Knee Deep in the Game

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Authors: Boston George

Knee Deep in the Game
 
 
 
Boston George
 
 
 
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Knee Deep in the Game
A Novel by Boston George
 
“How far are you willing to go for your come-up?”
Chapter One
“Damn, I'm hungrier than a mu'fucka,” Pop said to himself as he heard his stomach growling out loud. He was hungry, but his appetite was for cash and at that point he would do anything to get it.
What the fuck is taking this fool so long?
he wondered as he stood anxiously in front of his building. Pop waited, his patience growing thin as each minute passed by. A smile spread across his face when he saw the Chinese-food delivery woman riding around the corner on her bike with a bag of food hanging from the handlebars. '
Bout fuckin'time,
he thought. Pop quickly ran into the lobby and waited for the Chinese woman to come in the building. Standing by the mailboxes, Pop noticed it was a lobby full of people waiting for the elevator to come.
“Fuck that, I'm making my move anyway,” Pop whispered as he hit the button buzzing the Chinese woman into the building.
“Yo, how much is it?” he asked casually as he went into his pocket to appear as if he were reaching for money.
Before the Chinese woman could respond Pop punched her in the face. The blow sent her stumbling back into the door, causing a loud noise to erupt throughout the building. Desperate to get out of Dodge, Pop hurriedly tried grabbing the bag out of the Chinese woman's hands but her grip was too strong.
Pop instantly caught the woman with a powerful right hook to the stomach. When he saw the woman doubled over, clutching her stomach, he quickly followed up with a left uppercut, knocking the Chinese lady out cold.
“Hey, what are you doing to that lady?” a woman who was waiting for the elevator screamed.
Pop ignored her and viciously dug in the Chinese lady's pockets like a vulture until he found a handful of crumpled-up bills. He quickly stuffed the money in his pocket, grabbed the bagful of Chinese food, and fled into the staircase.
“I can't stand that dirty boy, that's why Chinese people don't like to deliver to the projects no more,” one of the bystanders commented as they looked down at the bloody Chinese lady who was laid out in the middle of the lobby floor. “You know that's the fifth time this week he's done this!” another nosy lady stated once Pop was out of earshot. She didn't dare speak up in the middle of the act, in fear of seeing the wrath of the young, wild thug.
“You lying!” another person stated in shock, encouraging the woman to keep talking so that she could get filled in on the hood gossip.
Pop went straight to the roof and enjoyed his Chinese food in peace, because he knew if he had gone home, he would not have been able to enjoy his food with all of the people who lived in his house.
Pop hated that he had to steal every night just to eat, but what other choice did he have? He wasn't as heartless as it seemed, he was just a li'l nigga out for self. He had no other choice but to get his meals how he could. He didn't grow up in a fairy tale where hot dinner and early breakfast was served by Mother and Father. He was from the projects and his mother had lost her soul there before he could even remember. His mother was a crackhead/prostitute, with five children who she did very little for. So some people might think he was running around terrorizing innocent people, but Pop was simply trying to survive ... the best way he could. Pop hated his life and he didn't give a fuck about anyone but himself. He looked at it like people were on this earth just to die, so why give a fuck? Do what you can and get as much as you can before you leave this muthafucka ... straight up.
After his meal Pop decided to go home and get some rest. As soon as he stepped foot in the apartment he could tell just by looking at his mother that she was high as a kite. She had a smoker's gaze in her eyes. It was an expression that he had become accustomed to. He couldn't remember the last time that his mother had looked him in the eyes without the affects of a crack high clouding her vision.
“Where the fuck you been all mu'fuckin'day?” Teresa snarled, looking her second oldest son up and down.
“Out,” Pop shot back as he stepped over piles of clothes and garbage that laid all over the floor.
“Don't walk away from me while I'm talking to you, you son of a bitch, you don't have no manners,” Teresa fussed in an icy tone as she grabbed Pop's arm.
“Yeah, I wonder why,” Pop responded disrespectfully as he jerked his arm loose.
Teresa was about to hit him upside the head with a broom, until she heard somebody knocking on the door. She was expecting one of her regular customers and quickly forgot all about her son. She rushed to the bathroom and tried to fix herself up in the mirror. What had once been a pretty girl was now a worn-out woman who had been swallowed whole by the streets, but pussy was pussy and men were willing to pay for it as long as she serviced them correctly.
When Teresa opened the front door, the ugliest mu'fucka in the world stood on the other side.
“Hey, John. What's up, baby?” Teresa greeted with a fake smile on her face.
You tell me, sexy,” John replied. Strong, hard liquor lingered on his breath as if he himself knew that he needed to be drunk in order to enjoy the sex he had with Teresa.
“Why don't you come in my room so we can talk in private,” She suggested as the two went inside the bedroom.
Pop lay down on the floor in his room that he shared with his three brothers and one sister, trying to sleep. The constant knocking of his mother's headboard against the wall and her screams of passion made it hard for him to sleep. He couldn't ignore the disgusting sounds of her sexing her client. The thought of it turned his stomach.
“Fuck this shit,” Pop said to himself as he threw on his rundown sneakers and headed back outside.
Pop hated being in his mother's house. Some nights he would even break day outside on the bench, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the woman who had given him birth. Teresa treated Pop the worst, mainly because he looked so much like his father, who she hated. To have Pop sitting in her face all day reminding her of the man who had broken her heart was too much for Teresa to bear, so she took her frustrations out on him, blaming him for her life's misfortunes and destroying their relationship beyond repair.
When Pop made it outside he sat on the bench just chilling, eating some Doritos with the money he stole from the Chinese delivery woman. As he sat on the bench, he noticed the sexiest Spanish chick he had ever seen before walk past.
“Damn, shorty is banging,” Pop mumbled as his eyes followed her behind as she switched from side to side in her tight-fitting, spandex jeans. The sway of her hips hypnotized him as he noticed the gap between her thighs. “One of these days I'm going to bag shorty,” Pop said to himself as he watched the woman disappear inside the building. Even though the Spanish diva paid him no mind, Pop was determined to get her attention some way, somehow. He always noticed the girl coming in and out of the projects, but she never spoke to anybody; everytime he saw her she was on the move. Pop didn't know, when, where, or how, but he knew he was going to make her his girl. His thoughts were interrupted when his friend, Mike, came walking up.
“What's goodie?” Mike asked, giving Pop a pound.
“Ain't shit, I'm just out here chilling,” Pop replied, his thoughts still focused on his dream girl.
Mike wasn't really a good friend, just somebody Pop used to play ball with or smoke a blunt with every now and then. Mike was a good kid whose main focus was on school. Pop, on the other hand, hated school and made sure he cut class every chance he got so the two were cool, but it wasn't nothing serious.
“Why you sitting over here looking all lonely, nigga? Let's go to the courts and shoot some hoops,” Mike suggested.
“You talking like you want to play for some money?” Pop challenged.
“You not tired of me taking your money yet?” Mike countered, his testosterone rising.
“Don't talk me to death. We gonna do this or what?” Pop asked, cutting to the chase.
“You ain't said nothing but a word,” Mike responded as the two got up and headed to the park.
“Yo, Rusty, did them two niggas you sent to pick up that money for me ever come back?” Fresh asked, taking a long drag from his finger-thick blunt.
“Nah, them clowns got locked up; those stupid mu'fuckas went to go rob somebody before the pickup and got caught,” Rusty answered while shaking his head in disgrace.
“Damn, those were our last two soldiers,” Fresh barked, not believing how stupid these young kids were now days. “Fuck is wrong with these stupid mu'fuckas, man. I was teaching 'em how to get money ... all they had to do was lay in the cut and let the paper come to them but they want to try their hands at the stickup game.”
“I know, I guess we're going to have to find us some new goons,” Rusty answered as he took the blunt. “Don't worry, we'll have a whole new goon squad within the next two days. It shouldn't be hard to find some local wannabe tough guys dying to prove how hard they are,” Rusty assured his partner.
“Nah B,. I'm not fuckin' wit no more clowns, we been getting real sloppy since Tito got locked up. I'm starting off fresh this time just like my name, you dig? I'm recruiting all the new soldiers myself,” Fresh said, in deep thought.
“That's cool. I'll hold things down until you find us a new goon squad, plus Tito will be home next year,” Rusty reminded him.
Tito was Fresh's number-one soldier who had been riding with him since day one. Tito was nothing more than a troublemaker with nothing going for himself until Fresh recruited the young man straight off the streets. Fresh trained the young beast from scratch, molding him into one of the most feared cats on the streets. Once Tito made himself a large amount of money there was no stopping him. Tito was what you call a go-to type of nigga.
If somebody needed to be shot, Tito was the man.
If there was money to be picked up, Tito was the man.
If somebody needed to be hung out of a window or thrown off the roof, Tito was the man for that too.
He was a twenty-four-year-old Spanish kid who loved his job a little too much. He loved being an enforcer ... the only problem was he got caught up trying to help a family member get out of a jam. He held a gun to the head of some middle-school kid who had been harassing his little sister, and wound up going to jail and getting sentenced to two years. He already served one year and now had one year left to go.
“Yo, I'm about to go pick up my shorty real quick. I'm going to need you to do me a favor. I need you to go to the Bronx for me and pick up that paper that Randy got for me,” Fresh ordered as he gave Rusty a pound and headed out the door.
Fresh walked over to the curb with his hand discreetly placed over his pistol just in case there were niggas lurking, waiting to knock him off his throne. He made sure he looked over both shoulders before he hopped in his gray Range Rover and pulled off. Fresh was a major player in the street game and couldn't afford no fuckups, plus his pops—who used to be a major player back in the day—had schooled him on the game. One thing his father always told him was, “Never do something that will jeopardize what you love the most.” So with that advice in the back of his mind, Fresh never really got his hands too dirty unless he had to. Instead, he hired a goon squad to take care of everything that might jeopardize his freedom and his money. Don't get it twisted, however; Fresh was no chump. In order to get to the top he had to do what he had to do. At a young age he had wars with the best of the best, and was still standing strong ... the results were, at the age of twenty-eight, he was already a street legend and proud of it.

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