ghetto-potter

[ghetto-potter]

Lil wigga Pottah, page 2

cus dat shit wigga Lil D suddenly decided to be a bitchass punk, throwin his cereal n' shit at the walls.  ''Bitchass fucker,'' Mr. D yelled as he slammed dat door like he ain't got time for that bullshit. Wigga got into his car and backed out of numbah foh! You know? His driveway n' shit.

Tho just around the corner of da hood he saw foh shoh a cat readin a map, shit was wack. A moment there, Mr. D be thinkin he didn't see shit. But he be peekin once more. It was just normal fucking cat like any other lameass cat, no map. Da street lights must be playin these games with Mr D's eyes. Wigga kept staring at the cat, cat stared back. Mr. D just kept on drivin n' shit as he watches da wack cat. Da cat was readin signs n' shit now foh real. Now hold up, cats don't do that shit aight? Cats ain't that wack. Nah, Mr. D snapped out of it and got dat cat outta his head. He kept drivin n' shit to downtown thinkin about that bigass order of drills he prayin he be gettin today.

But when he got to the edge of da hood, that bigass order of drills ain't on his mind anymore, cus some even more wack shit be takin his attention. In da middle of a traffic jam, he saw some bitchass punks being wack as fuck, they be wearin cloaks! You know, bigass hoodies just longer so you look like som whiteass skater boy? Well, Mr. D ain't havin shit to do with fuckas that dress in wackyass clothes. Like, what's up with fashion today? Mr. D keep tappin his finger on the steeringwheel makin a dope beat, as the bitchass punks kept standing closer to his ride. Seemed like they be whispering shit and being all hyped for it too. Mr. D got fuckin mad yo, some of these mothafuckas ain't whiteass skaterboy at all, some of them be oldass mothafuckas; like, that wigga gotta be older n' shit than he was, wearin a shiny green cloak! The fuck he on about, wigga got some nerve! But Mr. D realised it had to be a stunt or some shit. None of that shit matter, traffic moved on and soon, Mr. D had finally got to Grunnings, so he be back thinking of those bigass drills  or whatever.

Mr. D as usual had his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. Yo this wigga had his own mothafuckin office, he got his shit straight. Tho if he ain't havin his back against the window, he may lose focus on his bigass drills. He didn't see those wacky bigass birds, those owl birds, flyin by in the middle of the day. But mothafuckas on the ground they be seein all this wack shit; pointing their nastyass fingers with their eyes wide and mouths open, as owls flew by like it was a real fuckin driveby. Shit was cray. Most of these fuckas ain't even seen owls befoh, even at nighttime. Like shit, I ain't even seen an owl befoh. But Mr. D? He had a normal, none-owl morning. He be throwin hands at five weakass wiggas. Hollad at many business bitches on his phone and threw more hands. He thought today was a good day, didn't even have to bring his AK. But shit changed at lunch, when Mr. D was all about stretching his legs and walk across the road n' shit to swipe himself a slurpie from the Seven Eleven

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[ghetto-potter]

Lil wigga Pottah and some shit about stones.

CHAPTER ONE

DA BOY WHO AIN'T GOT POPPED

Mr. D and her hoe, of numbah foh, Privet Drive, they be proud of not bein cray cray at all, so thank you. They be the last mothafuckers y'all expect to be into in anything weird or crazy shit, aight? Because they just ain't holdin up with bullshit.

Mr. D was the main wigga of a shop called Grunnings, which made drills n' shit. He was a big, beefy mothafucker with no neck y'all, tho he got da big stash n' shit, ya know what imma sayin. Dat wigga Mr. D's hoe was all slim n' shit like a real cracka, a blonde chick and had two times a neck, is all cool cus she be all grinding up on those fences n' shit like no tomorrow, spyin on all da other fuckas in da hood. Da D's had a lil D too and their ain't no bettah wigga around than he, ya feel?

Da D's had all da shit a wigga would want, but they be keepin a secret ya know? I ain't a snitch but cuss, I tell ya. They don't  want no snoopin around n' shit. They be worryin about da Pottah's What if all these mothafuckers found out that Mr. D's hoe was related n' shit to dat bitch Queen La Pottah. But they ain't been seein eachotha foh years man. Foh real, Mr. D's hoe straight up pretends she ain't have a sister, that shit cray. Cus Queen La Pottah and her man, a useless wigga. Was no near a real D as the D's ever could be, ya feel? Da D's be paranoid, what will all the other fuckas in da hood say, if da Pottahs came to holla in  da streets. Da D's be knowin dat Pottahs had a lil wigga along too. But he be a invisible wigga, cus da D's ain't seen him. This lil wigga  was another reason foh keepin da Pottahs at a distance; they ain't no havin  it mixing with a lil wigga like that. That shit ain't money, ya feel?

When da D's woke up on a slow ass Tuesday our story begins, there ain't no shit in the clouds outside dat tells there gonna be weird and crazy shit happenin in all da hoods soon. Mr. D was picking a tie foh work, humming som crazy tune I don't give a fuck about. Mr. D's hoe? She was all up in dealing with da Lil D, settin dat wigga straight. Smilin n' shit, while Lil D was all screamin like a bitch ass wigga he is.

Not givin a fuck about that big ass bird, what they call it? An Owl? Doin a flyin driveby past the window.

At eight thirty, Mr. D had his fucking briefcase in one hand, and his baby momma, Mr, D's hoe in the other. Smoochin all over her like money rainin on a stripper. Tried to kiss Lil D good-bye, but like a stormtrooper from that movie Star Wars, he missed that lil wigga,

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