“U think Midas was written by niggas who was
scared a money?”
“Midas”
“Yea, the king. Everything he touched turned to
gold, u know the story.”
“Right, right.”
“Them niggas who wrote that shit was
scared man. They ain’t never known what it is to be rich.”
“Maybe.”
“Naw, ain’t no maybe about it. Prolly was
written by niggas who had money but didn’t know how to invest or somethin’.”
“iShares from BlackRock?”
“i-fuckin’-Shares from BlackRock. That’s the
shit they NEEDED man.”
The two laughed as they made their way through
the Bronx. They’d been doing some financial planning and had just come from a
pizzeria on 149th street that they would shortly be acquiring. Now, they were on
their way to Yankee stadium to enjoy the game with one of their chief
executives.
“So, what are we tellin’ him,” asked Ernesto,
popping a piece of Winterfresh gum into his mouth to combat the garlic he’d
doused his pizza in. It was rare that his brother joked with him, and he
thought that now was as good a time as any to understand what exactly the plan
was.
“It needs to be clean, “ Malik began,
accenting the word clean by clapping his hand against his spring jacket. “When
your product good, your product good, and everyone wants a piece. But I’m
getting’ the feelin’ we bein’ ripped off, AND our shit ain’t right.”
Earesto sighed in his usual way. “You makin’
shit up bro. Business is good-“
“And I wanna it to be even better,” concluded
Malik, his face made up in a determined frown.
Ernesto shrugged his shoulders and tried another
tactic.
“You heard somethin’ I don’t know? I know Don is
tryin’ to take us out in Harlem”
“Fuck Harlem, he can have it,” Malik said with
piercing force. “I want the Upper East Side. Upper west. Shit, I’ll take the
WHOLE fuckin’ east and west and STOP at Harlem, just like white folks.”
“Midas,” observed Ernesto, earnestly.
“Yea nigga, pure GOLD. We wanna ACTAULLY matter?
Then our shit gotta be on point.”
Ernesto could see his brother’s reasoning.
Still, he protested.
“But niggas out there…they don’t know the
difference. We could sell the same shit an’ charge more and be legit.”
Malik was violently shaking his head.
“You ever talk to Israel up in Bronxville?”
“Yea.”
“That shit he got…it’s premium yo. People be
bangin’ down doors cuz what he got is SPECIAL. THAT’S what I’M talkin’ about.”
Ernesto threw up his hands in frustration.
“So why don’t you just pimp HIS shit if it’s so
good!”
Malik smiled enigmatically and Ernesto suddenly
saw the real purpose of their meeting at Yankee Stadium.
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
“I don’t want you too.”
“I don’t need ur permission.”
“I started this shit, I got a say.”
“NIgga, you playin games. Before me you was
beefin’ wit’ small time niggas in Mott Haven, and now we talkin’ IRAs and shit.
I’m the ONLY one that matters here.”
Ernesto sulked as the din of the game could be
heard. They were in line to get their tickets scanned.
The honest truth was that he knew Malik was
right. Ernesto had been surprised when his younger brother had agreed to join
him in the “family business”. He’d assumed that going to that fancy college
would have changed him immeasurably. Truth be told, it HAD changed him.
Somehow, Malik was now bolder than he’d ever been. In a year since he’d been
out of college, Malik had quadrupled their revenue, and had enlisted some of
his college buddies to manage their sudden and immense cash flow. Still though,
Ernesto wondered if his little brother really knew the game they were trying to
enter.
“He’s gonna try an’ kill us,” said Ernesto
looking around to make sure nobody had heard.
“Not at a Yankees game he ain’t,” laughed Malik.
“He been my supplier for 3 years,” begged Ernesto.
Malik only shrugged.
“We got troops on the ground man. The upgrade of
product is worth a little blood. It’s the nature of this business.”
The crowd roared as The Golden King and his wary
vassal made their way to their box seats. A homerun.
There was a war to instigate and there was no
place better than the home of the Bronx Bombers to begin it. They were
incorporated.
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