The Game Don't Change. Mazaradi Fox
give a fuck what cottage he was in or who the staff members were. All he wanted to do was get there and get to his bed. A couple minutes later he walked through the door of his new home. It wasn’t sweet, but he would have no choice other than making the best out of it.
“You must be Mr. Jones,” a chubby guy said.
“Last time I checked,” DeMarco answered.
“A funny guy, I see. I have just the place for you: room five. You go down the hall, make a left, and you’ll find it. By the way, my name is Mr. Johnson.”
Not saying shit, DeMarco just grabbed his bags and followed the directions. Reading the numbers on the door, DeMarco found his room and went in.
You can’t be serious, he thought as he looked around the two-man room, seeing how dirty it was. He didn’t have the energy to do anything but make his bed. DeMarco slipped under the covers and fell right to sleep, missing the block already.
* * *
What the fuck? DeMarco said to himself when he was awakened by nearby voices. Sitting up, he noticed three white boys sitting on the bed across the room. Mad as hell that they’d woken him up, he grabbed his toothpaste, toothbrush, washcloth, and walked out of the room. Ten minutes later DeMarco came back into his room and saw the same people sitting on the bed. Putting his stuff down on the top of the locker at the foot of his bed, DeMarco turned to the dudes across the room.
“Ayo, which one of y’all sleep in here?” he asked, standing up, hoping that one of them would get smart.
“I do,” the one in the middle said.
“A’ight, so you and you,” he said, pointing at the other two. “Y’all got to go. All that early-morning hanging-out shit, talking loud—that shit is a wrap.”
“Lil’ Nicky, you hear this fucking kid?” the one on the right said, laughing.
Not thinking twice, DeMarco walked over and punched him in the mouth. Blood splattered and his lip immediately began to swell.
“Now laugh at that, pussy-ass white boy, on your way out my fucking room,” DeMarco said as he stepped back.
Both of them left, looking scared, one of them holding his mouth.
“Now look, Lil’ Nicky, or whatever your name is. First thing is, you gonna clean this dirty-ass shit up,” DeMarco said as he started unpacking his bags. “And all that throwing your clothes all over the place, that shit is a wrap too. Fuck I look like? I’m not sleeping in dirt. Next thing: this is my side and that’s your side of the room. If I catch any one of your lil’ buddies on my side of the room, or if anything goes missing because you got niggas coming in and out, I’m holding you responsible. You got me?”
Lil’ Nicky, just as scared as his friends, nodded his head. DeMarco had him just where he wanted him.
After pulling out his favorite rap posters from his bags, DeMarco began to hang them up. The posters—which he had gotten from The Source magazine—were of Nas, Tupac, Lil’ Kim, Biggie, Mobb Deep, Da Brat, Run-D.M.C., and some others. In the middle of putting his clothes in his locker, the staff yelled out that it was lunchtime.
“Ayo, where we go to eat lunch?” he asked.
“On weekends we eat every meal here, but Monday through Friday we eat breakfast and lunch in the cafeteria and dinner in here,” Lil’ Nicky explained.
“A’ight, cool,” DeMarco said, and walked out of the room.
* * *
After lunch, DeMarco was sitting in his room writing a letter home when Lil’ Nicky came in and told him that the counselor wanted to see him. DeMarco put his letter down and stood up, about to head out of the room to find the counselor. Lil’ Nicky dropped and began doing push-ups.
“Now that’s what the fuck I’m talkin about. How many sets you got in?” DeMarco asked as he pulled off the shirt from over his wifebeater, deciding the counselor could come find him if it was so important.
“This is the third one. Thirty a clip,” Lil’ Nicky said once he got up.
“A’ight, bet, let me catch up real quick,” DeMarco said, quickly knocking out the ninety push-ups in two sets. The two were so caught up in their workout that neither of them realized how fast the time had flown by. After twenty more minutes of push-ups and sit-ups, DeMarco laid back on his bed with his eyes closed to calm himself down.
“Nicky, I know this room better be clean!” a female voice yelled.
DeMarco opened his eyes, but had to close them again because he thought he was bugging out. When he blinked again she was gone. Sitting up, he looked over at Lil’ Nicky and asked, “Ayo, who was that?”
As he sat up on his bed laughing, Lil’ Nicky said, “That’s Mrs. B. Yo, I’m telling you, she’s the baddest female on the compound.”
“Yo, I thought that was Stacey Dash standing in the doorway. Man, I got to go check on her even though she a little too short for me,” DeMarco said as he got up, grabbing his shirt and leaving the room.
Walking down the hall he saw Mrs. B sitting at the staff desk in the walkway. He had to admit she was bad as fuck. She had a fat ass and curves for days. He watched her movements imagining how she’d look naked. He’d been with a few older women, but none as fine as her. It was now his mission to get a piece of Mrs. B.
Stepping to the bathroom he heard, “So, you must be Jones.”
He turned to her and said, “Yup, I guess that’s me.”
He kept walking into the shower room. He didn’t want to seem pressed; he wanted her to make the first move.
* * *
For the next couple of weeks—after their brief encounter in the hall—Mrs. B made it her business to frequently stop by his room. Every time she came he acted as if she wasn’t there. He could tell that she was feeling him and he was figuring out a way that it could work to his advantage. Getting pussy would be a plus, but getting her to help him get out of there would be even better.
“Man, I’m telling you, DeMarco, Mrs. B feeling you, yo. She ain’t never stopped by my room until you got here,” Lil’ Nicky said while the two were working out.
“Man, fuck shorty, yo. I’m focused on going home,” DeMarco replied as he dropped down to do his set, all the while thinking of a master plan. He wasn’t comfortable enough to tell Nicky what was on his mind, but fucking Mrs. B was definitely part of the plan.
* * *
Five months went by so fast that DeMarco didn’t realize it until his birthday came and went. By then he and Lil’ Nicky had grown pretty tight. He also found himself flirting with Mrs. B more and more, to the point where he would ask her to do her hair in a particular style or to wear certain clothes. She would always do it. Mrs. B saw how all the quiet guys gravitated toward him—even trying to talk and dress like him. The young thug that had all the other boys in check turned her on.
* * *
“Ayo, I don’t give a fuck, Reek. You ain’t gonna keep tryna play me. Just ’cause you from the city, that don’t mean shit to me!” DeMarco heard Lil’ Nicky saying one night as he was walking by the bathroom. Wanting to see if Lil’ Nicky was a soft upstate nigga or if he had bust a hammer before, DeMarco kept it moving to his room. A couple minutes later, Lil’ Nicky came in with his face red as fuck and tight.
“That pussy-ass nigga Reek think I’m soft or somethin ’cause I’m not from the city. I guess I’ma have to show him how we get down upstate,” Lil’ Nicky said out loud to himself, as DeMarco sat on his bed acting like he wasn’t listening. “Wait till Mrs. B come on. I know these niggas gonna try to jump me, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna knock all his teeth out his mouth. Watch!”
DeMarco drifted off to sleep but woke up when he heard Mrs. B at his