When The Streets Are Silenced: Short Prelude "The Gift And The Curse"

Trump was the boss of the somewhat shoddy crew of thugs that surrounded the table listening to him talk. As he told his story his ego seem to be soaring. Rumor had it that he’d just been sprung from jail on a quarter of a million dollars bail. Jonathan King aka Trump, truly believed no jail cell in America could hold him. Unfortunately, to his crew, The Teflon Don seemed larger than life, farfetched, and similar to bedtime fairytales. If only they could believe in Trump’s story, their faces wouldn’t be fixed into partial scowls. He knew something wasn’t right with them. Why are all these niggas sitting around with long-ass faces like they just took a loss or something? I’m the one who just blew racks worth of work and money getting busted last week!
Six months! He stressed to his team. He couldn’t believe the feds were watching the trap on Adams Street for that long, or at least that’s what the D’s explained to him the day he got hit. They waited until he arrived to pick up his trap money to make the bust. It pissed him off just thinking about it.
“Nigga, I got out this morning. Nahjah brought her moms and pops, to make it look like they had put up the skrilla for me,” Trump explained as they listened.
“A quarter million dollar bail though?” Chubbz snorted turning his back on the man.
“How many times I gotta tell y’all niggas to stack the fuckin money. That’s the only way you gonna be able to get these crackers off your ass when shit get hot! See, y’all be thinking I’m bullshitting, but I’m a millionaire. A hood-rich nigga, you understand me?”
Trump preached and boasted as always when he felt victorious. Standing six feet tall, slim and dark skin with thick, cornrows draped to the collar of his button up, at thirty six he already financially established himself somewhere in the double digit millions. A call from Nahjah vibrated his phone which he ignored with plans of calling back. He knew she wanted nothing and was just checking on him.
Leaning against the wall, babysitting a straight shot of Henny, he recollected the call from Osires just an hour before he arrived. To Trump, he sounded like he wanted to celebrate his release, but now he just sat there playing cards with a stone face, and had barley nodded.
Fucks up with these niggas? Trump continued to ponder. The chill spot just didn’t feel like the chill spot right now. It happened to be a rental, acquired from a landlord who conveniently had an addiction to crack. Trump rented the place in a fake name, paid the man up for a year and had no contact with him since that day. For him and the team, the spot always had been a place where they could go to do whatever, fuck thots, drink, and party all night.
“You niggas is looking real shaky right now? Another spot got hit or something?” He asked feeling uncomfortable.
“Nah, shit is good, what you trippin bout,” Red replied without looking up from the card game as he smacked a card on the table. “Stack em’!”
“Word, we good, god,” Osires added with a quick glance. “Niggas is really just worried about you though, Trump. What they charge you with?”
“A fuckin possession, and a so-called sale, but I know that was a lie. They frontin, or else they would have disclose that shit to my attorney.”
“So, they offer you a plea or something?” Red asked as he removed his shades and sat them down on the table.
“Nah, not yet, they are just trying to get a reaction from me.”
“So how you get out?” Chubbz asked for a second time.
“Youngin, did you just not hear me when I walked in? I told niggas I just made bail.” Trump replied.
“Was they asking about us?” Kez inquired which was strange because the dark man hardly said anything, ever.
That’s when Trump knew something was for sure wrong. “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated? I get bagged up and you niggas looking suspect! ”
“Something bothering you, Trump? I mean shit, we just trying to make sure you alright.” Osires spoke for all of them as he began to deal the next h