These Jive Ass Turkeys, Mane!

“Crazy bitch!” Snake stormed out of the house, nearly tearing the raggedy storm door from the hinges. The scowl etched on his face spoke volumes, but he had more to say. “That bitch out her God damn mind!”

The volatility raging in this toxic relationship was evident. Instead of addressing the severity of the matter, the jolly Ro Dog chose to ridicule his friend. “Shit, thought we was gon’ have to roll up in there. Sound like she was bout to get in dat ass.”

Eric chuckled hysterically before chiming in, “Hell yeah. Thought I heard her slangin’ yo lil ass around for a minute.”

Nearly six feet tall with a corn-rowed cranium seemingly unproportionate to his slender body, Snake’s slight frame was an easy target for the savage wise crackers he called friends. “Man, cut it out. I’uh stomp a mudhole in dat hoe. Ya’ll got me fucked up.”

Six months in, and Snake was ready to throw in the towel. He had enough of her maniacal behavior and unappreciative gratitude. To boot, she sat on the pussy as if it were aged cognac, withholding sex for almost a month. No longer would he support some uninspired, apathetic, loser of a bitch who wasn’t willing to devote equal effort to the relationship. Snake had slammed down his foot, firmly engraving his manhood in the resulting print. Unfortunately, his embattled mate didn’t share those sentiments.

Keisha Parker stomped from the house, face drenched in venom, looking past every last bystander in her path. She clanked a rolling luggage bag over the tattered planks and down the steps. “Move, nigga,” she spat while parting Ro Dog and Eric.

Known as La Keish by her peers, the entitled princess of nineteen years was as ghetto as she was feisty. Short, pretty and ornery as hell, La Keish’s powder keg temper was explosive and indiscriminate. Woman, or man; anyone could get it! While a blabber mouth often landed her in scalding hot water, she was quick to dial up a support line comprised of killers and heartless street hitters.

“Lame ass nigga.” La Keish posted up on the sidewalk, arms folded, hips slanted with her back to the trio of cackling men.

What a waste of life ⸺ — six months of it, swirled down a grimy ass drain. Snake had absolutely nothing to offer ⸺ — at least not any more. From the beginning, it was all about status. An ambitious case of clout chasing. Targeting a purported dope boy who supplied the best weed in all of Texas.

But that illustrious status never materialized. Come to find out, Snake was lucky to move an ounce of shake on a good week. A poser in every sense of the word.

As for the sexual component ⸺ — well, he didn’t have much going on in that department, either. The little garden ‘snake’ maxed out at four inches, not nearly enough to stir her needy pot. He ate a serviceable peach, but hell, even that came up short lately. Snake devoted the same lackluster effort to oral pleasure as he did life in general, rendering his total value obsolete.

Fuck this. Tantrum aside, La Keish couldn’t outrun her conscious. That nagging piece of her who knew this relationship was doomed from jump street. She would never forgive herself for not following the sound advice of her sister.

“Ay, you won’ hit dis, La Keish?” Eric offered, his outreached hand extending the blunt.

She turned and replied, “Naw, I’m straight. I’on won’ be near dat bitch any how.”

A habitual instigator, particularly in this matter, Ro Dog stirred the pot. “Oooh weee!” He turned to Snake, never relinquishing the shit-eating grin despite the scowl staring back at him. Their bond went back to grayish cheese pizza and skip parties in middle school. Friendship be damned, he nor Eric would allow Snake to bring any physical harm to Keisha. It would be suicide for all three of them.

“Girl, you betta watch yo mouth,” Snake retaliated, his mouth the only capable weapon left in the battle.

“Ay, we still cool, right?” Eric passed the blunt to Snake, yet directed his focus to the stunning woman before him.

“We cool,” La Keish answered, not bothering to even turn and face him.

Eric was the homey. Truth be told, though, she would have preferred something more than a platonic relationship. Unlike his loser ass friend, Eric was a true to life hustler. He may not have attained baller status, but his commitment to the grind could not be denied. Moreover, he was a fine young brother with dick and sex game for days ⸺ — well, according to a couple friends. If she were a tad more morally corrupt, she would have followed impulse and made a play to sooth her cravings and drive a wedge between home boys.

Silence fell over the group when a candy apple red Monte Carlo pulled along the curb. The 1989 model was as clean as new carpet. Spray-painted flakes sparkling in the sunlight. Tinted windows hiding the driver’s identity. La Keish composed herself and strolled the luggage towards the vehicle.

The driver stepped out and around to assist with her luggage, which he carefully situated in the trunk. His attire was the subject of much intrigue. The man donned a leisure suit with style dialing back to the 1970’s. The sport coat set the tone for a rich retro theme, boasting four unusually large flap-shaped pockets ⸺ — two on the chest and two at the hips. Underneath he wore a gold-on-white striped shirt with high-banded, widespread collars that mirrored the oversized flaps on his suit jacket. On his head hung a pale yellow Fedora hat, accented with a beige belt buckle fastened atop the brim.

Snake struck up a contagious snicker that quickly spread to his friends. “Da fuck?” Ro Dog started in on the ribbing, the driver’s questionable fashion sense squared up in his line of ridicule. “Dis jive soul bro ass nigga.”

Snake followed up, “Always lyin’ to ya friends ass nigga.”

Not to be outdone, Eric added, “Ole never get nothin’ in the end ass nigga.” The men broke into raucous laughter, drawing a steely glance from the driver, who suspected chicanery in their snickering, yet couldn’t make out any of the details.

Amid the cheesing and chuckling, Snake fell into the spell of speculation. Must be one of her jump-offs. Probably the cat she secretly conspired with when random phone calls sent her sneaking off to the bathroom. Shit, it might’ve been the dude who just happened to make an appearance whenever she hung out at her sister’s. Whatever the case, Snake swore solace in being rid of the female that had given him more shit than a septic tank.

“Don’t come back now, ya here,” Snake recited the commonly botched version of the familiar pop culture saying.

Belongings secured, sponsor onboard behind the wheel, La Keish looked back with one foot on the Chevy floor and spat, “Fuck you, nigga!”

“Naw, fuck you,” Snake snarled back. “Funky hoe. Go wash yo ashy ass booty.”

The personal jab set La Keish’s blood to boiling. “Yeah, that’s okay, nigga. You sho stayed wit yo tongue all up in my ass.” She dropped the mic, slammed the door, and reclined the seat as the car skirted off down the block.

“Oh shit!” Eric flew into a laughing frenzy. “Ole booty slurpin’ ass nigga.”

The boys had another tawdry tidbit to hang over Snake’s head. In reality, however, Eric would gladly run tongue laps around each of her nooks and crannies. He quietly hoped the embattled couple could hash out their differences ⸺ — if only for more sneak peeks of La Keish’s magnificent derriere.

“Ooooh … I can’t stand him!” Lips twisted, La Keish folded her arms and settled in for the ride.

“That’s what you get,” Cathy said after a laugh. She sat in the backseat, hand on the naked thigh of her latest stable prize. You ready to make some of dis real money? That’s if you done fuckin’ wit dat lame ass nigga.”

“It’s a wrap,” La Keish snapped, not up for her big sister’s snarky chastising.

“I’m serious. Cause ‘member , you said that same shit last time.”

“Yes, Cathy. I’m through wit Snake sorry ass. Can’t even eat pussy right no mo.”

Boisterous laughter boomed from the backseat. “That ain’t no problem in my camp,” Cathy smirked.

“Ohh my god.” La Keish rolled her eyes, agitated that she walked right into an innuendo laden trap.

Cameeco contributed a drowsy giggle, courtesy of the beverage holstered in the center cup console. The potent mix of syrup and soda had her drifting in and out of consciousness. She fell into a slobbering slumber for a portion of the ride, affording Cathy the opportunity to play between her pantyless legs.

“Keish … this my girl, Meeco. Meeco … this my lil sister, La Keish.”

“Sup, La Keish,” Cameeco slurred.

“Hey.” Keish meekly returned.

“I hope you fa real dis time,” Cathy interjected. “You gon’ fuck around and get dat boy hurt.” She lovingly caressed the chrome on the .357 strewn across her lap.

La Keish exhaled a ragged breath. “Shit, you can back over dat nigga wit a Mack truck. I don’t give a fuck!”

Cathy and Cameeco both laughed hysterically at Keisha’s timely Chris Tucker impression.

Follow the adventures of Cameeco, Cathy, and La Keish in Down South Hustlaz, now available on Amazon.

Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.