Surprisingly, six years after Juliet’s death, I didn’t get some standard corporate tech job when I graduated. Actually, I ain’t have no regular job. My main source of income was scamming scammers. I leveled up into something I call a grey hat hacker.
Unlike those soft-ass white hats you see on YouTube who try to give everybody their money back and politely shut down scam call centers, I am the worst type of person to deal with. I write my own custom viruses that completely destroy their computers, forcing them to buy new hardware. But my favorite part is gaining access to their banking information.
Now, if it’s possible, I will return what I can to the victims. Basically, I give them back fifty percent of the total money they lost, and I keep whatever is left over.
I already know what some people are gonna say.
Rico, you’re still a piece of shit for keeping half. You should’ve given it all back, or turned it over to the government.
And to that, I say fuck no.
I’m not a piece of shit. I’m just taking stolen money back from the thieves. At least I try to give the victims some of their money back instead of keeping every single dollar for myself. If I took all of it and didn’t give them a cent, that would be a completely different story. I’d be no better than the scammers. But a nigga has to eat, too. At least with me, the victims get some closure and half their cash back, which is a hell of a lot better than getting nothing at all.
I do some freelancing on the side, too. I build firewalls and code websites. Just basic, general shit to keep my legal profile clean. Other than that, my life has been pretty quiet.
I haven’t talked to many people since college. Aside from training with Mr. Bone, I’ve pretty much cut everyone else out of my life. Juliet’s death really fucked me up. I became so antisocial that I only talk to people when it’s absolutely necessary. Honestly, I don’t go a single day without thinking about her. My greatest failure. I still blame myself every day for not checking on her immediately. Some shitty person I am, huh?
But while I’m twenty-six years old, still living my life, and trying—and I do mean trying so hard—to heal...
On July 10th, 2026, I experienced my very first “nigga moment.”
And it wasn’t even started by a Black guy.
It started on my usual morning run to my favorite coffee shop. Somewhere along the line during those six years of grieving and trying to find some peace, I ended up becoming a Black Muslim.
It’s actually hilarious when you think about the cultural friction. You’ll have these traditional Arab Muslims getting low-key tight because an African American nigga calls himself a Muslim, like we aren’t praying to the exact same Allah and reading the exact same Quran.
They look at you like you’re doing it wrong, but I just laugh at the gatekeeping. Islam is Islam, bro. It gave me the structure and the discipline I desperately needed when my mind was completely shattered.
I grabbed my iced coffee, said my
As-salamu alaykum
to the brother behind the counter, and walked out the front door.
But the second I stepped onto the pavement, the universe decided to hand me a brutal reality check.
Across the street, leaning against the hood of a brand-new sports car, was Nathan.
My blood ran completely cold.
After six years of trying to heal, after six years of praying and hoping that out of the billions of people on this earth I would never have to lay eyes on him again... his ass just had to pop up right in my path.
He looked older, but he still had that same arrogant, incredibly punchable face.
I stood there on the sidewalk, my cup trembling slightly in my grip, as the entire world went dead quiet around me.
This was it. The exact moment where ignorance and pride collide.
My very first nigga moment.
“Wait... Rico? Is that really you?”
I said nothing. And honestly, I was terrified. Not of him—I’ve never feared another man, and I never will. I was terrified of breaking my promise to Juliet. The last thing I needed was for this motherfucker to drag me into a nigga moment.
Nathan looked down at my hand and then back up at my face. He smirked.
“Why are you so shaky?” he asked, mockingly. “I haven’t seen you in years, and you never showed up to King of the Streets. I didn’t think you’d turn pussy.”
HOW DARE YOU—
the voice in my head exploded, instantly roaring for blood.
NO!
I roared back, slamming the door on the voice.
Stay the fuck out of my head! I’ve changed. I am a different person now. A different man.
“I don’t wish to talk to you,” I said, my voice low and controlled.
I tried to step around him to walk away. But he stepped right into my path, stopping me cold.
Nathan kept poking the bear, his smirk widening as he tried to get a reaction out of me.
Tear him apart,
the voice in my head growled, practically clawing at the walls of my skull.
Rip his throat out right here. Kill him.
I forced my hands to stay flat at my sides. The only thing keeping my hands from wrapping around his neck was my love for Juliet and her final request. I had promised her. I had sworn I would let it go.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Nathan,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level. “You’re rich. You come from a successful, powerful family. What does fucking with a nigga like me even accomplish for you? I admit it. You’re better than me in every single way. So, for the love of Allah... just leave me alone. Please.”
Saying those words felt like swallowing broken glass. Showing that kind of vulnerability to the man who destroyed Juliet was sickening. It felt entirely wrong. But I was willing to throw my pride, my dignity, and my ego straight into the dirt if it meant I could just go home.
It actually worked. Nathan chuckled, looking satisfied with himself, and stepped aside.
“As-salamu alaykum,” I muttered, walking past him.
“You know, I find it funny,” Nathan called out after me. “You converted to a religion where people just blow themselves up.”
I stopped, turning my head slightly but keeping my back mostly toward him.
“That’s a different branch of Islam,” I said, my voice cold. “Black Muslims aren’t the ones blowing themselves up. But I guess it’s still better to be part of a religion where people kill in the name of God, rather than some white-boy race shit where you think you’re better than everyone else.”
I kept walking, my chest heaving as I tried to put distance between us. I was so close to making it out clean.
But then, he pressed the absolute wrong button.
“You know,” Nathan’s voice drifted over the sidewalk, dripping with malice. “Would you like to see my wife? I think Jasmine would be happy to see you.”
I stopped walking.
Watch closely. You are about to witness a nigga moment.
The Boondocks
defined a nigga moment as a moment when ignorance overwhelms the mind of an otherwise logical Negro male, causing him to act in an illogical, self-destructive manner, i.e., like a nigga.
Nathan chuckled, stepping closer to me.
“After I knocked your ass out at that party,” Nathan said, his voice dripping with casual malice, “while you were sleeping for those three days, I posted the pictures I took of Juliet. Jasmine was actually pretty pissed. She figured out exactly what you meant back in the alley. She was going to leave me, but I didn’t want her to go. So, I looked up some very useful methods online.”
What... the fuck is he talking about?
the voice in my head whispered, the hollow quiet in my skull suddenly turning into a deafening hum.
“So,” Nathan continued, shrug-shouldered, “I did some 'conditioning' on her for a while. It made her so submissive and obedient. Who knew Stockholm Syndrome would work wonders with lots of sex? Now, I have a perfectly obedient little housewife who’s already given me two kids.”
I stared at him. My eyes felt like they were literally about to pop out of my skull.
“What the fuck did you just say, nigga?”
Nigga moments are unpredictable, and they always end up bad. White people are usually not directly involved in them. But in this case, it’s a prime example of how they can instigate one.
I didn’t even think about it.
BOOM!
I just did it.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
I had always asked myself at some point,
Can I consciously kill someone, or would I just stop short at the last second?
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Click... Click. Click. Click.
The second I heard that empty metallic sound, the background noise of the street rushed back. Screams exploded around me. People were running in every direction, panicking, diving for cover.
I looked down at my hand. I was holding my 3D-printed .45, the barrel smoking in the hot July air.
And when I looked down at the pavement, he was already gone. Dead as hell, turned into Swiss cheese right on the concrete. I’d spent weeks preparing to fight him, but my mind had just moved on its own. It had just moved, and I killed him right there in broad daylight.
I let out a slow, shaking breath, looking at his lifeless body.
“Shit... Well, that’s me fucked, huh?” I muttered to myself. “Guess you should never piss off somebody you don’t know that well. You never know what kind of reaction they’re going to give you.”