Street Tales Read online

  STREET TALES

  A STREET LIT COLLABORATION

  Shannon Holmes

  Wahida Clark

  Sa’id Salaam

  Reds Johnson

  Hood Chronicles

  WAHIDA CLARK PRESENTS

  Copyright 2019 © Shannon Holmes, Wahida Clark, Hood Chronicles, Reds Johnson, and Sa’id Salaam

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing

  60 Evergreen Place

  Suite 904A

  East Orange, New Jersey 07018

  1(866) 910-6920

  www.wclarkpublishing.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data:

  Shannon Holmes, Wahida Clark, Hood Chronicles, Reds Johnson, Sa’id Salaam

  Street Tales: A Street Lit Anthology

  ISBN 13-digit 9781947732483 (paper)

  ISBN 13-digit 9781947732490 (ebook)

  LCCN: 2019943686

  1. Sex - 2. Domestic violence - 3. Washington DC - 4. African American- HIV - 5.Homosexuality - 6. Violence - 7. Relationships - 8. New Jersey –

  Cover design and layout by Nuance Art, LLC

  Book design by $weet & Tasty Visual Arts

  www.artdiggs.com

  STREET TALES FOREWORD

  I was a little over a year into my 10½ -year federal prison sentence when I called home to tell them to send me some money. My niece, Kisha, said, “Wahida, we will see what we can do. Your money is gone. You are losing the house; we can’t make the payments. All the vehicles have been repossessed; your businesses have been shut down. As a matter of fact, we are packing up now and heading back to Jersey.”

  My arrest left my two teenage daughters on the outside, and my husband, Yah Yah, was also locked up. Even though I was in a federal prison camp, I had to buy my own soap powder, pay to wash clothes, pay to eat fresh fruits and vegetables from the kitchen, pay to get my hair braided, etc. I quickly learned that it cost money to live in prison.

  I was used to keeping money on my husband’s books, and thanks to my Allah, my children never wanted for anything. But now here I was at my job inside of a federal prison camp fulfilling my duty as the prison librarian.

  No money! What was I going to do? I needed to survive now! I needed to take care of my family NOW! I needed to be building up some sort of nest egg for when I got out of prison in 9½ years. Yes, I was thinking that far ahead. And having no money, and no means to make money was gnawing away at me.

  I prayed for guidance. Now, here I was sitting alone in the prison library; I picked up the XXL magazine and opened it. There was a sidebar, and at the top was a small picture of Shannon Holmes. The article said he was in prison and had written a book, B-More Careful.

  I said, “What! He’s in prison and wrote a book?” That was huge to me. I said, “I’m in prison.” I leaned back into my chair and my eyes roamed the spines of all the books surrounding me. “He’s in prison. I’m in prison.” I began to visualize my name, Wahida Clark, on the spines of all the books on the shelves. I had just shed a few tears the night before and prayed for guidance. Then it hit me. “I’m going to write a book.”

  I didn’t know what I was going to write. I didn’t know how to write, but I knew I had to make it happen. I knew I had to write a book, get it published and make some money. Right then, right there I was on the path to writing the first Street Lit book to become a series: Thugs and the Women Who Love Them. Thank you, Shannon Holmes, this anthology is dedicated to you, first and foremost.

  Now here we are, collaborating on this Street Tales project with some of the finest, most motivated authors in the game. They are dedicated to the craft of writing, the business of writing and to this genre . . . Street Lit. I salute you and I respect your hustle; we are honored to have your brilliant minds on this project. A super big shout-out goes to all those who are incarcerated but still making it happen.

  Ladies first: Reds Johnson, a young sister always on her grind; I’m looking forward to our project together. Hood Chronicles and Sa’id Salaam, this book felt like a mixtape. Lol. Authors were hitting me up, “Yo, Wahida, let me get on that.” Lol. To one of the OGs in the game, Victor L. Martin, your story My Reason will be in Street Tales Vol. 2 along with the mighty Joe Awsum’s Thots and Robbers and the longer version of In The Shadow of Darkness by Vance Phillips.

  To the readers, thank you for your support now, in advance and definitely in the future! Enjoy these tales from the streets, spun by unique voices and styles. We write the same stories, but like a wise man named Uncle Yah Yah told me, “There are as many ways to see a thing as there are people to see it.”

  Wahida Clark

  The Official Queen of Street Lit ™

  DEDICATION

  TO THE MEN AND WOMEN LOCKED DOWN

  WASTE NO TIME

  LET’S GO . . . .

  MONEY HUNGRY

  By Shannon Holmes

  What you do for money is unimportant when money is more important . . .

  Keke sat on her bed in her South Bronx apartment building, scanning through her Instagram feed as she waited for her driver to pull up. Her eyes traveled from one Instagram to the next as she peered into each person’s social media world. Like most kids in their late teens and early twenties, Keke thought with her eyes. She judged success or failure by what a person posted to their perspective page. Growing up in this Internet age, it was obvious why. However, social media was all a façade, but to Keke, her perception had become her reality.

  “Oh, this nigga is litty,” she commented, excited by the sight of the money. “He runnin’ it up!”

  Intensely, she studied a picture of a table full of money, nothing but blue-faced hundreds. It was a post from a credit card scammer, Young Haze-turned-aspiring rapper, who was using his ill-begotten gains to attain popularity in the music industry.

  The hash tags read:

  #differentkindofbag #wearenotthesame #youniggasbroke

  “I know that’s right, bro,” Keke exclaimed. “Let these niggas and bitches know.”

  Keke made a mental note to get next to him ASAP. Even if he didn’t give her a dime, she was assured of a good time while in his company—all the high-grade weed, like Gorilla Glue, she could smoke, and all the Hennessey she could drink. Plus, a picture with him would boast her online status, as well as add to her followers.

  “All you bum-ass niggas, stop dick-ridin’ my brozay and step ya fuckin’ game up,” Keke commented under the picture, leaving crying-faced emojis.

  Doing things like this excited Keke. She had a host of addictions, which she hadn’t been able to master yet—everything from designer clothes, to eating out at expensive restaurants, popping Percocet’s to partying on a nightly basis. Her way of life made her a slave to her trade.

  She continued to scroll down her Instagram feed before she began trolling her friends and a chick she disliked but followed.

  “This bitch is a bird!” she said looking at another female’s post. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit. Bitch, that’s the best you could do for ya b-day? Maybe you need to be sellin’ pussy.”

  After seeing all these weak posts, Keke decided to post a picture of herself. She angled the iPhone X lens on herself for a close-up selfie pose. Her f
ace was a compilation of perfect angles. The filters she selected made her skin look smooth, soft, and flawless.

  “You bitches ain’t got nuttin’ on me,” Keke wrote in a caption. #Baddie. #feelingmyself. #spicy.

  Keke had social media down to a science; she knew the best times to post and what to say to get the most interactions. She laughed as she posted the pictures, captions, and hash tags to all her social media accounts: Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat. She felt a sense of satisfaction in what she did. Now, she just watched and waited for the “likes” to come rolling in.

  Her good feeling only lasted for a moment. Suddenly, her phone rang, breaking her weird form of entertainment.

  “Come downstairs,” her driver spoke into the phone. “I’m outside.”

  “Comin’ down now,” Keke responded.

  Keke got up off the bed, snatched her phone charger out of the wall, and proceeded to exit her bedroom. It was impossible for her not to glance in the mirror next to the door and check out her image. She made sure every strand of hair in her cornrows was in place, and her makeup was holding up fine. She had to be looking her best. Keke didn’t know if this was going to be a long night or what. No matter what, she had to be prepared.

  Keke’s curvaceous body belied her nineteen years on this earth. Her measurements didn’t lie at 34-28-38. She crammed her phat ass into every nook and cranny of her thousand-dollar, low-rise Balmain-designer blue jeans. Her black Born Fly sweatshirt could hardly contain her breasts. To her, appearance was everything. She wasn’t born beautiful, so clothes were a big part of her appeal. So what she wasn’t all that attractive in the face? At least, she was fly as hell.

  Within a few seconds, her self-analysis was over. Keke was satisfied that her hair, lipstick, and makeup were on point. She closed the social media application on her smartphone. It was time to work.

  When it came to money, she was about her business. If it didn’t make dollars, it didn’t make sense. Her hunger for money is what separated Keke from other chicks in the hood. She was willing to do everything and anything to get it—including sell her body.

  Keke exited her apartment building with an air of confidence that made the boys that stood around stop and stare.

  “Yo, Keke, what’s good?” someone yelled out. “Can I come?”

  “Nah, nigga,” she replied. “First, get ya money right; then holla.”

  At a young age, she learned that grown men and hormone-raging boys had their own idea of beauty, and she would let their lustful words define her. However, these kids were too young for Keke to take seriously. She entered the car with a smile on her face, knowing that all eyes were on her body.

  “What’s good, ole man?” she announced. “First address is the Jet Set Hotel on Third Avenue.”

  Keke’s phone had constantly been ringing from a third-party phone application that she used to conceal her real telephone number. She had clients lined up, waiting for her arrival to perform her sexual services. Keke would take them—not in the order in which they had come—but according to the highest bidder—or whomever she determined was the easiest to deal with.

  “Yeah, I know where that is,” her driver responded. “Be there ina minute.”

  As the neighborhood cabdriver, Larry had made driving his legal hustle. He would take anyone, anywhere, in and around New York City, even out of state if the money were right. He was an ex-con who found a way to hustle the hustlers and play the players. He was a good, reliable driver with a valid driver’s license and registration . . . Someone who was indispensable in the hood. Another plus was that he was one of a select few drivers who actually let his passengers smoke weed in his car.

  Small in stature, Larry wasn’t the argumentative type. Usually, anything offensive Keke said to him went in one ear and out the other. He was there for the money—nothing more, nothing less. This was a job to him just like any other. He had to get his passenger to her destination on time.

  As he took off from the curb, Larry’s dark, leathery, skinned hands gripped the steering wheel ever so tightly. He glanced over at Keke, who busied herself putting her phone charger into the cigarette lighter.

  “Put on your seat belt,” he said. “I ain’t tryin’a get a ticket.”

  Instinctively, Keke responded, reaching over and grabbing the seat belt, placing it across her breast until it clicked into a locking mechanism. She did so to avoid hearing Larry’s mouth. She wasn’t in a talkative mood. Her body language made that very clear.

  As usual, Keke was nonverbally responsive to him. She chose once again to bury her head into the phone, checking her dates on her sideline app she had lined up for the night. She used the third-party app for privacy reasons so that the dates wouldn’t have her personal phone number. Naturally, that’s how she wanted it. She didn’t want these sex-starved weirdos calling her phone all hours of the day and night. She didn’t want anyone in her family to know how she was secretly earning her money.

  Her eyes lit up when she saw her first date of the night. It was her regular, José.

  Yes, easy money, she thought.

  Larry didn’t need to use the navigation for this one. He knew exactly where this location was. He trained his eyes on the streets as he made his way toward the destination.

  “Yo, I’m here. Could you please come to the door,” Keke spoke confidently into her smartphone to the trick.

  Keke exited the car, still on the phone. She was cool, calm, and collected as she entered the hotel. This was regular shit for her, so there was no reason to be afraid. She knew exactly what she was getting herself into. The sex act would be over soon. Most of her clients came extremely fast. In fact, she counted on it.

  She inspected her facial features one last time on her camera phone. The most unflattering part of her body was indeed her face. She shook off the feeling of disappointment. Keke had learned to live with it. She had been screwed in that department. One part of her face, in particular, seemed to jump out at whoever was in close proximity to her. She always caught people staring at her fat, mushed-in nose whenever she held a casual conversation.

  Behind her back—and sometimes to her face—they said it made her resemble a certain breed of dog called a “pug.” She was insulted more times in her life than she cared to remember over her nose. The kids in her neighborhood used to tease her, calling her “Poochie.” She hated it. In fact, Keke had promised herself if she could ever save up enough money turning tricks or run into a trick that had some real money, she was going to get herself a nose job. That would make her feel so much better about herself and less self-conscious. It would raise her stock in the looks department quite a bit, as well.

  Her big bubble lips were something that she used to get harassed about too. But as soon as she came of age sexually, that stigma became one of her most valuable assets. Every boy in the neighborhood wanted her pillow-soft lips wrapped around their penis. And for good reason. Keke had actually been performing fellatio on older boys before she allowed anyone to penetrate her. But it wouldn’t be long before she allowed some older boy to sweet-talk her out of that too.

  From the neck up, Keke was below average. But her body was another story unto itself.

  “Damn, girl! Ya body is bangin’, yo! She thick!” Their words validated her in ways that the mirror couldn’t. The sudden showering of her body with attention built up her self-esteem. She loved the idea of being wanted, no matter how degrading the remarks got. It was just the idea that she was the object of the opposite sex’s desires that stimulated her.

  Keke arrived at the hotel, and the first word that came to mind was “sleazy.” Besides a few couples that occupied the rooms, a lot of in-calls were taking place there. The pimps and hoes that gathered in the hotel had combined to turn the honest establishment into a traphouse atmosphere.

  The second floor was where the room was located. Once Keke reached the door, she knocked softly. There was no need to alarm the man. He had been expec
ting her. Instantly, the door opened, revealing a skinny, weird-looking Hispanic man. His eyes moved past Keke but then doubled back once he scanned the hallway and made sure she was alone.

  Keke was about to ask him what he was looking at when she realized that he was probably high.

  “José, you gon’ let me in or what?” she snapped. “I don’t have time to waste.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, baby.” He apologized. “Come in.”

  José stuck his head out the door to make sure Keke wasn’t followed, or the police weren’t trying to set him up. He scanned up and down the hall expecting to find someone, but no one was there. Satisfied, he closed the door.

  José was one of Keke’s regulars every Friday night after work. He liked to get high and have her come over and jerk him off. Keke didn’t care what kind of sexual deviant the man was just as long as she got paid.

  She walked over to the TV where the hotel porn channel was on and scooped up her money. She counted it silently, making sure every dollar was there. Pleased with what she counted, Keke mentally prepared herself to perform the sex act.

  Next thing she knew, José was ass naked lying on the bed with his private parts exposed. She took one look at his limp dick and knew this was going to be easy money. Walking over to him, she sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of his penis. She proceeded to pull hard on it, not taking into account what type of discomfort she might be putting him in. All Keke cared about was the money, which she already had in her possession. If he came, he came. She didn’t care. That was on him.

  Keke beat his dick so hard and fast that she swore that the man would have blue balls once she finished jerking him off. José seemed to like the treatment he was receiving. He gyrated his hips as if he were having intercourse, never losing sight of the pornography that was on TV.