Shotcaller sat down on the couch in his Memphis apartment and took a slow pull off the blunt. He exhaled and hoped to get that familiar, chill feeling, but it didn’t come.

Instead, he felt nervous and anxious.

In the background, “Mind Frame” by Moneybagg Yo bumped softly through some speakers. From another room his bad bitch, Shapiqna, walked in. She was fine as hell.

She walked over and curled up on the couch next to Shotcaller underneath his arm and took the blunt out of his hand. She took a small hit and handed it back.

“Sup baby?” she asked.

“Got shit on my mind,” replied Shotcaller, who leaned forward and placed the blunt at the edge of an ashtray on the coffee table.

“What’s good?” Shapiqna inquired.

Shotcaller took his arm from around his bad bitch and placed his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor.

“Stressed yo,” he admitted. “I gotta beat da shit outta this white boy. And to be honest, I don’t want to. Ain’t my idea, yo.”

Shapiqna ran her fingers and long nails through Shotcaller’s short hair and gave him a soft head scratch.

“All dis seazon I been doin what my boss wants,” continued Shotcaller, finally getting it off his chest. “But when you in da game, you know that go.”

Shotcaller sat back against the couch and exhaled audibly.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Shapina replied. “Do what you gotta do, beat dis white boy, den figure out da rest.”

He nodded his head and murmured in agreement.

Shapiqna reached her hand down between his legs squeezed her hand. Before she moved her head down, Shotcaller turned up the music and decided to enjoy the moment.

The match will come later.