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Authors: Ashley & JaQuavis
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Young Carter stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the others. Carter was from the street, he was hood, and he couldn’t help it, so he wore street clothes, knowing nothing better. While he wore Sean Jean and Timberland, the men were rocking Roberto Cavalli and Ferragamo suede shoes, and everyone wore black.
He chuckled to himself.
These niggas really believe they on some Mafia shit, fo’ real. Fuck outta here. A nigga move a brick, and think he Gotti o’ somebody.
He couldn’t understand why they had formed this organization. Where he was from, hustlers didn’t come together at any point. It was a dog-eat-dog mentality, and everyone was out for self.
In the game since he was 16, Young Carter began moving bricks by age 21. He was what you call a bona fide hustler. His mother died when he was 20, and after that, he didn’t look back. He went hard on the streets. He had Flint, Michigan’s coke game on lock.
Now, at the age of 25 he ran the city, hooking up with a coke connect from Atlanta and completely taking over. Young Carter didn’t know it, but he was following in the footsteps of his father.
He focused his attention on what was being said in the meeting.
“We have to get at the Haitians somehow. We have to be strategic,” Polo said as he sat down and began to rub his hands together. He was in deep contemplation, and for the first time, he felt the burden of not having Carter’s strategic mind. Times like these, Carter was a genius at playing mental chess with the enemies.
In the middle of the discussion, Money’s cell phone rang. Normally he wouldn’t pick up his phone in the middle of a meeting, but he had been waiting on that particular call. He flipped open his cell. “Yo,” he said in his low, raspy tone.
He remained silent for a minute, while getting the information from the other end of the phone. Then he closed the phone without saying a word.
“One of my sources thinks he knows where Ma’tee resides,” Money stated, referring to the leader of the Haitian crew that had them under fire. “Maybe we need to pay him a visit.”
Oversized Chloe glasses covering her eyes and Foxy Brown pumping out of the speakers, Miamor cruised down the interstate pushing 100 mph in her rented GS coupe, her long hair blowing in the wind along with the chronic weed smoke she blew out. She could afford to buy her own car, but in her profession she had to switch up whips like she did panties, to be less noticeable. She took another long drag of the kush-filled blunt and inhaled it deeply.
Throughout the last two years, her and her crew put … their … murder … game…. down. I mean, you couldn’t mention
Murder Mamas,
if
homicide
wasn’t in the sentence. Murder for hire was the best way to sum it up. She had done numerous hits for Ma’tee; none of them resulted in these extreme measures. The recent loss of her older sister had Miamor’s mind churning. She wanted to get revenge on the man that killed her blood. But first, she needed to see Ma’tee to get more information on this guy. Only thing she knew about him was that his name was Mecca and that Ma’tee had beef with his family. When they took a job, they usually didn’t ask a lot of questions. The only question they needed answered was how much money was involved.
“I swear, that nigga is dead, word to my mutha,” Miamor said to herself in her strong New York accent. She pulled off the freeway and entered the town of Little Haiti, where Ma’tee lived.
After taking several back streets and dirt roads, she made it to Ma’tee’s residence. Miamor looked at the elegant mansion and the 15-foot steel gate that was the entryway. She pulled the luxury car up and stuck her hand out of the window to push the intercom button. A video surveillance camera faced directly toward her from the gate.
“Wan, state cha name?” a voice sounded in a Haitian accent.
Miamor yelled loud enough so she could be heard, “Yo, it’s Mia!”
Young Carter stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the others. Carter was from the street, he was hood, and he couldn’t help it, so he wore street clothes, knowing nothing better. While he wore Sean Jean and Timberland, the men were rocking Roberto Cavalli and Ferragamo suede shoes, and everyone wore black.
He chuckled to himself.
These niggas really believe they on some Mafia shit, fo’ real. Fuck outta here. A nigga move a brick, and think he Gotti o’ somebody.
He couldn’t understand why they had formed this organization. Where he was from, hustlers didn’t come together at any point. It was a dog-eat-dog mentality, and everyone was out for self.
In the game since he was 16, Young Carter began moving bricks by age 21. He was what you call a bona fide hustler. His mother died when he was 20, and after that, he didn’t look back. He went hard on the streets. He had Flint, Michigan’s coke game on lock.
Now, at the age of 25 he ran the city, hooking up with a coke connect from Atlanta and completely taking over. Young Carter didn’t know it, but he was following in the footsteps of his father.
He focused his attention on what was being said in the meeting.
“We have to get at the Haitians somehow. We have to be strategic,” Polo said as he sat down and began to rub his hands together. He was in deep contemplation, and for the first time, he felt the burden of not having Carter’s strategic mind. Times like these, Carter was a genius at playing mental chess with the enemies.
In the middle of the discussion, Money’s cell phone rang. Normally he wouldn’t pick up his phone in the middle of a meeting, but he had been waiting on that particular call. He flipped open his cell. “Yo,” he said in his low, raspy tone.
He remained silent for a minute, while getting the information from the other end of the phone. Then he closed the phone without saying a word.
“One of my sources thinks he knows where Ma’tee resides,” Money stated, referring to the leader of the Haitian crew that had them under fire. “Maybe we need to pay him a visit.”
Oversized Chloe glasses covering her eyes and Foxy Brown pumping out of the speakers, Miamor cruised down the interstate pushing 100 mph in her rented GS coupe, her long hair blowing in the wind along with the chronic weed smoke she blew out. She could afford to buy her own car, but in her profession she had to switch up whips like she did panties, to be less noticeable. She took another long drag of the kush-filled blunt and inhaled it deeply.
Throughout the last two years, her and her crew put … their … murder … game…. down. I mean, you couldn’t mention
Murder Mamas,
if
homicide
wasn’t in the sentence. Murder for hire was the best way to sum it up. She had done numerous hits for Ma’tee; none of them resulted in these extreme measures. The recent loss of her older sister had Miamor’s mind churning. She wanted to get revenge on the man that killed her blood. But first, she needed to see Ma’tee to get more information on this guy. Only thing she knew about him was that his name was Mecca and that Ma’tee had beef with his family. When they took a job, they usually didn’t ask a lot of questions. The only question they needed answered was how much money was involved.
“I swear, that nigga is dead, word to my mutha,” Miamor said to herself in her strong New York accent. She pulled off the freeway and entered the town of Little Haiti, where Ma’tee lived.
After taking several back streets and dirt roads, she made it to Ma’tee’s residence. Miamor looked at the elegant mansion and the 15-foot steel gate that was the entryway. She pulled the luxury car up and stuck her hand out of the window to push the intercom button. A video surveillance camera faced directly toward her from the gate.
“Wan, state cha name?” a voice sounded in a Haitian accent.
Miamor yelled loud enough so she could be heard, “Yo, it’s Mia!”
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