Portray

🎱 Mildly🏃🏾Fortunate

Darrell dug into his shorts, removing a wad of bills. Though they were mainly singles, he insisted to comb through the wrinkled currency before retrieving two twenty dollar bills and a ten. He tossed the money in the pit. He took his dice in hand, then blew in his palm while rattling it. It flew from his hand, their eyes fixed on the object as it landed on six. He was a low number. Tuck tossed his dice.

"Seven." he said aloud.

He picked up the cube, "Take first roll," he said, handing it to Darrell,

"don't be snatching up the shits all quick tho'." he added, removing a pack of New Ports from his cargo shorts.

"Aye, let me bum one off you." Tray said, his hand already held out.

His boy didn't know what to think, having been friends since Junior High, Tuck had never known him to smoke squares.

"Take a few," he said, his arm extended out with the lid on the pack propped up.

"don't need yo ass tryna' bum some off me later." he added, while smirking to indicate he was only cap'n.

He lit his cigarette then handed Tray the lighter. 

"Yo since when you start smoking squares?"

"Been hittin' these shits for a minute," Tray replied nonchalantly, "a lotta stuff been on a nihga mind is all. ."

Tuck took a drag from his square, nodding his head to the music all while thinking to himself.

"That whole thing with Nap-o?" he suddenly asked.

Nap-o, which was short for Napoleon, was a local hustler known throughout the hood where Tray grew up. The same as many misguided youths, he admired the O.G. Seeing the luxury cars he drove, the multiple women he slept with and the respect he got in the street—the impression on Tray was made! At sixteen the kid had wanted a life like Nap-o's. His relationship with the hustler started off harmless, such as running errands. Whether it was playing numbers at the corner store or fetching wing dings and fries, he never hesitated to jump at the opportunity—given Nap-o's generous nature as a tipper.

Noticing the kid's drive and determination, it wasn't long before Nap-o had Tray dealing petty bags of reefer.  A decision that would set off a slow domino effect in his life.

Judging by the expression on Tray's face, Tuck was sure he hit a nerve.

Tray stepped a few feet from where Eric and Darrell stood and nudged his head for Tuck to follow.

When they were at a good distance, Tray spoke up, "Dawg, he comin' down hard on my head regarding that boy from Berkley."

Some months back, a teen at a party overdosed on coke and Nap-o's name was mentioned as supposedly being responsible for supplying the kid with the drug. Given this was an under aged white boy, the DEA was all over this like maggots on a beef patty on a hot summer day.  There was no substantial evidence linking him to the kid, yet this forced him to go underground for a while as the scene got hot. Under a great deal of pressure, the hustler grew suspicious of those around him, including Tray.

"Yeah, so what that gotta do with you?" Tuck asked, confused.

"His ass think somebody talk'n to the feds," Tray said, taking a long drag from his square, "swear the nihga losing his mind for real." he shook his head.

"Well, nihga that's what comes with the game." his homeboy replied, letting his hands fall to his side.

"As long as you keep yo' nose clean, ain't shit to worry 'bout."

"I guess man. ." Tray sighed, mentally drained from paranoia. The weed in his system making matters worse.

He knew his homeboy had a point, to kick back and wait things out. Given there wasn't much else to do. Though aware of Nap-o's vindictive and brutal nature, it wasn't optimal to be 'laxed in this particular situation.