That's it?
I thought my golden finger was finally waking up, but it was just some voice in my head calling me a piece of shit before ghosting me.
Leon, refusing to believe it, slapped himself hard twice. If a busted washing machine can be fixed with a kick, a busted brain should work the same way.
After ten full minutes of waiting, the only thing he heard was some nigga who was clearly geeked up freestyling somewhere nearby. Nothing else.
He finally gave up, slung the beat-up acoustic guitar over his shoulder, and headed to the Brownsville subway station — his usual "office" for making money.
New York's subway system is world-famous for being complete garbage, built over a hundred years ago.
The station in Brownsville takes the shitshow to a whole new level.
Everything's ancient, lights flickering like they're on their last breath.
Piss and puke everywhere, the air thick with that sharp weed stench.
City hall knows exactly what's going on but can't be bothered to fix it — they only serve taxpayers.
And in Brownsville, where damn near everyone's a street hustler, almost nobody pays real taxes.
Every hustle in New York is cutthroat, and street performing is no exception.
If you don't carry a Glock — that hard truth — or have your gang brothers watching your back, you won't get a prime begging spot in the subway.
Luckily Leon was born with a silver tongue. After more than ten days of smooth-talking, he'd already won over the regular niggas who owned the station.
"Hey! Bro, you fucking asshole, why you so late today? Good thing I saved your spot. I just ran off two punks from Chester Street who didn't know their place."
"Fuck! They better learn whose turf this is!"
The second Leon stepped down into the station, he saw a short nigga waving at him excitedly.
The guy was puffing out his chest, trying to look hard, strutting around like a victorious general.
When the hell did this nigga start acting like a real gangster?
Confused, Leon set his guitar down in the spot next to him. "Thanks, Davis. Without you I'd be going home empty-handed again tonight~"
Davis was only twenty, but he had street smarts for days.
He'd dropped out of school at thirteen and been on the block ever since.
Short as hell, but vicious in a fight — knives and guns came out regular.
That's why around the subway he was known as "Bulldog."
"It's nothing, check this out~" Davis lifted his T-shirt to show off the dense tattoos covering his torso.
In the Black community, tattoos are culture. Ink doesn't always mean gang history — these niggas love carving every little thing that happens onto their skin.
For Davis, that meant tattooing the name of every girl he'd ever slept with.
After a careful look, Leon finally spotted the new one in the mess. "You got another tattoo?"
"Yeah~ This is the most meaningful one of my life~"
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Leon shot him a disdainful look. "Last time you tattooed that hooker Anisha you said the exact same thing. Stop getting all this random shit, bro. Money first — in New York, if you're broke you're worth less than a dog in Manhattan."
"Fuck bro! Look closer, this one's different! It's the official Brownsville Bloods tattoo. You get this without their permission and you're eating a bullet!"
Only then did Leon get it — after years on the streets, Davis had finally joined a gang.
Not surprising in Brownsville though. Joining a gang is — required course.
"Whatever you say, bro. I just don't want to see your body on the sidewalk one day."
"Fuck! What kinda stupid shit is that, bro? I'm about to get the hell outta this shithole. I'm about to blow up!"
"What?"
Looking at Davis's excited face, Leon could tell he wasn't joking.
He didn't give a shit if the guy left or got shot in the street.
But whether he could still keep the prime subway spot afterward? That was a whole different story.
"The Bloods boss George has been looking for promising rappers. He picked me and promised to introduce me to T-Ray — NAS's old producer!" Davis threw an arm around Leon's shoulder.
"Oh… that actually sounds like a real shot."
Like every nigga in Brooklyn, Davis had dreamed of being a rap star since he was a kid. After struggling forever, he made a living freestyling in the subway and anywhere with a crowd.
This was the birthplace of East Coast hip-hop — home to legends like JAY-Z, NAS, The Notorious B.I.G., Foxy Brown.
Now grooming rappers had become the most important business for New York Black gangs.
Compared to the high-risk drug game, rap was lower risk and way higher reward.
A rapper who could crack the Billboard charts was a straight-up human money printer for the gang!
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The competition in this lane was insanely cutthroat. Most hopeful kids dropped one single and vanished without a trace.
Leon didn't have the heart to crush Davis's beautiful fantasy.
"Congrats, man. Hope you really make it big."
"It's too early to say I'm made! Tomorrow night T-Ray's coming to the station to check my live set. I don't know if he'll fuck with me."
"You got this." Halfway through the sentence, Leon glanced at his beat-up guitar and something clicked.
The mysterious voice earlier said the "inspiration refresh" was tomorrow, right?
Maybe the golden finger was real after all?
"Bro, tomorrow night at eight, you gotta come back me up. I'm gonna show you the best rap performance Brownsville's ever seen!"
Watching Davis full of swagger, Leon couldn't be bothered to rain on his parade.
The guy's trash-tier rapping was fine for yelling on the block, but making records? Come on.
This wasn't the 90s gangsta-rap era anymore.
Listeners had leveled up. They were sick of every other bar being dick and pussy.
After all that, Davis threw up a Bloods hand sign at Leon and bounced.
The nigga with stars in his eyes didn't give a fuck about the thirty or fifty bucks from street performing anymore.
After almost two hours of grinding that night, Leon's throat was raw and he'd only pulled in a measly fifteen dollars.
"Goddamn."
He started wondering if he'd been working the wrong spot all along.
The people here weren't just broke — they only cared about aggressive, violent rap.
Nobody was paying to hear some street busker play old Beatles country-rock shit. To them it sounded like noise.
Leon picked up his guitar to head home. Bonnie would be off from the club in a little over an hour.
So he played it smart and stuffed all fifteen bucks into his shoe insole, just in case she went digging through his pockets later that night.
If she asked about paying her back, he'd just hit her with, "Tonight was another Air Force day."
------------------------------------------
Leon kicked the front door shut behind him, the beat-up acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. The house smelled like old weed, cheap perfume, and the faint tang of Bonnie's club sweat. He'd made it back with fifteen crumpled dollars stuffed deep in his shoe insole—safe from her greedy little hands.
He dropped onto the sagging couch, lit a Marlboro with the last of the seven bucks she'd spotted him, and waited.
Forty minutes later the door flew open. Bonnie stormed in, fishnets torn at the thigh, six-inch heels clicking like she wanted to stab the floor. Her blonde hair was a messy halo, fake tits spilling out of the tiny halter top, ass barely covered by the micro-skirt. She was counting a pathetic stack of ones and fives, face twisted in pure rage.
"Fifteen fucking dollars? Fifteen?!" she snarled, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. "I danced my ass off for six straight hours and that's all these cheap-ass niggas threw at me? And you—you come home smelling like subway piss with nothing again!"
Leon exhaled smoke through a lazy grin, eyes dragging up her body like he owned it. "Baby, tonight was another Air Force day. Whole damn block was dry. But I'm home now… and I got something way better than money."
Bonnie's eyes flashed. "Don't you 'baby' me, you deadbeat piece of shit. Rent's due in four days. Groceries are gone. I'm out here shaking my tits for pennies while you—"
He stood up fast, grabbed her by the waist, and crushed his mouth to hers before she could finish. She fought for half a second—hands slapping his chest—then melted, moaning into his mouth like a starving whore. Leon's hands slid down, yanking the halter top down so her big fake tits bounced free. He pinched both pink nipples hard, twisting until she gasped.
"Fuck you," she hissed against his lips, but her hips were already grinding against the thick bulge in his jeans.
"Yeah? Fuck me?" Leon spun her around, bent her over the back of the couch, and flipped her skirt up. No panties—just her shaved, already-wet pussy glistening between those thick thighs. He slapped her ass hard, watching the pale cheek ripple red. "This pussy's dripping for me already, Bonnie. You can talk all the shit you want, but your cunt knows who owns it."
He unzipped, pulled out his thick white cock—veins throbbing, head shiny with pre-cum—and rubbed it up and down her soaked slit. Bonnie pushed back, desperate. "Stop teasing, you asshole. Put it in—"
Leon slammed balls-deep in one brutal thrust. Bonnie screamed, nails digging into the couch cushions, walls clamping around him like a vice. "Fuuuuck—yes! So fucking big—"
He didn't go slow. He fucked her like he was punishing her for every complaint—hard, deep, skin-slapping strokes that made her fake tits swing wildly. One hand fisted her blonde hair, yanking her head back; the other reached around and rubbed her swollen clit in fast circles.
"Take that dick, you greedy stripper slut," he growled, pounding harder. "This is how I pay rent. This is how I pay for groceries. You want money? Squeeze my cock with that tight pussy and I'll give you everything."
Bonnie was a moaning, drooling mess. "Harder—fuck me harder, Leon! Ruin me—shit, I'm cumming—!"
Her whole body shook as she squirted down his balls, pussy gushing around his shaft. Leon didn't stop. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the couch, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and drilled even deeper. The cheap springs screamed under them. Her eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream as another orgasm ripped through her.
"Gonna fill this whore cunt," he snarled, hips stuttering. "Take every drop, baby."
He buried himself to the hilt and exploded—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her spasming pussy, so much it leaked out around his cock and dripped down her ass onto the cushions. Bonnie's legs shook, still cumming around him, milking every last spurt.
They stayed locked together, panting, sweat-slick. Leon kissed her neck lazily, still buried inside her. "See? Told you I'd make it up to you. Air Force day, my ass."
Bonnie gave a weak, fucked-out laugh, eyes half-lidded. "You're still a piece of shit… but goddamn you fuck like the devil."
She passed out first, still impaled on his softening cock. Leon pulled out slowly, cum pouring from her ruined pussy, then collapsed beside her on the couch. He kicked his shoes off—fifteen bucks still safe in the insole—and passed out with a satisfied grin.