"So, 'Grandson'? What's the story behind that?"
"Shit, you gon' have to ask grandpa that. I will just be following in his footsteps."
"And... who is your grandpa?"
"You don't know?"
Whoever said that Atlanta was 'not bad' has clearly never set foot in any place that isn't the heart of it. If they did, they'd know that at around 60 miles south of the capital, the buildings get bad. The neighborhoods get worse.
The people themselves follow a few miles later.
There's a weather forecast on the radio, as the oddly cheerful voice of a presenter informs the general public that the rain will most definitely fall on Saturday. Von frowns upon hearing this because Durk won't be happy with the news. They had a small show planned, a treat for some of the street kids. Maybe this is an omen.
He's about to change the station when its signal goes off and all he can hear is static. But even static is better than the silence of the road, so Von keeps the radio on. At least, it's keeping him conscious. Going on a trip in the middle of summer, in a car worth more than most homes, in the middle of nowhere just because Asian had insisted and this was important, was a far cry from life back in the O.
He knows her well enough to understand that "important" means "wanting to get fucked until all she could do is scream 'fuck me'!" but still...
If Von was no longer tied down by an ankle monitor or sure he'd get good sex for doing this, he would tell her to fuck off. Don't fuck off.
The next ten days were gonna be HARD.
He could still remember the first time he saw her fine ass in New York without having to recall a full recollection. He was with Durk and Meek, balling out the gym no different than how they balled in the mall: iced out gold chains, charms, and bracelets flooded with VVS diamonds. The only thing they didn't have was six rings like MJ.
He didn't dare to actually holla at her that day, looking like a celebrity in her Gucci sunglasses, but he did get a glimpse of the future. She was gonna be his number one bitch and that was meant as a compliment not an insult to bitch number two. Well...Over the next couple of weeks, they flirted here and there- in the studio recording a song with Durk; at Durk's album release party- until he finally pulled up in her DM. They kicked it back and forth no soccer ball between them and discovered that they had a common goal. What's happening now is just happening.
Ever since he exited the motorway, Von has given up on looking out the window. There's nothing to be seen, the landscape hasn't changed for miles and it probably never will. What catches his attention from time to time is the parking ticket stuck to the window shield. It's covered with dust and bodies of dead insects. Helplessly, it flaps on the wind, all pink paper and dark ink. Ewe.
When he leans forward, his shirt peels off the leather seat, making an unattractive sound. A quarter-million-dollar air conditioner was no substitute for fresh air after you'd been locked up doing time. No matter how hot it was, Von preferred the warm breeze. Sweat and all. Beads of it roll down his forehead, his cheeks, all the way to his jawline and then they drip on his brand new Fear Of God sweatpants. Just fantastic.
This whole situation couldn't possibly be better. Not only is he driving down some forgotten road somewhere behind the motorway, but he's not sure where he's even going. Asian's instructions were of no help, her handwriting all over the place, completely unreadable. And Google Maps is fucking useless. Thanks.
Von slams his foot on the accelerator and the parking ticket flies away. That's one problem solved. Zooooom.
His Supreme bomber jacket is thrown over the passenger seat along with a map and a bottle of lukewarm water. Two empty cans of energy drinks and a candy wrapper are shoved in a plastic bag, ready to be thrown away. Von doesn't like littering. Something about those inmate litter crews on the highway.
YOU ARE READING
KILLING KING VONNon-Fiction
King Von was a young artist with many struggles; writing his life down on paper with ink. No one could tell his testimony except him and that's exactly what he did as a rapper and storyteller. But he was more than a Chicago artist. He was a black ma...