Me, on the other hand, once I hit sixteen, all that getting whatever I wanted for nothing went out the door. Dad said he wasn’t raising no bitch niggas. He put my ass to work asap. Outside of our house, that nigga treated me like a regular ass nigga. Most mutha fuckas didn’t even know I was Big Frank’s son until later in life. Big Frank had his hands in all kinds of shit. From money laundering, extortion, and gambling… he even ran an escort service. He would never call himself a pimp though. Big Frank liked for his girls to be willing to work for him, and for the most part, them bitches loved popping coochie for him. His real bread and butter came from his loan company. He had a chain of title loans, or payday loan businesses that he ran calledLoans 4 Less.
To the average nigga, his buisness was legit, and that was what it was. But the real money came from the niggas in the streets who needed big loans without the government in they business. Big Frank was the nigga to see. That was my first job in his organization– being a runner. I dropped off the money to niggas and picked shit up. As long as a nigga paid back what they owed plus interest, everything was straight. Let a nigga try to run off on Big Frank, he’d be on their asses.
My young, entitled ass felt some type of way because to me, my dad had me doing grunt work. I was hisson. I didn't need to do low level shit like that. My daddy laughed in my face when I went to him with my chest pumped up. He told me Iwasn’t ready to run shit. I wasn’t listening though. It wasn’t until I got shot when a nigga didn’t want to pay what he owed. The nigga shot me three times, once in the chest, arm, and my leg. I was slipping, not taking shit seriously. Looking back, I should have known the nigga was on some other shit the way he was acting. At eighteen, I almost lost my life ‘cause of my arrogance but it helped a nigga grow up.
My mama was livid; she didn’t want me working with my dad. Big Frank actually agreed with her saying I might not have been ready. But I refused to let a pussy nigga stop me from getting my birthright. Six months after being shot, I told my dad I wanted another chance. He was hesitant, told me I had to prove myself. That night, he took me to the Red Room, where he’d been keeping the nigga who shot me. I never knew how crazy my dad was until that night. Big Frank had kept the nigga who shot me alive and tortured his ass everyday. I almost felt bad for the nigga when I laid eyes on him. My daddy wanted to see if I had it in me to kill the nigga. He said that it was to see if I had the heart to be in this business. Needless to say, that was my first body, but far from my last.
I worked my way up learning the ins and outs of my daddy’s empire, and now, I was running it with him. Big Frank was getting me ready to take over. I could say when I was younger I was thirsty for my spot running shit, but the older I got, the less I wanted it. The money was cool at first. Now, I had more money than I would ever be able to spend in my lifetime. Going out and fucking different bitches every night wasn’t it for me no more. I’d been rocking with the same broad for the last five years.
Not saying a nigga was faithful during our relationship, but the world knew who Mixie was to a nigga. I wasn’t fucking a new bitch every night. Maybe only once or twice a month. A nigga would get a wild hair every once and awhile. My bitch was cool with it though. Mixie didn’t mind if I got my dick wet every nowand then as long as she came first. I had hella love for Mixie; she had always been down for a nigga, even when I wasn’t treating her as a nigga should have.
Mixie and Frankee didn’t fuck with each other. Frankee said Mixie wasn’t shit. I couldn’t front like Mixie didn’t have little shit that irked my nerves, but she wasn’t as bad as Frankee made her out to be, mostly ‘cause Mixie didn’t work, but she didn’t have to. I made enough money for the both of us. As bad as I wanted my bitch and my sister to get along, I let that shit ride. Long as Mixie stayed loyal to a nigga, we’d be straight. I wasn’t placing no bitch above my bitch. If her and Frankee didn’t get along, so be it.
“Whad up, Pops?” I greeted my dad walking into his office. He stood up, dapping me up, giving me a hug too.
“Faheem, we got some shit that needs to be handled.” Big Frank never beat around the bush. When it came to business, it was head on with him.
“What’s up?” I didn’t even bother to sit down because I knew I wasn’t finna be here long.
“Clive… He’s on some bullshit. He missed his last payment. Either we can send Shortie or one of them little niggas to see what’s going on, or you can swing by there.”
Clive Weaver was an old head that used to run with my daddy back in the day. He’d always been good with us. He never missed a payment when it was time. My daddy was giving me the decision if we should have our runners fuck him up, or I give him a personal visit to deem if he was worth giving an extension too.
“He on some funny shit?”
“Tryna be. He thinkin’ ‘cause we fuck with him, shit is sweet. Clive gon’ learn the hard way; a friend today and enemy tomorrow.” Big Frank snarled, letting me know some more shit was going on that he hadn’t told me.
“I’m finna slide past his crib now and see what he got goin’ on.” I knew when Big Frank was ready for me to know everything, he would tell me.
“Call me when you finished,” Big Frank demanded as I headed out of his office.
****
You think when a nigga borrowing half a million dollars they wouldn’t be staying in a fucking bando. But the crib I pulled up in front of looked like it had seen better days. You could tell the two-story, brown brick house used to be a bright red color, the windows were either covered by dirty looking sheets or tore up blinds, the front door used to be white, but now was brown from all the dirt. The four stairs leading up to the house were cracked and uneven. This house looked like it was hanging onto its last leg. Clive needed his ass whooped off the strength of him living here knowing he could afford better than this shit. Niggas like him were the worst, and if I gave a fuck what niggas did, I would wonder what Clive was doing with the money he’d got from us. As long as he paid us back, I ain’t give no fucks of what he did or how he was living.
I got out my all white 2019Jaguar E-Pace,looking around at the run down neighborhood, and I couldn’t help notice how my car stuck out like a sore thumb.This car wasn’t shit, it was just my everyday car. Walking up the fucked up walk way, then banging on the flimsy ass door, I waited for somebody to come to the door. I didn’t even see that door was hanging off the bottom hinges. A mutha fucka could easily knock this door down with little effort.
“Who the fuck beating on my gat-dam-do’ like that?” Clive, in a drunken voice, yelled through the tattered door. “Huh? Ni-Aww, shit. What up, Baby Frank?” Clive looked at me with his glossy eyes wide in shock. He tried to shake my hand.
Instead of meeting him half way, I looked at his hand like it had shit on it for two reasons. That nigga’s hands looked like they hadn’t been washed since his mama washed his ass. I ain’t never seen a nigga with so much dirt under his nails in my life. Then, that nigga knew I hated to be called fucking Baby Frank. My name was mutha fucking Faheem Banks, not Franklin Banks. I loved my dad and looked up to him to a degree. However, I was my own nigga, lived by my own rules, and moved how I wanted. I was far from a fucking baby, and I slick felt like this nigga was tryna be funny. If Clive wanted to fuck around and find out, he could. I had some shit on me that would make him think twice about using the word baby in the same sentence.
“Nigga, don’t play with me,” I barked at his bitch ass. I had all intentions of cutting the nigga some slack, but he was finna fuck all that up.
“Aww, youngin’, I’m just fucking with you. Don’t kill a nigga over a joke.” Clive was clearly drunk as fuck. He smelled like a pile of shit. The frown on my face should have told that nigga my fuse was running short.
“Do I look like a fucking joke to you?” I asked with my brows furred together, squaring my shoulders. I saw myself knocking the nigga out just for GP. I was disgusted by this nigga in front of me right now. Anytime I’d ever seen Clive he looked put together. He wasn’t in Gucci or no shit like that, but he looked like he was maintaining. I never expected the nigga to be a bum playing dress up.
“Nn-no,no, man. I’m just going through a lot. My old lady done left. She ain’t answering my calls. I’m-”
“What yo bitch got to do with you not handling yo’ business with us? “
“I'm… I-I’m not… My head ain’t been in the game. My wife been on some bullshhh-”
“Bitch ass nigga, I ain’t been on shit but Juni’s fucking couch ‘cause you put a fourty-eight-hour restraining order on me, so I couldn’t come home!” a woman yelled as a car door slammed shut. I turned around seeing an older woman you could tell had her good days, but time was whooping her ass. Standing with rollers in her hair, a house coat, and slippers storming up the walkway with fire in her eyes, she looked like she was ready to kill both of us. “You probably had that nasty bitch you be fucking on in my got damn house.”
“Maaa!” Someone from behind the older broad called out. “You said you weren't coming over here tryna fight with Daddy.” I saw the little broad from the doctor’s office the other day. She was coming up the stairs a few feet behind her mama.
“Girl, shut the hell up. You know damn well this nigga ain’t right, and I’m not gon’ let that shit slide either.”
