or out unless I pressed a button. That bitch was so brilliant. The only things Lace couldn’t fuck with were my dick and my money.
I didn’t know how she kept so much shit in her head, but I was straight happy as a mug she was on my team. That bitch didn’t have a degree, but her ass was a motherfuckin’ genius! But I couldn’t let her know dat shit. Bitches say some ig’nant shit when they think they know more than men. But as long as bitches bled from their pussies they’d always be subservient to a real G like me.
I ain’t no gangsta with hard balls totin’ a grip everywhere I go. I’m a hunter and gatherer of bitches and hos. Straight up. That’s how I get down. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll bust a cap in a motherfucker’s ass in a heartbeat if my life or livelihood is in jeopardy. Like this dead bitch bleeding all over my crystal floor. Right now a nigga needed some help. Straight up. And I knew just the man for the job.
Benito and I went way back to elementary school and shit. Football never was my strong suit. I was too busy running the ladies. That’s what I called them in high school ’cause Moms and Dad, may they rest in peace, didn’t tolerate no cussing in our home.
My parents were old as dirt when they decided to have me. So old that when they attended PTA meetings all my classmates laughed because they thought my grandparents were raising me. There were a couple of generation gaps between us. A solid fifty years. Don’t sag. Comb your hair. Go iron those pants. Wash behind your ears. Brush your teeth before you go to bed. Moms would give me a stern look and I’d correct myself, then say to my father, “Yes, sir, or no, sir.”
On top of all that shit, I had to go to church four days a week. The reason I joined the football team was so I didn’t have to lip-synch at rehearsal. My dad was happy as hell ’cause my games got him out of Bible study on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They had some bitches in the choir who could’ve been on my team, but those holier-than-thou hos were too busy plotting long-term commitments like wanting to marry a G and shit.
I wish my mother woulda dodged that ig’nant-ass drunk driver the way I did those church girls. But Moms never saw him coming. Since the start of my freshman year, all she ever bragged about was my graduation ceremony. Six months prior to my walking across the stage at Valley High in my cap and gown, my mother was killed. That intoxicated motherfucka better be glad he wasn’t on the scene when I arrived or I woulda straight stumped his face in the ground. I know that wouldn’t have brought Moms back, but I sure as hell would’ve felt relief from my grief.
When Moms died Pops just lay on down beside her. Literally my old man had a heart attack at my mom’s funeral and fell on top of the platinum coffin. After my parents’ deaths, the only thing that kept me afloat was my bitches. Since I was an only child, I thought my peeps would’ve left me insurance money to take care of myself for a cool minute. All they had on those old-ass policies was enough to lay their bodies to rest properly. So a G like me, six months out from being legal, had to think quick. I refused to go live with any of my relatives in Arkansas, damn sure nuff wasn’t gonna be homeless, and I had to pay rent to stay in the house I thought my parents owned.
The first thing I did was I applied for credit cards in my parents’ names, glad as a mug they paid their bills on time. Then I threw out all that loud yellow, white, and blue plaid furniture that was wrapped in plastic that stuck to my ass whenever I wore shorts. With a twenty-five-thousand-dollar credit limit, I hooked up the place like a serious bachelor’s pad with flat screens, stereos, new carpet, freshly painted white walls, and pillow-top king-sized mattresses so I didn’t have to hear no sqeakin’ ’n shit, and a state-of-the-art kitchen for my bitches to cook for those greedy-ass ballers. I traded in
I didn’t know how she kept so much shit in her head, but I was straight happy as a mug she was on my team. That bitch didn’t have a degree, but her ass was a motherfuckin’ genius! But I couldn’t let her know dat shit. Bitches say some ig’nant shit when they think they know more than men. But as long as bitches bled from their pussies they’d always be subservient to a real G like me.
I ain’t no gangsta with hard balls totin’ a grip everywhere I go. I’m a hunter and gatherer of bitches and hos. Straight up. That’s how I get down. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll bust a cap in a motherfucker’s ass in a heartbeat if my life or livelihood is in jeopardy. Like this dead bitch bleeding all over my crystal floor. Right now a nigga needed some help. Straight up. And I knew just the man for the job.
Benito and I went way back to elementary school and shit. Football never was my strong suit. I was too busy running the ladies. That’s what I called them in high school ’cause Moms and Dad, may they rest in peace, didn’t tolerate no cussing in our home.
My parents were old as dirt when they decided to have me. So old that when they attended PTA meetings all my classmates laughed because they thought my grandparents were raising me. There were a couple of generation gaps between us. A solid fifty years. Don’t sag. Comb your hair. Go iron those pants. Wash behind your ears. Brush your teeth before you go to bed. Moms would give me a stern look and I’d correct myself, then say to my father, “Yes, sir, or no, sir.”
On top of all that shit, I had to go to church four days a week. The reason I joined the football team was so I didn’t have to lip-synch at rehearsal. My dad was happy as hell ’cause my games got him out of Bible study on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They had some bitches in the choir who could’ve been on my team, but those holier-than-thou hos were too busy plotting long-term commitments like wanting to marry a G and shit.
I wish my mother woulda dodged that ig’nant-ass drunk driver the way I did those church girls. But Moms never saw him coming. Since the start of my freshman year, all she ever bragged about was my graduation ceremony. Six months prior to my walking across the stage at Valley High in my cap and gown, my mother was killed. That intoxicated motherfucka better be glad he wasn’t on the scene when I arrived or I woulda straight stumped his face in the ground. I know that wouldn’t have brought Moms back, but I sure as hell would’ve felt relief from my grief.
When Moms died Pops just lay on down beside her. Literally my old man had a heart attack at my mom’s funeral and fell on top of the platinum coffin. After my parents’ deaths, the only thing that kept me afloat was my bitches. Since I was an only child, I thought my peeps would’ve left me insurance money to take care of myself for a cool minute. All they had on those old-ass policies was enough to lay their bodies to rest properly. So a G like me, six months out from being legal, had to think quick. I refused to go live with any of my relatives in Arkansas, damn sure nuff wasn’t gonna be homeless, and I had to pay rent to stay in the house I thought my parents owned.
The first thing I did was I applied for credit cards in my parents’ names, glad as a mug they paid their bills on time. Then I threw out all that loud yellow, white, and blue plaid furniture that was wrapped in plastic that stuck to my ass whenever I wore shorts. With a twenty-five-thousand-dollar credit limit, I hooked up the place like a serious bachelor’s pad with flat screens, stereos, new carpet, freshly painted white walls, and pillow-top king-sized mattresses so I didn’t have to hear no sqeakin’ ’n shit, and a state-of-the-art kitchen for my bitches to cook for those greedy-ass ballers. I traded in
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