On Sight • NBAVONDURK

12: A King's Feast

Kentrell

Stirring the pot of boiling salted water, a needless action that the lovesick male could internally rationalize at the given moment. If he cared to realize he was just stirring a pot of water that is. Flicking his tongue out, every time he licks his lips he tastes Durk and that taste has him weak in the knees and wobbly on his feet. Honestly, if it wasn't for the fact that cooking a hot meal for Durk was one of the things he fantasized about, he'd been laid up somewhere giggling his head off. Probably laid up on Durk giggling, flirting, kissing.. the thought has him biting his lips.

His mother never had problems keeping a man. Nor did any of his aunts nor even his grandmother. And the secret all these women implied, one he saw stand the test of time again and again, was a little bit of kitchen voodoo. One of the most simplistic and easy love spells is adding your blood to red food and then getting your sweetheart to eat it. In this case, the water he stirs is for spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs being baked in the oven currently.

His phone rings. He sighs, taking the wooden spoon out of the pot and resting it on a spoon rest. Without even checking to see who was calling, didn't have to- he knew his ringtone. "Wassup, slime?" Kentrell tries not to sound as bothered by the call as he truly is.

"Wassup, slime? Nigga wassup witchu opp kissin' ass!" Tyquian growls into the phone.

Kentrel blinks before scrunching his face and yanking the receiver away from his ear. He looks left, he looks right. No one. "Excuse meh, slime." He grins kindly into the phone, "Say, you got da right numba, jit?"

Tyquian furrows his brows, clicking on the video for what might have been the tenth time in the span of forty five minutes. "What da fuck you on bout, nigga?"

"It's just dat.. you choice ta address meh like I don't pop shit and kill niggas. Sa I was wonderin', who da fuck yo gangsta wannabe crybaby ass is talkin' too, slime? Cause it can be real muthafuckin' slimy real quick, on everythang, nigga. I'm straight outta da nawf. Barely made it out da bitch. Ion mind pretendin' 'm still in those trenches long enough ta whoop da audacity outta yo ass!" Kentrell snaps, a scowl now replacing his smile. His eyes cut off to the crystal ball. Durk had turned his head away from the television and was smiling; trying to keep from laughing. He had heard Kentrell pop off. Now the younger pouts. "Fuck you want, and you betta make it quick! And on my mama's soul, nigga if yo ugly ass evea eve' twist yo lips up ta disrespect meh like dat I'll send you ta meet Grim maself."

Tyquian eyes widen in his panic. His phone slips out of his hands and he scrambled to retrieve it. Honestly, who the fuck did he think he was talking to? "Top! Shit, mane.. 'm sarry. Gonna talk ta forgive meh, we Savannah niggas different-"

"Yeah! Y'all slow as hell, nigger, what you want!?" Top spits into the phone.

"You good? Nobody fuckin' witchu, right?" Durk calls. His voice instantly has Kentrell gushing like an idiot.

A smirk. Durk pop shit for real. He's not a pretend gangster like himself. Whereas Kentrell would hire a dude and pose with guns, Durk both hires hits and shoots shit. Such a bad boy~ wonder if.. he'd kill a nigga over him. "Ion be knowin'! I might need backup cuz say, why dis jit fuckin' wimme!? What. Quando?"

Tyquian was so confused. He must be talking to himself? Ah shit. Ah hell. Last time that happened, Joe fucked around and almost found out what shade of black the grim reaper's robe was. Thankfully for him, Kentrell opted to get him back by fucking his mama that time. But that won't work for Tyquian, Kentrell hates the way that woman blinks. "My bad. Iight? I was tweakin' on dis shit doe, on slime. You.. you helpin' Durk? You.. you beat dat light skin Memphis nigga over 'im. It's all on da net, cuz!"