Streets of New York. Mark AnthonyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Table of Contents
“It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know.”
–Henry David Thoreau
The Augustus Manuscript Team is fundamentally the best editorial staff in Hip Hop Literature. The team is headed by Jason Claiborne, and has Tamiko Maldonado AKA Hawk-eyes, Joy Leftow the poet, Lisette Matos, Erick S. Gray and Anthony Whyte. Augustus Publishing and Hip Hop Literature is grateful for the services provided by this team of talented individuals.
foreword
K’wan
When you see pictures of New York City on television, they make it out to be this big glowing metropolis, with glass towers that stretch to the heavens, and neon streets. But that depends on what angle you’re looking at it from.
The New York City I know is full of run down buildings and niggaz posted on the corners chasing that. Dope fiends, crack heads and niggaz on the road to nowhere bubble through the city like they actually got a clue. The New York I know is 125th street before the mayor chased the vendors away. High rollers posted up in front of Willie Burgers, showing off the latest whips or trunk jewels, way before snitching became cool. Yeah, I’ve seen those glass towers and neon-lit sidewalks, but I don’t know them. I know the streets of New York.
The New York I know is the one where Pooh was taken in the prime of his life. Where best friends become bitter rivals and Spanish speaking niggaz with heavy artillery wanna pop your fucking head off because you stepped on the wrong niggaz toes. I know the New York where Promise found himself a wanted man and abandoned by his crew because he was just trying to feed his daughter.
This is the New York I know. See it’s cool to fool yourself into thinking that the city of broken dreams is all glitz and glamour… that keeps the tourism market fat. Do you, kid. Snap your pictures and take your kids to the museums. But do yourself a favor and stay the fuck outta the slums. Though you might be ready for the dreams, you sure as hell ain’t ready for the harsh reality. This is New York, where a vacation can become a charge.
down -ass bitch
MARK ANTHONY
A Year after Volume One…
Brooklyn, NY, 2:00 a.m.
When my girl and I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and maneuvered towards the club, the scene that we saw as we drove closer was absolutely bananas! There were people and cars everywhere. The line to get inside stretched a block and a half long. There was this buzz of excitement that filled the air and it let you know that other than where we were at, there was no other place to be than New York City.
I had been on the run for more than a year now. More specifically, I had been hiding out in Philly with my new girl for the past six months. Although Philly was about a two hour drive from Brooklyn, word about a club called The Brooklyn Cafe had spread all over the east coast. Word on the street was that this nightspot had it going on! It was part strip club on one level and a hip-hop/reggae club on the other level.
But what made me risk my freedom and travel to New York to see first hand what The Brooklyn Cafe was all about was the fact that I had heard that my mans and ‘em, Squeeze and Show, actually owned the place. I desperately wanted to get back to New York and link up with ‘em. At the same time I knew that I had the feds and the NYPD looking for me so I had to be careful.
My girl that I had met in Philly was a Puerto Rican chick who had a body like a J-Lo and an attitude like Eve. Her name was Marissa, and she wanted to come with me to New York to see what all the hype was about concerning The Brooklyn Cafe.
We let the valet park Marissa’s white 745 BMW and the two of us headed straight to the front of the line and searched for the VIP entrance. There was no way in hell that we was gonna wait on that long ass line!
“Who y’all wit’?” the bouncer asked as he put his forearm against my chest and grabbed Marissa by the arm to prevent us from walking inside the club.
“My man! Are you fucking crazy or what? Don’t be putting your hands on my girl like that!”
“Calm down money. I just wanna know who y’all wit’! I just can’t let y’all walk up in here like that. Y’all on the guest list?”
As I purposely tried to disrespect the bouncer and walk by him, I replied, “Come on man! We ain’t on no list! I own this muthafuckin’ club!”
The gigantic, round bouncer was not going for it. He wasn’t gonna be easily intimidated.
“Money, you about to get knocked on your ass right in front of your girl so I suggest you shuddafuckup right now!” the bouncer said as he came right up on my chest.
Coming from inside the club, I could hear Fat Joe’s smash hit song playing in the background, Lean Back. I lifted my shirt and exposed the handgun that I had in my waistband and replied,
“And your big ass is about to get leaned back if you don’t let me up inside this club!”
I immediately got the bouncer’s respect. It was more than just the steel that I had flashed. I got his respect. Looking at my face, he knew that the person holding the steel had the balls to use it and wouldn’t hesitate to lay his big ass out on the concrete.
Just as the bouncer stepped away from me and as I was about to pull out my gun and blast him, from the corner of my eyes, I saw another man about six foot five, looking about 300lbs and wearing a tight, black wife beater. He was showing off a cross tattooed on one of his huge biceps. Another bouncer was coming to the aid of the first bouncer, this was crazy I was thinking. A small crowd was standing around waiting to get inside the club. They could tell that something ugly was about to go down.
“Promise?” a familiar voice sounded off.
I saw Show with a questioning look on his face. A smile crossed my face when I realized the man I had mistaken for another bouncer was in fact my man, Show. I took my hand off the steel and greeted Show.
“What up, my nigga!” I yelled.
The bouncers were quickly forgotten as I gave Show one of the biggest ghetto hugs that I had ever given anyone in my life. We embraced each other in a most