Somehow, he escaped the rape. The next move was his to make, he thought as he moved cautiously throughout. Damn! He wondered if the police knew his identity and what happened to his man? He saw what happened to that bitch. Damn, she caught a bad break.
He had to move on because the heat was on.
That “hey yo,” that came from the shadows was sweet. She was a real nigga’s hero. She just happened to witness some real shit go down and decided to do some real bitch shit.
On the lamb, desperado– and held up in her spot. She was with the shit. All of that gangsta shit, clandestine shit, hoe shit. Whatever the act, she was the part, as long as she secured the bag. Money made her cum! And of course, guns and gangsta niggas. And this nigga was all in her head with some gangsta shit.
“Yeah, let’s get the bag, baby,” he whispered. She blushed. “Set him up, and I’ma wet him up. He’ll never know it was you, baby.”
Laid low, seat leaned back, hoodie and shades on. Money was all on his mind. He was seeing dollar signs dipped in blood. He had to get it fast.
The bag was on her mind. If she grabbed the bag that was before her, she would be that lit bitch for real.
All up in her side nigga’s crib, sucking on him and fucking on him as if she loved him. Like she didn’t just unlock the front door, so that this nigga could creep up and wet this nigga up like he said. She knew that the bag was here, so she acted the part, and dug her nails into his back and moaned louder.
While he fucked on her, he heard that particular creak in his floor, the one that he would hear as soon as he stepped in the front door. He rolled out of his bed, grabbed the muzzle and the gun, twisted it on and immediately put a bullet in her head. He knew he locked the door when he entered his home.
Now, there she lay in his bed: sexy, naked, and dead. And he ain’t have no plans on dying. So he grabbed the big shit! Automatic pump with extra ammunition. “Huh, who want war?” he screamed, pumping the shotgun.

The plot was foiled. This nigga heard the muffle shot that took the bitch’s life. Now, he wondered if he should creep back out the door. He was ready for whatever, but he came for the bag of money, and he bet that the loot was close. He weighed his options- kill this nigga, find the bag and spin before the cops come.
Doom, Doom!
The shotgun toting nigga’s finger was itchy. He blew the pump twice through the wall. Sheetrock, splinters of wood and dust filled the air. A cloud of peril.
Doom! He blew the pump again. He was screaming, “I’m ready to die,” and “come and get me, nigga!” This is how he was feeling.
If a nigga wanted the bag that he secured, niggas was dying on some gangsta shit! In addition, he was not going to jail. so niggas was definitely dying on some gangsta shit.
While that other nigga was shooting through his own walls, this nigga was rummaging through shit, trying to find the bag full of money. That bitch said it was in this house, right here in this room that he was rummaging through.
“Found it,” he exclaimed. It was right where she said it would be.
Now, that nigga was in there shooting the pump, all reckless and shit, this nigga had to get low. He was not trying to be hit. He heard sirens blaring in the distance, and that nigga was still cussing and shooting but still missing. This nigga slid out the back window and down the fire escape with the duffel bag over his shoulder, hood over his face, hand clutching the gat, thinking if he could just make it to the car without being noticed by the law or shot in his back.
Doom, Doom!
That nigga behind him sent two big shots his way. The slugs missed him, but they bent a stop sign. He sent two more, Doom, Doom! Then another two. Doom, Doom!
Metal was creaking and glass was shattering. He was not letting this nigga get away with his bag. Therefore, he chased him down the street, exchanging gun fire through the middle of traffic. He was converging on this nigga quickly… military tactics, bulletproof vest and draws on.
Pop, pop, pop! This nigga sent.40 cal. Shots!
Doom, Doom! The other nigga sent slugs back.
Along with the gunfire, sirens filled the air. This was the drum roll and the fanfare before the movie began. The drama was on, nigga. Training day– you could hear the sirens, you could smell the gun smoke and you can feel the excitement. Just another gangster movie.
It was all action, baby! He was playing the part of the nigga that was trying to slide away with another nigga’s bag, so that he could hideaway on some forever shit, because he was big wanted. He bust the .40 in threes. Pop, pop, pop! Eyeing his getaway.
Shotgun slugs whizzed by this nigga’s ear, the air reeked with the smell of murder. A slug from the pump missed his head, but blew off the head of a fleeing man. Brains and blood littered the asphalt.
“Do what I say,” he said, as he jacked his way into some unsuspecting woman’s car, “or I’ll litter the seat with your brains and blood.” He forced the .40 caliber into her stomach.
The nigga with the pump was still dumping his joint recklessly, sending shots in the other nigga’s direction. Through the pursuit, he forgot about his rear. A shot to the back of his vest reminded him. He spun around busting the pump. He knocked a pig’s leg off! As soon as the cop hit the ground, the nigga blew his brains out. He kept shooting his shotty, stepping in a circle. It seemed like the whole force had him trapped inside of the circle, and they were hitting him up. He was going out playing the part of the gangster at the end of the movie.
This was the script, so he stuck to it. Real nigga going out like a real nigga! Police busting at him. However, they could not kill a real nigga. “Fuck the police,” he screamed. The glory he could never give to the pigs. He would never allow them to take him alive. He put the pump in his mouth and blew off his own head!
“Damn!” This nigga said, looking through the rearview. He saw that the nigga just blew off his own head, on some murder suicide shit.
Before the cops could spot him, he told the driver, “now, back the fuck out of here, bitch!” He instructed her on how to make a smooth getaway, “slow… anything sudden… and you’re dead!”
“I’ll be your hostage… just don’t shoot,” she said reversing the car just as he said.
Kick her out? kidnap her?, hold her hostage? Were the questions on his mind. What was the play? He hoped that she acted right because he didn’t want to kill her.
Then she said, “if you give me half of what’s in that bag, I’ll take you to where I live.” She pushed the gun away from her stomach.
He looked astonished, “why are you looking like that,” she asked smiling, “nobody’s expecting me to be the one that has you hidden.”

Published by korymcclary1221

My name is Kory McClary, I am 34 years old. I am currently serving a lengthy sentence at the New Jersey State prison in Trenton, New Jersey. I am fighting for my freedom so that I may return to my family and loved ones. Yet, I know that it is a long, tough, and bitter battle to achieve that goal. But, with the grace of God Almighty, and for the sake of my family, I will fight on. I am using this blog as a medium to enhance my voice and to bring awareness to my unfair condition leading out of my unjust conviction. While spending almost all of my time in a cell, I chose to write so that I may voice the reality of my situation, because without awareness there can never be Justice...! To escape the harsh reality of prison, I use the pen to release my frustrations. I use the pen to manifest my imagination. And, most of all, I use the pen to Fight. I am fighting for my Life! Just by reading Kory McClary's Blog, you are giving my plight and my word's a voice. Thank you. Please, stay tuned...

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