N
Novapierce
Guest
Original poster
The sound of a lighter flicking awake and a light glistens in the shadows of a rundown looking complex in the midst of the city. The building itself an eye sore to those who pass by it, many call it home, few call it safe, and none wish to stay. That is the life of people who live in similar buildings, apartments complexes that house the economically challanged, or the projects to those who are street savvy. Pimps, whores, dealers, killer, and the innocent reside inside, doing there best to make it with there job or hustle they have set up in the city. One in particular, a dealer who lived on the top floor, resident rebel who had his run in with cops and gangs alike, escaping many times, and bribing others. A black man with Jamaican heritage, long black dreadlocks that reach down to his shoulders, a lean build and two decades of life under his belt. His eyes a soft yellow, a gift from his mother, and a handsome face that was lined with the stress of living in such a harsh place.
Currently, he sits in his delapidated apartment with bags stacked on a run down looking coffee table, a joint in his mouth with a cherry at the end already burning bright, a lighter in one hand, a cell phone in the other. His attire a pair of faded gray jeans, Black street boots, a silver chain about his neck with his initials J.M. on a dog tag that dangled at the ended of his chain and glistened softly, and his own skin that had a few tattoos on is arms and a large one on his chest that read, "Freedom isn't free". In the background, the soft sounds of Bob Marely and the wailers give the dilapidated apartment a very relaxed feel. It was his day to cash in a crop of grass that he had gotten for a steal of a price. He breathed the smoke of the burning herb as he thought about how well he had done for himself. He had worked for this pusher for some time and if he were to pull off this sell, he'd move up in the game and sell larger amounts, a free ticket out of the ghetto, and perhaps out of the city. He dreamed of his time in a mansion like house as a gray haze filled the room and exited out into the streets, he sighing with relief as he awaited a knock on the door or a ring of his phone.
Currently, he sits in his delapidated apartment with bags stacked on a run down looking coffee table, a joint in his mouth with a cherry at the end already burning bright, a lighter in one hand, a cell phone in the other. His attire a pair of faded gray jeans, Black street boots, a silver chain about his neck with his initials J.M. on a dog tag that dangled at the ended of his chain and glistened softly, and his own skin that had a few tattoos on is arms and a large one on his chest that read, "Freedom isn't free". In the background, the soft sounds of Bob Marely and the wailers give the dilapidated apartment a very relaxed feel. It was his day to cash in a crop of grass that he had gotten for a steal of a price. He breathed the smoke of the burning herb as he thought about how well he had done for himself. He had worked for this pusher for some time and if he were to pull off this sell, he'd move up in the game and sell larger amounts, a free ticket out of the ghetto, and perhaps out of the city. He dreamed of his time in a mansion like house as a gray haze filled the room and exited out into the streets, he sighing with relief as he awaited a knock on the door or a ring of his phone.