Angel's Revenge

Lana watched Young World go to the minibar and pour himself half a glass of Remy Martin.

“What’s wrong, Sha?” Lana asked.

“You! I tell you all the time, watch your…”

His words were silenced when Lana pulled out a.25 caliber pistol concealed in her bikini bottom.

“Happy now?” She smirked, then laid the gun on the bar.

“You still ain’t hear me come in,” he grumbled, downing the Remy in one gulp.

Lana studied her man. “What’s really wrong, Shahid? You can’t talk to me no more or somethin’?”

World looked into her face and his heart melted.

“Long trip,” he said before sitting down on a chaise longue.

“And I see you still on it,” she quipped as she eased onto the edge of his chair.

Young World didn’t reply. Instead, he stared into space for a few seconds, thinking.

“You movin’.”

“What do you mean I’m movin’? Moving where? For what?” Lana asked with a frown.

“ATL.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Lana chuckled to hide her annoyance. “Why don’t you just say how high when you want me to jump?” she remarked snidely.

World knew he wasn’t playing fair with her, but he had already made his decision and he wouldn’t allow her to sway him.

“Do you trust me, Lana?” he asked sincerely.

“With my life,” she replied without hesitation.

“Then don’t ask questions about this, okay?”

Lana sighed hard and stood up. She had a lot to say but she held her tongue.

“Whatever,” she said as she tossed her hair back nonchalantly and walked away.

“Lana!” He called her just like she knew he would. She had been with World long enough to know how to manipulate him when she wanted something. And she really didn’t want him leaving her alone tonight.

“What, Sha?” she answered without turning around, her arms folded across her breasts.

Young World admired her delicious frame in the peach bikini she was wearing. It wasn’t a thong, but her ass was so round, it might as well have been.

“These niggas want a war, so I’ma give it to ’em. I don’t want you nowhere around when it pops off.”

He broke down and explained, not knowing it had already popped off and war had already been declared on him.

“What about you? Where you gonna be when it pops off?” she turned and asked.

“On the front line where I’m suppose to be,” he declared, like he was some kind of hero.

“Like I said, whatever,” she replied, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Look, baby. I ain’t running from nobody. I just can’t. As much as I love you, I can’t. If I did, then I’d be a target on every hungry nigga’s plate! I ain’t goin’ out like that, ma. Word. You can’t ask me to.”

Lana loved him for his strength and confidence. But she was beginning to fear that those traits would become his weaknesses.

“Please, World. Don’t…”

He couldn’t explain his motives to her. It was what he felt he had to do. His hand was forced. There were no words. So he responded with a hard and passionate kiss, taking Lana’s breath away, replacing it with his own. He attempted to console her with his embrace, soothe her with his caress, and fulfill her needs with his manhood.

In the background, Jaheem’s “Just in Case” was playing, and Young World indeed made love to her like it was the last time. The energy was so intense, Lana cried tears of passion as Young World filled her with his seed of life.

“I love you, My World. Please don’t go, not tonight. Stay with me, okay?” With all his heart he wanted to, but he needed to act, and the sooner the better.

“I won’t be gone long. As soon as I can, I’ll be home.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise.”

Rahman lay on his back and looked at the bottom of the bunk over him. His celly was locked down in what everyone called the “bing” or the “hole.” In the hole you were locked down for twenty-three hours with one hour to take a shower and have recreation. So Rahman had the cell to himself. All he could think about was the Don Diva article and Angel. She said she had won her appeal. He figured she had probably already touched ground by now. The interview didn’t take place yesterday. Because his case was based on the same evidence as hers, it was certain that he’d go home soon, too. Or at least that’s what his lawyer told him. He knew he had the perfect plan, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was ready for the streets again.

It was easy to be righteous in prison. But once freed, it was another story. Like a crackhead in jail, he could easily believe he had conquered his addiction. However, when faced again with the powerful substance, the sound of the sizzle, the sweet smell of its burn, and its mind-numbing effects, could any addict resist taking that welcome-back hit? It was just like that with the streets, and Rahman knew the game was just as addictive. It was like stealing. Half the niggas he knew didn’t steal because they needed to. They stole because they liked the rush they got from stealing, the sneakiness in the take, and the thrill of getting away. Money is a high of its own. The art of the deal, the brrrap of the money counter flinging bills as it counts, the intoxicating effect of being “that nigga”-rims spinning, jewels gleaming, the VIP status everywhere he goes, and oh my God, the chicks on his dick!

Addiction. It’s what Rahman feared. Not just the streets but him on the streets. Freedom was the ultimate test for a recovering addict of the game. But even worse was a nigga with options. And Rahman had plenty of them.

He heard a cart squeaking along the corridor and looked out of his cell. It was Donald from the library, collecting books.

“As-Salaamu Alaikum, Rahman.”

“Alaikum As-Salaamu,” Rahman replied.

“Here you go, brother,” Donald said as he passed Huckleberry Finn through the steel bars to Rahman.

“What I want that for?” asked Rahman, annoyed.

“Page 137 contains a valuable message, my brother,” Donald said as Rahman relieved him of the book.

“Shakron.”

“Afwan,” Donald replied as he rolled his cart away.

Rahman opened the book to page 137 and found a folded piece of paper tucked in along the spine. He opened the slim piece of paper and read to himself:

How you? I heard our young friend came to check you. You don’t have to tell me how it went because I know the mind of a young gangsta. Remember, we already wore those shoes. Now you see firsthand what you’re up against. Your freedom is near and the moment of truth is upon us. Everything is in your hands. Move wisely. You know I’m here for you. Everything I have is at your disposal if need be. Stay focused and keep Allah first.

As for our friend, he chose… now you must choose as well.

Salaam Alaikum, Akbar.

Young World guided the pearl-white Aston Martin through traffic like a missile. His theme music pumped out of the surround sound system, banging like a war drum.

What you think the game is for? he reminded himself.

World’s destination was a strip club on Sixteenth Avenue. He was part owner of the Eleganza. His many businesses included other strip clubs, but the Eleganza was Newark’s player’s club of choice. The girls were top notch, no stretch marks, sagging bellies, or droopy titties allowed. You had to be a dime to even walk through the door. The girls were hand-picked after being interviewed, usually by one of the other partners. The interview was to strip naked and give a lap dance along with a sample of the goodies. World had interviewed some of the girls himself. He had sampled the goodies from most of them but hadn’t gotten around to knocking off the rest. It was