Arms Pact

    After rolling along for about ten minutes we pulled up to the address Bullet gave us at a stark gray Gothic apartment building near 82nd & Maryland with more of its windows boarded with plywood than not. Out front near the black wrought iron gate that lined its perimeter we found two fourteen year olds both wearing the same impish grins they had come to share after spending the bulk of their formative years by each other’s side. Together they vigilantly surveyed the one-way street for intruders while they passed a cigarette between themselves. The couple tensed up as we slowed to a stop in front of them, one even going as far as to slip his hand into the waistband of his pants in anticipation. Their posture finally loosened when I poked my head out of the window and called out to them. “HEY. What’s good? Where’s Bullet? Is everything ready,” I interrogated.

    A bespectacled whiteboy with shaggy brown hair let out one of his ugly signature cackles before telling me, “Aww, you dudes are late as f**k! Bullet just pulled off with Quannie’s dad. We’ve been waiting here all morning for ya.”

    “Yeah, daddy got the cash and he just took Bullet to make a drop right quick. The wax upstairs, though,” a girl with a honey-blonde mushroom cut that matched her skin added.

    “You hear that? We’re late. They just left,” I prodded Bunny as I hopped out of the car and swung the door shut behind me.

    Bunny scowled at me before spilling out of the backseat. “What? F**k you. I’m not the one that decided to wake and bake with JonJon.”

“I mean they’ll be back, guys… and we’re not goin’ anywhere,” Squeak tried to diffuse, his eyes glued to the bag clutched in Bunny’s right hand as he simmered with excitement. “You got the .40?”

“Damn, kid, can you wait,” Bunny barked at him before turning back to me. “This lil’ f****r’s been blowing up my phone all week. ‘Do you have it yet?’ ‘When are you gonna have it?’”

Never taking much of anything personal, Squeak just grinned harder and said, “Bro, I’m sorry. I’ve just been stuck with this piece of s**t Hi-Point for like a month now and I feel like my luck’s about fried. You know this s**t jammed on me last week, right?” He drew the clunky black pistol from his waistband and flashed it at us, mindfully keeping it down by his side. I’ve never actually shot a Hi-Point before, but I had heard nothing but s****y things about them from just about everybody. That and the suspiciously low, ‘buck-fifty brand new’ price tag kinda told me everything worth knowing about them; not to mention it was just an ugly-a*s piece of machinery.

Zaina scoffed at him, “We can’t do this inside?” Which was fair enough. Chatham was an exceptionally bad place to just be standing around in a huddle out in the open, with your head down no less; all BD neighborhoods were generally hot as the absolute f**k.

Quannie took one last drag off the square before handing what was left of it to Squeak. He slipped the gun back beneath his shirt and grabbed it. I watched his hand as he lifted it to his lips and took a hard, deep pull off of what was pretty much a butt at this point; his knuckles were splotched with a mess of blue bruises, red welts, and purple scabs. It seemed his hands seldom ever had time to heal, he originally made frequent use of them over the years fighting neighborhood bullies who, as bullies are inclined to do, often singled him out because he looked so different. Though now that he was a bit older and more established in the neighborhood, he did most of the bullying these days -- this general vindictiveness coupled with his caustically heedless disposition made him seem jaded beyond his years.

“Yeah, folks. We some square smokin’ a*s n****s now. It’s a damn shame right,” Quannie joked after catching me staring at Squeak smoking, wearing a toothy smirk that exposed her missing top-left canine -- knocked out by an older girl, according to what she told me.

“Yeah, as a matter a’ fact it is. I’m disappointed in you guys,” I laughed even though I was being sincere. I still vividly remember being a fourteen year old smoker myself when I explicitly told them -- then eleven -- that smoking was s****y and they should never pick it up. Now here they were. Fourteen and smoking squares on the block.

Either this candor was lost on them or they outright didn’t give a f**k because they just cackled at me. Quannie turned to Zaina and said, “But we could definitely go inna house. I’on like bein’ out here neither, tell you the truth.” Squeak flicked the butt away and started playing with his phone. We started to all file through the gate and past the building’s courtyard for the front door when he called out to us.

“Actually… the homie RockHead just touched down last night and he needs a ride to the hood. We’ll throw in another quarter of wax if you take us to pick him up,” Squeak suddenly imposed. I visibly cringed at the idea of having to interact with RockHead; of all my cousin’s friends, RockHead was my least favorite. He was an extraordinarily vulgar and belligerent little human who had few if any reservations toward acting out his many foul impulses. If memory serves correct, he’d spent the past six months in a youth center somewhere downstate for assaulting his step-dad; it was the rare instance where I actually sympathized with one of RockHead’s violent compulsions. Bullet would always tell me about how RockHead’s step-dad beats his mom.

Bunny looked at Squeak and then beggingly at Zaina, who apparently had the same reservations as I. Zaina looked back at her with the glare of a person whom had just been baited and switched. “Ok, gotdamnit. But that extra honey is mine. All of it,” she surrendered on the condition that she take the extra seven grams of wax Squeak offered.

“Fine,” Bunny accepted with a huff. I don’t know why she was being so fussy about it, she was still taking home a good ounce worth of hash oil when this was all over with. As a matter of fact, this entire transaction was between Bunny and the BrainDeads if anything; I just came to authorize and oversee it. Which I was glad to do if only to strategically build rapport with them. The Black Disciples around Chatham and in a couple of other spots were having a lot of internal trouble with the BD ‘establishment’ that was headquartered on and around Martin Luther King Drive between 59th and 65th streets; some rebelling hoods had even gone as far as abandoning the six pointed star of their founder, King David, for our five pointed one and identified as something different entirely -- hence, BrainDead. As of now, this swap was unofficial both on the streets and especially in jail; it was a motion informed more by spite than anything. But I figured I could capitalize on this dysfunction by enticing the BrainDeads on 82nd & Maryland into the fold, maybe even have them kicking dues back up to me. Why not? They already honored my authority and took most of their cues from us, especially since most of the older BD’s from this particular section were locked up or dead; Quannie’s dad was busy with grown man crime, he mostly just financed them but otherwise turned them loose. Besides all that, I genuinely liked my cousin and his friends. They were different and a lot of people gave them s**t for it but they weren’t taking any of it. I identified with that.

Squeak laughed and told us, “Right on. Let’s drop the s**t off upstairs then we’ll bail.”

We continued up the stoop and through the front door into the building’s decrepit interior. All around us slivers of white paint curled from the ceiling and walls, exposing its original dull red hue. Beneath our feet dull, warped, and water-damaged floorboards creaked. The musk of the rotten hardwood floor wafted upward, mingling with the stale odor of neglect fermenting in the stuffy summer heat. The young duo led us past a cluster of mailboxes busted up from being repeatedly burglarized and up a narrow staircase that moaned as we hiked it. On the third floor landing, we stopped at the door of Apartment 3B, from behind which I could faintly smell a familiar piney aroma. Squeak knocked three times fast then three times slow. No more than five seconds later the heavy oak door swung open and we were greeted by a tall, darkskinned boy with the head of a fourteen year old on the body of a twenty-four year old, his hair separated into Bantu knots. “WE DON’T WANT NONE,” he suddenly yelled before trying to slam the door back closed.

Squeak caught the door and vainly tried to push it back open, not much of a match for the larger boy. “Briscoe stop f****n’ around, ya nut!”

Briscoe abruptly let go of the door and Squeak’s momentum sent him stumbling inside. I stifled a giggle as we stepped in behind him, not wanting to entertain their middle-school antics. Inside the small apartment there was no furniture or decor barring a plastic fold-up table with a few folding chairs to match and bed sheets drawn over every window in the cramped quarters -- all the trappings of a trap house. Seated at the table was a tiny gap-toothed girl and a pale androgynous kid, both busy taking pinches of fluffy purple bud from a large vacuum sealed pouch and stuffing them into press-seal baggies of assorted size -- some tens, some twenties, and some fifties.

The girl turned around to face us and smiled eagerly as she brushed from her face silky black hair extensions that were wanded into elegant curls; the sumptuous weave juxtaposed with her baby face and glossy doll eyes sharply, making her look like a toddler with a sew-in. “Ohmygod, did you bring it,” she gasped.

“Hey Chili, how are you today,” I playfully chided, connoting that she mind her manners.

She mockingly pressed her palm against her open mouth as if she were taken aback and quipped, “Oh, well excuse me. Hello, Rudith.” I grinned and rolled my eyes at her, prompting her to roll her eyes back at me, which in turn made me burst into laughter. I loved Chili, she reminded me of myself when I was that age barring one of her defining quirks: her apparent rage disorder. People often accused me of having intense anger issues but honestly it was mostly a front; I figured out a while ago that I could compensate for being small and weak by being crazy as f**k. Though this, over time, had evolved into a genuine streak of fearlessness, I still wasn’t any more or less emotionally stable than anyone else. Chili on the other hand was really polar; she seemed to seamlessly and waveringly transition between bubbly and belligerent at the slightest provocation. Sometimes with no provocation at all. Because of this she was perpetually into it with her mom and ran away from home on a consistent basis.

“Whaddown, folks,” greeted the androgynous kid, finally shifting their attention from a digital scale on the table to what was going on around them as they peered at us through drowsy eyes. The kid’s gender appeared to be contingent only upon what they felt like on any given day, though according to them they were “mostly a girl”. I suppose today was one of those other days, because here they were: clad in a Cubs jersey and loose-fitting khaki jeans cuffed over high top Vans that were obviously put through their paces at the skatepark; pulled over a mane of loosely curled, black hair was a navy-blue Ralph Lauren bucket hat. Despite all this, they still looked markedly feminine, to be truthful.

“What’s up, Doodle,” I replied, taking note of the bent and rigid posture of her left leg and the crutches propped against the wall behind her as we both leaned in to shake hands. “What the f**k happened to you, kid?”

Doodle grinned goofily. “Mannn, the f****n’ Kranks from ClownTown threw me off a balcony,” she drawled in reference to the Latin Kings from CrownTown - - one of the many enemies of the Gangster Two-Six from around Marquette Park, with whom Doodle was closely affiliated by way of her older sister in the mostly Mexican neighborhood where she lived. In fact, she lived a sort of double life that coincided with her biracial background; though she was officially a BD from Chatham, she was also, in effect, a part-time Two-Six from Marquette Park  “Fractured my s**t in three places, gotdamnnn.”

The three of us gaped at her in disbelief, causing the five of them to explode into a fit of howls. As if there were something funny about being hurled from a balcony. Bunny scoffed, “You gonna give us some kinda context? Orrrrrrrrrr…”

Squeak took over. “I mean, there’s not a whole lot to say, brah. We were at a party, there were too many Kranks at the party, so s**t got real at the party, and we had come back to air out the party. Simple,” he explained as he walked toward a small mini-fridge, opened it, and took out a slab of translucent amber wrapped in parchment paper which he then handed to Bunny. Her eyes lit up and she became occupied with thoroughly inspecting it.

Zaina side-eyed them in confusion. I too was unsatisfied with their lackluster account of what happened, but I wasn’t sure how to press further, so I just left it alone. Doodle must have picked up on this, because next she told me, “Man, folks, I’m just over it, that’s all. We got that lick back and some so it’s whatever.”

“RIP SadGirl and Chuca,” Squeak morbidly alluded with a cackle while he took Bunny’s bag and sifted through it.

“F****n’ right,” Doodle echoed. Now getting the hint, Zaina and I finally yielded.

Chili rose from the table and looked into the bag with Squeak while Zaina took her seat and I perched myself on the counter. “This one’s mine,” she asked as she pulled the .380 Ruger from the bag and looked it over curiously.

Bunny looked up from her bounty, “That’s what you wanted right? And can I take a dab real quick before we leave?”

I reflexively sighed. “You can’t do that later?”

Quannie looked at her phone and said, “Nah, it’s straight. We got time.” Bunny stuck her tongue out at me. Quannie shuffled over to where I was sitting and grabbed from beside me a small bubbler with a titanium nail and a blowtorch. “‘Scoe, n***a, you supposed to be watching the brownies,” she scolded. Briscoe came over and slid on an oven mitt before opening the oven and peeking inside. The BrainDeads really seemed to have the weed market covered, along with all the other ‘softer’ stuff. Like, their entire niche was obscure drugs you typically didn’t find in black neighborhoods -- at least not in abundance; s**t like shrooms, acid, ecstasy, and more common stuff like Xanax and lean, too.

Bunny and Zaina swapped places while Quannie sat the stuff down. Bunny brimmed with excitement as she intently watched Quannie pull a lighter from the right pocket of high-waisted cutoffs and lit the torch with it. Bunny was obsessed with dabbing, it was the only way she would get high; she was really serious about playing basketball so she didn’t like to smoke blunts or hit bongs with the rest of us. Whether it made a difference, I wasn’t exactly sure.

Briscoe came over and handed her a little pick for her to chisel a piece of the slab off with while Quannie heated the nail. We all looked on as she blasted it with the torch, watching the titanium first glow red, then white. “So what exactly is the difference between this and just smoking weed,” Zaina vocalized what I was just thinking.

“It’s smoother, dude,” Squeak answered.

Quannie looked up and added on, “Yeah, ‘cause you vaporizin’ it instead of just burnin’ it. That and it’s pure THC. No chlorophyll or nothin’.” After about thirty seconds, she took the torch from the titanium and slowly shut off the valve. “Wait ‘till it stops glowin’ then hit it.”

    Bunny studied the nail as she gripped the pick, a glob of wax dangling from it. After about ten seconds, she lowered the amber shard into the nail’s cup, taking a single hard pull from the bubbler’s mouthpiece as it sizzled away. She briefly held the vapor in before blowing it out, sputtering as she exhaled the last of it. As soon as it was all gone, she turned red and started hacking. Dabbing could be overwhelming; even if it was better for your lungs than smoking it sure didn’t feel that way. The first time I ever took a dab, all I could do was shrivel into a little ball and wait for my chest to stop hurting.

    “Gotdamn, n***a,” Briscoe chortled.

    After her coughing fit, Bunny stood up and wheezed, “Ok, let’s go.” The whites of her eyes looked all the more bloodshot contrasted against her cerulean irises. She stumbled toward the door, laughing at us while we all laughed at her.

    “Forgot your bag, bud,” I reminded as I pushed myself off of the counter.

“That s**t really took you out, huh,” Squeak heckled. He took out the rest of the stuff we brought them and tossed the bag to Bunny, who then took a glittery Lisa Frank folder -- yeah, you know the one -- out of it, and creased the parchment paper back over the slab before slipping it into the folder and back in the bag. “Oh yeah, Zaina, lemme get your piece before I forget.” I groaned loudly at the delay. “What’s your problem,” he chuckled over his shoulder while he went back to the fridge.

Bunny flashed me a devilish grin and maintained eye contact as she blurted, “She’s late for her dick appointment.” I just balled my face up at her like someone farted. Why b***h, why?

Squeak laughed and said, “Aw, I understand. It be like that sometimes.” He swiftly brought out another slab, broke off a huge chunk, and put it onto a smaller piece of parchment paper. Then he threw it onto the scale to make sure it was seven grams before folding it up and handing it to Zaina, who just ended up giving it to Bunny to hold since she didn’t have anywhere to put it for now. Squeak then disarmed himself of the Hi-Point and picked up his new hammer, popping the magazine out to check if it was loaded; it shouldn’t have been. “Can I swap these out real fast?”

I palmed my face and resigned, “Yeah. Please hurry up, Squeak.” Quickly he pushed out ten .40 caliber shells from the old magazine with his thumb and transferred them to the Glock magazine, struggling with the spring as he loaded the last couple. I know the tension on that s**t must have been ridiculous.

He finally slipped the gun into his waistband and said, “Alright, we out.”

Quannie got up and then hesitated, “Actually, y’all could go ‘head without me. I know it’s finna be cramped as it is after y’all scoop RockHead.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he agreed. “Well, I’m ready then.”

We filed back through the door, this time sans Quannie, clomping down the worn out steps and into the dystopian foyer. For the first time I noticed on the inside of the door leading into the courtyard a spraypainted pitchfork and scimitar crossed over each other, both inverted -- a very overt jab at both us and the GDs. Painted above was a Roman numeral ‘three’ with three rays of light shining above it. “What the f**k is that all about,” Bunny demanded, pointing to the upside down scimitar.

Squeak just laughed at her. “Man, relax. That’s not for you guys, it’s for those dicks on 87th Street. You guys are cool.” Even though they didn’t shoot at each other, the BrainDeads and the Stones on 87th & Drexel weren’t on the best terms; as of right now their engagement was limited to harsh words and hallway shoving matches at school, but then again that’s how most conflicts started off before snowballing into something far deadlier. Either way, I didn’t really know, and accordingly didn’t give too much of a f**k about, anyone from down that way so I guess I was inclined to accept this answer. Besides, BrainDead (at least this particular sect of it) was family, so my allegiances were with them regardless.

“If you say so,” Bunny reluctantly accepted. Squeak pushed open the door and walked out, making sure to hold it for us behind him. Such a gentleman. We hustled down the steps, through the courtyard, and towards the car when I noticed two boys about Squeak’s age strolling down the sidewalk across the street -- one medium-brown with long, thick dreadlocks and a dark-skinned boy with a curly temple fade.

The two boys saw Squeak and greeted him, both throwing up three fingers while the dreadhead called out to him, “Squeak, boy, what up! What you on, folks?”

Squeak threw up three fingers in return and yelled back, “Not s**t, man. Just finna go snatch up RockHead. He just touched down.”

The darkskinned boy spoke up, “Aw s**t, Rock home? Bro, you gotta tell ‘em to f**k with us! You too n***a, we a’ smoke a blunt or some s**t!”

“Definitely, bro.”

“Alright, alright,” the boy said in farewell as they both continued on their way.

Squeak finally joined us in the car and Zaina cranked it up. “Those your boys,” Bunny asked vacantly, still stupidly smacked.

Squeak let loose an ear piercing cackle that made me flinch and replied,”F**k no. They’re pieces of s**t, both of ‘em. I don’t trust ‘em for nothin’.” What the f**k?

“But here you are, going back and forth with ‘em like you’re f****n’ buddies. What kinda s**t is that,” I nagged.

Squeak scratched his head. “Iono, man. They talk to me really. I just talk back. Other than that I don’t f**k with them. I don’t f**k with anybody from KillVille, they’re all just hella sneaky and bogus.” KillVille was one of the non-renegade BD sects from 71st Street. That’s all I knew about them. I didn’t have much contact with BDs beyond my cousin and his friends.

“Maybe stop talking to them,” Zaina offered.

“Nahhh, I’d rather keep ‘em close so I can keep an eye on ‘em.”

Bunny blew a raspberry and told him, “That makes no sense, but ok. Hope you know what you’re doing.” I didn’t know about that. At first it seemed like a horrible idea, but it actually sounded kinda smart when I thought about it. Where better to keep your enemies but in your pocket?

I fished my phone from my pocket and got lost in unchecked messages while Bunny and Squeak debated the merits of fraternizing with the opposition. Most of them weren’t worth replying to. There was one from Bullet again, pretty much repeating what I had already found out when we pulled up: that he left and would be back momentarily. Then there was another from Terrell, bearing only a single and very suggestive eggplant emoji. ‘Same’ I replied.

Before I could even leave the thread, he responded, ’DEN STOP PLAYIN N BRING YO LIL COCO PUFF A*S OVA HEA’.

‘Lol BYE’, I feigned. Truth was I was dying to get over there. I’d been even more high strung than usual lately and I really needed what was coming to me.

“We still having Jummah tomorrow,” Bunny suddenly asked, pulling me out of my happy place and back into the car.

“Why wouldn’t we? You aren’t trying to bail out again, are you,” I pressed. ‘Jummah’ was the BlackStone specific name for the bi-monthly meetings held by every mob -- or at least the organized ones. GDs and BDs  had ‘sessions’, Latin Kings had ‘juntas’, and we had ‘Jummah’. I guess that may have been mildly blasphemous, but it’s not like it was my idea to call them that, so whatever. Anyway, Jummah was every other Friday, or every Friday in wartime. There were separate periods for every age tier: the noon meeting for shorties (everyone under 18), the seven o’clock for juniors (18-29), and midnight for seniors (over 30). Because I was now calling it for the shorties, I had to both preside over the noon session and attend the seven o’clock session. This schedule honestly seemed counterintuitive to me; how was I supposed to relay information down the ranks if I was getting it several hours late? But maybe that was the point. Maybe I was supposed to keep whatever I picked up at the junior meeting to myself.

Bunny giggled and insincerely assured, “Take it easy, pal. I’ll be there.”

“On time,” I scolded.

“On time,” she repeated with a smirk.

I looked over at Zaina and said, “You too.”

“Rudy, am I ever late?”

Was she serious? “YES.” Since I was chief now, a lot of the guys had begun to take that as their cue to start cutting corners. I wasn’t having it, though.

Squeak butted in, “Wow, you guys sure do take Jummah seriously.”

“Yeah, you should take notes,” I fired back. For good reason, too. If the BDs were a bit more orderly then maybe they wouldn’t be crumbling into more and more factions by the day. But of course this was lost on Squeak.

He blew me off with a chuckle and told me, “Nah, renegade crazy.” Fair enough.

The conversation eventually fizzled out and we rolled along in relaxed silence as we vibed to whatever was on the radio. We had slowed to a halt at a redlight on the corner of 75th & Cottage Grove when this serenity was shattered. On the sidewalk next to us was a respectably sized cluster of young kids -- all about fourteen or fifteen -- from 75th & Evans, a ragtag crew of GDs, Vice Lords, and a couple disillusioned BDs who were all extremely BDK. We paid each other no real mind until Squeak decided it would be funny to abruptly burst from the car and shout at the top of his lungs, “OOGABOOGABOOGA”. This startled the s**t out of both us and the kids, causing them to scatter in every direction like roaches when you cut the light on. The light finally turned green and a frazzled Zaina pulled off, a doubled over Squeak shuttering and making seal noises as we continued on our way.

I whipped around in my seat and shot him a daggering stare before screaming in his face, “CAN YOU F*****G NOT? THANKS.”

He laughed even harder and wheezed, “ I’m SORRY. I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh my god,” Zaina moaned. “I thought I was finna witness a murder. You can’t be doin’ that.”

“What if they woulda whizzed at you,” Bunny chided. “What then, huh?”

Squeak snorted. “But they wouldn’t.”

“How are you so sure,” Zaina defied.

“Because if they were, they woulda done it by now! Do you know how long we been terrorizing those f****n’ kids,” he ranted.

“Give it time. They’ll get sick of your s**t eventually,” I spoke from experience. I got beat on and generally harassed more than anybody until I picked up a gun and started blowing m***********s down.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Where does this n***a live again,” Zaina asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh he’s not at home. He just told me he’s on 65th with the TYMB homies.”

An uneasy hush washed over the three of us. What the f**k did we just agree to? How did we get suckered into coming to Dro-City at all, let alone the TYMB half of it? I guess that’s why he was so willing to part with seven whole grams of wax in exchange for a ten minute ride.

TYMB was one of the many pieces that comprised the extremely dysfunctional Dro-City: a super alliance of BD and GD factions forged in 2009 to combat the Stones from CrankTown on the other side of Woodlawn Avenue and the Maniac Cobras from the big apartment building on 61st & Evans. Now that Dro-City was mostly defunct, its biggest enemy these days was itself. But make no mistake, they were still just as ‘Die-Five’ as ever. Thanks to a recent explosion in BD enlistment that I honestly blamed on Chief Keef, TYMB had swelled to become the most dominant element within Dro-City as well as among the insurgent BDs. As such, they spearheaded the whole “BrainDead” campaign even though they never explicitly referred to themselves as “BrainDead”. This was who I was competing with for my cousin’s allegiance.

“Make this turn right here,” Squeak guided as we approached 65th Street. Zaina audibly sighed as she slowed, flipped on her turn signal, and veered right. The steady click of the turn signal underscored the tension, as though it were a timer counting down the seconds until some imminent misfortune. Finally picking up on our apprehension, Squeak grinned and reassured, “GUYS. CALM DOWN. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. You’re with me. You’re good.” I wasn’t sure if I trusted that. After all, this wasn’t his neighborhood; he might’ve had close ties with these people, but he still wasn’t from the neighborhood. I’ll give it to the kid, he was pretty damn solid for his age, but I was skeptical that a bunch of older guys were gonna honor the word of some fourteen year old that wasn’t even from the hood. Bullshit.

Anyway, at this point it didn’t really matter whether I trusted his promise -- because here we were. We rolled up to the intersection of 65th & Maryland slowly to avoid alarming whoever was there and prompting them to action. Relievingly, there was no one there. “Man, they must be posted at the dead-end,” Squeak surmised. “Let’s circle around the block.”

So begrudgingly we navigated the maze of streets that made up the TYMB side of Dro-City: up Drexel, across 64th, and down Maryland, until we came upon the dead-end at 64th Place. Sure enough, convened there were about twenty or thirty BDs, unfortunately for the most part my age. Zaina braked near the mouth of the dead-end, drawing the attention of a handful of guys milling around further down the block from the main crowd. Luckily, they shrugged us off and continued talking amongst themselves; at the very end of the block, a loose cluster of teenaged boys circled around a dice game, completely oblivious of our presence. ‘Tell him we just pulled up,’ I was getting ready to turn around and say to Squeak before he so brashly exposed us.

“SQUUAAAAAAADDDD. TWO-FOURRRRRRRR,” he bellowed from the rear passenger window, hanging his entire upper body out of the window while he gesticulated with his hands. Just as I feared, the entire mob was alerted to our presence and all gleefully began migrating towards the car, barring the handful that were too immersed in their dice game to be drawn away.

As the pack of boys swarmed towards our position they began shouting gang slogans of their own in return.

“HIGH Y! GDK! BRAINDEAD CRAZY,” they all thundered over one another, flashing gang signs back the whole while. Anxiously I covered the Maniac brand tattooed into the webbing between my left thumb and index finger with my right hand as they loomed nearer. Bunny crossed her arms tightly and hunched over in a vain attempt to conceal the tattoos that decorated her arms and chest. Times like these were the reason I wasn’t too keen on the idea of inking huge swaths of your body with gang tats; you were effectively broadcasting something that was best not broadcasted. Even worse, you had increasingly little control over whom you were relaying this sensitive information to depending on the placement and volume of the tattoos. That’s why I opted for my first and only tattoo to be a relatively inconspicuous red ‘M’ in Western-font encapsulated by the red outline of a five pointed star; it was small, simple, and easy to hide if I ever felt inclined. And at this moment I felt very much inclined.

The BDs crowded around the car, half greeting Squeak with handshakes and calls of “WHITEBOYYY, WHAT’S GOOD?” and half flirtatiously introducing themselves to Bunny, Zaina, and I. Timidly, the three of us entertained their vain advances, more out of self-preservation than genuine interest; thankfully, as is customary with guys, they were none the wiser.

“What’s up lil’ chocolate drop, how you doin’,” a tall, admittedly cute, yellow boy addressed me. “My name Tank.”

“Hi, Tank. My name’s Ruger,” I cooed back at him. It was kinda risky introducing myself as that, but I sure as f**k didn’t want him to know me by my real name.

His demeanor shifted from amorous to fascinated before he astonishedly responded, “Girl, stop playin’ with me, you not no muhfuckin’ Ruger.”

Suddenly a familiar voice butted in. “Naw n***a, that’s the real Maniac Ruger,” a brown skinned boy with a shaved head confirmed as he shook hands with Squeak. Everyone’s attention shifted to me.

“Whaaaaaaaaat, this whole time I thought you was a n***a,” another boy spoke up.

“A lot of people do.”

Another older boy chimed in, “Your name ring bells, shorty. I heard you be givin’ them eastside bricks the flux.”

Sensing that we might not be in as deep of s**t as we thought, Bunny suddenly became very talkative. “Yeah, you heard right, buddy. You should check out the evening news sometime, you might catch one of us on there.”

They looked at her, then at Zaina, then back at me. I could practically see the gears turning in their heads. “Y’all from Terror Town, too,” the first boy asked the two of them.

“Yeah. 75th, no 79,” Zaina remarked flatly.

Right on time, RockHead gave us an easy out by cutting back in, “But ay, I’ma f**k with y’all n****s later. We finna slide back to the hood.” I watched him as he made a protracted show of trading BD handshakes with everyone within reach of him; though I suppose I hadn’t much room to talk s**t -- the Stone handshake was probably the most convoluted of them all. Once that was over, Squeak slid over next to Bunny, RockHead took his place, and we took off back down Cottage Grove toward 82nd Street.

RockHead was still his usual restless self, running his mouth non-stop almost the whole way back. “Mannnn, where’s the dope!? Where’s the bottles!? It’s my first day out, we gotta get LIT, n***a,” he jabbered behind me.

“Hell yeah, bro, you know it’s only right we turn up for you. Everything and everybody’s back at the trap, no worries,” Squeak assured him.

“On BD, that’s what I like to hear. But ay, what’s hannin’, cap’n? I ain’t seen yo lil’ a*s inna minute, shorty,” he directed toward me.

I grinned, caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, and jeered, “Not your shorty, buddy.” It came out sounding meaner than I had intended it to, but I was honestly just playing with him. Still, he took it lightly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he jested in return before letting loose a snicker that sounded eerily like an empty bottle of Windex. “But nah, forreal though. What brought y’all over this side? Y’all f****n’ with the kid for his homecoming?”

Bunny took over, “Business, really. But f**k it, why not.” I cleared my throat loudly as a signal to remind her that I had other things to do.

Zaina was the first to pick up on this and compromised, “Rudy can’t stay, but yeah, we could flick back through after we drop her off.”

“Cool, cool. What’s the business, though?”

“The pipes came in, bro,” Squeak answered, slipping his new piece from his waistband and passing it to Rockhead.

“This s**t go crazy,” he lauded as he marveled over the black gun. “It’s a nickel?”

“Nah, .40. The nine you wanted is back at the trap, too.”

“Ohh, it’s bussin’! I can’t wait to test that b***h out; you got me itchin’ to blow at somebody now, boy!” They both howled; I just sighed.This f*****g kid hadn’t even been out a full twenty four, and now here he was completely willing to risk it all again.

After a while, we pulled back up outside of the dreary castle where the BrainDeads consorted; only now clustered out front was a mob of kids in their early teens, about four times as many as the small group of five who greeted us when we first showed up. In an open third floor window was a large speaker faced the street as it belted out ‘Karate Chop’ by Future. The smell of burning blunts permeated the air and most of the kids were holding small clear cups filled with brown liquid while a couple gripped whole handles of liquor. RockHead was the first to emerge from the car, visibly enthused and to a chorus of cheers. Squeak, then the rest of us trickled out of the car. We looked on idly while Squeak and RockHead shook hands and bullshitted with everyone, trading the occasional greeting when prompted. I scanned the mob for Cousin Bullet, but no such luck. “He’s upstairs, I’m pretty sure,” Squeak assured after catching me comb the crowd. After exchanging pleasantries, the duo led us back upstairs to Unit 3B where there were another ten or so adolescent BDs, plus the initial five we’d left, crammed throughout the small dwelling -- among them was a short, deep-oak colored boy with ruffled ear-length dreadlocks that hung over his eyes. It was time to make my pitch.

“What’s good, cousin,” I called out to him, clapping him on the back. He turned to face me. “How’s everything?” His mouth curled into a lukewarm grin that was betrayed by a hard, probing stare: he was trying to figure out what my angle was. Which was reasonable, as my intentions were, admittedly, kinda dubious. A hardline skeptic by nature, Bullet could be at times alarmingly prescient for his age; he was constantly surveying his surroundings with intense scrutiny, wary of everything and everyone. This packaged with a firm will made him a natural pillar around which his peers rallied.

“We livin’, blood. Just tryna chase that dollar and dodge that cage,” he croaked back. “But check it out, I gotta say much gratitude for blessin’ us with the slammers. Y’all clutch as f**k for that, on deadmans.”

    “Say no more, shorty. I figured you were hurtin’ for ‘em. Don’t be scared to hit me up if you and your guys need anything. I’m here to aid and assist.”

    “Yeahhh, that’s why we rockin’ with you and not them other n****s, big cousin. The Folks bogus as hell. We f****n’ with yo’ campaign hella strong.” Before I could even think to question why he was so easily playing into my hand, I faltered in my facade and telegraphed my intent with bright eyes and an eager smile. Now obviously testing me, he mirrored my expression, confident that he had foiled me. Before I could reassert control, RockHead butted in, knocking me off my game completely.

    “Ay Rudy, I heard about yo’ big homie Drama when I was locked up. That s**t sad, ol’ girl was a real one. The bricks foul as hell for that, on Dave,” he tried to console. I forgot he was put away by the time that happened. I appreciated the gesture, but I wasn’t trying to hear all that right now; that was still a sensitive subject for me, especially with the bricks constantly picking at the festering emotional scab it left. I was practically forced to either make private or delete all traces of my online presence because of the steady influx of harassment in the wake of Drama’s death. This came  primarily in the form of having my DMs, mentions, inboxes, and whatever else flooded with a sole image: a crime scene photo of the dumpster they found Drama’s body in. It was the same picture they used in the paper. It was the same picture that had been engraved in my conscience after seeing it firsthand. Dubbed over this memory was a loop of the shrill, agonized cries of Ms.Davis as she plead and bargained with the universe. Crimson police tape cordoning off the perimeter around the dumpster blew in the stinging January wind while we all sullenly gaped on, faces streaked with hot tears. A lot of people hated Drama, and now that she was gone they tried to take that out on me. I wasn’t having any of it, though; I committed to memory the face of each and every last piece of s**t polluting my inbox, praying each day I woke that I would catch one of them outside. In fact, I was already one head into this ever expanding hit list.

“You good, shorty,” RockHead asked, tugging me back into the present. I looked down to find my fists clenched tightly; I then realized that I had been grinding my teeth while scowling at nothing in particular.

“I’m fine. And thanks. I appreciate that,” I replied mechanically.

Bullet leaned over and whispered something in RockHead’s ear. “My fault, Rudy,” he apologized. I nodded in acceptance and he backed off.

Bullet steered the conversation back to politics, this time no longer mincing words. “Look family, I’ma stop frontin’ my move. This renegade s**t gettin’ rough. We got to stand with somebody, and it’s not finna be them other n****s. So I guess that leaves you. I know you know that, too. But understand, it’s finna be terms to this s**t-”

“Name them,” I stoically cut him off.

“Iono if you realize it or not, but I’m callin’ it over here. I need you to respect that. You don’t go to my guys unless you go through me first. That’s the most important thing. Forreal, Rudy. Second, you gotta put some real poles on us; like rifles, shotguns, and allat.”

“Granted, with conditions.”

He smirked. “Okay?”

“All that s**t costs money, I hope you know that. I don’t know what you’ve heard about us but those are pretty tall orders. You gotta really be ready to make it worthwhile.” Me and some of the guys dabbled in -- for lack of a better word -- ‘gunrunning’ since it was easy money thanks to Bunny’s dad being so deep in it, but that was just one or two pistols at a time; this was actually the most we’ve moved at once, to be honest. Now Bullet was asking me to commit class X felonies.

“Don’t tweak, our money long as hell. You seen all these drugs around, right?”

“That’s what I like to hear. Now let’s talk payment plan: I’m willing to knock a quarter of the price off whatever you buy in exchange for a flat rate of $250 a month. Think of it as a retainer for our services.” I tried my best to make it sound like I was cutting him a deal, or at least a deal we weren’t already getting; Bear gave us stuff for cheap as it was, I would really be up-selling them if anything. Bullet didn’t know that though. No one did. As far as anyone knew we were pulling all these guns out our a*s. As for the $250 a month, that was going straight into my pocket. “As a show of good faith I’m waiving the $500 you presently owe us.”

He eyed me, visibly hesitant. We both froze, anchored by each other’s stares as the room around us churned with festivity. “Aight,” he conceded after what felt like an eternity of this.

“Nice. The only other thing I ask of you is alignment.”

“Alignment?”

“Yep. Our opposition is now your opposition. Your opposition is now our opposition.”

“Oh definitely, it’s still GDK,” he accepted. I wasn’t sure if he fully appreciated what came with that.

“Alignment huh,” Squeak weighed in, apparently eavesdropping this entire time. “Your buddies across the tracks know about all this?” Convinced that they’d ensnared me, they both sneered at me with self-satisfied smirks.

“Those were Kilo and Bunny’s friends, not mine,” I countered. “...and they don’t even talk to those kids anymore.” It was the truth. I didn’t f**k with anyone from that side; Kilo and Bunny weren’t even plugged with the hood yet near the time they used to hang around over there. And that in itself was way before Bullet and Squeak even started coming outside, so I'm not sure how they knew about that. I wonder who else in this room knew?

Still they stared at me, and I stared back. “So they just so happen to stop hangin’ ova’ there right when you decide to come try ta’ clique up with us,” Bullet defied. He looked at Squeak. “Does that make sense to you?”

I balled my face up at him. “Who said they just stopped going over there? The last time they were over there like that was in like 2010, as far as I know. And when have you ever seen me with someone from Drill City? You sound crazy, Bullet.”

Squeak was the first to resign, “Ehh, that is kinda convenient, but I guess I believe her. She doesn’t seem like the type to ride fences.”

Reluctant, Bullet finally gave in. “Fine. I’ma hold you to that, though.”

“Please do,” I scoffed at him. Squeak was right: I wasn’t the type to play both sides.

He grinned at me. “On Dave. But ay, we bouta have this session, so y’all gotta dip. We gone speak on it some more, though.” Sessions? Wow. The majority of the Folks were a little too disarranged for that kind of formality; it really bolstered my confidence in Bullet, even more so that he was kicking us out for the sake of it at that. As intuition would likely hint, a gang meeting wasn’t really a place for outsiders.

“Fair enough.” With that, I unceremoniously turned and left them. I weaved my way through the now dense crowd, trying to wrangle Bunny and Zaina so we could get out of here. After reuniting, we made our way out of the building and back into the car before taking off again.

On the way back to our side, they debated with each other over whether they should come back after they dropped me off.

“I mean, are you still tryna make that move? Because on the other hand, I have a backpack full of honey and we could always just get our own bottles.”

“Yeah, I guess we could do that. You just talked me out of it, honestly. I never took time to consider we’d be hanging around hella drunk fourteen year olds.”

I cut in, “Bunny when was the last time you hung out with Drill City?”

She huffed. “Not recently. Why? What were you talking to him about? Because those are still my friends, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nothing too much concerned with that,” I downplayed. “He brought it up outta nowhere.”

“Ok, so what were you talking about?”

“I don’t know, he was just asking me for more guns and s**t so I told him ‘Yeah, sure as long as you make it worthwhile.’” This seemed to disarm her.

“Huh…” She sat quietly in thought before continuing, “So I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that you told him the only way that was happening was if him and his guys said ‘F**k the BDs’ completely and plugged in with us? And that’s what prompted him to press you about me and Kilo hanging out with Drill City.”

Feeling exposed, all I could do was silently face forward and focus intently on the road; Bunny was damn good at connecting dots. After a couple of seconds, my eyes wandered over to the passenger-side mirror to find Bunny’s reflection staring back at me. I smirked nervously, setting her off.

“RUDY. I'm just as down to make a dollar as you, that's fine, I don't give a s**t. But don't be f****n’ makin’ deals that concern me, without me. That's bogus as f**k!”

Zaina took her eyes off the road to take a brief glimpse at me. “...that is kinda bogus, I can't lie.”

“But you would be cool with selling rifles and s**t to BrainDead,” I tried to switch gears.

“I’m not answering that until I hear an apology.”

I sighed and prepared to do just that as we slowed to a pause at a stop sign on the corner of 75th & Chappel. I lifted my head and looked out of the window to avoid Bunny’s glare before finally opening my mouth, but was then distracted upon sighting a figure bounding out of a dim hideaway behind a corner deli and straight for us. Before I could even process what was happening, the figure -- now out in the open and illuminated by the noon sun -- abruptly drew a pistol from beneath its shirt and began firing. ‘PAP PAP PAP CRASH’, the sounds of gunfire and shattering glass rang in my ears right as I slid out of my seat and ducked onto the floor. Bits of flying glass pelted my back and side.

Slouched down as far as she could manage, Zaina stomped the gas and we screeched across the intersection. I peered up into the mirror again in time to catch our assailant dart into the street, raise his weapon and fire three more shots that connected with heavy thuds as they punched into the rear of the car before he retreated back onto Chappel.

“Oh fuckkkk,” Zaina tremored, still speeding. “Y’all good? You get hit?”

I patted myself down thoroughly to confirm that I hadn’t been shot. “Yeah, I’m straight,” I droned back at her, stupefied.

“I’m alright,” Bunny growled behind me. “Somebody’s gonna have to bleed over this s**t, though. I know that much.”

“On stone,” Zaina concurred.

I took a glance over my shoulder to find her beet red and fuming angry. “I know who that was,” I said soberly. “It was Trigger from C-Block. I’m not the only person that saw his face, was I?” Trigger was C-Block’s eighteen year old chief.

Bunny’s eyes lit up. “Well obviously I was too busy tryna not get my head knocked off, but that’s cool. I know where that f****r lives. We should go burn his house down.”

You know, there was a bit of a silver lining in this; now that she was busy being pissed at the Cobras, she’d forgotten all about being pissed at me for going behind her back. “Really? Where’s that,” I asked, trying to keep her mind from departing this train of thought.

“Further down Chappel, past 78th. The little layered brick one on the left. We could swing by there right now.”

“Nah, you know I don’t have time for that right now. Save that thought for tomorrow, though. I think I got an idea for how we’re gonna handle this.”

“Girl, f**k all that. I’m tryna handle these broken windows and bullet holes,” Zaina whined. This prompted me to take in for the first time just how badly damaged the car was and how lucky we were. Shards of glass were strewn everywhere --in the floormat, in the seat, on my legs, all over the dash, and worst of all, in my hair. A portion of the windshield on Zaina’s side was fractured into a spider’s web of a crack with a dime sized hole at its nucleus. Beyond the hole, hinting at the exact trajectory of the bullet, was a trail of bare steel where the paint had been stripped that eventually dipped into a deep hole in the hood. Most jarring of all, there was a hole fried right into the leather of the driver seat headrest just inches shy of Zaina’s head. I decided to keep this observation to myself though, she was rattled enough without having to know how close she had come to getting her face melted.

Instead I tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry, chica. I already know how we’re gonna scrape together the money to fix all this,” I consoled with a pat on the shoulder as we pulled in front of Terrell and Skinny’s building on 69th Street.

“You pwomise,” she playfully cooed back at me.

“Yes, my dear,” I assured as I pulled her in for a hug. I opened the door, stepping out gingerly so I wouldn’t cut myself on all the glass. I turned around and brushed away the bits in my hair while Bunny got out herself to take my place in the front seat, wiping glass onto the floor before sitting down and shutting the door. Once I picked away the last of the glass, I stepped back toward the car and poked my head in the window. “So what are you guys about to do?”

“Get high,” Bunny threw back. “It’s f****n’ mandatory that I go home and smoke somethin’ right now.”

“Right on. But check it out, let’s try to keep what just happened to ourselves until tomorrow, cool? I wouldn’t want anyone to go out and do something… rash.”

Sensing that this was partially aimed at her, Bunny rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”

Just to f**k with her I made a ‘I’m watching you’ gesture at her, making sure to stick my fingers extra close to her face.

She shoved my hand away and sneered. “Ugh, go inside and get fucked already!”

We all shrieked before I finally sent them off. “Be safe out here,” I implored before stepping back onto the curb.

“You too, s**t,” Bunny jabbed as they pulled away.

I grinned warmly and flipped her off as I watched them ride away down the block.

I turned and trotted to the front door of the building, pressing the buzzer for Unit 11D. After about ten seconds of ringing, a voice crackled over the intercom. “Who?”

“Me.”

“Aww, you late, shorty.”

“I’m sorry, daddy,” I purred into the speaker.

“I’on believe it. You gone have ta’ prove it to me, miss lady,” he rasped back, much to my delight.

“So open the door, dummy!”

“Sheeesh!”

The intercom let loose a long, startling buzz signaling me to pull the door open. I went inside and hopped into the elevator. Eleven stories later I stepped out to find Terrell waiting in the hallway for me. I sashayed up to him and raised my arms at him like a toddler waiting to be picked up; he feigned an exasperated sigh and lifted me up to eye level, kissing me deeply. After the most cathartic seven seconds of my life, he put me back down and turned to go back to the apartment, expecting me to trail him. Instead I jumped onto his back and wrapped my arms around his neck. It caught him off guard but he went with it, not-so-accidentally palming my a*s as he hoisted me up.

“Yo’ brother’nem here,” he lamented.

“Sucks for them,” I replied.

He snorted and nudged the door open with his foot to reveal JonJon, Bug, Skinny and Lil’ Derrick, all sprawled throughout the small living room. My attention was immediately drawn to Lil’ Derrick who was eating a bread sandwich -- as in two pieces of plain bread stacked together. I guess he was too stoned and lazy to fix anything else for himself. They looked up at me, all smirking as if they were waiting on something to happen. I stared back at them, expressionless. “Yeah we hea’, what you gone do,” JonJon challenged me, I think misinterpreting my gaze as dissatisfaction. Really I was just debating whether or not I should tell him I just got shot at. I didn’t trust him to not go do something stupid and even more I didn’t trust those other three fuckheads to not follow right behind him, egging him on the whole time. So I didn’t. Besides, I couldn’t bear to postpone what was past due any longer.

“I told you, man. I don’t give a f**k, you can do what you want. Either way this is happening,” I responded with a cool grin. With that, Terrell carried me into his room and slammed the door behind us.