By 50 Cent and Nikki Turner


As Trill cruised through the little hick town of Ashland, he consciously abided by all the laws. It didn’t matter, though, because the sheriff was sure he had hit the lotto when he spotted his mark: a young black male driving a $60,000 truck. The Hummer happened to be Sheriff Bowman Body’s dream truck. A truck he could only dream of having with his salary, and he despised the fact that some punk who probably never even finished high school was riding around in it.

Trill could have been wearing a priest’s collar, but as far as Bowman Body was concerned, he was a drug dealer and a prime victim of the monthly driving citation quota. Before Trill could think twice, the sheriff’s blue lights were bouncing off of his rearview mirror.

“Fuck!” Trill shouted. He beat his hand on the steering wheel as he spat the word out. He quickly looked down and, after making sure that his secret hiding place was secure, then pulled over. He watched from his side mirror as the small, thin-featured sheriff approached the car. His walk was like Forrest Gump but his look was the Terminator, coming to devour.

“License and registration, boy!” the sheriff said with authority as he knocked on the driver’s side window.

Trill rolled down the window halfway. “No problem, Officer,” he responded, and leaned forward to the glove box to retrieve his registration.

“Freeze!” The sheriff drew his gun and stuck his hand inside the car.

Stunned, Trill slowly eased back into the driver’s seat until he felt the tip of the sheriff’s revolver at his temple.

“I was going for my registration, man,” Trill said slowly. “Don’t most people keep their registration in the glove box?”

“You trying to get fresh with me, nigger?” The sheriff cocked his gun.

Trill could feel his blood boiling. Given the opportunity, he would leave the racist redneck stinkin’ on the hood of his own police cruiser for his fellow officers to scrape him off.

“You would think that you niggers would know the drill by now, and have these things prepared,” the sheriff drawled boldly. “As much shit as y’all stay in, you’d think y’all would pin the damn registration to your collars. Now slowly,” Bowman Body said, “open the glove box and retrieve the registration.” He paused before adding, “And I said slowly, not like you grabbing for the last piece of chicken out of a bucket of Colonel Sanders.”

Trill smelled the scent of trouble like shit from a three-hundred-pound man who just got an enema. He knew Barney Fife was gon’ fuck with him until he came up with a reason good enough to stick him. Trill was fully aware that the four thousand grams of crack cocaine in his hiding spot was 3,400 grams more than enough to get him a mandatory life sentence in a federal penitentiary. His instincts told him that he didn’t want to trust his life on the chance that this hillbilly didn’t impound the truck and stumble upon the stash box. He had to make a move. His next move would be crucial. A convicted felon caught with four kilos of crack cocaine was not a good look. He couldn’t take that chance; that was reason enough to give Bowman Body a run for his money. And he intended to do just that.

Trill grabbed the registration from the glove box and turned to hand it to the sheriff. When the sheriff reached inside the truck with his free hand and grabbed hold of the registration, Trill quickly hit the switch to roll the window up while he floored the accelerator at the same time. The powerful Hummer snatched the sheriff off his feet so fast he dropped the pistol, screaming while Trill put the pedal to the metal.

“Who the fuck reaching now? Get yo’ hand out the chicken box, cracker!” Trill screamed at Bowman Body. “Get yo’ shit out my chicken box, motherfucker!” His adrenaline was pumping, having the upper hand. He knew if he was caught he was gone for life. So he was going out like a real-live gangsta—with a mean fight.

He drove the Humdinger like he was on safari in Africa; the sheriff hung from the side of the car, holding on for dear life, slamming into the door every now and then as the truck dragged him at sixty miles an hour down the road. He went from Barney Fife to Barney Rubble as he ran alongside the automobile.

Bowman Body was swinging from side to side, praying and calling out every scripture in the Bible he’d ever known from his childhood days of going to Vacation Bible School. Once Trill felt like he was deep enough in the sticks and had room and leeway to run and hide, he pushed the window’s button down to release the sheriff and slammed on the brakes, throwing the sheriff face-first to the ground.

Trill knew that the truck was going to be hot and keeping the beautiful machine would not be an option. This was most likely the only deserted stretch of road he was going to find. He grabbed a piece just in case he had to go to war, pulled off the road and got out of the truck. When Trill opened up the door, Bowman Body was crawling on his belly like a frontline soldier. He was relentless and wasn’t going to give up easily. He managed to lunge forward and grab Trill’s leg to try to slow him down. Trill laughed at first. He couldn’t believe the motherfucker was on his heels. But after he tried to wiggle his leg loose to no avail, he got pissed off.

Trill kicked the sheriff in his face with his new Timbs. Bowman Body’s head hit a rock, causing him to bleed like Rick Flair in a cage match. Blood gushed out all over the pavement. Trill didn’t waste time. Although his shoes had blood on them, he took off running like a jaguar in the wild. He was mad that he didn’t have on the fresh Jordans that he copped earlier from the mall, but Timbs were good in any kind of weather.

It was unlikely that the police would find the drugs, but if they did, it wouldn’t matter. Trill’s only concern at this point was to get away. He took comfort in knowing that the registered owner of the vehicle didn’t know him from a can of paint. He’d paid a friend to pay a friend $10,000 to put the Hummer in their name. Maybe the best $10,000 he’d ever spent; it pays to think ahead.

It felt like hours as Trill trudged through the trees, mud, rocks and small streams of water. Out of breath and panting, he found a tree to rest against. He knew that he would be there until sundown. Some hunter stopped to help the sheriff, and of course by now backup was on the way, but at least Trill had gotten a fairly decent head start. But no sooner had Trill thought the fading sun was his answer than he heard a sound that put him on the run again. And he needed to move fast. Trill knew he had to shed some weight. As much as he hated to part with it, the first thing to go was his brand-new chinchilla jacket.

The sound of bloodhounds let Trill know that backup and probably some deputized citizens with shotguns were on the scent of his trail. He wasn’t too much worried about the bloodhounds; his main concern was them redneck hillbillies who could smell a nigga a mile away. The manhunt was on.

As the pursuit continued, Trill knew that they were closing in on him. Not only was the sound of the hounds getting closer, he could hear the hum of a helicopter entering the area. He couldn’t see it yet, but the sound of the whirling blades were distinctive. And just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean that it couldn’t see him. He knew he was doomed. But he trudged through the woods anyway, hoping no one in the distant houses would see him and give him up. He had no idea where he was going or where he’d end up. The only destination he had in mind was to get the fuck out of redneck county!


As Sunni stood in her kitchen warming up some leftover hot wings from the day before, she went to wash off the sauce that had gotten on her hands. As she looked out of the window over the sink, she could have sworn that she saw something. It was dark, and the light was on in the kitchen, so she could barely see. She flipped the light switch off, allowing her a better view of the rear of her house, and there it was again. It was a person; a black man, and then she zeroed in on the helicopter overhead. When she looked back down from the helicopter, she found herself staring into the eyes of someone in her backyard. She jumped, and a scream slipped out, but then she felt a sense of familiarity. It was the same guy from the Hummer earlier, the one who had given her a visual orgasm at the stoplight.

She knew for a fact that he wasn’t volunteering on the manhunt—a black man in this neck of the woods, after sundown? Hell no! Oh, she thought, this brother is definitely being hunted. Sunni knew that if he was caught only one of two things could happen: one, he would be shot dead on the spot, another black man out of the running; or two, he would go straight to jail and the key would be thrown away.

Guydamn, Sunni contemplated. Why’d he have to end up on my doorstep? What am I supposed to do?

As she watched him looking for a way out, somewhere to run, his face clammy with sweat, her heart went out to him. She quickly ran to the back door, unlocked it and called out, “Come on, come on, I got you!” She waved her arm, motioning him to hurry up.

She shook her head, knowing that she had let her emotions override her intellect for a man once again. Hopefully, this time it won’t turn out as bad for her as it did the last time.

Upon seeing the door open, Trill ran inside. He couldn’t believe it. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before they had his black butt hemmed in. This lady being here at the right place, at the right time—he didn’t know if it was a setup or what. But for now he was grateful to be able to get some heat and a spot to hide. She slammed the door shut, locking both the security door and the entry door.

He inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath. “Damn, you saved my ass. Anybody see me?”

Sunni looked out the still open blinds in the kitchen. She separated the blinds just enough to peek out. The coast appeared to be clear. Sunni then closed all the blinds in her house and drew the drapes.

“You can hang out here if you need to,” Sunni said flatly when she returned to the kitchen. “You need to use the phone or something?”

“Naw, I just need to lay low and chill for a minute,” Trill said and then plopped down on her oversized yellow chaise, exhausted, dehydrated and hungry. Then he thought again. “You got a cell?”

Sunni nodded as she reached for her cell and handed it to him. She listened as he gave someone demands to report his truck stolen. After Trill ended the call, he sat there with a bit of slight anxiety, thinking about the stash box, wondering if the tow company would find it and rip it off. Sunni noticed that his mind was somewhere else, so she tried to redirect his attention.

“Well, I was just about to eat some hot wings,” she said casually. “Have some?”

“You got something cold to drink?” he asked. Writing off any negative thoughts about the drugs being gone, he knew he had the best secret hiding place money could buy.

“Sure.” She walked over to a cabinet that sat behind the yellow love seat. She opened the refrigerator, introducing a complete stock of liquor, most of which hadn’t been uncapped. She then hollered back to Trill.

“I have Coke, Sprite, Corona, Hennessey, Moët, Remy, Grey Goose, orange juice, basically whatever you want,” Sunni said, naming the drinks as she scanned the fridge then glanced over to her bar.

“Hennie’s good, give me a shot of that on ice.” He could feel her eyes burning into him, so he added, “Please.”

As she grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured Trill’s drink, she decided that maybe she’d have a drink, too. No use in having dude drinking alone, she thought. After pouring herself a Grey Goose and cranberry, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed some ice from the freezer. When she closed the freezer door and went to turn around, Trill was already standing in the kitchen. He pulled off his sweater and tossed it across the chair beside him as if he lived there. Trill’s body caught Sunni off guard. Seeing him in that black wife beater, she could see he’d definitely spent a lot of time working on his body. Penitentiary body, she thought as he drank the Henni like it was a shot.

“You mind?” he asked, referring to the wing he had grabbed off the plate on the table. Then with the same cockiness, he dipped it in the homemade sauce she’d made earlier.

“No, go on,” she replied as she watched him take a bite of the wing.

The way he sucked that chicken sent chills up her spine. She watched him put the wing in his mouth and pull off all the meat—with one bite, it was down to the bone.