Sex in the Hood Saga (53 page)

Trina Michaels sat in a surveillance van, watching the outrageous display of gaudy ghetto flamboyance through the eight tiny video cameras hidden on Rip Masta and his fellow thugs. “Imagine a shootout at a wedding, and we have the exclusive video!” she exclaimed to her cameraman, who would leave the van and go inside for more video after the feds rushed in. “This story gets better by the second!”

In a matter of hours, after Rip Masta would get great video of the sex Olympics, Trina would get the media coup of the decade. The plan was for Federal officers to storm into Babylon and capture Victoria Winston.

The agents were waiting right now in vans parked throughout this riverfront warehouse district where Trina had gotten fucked so good a month ago inside The Playhouse.

“Bye, bye, Miss Queen!” Trina giggled as she watched the live video showing those soldiers calming the frantic wedding crowd. “If you think your day is bad now, just wait!”

This would serve both her and her pet gorilla right for daring to threaten the great investigative journalist Trina Michaels. They would see who'd come out on top.

“This whole story epitomizes the fact that an obsession with sex in the black community is its downfall,” Trina said. “HIV, pregnancy, prostitution—these are all manifestations of the sex addiction that's gripping our inner cities.”

The cameraman, who was adjusting knobs on the wall of sound and editing equipment, crinkled his beige face at her and said, “You're a racist witch. Do you have any idea?”

“As a white male,” she snapped, “you have no right to call
me
racist.”

“You're a racist, snobby bitch whose sexual frustrations give you a mega superiority attitude,” he said. “You wish you were as wild and free as these folks. At least they don't
try
to pretend they're something else. Isn't that what the term ‘ghetto fabulous' is all about?”

“Gunfire!” Trina shrieked. “Look at 'em scramble. Nice wedding, Miss Queen. You'd do Martha Stewart and Emily Post proud today.”

The cameraman put on a headset that blocked his ears; then he turned back to his equipment. “You got serious issues.”

Trina gloated at the screen as The Queen huddled under an arch of pink roses with Knight. “No, I got an award-winning, urban docudrama in the palm of my hands!”

“Babylon, let's fuck!” screamed the thousand-plus people packing The Auditorium for The Games. They were singing along with the Bang Squad's thunderous theme song for this much anticipated annual event.

It was about to get started, and it couldn't get finished soon enough for Knight.

As he stood backstage, just inside the huge, heavy, purple velvet curtains, his insides trembled and his chest squeezed almost as horribly as those tense moments during the lockdown after the wedding. The alarm had gone off because Paul had spotted Li'l Tut on the security cameras, limping out of suite 515 with Dickman's assistance. Then Paul reported to Knight that Li'l Tut was holding his crotch with one hand and pressing a towel to his bleeding cheek with the other.

The Queen had jacked him up good, but Li'l Tut was still alive and lurking somewhere in this building. Big Moe and a team of Barriors who were searching every inch had explicit instructions to call Knight to come and finally put that muthafucka out of his misery when they found him.

Lightning bolts of stress pains shot through Knight's chest at the thought of Li'l Tut cornering The Queen in her wedding suite, trying to shoot her up with the deadly weapon that his dick had become.

Anger and frustration at himself threatened to suck away Knight's breath.

I am a warrior. Manifest Destiny
is
mine.

“Babylon, let's fuck!” The audience thundered with the blasting bass beat as Knight and Jamal stepped onto the stage from opposite sides. At the edge of the shiny pine stage floor, giant glass block letters spelling THE GAMES AT BABYLON glowed cobalt blue. Artificial steam from dry ice cast a sexy-smoky mist around them. The smoke glowed blue and purple, creating an outer-space-fantasy feeling as it wafted over the floor of the stage.

The stage dropped about four feet to the floor, where Barriors stood shoulder to shoulder in ninja black, double strapped with rifles. In front of them stretched a long table where six celebrity judges sat with laptop computers that would record and tally their scores for each event.

Beyond the judges stretched a rolling sea of blingin' urban style and vibrant energy. Every purple velvet seat in the place showcased sexy chicks, thugged-out dudes, glitzy celebrities, huge athletes, famous musicians, and Grammy-winning rappers.

Knight savored a sense of pride at the beauty of his people, as purple spotlights flashed from the stage, highlighting the mass of people. A haze of ganja smoke cast a surreal cloud over the people as they smiled, laughed, drank, and put in orders to waitresses, who strutted up and down the aisles in white Babylon dresses and laced-up gold sandals.

Knight wished folks could do without the intoxicants, but this whole show was about to offer up the most enticing intoxicant of all; booty.

As he took all this in, Knight's mind reeled with images of how he hoped that the Barriors had caught Li'l Tut by now, and how in just a few hours, with this crowd whipped into a frenzy of fucking here and up in The Playroom, he and The Queen would be well on their way to paradise.

His chest squeezed under his black silk Armani suit, under which, he hid four guns.

There's no room for error. If some shit goes down, this
is
our only chance, or we're stuck.

Knight sucked down gulps of air to disarm this barrage of worries. He had to enjoy his last night of this outrageous carnal indulgence that made Babylon what it was. In a few days, he'd be able to redefine carnal indulgence one-on-one, tropical style, with The Queen.

“How e'rybody doin'?” Jamal shouted, launching into his rapper posture, holding the mic and taking long, excited steps from one end of the stage to the other. He stopped in front of three enormous white beds that were draped with mosquito netting suspended by huge, black-and-gold striped masks of Cleopatra and Tutankhamen.

Jamal, wearing baggy blue jeans, black Tims, a white tank top that showcased his caramel-brown muscles, and the heavy gold chain with a Bang Squad medallion, held the mic toward the audience.

“Babylon, let's fuck!” they responded with the music. “Welcome to The
Gaaaaaaa-mes!”
The audience went wild.

Jamal held out a hand toward Knight. “Now some o' y'all was here las' year when the new sheriff blasted back into D-town, guns blazin'!”

The audience roared.

“All y'all know, this the baddest muthafucka eva, rulin' Babylon like a king! Show some love for Knight Johnson!”

Guys in the audience punched their fists in the air and barked. Girls shrieked. Some yanked up their shirts and shook their titties as they cheered.

“Firs', though, y'all congratulate the King o' Babylon for gettin' married today.”

“Babylon, let's fuck!” the audience screamed.

Jamal worked his hips in a sexy love-grind, which made the girls shimmy their titties once more. “Yeah, bet they gon' make love tonight,” Jamal said playfully. “There go The Queen, who's blazin' that shit up the charts!” He pointed up at The Queen in the closest golden box seat balcony overlooking the stage, where she sat with CoCo and Mr. and Mrs. Marx. Honey would join them after the first competition.

Emcee Sexarella, sitting with her girls in the balcony next to The Queen, stood. Tall, curvy, and wearing a transparent gold bodysuit with sequined stars over her nipples and pussy, she screamed, “All hail The Queen, y'all!” Her round, brown face sparkled with gold eye makeup. And her high black ponytail, which was long, straight, and silky-looking, flipped over her shoulder as she shouted, “Give it up 'cause she got what all y'all want—the sexiest dude in Babylon!”

The audience cheered.

The Queen, wearing a pink lace and sequined bustier and pink leather pants that showcased her diamond-studded belly button and tattoos, stood, turned around, and slapped her ass with her left hand, making her wedding ring sparkle in the hazy purple light.

As the audience roared, Ping and Pong stood in ninja black behind her, scanning every direction.

Knight noticed that Rip Masta was turning his whole body at an unnatural angle to look at The Queen.

Keep an eye on Rip Masta,
intuition warned.
Somethin' ain't right with him and his crew.

The gangsta rappers filled the box next to Sexarella and the one directly across from The Queen. Knight also didn't like that they'd sported saggy jeans with denim jackets and baseball caps to the wedding. They needed to show some respect.

Next to them, all wearing suits, sat Red Moreno and his brothers, plus B-Boy and Birdie in another private balcony box. Nearby, Raynard “Dickman” Ingalls sat with two chicks on his lap beside Shar Miller and Leroy Lewis. Dickman was about to get excused to answer some questions, but that muthafucka didn't know it yet.

Knight smiled up at The Queen, who moved in sultry slow motion as she puckered, and blew him a kiss.

“That's love, y'all,” Sexarella shouted, rousing a whole new cheer from the audience, especially the women.

“Wooo-weeeel!” Jamal exclaimed with a deep, sexual tone. “Sorry, y'all, you gon' miss the real Games tonight when he an' his bride make it official.”

The men barked in unison.

“Wait up,” Jamal said, “do any o' y'all who was at the weddin' know ain't no party 'til some shit go down, right?”

The barking men imitated the siren sound.

Knight kept a poker face as those tiny needles of pain surged once more around his pounding heart.

“We outlaws.” Jamal grinned at Knight. “So we gotta set the mood, you know. Show we got some juice if a muthafucka try to show out up in here.”

People in the audience screamed.

“Yeeee-ah!”
Jamal boomed. “Now, let's get this party started wit' the Prettiest Titties contest.”

The audience hooped and hollered as thirty women strutted onto the stage. Standing midway between the blue block letters and the beds, they wore thong bikinis and high-heeled sandals in every color. And each had a small sign on her thigh with a black number and team name. Honey stood with them; she was not a Slut, but as Babylon staff, she had the option of joining the team.

Knight bellowed into the microphone, “Behold the prettiest titties in Babylon from coast to coast!”

Jamal read from a list, announcing the women's names, their home cities, and the enterprises they represented, including teams sponsored by Babylon, Moreno Incorporated, Question Marx Entertainment, Rip Masta, Thuggalicious, Mob Squad Movies, a group of pro-ballers called Slam Dunk, and Emcee Sexarella.

Jamal announced, “Now our distinguished panel of judges will score these titty queens based on size, shape, firmness, nipples, symmetry, and naturalness.”

Knight loved looking at this buffet of female fruits. They were all perfect in their own right; something for every man's taste.

Having sampled every variety and flavor in the fresh market of human temptation, Knight now craved only one flavor. And she was sitting safely up in the balcony, laughing with CoCo as they ogled the contestants. Next to them, Mrs. Marx was sitting on Larry's lap, grinding and presumably, fucking already.

In the next balcony, Moreno and company were watching intently, as were Shar Miller and Leroy Lewis. But Dickman was being escorted out by the B'Amazons for an intensive Q&A about Li'l Tut's whereabouts.

Knight caught Rip Masta's sneaky glance. Something was definitely not right with that cat. Knight looked at his watch, to which he had affixed his phone so that he could discreetly check for text messages on stage. The screen showed only the time and the symbols for a charged battery and satellite function. No word yet from Big Moe about Li'l Tut. Knight used his right hand to type a text message into his phone, strapped to his left wrist, to tell Ping to keep an eye on that muthafucka, Rip Masta. Then he looked once more at The Queen.

She pulled her titties out and rubbed seductive circles over her cinnamon-colored nipples. Then she smiled at him playfully and returned her breasts to her bustier.

Shane threatened to raise the front of his pleated pants. He craved the magical moment, in a few hours, when they would make love and consummate this marriage made in the hedonistic Babylon.

As The Queen focused on the contestants, so did Knight.

What was it about a woman's breasts that made a man lose his mind? Knight loved the squishy-soft, yet warm, firm sensation of The Queen's juicy C-cups. He loved to bury his face in that flawless, creamy skin, breathe in her clean, feminine scent, and lock his lips to the gentle curve on the underside of her breasts.

Jamal announced each woman's name, who then stepped forward.

“This here is Zena Drake of Team Thuggalicious.”

The audience went crazy.

Knight glanced up at The Queen. A smile raised the corners of his mouth.

Her eyes glowed with lust as she studied the beauties on stage, including her favorite girl, Honey. She and CoCo were whispering, pointing to the contestants, smiling.

Knight's phone vibrated. A text message flashed, Got him. Knight nodded to Jamal then slipped backstage.

This time, the king was going to get his hands dirty, to make sure the job was done right.