FTDC: SAT Day Part II
The fellas quickly made moves to #210. The intercom code on the door touchpad (which mimicked a house phone keypad) to get in was #005, but a sturdy tug on the door handle immediately after pushing in from Mambo was all it took to bypass the code. It, along with several Jeff building doors, were in need of doing whatever the fuck Housing did to make the magnets re-magnetize enough to prevent improper entry. Oh well. They quickly made their way up the A-stairs to the second floor, turned left, entered the B-stairs, and descended to the ground level of the B-staircases, affectionately known as the “Batcave.” To their pleasant surprise, it wasn’t too scummy (not that it mattered). There were only a couple of blunt guts on the floor. There were no used condoms or the stench of dried piss. Housing must have cleaned it the day before.
“Oh shit! My nigga Mambo the Don! What up my nigga?” Steez said as he dapped Mambo first.
“Summi Steez! What’s good, my guy? Chilling?” Mambo replied.
“You already,” Summi answered.
“What up fuckboy?” T.O. asked as he dapped Steez up after Mambo.
“Eat a dick, pussy,” was Steez’s quick response as he dapped T.O. They both chuckled.
“My nigga.” Monty was the last to dap his bro.
“My nigga,” Steez retorted as he embraced Monty.
“Let’s get this shit poppin’ so we can go take this stupid ass test,” Monty proclaimed. Mambo began to laugh.
“Y’all muhfuckers are not ready,” Mambo told them between laughs.
“Word. I know I’m not,” Monty quickly asserted. “This nigga T.O. got me out here trying to be all I can be.”
“Exactly,” T.O. quickly shot back, “and why not? Who knows where this life may take us? Shit, for all we know, me and you could be Ph.D.s and shit one day.”
“You right though,” Monty agreed. “I already got my Master’s in juxes. I’m sure I’ll have my Ph.D. in no time at all. And you, you in a Ph.D. program with the best heroin dealer on the whole Eastside of Harlem. You’re being taught by the best. So yeah. I can see us being all that shit one day. Now let’s get these cheeba L’s lit. Don’t you need a bag Mambo?”
“Sure do,” Mambo replied. “More like three of those things Summi.”
“I got you,” Steez said as he reached into his crotch for his stash.
Steez, like many other hustlers in these 100 Blocks, kept his work in a bag with a drawstring. The bag never fell down a pants leg because a part of the drawstring was left above the belt or waistline of the pants. Steez chose the traditional purple Crown Royal bag as his stash, being that his dubs were husky and usually plenteous. If a hustler tucked his stash correctly, an honest/rookie/lazy cop probably wouldn’t feel or notice the stash during a standard pat down/drug search. However, most cops aren’t honest or rookies. An experienced and savvy beat walker or undercover D.T. knows better, especially if they know you’re a hustler. They’d almost certainly check there after they search the pockets. Some dirty police will even make you take your shoes and socks off as you sit on the curve in freezing weather as they search for crack or heroin bags. Yeah, the game is that filthy.
“And your math was off, by the way,” Monty told Mambo as he and Summi conducted business.
“Refresh my memory, fam,” Mambo replied as he traded three Harriet Tubmans for three husky dub sacks of the loudy loud.
“You said your L was gon turn into four. But me and T.O. put in on this together. So that makes three, correct?” Monty was that type of nigga.
“You know what,” Mambo reasoned, “you both right and you wrong. Yeah, I just assumed you two money getting niggas both had y’all own reefa L. My bad. But, looking at these dubs Summi just threw me, I’m figuring that we can use two L’s instead of just one O.D. blunt, ya heard? And I just now reached in my backpack and seen’t I got two Owls left in the five-box. I thought I only had one left. I think they call it, how you say, serendipity. So, could you do me a solid and twist this other L my nigga?”
“A White Owl? No way, Jose.” Monty barked back.
“You a funny nigga, Monty. Here. Twist that for me my nigga. Please and thank you.”
“You did say please, my nigga. So I got you,” Monty said as he grinned and took the blunt.
“Before I forget.” Mambo passed T.O. the bundle he’d requested. “Just hit me when you flip that. It’s Saturday. I know that weekend flow gon be generous to you.”
“Bet,” T.O. happily answered. “You already knew I was coming back to see you later. I’m bouta double up on this security guard nigga.”
“As you should, young lion.” Mambo was proud of the rightful hustler he’d molded T.O. into. His young apprentice was quickly on the come up.
The first two L’s of the ciph had made a couple revolutions by the time the second two were twisted. Naturally there were moments when each man had a blunt to the face. At times one of the fellas had two at once. When this happens, it’s Clique Deep tradition to hit both at once. Of course, this only enhances the experience. Within minutes, all four men were as high as Richard Pryor in ’76. Naturally, that’s when the jokes began. And of course, T.O. set it smooth off.
“Yo Monty. Anyone ever told you you resemble the bullet from Super Mario Bros.? I’m talking the whole shit. Black, screw-faced, and your bullet ass head.” He cracked himself up.
“First of all, that’s type gay my nigga,” Monty began. “But I was pillow talking with your mother after I tapped that the other night. She told me not to tell you, but your biological father is one of them DeBarge niggas. Bobby, I think. They got a Bobby, right?”
Summi almost fell to the floor laughing. Mambo damn near choked on reefa smoke as he burst into laughter. T.O. was tight.
“Fuck you, my nigga. I’m not gon get started on your mother,” was the best T.O. could muster.
“Nigga,” Monty began, “you already know my moms is 7:30. So does the entire Jefferson and half the Eastside. Please, talk your shit. That bitch would prolly cosign that shit.”
“Nah, you got that one my nigga. That’s you.” T.O. knew he’d lost that round. But his focus was now on the peanut gallery. “And fuck you niggas. Y’all niggas was laughing a little too hard. Fuck you Mambo. I’m a go harass your baby mother later on while she on the clock at the Taco Bell. And Summi. Tell your father to Fabreze that fucking cab he drives. Extra strength, my nigga. Nigga shit smell like musty underarms and somebody foot stepped in dog shit.”
“Nigga, I saw your auntie hooking in her B-stairs for Enfamil, lotto scratch offs, and bust downs on dust joints. I ain’t know that bitch did something strange for a little bit of change. I heard the slurps were A-1 my nigga.” Summi wasn’t having it. He had a full clip on deck.
“Y’all niggas gon send my laughing ass to North General [Hospital] for choking. Y’all niggas is retarded. I got that headbanger off the choke O.D. I’m high as Yao Ming,” Mambo admitted.
“I see y’all niggas came prepared today. Respect.” T.O. joined in the laughter with this PALZ.
It wasn’t long before the last blunts were down to roach mode. The time said 7:55.
“It’s about time to make moves, yo,” Monty alerted T.O.
“Yup,” Mambo added.
“Nigga, I’m extra high. Fuck that shit. I don’t even feel like taking that shit now. Keep it a hunnit, I don’t even feel like walking to Manhattan Center. The ciph got me, yo,” T.O. confessed.
“It’s like that my nigga?” Summi asked as he sighed and laughed.
“Word my nigga. It’s like that. I’m smacked right now.”
“This nigga,” Monty began. “I knew it.”
“It’s over for that nigga,” Mambo reasoned.
“Pretty much,” Monty agreed.
“Fuck it y’all. I got open crib. Y’all delinquent niggas is more than welcome. You already,” Steez assured the fellas.
“Aight then, we out,” Steez told the squad.
“What you gon do about that stop you were supposed to bust with the security nigga?” Mambo asked T.O.
“I’m bouta text that nigga right now, my nigga. That nigga gotta work his shift anyway. By the time he ready to get off the clock I’ll be ready to serve that nigga. But I need to mellow for a minute, word. Aight my nigga.” T.O. dapped his big bro.
“Bet. I should be in the hood later. Just hit me.”