"As-salāmu ʿalaykum," he said in Arabic. Peace be upon you.

"Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam, akh," Gunna replied, sitting up on the end of the bed, wiping sleep from the corner of his eyes. And unto you peace, brother.

"Man, I can't call it, playa. I know you in here slippin', though, letting me walk in on you in the village, nigga. This is still a vicious project. It's two o'clock. You know better than to be playing this jawn all loose and shit."

"Let me do me. Damn," Gunna replied.

"Come on man. Tell, Shorty, to get up and roll. We got shit to tend to," Lamar said sternly.

"Yeah. Yeah. I know, bro. My bad. I have just been tired as shit," Gunna said, defending his reckless behavior, as if Lamar didn't see the razor, mirror, and rolled up hundred dollar bill on the table. This dumb-ass snorting coke with a Benjamin.

"Tired. You prolly got a little one on the way somewhere. You know you a vicious anti-condom, boul." Lamar joked.

Gunna clapped his hands twice. "Not the fuck funny, wild nigga." Gunna yawned.

The woman stood up and grabbed her panties from the floor. She said, "Yeah, not funny at all. You need to watch your mouth."

"Me or him?" Lamar asked, walking closer to her. He looked deeply into her eyes. Things had started nasty and quickly slid to ugly.

"You," she said, ignoring the flames coming from his head.

Lamar pulled out his Glock 22 and pressed it against her right ass cheek. She shrieked, dropped her panties, and covered her face with her hands. Not many men reached Lamar's seething anger. Not even close. His aggression was distilled. Pure. He was anger. He did things most people wouldn't even dream of. Their anger was cloudy and fuzzy, upsetting them. He saw anger with distinct precision and acted as effortlessly.

He asked, "You ever had an ass shot? You do have a fat ass and I know, my man, Gunna, gave you a mean back shot. But what about an ass shot? Literally?" He looked back and forth between her ass and the gun in his hand.

"No," she said, "I'm sorry. Don't shoot me."

"Stand up straight and uncover your face," Lamar said. "Everything's going to be A-OK."

"Yo, Lambchop, chill," Gunna said, putting his clothes on.

Lamar pointed the gun at Gunna, and said, "shut up." To the woman, he said, "get your clothes on and never disrespect me again. How did you get here?" He sounded like a dad that caught her having sex in his house.

"I walked, "she replied, rushing to put on her panties. "I live around the corner."

She complied, and Gunna could not believe his eyes. When the door closed behind her, Gunna said, "Nigga, don't you ever in your life point a gun at me. You got me fucked up."

Lamar stood motionless in the middle of the floor. Intensely, he began to listen. When Gunna began to speak again, he held a finger up to gain silence. Shhh "You hear that?"

"What?" Gunna asked alarmed by Lamar's actions.

Again, silence filled the room for a few more seconds before Lamar playfully smacked Gunna in the back of the head and began to laugh.

"I hear the money calling us. Now finish getting your life together so we can go get it. And brush your teeth. I know you been eating pussy all night."

Realizing he had been had, Gunna laughed at Lamar's playfulness.

Lamar left the apartment to wait in the car. He used The extra time to smoke a strawberry Dutch filled with grade-one Sour Diesel weed. Halfway through it, he glanced out of the window and saw Gunna on the opposite curb, searching the street for him. He honked the car's horn and then rolled the tinted window down, drawing Gunna's attention.

Gunna jogged over, praising Lamar's new car. "Damn, how much you pay for this?" He hopped into the passenger side. "Only a small ten-five," Lamar said, pulling away from the street. "I figured I might as will treat myself and not cheat myself. Ya, dig?" Lamar smiled, an upward, short, arrogant curl of his lips.

"Cool, cool. But, look, I got something real nice lined up for us. I ain't talking no ten- or twenty-thousand, either. Ain't no time for small thinking. I did a lot of homework while you were down. Our block is only four- to five-stacks a week. Sixty-five hundred on a good week. "

"Aight, so what you sayin'?"

"What I'm saying is that ain't enough, my dude. Niggas got bills and I know you trying to get you and ol' girl from under her mom's roof," Gunna said.

Releasing a cloud of smoke, Lamar asked, "Aight, what you got lined up?"

"I got these niggas out Upper Darby getting close to three hundred pounds of some Arizona and like twenty birds every third of the month. I know they keeping some bread in there, too, but I'm not sure how much. I'd say at least a hundred-thou."

Lamar smiled at the thought of Gunna planning a robbery. The quote of the numbers was to get him interested; and, he truly was. At that point, Lamar turned onto their block; not only their place of business but the block they had grew up on. The Southwest Philadelphia, Bartram Village Projects was up to the ghetto standards of all United States cities, like Baltimore, New York, D.C. Conspiracy? Made him wonder. Graffiti underscored the word STOP on the stop sign. The mailbox on the corner had three smiley faces drawn on it. Lamar parked on the corner as a pipe head walked pass, staring into space. Just another strung out junkie. Now, I'm home, Lamar thought, stepping out of the vehicle, his mind spun with all of the possibilities.

Returning to the lick, Lamar said, "With that type of money, we can't play no games once we inside. We have to down everyone in there."

Leaning against the trunk, Gunna said, "No question, bro. We obviously can't leave no witnesses."

"You know who's all in there, right?"

"As far as I know, there are four dudes inside and one of their baby moms. My connect is this skinny nigga named, Snake. I been copping off them a while now, all they do is play Xbox and smoke."

"Dumb niggas." Loose dealers didn't deserve to be in the game.

"Once I get in there, I'm going to leave the door unlocked. I'll text you NO, that means chill. GO means come wit' it." Gunna paused, and then, sincerely looked at Lamar. "Now can I trust you with our lives?"

Lamar was insulted. "Come on, dog. Don't do that," he said.

"Aight, they gonna pat me down, so you have to come in on point. Only one of them be having a gun, Cutty. You rock him from the rip. I'll show you his Facebook page so you'll know what he looks like. That way the nigga, Shaquille, see we ain't bullshitten. It's his coke. You get his attention, it should be a cakewalk after that."

"When we doing this?"

"They re-up on the third. So in like two weeks we on it."

Lamar fell into deep thought as they walked up the block with a foundation for their first robbery firmly in place. Debris―soda cans, beer bottles, Chinese food containers, chip bags, candy wrappers―were scattered. It was comparable to walking around a city dump. The area was fetid.

As they walked, Trap looked closely at Lamar, and then, called out towards his idol. He was excited. Although Trap's diabolical violence was rapidly earning him the reputation of a goon, he was in awe of the guy in his era that had started it all. It was like the Magic, Jordan, and Kobe fans: Each era had their favorite player. In this one, Lamar was the unanimous MVP. Dressed in army-fatigue cargo pants and a white T-shirt, Trap had a tough appeal even though he had youthful features. His dark hair was in a nappy curly fro, light skinned, with a deep voice, strong for his fifteen-years-old. He was the epitome of a pretty boy thug destined for prison or the dirt.

Jogging from the trap house's porch up to Lamar, Trap asked, "Lambchop, when you get out?" giving him some dap.

"A week ago. I didn't know who the fuck y'all was in that car. Another two seconds and I would have put that bitch on crates," Trap said, lifting his shirt, revealing a nickel-plated Ruger P89.

Lamar didn't like the gesture, but to show him up, he said, "Li'l nigga, you didn't stand a chance." Lamar pulled out his firearm, and said, "You ain't got enough shots in that joint." Lamar smiled.

Gunna smiled, also, and made his way down the block.

"Damn, what's that?" Trap asked. "How many shots?"

"Only a .40. Fourteen shots, but―" Lamar ejected the standard clip and inserted an extended clip back in his pocket.