tossed him a pillow off of the bed. He caught it in the air and placed it to the back of Carlo’s head as he struggled to get free. He then pressed his banger in behind it and squeezed off twice, halting Carlo’s movements. He then placed the pillow to the back of King’s head and pressed his banger in behind it, pulling the trigger two more times. He pulled the banger away and the barrel wafted with smoke.

King and his sibling lie on the flat carpet stiff, their life’s blood expanding over the floor. Mar’vel pulled a camouflage bandana from his back pocket and tossed it to Cortez, telling him to wipe everything down that he’d touched, while he did the same with an identical bandana.

It’s checkout time, play bwoi. Mar’vel told his homeboy.

BOOM!

The door flew open sending splinters flying everywhere. Two DEA agents, a hulking man and a slim woman, dressed in caps and windbreakers with DEA emblazoned across the back of them, dropped the battering-ram they’d used to bust the door open. The woman raised her Desert Eagle; while the big man raised his chrome .44 Magnum revolver and his black .357 Magnum revolver.

Move and your shits in the wind! the hulking man bellowed.

Drop’em mothafuckaz! the slim woman barked. Drop’em or I’ll drop your asses!

Hesitantly, Cortez and Mar’vel laid down their weapons. They got down on their knees with their hands behind their heads as one of the DEA agents had ordered them.

We got’em, The hulking man spoke into his walkie-talkie. He then placed the walkie-talkie back on his waistline and he and his partner handcuffed them, making them lay flat on their stomachs. He stashed his revolvers into their respective holsters and turned to his partner. Nice going, Ironhorn! he high fived the slim woman.

Thanks, Pivens. The slim woman replied. She unzipped the duffle bag and saw the ten blocks of cocaine inside. The sight brought a smile to her face, Ten joints. Pivens whistled hearing how many blocks of cocaine were stuffed inside of the duffle bag. Let’s see what these dead mothafuckaz got on’em, check these two out. He nodded to Mar’vel and Cortez. Pivens recovered a few bands from King and Carlo’s bodies, while Ironhorn came up with a few from Mar’vel and Cortez.

It’s gotta be more loot than this here. Pivens said to Ironhorn. He stepped to Mar’vel and nudged him with his boot, My man, where the paper at? While Pivens was talking, Mar’vel was staring at the ski-mask tattooed on his neck and the inscription surrounding it: Get Rich or Die Broke. Do you hear me talking to you?

There ain’t no muddafuckin’ paper, nigguh. Mar’vel spat. Oof! Pivens kicked him in the side, cracking his ribs. His face twisted in agony and he blinked as if his eyes were being attacked by fluorescent lights. Bullshit! Now your swamp feet, gator wrestling ass gone tell me where the money is, Piven’s spat, gripping the handle of his long nose .357 Magnum revolver tighter. Or its hammer time. He pressed his sneaker to the side of Mar’vel’s head and pushed the black steel into his temple.

Fuck you! Mar’vel barked. Tez these niggaz ain’t popo! They’re some mudda-fuckin’ jack boys!

What the fuck! Cortez cursed. How da fuck y’all gone jack us for da shit we jacked?

Easy, Ironhorn said, putting her sneaker on Cortez’s back and pointing the same AK-47 he had earlier at the back of his dome. It’s a cold world, my nigga, you best grab a jacket.

Fuck y’all bitches, man! Fuck y’all, suck my dick! I’ma gangsta, I ain’t scared to die! Spittle flew from Mar’vel’s lips.

I feel you, now feel this! Pivens scowled and snarled.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The thunderous roars of the cannon bounced off the motel room’s walls. Moments later, Zay and La’Chat hurried out of the motel room ten bricks richer.

MEAN WHILE IN THE MOTEL LOBBY

The telephone rang until the answering machine picked it up.

Hello, this is the Majesty Motel; sorry we weren’t in to answer your call, but please feel free to leave a message. Otherwise, listen to our rates and specials... the voice, which obviously belonged to a Middle Eastern clerk, went on to give the rates and specials.

The Arabian clerk and his wife lie on their stomachs with their wrists and ankles duct-taped together. There was a gaping hole at the back of his head and his white turban was now red. The back of his wife’s head was blown out and horror was etched upon their faces.

Chapter 2

Oooooh, shit! Montrice wailed as the pelvis of an ebony form crashed into her middle. Her thick legs were pinned above her head as he worked her pussy, sliding his dick in and out of it. The ebony man shined from perspiration, his back muscles flexing. Sweat dripped from his brow as he handled his business. His face mirrored the intensity and pleasure he embodied. Veins formed in his forehead and neck. The muscles in his arms and calves shown from the intensity he was expelling. He breathed heavily, chest jumping up and down.

Haa! Haa! Haa! Haa! He pounded away, the headboard of the bed banging up against the wall.

Fuck me! Fuck me, nigga! Deeper! Deeper! Yes, Oh, God! I feel it! I feel it! the louder Montrice cried, the harder he laid into her; just like she liked it: rough and nasty. Montrice’s eyes bugged and rolled into the back of her head, mouth dropping open. Her cries of passion had turned