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Author’s note: This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached, as long as no charge is made for it and it isn’t changed in any way. If it is archived, it is done so on he basis that the author will have unrestricted access to the archive.
This story is a work of fiction. None of the characters or events herein is based on real people, either living or dead. It was produced for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upsets you, do not read any further. By reading further you certify that you have accessed/requested access to this material willfully, and that you are an adult 21 years of age or older. You also certify that you are NOT a city, county, state, or federal law enforcement officer, official of the United States Postal Service, acting in the capacity of a representative of a telecommunications firm, and that this material does not offend the standards in your area, nor is it in violation of any of local, state, or federal law.
*** Dedicated to Sherry. I feel you ma.
Note: As the title says, this is a gangster story. Most of the people in South Central,Yonkers projects, South Side Jamaica Queens, or Johannesburg, Rio, Bogotá and stuff are not armed gangsters, contrary to what the KKKrazy Media suggests. (If you don’t know that, I cant help you, bii-eee-oo-eetch!”) However, this story is about gangsters. You hear? Just like the title suggests. Its not about decent black folk, so, you don’t wanna read about that, stop reading right now.
But, knowing some of the stupid readers out there, I gotta brace myself for comments like, “You are making it seem like all blah, blah, blah…”
And lemme add, when I write, I am having a good time. I enjoy myself and laugh a lot. If my work gets some of you people pissed, well, I cant really say it saddens me. But its not really my main motivation.
In fact, I feel sorry for the imbeciles that keep reading my shit and wanna holler at me. …Some (stupid) shit, “WTF!”
“I didn’t become a gangster because we were starving, or our heat and phone were turned off, or I didn’t have money; or I didn’t have any other opportunity in Life. I became a gangster for the 4 Ps. Paper (cash) Power, Parties and Pussy. Most people in my Hood were not gang bangers and dealers. Most had decent jobs and went to church on Sunday. But to us, those people were dummies. They worked very hard, for very little money. We wanted to get paid, and drugs are easy money. You don’t sell drugs, drugs sell themselves. We wanted power, and as gangsters, we were special people. We lived above the law, above the church, above society, and didn’t give a fuck. Half the people were very nice to us because we had money, and the other half knew better than to mess with us. We were Kings of the Hood.”
“You sound to me like you haven’t learned your lesson at all,” said MR DA, a mid forties ginger headed man with a sallow, freckled face and the cold, sharp eyes and voice of an Inquisitor.
“Oh, I have learned my lesson. I did some real bad, nasty things that still make me shudder. I wake up soaked with sweat, from my nightmares. But that is not the deciding factor. Jail is like a steel cage, filled with sadistic guards, bullies, hardened criminals and dangerous men. However, life in this Hell sure beats life in Gangster Paradise. You know why? Coz in here, I don’t have to look over my shoulder all the time, wondering when someone is gonna try and murder me. Someone from a rival crew, someone I roughed up way back or his mans, someone out to get my jewels and cash, or just someone out to get a reputation, by killing a hard core gangster. I don’t have to jump and palm my pistol every time I hear a loud, sudden sound, every time a car rolls up, or someone I don’t know walks into my line of vision. Unless you have been a gangster, you can never quite appreciate what a heavy burden that is. I drank and took loads of drugs everyday, for two years, just to escape from that. I only have about three memories, from a whole year. I will never be a gangster again all my life. Believe me.”
“What will you do then? You have no qualifications, no education. How will you make money, huh? You will work somewhere as a sweeper or waiter. Give us a break.”
“That is where you are wrong MR DA. I finished my high school, in this cage. And I have started a correspondence degree. I will complete it on the outside, even if I have to work two damn jobs at the same time to survive. And believe me, Mr DA, I will make it.”
His dark eyes were shining with determination as he gazed back at the five person parole hearing panel. Old Atkins, the boss of the slammer, looked like he was just bored. Mr DA looked like he didn’t buy any of it, like he hadn’t bought it even before he came around. His own lawyer, James, was glancing at the other kurtuluş escort faces kind of nervously, as he tried to read their minds and see if they had succeeded this time. There was someone from the cops, a big, burly, balding man in his mid fifties, looking kind of bored too. Then there was a woman with ruby red hair and lips, and very pale skin, that he did not know. She had been gazing at him intently all the time. And she looked like she believed him; fully.
It was a sunny day but the breeze was kind of chilly. The g ride pulled up at the correctional facilities, about fifty kilometers from the city. It wasn’t a street car named Desire, but a shiny, metallic Jeep, with dark tinted windows, 20″ platinum rims, and yellow and red flames painted on the sides. Fat Hip Hop Music was bumping real loud.
The car and the music fit perfectly to a gangster coming to visit a fellow gang banger doing a bid. The the tinted driver’s window slid down smoothly and the guards at the gate exchanged curious looks as and they saw the driver.
Meanwhile, inside the slammer, William signed for his belongings, said “Bye and kiss my black ass!” to the guards, exchanged last hugs and taunts of, “See you soon.” He couldn’t wait to chuck out.
He almost couldn’t comprehend. Two long years and now he was a free man, soon to be on the streets again.
She was leaning against the wall, twirling her shades, and watching him. She could see the joy on his face, at being finally released. From his file, she knew that he was 24.
He picked up his duffel bag and started for the door, a big, red, leather Ruff Ryder jacket draped over his shoulders. His face and physique kind of reminded her of one of her favorite rappers, DMX. His head was shaved almost clean, with a mat of very tiny hairs. He was dark and handsome, his eyes deep, dark and hard, but smile seemed to hover at the edge of his thick, full lips. His arms were thick and powerful, so was his neck, but he wasn’t bulging, more like lean and athletic, with a muscular, streamlined body. He was dressed in a black sports tank, that seemed to have his fine, defined 6-pack imprinted on it. He wore loose, baggy jeans and Nike A1s, white of course.
William noticed the white woman watching him. He remembered her. She was the woman from his parole hearing. Her face seemed kind of familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
As his dark eyes met hers, she nodded at him and stepped up. He couldn’t tell the ages of white women easily, and what with all that cosmetic surgery stuff nowadays. He guessed her to be about thirty five.
She was tall, almost taller than him in her high heels. She had a thick, wavy mane of ruby red hair, combed open, and cascading down her shoulders. Her face was pretty, and good natured. Her brows were trimmed and penciled, giving them a sexy arch. She had big, blue eyes with speckles of hazel that kind of sparkled. Her nose was small and cute, her mouth full and pouting, and it had a light pink gloss.
The tall white ma had a fine booty and she was looking elegant and chic all right. A thin, knitted, black scarf was draped around her neck and she wore a vest on top of a white, long sleeved shirt that was draped over the alluring mounds of her proud, round breasts. She had a tapering waist and flaring, feminine and accommodating hips that were cupped in a pair of tight, blue jeans, from the Rapper, Nelly’s Apple Bottoms label. He could see the curve of her juicy, perfectly rounded butt from the front. Her thighs were strong, and athletic, with a feminine fullness to them, her legs long. She wore shiny, high heeled, black, leather boots that clacked as she walked up to him.
She had a sweet, feminine flair, but there was something resolute, strong and vibrant about her. She seemed like a person who could hold her own. And yeah, probably take dick too.
“Mmmm! Pounding that fineness! Da-ye-e-e-em!!!” That was what he thought, the young man that hadn’t seen pussy throughout his two year bid, as he wondered why she was displaying open interest in him.
She held her hand out to him, giving him a dazzling, confident smile, “Hi there William. My name is Karen. I am your PO.”
He took her proffered, dainty hand and she surprised him with a strong, firm shake. Recognition dawned on his face suddenly.
“Hi there. Karen Cosworth, right?” the young black man said, sizing her up. He gave her an appreciative smile, like “Yeah, I am feeling you, ma.”
“Yep. I thought I would pick you up, so we could get to know each other a bit, and set some things straight right from the start.”
“Is that right?” he responded, with a look that could mean anything, from “cool,” to “fuck you.”
“That’s right daddy,” Karen responded nonchalantly, holding his gaze.
Two pairs of strong, determined eyes held each other’s gaze. Then Karen softened; she did not try to stare him down, but charmed him with her winning, sweet, dimpled levent escort smile. It worked. He broke into his own dimpled smile, showing some even, white teeth.
“I am not part of the incarceration system, but a person who will do her best to help you avoid going back in that concrete and steel cage. If you will give it your best too.”
“Uh huh! You cool with that, daddy?”
“Yeah ma. I’m feeling you.”
“Good. Ready to ride?”
“Definitely,” he nodded.
Though of medium height, the young black man had a huge aura, which she could feel. Big Will, they used to call him, in his baller days. She wondered, was that because of his aura, or was he big somewhere else. Her pouting lips broke into a smile, as she turned on her heel and led him out, back into the free world.
They walked to her car, he with a confident swagger, she sort of seemed to glide, her body undulating like a snake’s, hips swaying sexily, her ass rolling. It was a long ride to her office and so before they got in, she removed her jacket and tossed it into the back and he followed suite.
“That’s a fine ass g-ride ma!”
“Thanks. Lemme get my smokes.”
She half climbed into the back and rummaged in her hand bag for a pack of cigarettes. Her jeans slid lower for a second, revealing a lace, pale blue thong disappearing tantalizingly into the deep crack between her cheeks.
William lit a cigarette, his cock stirring as he gazed at that fine ass and thong. He was wondering, “Damn! How did a white woman get all that ass. And those lips. Mmmm!” He hadn’t seen pussy in ages and he was horny. But it wasn’t just that. Ma was hot, banging.
Karen cruised along the high way, fat beats bumping, windows open, letting in the breeze, as both puffed on their cigarettes. He was sitting languidly, completely relaxed. She didn’t interrupt him, as he gazed around, at the horizon, the open fields, …
“I didn’t know there were female parole officers. Why, ma?” William asked, as they sipped their beer.
She smiled. He was curious, interested in her. Honesty was always good, in establishing contact and winning trust. Speaking truthfully and easily, she told him about herself, that there were bemused, amused reactions when she had first volunteered to work as a parole officer. Everybody like, “We know you want to do good, but these are not nice, sweet, Sunday school boys. These are hard core, black ghetto criminals, who will soon be back behind bars or dead.”
But she had pointed out her track record; working as a school teacher in —, then running programs to get youngsters out of gangs and drugs.
“Why there of all places?”
“It was kind of a fate thing, really. When I got here all the schools in good neighborhoods were fully staffed. The only place I could work was there. Everybody was like “No you cant work there. Its full of gangsters, crack heads and whores. And those blacks hate white people. They dangerous.” I mean, I was petrified! Don’t laugh…” she chuckled.
“Yeah, don’t phuk wit dem project Niggaz!” he chuckled heartily. “Why did you do it?”
“I had to eat. Ha ha ha. And I wanted to work. I mean, I trained as a teacher and psychologist to help out troubled kids, no matter their race. And it wasn’t as bad as the media made it out to be. I mean, most people saw what I was about and they showed me love. I started doing projects with the kids, and that led to an anti-gang project, yunno.”
“You ever had situations?”
“Not really. I mean, a couple of times my stuff got stolen, but the kids went and got it back for me. And after a while, nobody bothered me. I mean, when the moms and dads realized that I was really trying to help their kids, and being successful too, I got nothing but love.”
William was smiling to himself, for he had seen Karen on TV, sounding like your typical, college educated, white woman. But as they chatted and listened to Hip Hop, she was sounding like a ghetto woman with little education. He guessed it came from the fact that she had worked for years in his Hood. You couldn’t win anyone’ trust over there, sounding like Mrs Bush!
As they got close to town, she popped another CD into the player.
“Hey, check this out, its some old shit from Mega (Cormega). You know Mega?”
“Yeah. But I never bump those NYC boys.”
“Peep this. Its deep. Its called dirty game…”
She turned up the volume and the bass was so fat it made the whole car vibrate.
The music had something about it, beauty and morbidness, joy and happiness, pain and sorrow, all mixed together.
He had never really listened to Mega before. The guy was rhyming in the typical New York style, his words weaving through the beat like a speed car driver navigating skillfully through high rise blocks at high speed. And every nuance was on point like a javelin. However, it wasn’t Mega’s skills that moved him, but the lyrics.
“I maçka escort spend my days in a steel cage, Where brothers feel rage, And get real with razor blades, In ill ways, So when my cell close, My brain cells expose, And my pen excels to a part of hell froze, Inside of me was tellin’ me to stay out, Reality was tellin’ me that if I found a way out, I had to stay out, Plans I had to lay out, In order to elevate from my identity, Mentally accelerate, I seen a lot of men break down, Being an inmate, Now I realize I couldn’t make the same mistakes, It was real being concealed in steel gates, Where brothers who feel hate against a another race, Which only indicates a snake mentality, These are my days of reality”
Hook: “The streets is a dirty game, My heart’s still home in the streets, It’s a damn shame, The streets is a dirty game, But Niggaz stay strapped in the hood”
“… Look at me once a convicted felon, Once addicted to sellin’, The substance which corrupted many men in my era, … I could remember as an inmate, At Mid state I stayed in the law library, Some chose to lift weight, fine, If they content with they time, They strip us of our visits, Limit our education, Ridicule us Niggaz, Modern enslavement, Even though I’m out of the cages, I’m the voice of the soldier in the yard with the banger!”
“That shit is deep!” he nodded.
“You know, he did a bid, came out and started his own record label. He has a nice crib, a wife and two kids and he doing all right. It only shows you what you can accomplish, if you put your mind to it and work hard. Here, I got something from Cube. And the beat is from Dre! Lemme just find it. By the way, anybody ever tell you look like my favorite, X! (DMX)”
“Matter of fact!” he chuckled. Then he eyed her sharply, wondering did this white woman really know anything about Hip Hop, did she feel it, or was it just part of her act to come across as cool. “You a Hip Hop head huh?”
“True. Started off with Cube, “Today I didn’t even have to use my AK! I gotta say it was a good day!”
“Yeah, that shit was banging way, way back!” he laughed. “Cube made some songs dissing whites, yunno?” he said, smiling cheekily at her.
“I got everything from Cube. I know every jam. He wasn’t just dissing, he was saying his mind. Dialog is good. Its keeping it all locked away that is harmful.”
“True!” he nodded.
She turned the music up even louder and was bobbing her head like a ghetto, hip hop head and mumbling along to the lyrics.
“They give us guns and drugs, Then wonder why in the fuck we thugs, They wanna count the slugs, Then come around here and fuck with us (Uh huh)”
“I’m from the land of the gang bang, Since I was little, ain’t a god damn thang changed, It’s the same ol same, Bush run shit like Saddam Hussein, I cock and aim, clinically insane, To deal with this bullshit day to day, If I sell some yay or smoke some hay, You bitches wanna throw me up in pelican’s bay, Call me an animal up in the system, But who’s the animal that built this prison, Who’s the animal that invented lower living, The projects, thank god for Russell Simmons, Thank god for Sugar hill, I’m putting a different kind of steel up to my grill, Y’all know what it is, scared for your own kids, How these ghetto Niggaz taken over showbiz”
“It’s boyz in the hood, it’s toys in the hood, Y’all wanna know why there’s noise in the hood, Cause there’s drugs in the hood, thugs in the hood, Nigga killed a crip and a blood in the hood (For real), Cause when Niggaz get tribal, It’s all about survival, nobody liable, I got caught by five-oh, Grand mama came to court with her Bible, But when the judge hit the gavel, Now I’m too far from my family to travel (Fuck), I just came unraveled, Socked the D.A. before I got gaffled, Owned by C.A, State Property, Just like the year fifteen fifty three…”
“I love Ice Cube…” she said, turning down the volume as the song ended.
“Its true, what he is saying. The FBI and the government flooded the ghettos with guns and drugs to destroy the power of the Black Panthers and them. Now they lock you us or shoot us dead for it. The US government is the worst organized crime syndicate in the world.”
“Drugs destroy the black community more than anything else.”
“We aren’t the only ones with guns an drugs. And you know what, through out all my time as a roller, I did a lot of fucked up things. But one thing I never did, I never held a gun to a person’s head and forced them to take drugs.”
“A man shall be condemned or exalted by his words and actions. Blaming someone else is easy, but taking responsibility for your actions is manly.”
“Isn’t it a bit too much, for you people to expect so much from us, after all we have been through?” he asked her, his eyes hard, like he was accusing her of everything evil done by white men.
“I am not denying the fact that you don’t have an easy lot. But what can you do? Take the government to court?” she shrugged.
“The president has immunity anyway,” William laughed dryly.
“William, hate and revenge are human, but forgiveness is godly. You cant change the past but you can affect your future. You owe it to yourself, to make the best of your life.”
He nodded, looking at her with respect.
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