ain’t know them, but I seen them a few times.”
“I listen to them, when I’m about to do a lick, you know?” Butter pulled out a .380 and cocked the hammer. “It gets my adrenaline going, you know?”
“Man, put that gun away,” Seven said.
“What, nigga? You scared of guns? How the fuck is you from New York and you afraid of guns?”
“Naw; I ain’t afraid of guns—just high, careless niggas with guns.”
Butter put the gun on safety.
“I didn’t know niggas in the South was into that Mobb Deep shit.”
Butter looked confused. He didn’t say anything, he just puffed. Finally he couldn’t control his thoughts or his tongue.
“You know what? Y’all New York niggas always think that we slow down here. I can relate to Mobb Deep.”
“I feel ya,” Seven said. “Calm down, son. I mean, I ain’t mean it like that.” Seven did think southern niggas were slow, once upon a time, before he’d gone to Virginia. He’d met some real gangsters in Virginia. Butter seemed to be through. He’d met him at a temp agency where they both were applying for a job and started talking. After a fifeen-minute conversation he realized they had a lot in common: They both were street niggas and ex-cons.
“So what your all-time favorite gangster movie?”
“Dead Presidents.”
“I expected you to say King of New York, New Jack City, Menace II Society. Never did I expect you to say this.”
Butter inhaled the haze and then coughed. “Yeah, I liked that movie.”
“I liked Paid in Full, myself,” Seven said.
Butter coughed again. “Yeah, that shit was crazy; those mufukas was making a lot of money.”
“You know what my favorite scene was?”
“What?”
“You know the scene where Mitch calls Rico and tells him he has coke and Rico flips and kills his man for the work?”
“Why is that your favorite scene?” Butter asked.
“Because the lesson learned is niggas will kill you for life-changing money. My daddy always told me two things: Your friends will kill you for the right price, and every bad guy likes to think of himself as good,” Seven said.
“Was you and your pops smoking weed when he told you that shit? Sounds like that weed philosophy,” Butter commented.
“That’s real talk, man, from a man who’s doing life in the pen.”
“That’s why you gotta watch everybody.” Butter blew out a huge smoke ring, pulled the gun out, cocked it again, then kissed the barrel. “I’m ’bout hit a lick tonight, man. I needs some money in a major way.”
“I ain’t got shit myself, and that motherfuckin’ baby mama is nagging the shit out of me. My son is two and can’t walk—he needs physical therapy. The bitch ain’t got no insurance.” Seven thought about his boy and other problems he was having. He hardly ever had money. Sometimes he would detail cars for hustlers but he didn’t have any real paper—not like he was used to—hell, before he’d gotten locked up he had thousands of dollars on him at all times. Now it was down to this petty-assed car washing—he felt like a sucker.
Butter sat back on the Impala. Young Jeezy was now coming from the Chevy. “You know what? I thought you were locked up three years ago in Virginia. Right.”
“Yeah.”
“How the fuck did you get her pregnant, anyway? I mean, I was thinking about that shit one night. I was high as fuck, sitting outside, looking up at the sky and shit. You know that’s when you high; you have the strangest thoughts.”
“Now that’s got to be a weed-induced thought.”
“I was on that purple haze and my mind was just racing and shit, and I was thinking of all kinds of stupid shit.”
“Well, Adrian was actually a guard that I met while I was on the inside. I started banging her and the warden got wind of it. Fired her and put me in solitary confinement,” Seven said.
Butter’s eyes grew wide. “Nigga, quit lying.”
“I’m serious. One thing about me, man, is that I’ve never had a problem with the
“I listen to them, when I’m about to do a lick, you know?” Butter pulled out a .380 and cocked the hammer. “It gets my adrenaline going, you know?”
“Man, put that gun away,” Seven said.
“What, nigga? You scared of guns? How the fuck is you from New York and you afraid of guns?”
“Naw; I ain’t afraid of guns—just high, careless niggas with guns.”
Butter put the gun on safety.
“I didn’t know niggas in the South was into that Mobb Deep shit.”
Butter looked confused. He didn’t say anything, he just puffed. Finally he couldn’t control his thoughts or his tongue.
“You know what? Y’all New York niggas always think that we slow down here. I can relate to Mobb Deep.”
“I feel ya,” Seven said. “Calm down, son. I mean, I ain’t mean it like that.” Seven did think southern niggas were slow, once upon a time, before he’d gone to Virginia. He’d met some real gangsters in Virginia. Butter seemed to be through. He’d met him at a temp agency where they both were applying for a job and started talking. After a fifeen-minute conversation he realized they had a lot in common: They both were street niggas and ex-cons.
“So what your all-time favorite gangster movie?”
“Dead Presidents.”
“I expected you to say King of New York, New Jack City, Menace II Society. Never did I expect you to say this.”
Butter inhaled the haze and then coughed. “Yeah, I liked that movie.”
“I liked Paid in Full, myself,” Seven said.
Butter coughed again. “Yeah, that shit was crazy; those mufukas was making a lot of money.”
“You know what my favorite scene was?”
“What?”
“You know the scene where Mitch calls Rico and tells him he has coke and Rico flips and kills his man for the work?”
“Why is that your favorite scene?” Butter asked.
“Because the lesson learned is niggas will kill you for life-changing money. My daddy always told me two things: Your friends will kill you for the right price, and every bad guy likes to think of himself as good,” Seven said.
“Was you and your pops smoking weed when he told you that shit? Sounds like that weed philosophy,” Butter commented.
“That’s real talk, man, from a man who’s doing life in the pen.”
“That’s why you gotta watch everybody.” Butter blew out a huge smoke ring, pulled the gun out, cocked it again, then kissed the barrel. “I’m ’bout hit a lick tonight, man. I needs some money in a major way.”
“I ain’t got shit myself, and that motherfuckin’ baby mama is nagging the shit out of me. My son is two and can’t walk—he needs physical therapy. The bitch ain’t got no insurance.” Seven thought about his boy and other problems he was having. He hardly ever had money. Sometimes he would detail cars for hustlers but he didn’t have any real paper—not like he was used to—hell, before he’d gotten locked up he had thousands of dollars on him at all times. Now it was down to this petty-assed car washing—he felt like a sucker.
Butter sat back on the Impala. Young Jeezy was now coming from the Chevy. “You know what? I thought you were locked up three years ago in Virginia. Right.”
“Yeah.”
“How the fuck did you get her pregnant, anyway? I mean, I was thinking about that shit one night. I was high as fuck, sitting outside, looking up at the sky and shit. You know that’s when you high; you have the strangest thoughts.”
“Now that’s got to be a weed-induced thought.”
“I was on that purple haze and my mind was just racing and shit, and I was thinking of all kinds of stupid shit.”
“Well, Adrian was actually a guard that I met while I was on the inside. I started banging her and the warden got wind of it. Fired her and put me in solitary confinement,” Seven said.
Butter’s eyes grew wide. “Nigga, quit lying.”
“I’m serious. One thing about me, man, is that I’ve never had a problem with the
Similar Books
