Kings of the Night

I was going to save this story for the book, but fuck it. You all deserve it.


The picture above is the last picture of me alive on my 22nd birthday.

It’s funny how the universe aligns things. When I notice how the NFL Draft falls on my birthday, I’m almost positive that I was meant to play professional football in another life path.

See, I’ve always been a good football player regardless of my geographical location. When I lived in Virginia for a short time during my childhood, I befriended fellow spectacular athlete (44) and we became the best of friends.

44 and I lost contact after I moved back home to Cleveland, but that was soon re-established once MySpace and Facebook came to fruition.

We kept in contact into adulthood and ended up having one of the greatest nights of our lives simultaneously;

My 22nd birthday, also known as the night he got drafted.

I was in Miami (My favorite place in America) pre-celebrating my birthday when I got the text from 44.

44: I bet you can’t take 22 shots.

Me: I ever been scared of a bet?

44: “Fat boy, I’m going first round and it’s your birthday.

Get to Virginia Beach, we’re gonna turn this bitch upside down.”


I finished my drink and was on the next flight to Newport News. I don’t know if you all have ever been in the Newport News airport, but it’s like a fucking bus station.

It’s small, dingy, compact and dull, like when you walk into one of those fedex buildings with the pale blue carpet.

The reason that I mention this is because when I touched down in this old, decrepit airport, the combination of my excitement and 44’s planning made if feel like LAX.

I already wear my sunglasses inside and have a particular swagger about myself. A limo driver standing there with an IPad reading “Fat Boy” didn’t help me be humble AT. ALL.

So I get in the limo and there’s 44, His brother 59, our childhood friend Juice, Financial advisor Tommy, and about 6 of the finest women Virginia beach had to offer.

Now If you’re wondering how he obtained wealth prior to getting a contract, let a winner explain it to you. See 44’s Father (yes black super athletes have active fathers sometimes) was a retired Call of Duty, independent mercenary contractor nigga who was up in DC doing work that I can’t disclose. His mother sold real estate. VIRGINIA real estate. Look it up. His people were well off, all he had to do was play ball.

I locked eyes with one of the beautiful women instantly. She had short, jet black hair like Wendy Raquel Robinson, big almond eyes, flawless brown skin and a stripper body. We’ll call her BossLady, remember her for later.

Anyway, me being the host that I am, I suggest shots before we even pull off.

Right as I’m taking a shot 44 drops a bomb on me.

44: “My parents bought me a beach house.”

Me: (almost choking on tequila) Nigga WHAT?

44: (Laughs) yeah man. They want me to be close to home, they called it a “Pre NFL Bonus.”

He held up the keys then tossed them to me.

44: “Throw us a party tomorrow night.”

He came to the right fucking guy.

Immediately I started prepping for the perfect party. We hit Hampton University and popular areas close to the beach inviting women out. I’ve already been blessed with a mouthpiece and an aura of confidence, but my talents with a rich nigga backing me? I was UNSTOPPABLE. AND we already had 10 odd gorgeous women with us.

We get to the beach house and it’s fucking beautiful. Sitting on the edge of the Atlantic ocean there was Marble, Hardwood, stainless steel appliances and a pool with a bar installed inside of it. There were like 4 bathrooms, a sauna area, a game room. Everything.

I knew this would be great, but I didn’t recognize the magnitude.

44 had arranged for the rest of our close childhood friends to come down to the beach from Manassas, VA and even got me a tuxedo seeing how I would be the man of the hour.

That night we stayed up all night in excitement. Draft day came and went. Sure enough he was drafted first round to a team he liked. Now that we got that out of the way, it was time to fucking party.

Tommy budgeted $20,000 for us to throw this party. I don’t know how many of you have been in the presence of rich niggas, but the word “abundance” comes to mind.

There was more alcohol than we could drink and more food than we could eat. We had an amazing DJ, 2 Bartenders, 6 Servers, 2 Kegs, 10 Strippers, hundreds of bottles of Top SHELF Alcohol and food as far as the eye could see.

While promoting the party, each guest was given a password they had to give at front door or they would be denied entry. There was a password for males and females, and any niggas who showed up trying to use the female password got turned around ASAP.

There were ex Special Ops bouncers that 44’s dad has sent down and they played No bullshit. 44 was an investment and an asset, he had to be protected.

Guys that played with 44 in college were the first to show up. After them, the homies from Manassas arrived. The party was begging to blossom. The strippers were the first women to arrive. 10 of them, all fine as hell, walking around in little ass outfits and having drinks with us.

I truly think strippers are better women than normal women. I’ll explain that in another post.

The normal women that we invited began to flood the fuck in. I kid you not, if 500 people were at that party, 350 were women. Easy.

44 went to the back with a SAS Task Force 141 bouncer and came back with a few cases of Ice cold Moët Rosé. He had the bartender pop the caps and pass them around.

He also had the servers pass out shots of Patron to everyone not in the champagne circle.

He knows that I’m a showman, so at the perfect moment, when there were a perfect amount of people And perfect energy flowed through…

44: “Fat Boy, a few words please.”

Me: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Hoes, savages and anyone else in attendance. Tonight we celebrate in the spirit of success. We celebrate the birthday of a winner and the introduction of a king, one of our own into the National fucking Football leauge.”

Juice: “Gone preach nigga.”
59: “Talk that shit, Fat Boy!”
Tommy: “This nigga is amazing.”

Me: “We celebrate a reunion among old friends. We celebrate camaraderie, we celebrate achievement! So in this moment, let’s toast to prosperity, honor, these fine ass women (as I slap a stripper on the ass) and the glory that comes from no fear of failure.

Fortune favors the bold, CHEERS!”

Crowd: “CHEERS”

The DJ Dropped “Niggas in Paris” and the house went into a frenzy. In that instance, I knew what wealth felt like. I knew what I wanted.
Champagne sprayed, shots spilled, there were smiles and eyes sparkling all around me.

In that very moment, I knew I needed to get rich.

I wish someone would’ve began recording the minute I began my speech. The only reason I remember that sequence is because it was one of the best moments of my life, AND one of few memories from that night.

It was an amazing party. My favorite part of the night was watching the strippers give off energy. They had already been paid and NFL players were tipping, so at this point they were dancing for SPORT.

The strippers’ charisma flowed through the party and was the catalyst to get the regular girls going. A healthy competitiveness arose between the normals and the strippers. That was like watching Ali and Tyson fucking spar for 3 rounds.

The competition ended when a dancer did a trick on the pole and a normal girl tried to go right after her. See the dancer did some veteran ass, Rey Mysterio type twirl into a split.

The normal girl tried that shit and a lack of friction got the best of her ass! She flew clean across the room and slid her greasy ass 30 feet on polished hardwood before she stopped to laugh at herself.

Juice: (Runs over with a blunt in his mouth pretending to be a baseball umpire) “SHE’S SAFE”

59: “her greasy booty ass!”

44: I know fried chicken that’s less slippery!”

A good laugh ensued, Then shit got crazy. 44 motions the DJ to turn the music down and signals a bartender in a fashion which displayed a previous agreement. The bartender comes from behind the pool bar with a tray of shots.

44: “Its on you, fat boy.”

Me: What, you want a nigga to propose another toast? No problem.

44: “Naw, naw nigga. 22 shots. I bet you can’t even get through ten.”

I leaned down to smell the shots and sure as shit, they were Tequila.

FUCK, he knew my Kryptonite. Whiskey or Cognac I could’ve survived, but I had no chance with 22 shots of Tequila. But was Malcolm the King going to back down?


Me: “Nigga I am a champion. I will not be defeated by Alcohol. DJ! Turn that Niggas in Paris back on!”

(Crowd cheers)

I run through the first 5 shots quickly. The Patron was smoother than I expected, but rough never the less.

Four more shots and I felt tequila sloshing around in my stomach with the champagne. But I wasn’t out of it yet. I had to make it to at least ten.

3 more shots. I passed the halfway mark, but I was way past my MCL (Maximum comfort Level.) I was sweating, my face was numb, motor skills fading FAST. I had to recover before all was lost! BossLady hadn’t even showed yet, and I knew she was going to let me smash.

I slipped off to the bathroom to hit the reset button (Vomit). I took a selfie, the picture posted at the top of this story, because I knew all hell was about to break loose.

I have no fucking memory of the following 8 hours.

When I came to, I was laying in the marble bath tub in the sauna area, fully clothed.

BossLady was next to me, curled up like a fine ass shrimp. We both had sand all over us and I had used every condom in my pocket. I was terrified, because I couldn’t remember what happened after I threw up.

Juice was the first person I saw. He’s always been a morning person. I remember I had a sleepover in the 5th grade and he was up, cooking breakfast with my mom. The nigga has on a white robe and some plush slippers as he smoked a blunt. A man of few words, he smiles at me and says

Juice: (Hits Blunt) Brilliant. Brilliant.

I tapped boss lady and asked her what happened, she simply replied

“Everything that was supposed to, baby.”

I climbed out of the tub in a daze and stumbled to the bathroom mirror. I looked like shit. A handsome, well dressed piece of shit, but shit nonetheless. I struggled up the stairs, and as I slid into the common area fucking applause erupted.

Dancer 1: Hey you’re alive!

Juice: I told y’all the nigga was alive.

44 and 59: FAT BOY RISES

Dancer 2: Honey, you were a star last night.

Dancer 3: (As she cooks breakfast) Come here let mama feed you. Where’s that girlfriend of yours, y’all was cute last night.

Dancers as a whole: MHMMMMMMMMMM (neck rolling included.)

There they were after a long night of twerking, drinking, smoking and fucking cooking breakfast and cleaning! 44, Juice, Tommy and 59 were on this big ass, wrap around sectional getting massages and eating cheese eggs when I sat next to them.

The conversation that followed clarified everything.

Me: What the fuck happened? Last thing I remember was taking a photo before vomiting.

Juice: (hits blunt) I told y’all he blacked out.

59: (laughs) Yeah, you were dead in the eyes. The lights were on, but you were not fucking home.

44: “Ya’ll shut the hell up and leave my homie alone. Let me tell you what happened. How many shots do you remember taking?”

Me: 12

44: “You made it up to 16. When you came out of the bathroom after presumably vomiting, you proclaimed that “No alcohol could defeat Malcolm the King” and proceeded to take two double shots. You grabbed another bottle of champagne and demanded the DJ to play “Niggas in Paris” until you were tired of it and if he didn’t, that you would slap that weak ass R&B Beard off his face.”

(Brandy’s Little brother with an R&B beard.)

Every time the song restarted you seemed to become more and more excited, spraying champagne on anyone in sight. As a matter of fact, you started calling your sunglasses “Champagne Blockers.” You then told the strippers to line up with their asses out so you could emulate running out of the tunnel in the NFL.

Just as you got done slapping 20+ ass cheeks, BossLady walked in and you didn’t waste any time. You jumped on her and she led you down to the beach. Two hours later, BossLady comes walking into the house with the “freshly fucked” hair and is looking for help. Evidently, you two were fucking on the beach, and after cumming for the 2nd time, you passed out.

We ran down to the beach to make sure you hadn’t suffocated on your own vomit, and thank God you hadn’t. You were just laying there, sound asleep with your tuxedo pants around your ankles, a wet lap and a smile on your face.

We pulled your pants up and carried your fat ass into the downstairs bathroom where BossLady had made a pallet for the two of you. Now here we are.”

Dancer 1: “You were able to fuck while THAT drunk? That’s a feat.”

BossLady: “Only for the first round girl, the second round was all me. You see how he was layed out on the beach? I gave that nigga that work.”

Juice: (hits blunt) Y’all hoes some hoes.

We all burst out Into laughter as the women threw things and began play fighting with Juice. That night was singlehandedly one of the most memorable evenings of my life. I got sloppily drunk with my friends in a lavish setting, had sex with a goddess, took 16 shots and lived to tell the story.

The boys from Virginia STILL call me about this night. I was a legend!
I made it through that night without cracking my phone screen, fighting or passing out prior to sex. It’s almost safe to say that it was the perfect drunken evening. The only sad part about this entire story is that I lost my favorite sunglasses on the beach.

It was worth it.

Fortune favors the bold. Until next Friday…

-Malcolm the King

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