Sentiment
(noun)
sen·ti·ment ˈsen-tə-mənt
: an attitude, thought, or judgment prompted by feeling.
"You just don't look....safe." Essence said while sipping her drink.
"Naw, I only ain't safe for the niggas that hate me."
"But for you, I'll be...
"Shit sticky as hell, y'all definitely gon' make some pape off this one." Tyrus said while holding one of the fresh weed buds in his hand, admiring it's texture.
"Fasho." I nodded, looking around at the other plants in satisfaction.
When I said I'm a man bout' my money, I meant that. Selling was only half the profit, the niggas who needed a bigger bag like me, grew it too.
Making good money started with thinking bigger than the average street nigga. For years I worked hard to perfect my craft. Long hours and late nights went into my warehouses and in result, I grew the best of the best in Miami. Exotic strains only.
This warehouse was just one of many I had around Miami and because I was smart, I kept a few outside of Miami too. My workers took good care of those locations for me. All I needed to do was frequently pop-up and ensure things were intact whenever harvest dropped.
We worked with plenty of people, in and out of state, different cities and even different countries. Our plugs over in Mexico always comes through with quality shit. though I personally wasn't big on selling harsher drugs, Cocaine undeniably made great profit around Miami.
It was something I dabbled in from time to time. However, smuggling anything counterfeit was way out my area of expertise. I hadn't done things like that since a teenager, and that was only because desperate times called for desperate matters. Selling dope was more so for rookies, young niggas who just found their way to the streets and don't yet know the ins or outs well.
Although Weed wasn't legal in Miami, besides dispensaries. Someone like me who had been in the streets for years definitely knew how to keep shit under wraps.
It also helped that my boy Ty never got mixed in with Me and Rico's doings. Him being a music producer and working with a lot of big celebrities definitely kept the feds off of us. Everybody assumed we were some rap nigga's homeboys whenever out. Some muthafuckas were just that oblivious, but others could easily spot that we were mixed in some other shit when they seen us.
"Niggas got me fucked up." I heard a voice speak from the door, turning to see Rico walk in with his gun out.
"Hell you got going on?" I questioned, shifting my eyes towards the gun in his hands before searching his body for any wounds. My panic subsided after seeing he was fine, just shook up.
"I just got into a high speed chase with some niggas who pulled up on me while I was working in the other warehouse." He sat his gun down on the table and ran his hands through his dreads.
"You get a chance to see them niggas face?" I asked with concern but he didn't seem to have any answers.
"Ion' even know...shit happened so fast." He shook his head, leaving me in deep thought.
