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“I’m not looking for any drama either,” he says, eyeing me. He smiles, glancing over his shoulder at the salon. “So this is your shop?” I nod. “Wow, impressive.”
“Thanks. So you can understand how another encounter wouldn’t be good for business.”
He grins. “Then again, it may increase your business. Shit, she doesn’t mind spending my money to come here.”
I return the smile. “And I do appreciate the patronage, but that’s as far as I can go with it. Besides, as you’ve heard, I’m about to be married.”
“I understand. And so am I. But if you ever change your mind,”—he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet—“give me a call, or shoot me an email.” He hands me a business card. I glance at it. He’s an IT tech.
I smile. “Thanks.” He smiles back, then glances down at his cell as it chimes again. It’s another text from his fiancé. He walks off, texting back. And I prepare to cross the street. Dude with the hoodie is still standing by my car waiting, watching—or looking, for something. While I’m crossing the street, I see him lean down, picking up something. As I make my way toward my car, this motherfucker lifts up this big-ass cinderblock, draws his arms back, and hurls the shit at the rear window of my car. He takes off running down the street like a bat out of hell at the sound of glass shattering and my alarm blaring, yelling out, “Bitch!”
“OhmyGod!” I scream, running to my car. “Someone stop him! The motherfucker threw a brick through my window!” I quickly unlock my door, snatch my cell out of the passenger seat, then dial 9-1-1. In the meantime, I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk, watching as this nigga disappears down the street.
“Fuck!” I yell. This is the last thing I need today.
TWENTY
Whoever came up with the saying: When it rains, it fucking (added for effect) pours never lied. ’Cause right now it feels like I’m being soaked by a monsoon. When I get to the shop this morning I am greeted with a slew of fliers taped all over the front door and window of the salon. Fliers, damnit!!! About me! Each one had a different slogan. Shit like: FOR THE BEST HEAD IN TOWN, PASHA ALLEN’S GOT THE DICK SUCKING GAME ON LOCK…FOR THAT 24 HOUR DICK WASH, COME THRU NAPPY NO MORE FOR THAT DEEP THROAT TREATMENT…PASHA ALLEN’S A DICK SUCKING SLUT…VISIT THE QUEEN OF COCK-SWABBING AT WWW.NASTYFREAKS4U.COM…PASHA ALLEN A.K.A DEEP THROAT DIVA WILL LICK YA DICK AND SWALLOW YA NUT ’CAUSE SHE’S A CUM-SLUT…
There were literally a hundred or more fliers covering the door and window. When I say my nerves were rattled, they were wrecked. Two weeks ago it was my car, now this shit! Thankfully, I still get here before anyone else. Then the nut has the audacity to call me. I’m sitting here at my desk, trying to push back a throbbing headache as I replay the conversation. “How’d you like the fliers?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask, feeling exasperated. “Of all the people in the world you just have to fuck with me. Why?”
“I told you before. I want my dick sucked.”
“Nigga,” I snap, “you are outta ya motherfucking mind. I’m not sucking shit.”
“Then I’m gonna keep fucking with you until you do.”
I hang up on him. Two minutes later, the nut calls back.
“Bitch, hanging up doesn’t stop me from calling. I’m gonna call ya smutty ass every day ’til you put those pretty-ass lips on this dick, again. By the way, how many nuts you swallow a day?”
I take deep breaths, counting to ten in my head to calm my nerves down. Even though my nerves are rattled, the last thing I should do is let this nigga know he is getting to me. “You’re fucking crazy,” I respond.
“You sucking this dick?”
“I told you…hell. Fucking. No!”
“I guess having the back window knocked out of that fancy whip of yours still isn’t enough, is it ho?”
“Fuck you,” I snap. Maybe talking slick isn’t the smartest idea. But he is plucking my last nerve with all of this psycho shit.
He laughs. “Yeah, like how I’m gonna fuck that throat of yours. I’ma call every day. And I’ma ask you the same shit. And every time you say no, I’ma give your dumb ass something to remember me by.”
“Like I said, bitch-ass, fuck…you.”
“By the time I finish with you, slut, you gonna wish I hada fucked ya nasty, trick-ass. Get ready for ya next surprise,” he warns.
“Nigga, do what the fuck you gotta do. I’m not sucking your raggedy-ass dick.” This time, the nigga hangs up on me. I’m telling you this shit with this motherfucking nut is really getting out of hand. And the truth of the matter is I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do about it. I definitely can’t go to the police with this. If I suck his dick, then this motherfucker will have me under his thumb. But if I don’t, then the nigga’s gonna keep harassing me. Either way, I’m fucked. I wish I knew someone I could call to handle this…him, for me. Some hood niggas who’d track his ass down, then stomp him the fuck out.
Anyway, here we are less than three hours later, and I have the goddamn police here at the salon, again, because someone tossed two big-ass metal pipes through the salon’s window. Glass and shit is everywhere. I’m glad no one got hurt. The last thing I need is someone trying to sue me on top of everything else that’s going on. Of course, no one was able to give a good description of the motherfucker who did this because he, like the nigga who smashed out my car window, had a hat pulled down over his eyes and a hoodie blocking his face. The only difference is he was short and dark-skinned.
Then, to add to my already pounding headache, I have these nosey ass police asking me a bunch of questions: Have you made any enemies recently? Have you had any disagreements with anyone? Could this have been a scorned lover? Do you know why someone would target you? My answer: No!
Now everyone here is all up in my business, asking me a ton of questions. I’m sure out of concern. But,
still…it’s embarrassing to say the least. First, the shit with the nigga coming to my shop, next my car window being smashed out, then the fliers. Now this shit. I’m convinced this nigga is not going to give up until he breaks me down.
