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Authors: Tranay Adams

Me and My Hittas

BOOK: Me and My Hittas
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Tranay Adams

Me & My Hittas
Copyright © 2016 Tranay Adams. All rights reserved.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of
this work is
illegal. Criminal copyright infringement,
investigated by FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years
in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

All names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book
are products
the author's
are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or
persons, living or
dead, is
coincidental, and beyond the intent of the author and

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publisher.

The Realest Killaz/ Tranay Adams-1st ed. © 2016
Kindle Formatting: MADE Write
Editor: Ghost
Cover Artist: Sunny Giovanni
Publisher: Tranay Adams


He sat on the hood of his silver Monte Carlo SS taking
pulls from a blunt laced with marijuana and crack cocaine.
His head was hidden beneath his blue hood, which he wore
under a black leather coat. His eyes were bloodshot and
glassy, filled with hurt and animosity. His cheeks were wet and
slick from crying. Big teardrops fell from his eyes hitting the
asphalt and the toe of his Air Max sneaker. He wiped his face
with the sleeve of his leather coat. He continued to take puffs
of his blunt until half of it was gone. He then grabbed the
bottle of Jack Daniel’s and cracked it open. He took the bottle
to the dome, guzzling the dark liquor thirstily and glancing at
the picture of his younger brother, Dizzy. More tears fell,
hitting the picture and rolling off of it. He continues to drink;
in between doing so he talked with his brother. Although he
had left this life for the next, he heard Dizzy in his ear.

“Niggaz done me foul, straight up dirty,” He heard
Dizzy loud and clear, “You seen me at the morgue? Shit split
all open; a nigga gone have to have a closed casket funeral.

“Who did it, bro? Tell me and I’ma leave them pussies
wet. That’s on everything.” Reboc swore, taking a pull from
“The Slobs,” Dizzy spoke in his ear.

“Nigga, all of’em, they supposed to be at that Demos
game.” Reboc looked to Jefferson’s High School’s football
field where people were standing out waiting for the
football players to emerge. “Avenge me, bro, do what I
can’t do for myself!”

“Don’t even trip, I got chu; these niggaz ‘bout to feel
some hot shit.” He guzzled more of the Jack and wiped his
mouth with the back of his fist. He reached into the
passenger side window and sat the bottle down in the
passenger seat. He then continued with the consumption of
the laced blunt.

“Dead all of them niggaz, Cuz, all of ‘em.” Dizzy
urged him.

“Don’t worry about noth
ing, bro bro, big bruh got
chu…Always.” Reboc replied, holding the smoke in his
lungs. He looked up and saw a horde of people coming off
of the football field. He spotted more than a handful of them
in red clothing. For him they were as good as Bloods; the
same Bloods that aired out his kid brother. This angered
Reboc and he saw through a haze of red. His nostrils flared
and he clenched his teeth so tight that you could see the
skeletal bone structure of his jaws.

Reboc dropped his blunt on the ground and mashed it
out under the heel of his Air Max. He walked around to the
trunk of his Monte Carlo and popped it open. He reached
inside and when he withdrew his hand back he was gripping
an Ingram. Next, he checked the magazine to make sure that
it was loaded. He smacked it back into its slot and cocked
the hammer on it. After slamming the trunk closed, Reboc
stepped upon the curb to handle his business.


The locker room was in an uproar. The Demos had
just won the championship game. The players were dancing
around and acting a fool. Blips! Sounded off throughout the
crowded room as the corks of champagne were being
popped; none of the players were old enough to drink but
the coach had made them all promise to keep it as their little

“Alright, alright, quiet down!” Coach Roosevelt held
up the football and the locker room fell to silence. He was
a copper complexioned gent with salt and pepper hair that
he wore in a close fade. He was dressed in a worn baseball
cap and a blue Polo shirt. A whistle hung from his neck
down over his chest. His eyes scanned the locker room as
he held the pig skin in the air while his free arm lay draped
over the quarter back’s shoulders. “Now you guys played
one hell of a game out there, you crushed your opponents
dominated…You conquered…You whipped those guys
asses and proved that you were the better team. You’re
warriors, gladiators, each and every one of you,” he
pointed the football around at the players surrounding him.
“Now you all did your thing out there tonight, but there was
one of you out there that stood out just that much more. His
proficiency and execution out there was stunning, so it’s
only right that I present him with the winning game ball…”
he looked to the brown skinned kid that was under his wing
and smiled, as he chewed gum. “Here you go, son,” he
passed him the football and the kid beamed brightly.
“Everyone,let’s give a round of applause for Tramel.” The
coach clapped along with the players. Two of the offensive
linemen lifted Tramel over their heads and paraded him
the locker
room with
everyone hooting and
hollering. A smile stretched acrossthe M.V.P’s face.


“Ma, its taking Mel forever and a day to come out
here,” Killa Dre spoke of his big brother. His thin dread locks
were spilling from underneath an oversized Pirates snapback,
lying over his shoulders and back. He had smooth brown skin
and dark eyes. His baby face and slight mustache lead you to
believe that he was younger than his seventeen years.

If Tramel was an angel then, Killa Dre was definitely a
devil. The boy treaded down the path of his father before him.
Cutty Johnson was a street veteran that earned his keep
extorting hustlers and working as a hired gun. His
exploitation of the streets came back to haunt him when he put
the muscle on the wrong nigga’z brother and got his top blown
the fuck off. After his death his youngest son dove headfirst
into the street life, sticking his hands into some of everything
illegal to earn a dollar. When drama came his way he
murdered it on the spot, which garnered the young hitter the
alias, Killa Dre. The boy’s mother did all she could to stop
him from becoming just another statistic, but she was too late,
he was too far gone. The streets had him and she wasn’t letting
go, so the little nigga’z mother poured all of her attention into
her oldest son, encouraging him to follow his dreams of
playing pro football in the N.F.L.

“Give ‘em a second, baby, I’m sure he’ll be out in a
minute.” Tramel and Killa Dre’s mother said. She and her
youngest stood amongst the crowd waiting for the players to
exit the locker room. She trembled slightly and rubbed her
arms trying to keep warm.

“Ma, you want my jacket?” Killa Dre asked, seeing his
mother struggling to keep warm.

“Nah, I don’t want chu to catch a cold, I’ll be alright.”
She responded, rubbing her arms harder and faster to keep

“Ma please, I’ma grown man, I can brave this
weather.” He removed his leather jacket and draped it over
her shoulders. He then pulled her under his arm and smiled.
Rebecca looked up at her youngest and smiled, too. Her and
her boys were a close knit family.

“Thank you, son.”
“You’re welcome, ma.”

The doors of the locker room opened and the players
expelled into the crisp, cold air. The air felt cooler than usual
against the players’ skin since they’d taken showers before
they came outside. Tramel and his team mates moved to greet
their loved ones. Tramel was wearing a red Atlanta Hawks
snapback cocked to the right with a matching jersey. A thin
gold necklace and cross lay upon his chest.

“Hey, momma,” Tramel kissed his mother on the cheek
and embraced her lovingly.
“That was a good game you and your team played, y’all
tore them boys up.” His mother stated proudly.
“Thanks, ma,” Tramel grinned. He slapped hands with
Killa Dre, “What’s up, baby boy?”
“You did your thang out there tonight.”
“We did our thang out there tonight; I ain’t nothing
without my team.”
“That’s right, son, stay humble, don’t never let any of
this go to your head.”

“I won’t, ma, I promise.”
“Can you do me a favor?” she asked him. Tramel threw
his head back ‘like what’s up?’ “Turn the volume down on
that jersey, it’s too loud.”

She narrowed her eyes into slits and held a hand above
her brow, pretending to be blinded by the color of his jersey.
“You’re a regular standup comic tonight.” He smirked.
“What’s that?” Killa Dre pointed to
the pig
gripped in his big brother’s hand.
“Coach Roosevelt blessed me with the winning game
“Let me see it.” Tramel tossed Killa Dre the football.
“Go long, Mel.” He gripped the football with both
“Hold my bag for me, ma.” Tramel gave his mother his
Nike duffle bag and darted towards the street.

“Tramel, Dre, y’all be careful.” She yelled out as
Tramel darted into the street looking for his brother to launch
the ball.

Killa Dre threw up a Hail Mary. The football went high
into sky and came down like a nuclear warhead. Tramel
caught the football. He put his hand behind his head, stuck out
his tongue, and did a funny dance in the middle of the street,
moving his hips in a circular motion with the

Killa Dre and their mother laughed.
Killa Dre cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled
out, “Throw it back, foolie!”

“Alright,” Tramel yelled back. He took a stance and
gripped the football, prepared to let it fly. He cocked his hand
back and threw his arm forth, releasing the football.


Through bloodshot and glassy eyes, Reboc watched
the horde of people spill out of the school and head towards
their vehicles. The men and women in red clothing stood
out to him the most. His eyes locked onto a caramel skinned
kid in a red Atlanta Hawks snapback and matching jersey.
The kid had darted out into the street and spun around. He
caught a football and took a stance to throw it back. At that
moment Reboc heard his brother in his ear again “He’s one
of them, bro, I remember his face! Kill’em!” Reboc’s face
twisted into a murderous scowl. He became so angry that
the haze of red returned before his sight. His brother’s
voice enticed him to claim a body, a few of them. “Kill’em
all!” his brother egged him on.

Reboc brought his Ingram into play, lifting and
pointing it at the kid in the Atlanta Hawks fit. He squeezed
the trigger of his weapon and slugs spat mercilessly from
the barrel, sending heat in the kid’s direction.

The football exploded and hit the ground.

A look of surprise took Tramel’s face and he mouthe
“What the fuck”. He looked to the ground at the football
wondering what happened to it. He looked to his right and
bullets rushed him, slamming into his torso and chest. The
searing pain the sizzling metal brought caused his face to
contort with excruciation. His eyes narrowed into slits and
he looked up trying to see who his shooter was. Before
Tramel’s eyes could register the gunman, half of his face
was blown off and his form was smacking down on the

Killa Dre and Tramel’s mother
screamed, after witnessing her oldest son being mowed
down by a hail of bullets. The wail of her voice snatched
Reboc’s attention from Tramel’s body and he went to point
his Ingram in her direction when a blur of a person shot by
him. He swung his weapon around and sent a line of fire at
the blur’s back, dropping him in the middle of the street.

By this time
the streets
in chaos
pandemonium with people running every which way, trying
to avoid some hot shit. Reboc waved his Ingram around,
dropping the bodies of the people that tried to run. The
screams and cries of his victims made his dick hard. A
satanic smile stretched across his face and he licked his
lips, continuingto release his hell on earth. When Reboc’s
Ingram clicked empty, he ejected its magazine and checked
it. Seeing that the cartidge was spent, he reached into the
pocket of his leather coat to retrieve another one. He
smacked the fresh magazine into his weapon and cocked it.
He went to finish his reign of terror when he heard the wail
of police cars sirens zooming in his direction. He ignored
the sirens and let off two more sprays. Having dropped two
more bodies, he retreated for his vehicle.

BOOK: Me and My Hittas
2.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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