Wednesday, December 31, 2008


( Naaki Tslichi)
Christopher Blake
Taaei Doo Da. No turning back.

Everyone who lived this story, and was old enough to know all of it, is dead. Except me…and I’m dying. The injuries that forced my retirement from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department in 1984 should have already killed me. The doctors wanted to put a morphine pump in my back eight years ago…to keep me comfortable. They said six months. They were wrong. But…it’s getting close. I can feel it. Smell it. The way my Acheii, my mother’s great-grandfather could smell a storm coming on a hot, cloudless day. He was never wrong. And he taught me. The storm is coming. I don’t know how much time I’ve got before it gets here. I don’t think I can afford to wait any longer. I’ve always known I would have to tell the story. But I also knew, once I did…Taaei Doo Da. No turning back.

My birth mother was Dine. Navajo. My birth father was Bellaganno. White. A psycho, white state trooper. He beat her to death in front of me when I was little. Tried to kill me. My Acheii stopped him. I heard people whisper at my mother’s funeral. They pointed their chins at me(Dine don’t point with our fingers…it’s considered rude) and walked away. I thought they were calling me two piles of horseshit. I cried. That night, in my Acheii’s Hogan, I asked him why they called me that. He told me I listened like an old woman, not like his Aye…his grandson. Naaki Tslichi. Naaki means two. Tslichi means horseshit…but it’s also slang for dog. Two Dog. I asked him why they called me Two Dog. He said they were afraid of me.

When the Great Spirit made us, he put two dogs inside of everyone. One white. One black. The one you feed the most rules you. Most people feed their white dog the most. Only when it is fat and sleeps does their black dog come out. Some people feed their black dog the most. Like your father. When it gets strong enough, it kills their white dog. They have no good left in them. They do not fear the white dogs. They laugh at them and herd them like sheep. They only fear the two dog.”

Then why do they call me Two Dog?”

You were born under the blood moon, like your Acheii...your father was a black dog, your mother a white dog, like your Acheii…you feed both dogs, like your are not good...not are like the me.”

An older Bellagonno couple came to the reservation not long after that. Missionaries. They adopted me. My Acheii told me to go with them. They took me back to Los Angeles with them. I grew up. Got married. Had two little girls. Their mother was evil. A black dog. I went on the Sheriff’s Department. Back then, they hired you before the academy. Put you to work in Admin or one of the jails. A captain approached me. Wanted me to go undercover. Narcotics. He was the only one who would know…for my safety.

The reservation and the hood have a lot in common. You get jumped in when you’re old enough. Different ways, but still the rite of passage into manhood shit. Different language from whites. Special names different from your white name. There’s more, but you get the idea. It was a natural fit for me. And, I got lucky. Walking in the hood one day. Setting up my cover story. Pretty young black girl runs by. Two Bloods grab her. Try and force her into a car. I pulled her away. We ran down an alley. They came after us. Capping off rounds. Looked like we were goners.

I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like everything went into slow motion. I wasn’t scared…in fact, I didn’t feel anything. I pulled out my piece(it was my dad’s gun) and took my time. I felt chunks of brick go by my head. Never panicked. Two shots at each. They both went down. My dad had always told me (my real dad, the one who raised me, not the sick fuck that raped my birth mother), “…if you have to take someone down, don’t let’em get back up…” I walked up to where they were lying on the ground. Not dead yet, but close. Shot them one more time each anyway. In the head. Now everything goes back to regular time. I hear sirens. A car pulls up. Young black guy jumps out. The girl’s older brother, B.D. OG Crip. Big timer. Pushes both of us in the car and takes off.

After that, I was golden. No undercover cop is going to walk up to two wounded suspects and put one between their eyes to finish them off, right? Yeah…fuck me. Gotta take a break from writing…take my pain pills. This shit is killing me.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008


OK, I’m back. Might as well tell you now, ‘cause this part ain’t in the screenplay. The end result of my injuries on the job turned out to be some type of degenerative neuropathy. Things keep shutting down. That’s what’s going to kill me. But the pain…fuck. It’s like someone injects my veins with gasoline, pours the rest over my body, and then sets it all on fire. Like I’m burning to death on the inside and outside. And writing this shit…it’s like I relive it all. Oh well…where the fuck were we, anyway?

B.D takes me back to his set. Introduces me. Everyone is suspicious of this half-breed until B.D. tells them how I smoked those two Bloods. Instant credibility. Pretty soon, I’m making buys with B.D. This is some elaborate set up they’ve got going. Too elaborate for a bunch of low level Crip gangbangers.

We rendezvous with a big semi truck late at night. Driver pops the back open for us. We unload a shit load of cartons. Factory stamped from a major pharmaceutical company. The driver then either has us rough him up, or does it to himself to make the “hijacking” look legit. We take the cartons to a house in South Central. It’s got a bomb shelter from back in the fifties built underneath. Crack open the boxes. Liquid cocaine. Hospital grade. There’s a lab set up to turn it into crack. I find out that the pharmaceutical company is being paid by the government to let their shipments get jacked, and collecting the insurance money besides. Seems the Feds, or whoever has that much juice, wants to make sure that crack becomes an epidemic in the inner cities. Pretty fucked up.

Time to report to my Captain. I go back to my piece of shit apartment in the hood. Bump into Shawna on my way out. She’s a young, single mother. Beautiful. I started falling for her the first time I saw her. I help her tuck her little boy in bed. Leave. I always take the bus. It’s hard for anyone to tail you that way. The bus makes lots of stops. You sit in the back, you can tell if someone’s on your ass. Plus, you make enough transfers, they really can’t hide. Anyway, I hook up with the captain. Tell him what’s going down…and about the two Bloods I killed. He tells me not to worry. It’s all covered. In the line of duty, blah, blah, blah…that’s when I should’ve known something was messed up with him. He tells me to keep up the great work and sends me home.

I take the bus to Orange County Airport. I’ve kept my ride in the long term lot there…again so no one can follow me. Thought I was smart. Turns out, I wasn’t smart enough, but we’ll get to that soon. I drive home. It’s after midnight. I’ve been gone this first time for over a week. The soon to be ex-wife doesn’t know I’m a cop. Sure as shit doesn’t know I’m an undercover cop with a $250,000 policy that doubles if I die in the line of duty. Bitch would’ve dropped a dime on me in a heartbeat for that kind of cash. She thinks I’m a traveling salesman now, which suits her just fine. Gives her the freedom to come and go as she pleases.

I walk in the door, and the place is a mess. Not a clean dish or glass in the house. Bugs everywhere. Half empty take out food containers on the table, the counters, and spilling out of the trash. I go through the apartment. Pissed. She’s not there. My little girl Ruby, who’s five, isn’t in her room. I start to panic. I go into my youngest daughter’s room. Rene is almost three. Still in a crib. Ruby has pulled her step-stool up to the bars and climbed in to sleep with her little sister. I go out and clean the place up.

I’ve just finished and lit a smoke when the bitch comes in the door. 4:30 in the morning. She was beautiful once, but she’s not aging well. The booze and drugs are already catching up with her. I’m about to smack the shit out of her when Ruby comes in for a glass of water. I get it and send her back to bed. Decide to just let the bitch know not to do it again, and leave it at that. That’s when things go south.

She flips me shit. Lets me know she’s going to do whatever she wants, and if that hurts or even kills them, well…too fucking bad. I snap. It’s like I’m in that alley again. Everything goes in slow-mo. I’m on her before she can blink. Pull her head back by her hair. The other hand is on her windpipe. We have our own little come to Jesus meeting. She’s never seen me like this. I can see the fear in her eyes. The smell of it coming off of her gives me a hard-on. She can’t talk. Just nods her head that she understands. I leave. It’s the last time I see her.

That's it for today...only so much I can relive at a time...

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.”

Sunday, December 28, 2008


I agree to stay undercover. What a dumb fuck.

Shawna and I had been seeing a lot of each other. I’d fallen in love with her. She has no idea about me being a cop…or a Crip. She and her little boy Tony, along with my little girls and my folks, are the only things keeping me sane…and that’s hanging by a thread. No one knows what I’m doing. Except my Captain. Biggest mistake of my life.

B.D. takes me for a ride. Won’t tell me where we’re going. Wind up at another house with a bomb shelter. Bigger than ours. Bunch of naked women with surgical masks processing liquid coke into crack. There’s a man walking through, supervising…and grabbing some ass. I recognize him. Well known black preacher and civil rights activist. Just then, some Bloods come in. I pull my gat. Figure they’re after me. They start to pull theirs. The “Reverend” calms the whole thing down. Tells us we’re all part of the BAF-Black African Family. No more Crips or Bloods down there. One group. Leads me and B.D. off upstairs. Tries to feed me this line of shit about how the BAF is there to “…free all people of color from the dominant power structure…”. Wants to know what I think. He laughs when I tell him it sounds like a crock of shit. Tells me I’m right. Says me and B.D. are the only one’s smart enough to figure it out. Wants me, ‘cause I can pass for white, to open the crack operations in the more upscale white areas. Gives me a Bible. It’s hollowed out starting at the 23rd Psalm…”The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…”. Filled with hundred dollar bills. Got to give him credit…he’s got his own style.

B.D. and I are driving back. Quiet. Then he starts asking questions.

“What'd you think?”

“About what?”

“The Rev'rund...all of it.”


“I buy all that one set shit?”

“You buy it?”
“Used them cluckheads somebody's mother...sister... somethin'...if we beatin the system, how come it's still niggers killin' niggers?...that shit ain' right man...niggers killin' niggers, we ain' beatin' shit.”

Like I told you…B.D. was my boi. B. D. stood for Brain Damage. They called him that because of all the Sherm he smoked when he was a youngster coming up. It didn’t wind up fuckin’ with him though. He was one of the smartest, best men I ever knew. God, I miss him.

It was time to check in with the Captain again. I told him all about the meeting with the Rev. How the Rev had told me he had been dicking the middle man. How with my help, he could double-dick him. Showed the Captain the hollowed out Bible with the money. He was pissed. Kept muttering about the double-dicking as he stormed out. God, was I blind.

B.D. picked me up later. Started diving. Heading out toward San Berdoo. Won’t tell me why. We pull up to this nice little house out there in a real nice neighborhood. Go inside. B.D.’s lady and two little girls…just like mine. We hang out for a few hours while he plays with his girls. I watch them while he and his lady go off fro some private time. We wait till dark to leave. Quiet on the ride back. Finally, I’ve got to ask.

“You told everybody she took'em...went back east.”

“What the fuck would you do, you had family huh? You leave'm in the hood? Ain' jus' drive-bys anymo'...they snatchin' people, hold'm fo','s fuckin' crazy.”

“Yeah...but lyin' to yo' own set...”

“I known them mothuhfuckers all my life...but they ain' jus' dealin'...they doin' the shit, all of'm...'cept' you...when you got shorties its dif'runt, you gotta be mo' careful... niggers know you be stackin', nobody safe.”

“Why you tellin' me all this shit?”
“I been thinkin'...what if somethin' happens, ya know...who'd take care o'...I gotta trus' m'boi, Deuce...shit, you saved my...”



“Fuck you.”

“ the best you ever had.”

If you've ever lived in LA you know how the Santa Ana winds whip up and drive the brush fires...that's what the pain is doing to me right now...driving the fire through me like Santa Anas...gotta stop for the night...take my pills...and maybe some Patron...


About Me

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