Sex in the Hood Saga Read Free

in chemistry class in seventh grade, the teacher talked about “shelf life,” how a chemical lost its full potential because it would start decomposing or getting weaker after a few days, months or years. All of Duke’s friends started talking about “hood life,” how they only had a few years to do what they were going to do before they got shot, went to prison or got killed. And it was true. Most of his boys were either dead, locked up, fucked up on drugs or bums with babies they weren’t taking care of. No plan, no goal, no vision. Just living down to the sorry-ass expectations the white world had laid out for them since the first slave ship left Africa four hundred and some years ago.
    So, when Duke listened to that book hoping that someday he could actually read it, he decided he needed to focus his sex energy into his work and find just one woman to take care of it for life. That way he wouldn’t be squandering his sex power on every ho in D-town. He’d be building his business every time he was fucking his sexy-ass partner in business and in life. His wife. Duchess. Even though all this pussy was his for the taking any time, any way, any day, he knew no pussy could compare to the one he wanted. Now, rather than snack on some always available chicken wings, he would wait for the rare cut of premium filet mignon.
    First he had to make dog meat of Izz and any one of these Barrier motherfuckers who were giving each other looks that let Duke know something was up. And wrong.
    â€œLet’s roll,” Duke said to Beamer, who had zipped up his pants and was on the phone with Pound, checking to see if Duchess had arrived in the hood yet. Beamer tapped his phone to his heart, his signal that everything was cool for now.
    Duke stepped toward the hallway leading under the staircase to the back of the house.
    Where Izz might be stealin’ from me right now.
    He walked fast, with purpose, into the kitchen. Izz was at the table counting bricks of Benjamins. Two handguns sat like black eggs in a nest of cash. One of Izz’s titty bitches was standing behind him, braiding his hair, and shaking her butt-naked ass to the beat of the music. Some orange platform shoes were sticking out from under the table where another of Izz’s own hoes must have been sucking his dick.
    Dumb-ass ma’fucka can’t concentrate on cash and cummin’ at the same time.
    His boy, Rake, who was supposed to have Izz’s back, was standing at the counter, scarfing down a deep dish pizza. And catching bricks. First Rake would take a bite of pizza then look over at Izz, who would toss a brick. Rake would catch it and toss it into a brown leather backpack next to the pizza box on the counter. They did it again, and Rake didn’t even look up. He just held out his hand and caught the cash.
    My cash. These ridiculous ma’fuckas makin’ a game outta tryin’ ta get ova on The Duke.
    Duke hit that switch in his head marked BAD-ASS NIGGA-TURBO-DRIVE. He moved so fast, he was like a cat pouncing a mouse.
    Before Izz could blink, Duke was on him, with the silver tip of a gun on each of Izz’s ashy ears. Duke’s voice was deep and hard. “Ma’fucka, fin’ the rest o’ ma bank you an’ Rake stashed, an’ you can keep havin’ yo’ dick sucked.”
    Izz froze. Beamer was in front of the table, double-aiming at Rake.
    Izz groaned. “I ain’t—”
    Duke pressed the cold metal into his ears harder, to help him think more clearly.
    Izz grunted. “Yo, man. Rake.” The brown leather bag came flying. It landed on the table, making money flutter up.
    â€œPut it all in the bag.” Duke pressed the barrel tips harder into this empty-skulled motherfucker. “An’ listen close, bof y’all. One mo’ whispa that y’all even thinkin’ ’bout takin’ wha’s mine—” Duke loved the power of his deep voice that