"Aye, but I didn't do it! I didn't do shit, man. Mitch, tell 'em. Sergeant, tell 'em. You know I didn't do it," A'Marionn yelled in a panic as the marshals dragged him out of the barracks in his underwear.
"Come with me, soldier."
A'Marionn caught the eyes of each of his bunk mates' solemn but stern faces as he kicked and pleaded for the same backup he would expect on the battlefield. No one stepped forward.
The truth was, over a handful of his colleagues had a hand in harassing Fernandez, mostly lewd comments about him wearing lipstick and soliciting his talent for giving blow jobs. Any one of them could have been a suspect if A'Marionn hadn't witnessed the crime himself.
That was all she wrote. A'Marionn did a nickel in the pen and got out in three years, on account of good behavior. First thing he did was put a call in to his cousin DaVontae.
He wondered what DaVontae was up to, having heard he was still on that same hype—out there in the hood, drug sales, and petty theft. No telling how many bodies he dumped.
All was well. DaVontae was on cloud nine and excited for A'Marionn to get back home and get this money. DaVontae failed to talk in code, he was too juiced. A'Marionn, on the other hand, was so afraid of incriminating himself he hurried DaVontae off the phone.
A'Marionn had learned his lesson. Doing good didn't pay off, and, hell, doing bad had the same result, if caught. Do right by the law and end up in the pen, just the same.
He walked out of Jubilee County Prison, and the first thing that hit his fresh white tee was a gust of dirt. The soil didn't bother him, though. He welcomed it because there were no gates around it. The guards had the nerve to toss him his Marine Corps uniform from his previous tour as if he were down with the flag.
As far as he was concerned, the Iranians could walk right past him, guns blazing. He couldn't guarantee he wouldn't throw on a damn turban and blow some shit up himself. He was done with the "America the Brave" shit. He was ready to tackle a new way of life, civilian life, if his cousin DaVontae didn't get him into trouble.
He stood outside the gates of Jubilee County Prison for about fifteen minutes. He was just about to panic until he saw his cutty speeding up in a brand-new, candy-painted, old-school Camaro.
"Amari! What's up, ma nigga? They finally let yo' ass out!" DaVontae said.
"Yeah, man. They let this innocent man out!"
"Man, it's good. You out. You served your time. You can tell me. Hell, everybody in prison innocent, right?"
"I'm not jawsin' about this, cutty. I didn't do nothing. His own bunk mates killed him on some ole gay shit. I could care less if that man wanted pussy or penis. Just as long as his gun was locked and loaded when the enemy was lurking, you feel me? It's all good now, though. Granny told me to do right. I listened. Look what it got me. Absolutely nothing. So case closed. You got that work for me I asked for?" A'Marionn asked.
"You know I got it. You know I'm runnin' shit back home now, right? I got these hoes turning triple tricks a night. Got some weed going," DaVontae answered.
The next day...
"What about that white girl? You not fucking with that yet? That's where the money at, and clientele? Who you servicing? Them niggas on 8th and Browning, or you got white bread clients now?" A'Marionn asks while rolling up.
"What I need from them? I got ma goons, plenty money, and pussy. I'm good. You start fooling around with too many people or adding faulty-ass niggas to yo' crew, and then wham—you locked up. Fucking snitches, and them be the men on your team."
A'Marionn didn't faze much of what DaVontae said when he had his undivided attention. He was thinking on how he was going to build from his new pals at work. A'Marionn had no plans to work a 9 to 5, not after Adam Geldstein approached him at the office.
"Yo, man, know anyone I can score some weed and coke from?" Adam "The Suit" said as he bounced into the men's room. Adam was the rich kid in the office. He always walked around like he had his own theme song playing his head. He bought to please.
He only got the job on some hype to prove he didn't need Daddy's money, but his mother was feeding him over five grand a month for supposed groceries and help paying $400 rent for a studio apartment.
A'Marionn finished adjusting his tie in the mirror and turned the water on high velocity. He smirked and wet his dry knuckles rubbing them carefully before looking 'The Suit' in the face.
"How much?" He asked after seconds of thought that ran in his mind for at least a minute.
"A few pounds of weed and at least a brick of cocaine. Mark made manager for our Los Angeles office, that fuckin' dick! We want to get him fucked up before he leaves."
A'Marionn bellowed in laughter as he usually did at his colleague's less-than-savory humor. The job emulated prison. He was forced to do the tasks assigned to others and wear a uniform suit and tie—orange jumpsuit, same thing. Life was choking the shit out of him, and in this very moment, he felt air.
"You got $2,600 layin' around?"
"That and lots more," Wade responded pulling out a huge roll of cash.
"Ma man," Shun said, shaking Wade's hand.
It was on.
Three Months Later...
A'Marionn's BMW caught all the ladies' eyes as he rolled into the entrance of Meadow's Lake. He had a drop to make to some rather bigwigs in the upper-class white community of Bakersfield.
DaVontae wasn't at all happy about the choice A'Marionn made to sell cocaine and heroin, but he had to admit he was paid.
Soon, DaVontae even asked to join A'Marionn's team.
Money was good in the hood, but it wasn't enough to be rolling around in Bavarian Motor Works, taking cruises and shit the whole nine.
Made a nigga really mad. The green-eyed monster had undoubtedly reared its ugly head. Especially since he put A'Marionn on.
Here he was, still living in the hood, eating greasy fried chicken, drinking Kool-Aid and Hennessey, while A'Marionn ate from the best five-star restaurants in the country and drank the finest wines.
DaVontae knew A'Marionn had a few issues about putting him on, but he felt like he could handle his crew. They hadn't proved disloyalty thus far. DaVontae had to put a few knuckleheads in their place for overstepping boundary drug zones and talking out the side of their necks, but that was about it.
A'Marionn's issue with DaVontae's organization was quite simple, and he let him know about his feelings regarding the whole thing.
Basically, he felt like DaVontae wasn't worried about much of anything, like the police and the company he kept. Hell, he didn't know or trust half the cats DaVontae rolled around with.
He was fresh out. There was no way he was going to leave his freedom in the hands of the unknown. He did the dirt, A'Marionn was willing to face the consequences, but on his own accord. DaVontae's folks may appear to be loyal, but that was only because niggas followed his lead.
Soon, and this was almost always true, one of his goons was going to do one of two things. Either snitch to take him down, once caught, or plot to kill him. Set him up in order to take his spot. Goons may do the dirty work, but as they work, they learn, and soon, they get old and wise. They want to eat well and sit back too. Order would soon be disrupted if DaVontae didn't tend to his flock appropriately.
The thing with A'Marionn was that after all he had been through, he didn't follow a soul. He answered to and followed no one. He'd had enough of that in the service and in jail. He'd left the hood, for reasons he thought would prove him to be above the rules of the hood. Only the game don't love you whether you are in or out.
A'Marionn flashback pov...
Thinking Back
My grandmother used to say it was not where you lived, it was how you lived. That, and there was no reason for me to accept the idea that because I was from the ghetto I was destined to be a product of it.
So I played basketball while DaVontae sold weed at the gym's door. I got my grades up while Von watched my back. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't no pussy. I did my dirt too.
Just didn't label myself as no thug, you feel me? I did what was needed to survive. Von only protected me because he knew my worth. That's how people are, you know.
Yeah, we fam, but his dad was a crackhead, and his mama was a ho. So it was like I was the sliced bread of the family, better than the rest.
To me, Von's jealousy was unwarranted. I never got why I was so special. He was offered the same chances I was. Grandma would've taken him in as well, but he just couldn't leave the streets alone. It was like he was possessed or somethin'.
He was the one who bought me my first pair of Jordans. We were only twelve at the time. He came rushing into Granny's with official red and white thirteens.
"Try these on, nigga," He ordered as he handed them off to me. I nearly tripped over my feet, trying to take off them Walmart shows Granny bought.
He was cracking up like a hyena as I pranced around clutchin' ma shit like I was that nigga. I felt like a real boss.
I remember walking home from the neighborhood store. It was me, him, Carter, and Cheez, plus a few more. Shit! Them niggas approached me like, "Come up outta them Jordans."
I was like, "You gon' have to take these from me body." I was so proud of them shoes. I'd be damned if someone tried to punk me for 'em.
"Naw, fish ain't bitin'," I said before I threw a slew of punches. Me and the boys swarmed those two eighteen- and nineteen-year-old boys like it was nothing. From then on, the hood feared me and Von. Him especially.
When he got his gun, it was really on. Niggas wouldn't even look him in his eyes, for fear he would draw his weapon and bust on 'em.
That was the beginning to the madness, though. He was a fucking ticking time bomb, and it was only a matter of time before somebody popped him—or me.