Money and Murda

Forty-Two

MY HOOD REPORT

Twenty-four percent of Black and Hispanic families generate incomes that measure below the poverty line in every major city in the United States. Five out of every one hundred Black and Hispanic persons in the United States are poor, unemployed or on welfare. It is ironic that this country is recognized as the Land of the Free when prisons, shelters and institutions seem to be the only doors that are opened freely.

Black and Latino males make up 65% of the United States prison population. Inner city youth generally grow up believing that the police are the bad guys and the hustlers are the good guys. A majority of the Black and Latino youth believe that there are only a few escape routes from the ‘hood, the block, the streets, whatever you choose to call them. If they are blessed with talent, their escape routes are sports, music, and acting, but some get guided towards the underground money routes, which mislead them with false illusions of financial success.

There is a small percentage of people born and raised in the ‘hood who become college graduates, doctors, lawyers, rappers, actors, directors, authors… and the list goes on. Even with that, the fact remains: Latinos and African Americans live under conditions of intense racial segregation in the Land of the Free. We are the nation’s most isolated and geographically secluded people. In most metropolitan areas, we live in over-crowded and underprivileged neighborhoods. Although these congested neighborhoods brandish the good, a strong family foundation, hard workers and good parents, they are also breeding grounds for the bad and the ugly, which are drug dealers, murderers, gang affiliations and convicts.

It’s not surprising that the life expectancy of a young Hispanic or Black male in Harlem is the same as if he were born in some third world nations. Despite what the statistics show, these kids still have hopes and dreams of being the next LeBron James, the next 50-Cent, or the next Scarface. They don’t care if it’s good, bad or ugly, as long as they can eat, dress nice and have a lot of money in their pockets.

I am a veteran of the Ghetto Storm and I have experienced every aspect of the ‘hood and what it consists of. I have also experienced living in a jail cell physically, mentally, and spiritually. I understand the struggle outside oneself and within oneself. It is only through the blessings and mercy of God and the prayer of the righteous people that I am alive to bear witness to this fact.

I don’t glorify the genocide in our neighborhoods. I don’t glorify the crack epidemic, nor do I intend to empower the drug dealer. These are, however, every day realities. It’s Hip-Hop, just a different type of music!

I have plenty of stories to tell and I am gonna tell it through my pen. I want my readers to get a full understanding of why the ‘hood is so DAMN ‘HOOD!! The overcrowded concrete jungle, also recognized as the ghetto, the projects, the barrio is controlled all day, every day by Money and Murder.

Enjoy,

Fred Brown

Chapter One

"Do you see the gun and the mask?

I ain’t Batman… I’m Robbin’ yo ass!!"

– Fred Brown

New York, New York

Demetrius Thomas, a.k.a. Money, was riding in the passenger seat of his 2006 cranberry sauce colored Cadillac Escalade ESV. He was pissed off, which was never a good sign. His driver was taking him to the apartment of some people that were about to be tortured, then killed. This would send a message to the streets as to how Money dealt with people who disrespected his block.

His block was New York City. Money was a 23-year-old, self-made millionaire. The streets called him a hustler. The DEA called him a kingpin. He was loved by few and hated by many. The people that hated him were not a concern. However, if they crossed his line, they might as well bring their casket and tombstone with them. That's how powerful and dangerous he was.

$$$$$$

One Month Earlier – Brooklyn, New York

Every ‘hood and borough, especially Brooklyn, knew the name Money, but very few people had ever seen his face. This was one of the rare times that Money had volunteered to witness the execution of some broke-ass, hungry kid trying to eat off of his plate without asking. Money respected the hustle from the G’s to the 10’s, as long as the hustle didn’t disrespect him or members of his team. Unfortunately, someone made this mistake and was about to pay a severe price… their life!

Castro was finally home after serving six years in Attica and Comstock for a robbery. He was a known gang affiliate who didn’t do too much talking; he let the guns do his talking for him. Whatever wasn’t given to him, he was willing to take -by any means necessary. He came home from jail hungry in every sense of the word. Now he was ready to eat and was on his grind. He was willing to shed blood for the grind, and he was willing to die for the grind. Castro was a loose cannon and didn’t give a fuck about anybody except himself.

On this particular day, Castro couldn’t help but notice a lot of movement coming in and out of a crib near his cousin’s house in Bedstuy, Brooklyn. Anyone that knew the game could put one and one together and recognize that these niggas were in the crib getting some change. Castro watched the crib for a few days, without being noticed. Now it was time to put a plan together.

Skully was a Brooklyn-born soldier, trained by the richest and most dangerous hustlers in the city. He worked for The General, a.k.a. Money. Today he was in charge of the stash spot on Brooklyn and Sterling Avenue, in Bedstuy. For the past couple of days, he could not help but notice the dimed out shorty that kept knocking on the door of a brownstone two houses from the stash spot. Skully decided to walk over and introduce himself.

Excuse me, lil’ ma, who are you looking for? asked Skully.

The female paid him absolutely no attention. Skully was wearing a fifteen-carat, twenty-inch diamond necklace, powder blue Sean John sweat suit, and white Uptown Air Force Ones. She could tell he was a ladies man and a baller. He was light-skinned, six-two, with well-manicured fingernails. He left his sweat jacket unzipped so she would notice of his well-sculpted six pack abs and slightly hairy, chiseled chest.

Ahh-hemmm! Skully cleared his throat loudly, then said again, Excuse me, lil’ ma, who are you looking for? He was examining her body from head to toe.

First of all, my name is GiGi. It's spelled, G-I-G-I, and secondly, I do not think it is any of your business why I’m here and who I am looking for.

Damn, what’s the attitude for, lil’ ma? You act like you need a hug or something. Since you are on my block, I thought maybe I could let you know that the house has been empty for a few weeks, explained Skully.

I know that bitch didn’t move without telling me! said GiGi with an attitude. No wonder I couldn’t get her on the phone. She owes me $1500 that I loaned her for food and rent, and I let that trifling hoe borrow my Manolo Blahnik boots when we went to the 40/40 club.

Skully acted as if he was concerned, listening to her fine ass complain. My Grandmoms always told me to keep money, clothes, and hoes separate, because you won’t have none of em. You’ll be broke, butt ass naked, with no friends, Skully said as he tried to sneak a peek down her shirt.

GiGi looked into his eyes and noticed that Skully’s weakness was exposed. Like most men, he fell for the bait. A fat ass and a smile never failed. Fat asses and smiles have been the downfall of many hustlers. Skully wasn’t the first, and he damn sure wouldn't be the last.

GiGi was wearing a pair of Apple Bottom jeans that fit so well on her ass; they looked as if they were painted on. Her ass could stop traffic during rush hour in Manhattan. She was wearing a midriff shirt that exposed her smooth, flat stomach. Her navel was filled with a .5-carat diamond shaped like a G. She had a flawless, pretty chocolate brown complexion. Her hair looked shiny and healthy, styled in pretty, thick locks that hung past her shoulders.

As she looked at Skully, she knew she had him right where she wanted him. She thought to herself briefly, Damn, this nigga is fine as hell! but the lustful thought quickly vanished. She knew she had a job to do, and she had to stay focused. This job would take a team effort, and GiGi knew how to play her position.

As Skully drifted out of his lustful trance, he asked GiGi, G, why don’t you leave me your number, and if I see your friend come back around, I’ll give you a call? He suggestively tried to expose his six-pack, as he spoke.

That bitch knew she wasn’t gonna pay me when I loaned her the $1500. She knows my number. I doubt if the hoe even comes back. But thanks anyway, responded GiGi with her most seductive smile.

GiGi began to walk away, and Skully decided that he couldn’t let this fine, fat assed young girl walk away forever. His eyes followed her every step as she walked towards the bus stop. Skully's manhood got so hard he felt himself throbbing as he looked at the imprint of her thong. The top of it was sliding up and down her waist in rhythm with her steps. He couldn’t deal with rejection. He had to get in those jeans. Little did he know that to even get close to those jeans, there would definitely be a price to pay.

Skully screamed in her direction, GiGi, I’m about to leave. Let me give you a ride. A fine ass sister like you should never be catching a bus. Where is your man? he asked.

He is Upstate, but he should be coming home soon! She said proudly.

Skully pulled a key chain with an electronic remote starter from his pocket, and pushed a red button with his thumb. The engine of a peanut butter 2006 Dodge Magnum with black tint hummed to life. He thought to himself, "This fat ass young shorty is frontin’ like she don't want to be bothered. A blunt, some E" and a shopping spree, her pussy and her mind will belong to me.

This is my work car, smirked Skully. I hope that you’re not offended. As he opened the door, the Alpine speakers were blasting Cassidy’s I’m a Hustla.

Yo, G, I have to go in the crib for a few seconds. I forgot somethin’. I’ll be right back, said Skully apologetically.

As soon as Skully walked in the door, GiGi pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial button.

Castro answered the phone; he had been waiting on this call from the young girl on his team. She should have set the bait by now. Holla at ya boy, answered Castro.

I’m in the light-skinned kid’s whip that runs the stash spot, GiGi said.

We should be there in Harlem about 15 minutes.

She did not want to be on the phone if the kid, Skully came out of the crib. He’ll be back in a minute.

What kind of whip? demanded Castro.

Peanut butter Magnum, sitting on 24’s, said GiGi.

They both hung up. The plan was going through as expected.

I love it when a plan comes together, said Castro as he put the clip in the 9mm stainless steel ratchet Smith and Wesson. He had timed it perfectly. After watching the movements at the stash spot for days, he knew this was the day that the kid who ran the spot moved most to and from the spot. This made Castro think one of two things; either bricks were being delivered, or gwap was being transported.

Skully finally came out of the house, escorted by one of his young soldiers, Spoons. As they walked towards the Magnum, Spoons was looking back and forth like he was on Secret Service detail. He was carrying a large gym bag. He didn’t notice Gi-Gi inside the Magnum until the door opened. Who’s this bitch in the whip? he yelled.

Don’t worry, Spoons, this is my peeps, and she needs a ride to Harlem, said Skully nonchalantly.

Before Spoons got in the car, he grabbed Skully by the arm and pulled him close. You know we don’t do business around nobody. Skully, what the fuck is wrong with you? This bitch’s pussy done made you go the fuck blind! he said.

The broad don’t know what’s going on. Plus, I’m gonna drop her off before we take the money anywhere. Stop being such a scary ass nigga, Spoons. Niggas know not to fuck with us anyway. We running shit right now. Get your shook ass in the car, laughed Skully.

Before Lil’ Spoons got in the Magnum, he took the safety off the .45 seventeen-shot cannon he had inside his jacket. He never spoke as he got in the back seat of the car. He kept his eyes on GiGi as he sang along to Cassidy’s song blasting out of the speakers. …Nigga, ask about me, nigga, nigga ask about me…

Spoons repeated the words to the song, sending an indirect message to the girl in the front seat. She made his street senses tingle.

Before pulling off, Skully faced GiGi as he dialed a number on his cell phone. She looked at his phone as he spoke into it. She noticed his phone had diamonds in the shape of a skull, representing his name, Skully.

Yo, I’m coming through in about a half hour. Make sure you’re there… Okay, be easy. One. Skully closed his Nextel and then the Magnum pulled off slowly.

As they started to drive down Sterling Avenue, Skully broke the silence in the car. Spoons, this is GiGi. GiGi, this is Spoons. He introduced the two passengers.

GiGi’s response was a quiet, Hi.

Spoons looked into her eyes and gave a nod, not saying one word. Something is real strange about this broad, thought Lil’ Spoons as he looked out the window from the back of the car. He kept his hand close to his weapon, because his instincts never proved him wrong.

$$$$$$

In the meantime, at another location in Brooklyn, Castro was checking his weapon thoroughly. He looked at his man, Splash and asked, You ready to get this paper?

Splash pulled out a Micro Uzi with the Swiss cheese muzzle and responded, I was born ready, nigga. Robbery ain’t nothing but a fair exchange.

Splash put two full clips in a toolbox with the Micro Uzi, along with two black ski masks, duct tape, and two pairs of black leather gloves. Neither Castro nor Splash wanted anyone to get a good description.

Splash’s name was self-explanatory. He had a twelve-inch long, two-inch wide, one hundred fifty-stitch scar from his ear lobe to his chin. When he was on Rikers Island, three rival gang members sliced him up in the C-74 building in a gang war.

C’mon, let’s get this paper, said Castro as he grabbed the keys to the minivan that he had stolen earlier in the day for this particular job.

Castro and Splash met at Great Meadow Correctional Facility, also known as Comstock, in Upstate New York. They were both on D-block and did about three years together. They became inseparable when one of the Latin Kings who had cut Splash on Riker's was transferred to Great Meadow. But now Splash’s appearance was different. He had gained about fifty pounds of muscle from push-ups, pull-ups, dips and lifting weights. He also had a bald head instead of the mini blowout.

They were out in the yard one day, and Splash recognized the Latin King that had sliced him up. As Castro and Splash were smoking a Black-n-Mild in the yard, they saw the kid walking by himself. A crowd gathered around, and both men stabbed him one hundred and fifty times. As everyone lined up to go inside, the guards noticed the convict lying motionless on the concrete in the yard, bleeding to death. Castro and Splash never got caught, and their enemies thought twice before approaching them on some bullshit, unless they were ready for war.

Castro knew Splash was about his work, and Splash had the same respect for Castro. After deciding to hit these hustlers for their stash, Castro knew he needed to recruit Splash for the job. Now, it was time to make shit happen. It was time to put the plan into action, so there was nothing else to talk about.

Before they got into the minivan, Castro made sure that Splash placed two large, white magnetic work signs on both sides of the van. Castro even placed a long ladder on top to give it a more official look. The sign read, Maintenance Inc. We clean up! We wash up! Call 212-778-2963. After loading the van and making sure they were not being watched, the van headed towards its destination.

I told GiGi when she gets dropped off near Morningside Avenue to stall them niggas for a few seconds. Once we see her, get some distance from the Magnum, then hit’em up! said Castro.

Is it just him and her? asked Splash as he placed a forty shot clip in the Uzi.

It doesn’t matter. It’s game time, said Castro.

$$$$$$

He was so used to being treated like a celebrity in the ‘hood, Skully knew that it was just a matter of time before the young girl recognized who he was.

By the time he pulled up to Morningside Avenue, GiGi had given him the satisfaction of rubbing her pussy. She could’ve won an Oscar. She had to buy some time, because she hadn’t seen the minivan yet. Where these niggas at? I don’t need these dudes to get suspicious, she thought.

Spoons yelled from the back seat, Yo, I’m about to catch the train and handle this shit myself. You are bugging the fuck out, son!

When GiGi heard Spoons she, got herself together and opened the door. As she thanked Skully for the ride, she handed him a fake telephone number on a piece of paper. All of the sudden, her Prada purse fell to the ground in front of the Magnum on purpose. Everything in her purse was all over the street. Damn it! yelled GiGi, acting as if she were frustrated.

When she bent over and touched her toes as if she were picking up her belongings, Skully got a better view of her ass and her thong. He wanted to stop everything and hit it right there in the middle of the street, but he knew Spoons was bugging, and he didn’t want Money to be pissed at him. He looked back at Spoons and said, One more minute, lil’ bro.

Make it 30 seconds! Fuck that bitch! Spoons said, frustrated.

GiGi winked, and Skully smacked her ass as she walked towards the train station.

As Skully walked back to the driver’s side of the car, he heard a loud screeching sound that startled him. A minivan with a work sign on the side damn near ran him over as it ran through a red light. It looked like the van belonged to a construction company.

Spoons got out of the back seat and set the gym bag with the money in the front seat.

At the same time, Skully walked over and smacked the hood of the minivan. It made a loud thumping sound. What in the fuck is wrong with you, motherfucker? You almost ran me and my car over, dumbass!

Spoons rolled the window down and yelled at Skully, Calm down! We’re in one piece. The car’s in one piece. It’s time to deliver this shit to The General. We already wasted enough time messing with that stank ass hoe.

You just mad cuz you couldn’t bag her, said Skully.

As he walked back to get back into the Magnum, the side door of the minivan slid open, and two gunmen with black masks jumped out of the side of the van. One had a 9mm, and the other had an Uzi. Give me the bag and get the fuck on the ground! ordered one of the gunmen.

Spoons pulled out his .45, but he never got a shot off. The sounds of the Uzi spitting flames echoed throughout the street. Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat!

Skully and Spoons got hit so many times it looked like they were tap dancing to the sounds of gunfire in the street. Bullet casings, blood and flesh were everywhere. It looked like a scene from an old Western movie. When the smoke cleared, Skully and Spoons were both lying on the ground with their bodies riddled with bullets, and their bodies were twitching, fighting to stay alive.

Castro and Splash ran towards the peanut butter colored Magnum, jumped in, and pulled off. The hit took sixty seconds at the most.

As GiGi got on the train, she saw police officers running frantically to the exits. She was on her way to meet Castro and Splash at her apartment.

As Castro and Splash drove away, sirens could be heard in the distance. Castro casually parked the Magnum unnoticed in a back street in downtown Flatbush. Before getting out of the car, they wiped it clean of fingerprints.

Castro grabbed the gym bag that the kid with the .45 was holding. The bag was heavier and much bigger than he thought. They flagged down a cab, and gave the driver directions to GiGi’s crib in Fort Greene Projects.

Chapter Two

Blood stains on a bullet, gun shots spittin’ flames,

The streets are on fire, it’s hot, and Feds want names.

Get rich quick, whip up some bricks, 72 ounce flip,

The oldest trick in the game.

– Fred Brown

New York, New York

The steamy heat stifled New York City, as the temperature soared to a scorching ninety-seven degrees. Money was relaxing in his air-conditioned apartment on the thirtieth floor of a building in a swank section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

Suddenly, the intercom system made a buzzing sound, alerting him that the doorman working at the front desk in the lobby was calling. This better be important, he thought. There were only two people that knew this location. Money pushed the button to speak to the doorman.

Mr. Thomas, there is a gentleman by the name of Stacks in the lobby. He is requesting to take the elevator to your apartment. Shall I clear him to pass security? asked the doorman.

Yes, let him through, responded Money.

Stacks was Money’s right hand man, and most trusted person, besides his mother. Since Stacks didn’t call first, Money knew something was wrong.

While riding the elevator to Money’s apartment, Stacks was preparing to break the news to his boss. Whoever did this shit to Spoons and Skully would eventually wish they were dead. The General was known to send torture squads and teams of assassins to deal with small problems. He also had an army of well-trained Trinidadians that had enough weapons and ammunition to take on the National Guard. They were paid more than the National Guard, and even had better benefits. All Money had to do was make one phone call, and they were prepared to take over a small city -fuck a block!

Stacks and Money had grown up together in the notorious Pink Houses Projects in East New York. Money was always like a big brother to him. When Stacks’ grandmother passed away, Children’s Services tried to place him in a group home. Money’s mother adopted Stacks and treated him as if he were her son. Money and Stacks got their first piece of pussy together, and they even smoked their first blunt together. They went from stealing candy out of local bodegas, to filling bodegas with pounds of cocaine.

Money’s father was a small timer hustler who sold enough drugs to keep a nice car, jewelry and clothes—the basics. He was known to be abusive to Money’s mother.

Money came home from school early one day and found his mother lying on the floor, bloodied, bruised, and butt-naked, crying like a baby. His father was at the table, weighing cocaine on a triple beam scale as if she wasn’t even there. Money quietly walked into his bedroom, went under his bed and retrieved a .38 Special, then walked up to his father and emptied the gun in his face. Seconds later, his father lay slumped over, staring at Money with an expressionless look. Money found his dead father’s stash of twenty thousand dollars, and nine ounces of cocaine hidden in the apartment. He was only fifteen-years-old. That’s when his career got started.

By the age of nineteen, Money was a force to be reckoned with in every borough of the city. His status and maturity came by way of experience, not his age. Now, at age twenty-three, his crew supplied drugs to gangs, killers and all the heavyweight hustlers in the Tri-State area.

Stacks, was being paid close to a million dollars a year to handle everything in the streets. He was Money’s eyes, ears and voice. Everyone thought Stacks was running things, but this was Money’s idea to keep the police and his enemies off-balance. Only the general knew what his net worth was, and he shared that with no one. If he told anyone, he’d have to kill them!

Three things made Money successful; love, fear, and money. The streets loved him, the streets feared him, and he