Dead Man Tell No Lies

By Lydon Smith

Lyndon Smith shares his story of survival to deliver a heartfelt memoir of his life in the fast lane. In Dead Man Tell No Lies, Smith chronicles his experience in the mean streets of LA, to his love affair with VH1 reality star Karen King, to his days as a hustler, drug lord, and ex-con. While on his road to personal deliverance and rec

• Language: English
• Publisher: NubiTales
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780990870845

Book preview

Dedication of Love and Remembrance

This book is in dedication to my loving mother, who raised me, single handedly and made me the man I am today. To my brother, Fonzo (Loc), who was loved and admired, but mostly feared. And to my Black prince, Reggie (Black Baby). May you all rest in loving peace.

Introduction

It was so black inside, and darkness filled the space. Locked within the spatial confines of a moving vehicle, I could barely move, virtually paralyzed with pain. I could hardly speak, but it didn’t matter because no one would hear me. Still, I pressed on and tried screaming from the depths of my soul, I need help!

Voiceless, no sound passed from my lips. My body was weary, but my spirit fought on. I prayed and prayed that someone, anyone, would find me and rescue me, until I slipped away.

Words can’t describe how I felt when I regained consciousness and realized what happened to me. And then it all came rushing back. In the days immediately following my attempted assassination at the hands of my sons, their friends, and my former lover. The pain and mental trauma I faced was beyond comprehension.

I felt so alone and empty. Without answers or anyone to confide in or anyone who I could turn to who had undergone something similar, I contemplated suicide in the days following my attempted assassination.

In the years following my assault, I have had to painfully deal with wondering what people say about me, questions about my ability as a father, and beliefs that I got was I deserved.

For many years, I ignored my natural progression towards healing - talking about, processing, and releasing my emotional pain by the fact that I was nearly killed by my family.

To cope, I built a superman persona. To keep up this image, I built up an invisible wall around me, allowing no one to enter, and I buried myself in my own thoughts. I shielded my emotions and dismissed any sign of weakness, hardening my mind and body. To the world, I was without feelings or compassion. Every nigga couldn’t be trusted and every woman was a scandalous bitch.

Recently, I realized that my feelings towards my assailants has, until this point, held me back and kept me from being loved by myself and others. As a result of telling my story, I have come to realize and understand how to accept and move past my assault and false thoughts of personal weakness. Now, I recognize that in order to overcome my personal barriers, I have to be honest with myself and analyze how my history impacts my present.

The primary question that arises when I reflect on the event that changed my life forever is this: Why would the people who I thought loved and cared for me, my own flesh and blood, try to take my life?

This answer still eludes me, but the best person to clarify it is Karen King. She tried to silence me, and if all had gone as planned, I would have been a dead man. However I’m not dead. I am most definitely alive and well and ready to speak my peace. And since she will most likely never answer this question, I’ll try to answer it for her and for myself…

... Let’s start at the beginning…It all started when...

Chapter 1. A Pot to Piss In

It was 1983 when I was first introduced to the drug game. One hot, summer day in LA, while I listened to music on the Kenwood stereo system I swiped from a house around the corner, my homey T-Bone knocked on the door. He stood in the doorway of the front door and got straight to the point. Aye, cuz, you wanna make some money? he asked .

I was always down to make money and all my homies knew it. Even more than that, I was tired of my baby hustle game: burglaries, purse snatching, strong arm robberies and GTA’s.

The following day, T-Bone picked me up in his blue, 1969 Chevrolet Impala and dropped me off at the homey Rat’s house on 83rd and Western, a spot where they sold dope. He didn’t spend any time explaining what I was there to do, but shook the spot soon after. He didn’t need to explain, though. I was sure of what he needed from me. Unlike most youngsters, my job wasn’t to sell, it was to cook. Before that day, I had never seen crack.

It was on the job training in its rawest form, and I spent weeks perfecting the formula. Eventually, I moved into selling dope, a way of life for someone like me growing up in the 80’s in South Central LA. Our neighborhood was a hot spot for dope fiends. Cars would drive up and down the block like a fast food restaurant and get served with whatever they needed. We called it curb serving. I had made as much as three thousand a day on the block which wasn’t bad for an eighteen-year-old. I was living the life of a hustler - my childhood dream. Some of us wanted to be doctors, lawyers, or teachers. I wanted to be a hustler.

Rat showed me how to re-rock the crumbs that came off the dope after cutting it into $25, $50, and $100 increments. After cutting dope all day and night, there were substantial amounts of crumbs or shake that hadn't been accounted for. I would re-rock the crumbs and sell them for a nice amount of change, usually between $300 to $500 a day. No one knew of my little side hustle, not even Rat.

I was good to go after I learned how to re-rock. It was no more sitting in crack houses for me. I had learned enough about the dope game and needed to be independent and work for myself. Once I saved enough money to buy my own sack, I quit and started selling for myself.

I put my skills to good use until, one day, it all caught up with me. I got caught.

I was sentenced to six years for the sale and distribution of cocaine and served three of my six-year sentence at