soapboxdiner

A Drug Czar named Rico

Dude, I had the freakiest dream last night. I swear Copella could not have dreamt up anything freakier.

So there I was, in my luxurious ghetto mansion in southern California. Well actually, I was in the garage of my luxurious ghetto mansion. I was standing beside the entrance to the house with a flour scoop in my hand. I was a hardened cocaine dealer name Rico, a fat boy with tattoos and a shaved head wearing sagged out dickies and a wife beater.

I thought I was too cool, yo. I hid my stash of coke in the three gallon glass flour container there in plain sight. Thinking no one would ever make the connection between drugs and flour, owing to it's obviousness. Because I was smart and cool and clever like that.

Everything was chill in my world. I was rollin down the street smoking endo, sipping on gin and juice. I had my homies and we were laid back in a tricked out cadillac with hydrolics. The epitome, if you will, of chill gangsta warlord. I mean, who else do you know who can keep cocaine in a glass container in the garage and fool everyone? Right. Solomente yo, cabron. Only me.

Life was good until one day, I got my usually 50 key UPS shipment from Columbia or some shit. I opened the brown paper package and poured that bitch into my flour thing. Half that shit split on the floor but it was all good because I had my scoop with me. I just efficiently swept the dope up and returned it to its proper location. I was cool.

And this is where it starts getting freaky, shorties.

All while this was transpiring, I'd had the garage door open for the world to see me make my deposit. The only thing between me and them being the driveway. And so I looked out the opened door. There I found a SWAT team van backed up and parked in the drive. I could see those pinche bastards in there watching me.

That intuition that says, "you're so busted, dude" sprang to my mind, despite the fact that I knew they were not there when I was handling my biznass. But it was only a matter of time before those bastards would get my mother to let them into the house (see, because I still lived with my -very white despite my Latino roots- mother) where they would find the rest of my shit.

So I sat down on the PlaySkool picnic table in my garage. I half-heartedly rummaged through the mail there found. I then reached into my purse (I was a girl now with very long, blonde hair and blue eyes.) A well-loved picture of the happy times removed from its folds was placed by my sad hands onto the stack of junk mail flyers.

I stood up then, head raised high in mock confidence. I began to walk out of the garage and past the SWAT team, who were throwing their derision upon me. Walked and walked I did, for blocks. However, I was no longer in the ghetto. I was in the snowy ice cold mountains located what, half a mile from my Soutern California home? Into the mountains I hiked, frozen compact snow my only companion. Past a waterfall, past an abysmal ravine. Down a hill and up again until I found myself back in town, specifically at a mini mall.

However, I was not on foot any longer, but in the backseat of my tricked out Caddy, drinking a beer with my homies. The po po were there standing nonchalantly in wait for our exudus from the vehicle. Tearful goodbyes and promises to be nobody's bitch in prison shared, we finally made our peaceful surrender. In my hands on that green mile were two empty beer bottles and a half full one, which I tried to hide from The Man because I didn't want an open container ticket added to my charges. I knew I was slick enough to get them into the garbage before they saw what they were.

Arrested I was, and then released on my own recognizance. Back at the house my homies and I gathered to bemoan our impending imprisonment. We wanted to smoke a joint of my dope shit - you know, my blue tropical pot. Damn the police for finding my shit!

That's when my buddy asked if I'd be loyal or if I'd bring him down with me. I swore I'd get his back, but he didn't believe me. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees and red Swedish Fish pulled between his teeth, and said, "I don't believe you Rico. I think you's a punk ass bitch."

And so, he stood up and in one smooth move pulled his two semi-automatic hand guns from his waist and shot me dead, right there in my room in my ghetto mansion home.

Now tell me, that's some freaky shit, right? I should turn that into a screen play and ship it off to Hollywood. Sbd'll be a Big Star then.

5:24 am - 10.07.02
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