Monday, December 29, 2008


Rollin', rollin', rollin'...

Back in the hood. Me and my boi B.D. are hanging on the stoop. Drinkin’ forties. Some Bloods cruise by. Payback time. They miss. I don’t. Chalk up a few more to the growing reputation of “Duece”. That’s what they call me. Our set is Second Avenue Crips. We go by Duece Crips. Nobody says “two”, so they don’t call me Two Dogs, and Duece Dogs sounds shitty, so it’s just Duece. Besides, none of them can pronounce Naaki Tslichi.

People talk about junkies like they’re pieces of shit. Some say crack is the most addictive. Others say heroin. Bullshit. The ultimate narcotic is power…and everybody’s a junkie for that, one way or the other. The ultimate power is life and death…and now I’ve got a real jonez. Women are throwing pussy at me like it’s free government cheese and I’m the only rat in town. They want to do me two, three, even four at a time…just to say they fucked Duece. It’s status for them. Other bangers see me coming, and they bail. Big men. Tough. Me, I’m five eleven and weigh a buck sixty-five soaking wet. Don’t matter. Everyone knows I don’t blink. Or miss. Or give a fuck. I’ve never been treated this way. I like it. A lot.

One of our tiny Gs fucks over some Blood associates on a nickel bag. They follow him home. He’s not there when they come rollin’ up…but his Moms and three little sisters are. The Bloods open up from their ride. Mostly automatics and shotguns. Blow the house to hell. His Moms makes it with just some scrapes. So do two of his sisters. Not the youngest. She takes two in the chest. They take her out in a body-bag that’s five times too big. She was three. Three. Fuck me.

We get the word. Find out where they’re going. An old warehouse to stash their ride. We show. There’s ten of us. Only one Blood. He pulls his piece. Shaking like a leaf as he waves it back and forth. Nobody knows what to do. Except me. You ever put your hand in water and can’t tell if it’s burning hot or freezing cold at first? That’s where I am. All I can see is that little girl. Three…just like my little Renee.

B.D and I walk up to him. I put my hands up, like I’m giving up. Make eye contact. He can’t look away. One side step forward with my right leg. My right hand closes on the cylinder. Now the gun won’t fire. My left hand under the barrel. Down with the right hand. Up with the left. I can feel the bones in his wrist and fingers break. I step across with my left foot. Left elbow straight to the nose. It breaks. He drops to the ground. I’ve got the gun. He looks up at me. Pleading with his eyes. Holding his broken wrist with the good hand. Blood from the broken nose. Tears. He’s crying. The revolver is upside down in my right hand. I pull the trigger with my little finger. Between the eyes. Reach in my pocket. Pull out a playing card. The Duece of Spades. My calling card. I want those fucking Slobs to know who did their boi. I drop the card. It floats in a pool of blood next to his sightless right eye.

It’s time to report to my captain. Back on the bus. I’m on transfer number two. In the back. Lost in my head. The bus stops. Four tiny G Crips hop on. Start fucking with some old white people. A middle aged black woman in nurse’s whites gets up. Tells them to knock it off. They push her to the floor. I’m not thinking. I stand up. Hand in my waistband.

“You in my ride motherfuckers.”

Almost in a whisper. They turn. I see the recognition in their eyes. The bus driver slams on the breaks and they rabbit off the bus. I walk over to the black woman. Help her up. Head back to my seat. I can feel her eyes on the blue bandana hanging from my back pocket…just like the ones they were carrying. She’s confused. Join the club honey.

Come in my apartment through the fire escape. I can feel someone’s there. Pull out my piece. Quiet. Then I smell it. Polo. It’s my captain. He falls out of his chair when I come up behind him. Tries to talk smack. I tell him to suck my dick. Give him my report. Then I tell him I want out. Time to be a regular Deputy. Go through the Academy. Work the jail. Ride in a black and white. He begs me to stay. Wants to know how much money I think they’re making. Again, my warning bells should have gone off, but they don’t. Finally, I tell him.

“I killed another one.”
“How many does that make, now? Four? Five?”
“Seven... I never thought you'd get over the first two...”
“Neither did I.”
“Did killing that kid bother you that much? I mean, I know the first two, but since then...”
“Killin' that kid didn't bother me at all...That's the problem.”


Anonymous said...

This is really good... how many installments will there be?

Christopher Blake said...

I haven't decided yet...probably 10-15...

abaddon911 said...

I am a little scared... I will tell you why -
You ever read a really good book, I mean a really good one? When I find such a jewel, I can't put it down and have to know what comes next. By this time, I am sacrificing sleep and everything else to continue the journey. At some point I realize that the story is winding down and that soon the book will be read and all things realized. I then become sad, a feeling liken to that of ending a good relationship. I get a sting of sadness which is pretty much intense sentimentality and a little anxious at coming to the end of something special.
That is where I am at. I hope your posts are closer to the estimated number of 15 and not 10.

Christopher Blake said...

I'm just a little over half way...I can make it take as many...or as few posts as what people ask for...


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Christopher Blake is a loving husband...devoted father...minister...crippled more than a little rough around the edges...