Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 20
DJ’s eyes snapped open thirteen minutes before his alarm. They always did.

He laid perfectly still in the darkness, listening to the apartment settle around him. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rumble of an early garbage truck.

DJ rolled to his feet in one fluid motion, bare toes connecting with the thin carpet that barely cushioned the concrete underneath.

He dropped to the ground, palms flat against the carpet, and began his first set of push-ups. One, two, three. His muscles burned by fifty, screamed by one hundred. He switched to sit-ups, then squats, then back to push-ups. The routine never varied. Three hundred push-ups. Two hundred sit-ups. Two hundred squats. Every morning, same order, same count.

Sweat dripped from his forehead as he finished the final set, his breath controlled and even despite the exertion.

DJ grabbed the towel he’d folded and placed on top of his clothes drawer the night before, along with the plain white t-shirt, dark jeans, and boxers he’d laid out.

The shower spray hit his skin, cold at first before reluctantly warming. DJ washed methodically: face, arms, torso, legs, back. Five minutes, no more.

The kitchen was dark as he moved through it. He grabbed his lunch box, a bottle of water along with a banana from the bowl on the counter.

The apartment door made a soft click as he pulled it closed behind him, stepping into the pre-dawn darkness. The air had that particular Los Angeles chill that would burn off by mid-morning.

The street stretched before him, empty at this hour except for a stray cat darting between parked cars. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm chirped twice.

He took the stairs down to street level, each step deliberate and silent. He stepped onto the sidewalk just as the first hint of dawn cracked the sky. Another day on the outside. Another day closer to whatever came next.

…

Stacks opened his eyes to the slant of light cutting through his blinds, already feeling the day’s weight before he’d even moved. He rolled over, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand.

“Shit,” he mumbled, though there wasn’t really anywhere he needed to be.

He propped himself up against the headboard, thumbing through Instagram, the bright squares of other people’s lives flashing by.

Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, pushing around the stale air of his apartment.

His phone buzzed with a text, then another. Stacks squinted at the messages before tossing his phone onto the rumpled sheets beside him and finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Always fucking something,” he muttered, stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders popped.

The hardwood was cold beneath his feet as he padded across the bedroom to the closet. He pushed aside empty hangers, grabbing a black tee and some washed jeans that were once pitch black. Behind a stack of shoeboxes sat the digital safe. Stacks punched in the code, the door opening with a soft beep.

Inside laid his piece and several stacks of cash, noticeably thinner than they’d been a few months back. Not enough. Not nearly enough for what he needed to handle today.

He tucked the gun into his waistband, adjusting it against the small of his back until it felt secure. The cash went into his pocket. He grabbed his keys and phone, hesitating at the door.

He rolled his neck, trying to loosen the tension gathering there.

The door closed behind him with a finality that felt like an omen. Another day, another hustle. And the clock was ticking.

…

DJ leaned against the wall of the Department of Public Works office, waiting his turn. Five men ahead of him, each one moving with the same resignation that came from doing this day after day.

When his turn came, DJ punched in his employee number and pressed his thumb against the scanner. The machine beeped once, confirming his identity. Six-fifteen on the dot.

“Wallace, you’re on Truck Three today,” the supervisor called out, not bothering to look up from his clipboard.

DJ nodded and headed toward the back lot where the trucks idled. The diesel fumes hit his nostrils as he approached, thick and acrid in the morning air.

He climbed into the back of Truck Three, joining four other men, all of which he recognized, already seated on the metal benches that lined both sides.

“Morning, sunshine,” one of them said with a grin. “Ready for another day in paradise?”

DJ gave him a tight nod but didn’t engage further. He found a spot at the end of the bench, keeping space between himself and the others. The truck lurched forward as the driver pulled out of the lot, and they all swayed with the motion, practiced at keeping their balance.

“Man, y’all won’t believe the shit that went down last night,” another one started, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

DJ tuned him out, focusing instead on the rhythm of the truck, the way it shook and rattled over every bump in the road. The story didn’t interest him. None of their stories did.

The truck merged onto the highway, joining the early morning traffic. Through the open back, DJ watched the city scroll by with strip malls, billboards and apartment complexes stacked like shoeboxes. Twenty minutes later, they pulled onto the shoulder and came to a stop.

The driver came around to the back. “Mile markers 27 to 32 today, gentlemen."

They filed out of the truck, grabbing orange vests, gloves, and garbage bags. DJ took a pick and shovel for the root work, loading them onto a cart with the other tools. The highway roared beside them, cars speeding past just feet away, drivers barely registering their presence.

By noon, the sun was high overhead, beating down on them without mercy. The others gathered under the sparse shade of a highway sign, pulling out sandwiches and snacks, bottles of soda and bags of chips. Their laughter carried over the constant hum of traffic.

DJ retreated to a spot by the truck, far enough away that their conversation became just another part of the background noise. He pulled out the lunch he’d packed that morning, leftovers from the dinner his cousin cooked. Well, the dinner she unwrapped and heated up.

He finished his lunch exactly fifteen minutes after starting, packed away his trash, and went back to work while the others lingered, stretching their break as long as they could.

The afternoon stretched on, the work repetitive and grueling. DJ welcomed the burn in his muscles, the sweat soaking through his shirt.

By four o’clock, they had cleared six bags of trash and exposed most of the root system for removal. The truck horn sounded twice, signaling it was time to pack up. DJ loaded the tools back onto the cart and pushed it toward the truck.

“Same time tomorrow, fellas,” the driver called out as they climbed back in.

The ride back was quieter, everyone worn down by the day’s labor. DJ leaned his head back against the metal wall of the truck, closing his eyes but remaining alert, counting the turns, tracking their route back to the yard.

The truck pulled back into the yard just before five. DJ waited his turn at the time clock again, punched out, and headed for the bus stop. He had just enough time to get home, shower, and start the next part of his day. The real work was still to come.

…

Stacks pulled his car into the parking lot of the Baldwin Village apartment complex, the engine’s rumble echoing between the worn buildings.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. His phone buzzed again.

The concrete stairs were littered with cigarette butts and empty chip bags as he made his way to unit 14B. The door opened before he could knock, a skinny kid with wide eyes backing away as Stacks stepped inside.

Twenty minutes later, he was back in his car, the problem handled. Not fixed, nothing ever got fixed anymore, but handled. For now.

He hit two more spots. Same routine, different locations. Different problems, same solutions. The money he collected felt light in his pocket, nowhere near what it should have been.

Benji and Peanut were already waiting at the spot when he pulled up. Benji sat on a folding chair, counting small stacks of bills while Peanut leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone.

“What we looking at?” Stacks asked, not bothering with greetings.

Benji looked up, his eyes not quite meeting Stacks’. “Seven-eight for the week.”

“Whole pot?” Stacks knew the answer before he asked. He’d been watching the numbers slide for months now.

“Yeah,” Benji confirmed, pushing the sad pile of bills toward him.

“Fuck,” Stacks muttered, running a hand over his face.

"Shit dry as hell right now, Blood," Benji shrugged, "I think the news say we in like the first stage of a recession and shit."

Stacks pocketed the money without counting it again. What was the point? It wasn’t enough. Hadn’t been enough for a while now.

“Y’all find anything?” he asked, looking between them.

Benji shifted in his seat. “Actually, yeah. My cousin Dwayne, the one that did that bid in Nevada? He met this cat from Vegas. Got a solid fentanyl plug.”

Stacks sucked his teeth. “Fentanyl? I might as well call Johnny and tell them to lock me up. Make it easy on both of us."

“It’s where the money at,” Benji insisted.

“How solid is this connect?” Stacks asked.

“Rock solid,” Benji nodded eagerly. "He won’t serve us out here but Vegas a quick ride."

Stacks paced the small room, weighing his options. There weren’t many.

“Set it up,” Stacks finally said. Not like he had a choice.

Stacks turned to Peanut. “What about you? You find anything?”

Peanut shook his head, tucking his phone away. “Nah. Like B said, streets is dry right now."

…

DJ took off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom, tossing them into the hamper. The second shower of the day was hotter than the morning one, steam filling the small bathroom as he scrubbed away the day’s grime. Highway work left a particular kind of dirt on you, a mix of exhaust, sweat, and whatever garbage they’d picked up that day.

After changing, he knelt beside the bed, reached underneath, and pulled out a small metal lockbox. The combination clicked softly: 7-4-9. Inside was several small baggies of powder, a few pills in marked containers, a wad of cash, and a small notebook. He transferred most of it to the inner pockets of his jacket, leaving most of the cash and notebook in the box.

The night air had cooled when he stepped outside. He walked three blocks before catching the bus that would take him to his first stop.

The bartender spotted him and reached for a glass. “The usual?”

“Yeah.” DJ settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar.

His ginger ale arrived, and he nursed it slowly, scanning the room. Tuesday night meant it wasn’t packed, just the regulars and a few stragglers. Right on time, a man in a wrinkled suit approached, sliding onto the stool beside him.

Two more transactions followed the same pattern over the next hour before leaving the bar with almost three hundred more than he’d entered with it.

By ten o’clock, he’d hit three more spots, each of them varying in success with the pool hall being a total dud but such was the life.

As he entered the final bar, Peanut was already there, sitting on a stool, his eyes fixed on the basketball game playing on the TV mounted above the bar.

“Lakers looking good tonight,” DJ commented.

Peanut grunted. “They aight. Ain’t gonna make it past the first round though.”

The bartender brought DJ’s usual without being asked.

“I ain’t take you for a basketball fan,” Peanut’s eyes were still on the screen.

“A good way to make money on the inside," DJ answered.

Peanut nodded like he understood, though DJ doubted if he had ever seen the inside of a cell. Peanut wasn’t much younger but had that new baby smell.

They watched in silence for a few minutes. When the commercial break hit, DJ reached into his pocket and pulled out five twenties, folded neatly. He passed them to Peanut under the bar.

“My nigga,” Peanut said, pocketing the money without counting it.

The game returned with the Lakers scoring in transition.

“That nigga actually went to our school,” Peanut said suddenly, nodding toward the screen where news of a season-ending injury played on the screen, "Keshawn Chase."

“That right?” DJ kept his tone casual.

“Yeah, I went to a few of his games when he was at Hamilton. He was nice but I ain’t think he was league nice, you feel me?"

DJ raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. “For real? That’s crazy. "You been in the neighborhood long?”

“Born and raised,” Peanut said. “Came out the baby carriage banging East Side, you feel me?"

“I’m from Compton,” DJ reminded him. “Different politics.”

“I guess.” Peanut turned back to the game momentarily. “What y’all got over there?"

"Like I said, I stayed out the way."

"I ain’t pushing up on you, homie," Peanut laughing, "I just ain’t never been that way is all."

"We moved around too much, I guess," DJ shrugged, "You got your Bloods and you got your others, just like everywhere else."

"We only got Bloods on this side, nigga," Peanut scoffed, "Shit, at least we do right now. The way this nigga Stacks running shit, a nigga might be like you in a few months. Non-affiliate ass motherfucker. How that work on the inside?"

"You mind your business, don’t get in no politic and stay out the way for real," DJ replied quickly, "The problem is half-stepping niggas that want to hang around this nigga or that nigga. If you not in, you not in it all the way."

"That’s facts," Peanut nodded, "I don’t know, I be jealous of you niggas. Y’all just out here doing business, don’t gotta be loyal to some bullshit that don’t even make sense anymore."

"I feel you," DJ nodded, filing away the comment.

“It is what it is.” Peanut straightened up. “But look, you keep doing your thing. I like the way you handle business is all."

“Appreciate that,” DJ said.

They fell into silence again, watching the game. DJ didn’t push the conversation further. There would be time for that.

The Lakers won by twelve. Peanut drained his beer and stood up. “We good for next week?”

“I’ll be here,” DJ replied.

After Peanut left, DJ stayed for another twenty minutes, nursing his drink and watching the postgame show.

When he finally stepped outside, the night had deepened, the streets quieter now. Another day on the outside. Another step closer to what came next.

[Caesar]

Stacks about to have a coup on his hands

[Soapy]

Stacks about to have a coup on his hands

lose em how you get em

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 21
The Uber’s headlights swept across the driveway as Vic checked his phone.

“This is you?” the driver asked, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“Yeah,” Vic said, grabbing his duffel bag. “Thanks.”

The walkway to the front door was a minefield of discarded red cups and empty vape cartons. The door was unlocked. Inside, the house reeked of marijuana and spilled liquor. The living room looked like it had been ransacked with couch cushions on the floor, glasses everywhere, a half-empty bottle of Don Julio 1942 on its side.

Keshawn was sprawled across the couch, one leg hanging off the edge. He was out cold, mouth open, breathing heavy.

“Ke,” Vic called, setting down his bag. No response.

A burst of giggles from down the hall made Vic turn. Three girls emerged from the bathroom, all wearing variations of the same outfit and somehow the same face. The tallest one was still adjusting her top, pupils dilated so wide her eyes looked black in the dim light. The shortest one sniffed repeatedly, rubbing at her nose.

They stopped when they saw Vic, a moment of confusion crossing their faces.

“Are you the Uber driver?” the middle one asked, her words slightly slurred.

“Nah, love,” Vic shook his head.

They exchanged glances, then the tall one just nodded, a lazy half-smile crossing her face as she led the others toward the door. None of them looked back at Keshawn.

Vic locked the door behind them and surveyed the damage. He moved to Keshawn, checked his breathing, positioned his head to the side in case he vomited.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Vic muttered, though he knew his cousin couldn’t hear him.

He picked up the worst of the trash, tossing empties into a garbage bag he found under the sink. The kitchen was just as bad with sticky countertops, more bottles, dishes piled high with half-eaten wings and the remnants of a charcuterie board.

Vic grabbed his bag and headed to the guest room. He flicked on the light and stopped in the doorway. The sheets were a tangled mess, pulled halfway off the mattress. A lacy black thong hung from the bedpost. There were stains, several stains, that Vic didn’t want to identify.

He dropped his bag by the door and sighed deeply, rubbing his hand over his face. Vic stripped the sheets off the bed, bundling them into a tight ball. He found clean linens in the hall closet and remade the bed, the way his mother had taught him.

The washing machine hummed in the laundry room as Vic dumped in the sheets, adding twice the recommended amount of detergent. He stared at the machine as it filled with water, suddenly exhausted from more than just the travel.

…

Trey sat on the edge of his bunk, fully dressed despite the early hour. Sleep had been impossible anyway, his mind churning with too many variables, too many ways this could go sideways. He had never been a fan of meetings.

The electronic buzz of the door mechanism broke the pre-dawn silence. Right on time.

Trey stood as the cell door slid open with a metallic groan. Officer Dawkins filled the doorway, his round face expressionless beneath his regulation cap. Trey stepped forward, hands at his sides. Dawkins didn’t cuff him.

They moved down the tier in silence, past rows of cells where other men slept or pretended to. A few pairs of eyes tracked their movement through narrow door slots, but nobody called out. The electronic gates opened and closed behind them as they passed through three checkpoints. Each one took them further from the general population area and deeper into the administrative section of the prison.

Dawkins led him down an unfamiliar corridor with scuffed floors before stopping at an unmarked door.

“Wait here,” Dawkins said, unlocking it and gesturing Trey inside.

The room was small, maybe ten by twelve, with concrete walls painted an institutional beige that had yellowed with age. Metal shelving units stood empty along one wall, and a folding table with two chairs occupied the center. The smell of dust and disuse hung in the air. Some kind of storage room in a previous life.

Dawkins left without another word, the door closing with a definitive click. Trey remained standing, positioning himself where he could see both the door and the entire room.

Minutes stretched by. Trey rolled his shoulders, working out the tension that had built there.

The door opened again. A small, elderly man stepped through first, dressed in pressed khakis and a button-down shirt that hung loose on his frame. His skin was deeply wrinkled, brown spots dotting his hands and face. A red lollipop stuck out from between his thin lips.

Behind him came three younger men, all with the hard eyes and watchful stance of seasoned soldiers. A CO that Trey had never seen before held the door, then continued walking down the hall without entering the room. The three men positioned themselves outside, one pulling the door closed.

The old man removed the lollipop from his mouth with a wet pop, revealing stained red lips that curved into what might have been a smile.

“I heard you pulled a lot of favors for this shit right here,” he let out a small laugh. “Must be important.”

…

Keshawn’s eyes cracked open, immediately assaulted by sunlight streaming through the windows. The couch cushion beneath his face was damp with drool. He groaned and tried to shift position, but his body protested with a symphony of aches.

The smell of bacon hit him. Keshawn squinted toward the kitchen. The counter was wiped clean. The bottles were gone.

“Morning, dickhead,” Vic called over his shoulder.

Keshawn pushed himself upright, his head throbbing in response. “What time is it?”

“About nine,” Vic flipped something in the pan.

Keshawn rubbed his face, stubble scratching against his palm.

“Appreciate you cleaning up,” Keshawn said, his voice rough.

Vic nodded, sliding eggs onto a plate.

Keshawn tried to stand and winced. His ankle. Fuck. He’d forgotten about his ankle. He scanned the room for his walking boot, spotting it halfway under the coffee table.

“You looking for this?” Vic asked, nodding toward the boot.

Keshawn nodded, limping across the room. Each step sent a dull throb through his ankle. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen island, reaching down to grab the boot.

“What was y’all celebrating? Being the first team knocked out of the playoffs?” Vic slid a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him.

Keshawn strapped the boot on, tightening the Velcro with more concentration than necessary. "You’ve got jokes."

“Yeah," Vic scoffed, "Jokes."

Keshawn shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

“And those girls? Top of their class, aren’t they?” Vic inquired.

Keshawn laughed, though it hurt his head to do so. "You my momma, nigga?"

Vic held his gaze for a moment before turning back to his own breakfast. “Whatever, nigga. What you got today?"

“Got PT at eleven,” Keshawn said, poking at his eggs without enthusiasm. “Though I’m feeling pretty sore.”

“No shit,” Vic shook his head. “You know that’s the whole point of physical therapy, right? To work through the soreness? To actually rehab that ankle so you can get back on the court?”

Keshawn pushed his plate away, suddenly not hungry. He stood, the boot making his movements clumsy. “I’m gonna shower.”

…

Stacks drummed his fingers on the bar top, scanning the check the bartender had placed in front of him.

“You need anything else?” The bartender hovered, pen in hand.

Stacks shook his head, reaching for his wallet.

That’s when he saw her walk in. She hesitated at the door, eyes sweeping the room before landing on him.

Her steps were tentative as she approached, like she was second-guessing herself with each one. Far from the confident girl he had crushed on growing up.

“Hey,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Well damn,” Stacks couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Charlene ignored the comment and flagged down the bartender.

The bartender appeared. Charlene ordered a Hennessy and Red Bull, then reached for her purse.

“Put it on my tab,” Stacks told the bartender, holding up his card before she could pull out her wallet.

“No, I got it,” Charlene protested, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it.

“Come on,” Stacks said, nodding to the bartender who took his card without further discussion, "Let a nigga do something good today."

Charlene tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you out,” Stacks said, studying her profile.

“My mom has him for the night. Thought I’d try to remember what having a life feels like,” she glanced around the bar and let out a small laugh. "Doesn’t look like I’m missing much."

Her drink arrived, and she took a long sip, closing her eyes briefly. Stacks motioned for another whiskey for himself, watching her from the corner of his eye.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the bar’s ambient noise filling the space between them. Old R&B played from speakers mounted in the corners, just loud enough to hear but not so loud they couldn’t talk.

“Still drinking that same shit from high school,” Stacks finally said, nodding toward her glass. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

His eyes traveled from her face down to where her top dipped slightly, then back up. “Not that I’m complaining."

Charlene caught him looking and scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Ain’t nothing good coming from going down that road again, Khalif.”

“You right,” Stacks nodded, though the smile didn’t leave his face. He took a sip of his fresh drink, letting the whiskey burn a path down his throat. “You been to see him lately?”

Charlene stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around her glass. “No. He doesn’t really want to see me right now.”

She took another sip, longer this time. “His mom takes Little Malc to visit, though."

“He’ll get over it,” Stacks shrugged. “Eventually.”

“I don’t care if he does,” Charlene sucked her teeth. “I already gave the prime years of my life to that man.”

Stacks tilted his head, looking at her more carefully now.

“I don’t know about prime years,” he said. "Still look better than any of these bitches in here."

She didn’t look away this time, meeting his gaze directly with a small smile that played at the corners of her mouth.

“You got a mouth on you,” she murmured, taking another sip of her drink, "I’ll give you that."

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 22
The sun baked the asphalt as Peanut guided the Impala through early evening traffic. The Vegas strip receded in the rearview mirror, its promise fading with each mile marker they passed.

“Drove all this way for some bullshit,” Peanut muttered, glancing in the mirror at Stacks sprawled across the back seat, head tilted against the window, eyes closed but not sleeping.

Benji shifted in the passenger seat, adjusting the AC vent toward his face. “Shit, at least we know now."

Peanut sucked his teeth. The connect had been clear: cash up front or nothing. No consignment. No payment plans. No exceptions.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time they hit LA county, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple. Peanut’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He pulled up to the curb outside Stacks’ building, the engine idling roughly. Stacks climbed out without a word.

Benji moved to the front seat as Stacks disappeared into the building.

“That was a waste of fucking time,” Peanut pulled away from the curb, checking his mirrors.

"Money just tight right now," Benji offered, "We can spin back once we get this chili rolling again."

Peanut shook his head. “Dro would’ve had the money ready. Niggas wasn’t starving like this."

Benji sighed, leaning back in the seat. “Nigga, I ain’t hear you complaining when the money was coming in with them Long Beach niggas."

“Fuck them crab ass niggas,” Peanut emphasized, stopping at a red light. “That shit was never gonna work."

“So what’s the solution?” Benji asked. “You been bitching since we left Vegas. What’s your fucking plan?"

“I’m just saying,” Peanut finally muttered after a few seconds of silence, focusing on the road ahead.

Benji didn’t respond. The rest of the drive passed in silence, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional ping from Benji’s phone.

…

Gloria twisted her body in front of the full-length mirror. The low-cut crop top hugged her curves and her high-waisted shorts showed off just enough leg.

Jessica lounged on Gloria’s bed, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up.

“You’re really doing the most for Karim, huh?” Jessica smirked, setting her phone down. "That’s some homie-hopping shit right there, bitch."

Gloria rolled her eyes, applying another coat of lip gloss. "The game is the game, isn’t it? Shit, if it wasn’t Karim, it would probably be MPJ. That niggas be liking my story before I even get done posting it."

“So you’re just working your way through the roster?”

Gloria turned away from the mirror to face Jessica directly. “Look, Keshawn had his chance, didn’t he? I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when that horse is a fine-ass Brazilian nigga.”

“So," Jessica tried to hide her smirk, "A horse, you say?"

…

The loud music vibrated through the floorboards as Keshawn and Vic entered the club, the cast on Keshawn’s leg causing him to have a slight limp. They navigated through the crowd, Keshawn’s height making it easier to scan over bobbing heads toward the VIP section.

Keshawn nodded toward the corner where Michael Porter Jr. held court, surrounded by bottles and bodies. Vic followed his gaze, then froze. Keshawn spotted them too with Gloria sitting pressed against Karim’s side. Jessica sat across from them, laughing at something.

Vic started peeling away toward the bar. “I’m going to grab a drink, I’ll meet you there."

Keshawn kept walking towards the section. The security guard recognized him immediately, unhooking the velvet rope.

“What up, little nigga!” Michael shouted over the music, raising a bottle in greeting.

Keshawn nodded, slid onto the couch, and grabbed one of the bottles from the ice bucket. He twisted the cap off and tilted it straight to his lips, the liquor burning a path down his throat. He gave a slight nod in Gloria and Jessica’s general direction.

Vic returned minutes later with a drink in hand, condensation already forming on the glass. He hesitated at the edge of the section before stepping in.

“Hey Gloria, Jessica,” he said, voice unnaturally bright. “Y’all good?”

Jessica smiled. “Hey Vic. Didn’t expect to see you here."

“Yeah, well...” Vic trailed off, moving to sit beside Keshawn.

Keshawn took another long pull from the bottle. He stood abruptly, moving to the railing overlooking the main floor.

Below him was a sea a body with a few faces tilted up toward the VIP section. He caught the eye of a security guard stationed at the bottom of the stairs and nodded toward a girl in a red dress. The guard followed his gaze, nodded once, and approached her.

Minutes later, she and her friends were being escorted up to their section. Keshawn returned to his seat, avoiding the occasional glances from Gloria.

“Ladies,” Michael greeted the newcomers, making room on the already crowded couches.

A girl in a silver mini-dress squeezed in beside Keshawn, her perfume heavy and sweet. “I’m Natasha,” she shouted over the music, "Thanks for the invite!"

Keshawn nodded, pouring her a drink without asking what she wanted.

The security guard appeared again, this time with another group. These women wearing even less than the first batch. The section grew more crowded, the music louder, the bottles emptier. Keshawn kept drinking, kept nodding to the security guard, kept filling the section.

…

The familiar haze of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling of the dive bar, hanging thick above the scattered patrons. Peanut drummed his fingers against the scarred wooden table, waiting.

DJ pushed through the door. Same plain white tee, same dark jeans, same expressionless face. Peanut watched him scan the room before making his way over.

“What’s good?” DJ nodded, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Same old shit, different day,” Peanut replied, taking a sip from his glass.

The bartender caught DJ’s eye and nodded, a ginger ale appearing at their table a few moments later. DJ reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded stack of bills, and slid them across to Peanut under the table.

Peanut took the money without counting it.

“Business good?” Peanut asked, tucking the bills into his pocket.

DJ shrugged. “Can’t complain. Steady.”

They sat in silence for a minute, both sipping their drinks.

“You look stressed,” DJ said finally, "The bitches wearing you out?"

“Nah,” Peanut waved him off with a small chuckle. “Just tired.”

DJ didn’t press.

Three drinks later, Peanut’s tongue had loosened.

“You know what the problem is?” Peanut leaned forward. “Motherfuckers don’t know how to run shit. They think they can just step in and take over. Like niggas families and shit ain’t counting on them and shit. Might as well get a fucking job dealing with this bullshit."

DJ nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Now Dro? That was a real OG,” Peanut continued, “I can’t say I fucked with the nigga but from where I was sitting, from what I can tell, niggas was eating. Or at least wasn’t fucking starving. It wasn’t this shit."

“Sounds rough,” DJ offered, just enough to keep Peanut talking.

“Rough?” Peanut scoffed. “Nigga, we just drove six hours to Vegas for nothing. We don’t got no fucking money. The product we got is so fucking stepped on the Jakes probably won’t even book you for that shit."

Peanut drained his glass and signaled for another. When it arrived, he took a long sip, grimacing at the burn.

“This whole shit some bullshit,” he muttered.

DJ leaned back in his chair, watching Peanut over the rim of his glass. “Sounds like you need to knock a nigga off or some thing.

Peanut furrowed his brow. “The fuck you talking about?”

“If the problem as bad as you saying it is,” DJ shrugged, "It’s really only one solution."

Peanut stared at him for a second before letting out a short laugh. “Yeah, right, nigga.”

DJ didn’t join in on the laughter.

The smile faded from Peanut’s face as realization dawned. He finished the rest of his drink in one gulp, the ice cubes clinking against his teeth. Setting the glass down with deliberate care, he pushed his chair back.

“You ain’t just a nigga staying out the way now, is you?” Peanut’s eyes narrowed, suddenly seeing DJ in a new light.

DJ stood too, draining the last of his ginger ale. His face hardened, all pretense of casual conversation gone. “Depends on how you want this to go.”

…

The apartment was cleaner than Vic expected. His eyes caught on something glinting on the kitchen counter, a heavy gold chain with a pendant.Vic stared at it for a moment, questions forming in his mind, but he pushed them aside and focused on getting Keshawn to the couch.

“Goddamn,” Vic said as Keshawn collapsed onto the cushions, "How much do you fucking weigh?"

Keshawn’s head lolled back, his eyes half-closed. “Where’s everybody else?"

Vic said, stepping back. “You were a fucking dickhead tonight."

“What?” Keshawn’s eyes opened wider, trying to focus.

“It’s a bitch trait to get sloppy drunk like that, nigga. And those girls you kept bringing over? Yeah, your dumbass is all on their Instagram page by now."

Keshawn waved dismissively. “A nigga can’t have fun."

“Fun?” Vic shook his head. “Nigga, you’re a fucking All-Star. You ever see LeBron like that? Steph? KD? Kyrie?"

“Fuck off,” Keshawn said, struggling to sit up straighter. “Season’s over for me anyway."

Vic sucked his teeth. “You still need to act like a professional.”

“Professional?” Keshawn laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet apartment. “Nigga, MPJ been in the league for damn near a decade, if not that and you see how he carries it. That’s a professional. Highest paid player on the team. Champion."

“Former champion,” Vic corrected. “Who’s no longer in Denver, probably for a reason. Now he’s bouncing around shitty teams."

“Still,” Keshawn shrugged, reaching for a half-empty water bottle on the coffee table. “I’d take his career. And don’t front – you’d take half his career. Shit, a tenth of it.”

The words stung.

“And who are you to judge?” Keshawn continued, his words slurring together. “Your bitch out there fucking a nigga named Ronnie halfway across the fucking country and your baby momma – who you cheated on your ex with by the way – at the club tonight trying to find herself an NBA nigga to take care of her. But you wanna lecture me, nigga?"

Vic opened his mouth but closed it, thinking better of it. He turned away, heading for the door without responding. His hand was on the doorknob when he stopped. He looked back at Keshawn, who had slumped further into the couch, eyes already closing again.

“If you think the best you can do is MPJ,” Vic said quietly as he looked at the chain on the counter, “I was so fucking wrong about you. We all were.”

[Caesar]

Vic should've batted the piss out of Keshawn for saying that wild ass shit.

Also, Jessica going to get dick punched in her by 20 NBA niggas is horrendous work.

[Soapy]

Vic should've batted the piss out of Keshawn for saying that wild ass shit.

Also, Jessica going to get dick punched in her by 20 NBA niggas is horrendous work.

beating up ya drunk cousin is diabolical behavior

[Soapy]

caesar said it

[Soapy]

so we must follow

[Soapy]

last one boys