The Journey Begins in 3D

I tried to sell my soul to the devil once, but he wasn’t buying it. Probably figured I’d show up to Hell one day causing havoc and upsetting the natural the order of things. And knowing me, he was probably right. He ain’t want nooo parts of that problem. Can you blame him?

See, I was 15 years old and in a fucked up situation. I was in need of a quick come up and was down and ready for whatever. And with the type of time I was on, I ain’t have no time for God and all that praying in the Name of Jesus shit. Fuck That. I watched my mother pray on her knees for 12 years for God to help us and he ain’t do a damn thing. She actually died on her knees praying – and thats just how I found her. Her funeral was the last time I stepped foot inside a church. I was through with God. Fuck him and his son.

So here I was couch surfing, sleeping on rooftops and in abandon buildings trying to stay two steps a head of Child Protective Services (CPS).

I didn’t have a clue who my father was and apparently neither did my mother. Heard she was a prostitute when she got pregnant with me. She didn’t know if my father was her gorrilla Pimp, Big Daddy Donavan a.k.a Silky Black, her Greek regular Mr. Demetrius or that crooked ass preacher from the Blood of Christ Baptist Church, Rev. Donaldson. So what does my mother do? She names me after all three of these triflin bastards – Donavan Demetrius Donaldson. Ain’t that some shit? What few friends I had called me Donnie or Don Don…The streets called me 3-D.

My old ass nosey neighbor, a widow named Mrs. Davis, always said was I was an evil child. She cursed the day my mother birthed me. You know her type, always in everybody’s business. All she did was sit in the window, sip Easy Jesus, spit snuff, cuss everybody out who walked pass and then drag her ass to church on Sunday. A goddamn pit viper during the week, but a holier-than-thou sanctified saint on Sunday. I couldn’t stand her hypocritical judgemental ass. But one thing fo’sho though – Mrs. Davis may have been a lot of things, but “snitch” wasn’t one of them. See when Silky Black got bodied, only Mrs Davis and the Killer knew what really went down and she knew very well what I’d do to her if she ran her mouth. Old folks can get it too.

Conventional wisdom says, ” Leave no witnesses behind”. Even with a few bodies under my belt, for some reason, I did not feel the need to or want to murk Mrs. Davis – even though I couldn’t stand her ass. In some strange way, we bonded over Silky Black’s murder. It was unspoken, but we understood each other cleary. Nothing needed to be said.

By the time I was 16, my reputation in the streets was wicked. There were all kinds of whispered rumors floating around ’bout me – that I did this and I did that. Folks knew, but knew better not to speak my name when it came to the cops. They also knew not to mess with or disrepect Mrs. Davis. I had put word out . That alone was enough to keep the neighborhood wolves at bay. No one wanted a problem wit’me.

Somehow, Mrs Davis became the Grandmother I never had. She looked out for me. She was letting me rent her basement apartment for $400 per month but I usually gave her about $750. I was hustling up at nearby Duke University selling weed, blow and pills to a bunch of over indulgent spoiled ass college students. I was rakin’ in about $1500 a week.

I spent most days up at the campus hustling. It was a cake walk compared to working the block. It was so much less drama and I hadn’t had to pop anybody in longtime. I started dressing like the students and hanging out with a few. Eventually, I began to blend in. Thats when I met this coke bottled shaped freshman named Chantal – a big tittied – small waist chocolate version of Rhianna with an ass like J-Lo. The attraction was instant and sparked that ole’ classic good girl-bad boy romance.

During the school days, while I was handling mine, she was all about her business and that 3.8 GPA showed it. But at night, all she wanted to do was ride long dick, smoke an El afterward and talk philosophies, plans for the future and a bunch of “meaning of life” bullshit. If I’m honest, I enjoyed the conversations almost as much as enjoyed the sex. Naw, I take that back, her bed game and head game is the TRUTH! But I really was diggin’ the pillow talk though.

It was nearing the end of the second semester and I had just rocked that ass to sleep. I was laying back sippin’ Honey Jack and puffin’ on an El while watching the smoke dance in the air. As my mind began to wander, I thought about my Mother for the first time in God knows when. I thought about the night I killed Silky Black. I thought about when I robbed and killed Jamaican Mike for all of his drugs – shit that’s how I start my drug business. I reflected on all the unforgivable things I did and the people I’ve hurt. For the first time ever in my life, I felt regret and even shame. I glanced over at Chantal sleeping soundly. She knew I was a street dude but had no idea of all the things I’ve done. I smiled at her lovingly and in an instance realized that I had fucked up. I had fucked around and fell in love with this bitch. She got me givin’ a fuck where there were previously no fucks given. She’s got me thinkin’ bout switching up being on some other shit. I close my eyes and ask God for forgiveness. I take another hit of the El and slowly exhale the weed smoke from my lungs- thinking, “yup, I’m sure of it, a change is gonna come.”

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