Authors: Leo Sullivan
By Leo L. Sullivan
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents
are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real
events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Sullivan Productions, LLC
2008 by Leo Sullivan
Library of Congress Control Number:
Sullivan Productions, LLC
P.O. Box 1342
Decatur, GA 30031-1342
First, I would like to thank God. To my loving mother, I am your
only child – I know that I have taken you through hell and back.
One day you’re going to answer the door bell and I’m going to be
standing there with open arms. I promise I’ll never leave you
again. I love ya Ma!
Taya Baker, my confidant. You held me down. Ever y Black
man is given one ebony angel in his life time, you are mine. You
showed me that every real brotha has to have a strong sista in his
life, that balance like some rite of passage to manhood. First you
must learn how to love a "Black Woman". Love ya Booboo.
To my nigga Lateef Varo, trapped behind enemy lines on Fed.
We will continue to engage the enemy for our freedom. Keep yo
To my sista Assata Shakur, Sundiata Acoli, Marilyn Buck and
all the other comrades who dedicated their lives to our struggle,
peace and blessing with God’s speed. Afeni Shakur, thanks for
keeping Tupac’s legacy alive. Not to forget about dem Chi-Town
47th street G.D.’s my ole stumping grounds. Sarasota, Florida, the
home team. Big props go out to dem niggaz in that ‘trape’ in Opa-
Locka, Florida. Twon, wuz up!
Hellema publications, girl you ass in just too busy, thanks for
being there. Tajuacla & Jack Parker and their book club. I would
be remiss if I forgot to give mad love to my nigga Marvin Johnson,
aka Blazack. May we never have to take a trip up that road again
for dem ‘chips’. Iras in Hot Atlanta FM 89.3 get at me. To my
partner Wayne Stone and his family and his son Jr.
Communications is the key to winning any war. S. Lindsay, exhale
and let it go. To my daughter Desire Monae Har vey that I have
never had a chance to hold, I love baby girl. Ashley McMillion and
Dwight Williams II thanks for your support.
To my dude Clifford Senter a.k.a. "Fateem" and his sis
Laurita, also Professor Akinyele at Georgia State University
African studies – y’all missing in action. To my dude Gucci out the
bottom in Miami. To Phyllis Murphy, my baby mama, it ain’t over
Fo-real fo-real, Vickie Stringer and her side kick Tammy are
the real Gangstaz in this industry. To my editor, Cynthia Parker
and to Mia McPherson and the entire TCP family, thanks for let-
ting me shine. I came so close to signing with another company
that I just found out that did not have my best interest at heart.
Leon Blue, it was you that sparked the flame for this joint. Good
luck with your company, "InfraRead". Also, to Victor Martin and
Jason Poole, thank you for paving the way.
Most importantly to my readers: Thank you! In this book I am
giving you my very best. This was the closest I could take you into
"that world" and keep it gangsta without catching another feder-
al indictment. Also, it was important for me to make a statement
in my writing, to be conscious and with a message. To those I for-
got to mention on paper, don’t worr y, you’re in my heart.
Visit my website at: WWW.LEOSULLIVAN.COM. Tell me
what you think, or you can write me directly at: P.O.Box 725
Edgefield S.C. 29824.
This book is dedicated to my mentor and best friend in memory
of his son Tupac Shakur (God bless his soul). Mutulu, there aren’t
enough words in any language to express my love for you, my
teacher, my mentor, the father that I never had. You treated me
like I was your own son. For me it was a blessing to have spent
nearly ten years of my life under your diligent guidance. You
forced my mind to go to another level, to a plateau outside the
mundane box of limitations that unconsciously some Blacks have
been trained to place on our minds. You embraced my writing,
nur tured it. Had me writing lengthy essays and treatise. You had
me on the radio doing poetry, speaking in front of packed audi-
ences. I was scared to death! Remember? You told me that they
had to let me in the door. We would argue, people would walk by
and see us yelling at each other. I’ll never forget the day they
moved me to another plantation (prison) after all those years of
being around you, I was crushed! One day I set down to write you
a letter and I just cried…and cried…well, finally, I’m here at the
door just like you said, "Knock! Knock!"
Dr. Mutulu Shakur, I love you my nigga. I hope we meet
The author regrets the vulgar and degrading language used to
depict the characters in this book. Especially those made in refer-
ence to Black women; however, he feels that it is a true and accu-
rate account of the plight of Black life in terms of the vernacular
and how urban impoverished Black Americans view themselves.
Unfortunately, this book may be viewed as socially incorrect by
today’s standards, thus tarnishing the rose colored glasses that
most of today’s Black writers write from. The reality is men abuse
women, and like it or not, Black America is caught up in the yoke
of a severe AIDS epidemic.
How can America be the richest, industrious nation in the
world, but yet choose to spend more money incarcerating young
Black men than on the entire educational budget? Only by exam-
ining ourselves realistically within, will we be able to find a viable
solution to help ourselves. Since time immemorial, someone has
been determined to destroy us! Humanity.
"…I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. I see
America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American
dream; I see an American nightmare…"
- Malcom X, April 3, 1964
I watched her as she slept. The rise and fall of her brown succu-
lent breasts beckoned me. A beacon of light shined through the
worn out curtains, illuminating the pellucid cur ves of her beauti-
ful body. Nubile femininity captured on the cinematic screen of
my mind. Once again I thought about rolling off into her, bury-
ing myself in her moist womanhood. The mounds of her sensuous
flesh I could molest as from a mental escapism, she could be my
sanctuar y, at least for that infinite moment in time.
I was 26 years old, not even four months out of the joint and
was back to throwing bricks at the chain gang as the old folks used
to say–meaning, I was hustling with little regard for the law.
As I lay in bed, in a fleabag hotel room, with a broken air con-
ditioner and no immediate plans for the future, I dreamed as all
hustlers do. If I could just hit that one big lick, I would get out of
On the dresser was my best friend–my gun. A big ole .44
Magnum named Jesus. Actually, it wasn’t me that named it Jesus,
its victims did when they were forced to look down its long intim-
idating barrel. Next to it laid eighteen cocaine rocks and about
three hundred dollars–my entire life savings–and the keys to Lil
Cal’s tricked out Chevy, along with a pack of condoms. Cal was
out of town and I was responsible for his ride.
L i f e
Lying next to me in bed was Kim, a bonafide freak. I reached
over and caressed her nipples. She stirred in her sleep lassoing a
long leg on top of me. Her elbow came to rest on my morning
erection. She crooned groggily.
Naw, I was just lying here thinking.”
Thinking ‘bout what?”
I felt her fingers walking across my thigh toward my morning
glory. It was hot, stuffy and we were nude. The bed sheets stuck to
our bodies. Her hand found its destination, stroking me with a
determination, trying to rekindle an ember of passion from the
night before. The gold bangles on her wrist jangled, signaling in
chimes, her urgency. In one quick motion she climbed on top of
me positioning herself to take me in. Her sultry breath a whisper
against my cheek.
Want me to serve you?” she flirted–meaning oral sex.
A hot, salivating tongue trailed my chest as she lowered her
head. You see, at 30, Kim could do things with her mouth that
made men curse God in ecstasy. She had a gorgeous body with
generous curves, a small waist and a plump behind. She was light
skinned, with a smooth complexion and a slight Bugs Bunny over-
bite that somehow gave her beauty an alluring sexual appeal.
However, she was the kind of broad that made a brotha appreci-
ate tinted windows, cheap hotels and late night creeps. Kim had
one major flaw–she was a powder head. Over the years it looked
like the more cocaine she snorted the finer she would get. What
made her so interesting to hustlers was the fact that she had a col-
lege degree, a good job and she knew how to talk proper like white
folks with all them big words. She ran through all the dope boys
like water. She had two vacuums that could suck you dry, the one