New Orleans Slang Novels & Stories

“This is a vicious game to somebody, and the players keep getting killed off one by one. That includes a loyal soldier of mine, his death on my conscience. It’s only going to continue. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “You don’t need to lecture me, son. I’ve been in this rat race called hell for a long time.” He slowly turned his head in my direction. “Then tell me what you know about them, what dealings you’ve had. I need to know what we’re up against.” He put down his pruning shears, taking a deep breath. “You’re right in that they’re a dangerous group out of New Orleans, but before they landed themselves in the city, they attempted to make Montreal their home. Our beautiful city was th

The French Quarter had become a sweating, heaving pit of pure debauchery on the final night of Mardi Gras. Brass bands wailed like animals in rut, horns screaming through the thick, sticky air. Crowds of half-naked bodies surged along Bourbon Street — beads swinging from exposed tits, painted skin slick with sweat, mouths open in drunken moans as strangers fucked against walls and in shadowed doorways. The night reeked of cheap bourbon, cum, piss, fried grease, and raw, dripping pussy. Fireworks exploded overhead, lighting up the filth for split seconds: a woman on her knees swallowing cock, another bent over getting railed in an alley, tits bouncing wildly.

What's surprising me is the fact that I have lost track of every single detail but my nights were filled with thoughts of Alpha Loworth, While I slept my wolf lived a world of its own I felt it how I knew. "Wren" I hummed out her name. "Yes, that is Wren. You got on her bad side real quick." I became scared. When it comes to New Orleans I don't know if I should say I have been blessed or I should say that I have been given for a worse case.

Mama used to clown Tia Valeria for her excessiveness. "Guess you got time to have two novitiates when you ain't never get no customers," Mama would joke on hot summers with Tia Valeria in years' past. Imani and I got out of the car and took in the small house—"Casa de Oya," or "Oya's House," was written on a sign hanging above the house. It had some "French Quarter" influence in the way it was built, which was odd, since we were in the more residential part of New Orleans; bright pastel pinks and blues with steel-barred balconies weren't common where we were.

He only felt sorry for me and wanted to help. I'd apologize to him when he comes back from jail or tomorrow. If the case was actually murder as rumoured, Blake would never get out of jail! My body shivered at thought but I can't go out again, it's late and besides visitors won't be allowed again by now. Glossary (as used in the passage). Oniranu: An immoral person. Aséwó òṣì: slut or prostitute. Oyinbo: a white man/woman. Aye e ti bàjé tan!: You're in trouble.

"Should things not go according to my plan, you'd live to regret the rest of your pathetic, rich life." Their finely coiffured heads turned to face me again. Their faces, as hard as the marble floors reflected their succinctly woven belief. They were the epitome of wealth in New Orleans. A monument to capitalist success, who thought they were unbreakable, their egos feeding off their wealth. But had they forgotten wealth could be stripped away as easily as it was earned?

“Your father always said age was seasoning, not limitation and I think he was trying to justify him being older then me, But this? This is cayenne pepper.” Marcus smiled at her, “Then wish me luck. I’m stepping into her kitchen.” “Lord help you,” Mabel said. “Her brothers will eat you alive.” By the time his jet touched down in Louisiana, Marcus’s pulse had settled into a calm determination. The air was thick with rain, jazz, and something he hadn’t felt in years—anticipation. He arrived at St. James Creole unannounced. The restaurant sat in the heart of New Orleans, its walls lined with photographs of customers and kin. Inside, the smell of butter, garlic, and ambition collided.

The air in New Orleans was a thick, wet blanket, heavy with the scent of jasmine, decay, and distant rain. It was a city that breathed, a living, sweating entity that clung to the past with a tenacity Jonah had never experienced. He walked a half-step behind Julian Clarkson, the cacophony of the French Quarter—the wail of a trumpet, the laughter from a balcony, the sizzle of grease from a beignet stand—seeming to part around his employer like water around a stone.

His voice sounded dull, just like when he’d been held underground in Colombia. He heard laughter. Then screaming outside his door. The silence returned as suddenly as the screaming had started. The door to his cell opened. Jeannine stood there, covered in blood. Just like before. J Toulouse Street French Quarter, New Orleans February 2005 “Tell me again why the Major loaned us out to the 8th district commander?” asked Officer Curtis Jones, as he blew smoke out the passenger side window of his patrol car. Despite the winter chill, the music blared in the streets, and the people sang, walking from bar to bar, arm in arm, laughing and enjoying the spectacle that was Bourbon Street.

Her mother left her room afterwards. Ben picked her phone to try Roshan's number but he still wasn't picking up. Glossary: 1.) Ojuelegba : A popular street in Lagos. 2.) Mama ooh : used when hailing a lady. 3.) Naira Marley : A popular Nigerian artist. 4.) Owo meji fun eni kan!: two hands raised up for one persin, a slang used by the Yoruba people to hail someone. 5.) "E manage eleyii : a sentence in yoruba that means 'Manage this.'