3 Tymez Dirty: Chopp'd N' Skrew'd

3 TYMEZ DIRTY: CHOPP’D N' SKREW'D

A Dirty South Trilogy

By: Darrel King

Introduction:

Swag Surfin’

Big-time concert—now the after-party commences. Cristal, Moet, and Clicquot flowed with bubbly gusto, while copious amounts of ivory-tinged powder lined the pristine glass countertops of the posh, 5-star hotel penthouse that housed the blinged-out partygoers. The pop queen, lovely and exotic even as intoxicated as she appeared, winked a flirtatious eye my way. Hey bodyguard left her side just before she turned in my direction. At once I placed my appletini down beside my attractive date for the evening and excused myself from the table. Staggering slightly, the buxom recipient of five Grammy awards stood and beckoned me closer with a bejeweled index finger. An unknown male planted a quick kiss on her cheek, causing her to giggle softly as she wiggled my way. Shaking my head while smiling at my mischievous friend, I awaited her arrival from around the long booze and coke-covered table. Though she’d called me toward her, the news she’d just gotten was too juicy for her to remain patiently waiting for me to respond.

The bodyguard—burly, menacing, yet quite handsome for a man of his mammoth girth, gently helped Godiva along as she teeter-tottered toward me, spilling half of the contents of her ice-filled wine glass as she drew closer. Once at my side, she draped a smooth arm around me and kissed me softly while heading out to the cool night air of the moonlit balcony. Godiva was a lover of cocaine, and she immediately snorted a thin white line up her delicate, pale nostril, quickly chasing it with a swig of Cognac before leaning over the banister to look upon the bright city lights twinkling far below us. She tossed her signature blonde mane away from her baby-blue eyes while looking away blankly into space.

She looked hot, even though her $30,000 satin evening gown was stained and stank of costly booze, and appeared to be somewhat wrinkled from a possible quickie in the back of her limo after the Grammys. Coke has a way of bringing melancholic feelings to her as well as euphoria, and boy did it show all over her lovely face. Even though close friends of hers, male as well as female, had cautioned against her overindulgence of powder recently, their cries fell on deaf ears, as America’s top-selling record artist continued to treat her nose with an ample amount of the feel good narcotic. However, her phenomenal rise to fame and fortune seemed to do little at times to ease her periods of deep depression. The most famous and adored star in the music industry seemed to be as vulnerable as a newborn fawn, left all alone in the forest by its mother.

Didn’t Lil’ Wayne look hot tonight?! she blurted out drunkenly. I’d fuck him in a heartbeat, because I have a thing for guys with tats, ya know? She tweaked her nose softly as the cocaine tickle began tingling within her nostrils. She threw her head back, letting out a cocaine-influenced chuckle, which left me somewhat puzzled. Doctor Buzzard just texted me, she quipped out of the blue.

Doctor Buzzard? You mean ole redneck Sheriff Drayton? What the hell he want? I had an uneasy and eerie feeling.

Anytime the hoodoo-practicing lawman made his presence known, nothing could be good about it. Even though Godiva was clearly stoned out of her mind, the very thought of the high sheriff of the lowcountry contacting her had to be a total buzzkill. Though the crooked redneck cop had supplied both her and her Hollywood cohorts with drugs galore via his nationwide dope operation, the twenty-five-year-old songbird secretly hated him with a passion. Unlike the high sheriff, Godiva loved blacks, and considered herself an honorary sistah. She’d grown up around the Sea Island natives, or Gullahs, for most of her life, and felt comfort and love amongst them. Therefore, she took a personal affront whenever she was exposed to racism.

Whenever Godiva was stressed out, she had a tendency to play with her flowing golden locks, which was exactly what she was doing right before she came clean. Another rapper’s dead, she sighed as she ran her pale, jewel-encrusted fingers through her flaxen hair.

My blood ran cold. I was completely flabbergasted. What? I know you ain’t talkin’ who I think you’re talkin’ about! I answered with seriousness.

No, I’m serious. He’s a goner, dude. Don’t ask me how, when or where, because I don’t know, and I for real, for real, don’t wanna know. For all I know, he could’a been hexed. Godiva took another long line of cocaine up her nose deeply and winced from the strong, astringent bite of the pleasurable stimulant. She felt somewhat embarrassed that she, a prominent and successful celebrity, was shaken by the thought of primitive, backwoods superstitions.

Girl, that’s fucked up! Where’s Courtney?

She’s on a heroin sting detail out in North Charleston. Godiva was slurring somewhat from the combination of alcohol and coke. She won’t be back until next Friday, she said softly.

I simply looked up towards the silvery moon and closed my eyes in reflection.

Please let her know about this situation, Anna, she begged me desperately. She saw the reluctance in my eyes, and shed a tear as a result. I really need you to do this, sweetheart… I’m begging you, Anna, she pleaded.

Alright, alright… I got you, Godiva…you’re my girl. For a split second it seemed as though time had stood still.

I owe you one. She once more dropped her head down to sniff the remaining lines of snow on the tabletop before her.

This is sooo not good. We gotta do some damage control really quick, before the paparazzi get mind of it. Am I making any sense here?

"C’mon now…you already know."

That’s whassup.

She carefully gathered up the rest of the cocaine residue and brushed it across her gums with a slender finger. She sat down on a comfortable swinging chair suspended from the balcony’s roof and closed her eyes, enjoying the cool breeze coming off the nearby salty, alligator-infested marshland.

Courtney’s a cop—the top cop around these parts. She’ll know what to do. She yawned with the exhaustion of a night’s worth of excitement and drama.

Yeah, that Mick bitch is the best. I can also holla at my folks in Charleston. My cousin and my ex-boyfriend are Bloods, I said proudly. They can make any problem go away. Trust me…they’ll take care of whatever I ask them to take care of, aight?

Thanks, but no thanks. Gangbangers are totally out of the question. They’ll bring unwanted attention to us all. You feel me?

I feel you. I sighed deeply as the salt-kissed breeze wafted through the halls of the balcony. I can’t fuckin’ believe this is happening, I said, still in a state of shock.

I know… I can’t digest it, either, she remarked.

She looked disheveled and worn out mentally, emotionally and physically. She seemed at a time or two to drift off to sleep, only to snap out of it and steady herself to leave the balcony. After all, she was the life of the party. It was her big night, and no matter what, the show had to go on, even at 2:55 in the morning.

I’ll have Big Jake ride you out there in my personal limo, she said flatly. You’ll be there in about an hour and a half. I’ll also book a suite for you at the Charleston Hilton, you’ll love it there.

Sure, no problem, I said in a hollow, emotionless voice, understanding that with the untimely death of the star hip-hop artist ATL $lim, the music world had lost yet another unrivaled talent, and the lowcountry would again be a place of bloodshed and death.

Part One

Flashing Lights

Chapter #1

It is said in the hood that game recognizes game. Well, that one saying pretty much optimized the relationship between the gangsta rap star ATL $lim and the voluptuous, blonde songbird Godiva. It was the autumn season of 2000 when the young, talented lyricist, with the constant sneer frozen across his otherwise ruggedly handsome profile, met the lovely singer at Atlanta’s famous Stroker’s Club. Once a place of employment for her, the buxom beauty had been given an elaborate birthday bash in the majestically bedecked VIP room.

The place was alive with nude and partially nude strippers who eagerly worked the largely male customers up to a tepid lather with the sensual, yet oftentimes vigorous gyrations of their shapely naked forms as thumping hip hop tunes streamed throughout the grandiose halls of the VIP area.

Though Godiva fully enjoyed the exciting atmosphere of the posh party room with its lively music, abundant booze, and copious amounts of nose candy and cannabis, she realized that this return trip to her former workplace would provide her with publicity aplenty, as well as an opportunity to hook up later with some lucky homeboy who happened to catch her eye. After all, she was well known among her inner circle as the freaky white girl.

When I traveled with her to Atlanta, I was sort of urged to chaperone Godiva by Peola Police Chief Mickey O’Malley, who served as a sort of father figure and business associate to the R&B songstress. I admit I was a little intimidated by the portly, red-haired Irish cop. However, Godiva had him wrapped around her diamond-laden finger.

The Irishman—how he was known as to members of the Peola Police Department—was fond of me, and often let me in on the classified goings-on within the department even though such disclosure to an outsider could’ve cost him his illustrious career. Back in Peola, he had busted me as a teenager for driving under the influence; he’d scolded me angrily, cuffed me, then drove me to my parents’ house before uncuffing me in my embarrassed, but furious parents’ presence. I was relieved of my car keys as well as my new 1998 Honda Accord Ex. Afterwards, he, of course, was not on my most favorite people list. Yet in time, this same arresting officer would become a dear friend of both myself as well as my parents.

Tough as nails, yet as gentle as a dove to whom he loved, he had gained an unsavory reputation as a strong-armed rogue cop who often used racial profiling, police brutality and harsh language in order to get his point across to the predominately black neighborhood youths throughout the inner cities of South Peola. Chief O’Malley, however, always seemed to show me the utmost respect and affection. It was his financial and networking assistance that allowed me to attend Duke University, where I graduated Magna Cum Laude as one of the only two African American students in the student body to do so. Then, after achieving my MBA, he also was instrumental in helping me land my current, cushy entertainment agent gig, which I enjoy.

I’ve got to admit that, no matter what the naysayers thought, I loved that Irish bastard like a father, I really did. As a matter of fact, I believe the hood needed a cop just like him to clean the street up. I mean, black kids were killing each other daily, literally slaughtering one another over drug turf before old man Mickey laid down the law in the lowcountry.

He was a typical hotheaded Irishman who seldom, if ever, backed down from a fight. He could be an asshole without question, and there were times when I felt that he used the N word to refer to the saggy-jean-wearing hooligans he arrested en masse far too literally, but as for me, he made sure never to disparage me because of my race.

Anna Bell Lee—I guess my absentee father made such an impression on my mom that she feminized his first name, Antoine, and she bestowed it upon me at birth. I would’ve never had honored his sorry, no-account, womanizing ass with such an homage as a namesake. I oftentimes would consider changing my first name, but due to my mother’s persistent disagreeable attitude at the thought, I’ve chosen to keep it, albeit reluctantly.

Like most of the blacks from the South Carolina and Georgia’s lowcountry region, I’m a Gullah-Geechee native, whose thick, Caribbean-like patois has faded due to my time spent away at college.

I can remember as a little girl of about seven or eight attending a two-room school on Dafuskie Island’s Mary Field’s Elementary School. I helped my mom sew traditional Gullah-style patchwork quilts and weave baskets and hats from palmetto leaves for sale to the numerous tourists whom flocked to our tiny sea island during the spring and summer months. However, my most favorite thing was the delectable Gullah dishes of native wild game and fresh seafood from the surrounding rivers, streams and lagoons.

Yet, even then, at that tender age, I’d marvel at the likes of Stacy Lattisaw, Evelyn Champagne King, New Edition, and DeBarge on Soul Train. I’d sit transfixed in front of my mother’s huge Panasonic color television as these R&B luminaries belted out their chart-topping hits and the audience grooved upon the dance floor, awaiting host Don Cornelius’ inevitable arrival. I’d line up my Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, and Cabbage Patch Kids and croon in front of them in my oversized sunshades and plastic jewelry, pretending to be a star. No wonder I’d become attracted to entertainment, music, and Hollywood stardom—a far cry from the down-home, rustic, sleepy lowcountry atmosphere I was born and raised in.

In addition to this, I’ve always had a wild side, one which craved excitement and drama…especially if it involved a certain air of danger. Thus my attraction to Mickey O’Malley’s style of policing, particularly his war on drugs and his vendetta against some of the region’s most murderous drug gangs. He had faced off against the dangerous Geechee thugs known as the Fuskie Crew, exchanged gunfire with the bloodthirsty Bad Boyz II Syndicate, and traded punches with the notoriously ruthless street legend Marion Snookey Lake. There was never a dull moment in the life of Peola’s top cop, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He lived on the edge, and I fucking loved that!

It was this same fanatical passion for law and order that prompted his daughter, Courtney O’Malley, to follow in her father’s law-enforcing footsteps. Sometimes I can’t believe I’ve lived the glamorous life, even now as I live it currently. Money, celebrities, parties, drugs, sex—you name it I’ve seen, I’ve partaken of it; I’ve lived it unashamedly.

Flipping through the pics on my iPhone’s screen, I select a handsome shot of myself, Godiva, and ATL $lim flashing a fan-shaped spread of hundred-dollar bills on a pristine yacht on Miami’s scenic Biscayne Bay. ATL $lim’s prison-hardened body looked great in a tight white wife beater; tattooed muscles rippled with his every move, causing, as I remember, the large throng of female admirers to squeal out loudly in admiration and desire for the bandana-wearing heartthrob. The more the nubile young women screamed out his name, the more the iconic rap star entertained them with his ghetto-fabulous, thugged-out machismo.

In the background stood the police chief’s daughter, Courtney O’Malley. She stood off near the back of the boat in sexy civilian clothes, i.e. a two-piece bikini. Though unsmiling, the features of the attractive, freckle-faced redhead were clearly visible in the snapshot. She was always with us, acting as Godiva’s personal assistant, armed bodyguard, and who knows what else. It seemed like we took that picture just yesterday, not three years ago. My God, does time fly.

ATL $lim’s untimely death speaks volumes about life’s fragility. The dreadlocked rapper was gone at the tender age of twenty-two. Hell, both Godiva as well as I were too in our early twenties, but like they say, life goes on—although it’s no longer as magical as it once was. The good life—the champagne life…I loved it with a passion, and so did my friends. Maybe we all loved it a little too much.

Just imagine, had I not gotten arrested by Mickey O’Malley back in 1998, I would have not even known about what celebrities live like, how they party, how they spend unlimited cash, and how intoxicating the fans’ hero worship could be.

Having played on both the soccer team as well as the volleyball squad of Hilton Head High’s Lady Seahawks, I had somewhat of a groupie following of sorts. But adolescent high school popularity paled miserably in comparison to what I’d been introduced to.

I remember being set to move out west to LA in order to launch my career as a professional publicity agent when Chief O’Malley heard about my pending departure to Cali and quickly protested with a stubborn Irish determination.

Los Angeles?! Hollywood? Gimme a break! Forget it, kid, you’re not going anywhere… I’m not askin’ ya, I’m tellin’ ya, he said flatly.

Aren’t you being a little forward, Mickey? I said, sipping on a butterscotch cappuccino. That’s where I want to be. Opportunities for career success exist for me in LA.

Over my dead body, he rumbled defiantly, I’ll be damned if I let you waste your life with a bunch o’ pencil-neck, stuck-up Hollywood types.

Most cats from the hood really distrust and mostly flat-out despise cops. And when I think back