Prison Throne by T. Styles Page A

longer?”
    She smiled because she was so worn out that she didn’t want to go to dance class either. “Yes, Rasim,” she whispered.
    So he lowered his head and took a nap right next to Snow’s pussy.

CHAPTER 11
    RASIM
     
    It was a gray day and the sun was hiding behind chunky clouds. God was threatening the young hustlers with rain. Rasim, Donald, Brooklyn and Chance were standing against a fence in front of a building within the projects, waiting to serve customers.
    Although the sky would most likely open up and spill water, the day was actually heavy with possibilities. Earlier Donald received a call from Phantom, their boss, and it sounded promising. If shit worked out, he could earn more money, which meant an increase for them all.
    Rasim was ecstatic for Donald because over the six years after the rape charge, he couldn’t seem to catch a break. He was in prison for a year and came out lost and confused. It wasn’t until Sheila was mysteriously found with her neck slit open that Donald was blessed with a bout of good luck.
    For starters, he married a girl who reached out to him on a pen pal site and wrote him frequently while he was locked down. When he came home they had twin girls and everyone said he seemed more relaxed since he was a dad. He didn’t pop off the handle much anymore and all he could talk about was his kids every free second he got. He wanted to be the parent he never had and he did an outstanding job. Everyone surmised that even a wild bear could show love to its cubs.
    If he received the raise from pawn to lieutenant, he would be able to help his wife, who held a government job, with the expenses. He would save his paper, buy his family a nicer home and move them from DC to Maryland.
    “Who fucked you up?” Chanced joked looking at Rasim’s mouth. Snow had thrashed him something fierce and it showed.
    His homies looked at him and awaited an answer.
    “Your mama’s fat ass,” he winked.
    Everyone chuckled.
    “Man, I can’t stay still,” Donald said as he continued to look up the block for Phantom’s car. “Where this nigga at?” He looked at the watch on his arm. He stuffed his hands in his jacket.
    “I don’t know why you worried,” Brooklyn responded as he leaned against the fence, making it squeak. Over the years, he lost a few pounds, which he converted into muscle, and during the summer months he would fake spill some shit on himself to gain a reason to take off his shirt and flex his muscles. The bitches loved it but his homies hated the show. “You got that. You already know.” He slipped his hood over his head.
    “Right, who else gonna get it?” Chance asked as he served a chick he fucked once in high school who was so skinny he almost didn’t recognize her. “Me?” He pointed to himself. “Or that fake ass exhibitionist to your right?”
    “Fuck you,” Brooklyn said.
    “What about me?” Rasim joked as he popped a few sunflower seeds into his mouth.
    “Ain’t nobody hiring your Afghan ass to do nothing but find Saddam Hussein,” Chance responded with a corny joke he was known for. “I know you got his number , don’t you? Tell the truth.”
    Rasim wore a smile but he was sure getting tired of people bringing up Hussein whenever he was around. He did all he could to look like his friends, including stuffing his Kufi in his pocket, wearing baseball caps and hiding most of his face. Most of the time, he looked Indian or black. But at the end of the day they always reminded him about who he really was…Pakistani. And he didn’t know who to hate more because of it. Himself for neglecting his religion and people, or his friends.
    “I’m not trying to hear that shit,” Rasim said as he pretended to busy himself with the phone in his pocket. “How ‘bout you check under your mama’s gut for the nigga.” He paused knowing his parents owned a bakery and Chance’s mother was overweight. “That bitch eat more product than she sell.”
    The young men