Pusher Man

E

Envy

Guest
Original poster
January 21 1965

It was quiet in the alley ways of New York City, quite for the white folk. Quiet for the man, leanin on us little guys. Only one way for us to make it and thats to bring our people down. You cant get your black ass out of the slums without making a visit--to the PUSHERMAN

 
James Evans Jr. looked out the window of his slum appartment. The buildings were tarnished reb brick, the asphalt lay out like carpet, cornered off occasionally by link fences and broken street lamps. He shook his head. "I gotta change something man! This aint coo'." He went back into his appartment and looked around. The walls were covered in filth. At night, the roaches feasted on the crumbs left by other tenants. He remembered once that his friend Duncan had ODed in his bathroom on some bad smack. he had come too late. These were what was left for the lone black man. James would need to get some money, fast, easy. But he couldnt figure out a way.

Suddenly he heard a knock on the door. He wasnt expecting anyone but he went to look who it was anyway. He gazed through the peep hole.
"Who there man?"
 
So he was white, in the slums, it was hard enough making a living. Or, it would be for anyone else. When it came Riven Hail, it was a different matter. He helped run the streets, made due where he could. He was a connection among connections. One wanted to see the Pusherman and get out of this Hell? One had to go through the channels. He was one of the options, and often the option that most picked. Sure, he wasn't entirely respected, but he made sure people feared him. He was six foot even, jet black eyes and hair that hung low enough to hide them. Muscled and scared from fights around the streets, fights he'd never backed down from. He'd lost a few, sure, everyone did. But everyone feared him these days, because he had connections that could make a man suffer, or disappear. A white guy had to live somehow, and he was living the best he could.

The door in front of him was simple, the job was simple; get in, get out. He rolled his shoulder after he knocked, rolling his eyes at the voice. "If you don't recognize me, then maybe you really don't belong on these streets." Riven said, arms folded over his chest.
 
Jj unlocked the door quickly and hurried the contact in. "Common man. You got what the time of the meeting is?" He hastily closed his door and looked out the peephole. "Word is the man's got eyes on him but he's sampling some new stuff."
 
"Keep acting like that, I'll call it off." Riven said, rolling his shoulder and looking at the guy. "Man's always got eyes, and he's always trying new things. He's as clean as they come." He shook his head, "Meeting's at eleven tonight, I'm to get you there in one piece. I get paid extra if you get shot though."
 
Jj looked at his guide to the main man. "You ain't gonna shoot me yer self. Are ya." He took to the kitchen and picked up a small sack off the table while he listened.
 
"Thought about it." Was all Riven said, rolling his shoulder and checking his gun absently. Full clip and one in the chamber; no, he wouldn't shoot the kid. His job was to get him there alive, if he got shot and still made it there, then Riven would get paid. He'd get paid anyway, but point was, kid had to make it there first.
 
A tall light skinned black man pounded on the door.

Clint, the hood wacko. Everyone seems wacko in the hood, there is always that one that had an actual screw loose, Clint. Only reason people keep him in their company is because his mind doesn't tell him that being rude and hurting people over stupid, petty reasons is a totally wrong thing to do. He basically will have your back if he's known you for more than five minutes.

Jamaican, light skinned, skinny, big eyes. Clint wasn't something o be scared of on the outside. Only thing respectable he wore was .45 in his holster under his baggy Bob Marley hoodie.

"Come yah! Open up mon! I saw dat white boi come in yah house. Ya smokin dat good good from Rakka?! Come yah. Open!"
 
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