GOOD LOOKIN OUT

By Michael Ollie Clayton

Childhood friends Khalil, a successful rapper, and Justin (J.D.), recently released from prison, are confronted by circumstances that test the mettle of the sworn-in-blood lifelong bond they declared to each other. The unshakable camaraderie they shared as youngsters growing up in New Orleans is tried by fire when Big Joe, a nemesis from their past, puts Khalil's and Justin's "I-got-your-back-for-the-rest-of-my-life" mutual declaration to the test.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781365628849

Book preview

GOOD LOOKIN OUT

Good Lookin’ Out

Michael Ollie Clayton

I’m yo’ nigga 4 life.

This book is dedicated to Ronald Foucha. Rest in eternal peace,  thuggie.  Also, I dedicate this book to Terry Wallace, the best athletic coach I ever had.  Rest in peace, as well.  For all those who loved me, for all those who hated me: Thank you...I learned from both camps.  Thank you all.  ALL OF YOU!

Copyright © 2006 by Michael Ollie Clayton

ISBN #: 978-1-365-62884-9

All rights reserved.  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 or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Contents

Good Lookin’ Out

I’m yo’ nigga 4 life.

This book is dedicated to Ronald Foucha. Rest in eternal peace,  thuggie.  Also, I dedicate this book to Terry Wallace, the best athletic coach I ever had.  Rest in peace, as well.  For all those who loved me, for all those who hated me: Thank you...I learned from both camps.  Thank you all.  ALL OF YOU!

Copyright © 2006 by Michael Ollie Clayton

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Khalil walked into the party like he owned the place.  On a banner above the entrance to the Crystal Room in the Downtown New Orleans Marriott were large black and silver block letters that read QUADRUPLE PLATINUM, BABY!!!  He’d sold over 8 million copies of Nigga du Jour, a full-length compilation released digitally online to his multi-million social media followers, at $20 a pop, cutting out the record industry, and thereby shooting all profits directly his way.  Other musicians had released shit-unsuccessfully-via independent marketing campaigns, but God, luck, fate and destiny seemed to be working in his favor.  As sales piled up, he told people in his clique, I’m expanding this shit.  I’m going to drop a couple of movies, digitally, through Mack Pussy-his nickname for MP4- and I’m gonna do cartoons, too. Sky, baby, sky!" he exclaimed, alluding to his belief that there was no limit to his creativity.

The music on Nigga du Jour was cutting edge, true enough, but it was also Khalil’s persona that made him a wide-selling, sought-after artist.  The boy was beautiful, for lack of a better, more descriptive word.  No, not a pretty boy, not a sweet boy, a motherfuckin’ beautiful ass nigga.  Eyes as hazel as a lion’s, full lips sweeter than chocolate, skin the color of evening right before dusk completely falls, a full crotch, and an ass cut from mortal sin.  Beautiful on the inside, beautiful on the outside...body, mind, soul and mug.  Straight white teeth, a smile that would make Satan blush, and a sinewy body chiseled out of black granite.  His deceased father used to tell people, God touched this motherfucka’!

He always seemed to have more to give than everybody else.  Even on his website, NiggaNation.com, he wasn’t just shootin’ public relations hooks and marketing slants to get people to download his joints, he would offer body-building, hair care and fashion tips for those who weren’t knowing.   And for the Rhythmless Nation-meaty, cheesy crotch-grabbin’ boys who wanted to commune with things African, things rhythmic, he offered 1-2-3 connect-the-dot dance steps. For $9.99, anybody from Baton Rouge to Boca Raton, from Baldwin Hills to Bangladesh could be swingin’ dem hips like a nigga actin’ a donkey on stage.

In his ‘hood in Treme-3rd Ward, New Orleans, Louisiana, Khalil was the shit.  Loved by the honeys, loved by the ‘hood rats, loved by the niggas, loved by the grannys.  It seemed he could do no wrong.  Yeah, sure, there was a playa hata here, a playa hata there, but shit got squelched quick ‘cause Khalil never ducked anybody.  He’d step to it, no matter who, what, where, when, or why.  Khalil always said, mantra-like, I don’t like lookin’ over my shoulder, and I ain’t no fuckin’ bullseye.  Fuck a gun! We gonna solve this shit like men...right here...right now!  The boy had hands!  The nigga could throw when defending himself and good God if someone pissed him off.  A human tornado: a fist in the face, in the ear, on the chin, in the throat, in the guts...beat down.  But, more importantly, he could take a lick.  Took a few good ones in his 22 short years on the planet.  Got his ass whipped a couple of times when he was at fault, but, by and large, he would lay it down.  It was advice he’d taken from his older brother, Siddiq, now serving life in Angola Penitentiary in Louisiana for placing a series of pipe-bombs under parked police cars.  Siddiq wasn’t trying to kill anybody, just inflict a little damage on the New Orleans Police Department’s shit.  He felt he owed them, at the very least, for robbing them of their father.

The NOPD, once  renowned for brutality, was going to pay.  Fuck an internal investigation, Siddiq reasoned.  When it came to due process and justice for his father, some of the Crescent City boys-in-blue had taken the law into their own hands, so now he was going to take it into his hands.  The case had drawn national attention.  Even 60 Minutes had shown up and put NOPD’s shit in the wind, but that just wasn’t enough for Siddiq.  His father was gone.  Had been falsely accused.  Simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and caught a whammy for it.  Shot in the back.  In the presence of witnesses, for God’s sake!  But, the NOPD being the NOPD, nobody ‘fessed up to shit.  No one came forward.  No one was stupid enough to.  What?  Testify against NOPD and expect to get away with it?  You must be out your motherfuckin’ mind!  The only justice hinted at  was the Chief of Police’s televised press conference in which he said to the family,  We’re terribly sorry about this unfortunate incident, and the Department is moving with dispatch to assuage the aggrieved family members.

On his final assault, the pipe bomb went off before scheduled and Siddiq not only blew his left hand off, but caused a fire to ignite in the vehicle, roasting two of New Orleans’ finest.  He’d been out scanning for targets for less than ten minutes when he spotted the parked squad car from a distance and slowly, intrepidly made his way toward it.  He knew that randomness was the hallmark of a guerilla offensive, trepidation the hallmark of a proper assault, back then, before prayer, solitude and masturbation would become the only peace he’d ever know in this life.  Now, that world of militancy was a galaxy away; a different conscious stream.  It weighed on his psyche that he’d taken two lives.  And during his first year on lock down Siddiq purposely detached himself from everything and everyone he came in contact with.  Later, he immersed himself in spirituality and invoked Khalil to avoid weapons at all costs.  Throw ‘em up like a man, boy, he repeated to Khalil over the years.

The first cut, I’m Every Nigga, from Nigga du Jour was concluding when Khalil stepped into the dark, crowded ballroom.

A flood of thoughts came to him as he beheld the throng of people gathered together in his name.  22 and been through it, he thought to himself.  Got from under a record company that was pimpin’ my ass like a $5 rockhead ho.  Blew they ass out the water when I walked.  Even threatened me with bodily harm just because I stood up for my rights.  Goddamnit, all they had to do was show a nigga a little bit of love.  They’da still had my ass.  How ya' like me now...sittin' on top of the world.  In control of my issue, pirates!

On all four big screens in the Crystal Room was the video to his second cut, Motherland Porno.  He was in a love scene with a fine-ass Nubian done up as a bush vixen. Their bodies blended.  His firm, round rump rising and falling.  She sunk her ankles in his ass crack as his round black mound swirled and twirled.  He remembered while they were filming the video how his dick kept getting hard even though he had on a cup.  To the images, the words  paralyzed by orgasmic delirium! made the partygoers clap and stomp.  A wide smile erupted across his face.  He was pounding fists, and hugging, and being hugged as he made his way to the bar. 

Life was beautiful.  The future was bright.  God was good.  He never felt more alive.  It’s a beautiful thing, an older woman whispered in his ear.

Hell yeah it is... said Khalil.  And it’s gonna stay that way!

And it was...at least until Justin Dempsey-J.D.-walked  into the place.  A hurricane sat on J.D.'s shoulders.  A