Vicious and Victorious

FADE 2 BLAQUE INK PRESENTS

VICIOUS AND VICTORIOUS

BY

BlaQue

Copyright 2016 BlaQue

Published by:

Fade 2 BlaQue Ink

Washington, DC

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without prior written consent from both the author, and publisher Pink Angel Publications, except brief quotes used in reviews.

This work is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray, or represent any particular real person. All the characters, incidents, and dialogues are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any references or similarities to actual events, entities, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, entities, places and incidents is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One

Unconventional Way of Life

Either you are with me or against me. That has always been my motto. I’m a straight rider and always have been. You could drop me off in the jungle butt naked, with no food, water or weapons and I will emerge unharmed and victorious! Straight ghetto warrior. I get down for mine and I ain’t afraid of a challenge…in fact, I welcome it. My whole life has been a challenge; just being able to make it past the age of sixteen is amazing.

Growing up, my life seemed normal; at least to me. Other people didn’t think so though. My father wasn’t in the picture and I can’t say I really gave a damn either. You can’t miss what you never had is how I saw it.

I was raised by my mother and her girlfriend who happened to be one of the most notorious female pimps to ever run through the streets of D.C. I thought my upbringing was normal; but by the time I was eight, the other children in school let me know that having two mothers—one of which was the other’s pimp—was definitely not the norm.

My mother, Norah, was beautiful. Her skin was the color of honey, and she had the shape and curves that half of the women in our neighborhood hated and envied her for. She could have easily been on the cover of any magazine had she not used her looks to bed men and rape their pockets. My mother had more mileage on her pussy than a used 1986 Grand Marquis. I think they really hated her because she was responsible for half of the happy homes in our neighborhood crumbling. There wasn’t a husband on our quiet block that hadn’t gotten down with the infamous Norah Young. Just the same, there wasn’t a wife on that very same block who didn’t want to blow a chunk out of my mother’s ass for sleeping with their man. The only thing stopping them from getting at Norah was her girlfriend and pimp, Dricka Woods, who was known as D.W.

Dricka liked to think of herself as a fantasy maker and she proudly said to anyone that would listen that she sold men and woman dreams for her own financial gain. She called herself the Dream Weaver and hated when people called her by anything other than D.W.

D.W was a hot headed dom who didn’t take any shit from anyone. At first glance, one would think she was really a he. D.W. always rocked her hair in corn rolls with a fitted cap that always hung low over her dark menacing eyes. Her jeans were always baggy and her shirts were always loose. I found out later on that she did that to hide her womanly curves which she hated.

Grown men had tested D.W. and they had all failed. It was known throughout Northwest Washington, D.C. that she ran her business of selling other bitches’ pussy with an iron fist. Getting D.W. wrong could be your downfall. She didn’t tolerate certain things. One of them was folks coming to her with funny money to play. She lived by the saying, You gotta’ pay to play or get the fuck out of her way. If you didn’t come correct, she wouldn’t hesitate to make her gun bang. The other thing you didn’t do was mess with her family. That meant me and my mother Norah, and it also included any of the under-aged bitches she had somehow convinced that tricking off with grown ass men was the way to make a living.

At that time, I didn’t know that my mothers, who were both the world to me, were involved in anything undesirable. Norah picked me up from school every day, she helped me with my homework, and she made sure I had everything I needed. I dressed better than most of the kids in my school and I knew my mother had more money than most of the other mothers too. None of that stopped them from fucking with me for having a mother who sold her pussy as a way of life and another mother who pimped her pussy to the entire neighborhood.

D.W. was the enforcer. She was the stern one out of my parents’ bizarre relationship; and my mother, Norah, was the nurturer. I had a stable home, all of the things I wanted, and everything seemed normal within the confines of our house…at least to me.

The little girls would chase me home, where I would run in the house crying my eyes out. I would run right into the arms of D.W. who would try to send me right back out the front door and stand my ground. She would always tell me she wasn’t raising a punk.

Norah would always intervene and would talk D.W. out of making me go outside and fight.

You know my baby is too pretty to be out there fighting these hood ass children, my mother Norah would say defending me.

Well, how do you expect her to stand up for herself if you keep babying her? She’s never gonna’ learn that she has to defend herself if she keeps running scared like a lil punk, D.W. fussed.

My mother would wave D.W. off and console me. She would wipe my tears away and tell me that I didn’t have to fight if I didn’t want to.

I would always escape the wrath of the children in our neighborhood as long as Norah had something to do with it.

D.W. hated that Norah coddled and sheltered me from their way of life. She always fussed that Norah needed to let me stand up and fight. I guess she figured I was going to have to do it sooner or later or continue to get chased home. No matter how much D.W. fussed about me needing to buck up and handle my own out in the streets, I didn’t seem to get it. It wasn’t until the summer I turned sixteen years old that I started to understand the lessons D.W. was trying to teach me. That was the summer everyone stopped chasing me. That was the summer I started chasing money to survive because everything I had was taken from me. That was the summer they started calling me Vicious and it was the saddest summer of my life.

Chapter Two

From Vickie to Vicious

I was sitting on my screened-in porch with my only friend, Siya. We were trying to find ways to beat the oppressive mid-summer heat. I had been banned from the house because my mother had a client. That’s what she liked to call her tricks. I didn’t care what we called them as long as they left behind the cash whenever they were finished whatever they had paid my mother’s freaky ass to do. I had my eyes on a pair of new sandals, and Norah promised them to me as long as I stayed out of her way while she made the money to buy them for me.

My mother had a strict rule that no one was allowed in the house—except for D.W. and some of the other girls who worked for her—while she was working. I guess it was so she wouldn’t feel guilty for fucking tricks for cash with her daughter in the next room. She could hide it or try to hide it all she wanted. I didn’t care what she did to get the money, as long as she got it to get me what I wanted when she was done.

I didn’t want to be stuck, bored on the porch by myself with nothing to do, so I called Siya—who only lived up the block from me—to sit with me while I waited for my mother to put that cash in my hands for my sandals.

Siya and I were total opposites. I think she only started to hang with me because she envied D.W. Siya reminded me a lot of D.W. She was boyish, and I had never seen her wearing anything girly. She wore more of the athletic type gear. She never talked about boys, except for when she was talking about playing ball with them. I knew Siya was different…just like D.W.; but I didn’t care. In fact, I think that’s what made me like her. They say every girl wants someone like their daddy and I guess Siya was like the only semi-male- figure I had—D. W.

Siya was watching the little kids on our block run through the fire hydrant to cool themselves off while the older guys played street football. There were some fast-assed girls from our school acting like cheerleaders for the boys playing street ball. I caught Siya watching the girls