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 My Dirty Hot Angel

Episode 15

“Man, fuck Magic! That nigga time in this city done came and gone. Y’all niggas actin’ like Magic is the shit now. Fuck he got? A club and his name. He ain’t holding these streets down anymore,” Rufus shouted.

“What the fuck I’m gonna do wit’ you, Rufus?”

“What the fuck I’m gonna do wit’ you? You know I always got your back, YB, but Magic—he just talk, my nigga. And a nigga like me, talk wit’ this.” Rufus lifted his shirt once again to show off the .380. “That’s where the respect is.”

YB sighed.

Rufus looked at his cousin and then a thought came to him. “Nigga, you sure you goin’ down to the club to see Magic? Let me find out that bitch got you open. And I know you ain’t even fuck her yet.”

“Stay out my business, Rufus,” YB warned.

“Nigga, you got all these hood bitches dying to fuck you and make some money for you, and you wanna sniff behind some whore that sells pussy for Crown? What da fuck is wrong wit’ you, YB?”

“Nigga, it ain’t what you think. And I’m goin’ to the club to see Magic, don’t get that shit twisted,” YB hissed.

“A’ight, just make sure it’s about business and not about pussy.”

“Whatever. I’m out. Hold it down out here till I get back.” YB started the truck.

“Yeah, I will. Just remember I’m the nigga in the trenches wit’ you, making sure niggas don’t forget who we be and what we’re about. My gun talk and fear keeps the wolves away,” Rufus said.

YB nodded.

Rufus got out of the car and discreetly removed the .380 from his waistband as he watched YB drive off down the block. When the truck turned the corner, Rufus held the gun close by his side. He calmly walked over to where Toy-T stood with a few of his soldiers. “Yo, Toy-T, let me holla at you for a sec.”

Toy-T and the soldiers turned when they heard Rufus. When Rufus got close to Toy-T, he brandished the gun and a few niggas took off running. Before Toy-T could run, Rufus grabbed him by his shirt and brought the butt of the gun across his face. He split Toy-T’s forehead open and continued to pistol whip him in the streets.

“Nigga, what da fuck you doin’ around here, huh? Stay your ass away from here, muthafucka. You hear me, nigga? You hear early, nigga?” Rufus shouted as he beat the shit out of Toy-T. YB said not to shoot the man, but he didn’t say anything about not beating him down to send a message.

Rufus glared at the beaten Toy-T, his hand, and the bloody gun. Toy-T lay sprawled out across the chipped concrete and whimpered like a wounded animal.

“Nigga, when I come back out this bitch, you better be gone, nigga . . . early,” Rufus warned.

He spit on Toy-T and walked into the building. Rufus’s crew looked at Toy-T and laughed as they shook their heads, knowing Toy-T was lucky. He was still breathing.


YB pulled up in the driveway to his mother’s exclusive four-bedroom Colonial home on Overbrook Avenue, in the Wynnefield section of Philly. The neighborhood was upscale and quiet. It had its few local knuckleheads around, but it was nothing like The Bottom.

He wanted his mother, Monica Toma, to live comfortably and relaxed. He loved her and she loved him. When Smoke was killed, YB suddenly became the man of the house at the age of five. With Magic not always around to help out, YB learned at an early age that he could do for himself to help his mother in and around the house.

He started in the streets when he was ten years old. He used to steal from the stores on Market Street with a crew he hung out with. When he turned twelve, he graduated to selling drugs, shooting, and fighting with the older boys on the streets.

By the time YB was fifteen, he dropped out of school and had a reputation. He was working his own corner and put Rufus on to be his muscle. With the money he made, he no longer needed to rely on Magic for support and asked his mother quit her job, because he felt that he was finally able to take care of her.

Mrs. Toma didn’t fully agree with her son’s choices, but she didn’t judge or criticize him either. He was bringing a lot of money into her home and had her living lavishly with furs, cars, trips, and jewelry, something her husband did before he was killed. It felt no different for the gifts to be coming from her son this time.

YB pulled behind his mom’s polished black Mercedes truck. The day was still young and he felt good. He was eati

ng lovely and the block had never been so busy. That heroin he got from the Mexicans made his business soar by twenty percent. He wanted to celebrate his success by taking his mother out.

He walked to the front door and unlocked it. He was dressed in a black Nike velour sweat suit with crisp white Air Force Ones. His braids were freshly done and his smooth, dark skin gleamed like the wax job on the Escalade.

He called for his mother once he entered the house. “Ma? Where you at? Your favorite son is in the house!”

“Boy, you’re my only child and the best son in the world,” Mrs. Toma replied as she walked into the kitchen, holding a glass of red wine as she kissed her son hello.

She wore a long ivory dress with a V-neck and shirred waist and a pair of matching open-toed Paco Rabanne shoes. She was a beautiful, classy, caramel-toned woman with long, sensuous black hair that flowed down to her shoulders. Her skin was smooth like butter.

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