Legacy: The Bloodline of a Legend

By Mista Midas

At the age of thirteen, Prince learned a valuable lesson that would alter the rest of his life. Years later, while living according to that lesson, he is trapped in a life-shattering dilemma and forced to choose one of two evils: It was all in or all out; no longer an in-between. He had chosen to embrace the life he wanted to live; knowing that do or die, his legacy would be secured through his sons; his bloodline would continue. With that as his ultimate motivation, he dove head first into a life that many wanted, but few dared to live. Living his life to the fullest; pushing the envelope with no fear of the consequences, he knocked on hell's gate daily. All he cared about was building and protecting his legacy. By any means possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716588297

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

First and foremost, I want to thanks the Highest for His guidance and protection over the years.

Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I

Will fear no evil: for The Most High is with me.

Praises are to the Most High.

I have to give a special thanks to my mother and father: June Williams. Yeah, she's both. Thanks, Big Lady for being there for me; putting up with all the foolishness over the years. For over 3 decades I've been dragging you with me through the criminal justice system and you n ever gave upon me. Love you like I love God Himself, Big Lady.

Big up Sulky Paul; Michael Hartley. RIP. Your Legacy lives on.

Big up Midas Touch Crew. DJ Jedi, push on youth. Also, big up the following people: Sad, Jodez, my children and their mothers. All my

siblings and their children, Mil, and all who have been riding with me over the years. There are a lot of new people who I've met after the writing of this acknowledgment whose names are not mentioned, don't worry, I have many more books on the way.

Moving on. I remember when I first set my mind to write a book, I knew nothing about writing, but after being in the streets most of my life, I knew that even though I didn't know how to write a book, I did, however, have many stories to tell.

It was my roommate, Colby Cacedo, in the Osceola County Jail who said, Demon, I believe you can do it. As you can see, lil homie, I did it. I wrote and published a book. Now the sky's the limit.

Screechy Roy, large up yourself. Years ago you told me to go home and take up a microphone, but instead, I took back up badness. The next time I saw you after you lectured me about how I went home and wasted my talent, you encouraged me to keep pushing the pen.

Well, I took your advice, and this book is the product of your

Encouragement and motivation.

Keep your head up, Richard Walker.

Next, I want to give a special thanks to an old-timer who I met at Mayo C.I .who use to wait patiently for me to finish writing a page so he could read it. You believed I could do it, Couch, and as you can see, I have done it. This is just the beginning. More on the way.

Keep your head up, Johnny Coach.

The following people played a key roll in the completion of this book: W. Latimer, thanks for helping me with my grammar and all the editing you did for me. I really appreciate everything you did, bro. Penguin, A. Arnold, and Elliott. Thanks for taking the chances y'all took, and doing what y'all did to make this book possible. Real shit, without y'all this book would never have been published. Ramen Noodle soups, potato chips, and coffee can never cover the debt I feel I owe .Keep y'all eyes open.

There are so many people to thank. If I didn't mention you by name, it doesn't mean I forgot about you. Just chill, I have more books on the way; so keep reading and looking out for your names.

Special big up to all ah di island man dem weh inna di concrete Jungle an' ah stan' firm. Keep up yuh head, Faada God naa sleep. Jus' Gwaan wol' di faith.

Shout out to the few that can truly say that they have kept it real 100% since stepping off the porch. If you can't say that, keep it moving. No love lost, cause I had no love for fake jiggas from the get-go.

Last, but not least, I want to give the biggest and loudest shout out to everyone who I reached out to that didn't do a fuck-thing to make this or any of my books a possibility; thank you. You not believing in me and my dreams only motivated me to push as hard as I could to do it and do it without your help.

One Love

Mr. Midas

PROLOGUE

Eleven-year-old Prince Smith sweated profusely as he struggled home. The seven miles of winding dirt road not only soiled his school uniform but had ruined his brand new Converse sneakers.

  With only a short distance remaining, and a throbbing pain on the bottom of his foot, he decided to take a much-needed break.

  Seeking a place to rest, he limped over to a rotting log on the side of the road and plopped down in relief. He cautiously removed the dusted shoe and peeled off the smelly, sweat-drenched sock and breathed a sigh of relief as the cool breeze blew on his foot.

  Carefully inspecting his heel, he noticed a large ruptured blister. As he soothingly massaged the area, he once again renewed his vow never to spend his taxi fare wastefully only to walk the tiresome and dangerous stretch home.

  The year was nineteen-eighty, and the small Caribbean island of Jamaica was stuck in a bloody turmoil as the two political parties struggled relentlessly to win the upcoming election. This period of bloodshed was one of the worst in the island's history. The blind tentacles of political warfare had reached deep down into every community, snatching lives as it prowled like a perilous pestilence.

  Because of the perilous times, Prince's grandmother had strictly forbidden him to walk or even play in the streets. He was sternly warned never to walk home from school, never to stray from home, and to lock the doors and stay away from the windows when home alone.

  Prince, however, preferred to walk home with his friends rather than to heed his grandmother's warning. The thrill of seeing a gathering of people around a corpse, or someone bleeding to death was more compelling than to ride home crammed inside of a smelly taxi.

  A sudden burst of gunfire crying out a short distance away, startling Prince; causing him to frantically fumble for his shoe.

  A moment later a series of single gunshots were heard, followed by rapid machine-gun fire.

  Dropping the shoe, Prince sprinted off, limping with no regards for pain. In the blink of an eye, he was at his front gate, panting hard and frantically fumbling with the latch. As he opened the gate, he heard another burst of machine-gun fire; followed by a series of single shots.

  Frightened by the close proximity, and the loudness of the gunfire, he began to nervously tremble. Transfixed by the unfolding quandary, he wished he had heeded his grandmother's warning and for once had taken the taxi home.

  As the pitter-patter of footsteps heading his way was heard, Prince's heart began pounding mercilessly inside his chest as if trying to break free.

  The neighbor's dog's frantic barking was abruptly silenced by the sharp crack of a gunshot.

  Terrified, Prince made a mad dash towards his front door, but his hope of making it to safety suddenly halted when a man dove acrobatically over the back fence and landed in a loud crash.

  Landing headfirst in Prince's grandmother's vegetable garden, the man agily sprung to his feet. With a crushed ripe tomato hanging from one of his long, matted dreadlocks, he alertly surveyed the area for refuge.

  Petrified, Prince stared agape at the pistol-toting Rastafarian.

  Panicking, the young Rasta stared frantically back and forth between the front gate and an old abandoned outhouse.

  Locking eyes, Prince and the Rasta briefly stared at each other until they were interrupted by fast-approaching footsteps.

  Without many options to weigh, the young Rasta quickly decided to seek refuge in the outhouse as opposed to going to war against a squad of heavily-armed and ruthless soldiers with only a .45 caliber handgun. With his mind made up, and the bloodthirsty militia within hearing distance, he sprinted to the outhouse and snatched the door open and hurried inside.

  Before the outhouse's plywood door could close completely, a brawny ruffian came leaping over the fence with a large machine gun in his hand. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he crouched in a combat-ready position—completely destroying the tomato plot as he scanned the area like a hungry predator.

  Within seconds, four other soldiers came leaping over the fence in likewise manner. Panning out, they ravenously sought their target.

  DOAN BLOODCLAAT MOVE, BWOY! a lanky soldier barked, menacingly pointing a large machine gun at Prince's head.

  Terrified, Prince stared wide-eyed into the barrel of the Bushmaster machine gun. He began to tremble traumatically as fear radiated through his body; his teeth chattered rapidly, tapping away like an old typewriter. Overwhelmed by fear, a warm trail of urine dwindled down his leg as his bladder released its content. His brief existence on earth flashed through his mind as he felt the malicious evil that was projected from the soldiers.

  Don't shoot, Percy! another of the soldiers cautioned, holding up his arm, ah jus' ah likkle youth.

  Percy, the lanky soldier, cautiously eased his finger from the trigger and lowered his machine gun. Bwoy! he barked. Yuh si ah gunman run tru' yah?

  Prince knew what he wanted to say, but no matter how hard he willed, the words would not cross the threshold of his mouth. His eyes flashed to the outhouse. For a split second, he could have sworn he had seen the Rasta's eyes sparkled as he peeked through the crack of the door.

  BWOY! Percy barked.

  Prince was snapped back to reality. H-h-he w-went t-t-that w-way, he stuttered nervously, pointing a trembling finger towards the front gate.

  Gwaan inside an' lak di door, Percy instructed. Comeen. He beckoned his squad and sprinted off.

  Prince remained motionless as the bloodthirsty militia dashed off in hot pursuit.

  The Rastafarian silently thanked his God for answering his prayer. After a deep breath of relief, he cautiously removed his finger from the trigger of his .45 and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  He had made up his mind and accepted the fact that his final battle was at hand. He was ready to die and be numbered with the legendary outlaws of yesteryear. He had sworn the boy was going to reveal his hideout, but surprisingly, was proven wrong when the boy directed his pursuers in the wrong direction.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Rasta still remained inside the foul-smelling outhouse. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, he knew his decision would be critical. It was either to flee to safer grounds with the nagging fear of an unexpected encounter with the militia or remain trapped inside the outhouse, hoping they would not realize the boy had deceived them, and return with a more intense bloodlust.

  Irresolutely, he anxiously peeked through the crack of the door, hoping for a miracle. A slight shift of the window curtain caught his attention. Focusing his eyes on the window, he could clearly see the boy's inquisitive eyes peeking out. For the first time since the ordeal had begun he smiled. He cautiously inched the plywood door open, nervously flinching each time the rusted hinges creaked.

  Prince fearfully peeked out at the outhouse. He knew without a doubt that the Rastafarian was still hidden inside. His mischievous curiously urged him to want to see beyond the crack of the door. As if his wish was miraculously granted, the flimsy plywood door began to slowly creak open. He could now clearly see the Rastafarian crouched in the doorway with his gun in his hand and what appears to be a crushed tomato entangled in one of his locks.

  He smiled, and to his surprise, the Rasta returned a smile, pulled loose the tomato and devoured it.

  Realizing that the help he needed might only be a few yards away, the Rastafarian decided to try a third option. It dawned at that moment that if the boy had wanted to give him away, he would already have. With nothing to lose, he peacefully waved to the boy; the window curtains opened wide. Smiling, he beckoned for the boy to come to him; the curtain instantly snapped shut.

  Frustrated, the Rastafarian slammed the plywood door shut; angrily ignoring the squeaking protest of the rusted hinges. Mentally defeated, he slumped against the wall and close his eyes and began to pray.

  Startled by approaching footsteps, he snapped to attention and gripped his weapon tightly; bracing for battle. His only wish was to take at least one of his adversaries to purgatory with him.

  He nervously, but cautiously cracked the door open a fraction of an inch and peeked out. As he surveyed the area, he saw the boy cautiously limping his way with one dusted shoe on. Thanking his God, the Rasta smiled and opened the door.

  As the outhouse's door began to open, Prince stopped abruptly; frightened. He remained fixed until the door partially opened, and the smiling Rastafarian beckoned him forward.

  He reluctantly ventured forward.

  The Rastafarian flashed him a warm smile. Weh yuh name, likkle youth? he whispered.

  P-P-Prince.

  Yuh kno' who mi is, Prince? the Rasta asked with a sly grin.

  N-n-no.

  Wha' mek yuh lie wen di swoja dem ax if yuh si mi?

  I-l don't k-k-know, Prince stammered, staring at the gun in the Rastafarian's hand.

Following Prince's gaze, the Rastafarian realized the cause of Prince's nervousness. He quickly concealed the gun in his waistband and covered it with his shirt. He glanced up at Prince and grinned. Ah noh real gun, he lied.

  Y-y-yes it is.

  Weh yuh come from, Prince, farin? the Rastafarian asked, noticing that Prince had an accent.

  Y-y-yes.

  Mi need yuh fi help mi, the Rastafarian said, quickly changing the subject. Di swoja dem ah try kill mi—

  Why they want to kill you? Prince inquisitively interrupted.

  The Rastafarian grinned mischievously. Evrybody waa fi kill mi. He laughed as if dying was something trivial.

  But why? Prince pressed.

  Yuh eva hear 'bout Sulky Paul? the Rastafarian asked proudly.

  Yeah, Prince replied. He's a wanted gunman who rob and kills people.

  The Rastafarian grinned. Sulky soun' like seh 'im ah real badman. Mi wope mi neva come 'cross 'im, he chuckled.

  I'm going to be bad like him when I grow up, Prince puffed proudly.

  Hey, Prince, the Rastafarian interrupted. Mi need someweh fi hide 'til lata. Yuh tink yuh cyaa help mi?

  Prince thought momentarily. You can hide in my room. My granny won't come home from market 'til later.

  Calm dung, Prince, the Rastafarian chuckled at Prince's eagerness to render help. Mi need yuh fi do sup'm fi mi first.

  What you want me to do? Prince asked.

  Goh look dung di lane an' si if yuh si di swo— Before he could finish what he was saying, Prince had sprinted off in a mad dash. Prince! he shouted, stopping before he could make it too far. Mek sure dem noh si yuh, ca—

  Once again, Prince sped off before the Rastafarian could finish what he was saying.

  With a mischievous smile, the Rastafarian cautiously pulled the door close.

  Prince returned minutes later with semi-pleasant news; the soldiers were a good distance away but heading back in their direction.

  Without further delay, Prince quickly led the jittery Rastafarian to the back door.

  The Rastafarian took one final look at the surrounding area, and then reluctantly ventured inside, closing the door behind them; double-checking the deadbolt to make sure it was locked.

  As they entered Prince's bedroom, he once again paranoidly checked to make sure that they were securely confined.

  Satisfied with safety, he silently thanked his God for answering his prayer. He reached inside his pocket and took out a small wad of money. He quickly leafed through the bills, extracted a one-hundred-dollar note and offered it to Prince.

  Grinning despicably, Prince snatched the bill from his hand and began snickering deliriously as he inspected it.

  The Rastafarian shook his head in disbelief. Greedy.

  As expected a few minutes later the soldiers returned; belching threats and chartering angrily, and they searched high and low.

  The Rastafarian once again prepare for battle. He quickly instructed Prince to hide under the bed and keep quiet until the soldiers were gone.

  Prince hurried under the bed; shaking like a wet puppy.

  Once the Rastafarian was sure that Prince was out of harm's way, he hastily crept towards the window with his gun brandished, and stealthily peeked out at the bloodthirsty band of killers; watching as they prowled the area. He breathed a thankful sigh after watching as the militia surrounded the outhouse and kicked in its flimsy plywood door only to find it empty.

  After diligently probing the yard to no avail, the squad regrouped and cleared out in a blood-craved frenzy.

  The Rastafarian waited about fifteen minutes after they had left to make sure that the coast was clear. With the burden of imminent danger lifted, he concealed his weapon and instructed Prince to come from under the bed.

  After the wave of danger had receded, the Rastafarian decided to share in confidence his real name to Prince, as opposed to revealing the truth that he and the Notorious Sulky Paul was one and the same.

  During the process of their conversation, Michael had learned that Prince was thirteen years old and had migrated from the United States with his parents when he was eight.

  Prince's father had returned to the States two years later in pursuit of a better life for his family. After an irreconcilable disagreement with her mother in law, Maria, Prince's mother had subsequently returned to the States, leaving Prince to be reared by his grandmother.

  After establishing a trustworthy bond, Michael had grown fond of Prince. Not only had Prince saved his life, but they also shared a lot in common. They were both the only child born to their parents; both were raised by their grandmothers, and both had been cursed with rebellious spirits.

  The fellowship came to an end when Prince's grandmother returned home. Michael had to make a hasty withdrawal to the bedroom closet and concealed himself under a mound of Prince's dirty laundry; where he remained out of sight while Prince spent time