Kings & Queens

By Brent Abraham

Welcome to the pinnacle of American crime stories. For many of todays inner-city youth, misguidance, a lack of vision, and not enough mind leads to time in prisonbut thats where things change for Earl. The young character meets perhaps the wisest mind in captivitya mind so supreme in wisdom that it was trapped there by a criminal underworld who feared it.

The gems of wisdom, knowledge, and understanding given to the young man is the breakdown guidance every young mind needs.

When God created man, He searched for a helpmate for him. He didnt bring Adam a Road-Dawg. He brought him a woman, Olds had taught. Thats your true partner in life.

She had been mistreated, socially discarded, and seemingly cursed with dark black skinuntil he came along. As he battles for his supremacy in the streets, the conversations shared between the two is the breath of life that shapes the intellects of Kings & Queens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524569914

Brent Abraham

* Doesnt want to include ATA as per au's email

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Brent Abraham.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016920811

ISBN:      Hardcover             978-1-5245-6993-8

               Softcover                978-1-5245-6992-1

               eBook                     978-1-5245-6991-4

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/21/2017

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Contents

Dedication

A Note From The Author

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Conclusion

Take The About-The-Book-ChallengeFor ‘Kings & Queens’

Acknowledgment

DEDICATION

T his dedication actually brings some sweet tears to my eyes. It has been a long time coming. For this book is dedicated to the only two people in my life (other than God) who always saw the best in me.

First, to my mother: Miss Holly L. Sconiers

And to my grandmother: Miss Gaynel Thornton (the first writer of our family)

No matter what the circumstances painted, no matter how bad I sometimes lose at life, no matter what other people thought or whispered, no matter what trouble I created for my life… You loved me… and more, you kept it in my head that I was somehow special and that I could do anything I chose to put my mind to. Your determined words, protection, and love kept me breathing even when I was dying.

Though one is past, my grandmother (I miss you so much), and one is still here to witness this day, it is because of you two (and the grace of our God) that the world can now receive my gift.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

T he genre of Urban S treet-lit brings to the world the true stories of the inner-city. For some, the redundant tales of drugs, violence, and death without substance has left a bad taste. Like gangster rap some feel that it glorifies these behaviors and conditions within our communities. I use urban street-lit much like Nas, Tupac, Melli Mel (and even today’s Kendrick Lamar) use Rap, not to glorify but rather to edify young minds and the world. 

F or me the story is secondary to the teachings. I am a teacher my nature. I only use the stories of street (guns, drugs and violence) to reach my targeted audience, to keep them captivated while I teach. With this trilogy I am going somewhere. The title ‘Kings & Queens’ was chosen with purpose. Like substance rappers I’m here to make sense of the lives, conditions, and the carnage (until redemption) of this place called The Hood. Read me. Digest me. Remember me. My name is Brent Abraham.

FOREWORD

A s a foreword for this book, I have decided to use something unique. When I first finished this book, I gave it to a friend to read. The story gripped him so that he read into the early morning hours. Unable to contact me with his thoughts, he put them on paper, and this was his conclusion:

I finished the manuscript early this morning and figured I’d put my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh in my mind.

First of all, the story was off the hook; the characters were real to me and well established. The locations of these events made it even more real because I am familiar with the Orlando area.

I do know that violence and gun play are what make a story such as this… and although I find the wholesale slaughter of brothers by other brothers irksome, I do understand, as in your story and in certain instances in reality, that violence is a necessary course of action (because some of our people have become things the world can do without). So yes, I recognized the violent angle of the story.

I was most impressed and simply blown away with the intellectual exchanges between Olds and Earl, then later between Earl and his girlfriend. And the religious connotations relating to the Holy Bible. THIS TO ME WAS THE TRUE ESSENCE OF THE STORY— without it, the story doesn’t work.

I was utterly captivated by some of the things shared between a young Earl and Olds. To hear such an exchange of raw wisdom (one brother to another), and to observe that wisdom manifest itself and be applied to worldly situations, was an AWESOME experience!!! This was the shit I loved!!! I keep telling myself, a brother in prison somewhere, (indirectly) took over an entire ‘multi-million’ dollar drug operation in Orlando, Florida, from his prison cell using only the power of his mind. Every good story should have a beginning, a middle, and a conclusion—with solid characters throughout. In my humble opinion, THIS WAS A POWERFUL STORY!

Lynell Freemen

CHAPTER 1

I f being the ugliest girl in the neighborhood wasn’t enough, she also lived in the dirtiest house on the block. Theirs was a dark blue three-bedroom home that simply distinguished itself from the rest of the residential homes on the street. If it weren’t the dirtiest, then it was certainly the most dilapidated. Dirty and dilapidated are different: dirty is filthy and unclean, while dilapidated is being plain broke and ragged.

Tammy and her family were not dirty people. They were broke, and their house in the Hood played the part. Tiles peeled from the roofing, cracked windows had been repaired by tape, and the dark blue paint on their house collected its hue through a mixture of old stains.

Tammy was in her bedroom reading a book when she heard the front door open and close. The clock on her old-fashioned nightstand read 8:43 p.m. So immediately she knew it was her mother Robin, coming in from work.

Tammy! Kim! her mother called.

Tammy walked into the living room just in time to see her mother unload her usual cloak of bags onto the dining room table. Each day Robin arrived home, she would be weighed down with bags. On some occasions she would have so many that she would have to send someone to get Tammy or Kim to help her carry the bags from the bus stop.

They didn’t own a car.

The items within the bags were stuff she’d collected from her coworkers: old clothes that their kids had outgrown or some kind of household appliance that one of the women no longer needed. Robin slaved at a linen cleaning service with a society of struggling black women. After years of working together, the women had formed a network with their old belongings. If one was fortunate enough to purchase or receive a new living room set, the old one was up for anyone who needed it. Clothes, shoes, and household items followed the same free auction. This was their way of struggling together. Robin passed up nothing!

Hey, Momma!

Hey, Baby, "she smiled at Tammy before her youngest daughter came charging around the corner.

Hey, Momma, came the eager response from the eleven year old. What you got today? Kim peered over the bags.

Robin dug in and pulled out a nice, but visibly faded pair of Guess jeans. They appeared to be Kim’s size. I got these from Cynthia. Her daughter out grew them. God knows that child is getting big. Here, go try them on.

Kim took them and looked at the size tag.

I can wear them. This is my size.

She was delighted as always to receive the hand-me-down clothing. Her little dark ebony face beamed with appreciation.

Robin dug in again and added a no-name skirt and two blouses on the fold on her arm. She then turned to her older daughter, Tammy, and dug through a second bag. From that one she pulled out another pair of jeans and a lengthy spaghetti-strapped dress that was truly a relic from a time long past.

Tammy accepted the old piece of clothing and held it to further examine. Nobody outgrew this old dress, she thought. They had died and left it in an attic. Her mother forged a smile, hoping to see a glimmer of appreciation in her nineteen-year-old.

It’s a little faded, but it’s clean. Her mother coated the unstable moment.

Tammy felt her mother’s hopes and curled the corners of her mouth into the shape of a half U. She added an assuring nod. Her birthday was next week, and this was all she was probably getting. They were broke, financially broke! Money had always been an issue, and her mother was only doing her best to do what mothers do. The only reason they were not homeless and lived in a house was due to her late father. His insurance policy had paid for the house when he died an innocent bystander in a drive-by shooting. Since then, every dollar toward the household had been a rough find.

Tammy returned to her small room with the clothing. Her room was actually built into the front of the house with a window overlooking the driveway. This was where she spent most of her time. She tossed the new additions to her wardrobe on the bed and crawled on the mattress to reclaim her book.

The world outside had made her somewhat reclusive. It offended her. She had no one outside the house she could honestly call a friend. There were girls in the neighborhood, but Black or Blackgirl, as they called her, was different. They were glamorous and all ghetto fabulous. They wore expensive clothes with brand names, and permed up, weaved out, and had fresh cut hair-dos and nails. Black only had a closet full of the worn-out hand-me-down rags like her mother had just given her. Just the thought of wearing them made her THANK GOD that her school years were over and behind her.

Her Raggedy Ann, hand-me-down fashion show at school had been the highlight of hurtful jokes. Those years were nightmarish and full of nothing she cared to revisit. And on top of the ragged ‘put-together’ outfits she had to wear, she was also dark-skinned, which the world had concluded was ugly. Or at least this was how she felt. For just about her entire nineteen years on earth, she had been cracked on and called every shameful name beginning with the word Black. The ill-hearted jokes had piled on throughout the years and had given her a hard shell of self-hate and low self-esteem. Especially because of her dull, ashy dark skin. It was her curse even. So Black or Blackgirl had become her neighborhood moniker.

An hour had lived and died before Blackgirl was brought out of the world of fiction she’d entered. She loved reading. The realm of creative fiction offered her a better reality than the one in which she lived. Girlish laughter beat against her window from outside. Forsaking her book, she slipped from the bed to take a peep through the curtains. Ke-ke, Tasha, Belinda, and Rhonda’s asses were out in front of the house. The four of them were sitting on her father’s old Cadillac.

This little gathering was a Hood ritual. Every day, around this time, a few girls from the neighborhood would congregate in front of Black’s house. Maybe it was because the street curved there, or maybe it was because of the old, broken-down Cadillac there that hadn’t moved in years—and the Hood loved gathering around broken-down shit. Somehow it had become the neighborhood hangout. From time to time, boys in the hood even sold dime pieces of crack near the car, mainly so that they could use the old heap to hide their work. Black’s mother never complained about the noise, the illegal activity, or the loud cars that routinely stopped to talk with the girls. So it all worked together to form a cool hangout.

Blackgirl released the curtains and decided to go out and sit with the crew for a while. This was normal for her. Outside on the Cadillac was as far as she would venture from the house, except for a few jobs she had at some fast-food joints, one of which she just recently lost. Yes, she had to curse out a so-called Baller this time for calling her an ugly bitch. Black did nothing to provoke the strong epithet (she never did). Some people are stupid, and some people just have a penchant for voicing their opinions instead of keeping them to themselves. It was the second job she’d lost this way, which is why she was now jobless and had no ambition to subject herself to people’s opinionated bullshit.

*     *     *

Richmond Heights was a large residential community—the largest Black community in the city. This was the hood. During the day, starting around 4:30 p.m., the neighborhood came alive with cruising traffic. Dressed-up, tricked-out, innovated cars would slow roll the maze of streets. They were filled mostly with boys and men hollering at the girls and young women who lived there. The females participated by strolling the sidewalks of the community or chilling in numbers on someone’s porch or driveway.

Black slipped out the front door and eased her way up to the opposite end of the dead car. It was parked parallel to the street on the patch of medium between the sidewalk and the curb. Tasha and Ke-ke sat on the hood, while Belinda and Rhonda were leaning with their backs against the driver’s side door. Black had eased up to the rear bumper. She lay against it, resting quietly with her arms folded around her.

When the four girls noticed her, they all gave a muffled, Hey Black! and just as easily disregarded her to go back to their chatter.

All four girls knew Black and her propensity to be silent and withdrawn. So no one ever made a huge effort to talk to her. Black had gone to school with Belinda and Rhonda, who were the same age. Tasha and Ke-ke were a few years older.

Black chilled at the bumper, listening to their clamor, until the unimportant talk was interrupted by a shiny tan Expedition that had just pulled onto the street. Rhonda was the one to notice it first.

There he is Ke-ke, that guy in the Expedition who stopped by here last week and got your number.

Ke-ke saw the truck approaching and sucked her teeth. Aaah, damn him! He didn’t even hit me up. His lying ass.

The group played it cool and nonchalant as the Expedition eased to stop in front of them. The 22’ Sprewells kept spinning. There were two players in the front seat, both in button-down dress shirts, gold-rimmed shades by Gucci, and plenty of platinum bling.

The driver’s sly grin said that he knew what they were thinking before they spoke.

What’s up, Miss Ke-ke? He even remembered the name.

Oh, you know me now?

I just called your name, right?

It wasn’t my name I’ve been waiting on you to call. She had an attitude about it. What, you remembered my name, but forgot my number?

Player felt the tension. Don’t tell me you’re upset.

What you think? She looked him off.

I think you’re beautiful when you’re happy and sexy as hell when you try and be upset. Look at you. He held his playboy smile. It was a game, and the player in charge wasn’t succumbing to a bitchy attitude.

Ke-ke liked that. Most women do. It’s called confidence. She wanted to blush but had to play the game too.

Why didn’t you hit me up?

I said I would. I just haven’t had the time. Businessmen get busy. Talking over the phone is so impersonal anyway. I am making it up by paying you a personal visit, he said, improvising his words to fit the moment.

Whatever! She flipped her wrist but went for it, sliding from the hood of the car and walking up to his window to personalize the conversation.

Ke-ke was thick like an Uncle Luke dancer. She was all thighs, hips, and ass. Ke-ke, Tasha, and Belinda were what the cars stopped for. All three were light-skinned to the shade of yellow, with long hair and nice young curvy bodies. Belinda and Tasha were thinner versions of Ke-ke, but she was the ghetto fabulous freak of the crew. Rhonda was cute also, only a shade or so darker than the other three.

Ke-ke’s conversation at the truck lasted about seven or eight minutes before they wrapped it up and the Expedition pulled off with a new plan. Ke-ke rejoined her friends, blushing.

Most of the day went like this. First Ke-ke, then Belinda, then Rhonda; sometimes two or three of the four would be called out to a car packed with so-called players and ballers paused at the curb or in the middle of the street to get their mack’s on.

Blackgirl enjoyed watching and listening to player raps. No one ever approached her or called her out. Most of the players wouldn’t even look her way. A few even had the audacity to turn their nose up at her as if to say, What is she doing here with the other four? Once a drunken fool started cracking on her dress. He said it looked like she found it in a history book. They all laughed until she gathered the nerve to cuss his ass out. If she had had a gun, she would’ve busted his ass. This was the main reason she chose to keep separate from the other girls and stand on the opposite side of the Cadillac. This way, no one would mistake her for being on display as part of the ghetto fabulous.

*     *     *

A shade of coming darkness had reached across the city. It was win the war for the sky when Ke-ke spotted a plain white Yukon truck hit the block.

Oh, girl! Here comes B-Down.

B-Down was a young dark-skinned hustler from the Hood whom they all knew. His Yukon was accelerating toward them.

Stop him, Tasha, and see if he has some more of that weed he gave us yesterday?

Tasha sprang from the hood of the caddy and trotted out to the middle of the street. She posed with both hands on nice hips as if he wouldn’t dare run over something so delicious.

The Yukon slowed to a stop, and B-Down stuck his head out the window. What in da fuck is wrong with you? I should run your ass over.

Boy, you know what we need. Let us get one. She puffed on an imaginary blunt between two fingers.

B-Down shook his head. I’ve got to stop coming on this street. You mothafuckas will smoke a dude out.

Boy, pull over! she demanded playfully, knowing he would give them an ‘L.’, that was street talk for a joint. The L stood for ’log.’

The four of them and Blackgirl had grown up in the Heights together. He pulled the truck over and got out with an ounce of budded-up green—that lime-colored sticky that gave off its smell through the bag. B-Down looked shorter than he really was because of his stout build and bow-legged walk. He was actually six foot even in height, dark-skinned, with a mouth full of gold teeth and long dreads like the running back Ricky Williams. He was always fresh, baggy denim shorts to the skin, sports jersey, and a thin platinum chain hanging to his chest.

He got out and tossed the ounce to Tasha. She examined the green buds and knew it was gas.

Where’s the leaf?

Damn, yall don’t have nothing but the lips and lungs, huh? His shoulder-length dread locks swung as his head moved from one side to the other.

The girls thought that was funny. He failed to see the humor, but these were his homegirls, so that’s how they kicked it.

They’re on the seat. He leaned up against the Caddy next to Ke-ke. So, what yall up to besides standing on the road begging?

Same as always. Just chillin’. Ke-ke answered.

B-Down, you’ve had that truck for damn near a year now. When are you going to do something with it; put some big rims on it or something? Belinda asked as if she was tired of looking at the plain ride.

B-Down took offense. When is your Lil Po’ ass gonna stop walking and catching rides?

Oh, you got offended, huh?

Rhonda jumped in. She’s right, B-Down. You the one always talking about ballin’. Ain’t seen no Ballers riding around in no plain white Yukon with factory rims.

They all laughed at him; even slapped a few fives. B is really down yall. Ke-ke added, and they all fell out.

B-Down cracked a smile on that one. You mothafuckas ain’t shit. Smoke my weed and crack on my truck.

You need to tighten your game Bruh. Ke-ke nudged him, as they set the forest on fire and the smell of burning grass filled the air.

Okay, you triflers can laugh now, but my dawg will be home in a minute, and we gonna get this shit popping.

What dawg? You always talking about when yo dawg get out?

Damn right, my Dawg Earl. That’s why I’ve been chillin’, haven’t been making no serious moves. I had to be here when he steps off that Greyhound.

Who is Earl? Tasha asked.

Yall don’t know him. This is a dude I did time with. We got plans though, and when he steps down, you triflers will see what I’m talking about.

Well, that fool need to hurry up and get here, ’cause I’m tired of hearing about him, Rhonda said.

Ke-ke had another thought. How long has he been down?

Five years.

Ke-ke started squirming around the car hood. Damn! Been gone five years, huh? Her freaky side was arousing.

Well, you might need to bring him around here first. If he looks good and has those muscular arms like yall have when they get out, I want his dick first.

Tasha and Belinda laughed. Even Black cracked a knowing smile.

Rhonda giggled. That bitch is so nasty.

Nasty? You ain’t never had no prison dick? The freak was dead serious. That prison dick be hard and rough, girl, like a steel pole sliding between your legs.

B-Down laughed. Freaky-ass bitch. Look at you. His dreads shook. But hold that thought. My dawg might handle that. Five years is a long time.

So, when does he get out?

B-Down smiled his golds. Tomorrow, Baby Girl. My homie will be a free man, and this city is going to inherit a true king.

A king?

Damn right! That’s all he talks about in his letters. Earl ain’t like no other brother you ever met, he said with confidence.

A king… ? Ke-ke huffed, Whatever! Just remember the part about bringing me the dick first.

CHAPTER 2

T here was a long five-hour bus ride from North Florida to the City of Orlando. Greyhound is a rough ride with numerous stops along the way, but after five long years of living in a gated community (prison), five hours was nothing. So Earl went in search of a window seat!

Passing the southern terrain produced a welcome hypnotism and time for reflection. The past five years in prison had been a growing experience for Earl. Time is a formative process—a course. There are many lessons of life that are impossible to learn without taking a pause to wonder; without giving the mind time to think! Prison time had given Earl that pause, that classroom to look at life.

He had been arrested and sentenced to seven years for possession of a weapon and was sent to prison when only seventeen years of age. The problem was that Earl had become a street renegade with no conscience. His name was starting to ring. Robbing hustlers for their money, and ‘work’ (drugs) was beginning to produce enemies, enemies that at seventeen he only knew how to deal with one way; by the sword. Before things could get too far out of control, he got knocked off (arrested) rolling in his car with two loaded pistols—a victim of 1-800-TIPS.

He could’ve been out in four years with good behavior, but his early years in prison were much like his earlier years in the street—too much heart with no mind, a whole lot of doing with no thinking, just running with the Thugs.

That was until he moved into a cell with an older convict. His name was Olds. Olds was a thinker and had an exceptional mind when it came to ‘the game’ and intellectualizing the streets, Olds was the Ghetto’s Socrates.

Earl remembered the first day he moved into the cell. He had just gotten out of lockdown for slapping the shit out of an Aryan Boy. The skinhead had brushed past him without saying excuse me. The Florida prison system is different from any other in America. In Florida, a white inmate knew his place. There were no white supremacy cliques, no skinhead gatherings, and absolutely no Aryan Nations meetings (at least, not in the open).

The old con was sitting on his bunk writing, when a young Earl appeared at the door with this bedroll. Olds removed his reading glasses and said, Don’t nothing but thinkers live in this cell. If you’re not ready to start thinking, I suggest you find another bunk to sleep in.

Earl only looked at the aging convict. It was evident that the old man knew him from the trouble he’d been in and out of since he’d been on the compound. Most jits (another word for young guys) were always in and out of trouble in prison, feeling that they had to prove themselves at every opportunity. So Olds wanted to be clear from the start about what type of cellmate he expected.

Earl wanted to get mad and check this old motherfucker, but the statement about being a Thinker actually piqued his interest. Contrary to popular belief, young men like Earl wanted to learn. Most of them understood their education deficits and wished for guidance to come along. The one thing about Earl was that he had always enjoyed learning, but never had a real teacher and sadly, most of them never find a good teacher or mentor. So Earl shook off the statement and moved in, and the old man opened him up to things he never knew existed.

One of the first things Olds taught Earl was that life in this world is a thinking man’s game. If you don’t know how to think, you can’t win at it.

Earl had a problem with this. Man! Everybody knows how to think. Thinking comes natural. Even a child knows how to think. He didn’t understand.

Oh yeah! So you know how to think, huh?

Earl thought this was crazy. Man, you trippin’ now, Olds.

The old man pondered a moment. Earl stood in the middle of the cell floor watching him.

Okay! Damn this! Olds finally snapped, angrily slamming the book in his hand onto the bed.

He rose from his bunk, walked over to the cell door, and slammed it shut. BAM! He then walked back to his bunk and sat down. He looked up at Earl and said, Now get the fuck out of my cell!

The demand threw Earl. What?

You heard me. Get your shit and get the fuck out of my cell!

Earl’s first impulse was that the older convict was trying him. Without thinking, he snapped back, Man! Fuck you, old mothafucka. You don’t run this cell. You get your old ass out! Earl was already huffing and puffing. His adrenaline pumping out of control, ready to go to war about something he didn’t even pause to understand.

The old man simply sat there melting back into that calm demeanor he always wore. He just looked at this fool. See! He pointed at Earl’s disgruntled state: his chest inflating, breathing hard, and fist clenching. The boy’s eyes had even turned blood red. I told you, you don’t know how to think. All you know how to do is become emotional. Thinking is a rational event. But you’ve never learned how to be a rational person. Your thinking is always jaded and overrun by your emotions.

Olds had tricked Earl into anger, when in reality nothing he’d done made sense. He had closed the door and told him to get out. Earl’s mind automatically considered only what he had heard and never questioned what he saw.

Olds picked up his newspaper and laid back to read. I knew what you would do before you did it. People who can’t think are predictable. Later on I’ll make you sad and depressed. Tomorrow I’ll make you jump over the top rail. If I had a big-butt woman in here, I’d make you lust. Take the little money you have because you’re nothing but a puppet to your emotions. Puppet! He started reading his paper.

Earl saw the box he was placed in. He tried to defend