Hustler's Dreams, Federal Nightmares

by Amir Sanchez

Genres: African American

Synopsis

The game once had three major rules that were never to be broken or compromised, regardless of how serious things got in one's life. Death before dishonor was more than just a code; it was the law of the streets, written in the blood of the OGs who killed and died upholding it. Back then, there were many rewards for those who followed the codes. On the other hand, the penalty was death for anyone who violated the laws, and anybody close to him. At the very least, that person would be blackballed from the hood and any illegal street ventures. Clearly the game as we once knew it has been changed by today's hustlers, gangsters, and crooks. Most of them have strayed far from the script. The majority of them would rather save their asses than save face. They would sooner live with shame and disgrace than die with honor and respect. With the current status of the game and the sheisty individuals who are playing it, is there anyone who will honor the past and acknowledge the rules of the game for what they used to be? A newcomer to the urban lit scene, Amir Sanchez delivers a realistic, gripping story of life on the streets, where hustlers still rule, but honor and loyalty have taken on new meaning.

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

By summertime 2010, a nigga was well established and sitting on something nice. Shaking paper, fucking bitches, and stuntin’ was an everyday occurrence, more so a way of living. The fruits of my labor kept me laced in the finest linen, jewelry, and vehicles money could buy. “Money over everything” was my motto and killing and robbing everything over money was a routine practiced all year long.

Stuntin’ was a habit, a concept that I swore to participate in every day of my life. From the flyest designer clothes money could buy to the VVS diamonds that flooded my wrist and neck. Waking up one sunny Friday morning I couldn’t help but to notice the intense itch I felt in the palms of my hands. That meant two things if you was a nigga coming up in the neighborhoods that I came up in: either you had some ashy-ass dry hands or money was sending you an invitation to come and get it. In my case it was money calling me. Not wanting to delay my calling, I got up out the bed, took a shower, and threw on a pair of True Religion cargos, with a purple-label Polo shirt. Nike Air Max sneakers, a fitted hat, and Gucci shades completed my dress.

Stepping outside was like walking into an open oven. Fortunately for me, my car was equipped with the automatic start, allowing the car to be chilled and cooled before I got inside. My all-white Porsche Panamera easily separated the boys from the men. As I drove slowly through the streets of West Philadelphia, Jay-Z’s classic hood anthem, “Streets Is Watching,” cranked loudly through the custom state-of-the-art Bose system. The music played so crisp and clear, one would have thought the rapper was having a live concert from inside my trunk.

As I pulled up to the light on Fifty-fourth and Berks Street, all traffic on the busy strip came to a halt. All attention was focused on me. The haters did what they did best and stared at the whip like they were choking on chicken bones. But the bitches? Dressed in next to nothing, my presence, car, and choice of music seemed to inspire an all-out dance competition. They began shaking ass and popping pussy like they were vixens in a Luke video. Through their seductive dance moves, they telegraphed loud and clear how they would fuck me if I gave them a day in my life and a night in my bed. Bitches! Laughter overwhelmed me as I pulled off, killing their lifelong dreams and fantasies in the process.

My laughter was cut short by the sight of White Mike’s Range Rover parked outside the Dominican store. There was no need to do a double take. I was sure it was his. Triple black with the twenty-four-inch rims and air holes on the front side panels made it one of a kind. Funny how the sunny weather always seemed to lure the hustlers and gangsters outdoors in the open. That is, until you put the heat on high on they ass and have them running for cover like roaches when the lights come on. After months of homework and anticipation, White Mike finally surfaced. The type of paper he was sitting on, the nigga was a robbery waiting to happen. In fact, beyond waiting!

My two young niggas Buddha and Ryddah had been robbing niggas with me for years. This was their line of work and I knew they would be delighted to hear the good news. Removing my chirp phone off my waste, I sent him an alert.

Buddha responded immediately. “Old head! What it do?” he rejoiced upon connection. “What you know, no good?”

“You ain’t going to believe this. The nigga White Mike is out in the open like it’s sweet. Let’s stop fucking around with this nigga and line him up right now.”

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about! Me and Ryddah together right now, and we got the chopper on deck. It’s whatever with us.” He spoke with real hunger in his voice.

“Meet me over the whop in five minutes, and hurry up!” I commanded before closing the chirp and heading over to the location myself.

By the time I arrived over at the whop, Buddha’s all-black, tinted-out Caprice was already there, parked up with the engine running. Quickly parking and securing the Porsche, I walked over to join them. As soon as I opened the back door, thick clouds of smoke escaped into the atmosphere. I let as much of the weed smoke out as I could before getting in the car.

Buddha and Ryddah were two black spooky-looking motherfuckas with long, thick beards like Muslims. Since robbery was their only form of steady income, they robbed everything moving as if there were no tomorrow. They had no picks! If they caught wind that a nigga was holding, they were coming for it. When niggas saw their signature long, thick beards, and cok-fitted hats, they knew some shit was about to go down. Their presence alone brought those types of vibes.

“Y’all niggas with all this fucking weed smoke is killing me!” I complained while fanning the smoke away. “Y’all lucky I fucks wit y’all and respect the work y’all put in.” Getting down to the business at hand, I told them, “Anyway, listen, the nigga White Mike’s Range is parked up on the strip right now. I think he inside the Dominican store. Nigga has to be up there either serving them, or copping up. Either way we running down on him today. I’m tired of this nigga ducking and skating on us. Let’s snatch this bitch-ass nigga up right now.”

With the mere mention that the time had come to put in some work, the robbers put the weed out, lit up their cigarettes, and headed over to the strip on Fifty-fourth Street. That’s what I loved about these niggas—their hunger eliminated all opposition and put them straight in move-out mode.

Upon driving down the strip, relief shot through the car when we rode past White Mike’s Range Rover still parked there. Just as I said it would be. Buddha quickly circled around the block and found a perfect parking spot where we were able to blend in with the other cars parked on the street. More importantly, it gave us a clear view to our main objective. At that point, it was all a waiting game. To pass time and prepare for the move, Buddha put on Meek Mill’s underground CD and cranked it up. Him and Ryddah sang along to every lyric while smoking back-to-back Newports. They were killing me!

About forty-five minutes and ten cigarettes later, White Mike finally emerged from the store. I wasn’t a jeweler, but the canary yellow diamonds that flooded his neck and wrist appeared to be easily worth a few hundred grand. He had our undivided attention. Since he was accompanied by one of the Dominicans from the store, we ain’t hop out on the nigga right there and then. Instead we waited on the perfect moment.

Suddenly White Mike began to look around nervously. In the blink of an eye he quickly shook hands with the Dominican man, jumped in his Range, and pulled off. He moved so fast, we ain’t know if he spotted us or what. There was no telling because he was one scary-ass nigga. My blood started to boil at the thought of this nigga skating on us again. As if reading my mind, Buddha reacted just as I was hoping he would.

“Man! Fuck all this! This bitch-ass nigga ain’t about to duck today. Pass that chopper under your seat up here. This won’t be the first nigga we robbed in broad daylight. Let’s run down on his bitch ass!” he announced before bringing the Caprice’s V8 engine to life and gunning in the direction the Range Rover traveled.

Placing gloves on my hands and a bandana over my face, I passed Ryddah the AR-15 and pulled out my chrome .44 Bulldog. None of us were wearing seatbelts but everybody in the car was strapped up and ready to ride out.

It wasn’t but a few blocks away before we caught up with him. Here the nigga was pulled over on the side of the road conversing with a sexy little redbone who was walking a small poodle. The nigga was so caught up stuntin’ and talking his shit, he never noticed us pulling alongside his car until it was too late.

Before we even came to a full stop, Ryddah was hanging out of the passenger-side window, busting the chopper off. His shots were aimed at the Range Rover’s tires. The powerful force behind the assault rifle’s firepower shredded the driver-side wheels and snapped the front axle, making the car inoperable. At full speed, I hopped out of the Caprice, reached into the driver-side window, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled his ass straight out. A quick pat down for a weapon came up negative. I forcefully pushed him into the back seat, keeping the .44 trained on him the entire time.

The redbone screamed in panic before picking up her dog and running for her life. Immediately, I advised him of his two non-negotiable options as soon as I got in the car. “You know what this is, nigga! Either take us to the money or we sending you to your grave.”

“What? What the fuck? Y’all niggas crazy? Y’all know who I am?” he asked with arrogance as if knowing who he was was supposed to deter us. “Y’all niggas gots to kill me. I ain’t giving up shit!”

If he was fucking with an amateur, he may have been able to get away with that weak shit he was talking. But not with me. To show him how serious things were, I aimed the gun at his foot and fired a shot.

“Bloaka!” His agonizing screams nearly deafened us as fire and fear shot though his body.

“Pussy! I ain’t gonna ask you again. The next bullet is going into your fucking forehead!” With that final warning, I raised the .44 to his head.

“No, no . . . no! All right! Please don’t kill me!” He was quickly coming to his senses and showing the first signs of cooperating.

Although it was a struggle for him to speak, I clearly understood the submission in his tone and expression.

“Everything . . . is at the Mont Visa on Sixty-third Street. Let’s get this over with as fast as possible. Please! I need to go to the hospital before I bleed to death . . . Awww shit!” he groaned after staring down at his bloody sneaker .

Upon arriving at the location, White Mike gave up his house keys, and the apartment number, including where the money and dope was hidden. I decided I’d babysit him at gunpoint while the young niggas went inside to retrieve the goods.

Before exiting the vehicle, Buddha had one request. “If we don’t chirp you within five minutes, kill this nigga! Better yet, you should put one in his bitch ass right now,” he suggested. And he was dead serious.

“Naw, little nigga. Stick to the script. If the nigga play it right, we going to cut him loose. But if not, you already know what’s going to happen to him.” I dictated what was and what wasn’t going to happen. “Now stop wasting time and bullshitting! Little nigga, this is a kidnapping.”

Realizing that my patience was growing short, Buddha knew better than to continue procrastinating. Emerging from the car, the two robbers walked to the front entrance of the building and disappeared inside.

A few seconds afterward, White Mike let out a laugh that was somewhat in between demented and hysterical. At first I thought the nigga was crying due to the pain of his injury, but when he raised his head up, and the sound got louder, there was no mistaking it—the nigga was laughing!

“What the fuck is you laughing at nigga? You think this shit is funny?” I asked before pressing the .44 on the side of his head and cocking the hammer back.

What the nigga said and did next will forever haunt my nightmares.

Lifting his shirt up, he revealed a thin wire taped to his chest, connected to a small microphone. “I told you stupid motherfuckas that y’all ain’t know who you was fucking with! Didn’t I? But you ain’t listen. I’m going to make sure that you motherfuckas get put underneath the jail!”

Before I could react or warn Buddha and Ryddah, a swarm of Dodge Chargers and Pontiac Grand Prix came approaching and surrounded the building from front to back. For a second I froze up as my senses seemed to go dead.

In that split second, White Mike opened the door and jumped out the car. As he limped away, he waved his hands in the air screaming out for help and pointing at the Caprice.

That was more than enough to snap me out of the trance I was in. Following my first instinct, I climbed into the driver seat, threw that bitch in drive, and recklessly sped away. From the rearview mirror I witnessed several men and women wearing navy blue jackets that bore FBI in bright yellow letters. Half of them stormed the apartment building while a few others ran to White Mike’s aid.

Just when I thought I’d made a smooth getaway, a black Dodge Charger pulled behind me with sirens blaring from the lights in the center of the windshield. Putting the pedal to the floor, I pushed the Caprice to its full performance. In a desperate attempt to shake the federales, I ran through red lights, weaved in and out of traffic, and cut corners like Dale Earnhardt in the Daytona 500.

Thanks to my superb driving skills, I managed to get ahead a nice distance on them. That is, until I approached an intersection where a funeral chain was passing through. As the hearse approached, I could see there was a nice amount of space between it and the other cars that followed. That was my only chance to get away. Slamming the gear down to drive two, I floored the gas, and sent the Caprice accelerating at full speed.

Shooting out in front of the hearse, the sounds of brakes screeching, horns blowing, and sirens wailing was all I heard as I slid past, barely making it. Had I been one inch off or one second too early, the hearse would have probably had another dead body in the driver seat and in need of another one to come pick up my dead ass.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that those cocksucking federales didn’t dare to pull the same stunt. Hell, I barely escaped. I drove straight back to the whop, grabbed the chopper, and left that Caprice running in the middle of the street. Once in the comfort of my own car, I felt a little relief. That is, until I heard helicopters hovering above. They were close, but they weren’t on me. They were heading in the direction of the Mont Visa Apartments. Police sirens echoed through the hood nonstop.

What the fuck went down back there? I wondered. I damn sure wasn’t waiting around to find out. I took my ass straight home until shit cooled off and I figured out my next move....

For the remainder of the day, I stayed indoors looking out of the front window with one eye while watching the news with the other. Ever since White Mike lifted his shirt and showed me that wire, I’d been living federal nightmares, even though I was awake. It wasn’t until the eleven o’clock news came on that I got a detailed version of all that had transpired inside the apartment complex.

I wasn’t surprised in the least to learn that Buddha and Ryddah went out in a blaze of glory while shooting it out with the feds. During the gun battle that cost both of them their lives, they managed to hit two of the federal agents, critically injuring both of them. Knowing how them young niggas moved, I knew that jail wasn’t an option for them. I ain’t blame them. They did it how the gangsters do it. I had to tip my hat to the young niggas.

To keep it a hundred, learning that Buddha and Ryddah hadn’t made it out of that predicament alive gave me two less worries and a sense of relief. Not to say that they would have ratted on me, but nowadays you couldn’t be too sure of anybody. The two little niggas went out doing what they did best and loved doing. They were indeed true soldiers, but just like the rest of my soldiers, they were all expendable. They would be missed, but easily replaced.

It may sound heartless, but in my line of work, I never allowed myself to get mentally or emotionally attached to any of these niggas out here on the streets. I learned a long time ago that this game was filled with risk, dangers, failures, and plenty of disappointments. If a nigga came up on anything around this motherfucka, he better count his blessings and consider it a temporary luxury. Because it was only a matter of time before the police, haters, or jack boys was coming to take your life, and everything you own! That’s what it all comes down to. But this was the life I chose, or better yet, the life that chose me. Therefore I took the bad with the good, and the bitter with the sweet, and kept it moving.

After the drama-filled day that I’d been through, a nigga needed therapy in the worst way. And there was no therapy in this world that had the ability to soothe my nerves and clear my mind like a shot of good pussy, a dutch, and a few ounces of syrup. I already had everything I needed on reserve, except a bitch. The mood I was in, I wanted some of that wet, wild, thug pussy.

Feisty Felicia was the first to come to mind. She was far from a dime piece, but her fat ass, small waist, and attitude made up for any shortcomings within her beauty. Not to say that she was ugly, but shorty definitely had a rough look to her. I guess after spending seven years in state prison for an armed robbery, she was justified in looking and acting the way she did. I decided to give her a call.

Seeing my number come across her caller ID must have made her night because she answered on the first ring with a hint of happiness in her voice. Even though she tried to appear all nonchalant about it, I knew better. I read these bitches like books.

“What up, Boss? You must be horny and in the house by yourself because that’s the only time a bitch get a call from your little yellow ass.” She spoke the truth.

“Bitch! Who the fuck you think you fooling? You know our arrangement, so don’t get on no new shit. I’ve always had and always will have rights to that pussy. Now bring your black ass over here and hurry the fuck up,” I barked at her. I usually wasn’t that disrespectful to the ladies, but that was the only language Felicia seemed to understand. Not to mention the fact that any physical and verbal aggressiveness was a major turn-on for her.

After lining up some pussy for the night, I went into my bedroom and rolled up a dutch of that purple haze. Between each pull of the dutch, I took slow sips of the yellow syrup straight out of the eight-ounce bottle. Afterward, I headed to the bathroom for a hot shower.

I wasn’t in the water but for ten minutes before the doorbell began ringing nonstop. I figured Felicia’s little pussy was growing impatient. Hopping out the shower I went downstairs to answer the door, dick and balls swinging freely all over the place. As I walked through the living room, I stopped briefly to glance at the flat-screen surveillance monitor hanging from the wall that showed live footage of the entire perimeter of my house. From there I observed Felicia standing there, still ringing my doorbell like she had lost her fucking mind.

In my mind the doorbell was the bell indicating the beginning of the first round. Snatching the front door open, I pulled her straight inside and threw my tongue down her throat while grabbing a handful of that fat, soft ass. After a few seconds of tongue swapping and lip locking, she stepped back and placed her hands on her hips, looking all ghetto fabulous.

“Damn, nigga! I done got all pretty for you and your ungrateful ass can’t even give a bitch a compliment?” She began posing seductively like a prostitute trying to lure a trick.

The bitch wore one of those Beyoncé weaves, and was dressed in a red mini skirt with the matching thigh-high leather boots. I was willing to bet the house that she ain’t have no panties on. Before I could compliment her on her looks, she turned her back on me and walked toward the door, as if she was ready to leave.

“I’m out, Amin! You be playing too many fucking games,” she complained, snapping her neck as she spoke. “You ain’t ready for a real bitch like me.”

Before she could open the door, I had her gripped up by the back of her hair, escorting her toward the stairs. With each step she climbed, her mini skirt rose up a little higher. Just as I suspected, her nasty ass was. . .