Carrentein Poochiona Ponderas

By Amun

Volume 1: C.C.P. The Untold Story, Black Mafia: Self Made Men, Bloodline: From the Cradle to the Grave

Summary:
Carrentein Ponderas is a black a familys need and desire to survive in the rat race by any means necessary. From the unity, compassion, and guts of some to help others succeed arose what became known as the Black Mafia. Led by C.C.P., a mirror of S.B., he sprung up to become a shady tree for others, and with a heart bigger than they were that bred, a.k.a. urban legends, where cash ruled then, now, and forevermore. Long live the street legends of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, for the gangster living in each of us. Enjoy.


Volume 2: Tru Blood: Til Death Do Us Part, Treeses Block, Ghost in the House

Summary:
Fetti makes mo fetti, gangsters mo gangsters. Dont hate, get like the competition or become bait. In the jungle only the strong survive. The name of the game aint checkers no mo, its check-mate. A new breed of dons run this here. Meet the new deputy mayors. They took over where the old economy left off. Not Caddys, but Benzos and Porsches are the order of the day. In their world every day is a good day to die. Their motto is watch your back money, dont get short changed. Meet the Gs of the new economy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469172033

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Amun.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012903521

ISBN:                        Hardcover                            978-1-4691-7202-6

Softcover                              978-1-4691-7201-9

Ebook                                   978-1-4691-7203-3

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 and 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.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

104142

Contents

Author’s bio

The Untold Story

Black Mafia

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Bloodline

Tru Blood

From the Cradle to the Grave

Ghost in the House

Tresse’s Block

Author’s bio

I ’m known as Amun. I wrote out of the desire, passion, and survival of our urban youths and elders deserving their props, not out of necessity. It’s my way of giving back what, as I say, never have so few took so much from so many. I found my niche with hopes that id inspires and empowers others to find theirs. It’s never too late. My novels are the closest you’ll get to reality without actually going there.

The Untold Story

T here once lived a man who believed in violence as a means to conquer evil; he came up deeply rooted by those who lived by survival skills, and fetti wasn’t the purpose. It was the necessity, but family is the priority, and death was a means of rank. They taught him to die like you lived as a man—one of honor, respect, dignity, and morals. The only thing he feared was what he couldn’t see; death was his only friend in this life and God in the hereafter. Here is the untold story of Carrentin Ponderas, the life of a boss, a made man. Some indeed loved him, and some indeed feared him; not all loved him, and not all feared him, but all came to respect him. Some thought him to be a myth. I came to know of him in a personal way when your nemesis becomes to be at peace with you. He was born in the hot months of June somewhere between the nineteenth. I remember he was a leader of men, a general of guard dogs, a defender of ??? He grew up from tough times in ghetto streets; blood was his shadow and the engine his pacifier and his Mattel toy. He cuddled from the crib the piece that brought smoke; then black adorned the mourners. He seldom spoke of tears and fears; he spoke of life after death like most men wish for success. He loved those who dared death to imprison them; instincts had his back surrounded only by his soldiers and his enemies. That’s how he lived; that’s how he died. But in the books of history, he lives on and in the examples of every soldier that protects the weak, the turfs, the undeserved, and the rap of the people that knew him and of him. He, General Ponderas, dared all to quench his zeal to be the best. It is said that whatever he touched turned to gold. The women he loved he left, and those he despised he remembered much. They all learned from the general how to live and survive as did all of us. His motto was that no ghetto is tougher than his. He learned to run the crap houses and flat sheet houses for the big dogs in the earlier years, and he invested in the game at ten; and then by twelve, he ran the whole thang, and men and women knew it. They tried to be his friend, but he was too hard, too difficult to get that close to; so they all settled just to know of his skills.

Back in 1960, he was born a G, a boss, and by the age of fifty was retired and in the history books forever as the general, the Boss of Bosses, the Big Dog. His dress code was an awesome style, his walk untouchable like his character, and his wisdom dead serious. His rainwater was Sonny Brown, a legend in his own right, and men like Geechy Dan, Silky Slim, Peyoke Red, Melvin Jones, and others like rock and stone, steel and iron, molded and shaped to design zones. None dared to go beyond that toned him for the life he would grow to respect and love; and he learned games like klondike, chuck-a-luck, under and over seven, silo, five-card narley, etc.

They taught him to make heaters out of cast-iron cap poppers and zap shooters from clickers and ink pens. He learned to compress snow, bring it all back, make synthetic heroin hash, and knock out a mark with eyewash—I won’t say what kind. Then he grew to love the game and respect the Gs in it, then the one that they said no few had taken so much from so many spent time alone, for the decisions he made not all agreed with like the time the young girl who had been raped by an impostor. He found him out, and they found the guy in a junkyard fried in a rug, no teeth and no way of identifying except by a gold chain he had stolen from the girl he raped, but none questioned his integrity. He was the 911 and the justice system. He’d have a partner on dope and then force-feed him so much of it until he either died from an OD or stopped and balled. He was the real one. Alligator shoes, goose-skin boots, snakes with tweed and double-breasted suits with Royal Beavers were his attire. Seldom was a sneaker seen on Ponderas; he was a boss, 100 percent real nahmean. His hair was wavy, thick, braided, then cut short, styled, then bald; and still, he moved like the wind and rain together—indescribable but a sight for sore eyes to see. Legend has it he fell in love a few times but couldn’t stay in love. He was married already to the game. None could tame him or love him back. They admired and, like all of us, kept on learning, living, dying, and forgetting it all. That’s why I wrote it down to seal and lock it in history: the untold story of a legend, a boss, a general, a G. He lived by the code from day one to the end.

He once said about a girl he loved that before her, he never thought about sex or head until he got them in the buck; but then, he cut her off because he couldn’t stand to see her leave when time came or to see her come when he said not to, so he had to leave it alone. Anything he loved more than his mission he found a way to abandon. He was icy and stern all at one time. Once he was forced to choose between the lady he loved and his soldiers, he left the queen and kept the soldiers. He could kill you and ride with you. screen you and know you’re an enemy act like your act like your buddy and buy up all the air when you needed it most. He said to never love nothing so much you can’t walk away from at the drop of a dime G. He taught us to rest, dress, and exhibit finesse, as well as to smell great always, groom up, get your rest, keep your game airtight and never let the enemy know what you’re thinking. He never smiled when he was happy and never cried when he was sad. He had it under wraps—24-7 Ponderas. He said the key to living is dying without complaining, and dying was living like the world don’t owe you nothing ’cause you’re here. A birthday just meant you’d gotten a year older, be it a dummy or a smarter ass, but to not address it or boast about. It was a sign of wisdom; before the almond tree flourished, he gave it to us blood raw with no cut on it. He had blood brothers and brothers in bond in deed and in mind, but he had only to the Boss Lady on his agenda. His word was, What’s your regimen. Your mission in life? If a man didn’t know where he was going or how he was gonna get there, he was a lost man. He made fetti, kali, money; he was a guru at it—it didn’t make him. His skills where he roamed were two in nature: numismatics and semantics, the study of money and the collection of it, and the study of words and their meanings a scholar with a dollar. Bodacious! I’m telling you, he lifted weights of minds in his men and tore down strong holds of us that couldn’t see the potential in us. He built legends and leaders, soldiers, Big Dogs, Jihad Kaili—buns that could hold da fort down till the troops arrived, understand me? Shoot. He could hit the mark with either hand. Annie Oakley and Ponderas had to be of the same bloodline. Once, a guy held this chick with a knife at the chick’s throat, selling out about dropping the gat or she dies. He fired, hit the mark in the forehead, and the chick passed out. When she awoke, she was taxed by the best between the sheets, and she loved every minute of giving to government. He roamed like that. He had a crew of ninas—female guard dogs or attack dogs—masitros named Lena Horne, Barbara Red, Red Indian, Cleopatra, Miranda Hood, Heartless. Diamond Chelle, they crook him and ruled by night and by day the soldiers handled all the business like on Wall Street, stacking it like they liked it. He gave love, and it gave back. In the projects of small eyes with hearts that were bigger than they were, he’d show up with a pearl cream-colored Fleetwood Brougham and dish out the payroll for As, Bs, and Cs, and Ds and Es, they came up to par. Grown folks took care of their business, and he handed out success stories in fetti to the young eagles. They grew to love that black Emperor that was Ponderas. He wore a diamond on one finger with twenty-seven rubies on twenty-three penny weights of solid gold with ice on top. The piece was called Mount Everest, a sight for sore eyes. He was a Mack-a-Boss. He carried two Haskells on 24-7, bathed with them, dropped down with them, slept with them; everyone knew you had to die or leave it alone. They left it alone; some died for the lack of understanding of knowledge. He was true to the game, and the game was true to him. They had to bury him a G. What else, ain’t no other word for it. He was everyday people but had a heart of gold that’s gangster. He used power the right way. He never balled out of control or put the two on the ten. He turned everything he touched into gold. He grew in stages, each higher than the next one until wasn’t no more room in the book to kite; then it was closed. He died but lived on in the hearts, souls, and minds of us that came to know him or know of him. He was a man, a shark, while others were boys, guppies. He was a constellation of a lot of galaxies; Negro wore five stars. If they’d had six, he’d have worn six of ’em. Understand what I’m telling you? The heaviest I saw him was 225 or 230, but on average, he came in at 200 to 197. But when pitted against the bears, he was a bull; and up 99.9 percent of the time, that’s where you’d want to put your fetti at. He once showed me a cut game that still to this day can’t be touched. Hustlenomics was his claim to fame; this one gotta go to da Hall of Fame, a self-made millionaire from the dirt up to the zenith. We know we’re witnesses, men in MIC, millionaires incarcerated. When he put his mind to something, there wasn’t no changing it. He said what he meant and meant what he said. I grew to love him; he had a swagger that was often imitated but never ever duplicated. When he played the game, he played it for keeps. Beef was a reality; he’d spoil trouble, had a way of following me around, but it’s all right. I like a little trouble, and he added I like nookie too, but I don’t stick my wand in everything; everybody—foes and arm candy alike—gotta be handpicked, checked out, and passed no room for mistakes. One wrong move, and it could be over. Do yours on your own turf; never deviate from the game plan. If you get to the end, start over and get to the end again until someone can’t start over no more. That’s how you win; and winners, just like dealers in the blackjack game, take all pushes and shoves. It’s like water and what comes outta ya when you use the toilet—one don’t go down without the other. He’d ask us what da streets said about who he was, then turn around and ask who we say he was; I say he was da real one. He made busters irk ’cause they couldn’t outperform him; he had his weight up, and he got large. Wasn’t nothing retail ’bout him, you feel me? He was wholesale, didn’t sweat but wore the full attire—winter, spring, summer, and fall. Don’t ask how he did what he do, the way he done it, and nobody never really figured out how or why. He had that hidden jab, and everybody knew running into the front jab is like running into a brick wall. He drunk St. Pauli Girl NA and pushed Porsche two-seaters; either it was him and a soldata, or him and his squeeze. He never ran into no packs, and he swore by He in whose hand my life is in that wasn’t never no bad day to die, so young blood always be on point ’cause you never know when you’re going to have to look good for your janazah (funeral). He gone be surrounded by G from all around da world; even today those survival skills are being lived and taught in the field of big bank take little bank. The name of the game isn’t checkers no more, my friend—it’s checkmate. I remember when he was semiretired yet active ’cause all of us got the game from him from time to time, and it always came to pass exactly like that. I believe it when they’d scream his teacher was a wizard; nah, he got it from (SWT) the Lord of All the Worlds. He studied in a dojo under Sensei Prime and then Walter Williams, a Green Beret, and his Chi from K-Pak and Shotokan from Sonny Brown, a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. I witnessed him spar ten at once—either Bruce Lee was in him, or he was into Bruce Lee ’cause that’s how he was moving and how they was dropping. If you ever became his enemy, he wouldn’t piss in your butthole. If ya guts caught on fire but if you was down, you couldn’t have had a closer, more loyal road dog; the OG had senses like (canines), a.k.a. attack dog. He had it goin’ on; some say he put the G in game. His heart was bigger than he was. A babe locked her keys in the whip; and Ponderas pulled over, rendered his service, got a close hanger, and underlocked the new style underlockable security lock on the speedo. We were all amazed; she was like, You can have whatever you like, ’cause her baby son was locked in it too. He had a way of being at the right place at the right time, like a knight in shining armor, and he could be a macker’s nightmare too. I saw, let’s say I heard, from an ear hustler that one cross-out artist got found and burned up in a rolled-up rug after gasoline had charcoaled and broiled him so well, nobody could recognize him if not for his teeth, the one that was left inside his mouth. Going to war was his gift card; Ponderas done it like a licensed pro. Those that shifted sides from right to left had bad luck. Dogs came up missing or stiff as a board with blue-paint-colored skin, or family members disappeared. I was told they wasn’t really missing, just wasn’t seeable under the driveway of concrete or some oak tree that had grown bigger than the holes and placed in them before they heard the call to return from whence they’d come. He told us he never rocked none to sleep except cockroaches that got what they deserved and wasn’t nothing worse than da cross except da triple cross. When he put the cut on heaters, they’d always be under three inches; and whenever he pulled da heater, beef cooked. He rocked only gangsta: Tupac, Biggie Smalls, Scarface, Mia X—nothing soft or sweet. He said he had to keep his mind on his paper route ’cause in da concrete jungle, slipper don’t even count. Better keep your head up and ya Haskells on speed dial ready to hiccup. Don’t be playing with it, trying to remove da safety lock, ’cause you’d be way too late; and when ya late for work, it’s no way you can be on time no matter how fast ya push the machine. He told us all about the young eagle that wasn’t ready to fly like all da other eagles when it was time to move out, so da young eagle had to stay behind; but it wasn’t long before he got his weight up, and he took flight and was soaring supergood. Then all of a sudden, a strong wind blew, and rain fell. Then it started to sleet; and that froze up his wings and blew him down up under a barn door, where he landed under a cow, and that cow dunked on him. But the dunk was good for him ’cause it thawed out his wings; and soon, as he got thawed out, he opened his mouth and said chirp. Then a cat saw him and ate him up. He said like every story, there’s a moral, and the moral of that one was that it ain’t nothing at all wrong with being by yourself, and everybody that dunk on you ain’t ya enemy—and you’d be sometimes. Sometimes you’d be a whole lot better off if you just learned to keep your damn mouth closed and that your mouth wrote more checks that asses couldn’t cash than junkies that love dope or grandmas that loved snuff; but more than all of these, the mouth was a man’s testing ground, and there wasn’t many men that ever came to a point of mastering that member and In a witness the mouth caused the mind to deceive the heart, and that was the first thang I learned as a young skipper under his wings. I gotta give reference to whom reference is due, and I gotta give props to my main ma??? See, he taught me ain’t but two ways a man can learn—that’s from being smart, and the other is from wisdom. The keys to the city is knowing the difference between the two: the latter is when you learn from the mistakes of others; the former is when you learn from your own mistakes. It’s always better to learn the mistakes of others so you don’t have to get there from tripping over your own two feet. You can get there in a good way; we all gonna get there, but how is the 1,000,000.000 question. When most people are prattling about they being here and they being there, but when they are tested to see where they really are, they aren’t nowhere. Only three kinds of folk in dis white man’s world: that’s those who don’t know and know they don’t know, and those who don’t know and don’t know they don’t know, and then those who don’t know and think they do know. The latter ones are dangerous; avoid those at all costs. The next latter are just ignorant—teach them; and the former lack understanding—help them to understand. Ponderas took us to the school of hard knocks (SOHK), and that was the rope we used to pull ourselves outta da muck and murry clay. Living is like the first house you buy; you add to it, build it up, change it around until one day you get it just like you like it. You don’t get to balling outta control and buying another house. You fix up da one you got; then you move forward. Fast living will burn up a good over.

Either it’s cop ‘n’ blow, cop lock ‘n’ hold, or cop hold ‘n’ block, depends on whether you need ’em or not and who and how deeply they’re connected, but it is whatever. It is the streets got ears; it hears things. It got eyes; it sees thang. What I can’t stand is a bootlicker, a sheisty ass buster and one of those popcorn gangstas. They always thinking with their private parts, never their head, so every decision they make da wrong one. All a man got is his word and his balls—one he leaves behind after he dies, the other he takes with him. That’s his reputation. I live by my word. That’s my bond. I sign all my contracts with that pen nahmean, so did Carrentin Ponderas. Only those that were close used the whole signature; normally, we referred to him as OOG. The only original gangsta, he did a bid up to the city within the city, but he came home like he’d taken a BC Powder and came back strong. They chiseled him outta rock and diamonds; he just stood out and shined like dat. He got older and got wiser; he grew up faster than most. I say probably because the cronies he come up under introduced him to a lotta game at a young age, and he learned how to take da bitter with the sweet when he won big and when he lost; he lost big too, which wasn’t often. Ponderas had to be a falousian Jew or sumpin like dat ’cause he bank like a zebra had spots everywhere. It came in from plat sheet houses, racketeering, easy spots, organized syndicate cooperatives, the markets; and when he squared up, he went all da way to the top. He was destined to be there. I saw him climb da ladder when he made it to the zenith. It looked tailor-made goose-skinned boots, snakes, gators, lizards; bottom couldn’t hold him, wasn’t nowhere else for him to go except da top when you surrounded by fearless made men like Ponderas. When they go, you know you miss those guys; molds are broken. They lived ahead of their time like they was just around for a glimpse, a sneak peek: now you see ’em; now you don’t. And it’s da video in your head they leave behind that carry you through, like that favorite song when things aren’t going right; but then it starts spinning, and suddenly, you know everything gonna be fine as long as we around him believe that game don’t stop. Players change; game stays as it is, was, and always will be. I see it going down as we speak like a movie on play, and I’m surrounded by surround sound, but it’s real in da field, baby. Stick ‘n’ move, change your game like clothes on a daily basis ‘n’ don’t hate respect da architect; some said he was lucky. I’m telling you it wasn’t luck. It was da skills they saw most rap it—he lived it, live in living color. It was there; I’m not telling what somebody told me. I’m telling you what I know. If there’s heaven for a gangsta, then Carrentin Poochiono Ponderas, he’ll be there. If we could have pictures in the house on walls, surely, he’d be there too. My protégé, if not the best, is definitely one of them that ever did it, done it. He was that not 99.9 percent of the time, but 101 percent of it every day, all day. We don’t sweat nothing no more, not even bullets; but if we did give out shout-outs, I’d have to give one to the OOG. Anything else would be uncivilized. That’s urban, that’s legendary like cash that rules over all the small talk. He was large, major, and I salute the man I came to love and respect. You got some who can tear down in one day. What it took years to build, Ponderas could build it back up in three days. Mad skills. Usually, it comes from good teachers; his came in from da teacher of teachers. Whomsoever he guides, none can misguide; and whomsoever he leads astray, there’s none to guide him or her aright. I know some small change, and I know some fetti holders. He started at the bottom and from nothing came to the top all da way into sumpin. A mammoth, the Black Rockefeller in the middle of nowhere. He sprung out everywhere. I’m da one, the truth teller. Don’t hate. I still ain’t done yet. Let me remind you of the skills; before he cashed in his player’s card, he took bai and deened like he lined in the former hard boy you stop ??? You fall. Let me introduce myself. I’m Black Romeo, a.k.a. Young Blood. Carrentin Ponderas, he taught us to always screen your people ’cause everybody gotta be handpicked, checked out, and passed. I remember him speiling Young Blood, lead always lead, never follow, play by the rules, and you’ll always eat from da fruit of your labor; and believe you me, I stayed on my paper route. If I could go back to start all over, I wouldn’t change a thang or trade the skills Ponderas taught me for all the tea in China. He gave me the dos, the don’ts, and the how I’s of screening with no cut on it, blood raw. Screening lets you know the good guy from the bad guy, the nemesis from your protégé. He taught us never water nobody else’s yard; water your own yard, and your yard will be just as green as the next man’s yard. But that’s a whole ‘nother story. We’ll cap on dat on a later base. Whenever you screen, you never let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. He used to tell me, Young Blood, it only cost you one thing in life to win. That’s attention. Always pay attention. I taught the home team that they gotta pay attention in order to win, and we came out winners, nahmean. The enemy got certain characteristics like change, stealing, putting the two on the ten (lying), surprise, whisper, secrets, and taking sides against the family. I’ma give you an example of each of these ’cause Stevie Wonder ain’t got no business at da picture show. If you’ve got a partner that you see every day, then suddenly he stop coming around or speaking. He’s changed ’cause he’s changed. That makes him an enemy G. It’s like being pregnant, ain’t no such thang as kinda pregnant, either you are or you’re not. Now in order to know how you play him or her, it depends on whether you need them or not. If you don’t, it’s cop ‘n’ blow straight up. If you do like a wifey or close brasso, it’s cop hold ‘n’ block only until you don’t need them anymore. First escape you need, that’s your mark, but if you’re not certain how deep their connected you need to, it’s cop hold ‘n’ lock. Once you see the whole card, play it and peel. Keep ya friends close and ya enemies closer. If it’s cop ‘n’ blow, inform them ASAP. Never cross ya path and always give you twenty (20) feet or buy up all da air and don’t speil nothing… It depends, one thing about a mark, they all creatures of habitat just watch ’em. They do it like Hannahul, same ole, same ole. You can touch them whenever you get ready. Life is a thinking man’s game! When ya learn from the best, how can you not be on top of ya game? The best time I ever spent was alone jogging. That’s what we call brainstorming. Calculated moves on ya own turf is good insurance, and healthy medicine could save ya life. I stayed five steps ahead of all mine. That’s how I lasted and was still standing when the last brick fell. Of course it takes steel to sharpen steel, and when the candy stick hiccupped, what’n no more rapine’ only thing after dat was a ball of confusion but most of the time it was like an old McDonald Farm, here a quack, there a quack everywhere a quack quack. One thing I hated more than a liar was a popcorn gangsta that spent more time in da mirror than his queen bee, and a flosser; chumps made me wanna blow up like an egg in dat grease pop… Once you let go, the last thing they should see and remember is the back of ya head walking away from them, then there’s stealing. Ponderas would come into set, lay sumpin down like a few coins marked ones or a bill or two, step off to the next room, come back or leave a roll of notes on da dresser, sleep, get up, dress, step, wouldn’t check da trap money till he gassed up a few blocks to see if the notes were short and if he found out they were, you’d be guilty of stealing a sign of an enemy, then all that’s left is to determine how to play ’em and who was gassing you up. That’s filling ya head with bullcrap, causing ya to go against da grain, and if he’d already warned ya to never steal from him them Haskells had to get to know you better. Wasn’t no remorse or hesitation, it’s real in da field. He said da only way to get rid of cancer is to cut it out and kill it then replace it with sumpin that’s better. Negro ain’t never lied; he was able to see a long, long way. If you was a gambler, you’d want to fade, not bar that you ya felt on his, and he won much more than he ever lost. Ponderas still getting fetti even though he gone. If you don’t understand what I’m telling you, don’t even worry ’bout it, ain’t supposed to know, no way. He had a code of communication that you could hear with ya ears and still never hear with ya mind. He shot jumpers above da rim, but he’d break ya off proper if you came correct, but if you ever got it twisted rent could get high might even have to move out like outta town then it came a time when he’d catch you putting da two on da ten, lying. Only an enemy played like dat with fami. Say he asked ya a question, he already knew da inside of it and you tried to play him, every coin gotta reverse and every time he looked at da good. He looked at da bad two. Buster couldn’t raise early enough to serve breakfast to my main man. He’d be already lying till brunch came; he stayed hungry. If you ask me, he was only waiting on you to slip so he could put in work but that’s only my opinion and to keep it real, many man had da wrong opinion of my man. One thang for certain, two for sho’; if a man can’t be trusted by his word, he can’t be trusted, period. Ponderas told me there wasn’t no such word as can’t and if you took off da T you can, so I’m just saying test da water before ya jump in and eat from da same cook all da time. Watch as welcome as pray, if it don’t look, feel, or seem right, probably ain’t. He told me it’s a gut feeling you get after being in game for so long. It comes to a point where da only friend you have is Allah (SWI), and all your trust is in your best friend in da whole wide world. It ain’t instinct, it’s survival skills, homie. That’s how you get to see the almond tree flourish and pass the torch, then you see your skills in those you tore. Some things never change. Like I’ve told you, put in enough work, you’ll always get ya props. Then came surprise; the element of surprise could break ya back. Surprise occurs when, say, you at the parlor, it’s early, knock on da door. You stunned since you still in that ticket with your lady. Now you go to the door, when you get there, it’s your closet road dog, and he along looking as surprised as you. You gotta car, she gotta car, but yours in the shop, hers ain’t, so homeboy ain’t coming by like he speiling to see you. It’s her but how deeply she connected it’s uncertain, so he an enemy her to how you play is cop, lock, ‘n’ block, till you discover the whole plot better be on ya Ps ‘n’ Qs you sleeping with da enemy. Otherwise it would’ve been an easy cop ‘n’ blew ’cause you don’t need him but if you did then gave changes. Only da strong survive, the weak perish and fall by da waist side. It’s a slimy game but, and this is a very big but, to remember somebody gotta play