Principle or Profit

By Ryheim Y. Scott

Ever since Malcolm James was a child, cold-blooded murder has played a significant part in his life.

Whether it be from both of his parents being brutally assassinated right in front of him, or having blood on his own hands, murder has been his reality.

Constantly haunted and consumed by his own actions, the only thing stronger than Malcolm's thirst for blood, is his hunger for money and power!

Flooding the crime-ridden and gang-infested inner-city streets of Denver, Colorado with Cocaine and pounds of Kush, grindin, as his "Gang Green" squad of misfits commit robberies, mayhem, and murder while on their way to the top.

However, the sudden murder of Malcolm's friend and right-hand man, not only cause the homicide rate to shoot through the roof but also derails their mission.

All while Malcolm battles with a dark secret brewing deep down inside, at which only "Tear Drop and Buds" can recognize and tame.

Both OG's in tha game graduating to bosses of a mountain west and west coast black underworld syndicate, who eventually put Malcolm on the payroll as a triggerman, which of course leads to more problems, money, women, and deadly consequences.

Why Principle or Profit you ask? Because nine times outta ten every time a life is taken out in these streets, it's a direct result of one or the other.

To profit is self-explanatory; however, the principle could be one's personal belief, or even a weak emotion like jealousy and greed, to killing over territory, a debt, turf, stripes, or other principles of the streets. At the end of the day we all gotta go, so which one are you willing to die for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryheim Y. Scott
• Release date: Sep 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393593324

Book preview

Principle or

Profit

Ryheim Y. Scott

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Copyright © 2015 Ryheim Y. Scott all rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1523286553

ISBN-10: 1523286555

DEDICATION

Dedicated to the loving memory of my pop's Linard scotty Scott you were the only man that I wish I had the courage to be like: Righteous, a Perfect father and not afraid to make a positive change. Also R.I.P. to my grandfather - Mr. Joseph Scott, my Grandmother - Mrs. Peggy Scott, and my Great Aunt - Mrs. Norma Wynn.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To: My Mother, the incomparable Ms. Cenythia Green A.K.A. Super Woman Please know that despite my poor choices, you and dad always pushed and inspired me to do better and reach out to grasp my full potential It was my job to execute. Thank you

For dealing with Steph & I, we'd definitely be lost without you.

To my Big Bris! Stephanie: Kelly A.K.A Dude Luv you have endured so much and I am so proud of you! Always remember that no matter what, you must believe in yourself embrace your individuality and let them chicks see that you're the catch!

Special Thanks .to Ms. Gloria Green I and my Sisters voice of reason, as well as our Loving Grandmother!

Also to the entire Scott tribe out in New York City, I promise to continue to carry this name proudly, starting with a Noble 180.

To my lovely! You have been a True Blessing in so many ways I don't know if any of this would've been possible without your Love & Support.

Of course a Big Shout Out to Tha entire 303, Denver Colorado Tha E to Tha A Town, Bell-Side to Tha Hillz and everywhere in between. Lastly, to all my comrades still trapped in the Struggle Big Kiko, S. Carolina Cheeze, LB & Solo from Tha Town. Stay Strong it ain't over...  1 Luv!!

Look out for more to come soon! From Noble Enterprises

/Noble Grind Unlimited: Clothing, Poetry, Prison art & more!

This book is a work of Fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are purely fictional! Any resemblance to any actual events, locals and or persons, living or decease is coincidental.

MISSION STATEMENT

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Please identify the competition for my prospective book and/ or explain what unmet need in the literary market that your book meets. These are questions that I've been asked on numerous occasions and yet I have no answer nor any competition, because I'm not trying to compete nor meet some need. I'm just simply trying to add substance to what already exist, providing another quality product within a vast market. However, I can explain how I plan to hopefully pave my own lane of creativity as well as how I believe my manuscript differs from the majority within the urban literary community. Let me introduce you to what I call fictional nonfiction. Now, please keep in mind that I've been incarcerated for nearly 11 years, and so you can only imagine how many urban novels I've been exposed to. Also note that it is neither in my nature nor my intention to hate or slander! Because I am well aware that high entertainment value for sales purposes is priority number one. However, when there's a story about some skinny white lady who bought a double barreled shot gun equipped with a silencer from some 14 year old drug lord with an 11 inch penis, who's gang of cronies just broke out of prison to overtake the projects, killing a whole bunch of people in front of a whole bunch of civilians in broad day light without being told on.

Oh, by the way the skinny white chick survived a police raid, shoot out and swat stand off by escaping through a secret trap door under the marble floor of the 14 year old mansion, sliding down a fireman's pole directly into the driver seat of her candy painted purple Lambo on 26's that runs off of patron  Sorry  but

I've seen too many cases where dudes didn't even want to finish reading the book due to the additively taking away from the actual story. Yes, it's deliberate entertainment with imaginary, legendary and mythical characters but I figure that what if I could do the same exact thing, yet instead of focusing on fabrication I'd concentrate more on hearty dialogue and a solid story line that

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Principle or Profit

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consist of plenty action, sex, murder, money, fast cars and violence, but from a more tangible prospective. Characters with real personalities, real issues, hardships solutions, choices and consequences. This way the reader won't only be entertained, but will also be able to relate more and maybe even learn a valuable lesson in the process: Like no! Stop! Look and listen homie, Get It How U Live. But at the same time please know that this life comes with a price, ain't no fairy tales. Now, don't get me wrong I'm diverse enough to also have in my repertoire material that reflects all of the same nonsense that’s preferred. As a matter of fact, I recently completed a novel entitled Principle or Profit, at which I've included a few excerpts and chapters for your review. However, I'd prefer that the base of my notoriety comes from the fact that I write from the standpoint of those of us who aren't kingpins or major players in the game. More so just your average hood niggah/street level crook, just trying to make it or make it out! And so that's what I define as fictional non-fiction. Now  I'm ready to share it.

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Prologue

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3:45a.m. early Thursday morning, a single bead of sweat fell from Malcolm James' brow as he drove somewhat cautiously, yet still pushin the limit in his new jet black '99 Porsche 911. Malcolm patted his brow with his shirt sleeve and re-lit the half smoked blunt of poison kush he had in the ash tray from earlier. The dash read 87 M.P.H. as he sped down 170 East towards the Chambers St. exit. Swaying 4 lanes at a time on the seemingly abandon highway, as wide open as the night sky. Enjoying the ride and having to re-adjust the rearview mirror as the bass rattled Malcolm's stomach tightened with every word Tupac spoke:

Now I'm lost and I'm weary, so many tears/I'm suicidal, so don't stand near me/my every move is a calculated step, to bring me closer/to embrace an early death, now there's nothing left.

'So many tears' blared through the speakers.

From the outside looking in, one would've never thought or guessed that Malcolm had just committed murder. Viciously killing

2 men execution style by putting a 45 caliber hollow point slug behind the ear of each, watching them both collapse and twitch while brain matter, urine and excretion seeped from the two life­ less bodies. Only himself and God knew that he had left the untraceable murder weapon at the scene of the crime, before shedding his all black ski masks and jumpsuit, heavy duty latex gloves and the shoe nets that he wore just like the homicide detectives did on First 48. After balling it all up, he doused all of the clothing with lighter fluid before stuffing it up under the front seat of a stolen older model Nissan Maxima that was subsequently left burnt beyond recognition, four alleys away from the side street where Malcolm's car had been so conveniently parked for the entire day.

See, besides being an entrepreneur having dabbled in the music biz, to now owning a few car lots and other real estate properties, as well as being one of Colorado's designated and most sought after hitmen for some of the mountain west and west coast most notorious underworld outfits. Malcolm James is also on avid car lover, owning over 10 new and old schools himself, luxury to

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muscle. Thus, a very busy man! And yes you heard correctly, murder for hire, a professional triggerman which is how he was able to make the investments and moves he's made. See, at first it was just all about subduing his personal demons locked in a reckless and relentless pursuit to quench an unyielding thirst for blood. And then eventually came the profit, but now it's back personal. Because much like life itself, the game along with every story that's ever been told all has to one day come to an end. But first this is how it all started.

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CHAPTER 1

Born on a sunny day on December 30, 1976 , to be exact , I was a smart wide eyed energetic kid, raised in the inner city turmoil of East Denver's 5 Points area. Which much like many other black ghettos across America throughout the 80's and mid 90's, was plagued by heavy gang violence and drug activity. I had been just a stone’s throw away from all of the dealings and happenings of my neighborhood, at the time not actually realizing that it was all a lot closer to home than I knew.

My father's name was Bruce or Bo as the streets knew him, he was an all-purpose hustler running numbers and pushin reefer and heroin back in the 60's and 70's. When one night while in one of the neighborhood hot spots called Mr. A's, he met my mother Juanita, a beautiful woman half Spanish and black with jet black long flowing curls, cinnamon brown complexion, full lips and big brown eyes that doubled as unresistable bargaining tools. Although I'm not sure, I can pretty much guess what her occupation was. However, I do remember hearing people say that she was a real show stopper! Ya know, the type of woman that every bitch envied and every pimp, gangster and hustler made it their business to  keep. My parents hit it off instantly! Spending every day and night together, living the fast life while soaking up all that the 5 Points had to offer.

See, a lot of people fail to realize or just don't believe it, but there's plenty of black people and black communities in Colorado. All the way from Colorado Springs back down to Denver,

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especially back in the day. The 5 Points was like the Colorado version of Harlem. The 715 Bar and Lounge was considered our cotton club, Mr. A's Piere's supper club amongst plenty of other savoy style ballrooms that were frequented by the likes of Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington and Fats Domino. So once the 60's, 70's and 80's hit, not much had changed except the drugs and the styles of dress. Big bands turned to discos, big lights, drugs and money all remained. Things eventually changed and slowed up for my folks when I was born, but with a new bundle of joy also came a new epidemic called crack cocaine! That automatically took control over the entire community, doing one of two things to people: it either made you rich or it made you a victim. And in some cases even a mixture of the two. The gangs had just started to consume the neighborhood as well, occupying almost every street corner and block, in front of dilapidated housing drinking Magnum malt beer and Mad Dog 20/20, shadow boxing while Ice T's 6 n the mornin blared from a boom box or every car that passed. But once the crack trade arose, so did the crime and murder rate. And unfortunately at the tender age of 6, I got to experience it all first hand. I'll never forget it.

We were staying on East 25th Ave at the time between Emerson Street and Ogden, ironically right across the street from Pipkins Mortuary. That night two masked intruders ran up in our crib and bound, gagged and blind folded me and my mom while they savagely beat and pistol whipped my pops, before ransacking the house. I remember the 2 men had on black leather coats and brown sheer type stockings over their faces with dark colored skull caps on top of 'em. They kept yelling all crazy, demanding to know where all of the stuff and money was that was supposedly stolen.

My mom was terrified and adamantly denied any knowledge of such a thing and although barely conscious, my father still refused to budge. Either because it was all some horrible mistake  or because he had already gotten rid of everything. I assumed the latter, because the sequence of events that took place next permanently stained the fiber of my entire existence.

Suddenly, one of the gunman snatched me and my mother's blind folds off along with the stockings that covered their faces. Everything was a blur at first, having to re-adjust my eyes in the dim lighting of our basement, but I noticed that the stocky one in front of me looked a lot older than the other. He had real dark

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features that matched his coal black skin which did little to hide the hideous scar that ran from the top of his left eye to just below his thick mustache. The loud click clack sound of him cocking the huge hand cannon he held captured my attention, while the skinny brown skin guy with the matted curl held a sawed off shot gun, peering around the room with a menacing scowl on his hairless mug.Visibly mad with an obvious sense of urgency, he began to kick and yell at my dad, saying that since he wanted to play games, to look up at me and my mom , he instructed. And when my dad complied, my little stomach curled because I couldn't even recognize the grotesque mask of bloody flesh that stared back at me. Just the rage and sadness in my dad's eyes and the barely audible tone of his voice when he cursed the intruders warning them to leave my family out of it! That's when the guy with the shotgun violently kicked my dad again before coming over to me with his glove, wiping the river of tears that streamed down my innocent face, instructing me to look at mommy, so I glanced over to my left my young mind still trying to make sense of everything, and as soon as me and my mother's beautiful eyes met, the guy with the scar shot her point blank in the temple causing blood and brain matter to splatter all over the side of my face.

My dad heard the pop and automatically went berserk yelling jumping up and swinging out of pure adrenaline, seemingly disregarding all of the bones in his body that when I think back had to be broken. His efforts were honorable, but all in vain merely prolonging the inevitable outcome. Because as I sat frozen by fear, they beat him back down and while my father laid half dead with that shotgun barrel in his mouth , the same muthafucka that killed my mom stood behind me holding my eyes open as I yelled and squirmed in protest he snarled the words principle or profit lil' nigga in my ear two seconds before my pop's head exploded in front of me. The unforgettable smell of blood and bile blended with the vomit on my shirt and the urine and fecal matter cushin I sat on. At that point although too young to know it, the worst thing those two niggas did to me that night was leave me alive.

The last thing I remember was when I awoke in the police station with some pockfaced white guy all in my face asking me.

What I saw? How I felt? And where and if I had any other family members that they could contact? All good questions, but all I could do is stare. I mean look at all the shyt I just experienced.

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I was lost in a fog of denial not to mention I was only 6.

And the only family I've ever known besides my parents friends were now gone.

After a while some fat white lady with bright red lipstick, blue eye shadow and way too much perfume on sat squeezed next to me in the back seat of a police car, while we rode for what seemed like forever. I was forced to listen to her yap about how much Ima love my new home and something about how great Ima get along with all the rest of the boys. Her one sided conversation lasted all the way until we pulled up to this huge red brick house that had black bars on the windows along with a front lawn that had the greenest grass I had ever seen.

* *

After the first few years I guess one could say that I had adapted, but instead of getting along with everyone I remained anti-social and more of a recluse, still dealing with all the bed wetting, cold sweats, shivers and the nightmares. Which as the years went by slowly turned into resentment anger and rage that spawned an unexplainable urge and thirst that dwelled deep inside my young heart. Eventually the fighting started , I was getting into it almost every day inside the group home and at school, that is until starting fires quickly became my next new hobby. First it was dumpsters, cars then abandoned houses and even some times animals once I ventured into the sick realm of adolescent animal abuse. I began capturing, mutilating, torturing and killing  cats, dogs, birds and even gold fish ha! Remember Ms. Fletcher? The fat house mother wit the blue eye shadow. Well, she had a good size fish tank full of gold fish in the corner of the library, and so I used to take tooth picks out of the pantry, sneak back into the library swooping up a couple fish at a time using that little green catch net and then I'd poke each one thru the head wit a tooth pick. I know it may sound sadistic and/or lame, but there was just something about feeling the crunch of their little skulls and brain before pulling the tooth pick out then tossing the fish back into the water to watch them swim frantically out of control repeatedly runnin into the side of the tank before being found the next morning belly up. No one but me knowing what happened. I mean, as crazy as it may seem. I was fascinated with having that much control over a

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life. Knowing that whether or not that fish, bird, cat or dog lived was entirely up to me... and I loved it!

* *

As I grew up the only other thing that fascinated me more than what I've been doing, was making money! I must of inherited my father's hustle gene, because I eventually found myself being the main supplier of cigarettes and candy at the group home, as well as the arcade and even at school, peddling whatever I could steal. Which after a while progressively turned into more valuable items like tv's, car and home stereos and sometimes even cars alone. So it was an all-around good experience for me, because not only was I able to stack a little change I also started to naturally socialize and open up to people. I mean, I had to because there ain't no such thing as an anti-social hustler. All seemed normal but yet the rage and the thirst still loomed.

Shortly after my 14th birthday, I met and became close to this skinny 13 year old kid wit a jherri curl name Pee Wee, but Ms. Fletcher called him A lex. He was a real quiet dude maybe even  shy. However you could still tell that somewhere deep down inside a brilliant glow radiated from a raging fire that burned. He had just been placed at

Reviews for Principle or Profit

[Mindy Lail · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Not sure I want to read a book whose author can’t determine if the title should be “principal” or “principle”. The cover and the title/description are conflicting.