"And To My N****s Livin' Street Life..."

The Great Flash Fiction experiment

“And to My N***a’s Living Street Life…”

(Flash Fiction piece, 434 words), by Mr. Deft Diction

 

“This ‘conscious’ s**t you’re kicking ain’t working…’dog’.  You need to go back to ‘the lab’, ‘grand mama’s kitchen’; or wherever the hell else you b******s hang out at, and bring me a street anthem.  We’re paying you boys a shitload of money to make street music.  To hell with your bigger message”. 

The trip part about the s**t is that Irv Steinberg used his index and middle fingers as quotation marks.  I always hated muthafucka’s that did that s**t.  It’s condescending�"especially when some fifty-something Viking is telling me how to be�"me.  I am H. Rap Now, the leader of the next big thing in Hip-Hop, and f**k those crackers making millions off of my back.  I’ma be somebody whether Irv, or them clowns that Irv tried to partner me with, like it or not.  It’s nothing…all I have to do is keep going with this new beef I started with some weak a*s rapper named Harry Ate The Henderson’s.  He’s a south-side cat, and they don’t play around; but I’m sure when we meet before this battle that s**t will be cool.  I did this diss record telling him I fucked his b***h last week�"I didn’t.  The thing is, I have to go hard on him, because if I don’t, not only will Irv not take me back, but the industry will think I’m a chump for backing down from him.  He’s the “Gangster of gangsters” in the game right now.  His reputation is solid with the streets.  He’s been in major beef, with major players.  He’s my idol.

Meanwhile, I’m just some kid who grew up in the confines of my project apartment.  The first time I played outside, I was 11�"and I had to be in when the street lights came on.  Wintertime was the worst, having to be in by 5.  I’m no punk, though.  I can rhyme anything with anything.  Well that’s not a rhyme; but you know what I mean. 

And I can’t help but chuckle about this split decision as I begin walking to his car, pistol cocked.  You see, I’ve decided that I don’t want to live scared anymore.  I pissed my pants the first time I met Harry, he was just that real.  He represented for his colors, and the hoes love it.  What way to be more gangster than him, than by eliminating him? 

Instead, the shark ate the guppy.  A shaky trigger finger on a locked 9mm make for terrible defense against a .40 caliber to the head.  And his boy took the charge, while he went platinum.  Again.

Author's Note

These pieces are 434 words (I don't count the title).