Street Divas (21 page)

I
can't believe my life has come to this. Python has pulled me off my throne on Shotgun Row, and he's hidden me in this piece-of-shit warehouse in West Memphis, Arkansas. And to add insult to injury, I'm in this bitch taking care of his and Melanie's wet stain, Christopher.

Maybe
I could put up with this shit better if I had at least gotten my fuckin' ring by now. But for two months all I've gotten from Python are sweet words and a wet ass. Sure. We're in the middle of a gang war and shit. Blasting crabby-ass Vice Lords is part of the fucking job. It certainly ain't no reason to be reneging on promises.

“Word is bond, my ass,” I mumble under my breath while I roll a fat joint. Shit, I need something to relax me before I snap, crackle, and pop up in this bitch. After I put some fire to the end of this herb and fill up my lungs, my body chills the fuck out, but my mind is still tripping on this bullshit. How can it not? There's so much of it piled all around me.

All this shit is my fault. This is what the fuck I get for believing his lying, snake-wannabe ass. Time and time again, I put my shit on the line, proving how down I am, and this is what the fuck I get? It's time to stick a fork in this shit because I'm done. So done. I ain't going to stay out here in Bum-Fuck Egypt forever. What the fuck is a queen without her throne? And my fucking seat is in the heart of Shotgun Row. I ain't scared of those crabby-ass hooks or Captain Johnson and his tarnished badge. I wish they would bring their asses back down Shotgun Row. I got something for them—especially that young nigga Profit. Whatever deal his ass made with the devil is only fucking temporary. Believe that.

This inconvenient war is getting to Python, too. His ass ain't sleeping right—well, at least when he's in my bed. Now that I think about it, he ain't been doing much of shit in that muthafucka. So if I'm not fucking a big pussy monster like his ass, then that means Yolanda's retarded ass is still in the mix. Fuck. Who am I kidding? It could be any number of bold bitches in the set, smiling in my face while tossing pussy at my man like candy.

That's how these bitches roll.

Not so long ago, I was one of them, waiting for his ex-wifey, Shariffa, to fuck up and lose her spot. I didn't have long to wait either—six months tops. Python caught her ass creeping, too. He murked her nigga with so many bullets that he
and
his car looked like Swiss cheese on the side of the road.

Shariffa ended up in the hospital, fucked up, but at least her ass is still breathing. Most Queen Gs, my ass included, believe that she should consider herself lucky. Bones heal and oxygen is more valuable than gold any damn day of the week. Last I heard, Shariffa slithered her ass on over to the Crips. She's at the bottom of the pile, making pennies on the dollar, muling shit in and out of the pen. Course, the Crips ain't the pickiest of muthafuckas.
Muthafuckas don't
't
come to the Crips. The Crips come to you
, they like to brag. Sheeeiiit. Don't believe the hype. They recruit more crackheads than soldiers, and that's keeping it real.

Before the escalation in this current gang war, I thought of Shariffa as some silly bitch who got caught slipping. I mean, who the fuck would risk losing all the fucking power and respect that came with being Python's main bitch for some dusty nigga who ain't about shit?

But now? My ass is starting to see shit from a whole new perspective. The longer I'm with Python, the lonelier I get. If he ain't out hustlin' up some paper, he's out blastin', and if he ain't doing either one of those two things, he's out choking and fucking a new bitch.
Muthafucka.

Another thing me and Shariffa have in common is also starting to fuck with me: no fuckin' babies. No babies make it easier for his ass to bounce. I'm convinced of that shit.

But with Melanie? Frankly, I can't tell if he's more upset that he didn't earth Fat Ace when he had a chance or if he's missing that double-crossing pig he's been fucking since high school. Oh, this nigga thinks I don't know, but I see his ass walking around, staring at Christopher's ugly future mug shot while about to trip over his damn bottom lip. That muthafucka was stuck on that pig.

Real stuck.

That shit has me fucked the hell up.

The last time I caught his ass in a daze, I took him to the bedroom and gave the nigga my best Super Bowl head game. That nigga couldn't stay hard for more than three minutes. THREE FUCKING MINUTES. That shit ain't never happened. EVER.

My main question now is, Where is this nigga getting his dick wet? Which bitch needs to be put down so I can get what's coming to me—my
fucking
ring.

Jacki-O's “Sleeping with the Enemy” blasts from my cell phone, jarring me from my mental argument. When I look at the caller ID, I feel another nerve snap, but I answer it, sounding cool as fuck. “Yo, bitch. Whassup?”

Kookie ignores my rude ass with a snicker. “Gurl, you do not sound like a happy camper.”

“You don't fucking say,” I respond flatly. Though I'd love to sit here and spill out all my problems, I know the minute I end the call this mouthy bitch will be on three-way putting my business on blast all up and down Shotgun Row.

Two months ago, Kookie was my main bitch. Now I'm starting to hear shit that's fucking bothering me. While Python and I are hustling outside our zone, he's put more and more responsibility on his right-hand man McGriff. With his ass looking like he's in charge of shit on ground zero, Kookie has been bossing and flossing like her ass is the new head of the Queen Gs.

Oh, sure, she calls every day and tells me how much Shotgun Row hasn't been the same since we've rolled out—
temporarily.
Other bitches talk, dropping dime on my girl. She and McGriff are laughing it up and partying with a bunch of governors, overseers, and enforcers. All that shit is highly suspect. Yet, when I bring this shit to Python's attention, he tells me that McGriff is doing this with his sanction. He wants the set to still feel that everything is everything, especially after Treasure and Mario were found fucked the hell up out behind the Pink Monkey. Niggas are jumpy as hell.

Right now, Python and McGriff ain't having the same ease at picking off Fat Ace's top soldiers. Those muthafuckas got ghost real quick. At most, we've been able to take out a few corner boys—nothing major. Suddenly these muthafuckas are strategic with their shit. Hitting us with laser precision instead of coming at us whole hog. That shit ain't like Fat Ace. Makes me think that Lucifer bitch has taken over their soldiers and playing this shit like a master chess game.

Personally, I know it had to be a couple of bitches who got to Treasure and Mario—probably some onion-ass Flowers sent in to lure their always-horny asses out back with the promise of some pussy. Everybody knows that niggas can't think straight when their dicks are hard. Shit. Nobody but a bitch would cut off a nigga's dick, and that's keeping it one hundred.

Regardless of all of that, I can't believe that Python is allowing his boy to play head nigga in charge. Once muthafuckas get a taste of power, they can't scrub that shit out of their mouths. Next thing you know, niggas be plotting and scheming to move your ass out of the way—if not, their bitches certainly are.

“LeShelle!”

“Huh?”

“Girl, is you even paying attention to me?”

“Fuck. Not if I can help it.” I suck in another dose of this good weed while Kookie laughs, thinking my ass is just being funny instead of being for real.

“I was asking if your ass is going to Pit Bull's birthday party? I've contacted the high-ranking Queen Gs, and so far everybody is coming.”

“
You
contacted them?”

“Girl, I knew your ass was stressed the fuck out dealing with that pig's bastard, so I figured I'd step in and help a bitch out.” She laughs, but that shit sounds phony as fuck.

I blow out a huge smoke cloud while envisioning pistol-whipping this heifer all the way back into her momma's pussy. Instead of raging, I kick this shit to her real calm. “Kookie, I'm going to tell you this one time.” I pull in another toke. “You listening?”

“Now, LeShelle, don't get upset.”

“Stop bumping yo gums and listen,” I tell her, stopping her before she buries me in bullshit. “You need to stay the fuck in your lane. I know what you're doing. Back the fuck up.”

Silence hangs over the line while my shit either sinks in or she gets busy thinking up some countermaneuver to convince me that my ass is being paranoid.

“All right, LeShelle, but I think you're tripping. I was trying to help you out,” she insists.

My eyes damn near get stuck at the back of my head.
Silly bitch.
“So where the fuck is this party gonna be?” I sit on the edge of my unmade bed.

“Passions, gurl. We gonna toss it up big. I got these new Gucci boots I copped out at Saddle Creek.”

“Damn, Kookie. Since I've been gone, you keep your ass up in the mall.”

“Shit. I've needed some new clothes for a minute.”

“Yeah, but since when did your ass become a label ho?”

Kookie huffs.

“What? You got something to say? Say it.” I'm ready to jump in her ass.

“Nah-uh. 'Cause you ain't in the mood to hear it.”

“I can handle anything that you toss my way.” I cobra-neck while clutching the phone.

“Fine. I want to know if Python is breaking yo ass off any fucking dick, 'cause you're seriously tripping, and I'm getting tired of having to watch every muthafuckin' word I say, because you always at the ready to dig in someone's ass. It's getting ridiculous. It ain't my fault that you're in this mess. You're the one who wanted to play Dirty Harry and dump a clip of ammo into the Vice Lord's chief's
brother.
What the hell did you think was going to happen? Or were you so high off the testosterone that your imaginary balls were giving you that you didn't think the whole thing through?”

“Look. I ain't scared of those Vice Lord slobs,” I snap. “In fact, bet your ass I'm going to be at that fucking party with my Glock cocked and my imaginary balls sagging real low.”

“What about Python?”

“He can suck on these nuts 'cause I'ma be out. Watch.”

“W
e found that muthafucka,” Bishop hisses through my phone. I lower the gat I have pressed up against the head of this Gangsta Disciple nigga, Killa Kyle, and step back so I can focus better on what my brother is saying. “Come again.”

“You heard me. We got his ass.”

My heart nearly leaps out of the center of my chest, and I turn and smile at this barely breathing nigga that Droopy and Monk are holding up. “We got him.”

My people smile back at me while Killa Kyle's knees fold. He knows what time it is. He ain't ever gonna leave these woods alive now. “Where you at?” I ask, giving this nigga my back.

“Out here at the old Goodson Construction building. Looks like your snitch came through on our finding and following that yellow pregnant bitch Yolanda around. Her ass finally led us straight to him. Though it looks like there is no love lost between the two. Nigga had his boys drag her kicking and screaming across the muthafuckin' parking lot like she was last year's trash.” He laughs.

“TMI. I don't need to know all that shit.” I check to make sure that I have a few clips in my pocket.

“Yo, ease up. It's been a fuckin' while since I've been able to watch my stories, so this nigga's ghetto bullshit drama is going to have to tide me over.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, whatever, pussy-punk muthafucka.”

“A'ight. You gonna get tired of talking out the side of your neck at me. One of these days your ass is gonna—Yo, what the hell is this?”

There is a brief pause over the line, and my brows dip with concern. “Talk to me. What is it?”

“Damn, Willow. I think this nigga's connect is rolling through. There's like an army of SUVs pulling up to this muthafucka right now. Hold up. Yeah—gotta be. I don't think that there's this many Latinos running across the border right now.”

“They moving weight?” Jacking this muthafucka's trafficked shit could make this a really damn good day.

“They're hauling something, baby girl. What you want us to do?”

I make the mental calculation on how fast we can get out our own troops to that spot, but then my excitement starts dwindling. “Shit.”

“What?” Bishop barks.

“Sit on that nigga. We don't know what's going down, and ain't no way we can get the muscle and firepower we need to get at him and his crew on such short notice. I got niggas spread out.”

Bishop swears into the phone. “C'mon, Willow. We may not get an opportunity like this again. I say we go at this nigga with everything we got
NOW
!”

If this was any other nigga, he would've been cussed the fuck out, but instead I draw in a deep breath and let my silence do the talking for me.

“Fine. Whatever,” Bishop says. “We'll sit out here until we hear word back from you,
boss.
”

He really can try my nerves sometimes. “Don't lose him. I'm gonna wrap this shit I got going here and I'll holler back at you.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He disconnects the call.

I pull the phone away from my face and stare at it. Sure enough, he hung up on my ass. “I swear to God . . . any other nigga.” I pocket the phone and turn back to this piece of trash who I've spent the last half hour carving up. I would say he's been pissing on himself, but after I'd relieved him of his impressively big cock, I'd say that he was bleeding more than he was pissing.

Smiling, I trudge back over to him and my boys.

“We rolling out?” Tombstone asks.

“In a sec.” I cock my head at this Killa Kyle. “I got to tell you. I don't think that you're going to make it.”

Tombstone and Monk shrug and bob their heads in agreement.

Killa Kyle starts panting real hard, and given the wild look in his eyes, I'm guessing that his ass in about to go into shock. But this nigga glares over at me. “I'm not fuckin' scared of you, bitch.” Blood spews from his busted lips.

I level my unimpressed gaze on him. “If I had a nickel for every time one of you dying muthafuckas told me that, I'd be a rich bitch right now.”

Killa Kyle gulps down a mouthful of blood while desperately trying to hold on to his courage. “I'm not . . . I'm not . . .”

I cock my head again and then take aim at his left kneecap. “Are you the nigga who dumped that clip into my boy Profit?”

“F-fuck you.”

POW!
The nigga's kneecap explodes.

“Uuuuuugh!”

“I asked you a question,” I say, taking aim at his other knee. “Are you the one who shot up our man? Yes or no?”

Killa Kyla pants, sounding like a freight train, but he clearly is determined to go out of this world a soldier.

I'm interested to see if he makes it.
POW!

“Fuuuuuuccckk!”

My boys let him drop to the ground.

“No dick, no knees—this interrogation is not going well for you,” I state the obvious.

Tears pour out of this muthafucka's eyes, but still there's no whining and begging.

Impressive.
I take aim at his left arm.

POW!

Right arm.

POW!

“Aaaaarrrgh!”

While Killa Kyle rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, I step over him so that my legs are planted on both sides of his hips, and I block any view of heaven that he may be thinking of.

“Now, the way I see things, Kyle, I can either let you lie here and let nature take its course—which could take hours—
or
I can help you out and plant this next bullet right here in the center of your skull. And like that”—I snap my fingers—“it will all be over with.” I lock gazes with him. “Would you like that? Would you like for me to take all your pain away?”

More tears leak from the corners of his eyes, but he stares at the barrel of my gun like it's a long-lost lover. “Please,” he finally begs.

“Please what?”

He tries to swallow but chokes on his own blood for a few seconds. “Please,” he gasps. “Shoot . . . shoot me.”

“Ah. So you do want the easy way out.” I lift one foot and press it into his bullet-wounded arm. His pain-filled roar is like music to my ears. After he empties the air out of his lungs, he tries to squirm away. “I'm still waiting for an answer. Tell me what I want to know and I'll help you out.”

“Okay . . . okay,” he pants. “I'll tell you.”

I remove my foot but aim my gat at the center of his head. “Were you the trigger man?”

He shakes his head.

“But you were there,” I say.

“I was doing what I was told. That's all.” He keeps chugging in air while staring at my gun.

“Were you told to rape that little girl, too?”

He swallows hard while guilt covers his face.

I adjust my aim and plant a bullet in each of his shoulders.

POW! POW!

“Arrrrgh. Fuuuuuck.”

“We can be at this all afternoon if you want. Me and my niggas ain't got nothing but time.”

Killa Kyle's face twists with pain while he continues to choke and gag on his own blood.

“If you want”—I reach over to my left hip and ease my bloody Browning hunting knife out of its leather sheath—“I can go back to lopping off some more body parts. Your choice.”

“Le-LeShelle,” he spits. “LeShelle shot your boy.”

My eyes narrow. “LeShelle . . . as in LeShelle Murphy—Ta'Shara's own sister?”

Killa Kyle bobs his head. “She ordered the sex-in.” He huffs harder as more blood streams out of the corner of his mouth. “And to make sure that her sister never hooked up with her lil boyfriend again, she . . . she dumped that clip in that nigga.”

I cock my head.

“Swear to God,” he adds before his gaze starts shifting between the gat and the knife.

Why would this nigga lie?

“P-please,” he begs.

“Where are they?”

“I . . . I don't know. I s-swear to God I don't know where they hiding out. P-please.”

Making my decision, I swoop down and slice open his neck. “Sorry. I lied.” I watch in great satisfaction as his eyes bulge with surprise. The gurgling and choking is an added bonus. This shit goes on for a solid minute before death claims the light in his eyes. That part never ceases to fascinate me.

“You think that nigga was telling the truth?” Droopy asks. “Her own sister?”

I mull the question over in my mind, and I have to admit that as crazy as that shit sounds, it sort of fits with all I've heard about Python's lil wifey. “I guess the only way to find out is to ask her ass.”