As reported in an earlier episode, I made mention of a drug agent named Rambo who vowed that he would get me. He told all the local junkies to let me know that he had made it his mission to lock me up. Now, I knew I had problems because Rambo was legendary in the city.

It had often been rumored that he was the son of Sue Myrick, who was the Mayor at the time of Rambo’s reign of terror.


I got out of prison in July, 1993 and a few days later was in possession of two ounces of crack, a drug I had never seen. Even though I had hit the streets with a couple of thousand dollars  due to my  hustling inside the pen, a bank-robber friend of mine that had come up in the game refused to take my money. He gave me a “fresh start” and he taught me the dope game. And I flourished until one day I made a mistake.


It was my birthday, but I was too busy getting paper to celebrate. I was doing just fine until I was approached by a big-butt girl who had found out it was my birthday and practically begged me to allow  her to made my birthday special. To be truthful, it didn’t take much to break my resistance down, and since it was 4:00pm, I decided I could get away and be back in time to catch the rush hour traffic. Now, let me tell you this. I worked out of a neighborhood that was all black, but was sandwiched between all the three major hospitals in town. And people think doctors and nurses don’t get high. Shit, they were some of my best customers and though I wouldn’t bet the ranch, I may have been the only person in town who could pay his doctor with cocaine.


Oh yeah, back to my birthday fiasco. I took the young girl to my crib which was only a short distance away. By now, I had moved away from the place where I worked because a hustler never shit where he laid his head!  After my birthday bash, I was eager to get rid of the hussy. Since she wasn’t going back to where I had gotten her, I angrily grabbed the wrong jacket.

Anyway, on my way back to my crib, a cop car occupied with cops who loved to harass me spotted me at the opposite corner across the street. I took a right and they turned on the sirens. Looking out of my rearview mirror, I see the cops are in hot pursuit. I was in no mood to play games so I was about to pull over, but when I reached my hands inside my jacket for my driver’s license, I realized I had the wrong jacket. This jacket had crack in it!  The notion I had a second ago about pulling over now seem crazy as hell. I stepped on the gas, and as I figured they would, they stepped on the gas as well. After a few sharp turns, I could have ditched them, but around the corner was a day care bus loading children. I  instantly stopped.


When the police approached, I swallowed the dope (Thank God, it was only a small amount). The cops went beserk. They pounced on me, trying to pry my mouth open. When that failed, they tried to choke me to prevent me from swallowing the dope. When they didn’t work, they began to punch me in the stomach to make me throw it back up. By now, I was fighting back as I was known to do when being arrested. I don’t usually go down without a fight. Anyway, by now people were filling the streets, yelling at the cops to stop being me. (Most would later sign affidavits for me testifying that they witnessed me getting my ass kicked by the police.)


Once inside the squad car, the cops were telling me that they hoped I died, but instead of taking me to jail, they sped me to the hospital. At the hospital, the doctors tried to get me to drink a laxative called “Go-Lightly”. I refused which angered the cops. When I refused the second time, it got ugly. They chained me to the bed and force-fed me the laxative. What happened next was the most humiliating experience of life. I shit and I shit and I shit. The doctor provided me with a bed-pan and I was forced to do my business in front of a bunch of cops and doctors. Man, they laughed and they laughed and they laughed. But I had the last laugh. They dope didn’t come out. Now, I was taken to a hospital room where I was re-chained to the bed. This time, they didn’t give me a bed-pan, but was told that whenever I needed to use the toilet that I had to push the button and the doctor would oversee my shit. They locked me in and a cop sat outside my door all night.


I knew that it was in my best interest not to shit because if they didn’t recover the drugs even though the X-rays had clearly shown it, there would be no case. I couldn’t hold back. It was funny in a crude sort of way to see the doctor on his knees with elbow length gloves, digging through my shit! Motherfucker didn’t find shit. Still went to jail, though.


When I got out of jail, I decided that it was time to leave the crack alone and the decision to get in the heroin game is what brought me to the attention of the infamous Rambo, cop extraordinare.