Blood Money Bitchez by Myster Solomon

Author:Myster Solomon [Solomon, Myster]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: United States, Urban, Urban Life, African American, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction
Amazon: B00GH7S4RG
Publisher: Sullivan Productions, LLC
Published: 2013-12-02T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

2004 Atlanta, Georgia

“Damn, my nig, that’s two bitches in two states, plus you set it off at home. But I’m talking about the bitches, my nig. You set trippin’, wildin’ son; first Alabama, now in Georgia. We are on a mission, my nig,” Jungle spoke loudly. He was driving down a dark road trying to get to the Atlanta expressway.

“Ayo, son, we are in Stripper Paradise, ATL, home of the baddest strip clubs in the world; Magic City, Pink Pony, and The Cheetah Lounge. They took away Freak-nic. What tha fuck? That shit made me mad, son. I got beside myself and started wildin’ out.”

“On dawgs, I’m the only one that catch you wildin’. I’m tired of seeing that shit; it’s disturbing. Chill nigga or you will fuck up the mission,” Jane barked.

“The Nigga is banned from stripper joints, bitches sellin' pussy, hood chicks, working chics… Fuck that, he is banned from all bitches. Matter of fact, my nig, don’t be looking at Jane like that. I would kill you dead my nig,” Jungle huffed and puffed.

“First of all, I would kill me before I put my motherfucking hands on Jane, son. She my sister, too. I don’t treat her like so, but I love her like so. And nigga what you do with a bitch is your business, what I do with a bitch is my business, ya feel me. Nothin' is going stop this mission; I don’t give a fuck. And I’m still gon' trick with a bitch…” Nimrod scowled.

“Nigga, that’s not tricking. That’s some other shit; like some white boy shit. But it’s mad niggas like you in the hood, but the hood is not hip…”

“Ayo the hook is behind us, turn the sounds down Jane… Fuck!” Jungle chimed as he eyed the review mirror like it was nobody’s business. A brown and white cruiser marked Georgia State Police, tailed behind them with its lights blaring.

Jungle was blaring Notorious B.I.G. “Niggas Bleed.” He was rapping in his B.I.G. voice, “Picture me being scared of a nigga that breathe the same air is me,” as he was turning it down.

Then Jungle switched it up and began to recite the lyrics to a Tupac joint. “You don’t want to fuck with me, got the police busting at me.” As Jungle rapped, Jane kept looking back nervously.

“I think he’s going to pull us over. We fucked! I’m thinking I should stuff my weed up my shit. A bitch can’t be in jail without no weed. Fuck! We screwed my niggas,” Jane said with a sour face.

“Lose this nigga dawg, or dead this nigga,” Nimrod ordered from the back seat.

“I got this my nig. I got a L,” Jungle said and pulled the black 1965 antique Lincoln over to the side of the dirt road. The Black State Trooper approached the car with caution while holding his gun on his side.

He knocked on the smoked window with his fat knuckles. The window rolled down a bit, just enough for eye contact.

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