Free Animal by K'wan Foye

for a few seconds before letting what passed as a smile spread across his face. He engulfed Ashanti’s hand in his much-larger mitt and pumped it vigorously. “I can’t call it, Young Blood. I’m hanging in like everybody else.”
    “Looks like you’re doing better than most,” Ashanti admired the brownstone.
    “Yeah, this shit looking real sexy; too bad ain’t none of it mines. I’m on the payroll like everybody else.”
    “Better a payroll than a bedroll,” Ashanti said.
    “I know that’s right.” Devil gave him dap again.
    “Is ya man around?”
    “Yeah, he in the back in the studio. Go ahead in, but you know I gotta pat you down,” Devil told Ashanti.
    Ashanti just looked at him. “Do we really need to dance this dance, D? You already know what you’re gonna find if youlook, so why not just let me handle my business and skate? I ain’t tripping today.”
    Devil weighed it. He knew that there was no way Ashanti was going to part with his gun and trying to get him to do so would’ve been more of a headache than it was worth. If Ashanti said he wasn’t tripping, then Devil would take him at his word. Everyone who knew Ashanti knew he respected little in the world except a man’s word. “A’ight, but I got my eye on you, li’l nigga.”
    “Fair enough, big homie,” Ashanti said sarcastically. He made to step inside, but Devil stopped him.
    “Ashanti, we ain’t seen each other in awhile so I didn’t get a chance to say this to you face to face; I’m sorry to hear what happened to Animal. I know a lot of niggaz say it, but I mean it, feel me?”
    Ashanti knew who he meant without him having to say. “Thanks, Devil.”
    Devil stepped aside to let Ashanti enter the brownstone, whose eyes and nose were immediately assaulted with the smells of weed and sweat. The brownstone was a zoo. “Welcome to hell, Young Blood,” Devil laughed before closing the door behind him.

    After the many fiascoes at his main office in the Empire State Building, it became a hot spot for unwanted attention, so Don B. had started spending more time at the studio/office in downtown Brooklyn. It was at the ground level of a brownstone he owned in a relatively busy block. He had picked that location so that the comings and goings of some of his less-than-savory associates wouldn’t stick out so much. His offices and one of his apartments were on the top floor of the brownstone andoff-limits to all but The Don and the occasional admirer, but the ground floor was for the Big Dawg family. It boasted a large studio that took up most of the floor and a separate one in what was once a bedroom. The sitting area and kitchen had been turned into a lounge with a fully stocked bar, where the Big Dawg family gathered. Normally it would be packed with artists hanging or grinding it out with projects, under Don B.’s watchful eye, but this night was special, as Don B. was trying to woo a new artist.
    There were so many blunts and cigarettes burning that it was difficult to see your hand in front of your face, let alone breathe. The newest Big Dawg mix tape banged through the speakers, receiving positive feedback from everyone who wasn’t too preoccupied to pay attention. At least a dozen women were walking around the main area either half-dressed or wearing nothing at all. Seductive vixens sat on the laps of rappers and ballers whispering evil things into their ears. It was a circus, and standing in the center of it was the ringmaster, Don B.
    The lord of the manor moved around the room with an air of royalty that was heightened by the silk bathrobe and matching slippers he was wearing. To make a good show of it, he had thrown on most of his jewelry, so his arms, neck, and hands looked like ice sculptures and cast funny patterns on the floors and walls when the light hit them. A World Series Yankee cap sat ace-duce on his head with the brim covering one side of his sunglasses. A female guest made the mistake of asking him why he was