It was 9:15 in the evening, and a full moon was shining bright above the streets of Carson, California. The usual sounds could be heard echoing throughout the night air. The piercing howl of an emergency vehicle’s siren traveled down Avalon Boulevard toward 169th Street causing the dogs in every backyard to begin barking in the old neighborhood one block over.
All the regulars were out and about up and down Centerview Drive, the crack heads roaming around like aimless zombies in search of their next hit while the few elderly people who were bold enough to brave the dangers of Carson night life, or too nosy to care, stood outside watering their lawns and engaging in frivolous conversations about how Carson had changed since the nineteen sixties.
Two houses down from the corner of Centerview and Bradenhall Drives was where a large group of local neighborhood thugs congregated while drinking malt liquor and smoking marijuana. Loud music was blasting from the sound system of a shiny gold 1977 Cadillac Coup De Ville parked on the lawn of the house. Several of the men were taking part in a high-stakes game of sidewalk craps when a dark-gray Honda Accord pulled up and parked in front the house across the street.
A young lady exited the vehicle, and like clockwork the catcalling began, “Good lawd! Look at all dat ass!” yelled one man who had stopped rolling the dice and just shook them in his hand, putting the game on hold. He did so in order to admire the young lady who had hopped out of the charcoal-gray Honda. None of the other men bothered to complain about the temporary pause of the game because like the man with the dice in his hand had done, they too all stopped what they were doing in an effort to feast their eyes on the young head turner.
Another young thug yelled, while clutching his crotch in an obscene gesture, “Damn, baby, bless yo’ mama AND yo’ daddy for the seed and sperm it took to create yo’ fine self!”
It had only been twelve hours since Richard Title had paroled from Corcoran State Prison after doing a six-month bid he received due to a D.U.I violation he had caught after stumbling out of a Hollywood nightclub and getting behind the wheel of his car following a long night of partying, but he was now back on the block as if he had never left.
Many joked that Richard was serving a lifetime prison sentence on an installment plan because he spent more time behind bars than he did in the free world. Prison was his true home, and the outside world was like a vacation. He had served his first bid in juvenile hall at the tender age of thirteen after holding up an ice cream truck with a toy gun. Next came a three year jolt in California Youth Authority for an assault with a deadly weapon after stabbing a member of one of his neighborhood’s rival gangs — the Lantana Block Compton Crips and puncturing the boy’s lung during a fight that occurred on a Metro bus. Now at the age of twenty-three, Richard was on a pace to own a rap sheet that would put Charles Manson to shame.
Richard had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming as he remembered the hellhole he had been in only hours earlier where there were fellow inmates who looked like women and women prison guards who looked like men, to now staring at a bona fide stallion. He had to admit, the young woman who had exited that vehicle was definitely a sight for sore eyes. Her chocolate-brown skin glistened beneath the bright street light that she parked underneath for security purposes whenever she arrived home after dark. Although it was nighttime, Richard could see that she was a pretty girl when she turned and flashed a quick nervous smile at the hooligans who were yelling all sorts of obscenities in her direction.
Her hair was styled in a wrap that happened to be Richard’s favorite hairstyle on a woman, and he could not care less whether or not it was a weave. To top it all off, her body was voluptuous but tight. Her rear end looked like she was concealing two basketballs in the tight dark-blue sweat pants she wore and her large perky breasts were no exception.
Richard began to undress the young woman with his eyes, and he liked what he saw a great deal. He could not understand why all these eligible bachelors were behaving like a bunch of old construction workers instead of approaching this beautiful specimen of a woman and shooting their game like a real player was supposed to do.
When he saw her walk to the trunk of her car and pull out two bags of groceries, he took it as the perfect opportunity to make his move. Richard immediately started on his way across the street into the direction of the young lady who quickly slammed her trunk closed and began walking briskly toward her front door, “Excuse me, lil mama, but I just wanted to help you with those groceries!” Richard yelled to the fleeing woman.
“No thanks,” she replied without even looking back to see who this chivalrous person was who was breaking his neck to help her.
“Uh oh! Another one bites the dust!” one man yelled, prompting all the others to begin laughing as Richard walked back across the street.
“Fool! Every nigga out here done tried to holla at that stuck-up bitch. You think you just gonna get out and bag her that easy, huh, pretty boy?” asked one of his homeboys.
“Damn, so she do everybody like that, huh?” Richard asked in an attempt to heal his wounded ego.
“The farthest we got is when she first moved in and we all pushed up on her. She told us that she just a live-in caretaker for Ms Jenkins while she going to Dominguez Hills University studying to be an RN; that’s registered nurse.”
“Muhfucka, I know what a RN is!” Richard responded, causing another round of laughter.
For the next three hours, the men just stood outside and continued on with their gambling, drinking, and trash talking until one by one the crowd began to disperse and go their separate ways. By the time 12:30 hit, with the exception of the dope fiends, Richard and one of his closest homeboys, Jason, were the only men left on the block. Everyone in the neighborhood referred to Jason by his nickname, Joker Jay, because he was a natural born comedian. Ever since kindergarten, he had been the class clown and now he was known as the one person from the hood with whom you did not want to get into a ragging contest. To him, everything was a joke and he managed to find humor in some of the most unfunny things possible. He often found himself having to put his foot in his mouth after telling his jokes in bad taste or with bad timing or both.
“Check it out, my nigga, I don’t know if I’m up or you’re up in this dice game,” said Joker after crapping out on a one hundred dollar bet, “but what I do know is that I am higher than heaven, drunker than a Irish hobo on Saint Patrick’s day, and tired as a five dolla crack ho’s feet Friday night on Figuroa. I’m ’bout to take my Black ass home and fuck the shit outta Sonya for exactly two and a half minutes, pull it out, and skeet all over her belly, fall face first into my pillow, and pass the fuck out, in that exact order,” Joker announced while reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his keys.
“I ain’t mad at you, my nig. I’m ’bout to hang out for another hour or so and catch all the late night sells to make up for all that dough you just hit me for on them dees,” Richard responded.
“Aight then, boyee, but be safe out here,” Joker said before chirping his alarm system off and entering his truck. One minute later, he started the engine of his burgundy Cadillac Escalade and burned rubber on his way down the street.
The truth was that Richard had not lost any money at all during the all-night gambling session; in fact, he was up nearly two grand when the last man departed. He had an ulterior motive for being the last man standing on the block tonight.
He had not stopped fantasizing about the shapely young woman in the gray Honda Accord since the moment he had laid eyes on her. Her smooth chocolate-covered skin, her thick frame, her sexy walk, but most of all, that innocent and nervous smile she had flashed at her hecklers. Richard had to have her.
He took the short walk over to his black Dodge Challenger, opened the driver’s side door, climbed in, and then closed it behind him, his mind still fixated on the woman who had entered the house across the street hours earlier. He pictured himself lifting up the white T-shirt she wore and unsnapping her bra, allowing her two scoops of chocolate to pop out on him. He could feel all the blood rushing to his hardening member as he imagined himself peeling those tight blue sweat pants off of her and feasting his eyes on the imaginary red thong which she probably had on beneath them. He slid his right hand down his jeans and into his boxer shorts as he closed his eyes and began to pleasure himself with slow strokes while fantasizing about his latest obsession, when all of a sudden he was interrupted by a knock on his car window.
“Let me take care of that for you, Dirty!”
Richard snapped back to reality and looked up to see an old crack head woman at his driver’s side window, “Damn, Sheila, you scared the shit outta me, girl!” Richard barked at the old strawberry.
“I’m sorry, Dirty,” the woman apologized, “but I saw you sittin’ in the car, and I know you just got outta jail, nigga, so can I earn myself a hit or what?” the woman asked, “and you know I saw what you was doin’ up in here, so let a bitch finish that for you, baby,” she added in a sarcastic tone.
Richard began to have flashbacks of the last time he had caught Sheila late night on the block. For a forty-something-year-old crack head she looked damn good naked, and on top of that, she was very comfortable around a penis and knew exactly what to do with one. In fact, Richard knew how every single strawberry in the hood was in bed, and in the car, and in the alley, and wherever else he got freaky with them when his nature rose.
When he was young, all his friends would tease him by calling him ‘Dick’ due to it being the natural moniker for the name Richard. Over the years he had earned the name “Dirty Dick” due to his sexual escapades with anything that had a hole.
Dirty reached underneath the seat of his car and pulled out a plastic baggy full of rock cocaine. He removed a fifty-dollar crack rock and handed it to the waiting woman.
“I will have to catch you on the rebound, lil mama, but that should be enough to get you through the night,” he said to the smiling lady.
“Thank you, Dirty. I love you, boo boo, and you know I got you anytime anywhere baby!” she promised,
“I know you do, girl, but you betta not tell a soul what you saw me doin’ when you walked up to my car!” Dirty threatened.
“Oh, stop it, boy. Everybody and they mama know you a damn nympho, but don’t worry; your secret is safe with me,” the woman reassured him as she walked off laughing.
Once she was gone, it did not take long for Dirty’s mind to once again begin scheming on the young prize he had discovered several hours earlier. After about fifteen minutes of brainstorming, he came to the conclusion that it would be irrational for him to sit outside her home and wait for her like a cop on an all-night stakeout, however, he knew he had to come up with some type of plan because there was something about this woman that told Dirty that he just had to concur her. Finally, after running a few more scenarios through his mind, Dirty made his decision.
He opened his glove compartment, reached in, and retrieved an ink pen along with a small note pad. After scribbling a few lines on a piece of paper, he tore it off and threw the pen and pad back into his glove compartment and closed it shut. Next, he started his car’s engine and pulled out of his parking spot with his Dodge Challenger aimed directly at the charcoal-gray Honda Accord that the pretty young lady had pulled up in hours earlier. When Dirty came within ten feet of her vehicle, he slightly pumped his breaks and then let off, allowing his car to coast right into the right-front corner bumper of the Honda Accord. He heard the sound of glass breaking upon impact as it shattered the front-left headlights of both vehicles. Dirty was well aware that the small crash would make some degree of noise, but what he had not anticipated during his planning was the loud alarm system that was now blaring through the night air.
Dirty crawled out of the driver’s seat of his car and walked quickly up to the front of the gray Honda. He pulled the right side windshield wiper back and dropped the small piece of paper, where he had written the note, onto the windshield and let the wiper go, allowing it to fall back down and clamp the small note in place. Once the first part of his plan was complete, Dirty ran back, jumped into his car, and fled the scene.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Dirty finally made it home. Although he was now a grown man, his parents still allowed him to stay in the family home and come and go as he pleased, but it was not often that he slept there because he was usually either working an all-night shift in a crack house or spending the night at one of his three babys’ mother’s apartments or laid up in a hotel or motel room with some woman or — The list of places he could be on any given night were endless, nevertheless, he was always welcome in the family nest.
He walked into the house to find his youngest brother in the living room. Tamrin Title, affectionately known around the neighborhood as Pinky, was still sitting in the living room glued to the family computer in the exact same position he had been in when Dirty left the house nine hours earlier.
“Damn, boy, don’t you ever get enough of that cyberspace shit?” Dirty asked as he walked up behind him to see what he was doing on the computer.
“Don’t you ever get enough of them hood rat hoochie mamas that you’re always running behind?” Pinky responded while covering the computer screen with his hand.
“I bet you’re on that thing talking ’bout folks and carryin’ on again, ain’t ya?” Dirty accused.
Pinky pressed a button on his keyboard, causing the entire computer screen to go blank, before turning around to face his older brother with a look of extreme displeasure on his face.
“Boy, I don’t see how it is any of your beeswax what I choose to do in my spare time!” Pinky exclaimed while rolling his eyes and snapping his fingers, “I mean... come on, dude; is my life really that interesting to you?”
“You’ve definitely got a point there, lil bro,” Dirty replied, “and the answer is, ‘Hell to the no!’ ”
Both siblings laughed as Dirty walked out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Pinky hit a button which took him right back to the screen he had been on before he had been so rudely interrupted.
Pinky was currently on a website called “Blog 411”. Blogs are websites where people meet up and discuss a variety of topics, however, when it came down to blogging, Pinky was only interested in one thing, and that was celebrity bashing. He frequented several different gossip blogs where he shredded movie stars, music icons, sports stars, and the like. He blogged with such a mean-spirited yet keen sense of wit that he had managed to build up quite a following of people in the blog community who tuned in on a regular basis just to see what the teen would say next.
In fact, Pinky, who concealed his identity by blogging under the screen name “Pinkspill” had in a way become a celebrity himself due to his ever-growing fan base paired with the power he had for shedding a degrading spotlight, and in some cases, the kiss of death on any celebrity’s career at his slightest whim. Yet and still, the teenager went through drastic measures to make sure his identity stayed concealed, because even though it would have been a wonderful feeling to receive direct credit for his ingenious comments, he was smart enough to understand that the allure of mystery played a key roll in his intricate fame.
Many of his fans believed that he, himself, was a celebrity such as a Kim Kardashian type who rubbed shoulders with Hollywood’s in-crowd on a regular basis but concealed their identity in order to not be looked upon as a traitor. Most believed that Pinkspill was probably a hair stylist for several different celebrities because of the knowledge and insight in which the blogger demonstrated on an everyday basis. Absolutely no one had a clue that the real person behind the Pinkspill screen name was none other than Tamrin Title, an African-American teenage homosexual from Carson, California.
As soon as Dirty stepped foot out of the room, Pinky once again began typing entries onto his blog page:
Today we are discussing American Idol and the way talentless whores can be interchanged, hence Paula Abdul for Jennifer Lopez for Ellen Degenerate for Nicki Manaj — You guys get the picture. I mean, somebody, anybody, please explain to me why any of these tone-deaf tramps are worthy of critiquing as much as apart from the likes of the Kelly Clarksons and Fantasia Barenos of the world. And while you’re at it, please call the cops and put out an A.P.B. ’cause Nicki Manaj stole Jennifer Lopez’ booty. Pinkspill-
It was five after 8:00 a.m. when the ringing of Dirty’s phone awakened him from a coma-like sleep. He could barely focus his eyes as he glanced at the nightstand beside his bed and watched his vibrating cell phone light up with every ring. Curious as to who would be calling him that early, Dirty mustered up enough strength to roll over, retrieve his ringing phone, and press the talk button.
“Hello?” Dirty spoke into the phone in a deep and scratchy tone, alerting whoever the person was on the other end of the line that they had just awakened a sleeping man.
“Good morning, sir! My name is Theresa Johnson and I found your note on my windshield earlier this morning,” the sweet voice responded.
“Oh! Hi, Theresa,” Dirty was now wide awake as if he had just consumed an entire mocha latte from Starbucks, “I am so sorry about your car,” he falsely apologized, knowing that he was not the least bit apologetic since he had hit her car on purpose.
“Awe... it’s no biggie; things happen,” Theresa responded, “but do you have insurance?” she quickly inquired.
“Well, I do have insurance,” Dirty lied, “but I was hoping we could take care of this without alerting any cops and things of that nature.”
Dirty heard a slight chuckle from the woman he was on the line with before she spoke again, “Okay, so how will we go about handling this then?” Theresa asked, hoping that this stranger had a plan that would make this process go as smoothly as possible.
“Well... I actually damaged my car too in the accident, so I’m gonna need some work done myself,” he informed her, “I know a shop that does some good bodywork, so we could meet up there and I would pay up front whatever it costs to fix your ride, or, if you want, you can take it to a shop of your choice and turn it in and find out what the repair will cost and I will go down there and pay it in full,” Dirty offered choice number two strictly to give the young woman the impression that it was no big deal whether he met her in person or not, but in his heart he was desperately hoping that she would pick choice number one.
“Is the shop you’re talking about one of those hood spots, or is it a respectable establishment?” Theresa asked with a slight laugh to take the sting out of the question.
Dirty broke out laughing, realizing that he was dealing with a smart cookie, “Well, I would have to say both,” Dirty admitted, “It is in the hood, but they do some real good work there. In fact, it’s the same place where Snoop Dogg gets all his bodywork and custom paint jobs done. DJ Quik frequents this spot. Hell, even E40 comes all the way from Northern Cali to get his cars painted, so it’s a damn good place to get your little ding fixed,” Dirty promised.
“Well, that sounds good to me,” she responded, “Maybe I’ll get lucky and meet Snoop Dogg.”
“Ya never know,” Dirty shot back.
They decided to meet up in front of the house on Centerview Drive where Dirty had hit her car. After designating a meet-up time, they hung up.
“You might not meet Snoop Dogg, but you shole is ’bout to get that body work done in more ways than one,” Dirty laughed to himself.
