ANYTHING 4 PROFIT (ANYTHING FOR PROFIT) (2 page)

  She was sitting there in a drug induced haze when two men entered the small room.  In the room, there was nothing more than an old dresser and a filthy mattress, soiled from numerous men’s semen, sweat, and other bodily fluids. The two men began to aggressively fondle Gloria, grabbing at her firm ass and tits.  One of them leered at her, and said, “You gon’ let us get some of that good pussy, gurl? Huh?”                                                                                                                                         

         Glo was nervous, but the crack whore in her said, “How much y’all gon’ pay me?”

        “Bitch, fuck that,” the shorter one slurred, with the scent of liquor loud on his breath.  He pulled out a 6 inch blade, and said, “This one’s gon’ be on the house.”  He then grabbed Gloria by the neck, and threw her down on the dirty mattress.                                                                                                        

             “You know what time it is,” said the taller, lighter skinned hound. “Either you gon’ fuck, or you gon’ die. It’s yo’ choice, bitch.  What’s up?”

Filled with fear, Gloria closed her eyes, opened her legs, and let the men have their way with her. They violated her young body every way they knew how.  One of them choked her hard as hell while he pounded her, until she blacked out. 

              When she finally opened her eyes, the men were gone.  They left her lying in a pool of sticky semen and blood.  She gathered what little strength she had left, and attempted to walk to the bathroom. Disoriented and weak, she staggered down the hallway. Before she could reach there, her legs gave out and her mind went blank again. Gloria fell to the dirty, hard and splintered wooden floor.  She lay there naked and unconscious for hours.                                                                                                                                          

              Nine months later, Gloria gave birth to twins.  They were a little underweight because she had continued getting high throughout her pregnancy, but they were beautiful. She named the girl Tameka, and the boy she named Anthony. When asked who their father was, Gloria hung her head in shame. The nurse didn’t see the silent tears she shed.  The date was March 9
^th
, 1986. That was how Meka and Ant-D got here.

Fast forward twenty years…

Chapter 1

The Ville…August, 2006

              A woman’s voice came blaring from a cheap television that was bolted down to a dilapidated nightstand.  “
Tonight on the Fox 10 0’clock news… Police have found an unidentified body brutally murdered in the Kennedy Park section of Greenville. The body has suffered numerous gunshot wounds to the face and chest areas. Authorities believe that this murder was the result of a drug transaction gone bad. If you have any information pertaining to this crime, please call 1-800-crimestoppers, or the Greenville county sheriff’s office. More details to follow…”

              “A yo’ Ant, did you see that nigga’s muh’fuckin’ face when I pulled the pistol on his monkey ass, my nigga!?” asked Mike animatedly.  He and Ant sat in a low-budget motel room, reliving the murderous events that they were responsible for.  They had committed the crimes just hours earlier.

              “Man, that nigga’s eyes got bigger than a deer’s caught in the headlights of an 18 wheeler!” laughed Ant D.                                                                                     

             “But do you think he shit on his self befo’, or after I peeled his shit back?” asked Mike jokingly.                                                                                             

              “Probably befo’, dog. Er’body know Tremone was more pussy than four dykes havin’ an orgy. I’m surprised that old Sideshow Bob, Homey the Clown ass nigga was even out here tryna hustle, dog.”     

             “You ain’t even bullshittin’. That was the easiest, quickest 30 G’s I ever done made in my fuckin’ life, my nigga.”                                                                                                                            

              “Damn right,” Ant D said. “Thirty for you, thirty for me.”                                                                                

              “Man, look here, over the past few months we done licked muh’fuckas for ‘bout 250 grand…”

              “At least!” yelled Ant D.

              “That’s my whole point though, my nigga. We just blowin’ that shit, homey. We ain’t doin’ shit wit’ it. We robbin’ muh’fuckas, killin’ niggas, riskin’ doin’ a fuckin’ bid, and then we just blow that shit, and do it again! Man, we gotta slow down, and start tryna make this money do gymnastics for
us
! We gotta get it, then figure out how we gon’ wash it without them boys gettin’ on our ass. I ain’t tryna go in and do no mo’ time. You know them alphabet boys like flies on shit once they figure they got a case.”                                                                                                      

             “Maaaaaan, don’t even stress that shit. I’m already on it,” said Ant D. “You remember my Uncle Bug, right?”  

             “Yeah,” Mike chuckled. “I remember that ugly ass mothafucka’. Man, they gave that nigga the right name too. Dude look like a fuckin bug for real! Big, black, ugly ass muh’fucka! I know he be paying for pussy, ‘cause I swear, that’s ‘bout the only way he gon’ get his dick wet...except fo’ when he wash. And shiiiiiit, the way that nigga be smellin’, I ain’t even sho’ he do that,” Mike said, cracking up.

             “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But all bullshit aside tho’, peep game, Mike.  He was tellin’ me ‘bout this building that’s on sale in the Burg for ‘bout 400 G’s. He said it used to be a storage facility, but that shit shut down. All we gotta do is buy it, fix it up, and open up our own shit. You always talkin’ ‘bout having your own strip club and shit, right? Well this the spot, my nigga. Now yo’ ass can stop talkin’ ‘bout it, and start being ‘bout it and make that shit happen. We can put our paper through the fuckin’ cleaners, and at the same time, have the baddest bitches in the south workin’ at our club!” said Ant D enthusiastically. “Nigga, we’ll be the youngest, flyest niggas in the Upstate with our own spot… gettin’ it!!” he yelled excitedly.                                                         

              “That sound like a muh’fuckin’ plan,” Mike stated. “But as of right now, we only got ‘bout 100 saved up to play with. We gon’ need at least a good 8 or 900 to make that shit pop like its ‘posed to. So you know what that means.”

“Mo’ money, Mo’ murder,” they said in unison.  The two trigger happy pals both laughed.  They were young, fearless, and foolish, so they both thought they were invincible.                                                                                                    

          “Ant D, go ‘head and stop bullshittin’.  Roll up some of that sticky we got from Trap,” Mike said passing Ant D a clear plastic baggy filled with big buds of purple haze.                                         

             “Yeah, I better roll this shit, ‘cause I swear, yo’ non-rollin’ ass will have that shit fallin’ apart.  Weed fallin’ all out the blunt, and all type of shit!” Ant D took a bud out, broke it down, and rolled a blunt that looked like it was about 9 months pregnant.  He grabbed a lighter off the dresser, lit the blunt, and took a deep pull, savoring the way the smoke filled his lungs.                               

             “Take two and pass, nigga. You already know what it is,” said Mike.

  Ant D passed the blunt to Mike, already beginning to feel a little buzz from the potent, exotic marijuana they were smoking. The pungent aroma of the “exotic” permeated the small motel room they were in. To avoid some nosey ass, potential do-gooder walking by and smelling the smoke, and possibly calling the law, Mike got a towel from the bathroom.  He wet it, and placed it at the crack of the bottom of the door.  That would help keep the smell from escaping.  That was a little trick he had learned during one of his numerous stints in The Department of Juvenile Justice.

              The Camelot, the motel they were holed up in counting their blood money, was nothing but a hole in a wall.  It was owned by some immigrant Indians who were exploiting the poor economic conditions that black people were plagued with in the south, getting rich off their sweat and blood. “The Lot” was where the hoes came to get fucked, and the heads came to get high.  Dope boys went there to trap, and the jack boys came to catch a lick.  

              So when they heard a woman outside screaming at the top of her lungs for the police, Mike and Ant D looked at each other.  They were thinking the same thing.  It was time to get the fuck outta Dodge!                                                                              

             “Let’s get light, Ant D. Ain’t no point tryna explain to the police what we doin’ in here with 60 stacks of cash money.”                                                                        

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I was thinkin’ the same thang, my nigga.”                                                            

            They both grabbed what few belongings they had, and hurried outside to Mike’s candy painted, money green, box Chevy Caprice.  It was sitting high on 26 inch chrome Giovanna rims, wrapped in low profile Pirelli tires. Mike started the car up and put some old shit from Tip’s “Urban Legend” album on blast. 

“
Ride wit me nigga, let me show you where we kick it at - Where hustlers get them chickens at and T.i.p be chillin’ at
…”

    
As Mike was pulling out of the parking lot he looked in the rearview mirror, only to see the blue lights of a Greenville County police car flashing behind them, signaling for him to pull over.

              Without even so much as a second thought, Mike slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Pirelli tires screamed and left a trail of burnt rubber on the asphalt. Ant D, who had been in the passenger seat bobbing his head along to the beat, was forcefully thrown back in his seat.  The Chevy propelled down the road, and the chase was on.

              “What the fuck…” Before Ant D could finish his statement, Mike ran a series of red lights, and swerved onto a side road.  The dark blue police cruiser followed close behind, with its sirens blaring.

              “Man, these pussy muh’fuckas is on our ass,” yelled Mike.  He gripped the steering wheel and sped through the night, attempting to shake the county car behind them.

              “Damn!  Boy, I swear to God I ain’t tryna see that county tonight, nigga! I can’t go to jail, my mama cookin’ chicken for dinner,” Ant joked.  But at the same time, he was as serious as cancer. He looked in the rearview mirror.

              “Nigga, I got this here.” Mike laughed, temporarily taking his eyes off the road.

               “Oooooooh shit!!! Nigga, watch out!” Ant was scared to death, his hands fiercely gripping the dashboard.

               Mike turned his attention back to the road, and swerved to the right just in time to avoid a head on collision with an oncoming car in the other lane. He said, “Damn, that was close! Nigga, it sounded like you was ‘bout to shit on yo’self.”  He was fucking with Ant.  That was a close brush with death, so nervous beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead too.

              “Nigga, fuck you! Just drive this muh’fucka!”

              By now they had reached speeds in excess of 70 mph. And on those small unpaved back roads, one wrong move could be fatal. “Goddamn, this muh’fucka is still on our ass!” said Mike, as he continued to swerve recklessly in and out of lanes.  He was hoping that the cop would lose heart, and give up on the chase.  But no such luck.

              “Mike, look here.  Just get us to that lil’ cut over there by Lakeside Park, and we’ll jump out and split-up on his monkey ass. Then we can meet up at Neesy’s house over there in Rockvale. Ain’t no way that cracker gon’ be able to catch us, good as we know them woods over there.”