Most of the novels
are around 99 cents and a ton of them are available on Kindle and, I’m sure, everywhere else. Wikipedia
says “The tone for urban fiction is usually dark, focusing on the underside of
city living. Profanity, sex, and violence are usually explicit.” I get
a kick out of them, I love the language, and they have influenced my world
view; for example, I now refer to my car as my whip.
The
Life Of A Bitch And A Thug: A Chi-Town Hood Love Story, by Krystle
Yvette
Being from
Chicago myself, I particularly enjoyed this novel even though there aren’t any
Windy City landmarks that figure prominently.
Here's a quick recap: At one point
Bitch says: “If Chaz plays his cards right, he could probably be my nigga one
day.” Thug, whose
name is not Chaz, suspects something going on between Bitch and Chaz: “I hope this nigga Chaz does not call himself
liking my bitch. He a cool lil nigga, but I will kill that nigga if need be.”
And sure
enough, stuff happens and: “I looked around the room to see
if I could see any deceit in these niggas eyes. I looked that nigga Chaz dead
in the eyes and he was sitting over there like he ain’t just rape my wife. I
had something real special planned for that nigga.”
But Chaz isn’t the
only one living on borrowed time; take Raymond, for instance: “Raymond was the only nigga in the room
looking nervous as hell. I’m gone have Dirty and Pimp follow that nigga. I
don’t give a fuck about him being Kane’s brother; if he jeopardized my empire
that nigga dead. I knew I had to watch this out of town ass nigga I thought.” Very exciting.
Addicted
to a Dirty South Thug, by Shan
There is both
humor and gravity in this book. “I kept noticing Anastasia’s ass giving me a
dry ass stank look” represents the funny, but my heart went out in
commiseration and empathy for the character who, after everything good goes straight
to hell, laments: “Things had been dope as fuck, too.” I feel you, bro.
Falling
For My Side Nigga, by Racquel Williams
I had trouble
relating to the characters here, although when one of them comments wistfully “Once
in a while, a nigga needs quietness in his life,” I could do nothing but agree.
A
Thug Worth Fighting For: A Tale of Our Passion, by Daijah Shine
Another Thug. “I sat outside [the] crib, smoking a
blunt while waiting for his ass to come out.” (Wikipedia should have mentioned
the ubiquitous drug culture in this genre.) And speaking of cribs, there’s a
funny moment when one of the couples are getting ready to go out and the woman says
to her man “Nigga, hurry up. I gotta stop by my mama crib before we go to the
trap.” But my favorite passage is this piece of analysis and reflection: "Niggas
be havin' shit confused. Just because a nigga act one way for his lady, don't
mean I'm a pussy. I'll still fuck a nigga up if it’s necessary," Dontay
exclaimed.” Outstanding!
Gangstress, by India, contains
one astonishing moment in an otherwise disappointing book. I love strong women,
but Gangstress herself was not near as exciting as I’d hoped. And I get
distracted by errors like “Taylor made suits” and “except my condolences for...”,
etc. But when Gangstress poses this rhetorical profundity---“What type of nigga
would stop at the mall when he have a dead body in the trunk? I thought to
myself.”---well, I just have to shake my head in awe.
Young
& Thuggin: Foreword by Lil' Boosie, by Lord Shabazz Allah
The forward by Lil' Boosie is an imprimatur of gold as far
as I’m concerned. And talk about violence! (“It was me who gave you your first .380, remember?”) There is such an array of weaponry and free wielding of same ("After seeing my AK-47, the HK-91, my MAC-11, our AR-15, Country’s German Luger, our Beretta 9, my twin Desert Eagles, Country’s Glock-17, and our bullshit-ass TEC-9, I gave Mookie the Luger, pocketed both the Beretta 9 and the Eagle...") At times I felt like I was in a young and thuggin’ Roy Lichtenstein
exhibit while reading. It's appropriate to quote from the text in bullet points. (The bold italic emphasis on the onomontopeia
is mine.)
- But you know there’s always got to be some stupid ma’fucka to fuck shit up. Blap! Blap! Blap! Three shots from what sounded like a cheap nine millimeter came from nowhere. I immediately began to cut my choppa loose. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka!
- Baaaaaaaam! Baaaaaaaam! Baaaaaaaam! Baaaaaaaam! Then niggas started emerging from everywhere. T. Roy looked up at me like, ‘What the fuck?’ I returned his eye contact. ‘The fuck if I know.’
- Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! Bluga! The shotgun continued to shoot.
- Chic chic bluga! Chic chic bluga! Chic chic bluga! Yeah, you already know. Someone sat on the passenger side, busting a sawed-off shotgun at us.
- Pow, pow, pow! was the sound of the other man’s .38 Special . . . Bop, bop, bop! came the sound of another hustler’s smoking .357.
- The moment I saw them easing up just a little, I went for my Glock 17. “He’s going for a gun!” I heard one yell and commence to firing. Blop! Blop! Blop! Pow! Pow! Pow!
- Then, at last it was the ultimate sound, or should I say the supreme sound of a choppa. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! I peeked over the hood of the Astro van and saw Meathead and some more project niggaz had come to our rescue. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Kneeling on one knee was Meathead busting an AK-47, while some little black-ass nigga next to him was squatting with what had to be an AR-15.
- Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! He took four shots from my semi-automatic and tried to run, but after only a few steps, he collapsed in the middle of the street. I sprang off the porch and crutched behind him. Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! to finish the job.
- I placed the Luger against the window. Boc! Boc! Boc!
- ...aiming a Mossberg pistol-grip pump shotgun at us. Chic chic bluga! Is the sound the sawed-off shotgun made as our rear windshield blew out. ...Chic chic bluga! Chic chic bluga! ...Chic chic bluga! Chic chic bluga! Chic chic bluga!
- I reached for the rifle, and the moment there was a pause in the shooting, I surfaced with the fifty-caliber and made it do a drumroll. Dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat . . .
- Pow! Pow! Boc! Boc! Pow! Boc! They shot at us anyway. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka!
- I ran into the middle of the street and cut the AR-15 loose again. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Click! Click! Those eight shots dropped Tank’s lil cousin and a pack of unknown daredevils, but I didn’t see Tank. Cow! Cow! Boc! Pow! Boc! Boc! They fired from all directions, with many different motives. I slapped in my second clip, but before I could fire . . . Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! A busta wearing a R.I.P. Richie Rich T-shirt had me dancing in the street. “You can’t kill me, nigga!” I yelled after taking all six shots in the chest. Once I collected myself, I squeezed. Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Blocka! Those shots sent him and two daredevils home, and left another one wounded. “Yall can’t kill me, niggaz! I’m No Love. I started this shit!” Then I saw Tank. Chic Chic Bluga! Chic Chic Bluga! Chic Chic Bluga! Tank’s sawed-off shotgun took me off my feet and knocked me backwards. The impact of the twelve-gauge sent me flying onto the hood of Flat Top’s patrol unit. When I halfway gathered myself, I realized I’d lost my choppa and some fool with Desire Pride tatted around his neck was running toward me with his tool. Pow! Pow! Pow! I took those three shots then went for my Taurus. Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! I fired. “That’s all yall got, nigga. When you fuck with me, you fuckin’ with a heavyweight, nigga.” Before I could raise up from the hood to find my choppa, someone snuck up behind me and slapped me in the head with a Louisville Slugger. Whop!
All that firepower and he gets hit in the head with a baseball bat! That kills me.
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