Powder Blu (3 page)

“Vomo, man, what you in here for?” Ya-Ya, one of the inmates, asked me as I walked past his cell.

Ya-Ya was an old-school gangsta from my hood. He'd been in and out of the penitentiary since he was fourteen; this time he was never going home because of the body he'd caught. Ya-Ya had a reputation out of this world. Niggas knew not to fuck with him. He worked with the Thirty-fifth Street Mafias and controlled entire cities from inside the walls.

“Man, Ya-Ya, I got into it wit' these ho-ass niggas at the corner store and when the po-pos came they said they found drugs in my car, but they ain't found shit. They set me up!”

“How much time you lookin' at?” Ya-Ya inquired.

“Five to fifteen. I ain't sweatin' it cause I know the shit wasn't mine,” I said.

“Damn, nigga, you got off easy for real,” Ya-Ya said.

“It is what it is,” I said, walking over to the small plastic mirror on my cell wall and glancing at myself.

I took my finger and traced the outline of my goatee. I was one sexy muthafucka if I had to say so myself. I was five-eleven with a slim frame. My skin was light as hell just like my fathers. I kept my long, wavy hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. I wasn't the most liked nigga in my hood; it didn't matter to me though. I didn't live off of likes. My real niggas said my runny mouth is one of the main reasons why niggas don't too much fuck wit' me. I hated to admit it, but everything that came out of it was either a lie or I was always telling somebody else's business. My momma said I inherited that shit from my father and one day it would eventually get me in trouble and man was she right!

“I heard the nigga you got into it wit' was Budz,” Ya-Ya continued.

“And?” I replied, wondering how Ya-Ya knew that.

“What y'all get into about?”

“Some bullshit,” I replied.

“You was sellin' dope all up and through that nigga's territory,” Ya-Ya said, shaking his head.

“If you know the whole story, why the fuck you keep questionin' me?” I asked, slightly irritated.

“You know you was dead wrong for that,” Ya-Ya said.

“And?”

“And you know that nigga gon' kill you, right.”

“Man, fuck Budz, faggot-ass,” I snapped angrily.

“I'm just lookin' out for you, young blood. I've been knowin' you since you was a little boy and don't wanna see nothin' bad happen to you,” Ya-Ya said, sincerely.

“Thanks, but I can handle my own.”

“I ain't gon' be around to look out for you,” Ya-Ya said.

“Nigga, you in here for murder, what you gon' do break out?” I chuckled.

“Lights out,” the guard announced over the PA before Ya-Ya could respond.

“Damn, already,” I said aloud. I soon remembered this was where all the inmates who committed class A crimes were housed. Murderers, child molesters, drug dealers, et cetera all lined the cells of cell block C and they had less privileges than the other blocks. Lights went out early in cell block C.

I sat on the bottom bunk in silence for a few seconds before I got up to call a guard. It had finally sank in that I wasn't goin' home for a long-ass time.

“Hey, CO,” I called out several times only to be ignored.

“Shut yo' ass up before I send yo' ass to the hole,” the CO finally replied.

“You ain't gon' do shit,” another inmate yelled.

“Inmate Jackson, you betta shut up before I send yo' dumb-ass to the hole wit'him,” the CO snapped.

“You ain't gon' send him nowhere,” another inmate intervened.

“Suck my dick, bitch,” another inmate hollered out.

Before long inmates were yelling and screaming throughout the pod.

I shook my head before sitting back down on my bunk. “These cats in here are crazy. Hey, Ya-Ya,” I called out to my next door neighbor.

“Wassup, young blood?”

“I just wanted to say thanks and I'll see you in the mornin',” I said.

“No problem and I doubt if you see me in the mornin',” Ya-Ya said.

“Man, what's all this talk about you not bein' here?” I asked, confused. “You 'bouta break out? If so let me in on it!”

“Naw, young blood. I got a plan though.”

“I'm for real, if you bustin' up outta here I want in,” I said desperately.

“We'll see,” Ya-Ya said.

I pulled the thin state blanket up over me and said a prayer. I could have sworn that I heard crying coming from Ya-Ya's cell but brushed it off before drifting off to sleep.

At 6:00 a.m. the inmates were awakened by the bright lights that came on every morning like clockwork.

“Chow time,” the first-shift CO, Hood, called out.

I got up and quickly, threw on my jumpsuit, splashed some water on my face, and ran my toothbrush through my mouth before walking out of my cell. I walked past Ya-Ya's cell and looked in, noticing he was still asleep.

“Ya-Ya, you betta get yo' ass up before these petty-ass COs put you in the hole,” I called out. “Ya-Ya,” I repeated. I then walked into Ya-Ya's cell and pulled the blanket from over his face and found him with his eyes wide open, dilated to the back of his head like he was in a state of shock.

I took two quick steps backward. “What the fuck! CO, CO,” I called out frantically.

“What the fuck goin' on?” CO Hood yelled as he ran down the range with his partner following close behind. They ran into Ya-Ya's cell. “What the fuck?” the CO asked, rhetorically.

“Everybody roll in,” CO Brown yelled. “Roll the fuck in.”

All the inmates in cell block C complied, fearing they would be sent to the hole. But of course this fear didn't stop them from talking shit and ghost hollering as they rolled in. I stood inside of Ya-Ya's cell with the two COs still in shock. CO Brown pushed his man down and waited for backup from the other COs. He pulled the blanket all the way off of Ya-Ya's body. He was completely naked with a hypodermic needle sticking from the brim of his penis.

“I wonder where the fuck he got the needle from?” CO Hood asked, confused.

“I don't know, but this is one less muthafucka we gotta count tonight,” CO Brown joked.

“True dat,” CO Hood said, giving his partner some dap.

“I know we gon' be on lockdown for the rest of the night so we can finish that game of dominoes we started the other night,” CO Brown said.

“I can't wait to whoop that ass.” CO Hood smiled.

I couldn't believe these two clowns was laughing and joking while my old friend lay dead. I was escorted back to my own cell and the block was on lockdown for the rest of the night. They were forced to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner inside of their cells. I wasn't in no mood to eat the slop they served. I sat speechless the entire night, not talking to anyone.

A few days had passed and even though I still hadn't got over the initial shock of Ya-Ya's death, I knew I had a bid to do and couldn't do it by worrying about the loss of my good friend. I was in my cell doing pushups when CO Brown escorted my new cellie into the cell. I got up off the floor and moved out the way.

“Meet ya new cellie,” CO Brown said, sarcastically, pushing the crazy-looking dude into the cell.

I looked at my new cellie and could tell by his eyes he wasn't wrapped too tight.

Damn, I hope I don't have to fuck this nigga up,
I thought as my cellie began unpacking his belongings. “Vomo,” I introduced myself.

My cellie didn't open his mouth; he just continued maneuvering around the small cell as if I didn't exist.

For the next several weeks, my cellie would sit in the cell staring at the wall without saying a word. I asked around about this strange cat I was forced to live with, but nobody knew anything about him. One inmate told me he'd heard that the dude killed his girlfriend and two kids execution style and continued living with them for almost two months, feeding them, bathing them, and even going as far as changing their clothes. The horrific smell from the decomposing bodies was what triggered the neighbors to call the police. I didn't know whether to believe the story because the nigga hollering this was known to lie more than me. But my cellie's actions showed signs that there might be some truth to this story.

“Shut the fuck up befo' I kill you,” I thought I heard my cellie say late one night.

“What?” I asked, still half asleep.

“You snorin' too loud, nigga, and I can't sleep,” my cellie said, angrily.

“Man, chill out, I can't help it,” I said, shocked that my cellie could even talk.

A few minutes later I drifted back off to sleep. My cellie must have quietly lowered himself from the top bunk with a pillow in one hand and a shank made out of a toothbrush in the other. He positioned himself over me bringing the pillow toward my face with the shank raised, ready to kill. Once he lowered the pillow down over my face he stuck the weapon in my side. I desperately struggled from my sleep to try and protect myself from the vicious attack. My cellie was in a rage, he kept sticking me over and over. He was very quiet and quick. Luckily, one of the guards finally decided to make a round and witnessed what was going down in the cell.

“Hey, what the fuck goin' on in there?” the CO yelled loudly while pushing his man down.

In a matter of minutes, the pod was full of COs. They opened up my cell and rushed in. One CO pulled out his Mace and sprayed my cellie in the face. He was in such a rage, it didn't even faze him; he continued going off. Not knowing what to do next another CO hit my cellie upside the head with a billy club, causing him to fall unconscious to the cement floor.

“Get these two dirt bags outta here and take 'em to the infirmary,” one of the lieutenants instructed. “Its gon' be a long night, so everybody get your stories straight; the major gon' be on our asses about this one.”

After being rushed to an outside hospital and spending the next month in the prison's infirmary recovering, I returned back to my housing unit. I spent the next few months getting my body into shape; I refused to let another nigga catch me slipping. I came to terms with the fact that if anybody else had the heart to pull another silly stunt like my old cellie did I would be spending the rest of my days behind bars and wasn't fucked up about it.

I grew up in the game at a young age. I could remember when my pops used to take me on dope runs with him, tryin' to show me the proper way to serve the feins. I had a lot of respect for my pops until he'd gotten my dick sucked by a prostitute named Candy at the age of nine. It felt good at the time, but I knew it was wrong. What typa women would suck a young boy's dick and what typa parent would encourage it? From that point on I'd lost all respect for my father and women. Every bitch I fucked wit' after that I treated 'em like shit! Even the ones who didn't deserve to get dogged, I dogged. They had my father and Candy to thank for that!

One thing I hated most about myself was how I'd inherited my father's whorish ways. I wanted to fuck everyone and I do mean everyone. Ever since I could remember bitches had been throwin' pussy at ol' Marquez Thomas Pryor aka Budz. So I made it my goal to run up in every bad bitch I ran across. Hell, I couldn't blame 'em though; I was one sexy-ass muthafucka if I do say so myself. Oh, and I had my father to thank for that, too, because I took after him. We both stood six feet one inch with washboard abs. My pops always told me that bitches didn't want no out of shape–ass nigga, but that went both ways. We both had dark, chocolate skin with short, wavy hair that I always kept nice and tight. All the bitches was hypnotized by my light brown eyes, which I also inherited from my father. As I sat back and reflected on my life, I'd fucked so many bitches I was almost tired of gettin' pussy and ass. I hated to admit it; sometimes my dick wouldn't even get hard I fucked so much. I guessed that was all a part of being a player.

 

 

I was thirteen when my father was killed in a house fire along with several other dope feins on Eightieth and Drexel. At first I was hurt, but when I found out my father was no longer selling crack but smokin' it, my hurt turned into anger. But that explained why he stopped coming around so much. I often wondered how and why he went from being “the man” to a fucking crackhead! My mom thought I wigged out because I didn't shed a tear at his funeral. The funeral was closed casket. My father's body was so badly burnt he could only be identified by his high school football championship ring on his skeletal finger.

After his death, I spun out of control. My mother couldn't tell me shit! I took all the anger I had built up in me and turned it into making a profit. I took everything my father had taught me about selling crack and put it to use. I started staying out all night slanging on Seventhy-ninth with the old heads. They couldn't believe a young cat like me knew so much about the dope game. They saw how ambitious I was about makin' my money; they didn't fuck with me and dared anyone else to. During the day the block was too hot, so I went to school, not to learn but to sell my rocks. I wasn't proud of it, but I turned a lot of young muthafuckas into notes. Hey, if they didn't give a fuck, I didn't either! Only thing I cared about was my money!

I never had a problem wit' a nigga getting in the way of me building my empire until this country-ass nigga Vomo from North Carolina moved into my hood and tried to plant his seed. I gotta give it to the nigga, he had heart. For that reason and that reason only, I opened up my turf to him and showed love until he tried to get greedy and started stepping on my toes. I quickly put a halt to that shit and we'd been enemies ever since. To this day I thought the real reason why Vomo had crossed me was because I'd been fucking both his baby mommas. It wasn't my fault; they was the ones throwing the pussy my way. What was I supposed to do, turn it down? I told the nigga my bad, but he was still acting like a bitch about the whole situation. So I said fuck it and kept fucking both of 'em until I got tired of them hoes. I sent 'em back to him, but they didn't want him, they wanted me. What was a man to do?

“Pryor, get the fuck up and pack up. You made bail,” the CO yelled into my cell interrupting my train of thought.

I quickly got up from my bunk. I looked around the cell and decided I was leaving with what I came with: absolutely nothing.

“CO, I'm ready,” I yelled.

The CO came and unlocked my cell. I smiled all the way down the corridor. I already knew my time on the streets was limited. Before I got sentenced to prison, I had to get my affairs in order and quick. My attorney told me for the right price he could get me six months, nine at the most. I had no choice but to run with it because a gun charge usually carried two to five years, so I was a lucky muthafucka. I waited for them to process me out, hailed a cab, and got as far away from the county jail as possible.