Voorheeze & Clarkola Read online

  GORILLAZ IN THE BAY 2

  Lock Down Publications and

  Ca$h Presents

  Gorillaz in the Bay 2

  A Novel by De’Kari

  Lock Down Publications

  P.O. Box 870494

  Mesquite, Tx 75187

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  www.lockdownpublications.com

  Copyright 2019 by De’Kari Gorillaz in the Bay 2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.

  First Edition April 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover design and layout by: Dynasty Cover Me

  Book interior design by: Shawn Walker

  Edited by: Tammy Jernigan

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  MY APOLOGIES

  I had planned for book two to be released in February 2019 however due to the feedback I received from various readers I decided to take some extra time and make some changes. I used to think entertainers were full of shit when they would say “This is for my fans”.

  I love and need every comment, review and opinion. Believe me I internalize all of them.

  Jane L. Pennella, Lesia Stevens, S. Jones, Leah Lewis, RealTalk Helene, Kim Durham, just to name some.

  Helene, T’Rida didn’t die at the shoot-out. He actually died in Oakland, CA. He and his woman Diamond are serving a life sentence behind it. I didn’t mention her because their story is another book in its self. I don’t know why my information says I’m from Newark, CA – thanks for pointing that out. I am actually from East Palo Alto by the way of Menlo Park, 1300 Block.

  Patricia Carr, people will follow you in the street-life out of fear or respect. Once that is gone, it’s over! If Voorheeze would’ve put T’Rida’s business out there, the team would have fell apart. No one respects a dope fiend. As it is, they followed a legend who gave them a vision. Remember this sweetheart, jail & prison is the last place for a black man. I would kill my brother before ever subjecting him to that. When you read book five of the series “Blood of My Father” you will understand.

  Rise, you changed my book as well with your comments. Thank you!

  Leah Lewis, I hope the sex scenes are hotter and give you something to think about lol.

  Natalie J., I want my .5 lol! You also changed the book or should I say y’all improved the book with your comments. I couldn’t change the story because it’s real. I’m glad you like the names because they are real. Neva Die is real but we are just not a drug empire. King Tut aka Tut-Tut got his name from the sound that an AK makes Tut! Tut! Tut! I named Club Carsjanae (Car-sha-nay) after a member of Team De’Kari because I think the name is jazzy.

  DEDICATION

  To my Thick’ems (my Butterfly, my Queen), “All that I do is because you are all of me”. For nearly two decades you have held me down not because of force, not out of debt nor political pressure, but because of who you are. Our bond isn’t proof of our love but a visualization of the kind of woman you are. Winnie Mandela aint got shit on you.

  THANK YOU’S

  Since I told the truth through fiction, I was advised by Mama B., My lil Booger and My Queen to stop connecting real names, Thank you! To Team De’Kari, my ability to bring my creation into literary existence is only thanks to your countless hours of typing and eye-strain to sort out hundreds of handwritten pages. I am U and U R me & we R Team De’Kari. “2 down 73 to go”!

  AUTHOR'S NOTES

  The name Gorillaz In the Bay:

  The most respected and feared beast in the jungle is the "Silver-Back Gorilla". In the concrete jungle of the Bay Area many animals terrorize the streets. But only one team has Neva gone on full-beast mode, dragging their knuckles across the ground like the mighty Silver-Back. From Hyenas to Wolves, the Bay Area has breaded many predators. But it was Neva Die Dragon Gang that set out to show the Underworld that there are truly Gorillaz In the Bay!

  The name Neva Die: (is a way of life)

  Neva Die is an acronym that stands for New Enlightened Visionaries of African Descent, Determined to Increase Education & Economics.

  The name stems from a belief that we hold fast to regarding our struggles in life and the things that we fight for. The love we have for ourselves and our people will Neva Die. The fight will Neva Die which means we will Neva Die.

  One Aim. One Struggle. One Goal.

  NEVA DIE

  WELCOME TO EAST PALO ALTO

  PROLOGUE

  2012

  The sounds of Dem Hoodstarz newest release “How I Really Feel”, blasted through the ultra-sonic Bose audio system.

  /If you don’t know you probably neva will / I’m just saying though I could show you how a youngsta feel /

  /I’m drinking death and I’m smoking kill / I’m just saying though I can show you how I really feel /

  Voorheeze sat low with the driver’s seat leaned back. A bottle of Remy Martin XO in one hand, a 45 Dragoon Colt resting on his lap and tears running down his face. How the fuck did shit get this crazy, he wondered. Everything was all good at first, Niggaz were on top of the world. The next thing a nigga knew, the bodies started dropping.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He didn’t have any misconception about this shit like most of these fake niggaz. They had life and bullshit fucked up. With their backward ass thoughts that the game was all glamour, money, cars and bitches. He knew that this shit was full of ups and downs, wins and losses! Because of that he always expected a loss or two, hell he even accepted them.

  It was as if the “Game God or the forces that Be” had to spank you every now and then if niggaz couldn’t. That’s how shit stayed balanced. It’s almost like for every few wins you had to take a loss. If niggaz couldn’t dish out your losses, then the Game God would. It’s that simple, pluses and minuses! That was life’s way of keeping the scales balanced. But that wasn’t what the fuck had happened. It actually played out completely different. That’s what was fucking with his head.

  He tilted the bottle and took another long guzzle. The hot brown liquid no longer burned his throat. He was working on his second bottle already. But no matter how much he drank, it did not ease his pain like he was hoping. He had lost too many of the people he loved! As he sat in his 1970 Chevy SS in front of the church at another funeral, nostalgia of Deja-vu hit him.

  Just a few years ago he sat right in the same exact spot getting ready to attend the funeral for T’Rida. Today he was here to bury another brother. As the rain drops splashed and bounced off his windshield, Scoots verse began…

  /half empty Remy Martin bottle, smoking kill / rain drops on my windshield, I clutch steel / Let me tell you how I really feel…. / when the stage lights go off, and the red carpet disappear…

  It felt like it was Voorheeze’s soul that was spitting the hurtful and heart-felt lyrics. Involuntarily he gripped the handle of the Dragoon. The pain was too real. As he sat and reminisced, rage burned in his heart and his blood began to boil. He was ready to kill whatever, whoever, whenever and however!

  /Tonight, I aint fucking wit no
champagne / I got Patron problems. Remy Martin issues nigga dis real pain!”/

  He took another swig. He just didn’t give a fuck anymore! Voorheeze was truly the epitome of death right at that moment. He took another gulp of his misery tamer. He thought to himself how true the words were “Nigga dis real pain”. Too many members of his family had died. Members of a family that was supposed to be untouchable.

  Everyone was already in the church waiting on him. They all knew how hard the young killa was taking the loss of his brother, no one dared to interrupt him! His mood was too fucked up.

  This shit would be answered in the worst way possible, he vowed. The Summer of Blood was nothing compared to the shit that Jason Voorheeze was about to unleash on mothafuckas! He wasn’t about to let anybody breathe! It was murking season. And when the smoke cleared, for the first time in his life he didn’t care if he was still standing!

  /A week ago, my Uncle Chucky lost his wife / the same week my Uncle Melvin lost his life / Den Man Man got murdered, one-week later G-Boi got tortured / ….”

  Fuck what bitch niggaz talk about, real niggaz cry. It’s an unspoken fact that gangsta’s cry too. Most don’t know this but it’s true. The only difference is when Gangsta’s cry, mothafuckas die. Voorheeze couldn’t remember the last time he cried, but he was crying now. After this funeral a whole lot of mothafuckas were going to cry.

  “Man fuck it! Let’s get this shit over with”, he said to himself. Then he took one last gulp.

  As he reached for the cap to the bottle he thought he caught movement in his rearview mirror. The distraction caused him to knock the cap onto the floor. He stared intently into the rearview but didn’t see anyone. So, he leaned down to pick up the bottle cap. That one move saved his life!

  BOCCA!

  In one split second the passenger window shattered, he heard the blast of the gun as a hollow-tip flew past his head, missing him by inches. With no hesitation he palmed the big revolver.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  He let out three rapid shots through the passenger side glassless window. Before the third shot entered the would-be killa’s body, Voorheeze’s free hand was gripping the handle of the driver’s side door.

  He dove out of the would-be coffin!

  “These punk mothafuckas really must think this shit is a game”, he thought to himself as he rolled on the street just in case there was more than one shooter. A moving target is harder to hit than a stationary one. As he rolled, he grabbed his second Dragoon from its shoulder rig. He came up both arms raised ready for whatever.

  He scanned the streets; he didn’t see anyone other threats. So, he made his way around to the front of the car looking for the nigga that shot at him. He was on the sidewalk desperately trying to crawl to his banger that fell three feet away from him.

  “You o’le bitch-nigga! You thought you would just walk up and knock me down!”

  BOOM!

  Voorheeze shot the nigga again, this time in his back!

  “Bitch I don’t get knocked down, I knock niggaz down!” At that point the Remy started having a slight effect, he felt woozy.

  BOCA! BOCA! BOCA! BOCA! The sounds of a 40-caliber erupted.

  That old familiar burning sensation shot through his upper right chest as one of the bullets found its mark. The other three missed. The bullet that struck his chest caused him to stumble backward.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  Voorheeze returned fire not letting the pain in his chest distract him.

  “How many of you faggot ass niggaz wanna die today, huh?” He was way past the point of reasoning.

  Instead of crouching down and taking cover, he struggled his way toward the middle of the street, so he could get a better aim at the bitch ass nigga that shot him. He was hiding behind the back of a Malibu.

  “Come on fuck nigga! What the fuck you hiding foe! Nigga, dis what you want? Come get it!” He taunted his assailant.

  At the sound of Voorheeze’s voice coming from the front drivers’ side, the second shooter thought he could get the drop on him. He raised half way up to send a slug at Voorheeze.

  BOOM!

  That mistake proved to be fatal!

  Voorheeze wasn’t a new booty to this pistol playing shit. He’d been sending hot shit at niggaz for years. So, his aim, although slightly off from the Remy, was still on point.

  “If they sent two, they might’ve sent three”, he thought to himself as he used the moment to eject the empty speed-reloader out of his first Dragoon and slap in another one.

  This little nigga Sutton had proven to be more of a fucking problem than anyone could’ve ever expected. When the beef initially started, Voorheeze took the click of young niggaz as just that, young niggaz! He neva would have thought that the little nigga Sutton was a real life hitta! And not just a hitta but a mothafuck’n hitta with the mind of a war strategist.

  As he begun to spin around Voorheeze already knew that he'd fucked up. Although he didn’t hear any sound at all, he sensed someone behind him. He knew his thoughts had distracted him. His head and eyes made it fully around before the rest of his body did. So, the recognition of who was behind him registered before his body was able to react.

  Tattat! Tattat! Tattat! Tattat!

  CHAPTER I

  2008

  Open Bible Baptist Church

  As the lyrics blared out of the speakers Jason Voorheeze sat behind the wheel of his Lamborghini with a look on his face, full of anger and grief. He sat in front of the Church with a bottle of Remy Martin in his hand trying to numb himself enough to brave the fact that he had to bury his brother.

  He still found it hard to fathom the fact that T’Rida was gone. The guilt of not being there to save his brotha when safety and security was all Voorheeze preached was eating away at his soul steadily. Voorheeze was far from what anybody would call a soft nigga, but as he sat in the Lambo his emotions were way out of sync. In his mind he replayed the last time he saw T’Rida.

  Voorheeze had pushed the Lambo so fast it literally hugged the corners as he raced through the streets to get to Tanya’s house. As he made his way up the stairs, he tried to picture his brother smoked out like some base-head. The broad had to be mistaken. That thought went away when he entered her apartment. When Voorheeze saw T’Rida, he couldn’t believe his eyes. T’Rida was smoked out, up for days and on one. He had locked himself in Tanya’s bathroom and spent days getting high. Finally, Tanya was so worried for him that she was forced to call Voorheeze to come over and see if he could talk to him.

  He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long guzzling gulp. The Remy Martin XO burned a fire of bliss as it made its way down his throat and into his belly. He looked up and into his rearview mirror. His older brother Clarkola, who was his first lieutenant, sat behind his Lambo in his Dodge Daytona Charger. All their goons sat in cars back to back to back as far as he could see. Tommy Gunz sat across the street in his Aston Martin with a line of soldiers parked behind him. Neva Die was out in full force to pay their respects to their Boss and fallen comrade killed by the police.

  Only T’Rida’s immediate family and Neva Die were allowed to come to the Church to pay their respects which would make the viewing of the body small and intimate. Every member of Dragon Gang had already been in and said their goodbyes. They were waiting on Monique and the children to come out of the Church. Then they were heading to Skylawn Cemetery where everybody who was somebody would be to pay their respects.

  Monique came out of the Church with the children and climbed into the stretched, black, Mercedes limo. They all headed out as one unit. As Voorheeze led the procession, he thought about that fateful day while he lit a Newport 100.

  He was downstairs in the den with Gunz at T’Rida’s and Monique’s place when he heard the Breaking News Special Report playing on the television. Reporting that the Milpitas Police were involved in an intense stand-off and shoot-out and seeing the War Room on the screen. He and Gunz rushed out the house to get to T’Rida.


  Voorheeze couldn’t keep his mind from flashing back to that day. As they drove to Skylawn Cemetery he continued to think about it.

  When they pulled up to the cemetery there were so many cars and people assembled together it looked like it was a funeral for the president of the United States. There were E.P.A. niggaz, Oakland niggaz, Berkeley niggaz, Frisco and San Jose niggaz, mothafuckas even came from Vallejo to show their love for the deceased Boss.

  Because of the publicity behind the shootout with the police, various media sources were present at the funeral to cover the story of the man who was named the most notorious gangster to ever exist. One man that was responsible for killing seventeen police officers and injuring eleven more! Even the police were out in full force to attend the funeral in hopes of learning T’Ridas known associates. Since he was dead they were looking for someone else to pay for his sins.

  There were dark, black and gray storm clouds overhead. However, there was not a drop of moisture in the air, only gloom!

  Some would later look back at that day and swear that the weather was a premonition of what was to come. An omen of deadly proportions. But for now, one of the Bay Area’s greatest Kings was being celebrated and remembered. The streets had definitely lost one of its elite! A rare breed indeed!

  Although T’Rida had his flaws, the mere fact remained that even with his flaws, T’Rida had done something that most people could not fathom doing but wished they could. The fact that T’Rida had achieved the level of success that he did all while he was fighting a cocaine addiction was beyond impressive. Hell, the shit was downright mind blowing. Some of the heavy players, when discussing it amongst themselves, often wondered just how much more he could have done, had T’Rida been functioning at 100% capacity. They thought about it, not on some backdoor disrespectful shit but on some jaw-dropping “I wonder” shit.