Author's note: This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached, as long as no charge is made for it and it isn't changed in any way. If it is archived, it is done so on he basis that the author will have unrestricted access to the archive.
This story is a work of fiction. None of the characters or events herein is based on real people, either living or dead. It was produced for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upsets you, do not read any further. By reading further you certify that you have accessed/requested access to this material willfully, and that you are an adult 21 years of age or older. You also certify that you are NOT a city, county, state, or federal law enforcement officer, official of the United States Postal Service, acting in the capacity of a representative of a telecommunications firm, and that this material does not offend the standards in your area, nor is it in violation of any of local, state, or federal law.
*** Dedicated to Sherry. I feel you ma.
Note: As the title says, this is a gangster story. Most of the people in South Central,Yonkers projects, South Side Jamaica Queens, or Johannesburg, Rio, Bogotá and stuff are not armed gangsters, contrary to what the KKKrazy Media suggests. (If you don't know that, I cant help you, bii-eee-oo-eetch!") However, this story is about gangsters. You hear? Just like the title suggests. Its not about decent black folk, so, you don't wanna read about that, stop reading right now.
But, knowing some of the stupid readers out there, I gotta brace myself for comments like, "You are making it seem like all blah, blah, blah..."
And lemme add, when I write, I am having a good time. I enjoy myself and laugh a lot. If my work gets some of you people pissed, well, I cant really say it saddens me. But its not really my main motivation.
In fact, I feel sorry for the imbeciles that keep reading my shit and wanna holler at me. ...Some (stupid) shit, "WTF!"
Prologue:
"I didn't become a gangster because we were starving, or our heat and phone were turned off, or I didn't have money; or I didn't have any other opportunity in Life. I became a gangster for the 4 Ps. Paper (cash) Power, Parties and Pussy. Most people in my Hood were not gang bangers and dealers. Most had decent jobs and went to church on Sunday. But to us, those people were dummies. They worked very hard, for very little money. We wanted to get paid, and drugs are easy money. You don't sell drugs, drugs sell themselves. We wanted power, and as gangsters, we were special people. We lived above the law, above the church, above society, and didn't give a fuck. Half the people were very nice to us because we had money, and the other half knew better than to mess with us. We were Kings of the Hood."
"You sound to me like you haven't learned your lesson at all," said MR DA, a mid forties ginger headed man with a sallow, freckled face and the cold, sharp eyes and voice of an Inquisitor.
"Oh, I have learned my lesson. I did some real bad, nasty things that still make me shudder. I wake up soaked with sweat, from my nightmares. But that is not the deciding factor. Jail is like a steel cage, filled with sadistic guards, bullies, hardened criminals and dangerous men. However, life in this Hell sure beats life in Gangster Paradise. You know why? Coz in here, I don't have to look over my shoulder all the time, wondering when someone is gonna try and murder me. Someone from a rival crew, someone I roughed up way back or his mans, someone out to get my jewels and cash, or just someone out to get a reputation, by killing a hard core gangster. I don't have to jump and palm my pistol every time I hear a loud, sudden sound, every time a car rolls up, or someone I don't know walks into my line of vision. Unless you have been a gangster, you can never quite appreciate what a heavy burden that is. I drank and took loads of drugs everyday, for two years, just to escape from that. I only have about three memories, from a whole year. I will never be a gangster again all my life. Believe me."
"What will you do then? You have no qualifications, no education. How will you make money, huh? You will work somewhere as a sweeper or waiter. Give us a break."
"That is where you are wrong MR DA. I finished my high school, in this cage. And I have started a correspondence degree. I will complete it on the outside, even if I have to work two damn jobs at the same time to survive. And believe me, Mr DA, I will make it."
His dark eyes were shining with determination as he gazed back at the five person parole hearing panel. Old Atkins, the boss of the slammer, looked like he was just bored. Mr DA looked like he didn't buy any of it, like he hadn't bought it even before he came around. His own lawyer, James, was glancing at the other faces kind of nervously, as he tried to read their minds and see if they had succeeded this time. There was someone from the cops, a big, burly, balding man in his mid fifties, looking kind of bored too. Then there was a woman with ruby red hair and lips, and very pale skin, that he did not know. She had been gazing at him intently all the time. And she looked like she believed him; fully.
Chapter 1
It was a sunny day but the breeze was kind of chilly. The g ride pulled up at the correctional facilities, about fifty kilometers from the city. It wasn't a street car named Desire, but a shiny, metallic Jeep, with dark tinted windows, 20" platinum rims, and yellow and red flames painted on the sides. Fat Hip Hop Music was bumping real loud.
The car and the music fit perfectly to a gangster coming to visit a fellow gang banger doing a bid. The the tinted driver's window slid down smoothly and the guards at the gate exchanged curious looks as and they saw the driver.
Meanwhile, inside the slammer, William signed for his belongings, said "Bye and kiss my black ass!" to the guards, exchanged last hugs and taunts of, "See you soon." He couldn't wait to chuck out.
He almost couldn't comprehend. Two long years and now he was a free man, soon to be on the streets again.
She was leaning against the wall, twirling her shades, and watching him. She could see the joy on his face, at being finally released. From his file, she knew that he was 24.
He picked up his duffel bag and started for the door, a big, red, leather Ruff Ryder jacket draped over his shoulders. His face and physique kind of reminded her of one of her favorite rappers, DMX. His head was shaved almost clean, with a mat of very tiny hairs. He was dark and handsome, his eyes deep, dark and hard, but smile seemed to hover at the edge of his thick, full lips. His arms were thick and powerful, so was his neck, but he wasn't bulging, more like lean and athletic, with a muscular, streamlined body. He was dressed in a black sports tank, that seemed to have his fine, defined 6-pack imprinted on it. He wore loose, baggy jeans and Nike A1s, white of course.
William noticed the white woman watching him. He remembered her. She was the woman from his parole hearing. Her face seemed kind of familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
As his dark eyes met hers, she nodded at him and stepped up. He couldn't tell the ages of white women easily, and what with all that cosmetic surgery stuff nowadays. He guessed her to be about thirty five.
She was tall, almost taller than him in her high heels. She had a thick, wavy mane of ruby red hair, combed open, and cascading down her shoulders. Her face was pretty, and good natured. Her brows were trimmed and penciled, giving them a sexy arch. She had big, blue eyes with speckles of hazel that kind of sparkled. Her nose was small and cute, her mouth full and pouting, and it had a light pink gloss.
The tall white ma had a fine booty and she was looking elegant and chic all right. A thin, knitted, black scarf was draped around her neck and she wore a vest on top of a white, long sleeved shirt that was draped over the alluring mounds of her proud, round breasts. She had a tapering waist and flaring, feminine and accommodating hips that were cupped in a pair of tight, blue jeans, from the Rapper, Nelly's Apple Bottoms label. He could see the curve of her juicy, perfectly rounded butt from the front. Her thighs were strong, and athletic, with a feminine fullness to them, her legs long. She wore shiny, high heeled, black, leather boots that clacked as she walked up to him.
She had a sweet, feminine flair, but there was something resolute, strong and vibrant about her. She seemed like a person who could hold her own. And yeah, probably take dick too.
"Mmmm! Pounding that fineness! Da-ye-e-e-em!!!" That was what he thought, the young man that hadn't seen pussy throughout his two year bid, as he wondered why she was displaying open interest in him.
She held her hand out to him, giving him a dazzling, confident smile, "Hi there William. My name is Karen. I am your PO."
He took her proffered, dainty hand and she surprised him with a strong, firm shake. Recognition dawned on his face suddenly.
