Rocko provided them with money and put them onto the game with Samad’s cocaine. The young boys went from catching buses and standing on blocks to driving new whips and running trap houses. They looked at Rocko and Po like they were gods.
Po sat in the backroom of Rocko’s main trap spot running cash through a money machine. One of his youngins had just sold three bricks to a crew in Crenshaw and things were rolling. Po was flooding the streets with uncut cocaine so rapidly that he was making a name for himself. He had always hustled. He had never been legit a day in his life, but this level of the dope game was a different ballpark for him. Things were going good, but he had to find another coke connect; the bricks he had relieved Samad of were dwindling quickly. Soon he would be out of product. He needed to find a plug immediately.
“Yo, Rocko! Send one of the youngins back here,” Po said as he rubber banded the last G-stack. Rocko sat on the front porch along with six youngins; they were all strapped, protecting the territory.
“Yo, run back there and get that from Po,” Rocko commanded the youngest of the crew, Mikey, who quickly stood up from the stoop and entered the house. He went to the backroom and saw Po zipping up the duffle bag. A blunt hung out of the left side of Mikey’s mouth as he approached Po.
“What’s up, big homie?” Mikey asked as he approached Po with an open hand.
“Yo, put that shit out around me,” Po said, referring to the blunt Mikey was smoking.
“Oh, my fault,” Mikey said as he quickly put the blunt out on the bottom of his shoe. He walked over to Po and grabbed the bag from him.
“Put that in the back of my truck,” Po said without making eye contact with Mikey.
Mikey was only seventeen, but he was as ruthless as they came. He didn’t care about life, not his own or anyone else’s. He was a true live wire, and that’s why Rocko had recruited him.
Po usually wouldn’t have been posted in the trap spot like he was that day, but he liked to show his face from time to time to make sure that niggas knew who they were eating off of. If he disappeared too long his presence wouldn’t be felt. Po ruled with an iron fist, and at no point or under no circumstances would he loosen his grip. If any of his workers got sticky fingers, Po would cut them off, literally. Luckily, his crew had remained loyal so far, and, as always, the money was on point.
Po made a mental note to watch Mikey. He noticed the look in the young boy’s eyes when he grabbed the bag full of money. It was the look of greed and envy. Mikey left the room as Po stood to his feet. He was about to pull Rocko’s coattail about his suspicions but the ringing of his cell phone interrupted him.
“Hello?” Po answered.
“I need to speak to Po.” A voice with a heavy Hispanic accent boomed through his receiver, and he immediately picked up on the larceny in the caller’s tone. Whoever it was, this wasn’t a friendly call.
“Yo, who is this?” Po asked as he frowned and looked down at his caller ID . He noticed that the number was blocked.
“This is Castro, and I can be your best friend or I could be your worst enemy,” the man said boldly.
“Yo, how did you get this number, and who the fuck are you again?” Po said, getting more upset with each passing second. “Matter of fact, come see me. I’m not hard to find. Fuck this phone shit.” Po pressed the END button, deading the conversation. He shook his head in disbelief and headed outside to join Rocko and the crew on the porch.
“Yo, I got to get my number changed,” Po said as he stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands together. He looked down the street and saw a couple corner boys standing at each corner and smiled. They all worked for him, and they had the whole strip jumping. The strip was like a drive-thru for drugs, and Po had managed to take it over. Everybody on it worked for him or bought from him. He owned the block.
“Yo,
Po sat in the backroom of Rocko’s main trap spot running cash through a money machine. One of his youngins had just sold three bricks to a crew in Crenshaw and things were rolling. Po was flooding the streets with uncut cocaine so rapidly that he was making a name for himself. He had always hustled. He had never been legit a day in his life, but this level of the dope game was a different ballpark for him. Things were going good, but he had to find another coke connect; the bricks he had relieved Samad of were dwindling quickly. Soon he would be out of product. He needed to find a plug immediately.
“Yo, Rocko! Send one of the youngins back here,” Po said as he rubber banded the last G-stack. Rocko sat on the front porch along with six youngins; they were all strapped, protecting the territory.
“Yo, run back there and get that from Po,” Rocko commanded the youngest of the crew, Mikey, who quickly stood up from the stoop and entered the house. He went to the backroom and saw Po zipping up the duffle bag. A blunt hung out of the left side of Mikey’s mouth as he approached Po.
“What’s up, big homie?” Mikey asked as he approached Po with an open hand.
“Yo, put that shit out around me,” Po said, referring to the blunt Mikey was smoking.
“Oh, my fault,” Mikey said as he quickly put the blunt out on the bottom of his shoe. He walked over to Po and grabbed the bag from him.
“Put that in the back of my truck,” Po said without making eye contact with Mikey.
Mikey was only seventeen, but he was as ruthless as they came. He didn’t care about life, not his own or anyone else’s. He was a true live wire, and that’s why Rocko had recruited him.
Po usually wouldn’t have been posted in the trap spot like he was that day, but he liked to show his face from time to time to make sure that niggas knew who they were eating off of. If he disappeared too long his presence wouldn’t be felt. Po ruled with an iron fist, and at no point or under no circumstances would he loosen his grip. If any of his workers got sticky fingers, Po would cut them off, literally. Luckily, his crew had remained loyal so far, and, as always, the money was on point.
Po made a mental note to watch Mikey. He noticed the look in the young boy’s eyes when he grabbed the bag full of money. It was the look of greed and envy. Mikey left the room as Po stood to his feet. He was about to pull Rocko’s coattail about his suspicions but the ringing of his cell phone interrupted him.
“Hello?” Po answered.
“I need to speak to Po.” A voice with a heavy Hispanic accent boomed through his receiver, and he immediately picked up on the larceny in the caller’s tone. Whoever it was, this wasn’t a friendly call.
“Yo, who is this?” Po asked as he frowned and looked down at his caller ID . He noticed that the number was blocked.
“This is Castro, and I can be your best friend or I could be your worst enemy,” the man said boldly.
“Yo, how did you get this number, and who the fuck are you again?” Po said, getting more upset with each passing second. “Matter of fact, come see me. I’m not hard to find. Fuck this phone shit.” Po pressed the END button, deading the conversation. He shook his head in disbelief and headed outside to join Rocko and the crew on the porch.
“Yo, I got to get my number changed,” Po said as he stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands together. He looked down the street and saw a couple corner boys standing at each corner and smiled. They all worked for him, and they had the whole strip jumping. The strip was like a drive-thru for drugs, and Po had managed to take it over. Everybody on it worked for him or bought from him. He owned the block.
“Yo,
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