Hard White. Shannon Holmes

herself in a sixty-nine position. Her vagina was warm and when Melquan sucked and fingered Precious’ love box it got so hot, sticky cum juice oozed into his mouth.

      Upstairs in the apartment, sex was already bubbling over. While outside Precious’ room window, the project world below was beginning to heat up.

      “Yo, that’s my custy, son!” One dealer shouted. “C’mon Macho, don’t even play yerself like that!”

      In the Edenwald projects there was no such thing as a drug free zone. Wherever there was money to be made, drugs was sold. Regardless of whose child or parent was around. Dealers would grind all day and night. Hard white was the product primary pushed.

      The 227^th street drive known as the horseshoe, also referred to as the shoe, was currently the officially the largest open-air drug market in Edenwald. The shoe was comprised of seven short, three-story brick buildings. This was the prime destination for drug addicts seeking the best crack cocaine. In Edenwald drug money was known to shift from one side of the projects to another. It could go from strip-to-strip, or even building-to-building. There were two factors that dictated this shift, police presence and better product. Right now the horseshoe had both things in its favor.

      School was already out on this unseasonably warm fall day. Temperature of was high, and crowds of kids scattered about the projects’grounds. Drug dealers, drug addicts, and older residents were outside doing whatever it was that they did to enjoy what was left of the Indian summer day. Because of the warm temperature, there were more people out than usual.

      In midst of all this madness, a cat and mouse game was being waged by a single addict against the dealers. He was frail, and shabbily dressed. Everyone knew the African American crack-head named, George, moving almost undetected from dealer to dealer. George seemed like he was on legitimate business to cop crack, just like he had done a couple other times that day. He would closely examine each glassine bag handed to him, tasting the product each time.

      “Nah, I’m good,” George stated and walked away shaking his head. “That shit don’t even taste right. I’ll pass. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…?”

      After rejecting that dealer’s product, he proceeded to another, and repeated the same act.

      “Who got that good shit?” he’d asked.

      “Right here, fam,” another unsuspecting dealer hollered. “These other niggas out here got garbage. Fam, you know me. You’ve copped from me before. Just tell me how many you want?”

      “Slow your roll,” George hastily suggested. “I copped from a lot niggas out here. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…? What makes you so special?”

      The young dealer immediately began to show George a hand full crack rock he removed from a large ziplock bag. The conversation would be momentarily ceased. Silently salivating over each individual bag, the crackhead carefully selected the largest rock he could find. Greed mingled with the sickness of getting high raced through George’s mind.

      “Somebody beat me last night,” he complained. “I bought some shit and the shit didn’t even burn. You believe that? Sonofabitch sold me some synthetic coke! So I hope you don’t mind if I taste this shit. I need to know if this is the real deal before I spend my paper with you. Know-wha-I’m-sayin’…?”

      The young hustler gave the man a funny look. There was just something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He remembered something an old-timer once told him, ‘usually when people talk a lot they’re lying’. Despite his better judgment, he let the man do as he had asked.

      Scrutinizing his every move, the dealer eyed George carefully opening one of the packets. George removed the rock, nibbled on it, and handed it back to the dealer. He was awaiting any signs of approval from George.

      “That was good money, right?” the dealer asked.

      George firmly shook his head and continued on about his business as if nothing had ever happened. Unbeknownst to him he was now under the suspicious glare of a young, wild, irate drug dealer. The dealer made a signal to other dealers from his crew.

      Not far away, a group of youths gathered round to witness the current rage of a freestyle battle rap contest. Two of the hottest rappers from the projects who also peddle drugs faceoff in a rhyme fest. The contest was more interesting because they were from different drug set. There was a genuine dislike between the two MC’s and this fact was sure to spill over into their lyrics.

      “Yo, I’m a spit sumthin light fa y’all. Check—check it out, huh…” Young Feddi began.

      Wish a nigga try it, that nigga won’t be eatin’ put ‘em on a diet. I been told niggaz I was on my shit, fuck all these haters man they just on my dick….

      I’m da liviest. I let da nina spit, break ‘em like Kit-Kat, flip ‘em like a Sidekick….

      I’m cheddar getter AKA cheddar flipper, that Bitch you lovin’ ain’t wifey she just lettin’ you lick her…

      “Whoa who-who …” a roar went up from the crowd that had gathered.

      They were still buzzing when Sylk Smooth confidently stepped up. Sylk Smooth spat, clearing his throat.

      Hear my bars prove I’m fire, sickest nigga ballin since Magic retired… When its beef he known to take the track route, threw the car in reverse the only time he backed out……

      Fiends say my dope is Ipod music, once you hear it you gone be noddin’ to it. They like Sylk got that Brett Favre gene. No matter the damn team I stay with green….

      Bars murder shit call it disaster rap, gotta lotta so called MC’s taking casket naps…

      This is sleep you won’t see him wake, tryin’ to put a square in a round hole you outta shape…

      My rhymes piff like haze and jars, this year I’m goin’ Cinglar, I’m raisin’ my bars…

      “Whoa-a-a- whoa…” The crowd really went wild.

      Each of rappers had supporters and they were cheering for their man. The approval from the crowd ignited the rappers passion to outperform the man in front of him. The competition was mild at first, a disrespect word here, and there. Finger pointing, yelling, and offensive body language suggested that the battle could get ugly in a New York minute. For twenty minutes straight Young Feddi and Sylk Smooth went bar for bar, with no clear-cut winner.

      Word spread like virus spread through the projects about the rap battle. The infectious performance caused the crowd to grow, attracting the attention of grown-ups as well as the brother and sister tandem of Jose and Maria Torres. Dressed in catholic uniforms, they were on their way home from school.

      “Oh, shit!” Jose cursed. “What the fuck is goin’ on here? I know these niggas ain’t battling?”

      Maria heard the change in her brother’s language and stared at him in disbelief. His attitude changed immediately and she shook her head as if she never heard a curse word in her life. Unlike her brother, Maria was not as adapt to the ways of project living. In her mind she didn’t live in the projects. She pretended to only go there to sleep. Her innocent act always irked Jose. He simply ignored her.

      Jose was curious and excited to see the battle taking place. Glad handing with all around, he seemed to know everybody including the two participants. His Catholic schooling seemed to be the only thing that separated, Jose and his childhood peers. Every free moment he got, he ran the projects with them.

      A latchkey child who preferred to sit in the house and watch TV, Maria, was the opposite of her brother. She was never outside playing with other girls her age. She was Jose’s lil sister to those who knew her.

      Suddenly Jose broke away from his sister and rushed closer to the battle.