Shotcaller sat in his hoopdie, chillin’ in the back of a dark parking lot in the heart of a Memphis hood.

Waiting.

It was nighttime in Memphis, and Shotcaller had time to kill between Gold Strike 3 and Gold Strike 4. He had only two matches under his belt so far, and after losing to Violence, he had been knocked out of the Pure Gold Championship tournament.

Fuck he thought.

Violence just straight beat him last week even though Shotcaller thought he was the better athlete.

Mo fucka is better than I thought was the first thing Shotcaller thought after the match.

At this point, he didn’t know what laid ahead of him the rest of the season. He didn’t have any special beef with anyone to warrant a grudge match at Gold Rush, and it was probably too late to start any shit.

That meant no more Golden Pro Wrestling money until Season 2, so he still needed to find a way to earn.

And he turned to the only way he knew how.

A sweet, black Cadillac turned into the parking lot entrance with its lights off. There they were.

The Caddy rolled up and parked next to Shotcaller’s car. The passenger, rocking the same red bandana as Shotcaller, rolled down his window to greet him.

“Sup Blood?” the man in the passenger seat asked. The driver looked around to make sure no one was watching.

“Same shit bro,” Shotcaller replied. “Just makin’ good.”

The gangster in the passenger seat smirked.

“Saw Violence got yo ass last week,” the fellow Blood gangmember replied. “Tough way to get bitch slapped out of the tournament.”

“Yeah, dawg,” Shotcaller agreed, knowing there wasn’t true offense implied. “Gotta chill till next season and go on a run.”

“Word. You got the shit tonight or what?”

“Yeah,” said Shotcaller, smoothly stretching his arm out the window with a brown paper bag.

The other Blood gang member grabbed it, pulled it into the car and opened it up. He peered down into the bag while nodding his head. The man then reached out of his passenger window and handed Shotcaller a roll of cash.

“Thanks, homie,” Shotcaller said. “I’ll catch you lata, yo.”

Just as the man rolled up his window and the Cadillac began to move, three cars sped into the parking lot with tires screeching.

Blue and red lights flashed from each car.

Fuck Shotcaller thought, and he slumped his shoulders.

Fuck.