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****What you know about that soldier they call Kiam? Check Him Out***
At age twenty-six the trail of blood he had left behind was long and thick. And honestly it was only going to get thicker. As he turned to check to see if he had everything, one of his boys entered his cell appearing to be all about business.
"Ay, Kiam, one of your homeboys just came on the compound. Some cat who calls himself Supreme. He says he's from the eastside of Cleveland . Isn't that your hood?" asked Philly Cat, a straight up G from South Philadelphia who was serving thirty years behind a snitch nigga's testimony. Philly Cat was one of the dudes responsible for checking new arrivals' credentials when they first came on compound to make sure that they were solid. The rule stood firm, snitches weren't allowed to live amongst real niggas at Lewisburg.
“Yeah, that's my hood,” Kiam attested. “But the name Supreme don't ring no bells. Did you check out his papers?” “Nah, he says he sent them home.” Philly stood, rubbing his hands together.“Well, you know the rules, if the homie can't prove who he is, he has to get off the compound. It don't matter where he's from. He's not my muthafuckin’ homie.”
Kiam wasn't claiming nobody that couldn't prove their officialness. He stood contemplating for a minute then rendered his verdict. “Take me to that nigga.” Philly Cat led Kiam outside on the yard where other solid men were questioning Supreme. Kiam walked up and studied the newcomer. He didn't recognize the nigga's face so he kept quiet and listened to his responses. It was obvious that if Supreme wasn't from that city once dubbed The Mistake by the Lake, he had at least lived there for a while. He knew the names of all the shot-callers, and he knew all the hoods. He claimed to have once had the notorious Garden Valley projects on Kinsman Avenue on smash before they were torn down and rebuilt, but something didn't seem right about ol' boy. "Fam, what's your government? ” Kiam cut in. “Michael Gresham,” Supreme replied, mean-mugging, with his thick arms folded across his chest. Kiam ignored the weak intimidation tactic. Instead he entertained him with a small chuckle which was Kiam’s signature stamp of death. Instantly Supreme knew he had stepped through the gates of hell and Kiam appeared to be the devil himself. Supreme was a big muthafucka, but size doesn't determine a man's gangsta. His biggest mistake was he hadn't looked Kiam in the eye. That in itself hinted at a flaw in his get-down. Boss niggas could match a man's gaze with one better.
“Homie, I'm gonna make a few calls and check out your street cred. If you're not who you claim to be, you better check off compound now,” he warned Supreme. Kiam didn’t stay a second past his words; he turned his back on Supreme and walked away. That nigga frontin’. I can see fear in his eyes. If it turns out he's a rat, hiding under a different name, I'm gonna send him up out of here in a body bag. It didn't matter that his release date was upon him, his gangsta was never on hold. Kiam used his celly Pop's contraband cell phone to reach out to the streets. It only took a few calls to find out that Michael Gresham was indeed a thorough dude. But the nigga that also called himself Supreme was not that Michael Gresham.
By evening Kiam had learned that the Michael Gresham that had Kinsman on smash got thirty-five years and was at ADX Florence, the super max federal prison in Colorado. The description nor the reputation fitted this clown down here. What the fuck is this nigga hiding? wondered Kiam. The question rang strong in his mind, but he damn sure didn’t have time to figure it out. Kiam hated fake niggas with a passion. He believed that they all should be killed. Weak, fake niggas had cost a lot of good men their lives, taking the stand and selling their souls. In that moment the decision was made. Supreme's fate was death. In fact, Kiam felt that he deserved the most gruesome death just for calling himself some real shit like Supreme when he was not anything close to it.
Categories: 5 Stars *****