By Mike Enemigo & Cascious Green

The following week after Kano’s big birthday bash, Kano was approached by one of his foot soldiers, named Sticks. Sticks had been on the D&C team for a few months and had been productive, so Kano had his eye on him — to possibly promote him to a higher position on the chain of command.

“Hey, Kano. My cousin is down here from Chicago and they’re trying to cop some weight,” Sticks said, leaning on Kano’s Avalanche.

“You said your cousin, but who is ‘they’?” Kano asked suspiciously.

“Well, he brought his partner that he gets dough with,” Sticks said, hoping to convince him. “They’re tryna cop a quarter kilo, my nigga. I figured I’d bring them to you instead of lettin’ some sucka get that money, you feel me?” he added with confidence in his voice.

“Yeah, I feel you. So, this is your cousin, huh?” Kano asked again. “And his partner?” he added.

“Yeah,” Sticks said as he struggled to look Kano in his eyes.

“Well, set it up. Give me a call at 8:00 and I’ll tell you where to bring them to meet me,” Kano said as he pulled off. Watching Sticks in his rearview mirror, he picked up his phone and called Candy.

“What’s up,dad?” sheanswered onthesecond ring.Ashe explained theget-down toherandtoldherwhere tomeethim,herounded upthecrew.

At8:00Kano’s phone announced, “Incoming call.” Whenheanswered thephone henoticed thatthecallwas fromarestricted phone number.

“Speak onit,”Kano said.

“Kano, it’sSticks. Areyouready forus?” Sticks asked anxiously.

“Yeah, I’mready. MeetmeatLakeview Paladium, homie,” Kanosaid. Thenhe hung upthephonewithout evengiving Sticks achance tosay anythingelse.

When Kanopulled upinto thePaladium, Candywasalready thereinherChrysler 300. He pulled up next to her, got out, and she nodded her head – the sign that everything was a go.

Tenminutes later, Sticks andhiscohorts pulled upinamaroon Cutlass on 22-inch blades, slappin’ MeekMill.Astheygotoutofthecar, Kanonoticed thepassenger tuckapistol intheback ofhispants.

“Hey,Kano. This ismycousin Roscoe I was telling youabout,” Sticks saidas theywalked up.

“What’s up?” saidKano.Thenhe lookedRoscoe intheeyesandsaid, “Which one?” SeeingthatRoscoe was thoroughly confused, hesmiled athim.

“Whatdoyoumeanwhich one?” Roscoe asked.

“Which oneofthesebroads isSticks’ mother?” heasked ashehanded him four pictures ofwomen whoweren’t atallrelated toSticks, thenput the.40 cal toSticks’ forehead.

While Roscoe looked nervously atthepictures trying tomakeaneducated guess, several SUVsandluxury sedans came toastopallaround them.

“Well, I’mwaiting,” Kano said toRoscoe, whowas looking allaround.

Suddenly hesaid, “Man, Idon’t wantnoproblems, bro,” ashetried tohand thepictures back toKano.

“Nah, nah,nah,nah,nah.Roscoe, youalready gotproblems, bro. Because Darius Jenkins, akaSticks, wasbornaward ofthestate –hewas taken from hismother, Patricia Jenkins, after she gavebirth toacrack baby andhad norelatives tospeak of,” Kano saidashepulled thetrigger andsplattered Sticks’ brains all over the concrete and thegrill oftheCutlass.

“Now, I’magiveyouonechance tocomeclean,” Kano saidashereached behind Dameandpulled the .380outfrom thesmallofhisback. “Whyareyou gentlemen inmypresence thisevening?” Kano askedwith a smileonhis face; healready knew, thanks toacrack fiendnamed RealTalkwhowasuponall the 411 inthestreets.

See, RealTalk’s sister wasengaged toRoscoe. Onenight Roscoe gotdrunk and high andhelethis lipsgetloose. Hedivulged hisplan torobKanoofthe D&Corganization andsaid thathe’dmetaguynamed Stickswhocould setit up.RealTalkhadbeen aloyal customer ofCandy andKano’s formonths, and proved his loyalty bygiving Kano thehead upheneeded toprotect himself. Plus,hecouldn’tstandRoscoe whoconstantly calledhim a crackhead.

“Kano, Ijustwanted tocopsomedope,mynigga. That’s all,”Roscoe said, desperately trying toconvince him.

“Soyounever had intentions torobme?” Kano asked.

“Hellnaw,man!Who toldyouthat?”Roscoe asked.

“I told him. Now who’s the crackhead, bitch!?” Real talk said as he climbed out of Candy’s Chrysler 300.

“Yousnitchin’ muthafucka! Fuckyou!”Roscoe yelledwhenherealized hewas coldbusted.

“Naw,nigga; fuck you!”Kanosaidasheshothimintheface.Hishead snapped backwards andhisbodydropped toitskneesbefore collapsing tothe pavement; blood puddled around his twitching body.

AsKanolookedatDamehesaid, “Andwhat yougottosay,nigga?” thoughhe waspast thepoint ofcaring.

“Kano,man, Igotkids thatneedme,”hepleaded ashefell tohis knees, begging Kano tosparehis life.

Kanostareddown athim, notatallmoved byhisbegging andpleading and said, “Pickanumber fromonetoten.”

“Three,” Damesaid, fullofhopewhenhesawthesmile spread across Kano’s face.

“Damn; thatwasalucky-ass guess, mynigga,” Kanosaidasheturned and started towalk away.

AsDamestruggled togetback tohisfeet,because ofhisweight, Kano turned back togivehimahand. ButonceDamewasback onhisfeet, steady; ashe began tothankKano,hesawthegrinonKano’s facesuddenly disappear.

“By the way, the number was two,” Kano said as he grabbed Dame by the braids, fired three hydro-shock slugs into his temple and dropped his lifeless body totheconcrete. Thenhejumped intohisAvalanche andburned rubber outof theparking lotwithhisentourage ofgoons closebehind astheyvanished into thenight.

Mike Enemigo is America’s #1 incarerated author with over 25 books published and many more on the way. He specializes in writing about prison and street-culture. His book Money iz the Motive, with Cascious Green is available at and Amazon. Be sure to subscribe to The Official Blog on The Cell Block at and where we provide raw, uncensored news, entertainment and resources on the topics of prison and street-culture from a true, insider’s perspective, and follow us on all social medias @mikeenemigo and @thecellblockofficial.