Me and My Hittas Read Free Page B

mothafucka all up!”
So what?” he flipped the sunvisor down, scowling at
him through the rectangular mirror.
     
“So what? Nigga, I don’t know who’s pussy them big
ass lips been sucking on.”
    “They been sucking on yo’ mammy’s
nigga,” He
chuckled and nudged Killa Dre who gave a half hearted
smile. Big Head twisted his face up and held up the middle
finger. Woo saw him through the mirror’s reflection, still
laughing.
    Seeing their destination up ahead, Killa Dre pulled
over alongside the curb and murdered the engine. He
hopped out of the whip first, followed by Woo and Big
Head. The threesome mobbed towards the black gate of a
white two story house with a charcoal gray roof. As soon as
they entered the yard they were greeted by a collective of
four men who were shooting the shit until they arrived.
These men ranged from their mid to late twenties and held
affiliation to
the infamous
Eastside
Outlaws
Rolling
Twenties Bloods.
    There was Big Panic, a six foot two, three hundred
pound man with a shaved meaty head and a thick beard. He
was built like a refrigerator with hands the size of boxing
gloves. He was no joke, and he made it his business to make
sure no one ever thought so.
    The six foot one mahogany
complexioned
dude
beside him, stroking his nappy beard with an unmanicured
hand was Gouch. This man was a stone cold killer with a
fierce reputation. He was a mothafucking beast with his
twin Berettas
he
nicknamed The Girls.
Under no
circumstances was he to be played with.
    Gouch had been studying the Nin Jit Su style of
fighting since he was six years old. Seeing him in front of
the television set mimicking the martial arts moves he saw
in Kung Fu flicks, his grandmother decided to enroll him
into a dojo in downtown Los Angeles. The lanky killer got
real nice with his hands. In fact, he had never lost a fight.
    The brown skinned fellow posted at his left who wore
his hair in six neat cornrows that curled like snakes at the
middle of his back was the seasoned killer’s younger
brother, Pavielle, also known as O.G Booby Loco. He
wasn’t as trigger-happy as his brother, but he’d have a
fool’s momma buying a black dress in a New York minute.
You didn’t get to be an O.G before you turned twenty-three
without busting a few heads. Like his uncle Gangsta before
him, he was all about a dollar; he breathed to hustle. He
often joked that all he needed in life was G.M.B: Guns,
Money and Bitches.
“Where you get that shit from, Killa?” Pavielle asked
of the L he’d just taken from him.
    “That Rasta that be slanging them bootlegs out in
front of Superior market.”Killa Dre answered, throwing his
hood on his head and sticking his hands inside of pockets.
“For real?”
     
“Yep.”
    “I just copped an ounce from ‘em, but the shit fiya,”
he informed him. “Nigga said if I’m tryna fuck with
something larger than that then he’d have to get with his
people. I got his contact. I know yo’ unc been looking for a
better plug on the shit than he’d got, so I figured maybe they
could work something out.”
    “Good looking out.” Pavielle nodded, taking the card
that his little homie passed him. “The shit we be getting
from the eses ain’t got shit on this.” He admired the blunt
that was pinched between his fingers, smoke rising from it
and evaporating into the air. Pavielle kneeled down and
stroked the black shiny coat of his Rottweiler.
    “Yeah, we gone have to rush that, fa’ sho’,” Gouch
nodded, blowing smoke from his nostrils after taking a
couple of puffs of that shit.
“Y’all hogging the mothafucka all up and shit,” Panic
complained, having just taken the L from him.
    “Relax, fat
boy, it’s enough for everybody.” Gouch
chuckled. “Killa said he gotta ounce, right?” he looked at
the young head bussa.
    Killa Dre spat on the ground and looked back up,
nodding. He pulled an ounce from out of his pocket and
passed it to Gouch. He smiled happily and