Prison Throne by T. Styles Page B

spent another ten minutes laughing and disrespecting each other’s mothers until Donald said, “Rasim, go get me some Hennessy from up the street. My nerves gonna be bad unless I get a drink.”
    “Aight,” he said as he zipped his jacket.
    “I’m going with him,” Brooklyn said.
    “I don’t give a fuck, nigga,” Donald responded.
    He gave Rasim the money and he and Brooklyn bopped up the street to the liquor store. Neighborhood rock stars since day one, they waved at the locals on the way to their destination. They talked about their girlfriends and how Rasim got caught with Selena again and how he was really done with her this time. Brooklyn heard all the shit before but he was reminded of something when he heard Selena’s name.
    “Hey, you ever see her kid?”
    Rasim frowned. “Naw, why you ask that?”
    “Because I swear he looks slam like you, slim.”
    Rasim chuckled as they dipped into the liquor store and grabbed the Hennessey. “Yeah, aight. How he gonna look like me when she married that nigga? How you know it ain’t his kid?”
    “Because lil youngin’ ‘bout five or six. And if I recall, that’s the same amount of years it’s been since you first fucked Selena.” He pointed a stiff finger into the center of Rasim’s chest. “Do the math, homie.” He stepped off and proceeded to the Funyuns aisle.
    Rasim brushed him off because he knew it wasn’t his kid. Selena said she had a child with her husband. He didn’t want one but if he was a father, he would deal with it as best he could.
    After buying the liquor, a large cup and a soda they were a block away from where they perched but before reaching Donald and Chance, Rasim said, “Hold this for a second.” He gave him the bag.
    Always the jokester, Rasim poured all of the Hennessey into the cup and then poured the soda into the Hennessey bottle. Since his gag required three-part harmony, he poured all of the Hennessey from the cup into the soda bottle.
    “I can’t believe you fucking up that nigga’s bottle,” Brooklyn said witnessing the ignorance.
    “I ain’t fucking it up,” Rasim glowered. “It’s in here.” He raised the soda bottle.
    “Yeah, but you got soda remnants mixed with his sauce and shit. You fucking up the flavor.”
    Rasim waved him off and tossed the cup away.
    “Alright, but when Donald cave your chest cavity in, don’t come crying to me.”
    The friends headed back to the pumping area and Rasim handed Donald the soda dressed in a Hennessey bottle just as Phantom’s black Mercedes caressed the block.
    Whenever he arrived, everybody, if they were fucking around, stopped. Everyone fell in line, along with Donald, Phantom was Rasim’s other idol. When he parked he rolled down the window and looked at Donald. His five o’clock shadow sparkled like black diamonds. And the gold chain he donned fell against his black sweater.
    He motioned with his head for Donald to come and Donald moved without hesitation.
    Donald slipped inside of the Benz and melted into the black leather seat. And from the half rolled down window, Rasim and the fellas could see it all. It was as if they were watching an episode of The Sopranos .
    As Donald got comfortable, Phantom observed the young hustler before saying a word. Although he was certain that Donald had enough gall, confidence and spirit necessary to run the block, he wanted to steal a few more moments to make sure he hadn’t missed a thing. After he swept over him with prying eyes and was certain his decision to promote him was solid, he leaned back in his seat and the leather moaned. “What’s in the bag?”
    Donald pointed at it and said, “Oh this? The brown.”
    “You not gonna offer me a cup?”
    Donald grinned and said, “Phantom, you can have anything you want. That’s on my life.”
    Luckily for Donald, Phantom wasn’t into niggas because he’d likely be on all fours with an ass full of dick after that declaration.
    As Rasim stole peeks into the Benz in lieu