When Thugz Cry Ch 01
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When Thugz Cry Ch. 02 free porn video
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Author’s Note
This work will eventually become a book. Please forgive the rough state that this probably is in. I am kind of a private person, and I would not subject Elle to proofing this. My main editor is very busy right now, and I’m not trying to take up his time with something that will be re-written half a dozen times before it is published as a real book. I am not really putting the chapters on Lit in any kind of order. I am just remembering things, and trying to write them in a cohesive format. Some things are hard to re-live, and it is also sometimes hard to change them around in a way that they would be unrecognizable to law enforcement. So for all the boys in blue out there let me state categorically that this is entirely made up. So there is my bullshit disclaimer. A nigga did learn a few things from The Jew. If you are offended by strong language or violence, read something else. Let me just tell you that the 1990’s in Detroit was like the Wild, Wild West, and not like that gay ass movie with Will Smith. Anyways, enough bullshit. On to the good part.
Mmm… a, child (a child)
Brutally subjected to what a child should never feel
His innocence was splattered on the walls as angels surrounded him
A, child (a child)
Placed in his small hands, shards of pain and jagged pieces of hatred
He was given all the tools with which to destroy himself
But, he has not
Such is the beauty of resilience in a child who became a man
Who intricately and deliberately breaks cycles
Dismantling, everything, that hurts
Handing his children the gifts, that he was once denied
He told me he’s trying to get his wings back
My love, you can’t lose your wings
You simply have to remember how to use them (remember)
But, fair warning, he can and will destroy you
If you so much as threaten what he loves
He remains a partly wounded warrior, on an honorable quest for forgiveness
Shining, go, show them your heart (show them)
You are exactly, who you, should be.
–Eight Beginnings by Chino Xl, read by Mystic, from the album ‘Ricanstruction: The Black Rosary.’
I can remember this like it happened yesterday, which is probably why I decided to write about it. I have dreamed about it a hundred times, sometimes waking up screaming, and covered with sweat. Nightmares are the universe’s way of punishing you for doing fucked up shit. Notice that I didn’t say god’s way. I had nightmares for years, and years, but I have finally come to grips with everything that I have done. The road that I’ve walked was hard, and sometimes bloody, but it made me who I am today. Everybody is the product of all their decisions, and actions. That is our own personal evolution.
I had been officially part of the Gangsta Mack Crips for about three months at this point. There is something that I should explain about gangs. Gangs have initiations. Everybody knows this. These are all about showing your toughness, and proving that you aren’t a pussy. The most common way is getting ‘jumped in.’ This is where a set number of gangstas beat the shit out of you, usually for a set amount of time. If you are a female, you can be ‘sexed in,’ which is where you have sex with a bunch of members of the gang. We had no females, so this was not an issue with us. You can be ‘blessed in,’ by a member of your family being in the gang, or by having already been jumped into another gang. I had been jumped into my first gang. I had hoped that I could be blessed into the G.M.C. No such luck.
In the G.M.C. we were initiated in what was known as ‘baptism by fire.’ A lot of gangs call it being ‘blooded in.’ Of course as Crips, we would never say some dumb ass shit like that. The actual membership in the G.M.C. was very small. We had at one time five gangs under our umbrella, and all of these gangs jumped in. We were the few, the elite, and we ruled the streets by fear and respect. To generate that fear we had to depend on massive amounts of violence, and frequent acts of murder. To make sure that we were up to the task, we had to kill someone. That was our ‘baptism by fire.’
I am not writing about my baptism here. That is for another time. I will say this: the guy had it coming. I didn’t just do a drive by on a random person, although I was present for some of these. This is about something totally different. It is about something that I learned that would change me forever, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I just told about the initiation to let it be known that I had previously killed one person, so I wasn’t a virgin at it. I wasn’t a murder machine, but the act wasn’t a stranger, and I still slept good at night. That would change in later years, but at the time, I never thought that I would see those years.
I have mentioned my nigga Bear before. He was probably as close to a friend as I had in the G.M.C. Smooth and Money were my boys from the army, but when large amounts of money are involved, it tends to wear friendships thin very quickly. If you don’t believe me loan a deadbeat friend of yours ten thousand dollars. You will see what I mean. Bear and I were true homies, though. We were together for hours, and hours every day, so we talked a lot. I never tried to take money out of his pocket, nor he mine. We watched each other’s backs always, and he saved my life more than once, and I saved his at least once. I guess I could just stop beating around the bush, and say that not only was this nigga my Cuz, but he was my friend.
Let me explain what I did for the Gangsta Mack Crips. We were basically a drug cartel that the D.E.A. estimated at one time controlled ten percent of the cocaine traffic in the city of Detroit. You might think that ten percent isn’t shit. You would be wrong. Detroit was like ‘Night of the Living Baseheads’ (Props to P.E.). Crack was everywhere. Fiends were robbing, and stealing, and killing to get it. We made millions and millions of dollars. That money filtered down through all the neighborhood gangs who sold for us, enforced for us, and kept the squares afraid of us.
I was basically their accountant and bag man. I knew exactly how much product that we had out there in the street, who had it, and how much money that they should have for me when I showed up. I also played a big part in knowing how big of a shipment that we would need, and how much our business should grow verses paying out our ‘profit sharing’ on our initial investment. Yeah, Crip niggas have profit sharing too, at least if you were in the G.M.C.
So basically I was the business guy, and Bear was my bodyguard. He kept me safe. In the beginning, people weren’t afraid of me. I looked like any other square saltine cracker, which doesn’t exactly strike fear into black gangstas. Bear struck plenty of fear into everyone he met. He was immense, and muscular, like that big retard from the ‘Green Mile.’ He had a huge scar that ran down one cheek to the corner of his mouth. He had confessed to me once that his mother had cut him one day when she was dusted out of her fucking mind. After a while, I think people were more afraid of me than Bear, thanks to seeming random acts of horrible violence. I could walk the street in one of the worst neighborhoods in the D, and people would move out of my way. Some would even cross the street, and nobody would look me in the eye. That is projecting true fear, and that is how that I survived in the fucked up world that I was in.
I would show up at one of our crack houses, in a random pattern, and collect our money. If the niggas had our money, then everything was cool. Sometimes we would kick it with the homies for a few, and maybe even get our dicks sucked. People will do anything to keep a man with the power over life, and death in the palm of their hands happy. If the money wasn’t right, and they didn’t have the product, then I wanted an explanation. If I thought we were being fucked, I called in The Dogs. These niggas were our enf
orcers. The Dogs would make niggas talk, even if it came down to hot knives, and missing fingers, or ghetto dentistry. If the verdict came down that they were trying to fuck us, then we would find someone close to them, a parent, a girlfriend, a spouse. The Dogs killed them in horrible, agonizing ways while the person watched. It might not be just one person. Sometimes it was three or four. Only after they watched someone precious to them be brutalized and killed, were they granted the mercy of death. It was usually quick, and decisive. They had already been tortured, and their loved ones killed, what further suffering could we inflict? It was just time for their one way ticket to hell.
So I collected the money, kept track of the product, and called The Dogs. That was my job. It didn’t take many instances of people being tortured, and their families being executed to send a clear message: don’t play with our fucking money. It was after three months of seeing people fidget nervously when I walked into their house, that the event in question happened. I think that the atmosphere of fear that we projected lulled me into a false sense of complacency. The problem with fear as a motivator is that some people have nothing to lose. They have no family or friends. They are hungry, or greedy, or stupid, and fear doesn’t have the grip on them that paralyzes other people. Fear is an instinct for self-preservation. I guess the problem is that some people don’t give a fuck if they live or die. I know that I didn’t at the time.
Bear and I frequented a liquor store on Conner Ave. This was another lesson learned, never have a pattern for anything. We randomized the houses we would collect from, and the times that we would arrive, but we went to the same liquor store every night after we dropped off the money. We even randomized where we dropped the money. But that fucking liquor store was a blind spot. We parked our car, a 1987 Camaro, and walked through the parking lot. One-Eyed-Charlie was there, as he often was. He was a drunk, and a crackhead, and homeless, but he was a friendly old guy. I walked by him, and pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket, and slipped it into his hand. Bear saw me, and gave me a disapproving look.
‘What?’ I asked as we walked through the door.
‘I don’t know why you give that old ass nigga money, he’s just going to smoke it up.’ Bear and I had discussed this before, but he just wouldn’t let it go.
‘This is our hood. If he smokes it up, that money will go right back in my pocket.’ Bear turned, and gave me a look that clearly said, ‘Nigga, please,’ but he rolled his eyes, and let it go. We waved at the Arab that worked most nights, behind the bulletproof glass, and walked to the back of the store. He picked up a forty of Colt 45, and handed me a forty of O. E. We walked up to the counter to pay, and One-Eyed-Charlie ran into the store. I saw the Arab behind the counter start to say something to him, but Charlie ran right up to me, and started speaking frantically.
‘Breeze, there are two niggas out there behind a van, and they are fixing to rob you two. They have on ski masks, and one has a shotgun. They were just talking about shooting you niggas, and taking whatever money you had on you.’ This was not the kind of shit that I needed to hear tonight. I pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket that would have choked a horse, unwound a rubber band, and pulled off three crisp one hundred dollar bills, and gave them to Charlie.
‘Good looking out, Cuz. Now stay in here until it is safe. I looked at Mohammed, or Ali, or whatever the fuck his name was. I peeled off five Benjamin’s, and laid them down on the counter. I need your security tape that is running right now.’ He looked at the cash on the counter, on the other side of the glass, and licked his lips nervously. Bear peeled off five hundreds from his wad, and laid them on top of mine.
‘We need to go out your back door, quietly.’ The clerk nodded. ‘And there were two Mexicans that came in here right before muthafuckas started shooting. Maybe they were gangbangers.’ He nodded again, and bent down under the counter. I heard a VCR eject a tape, and he held it up.
‘You guys have to go to the side,’ he pointed, ‘Over there.’ I saw the door that he was talking about. I picked up the stack of bills, and walked with Bear to the door. In a few seconds the clerk opened the door. Bear and I wiped our prints off the malt liquor bottles, and set them on the ground. There would be no beer tonight. The clerk handed us the tape, and I handed him the cool thousand in cash.
‘Put those back in the cooler, my man. Don’t call the police for a few minutes. He pulled a different sort of Colt .45 from inside his jacket. The clerk’s eyes grew big at this. He knew murder was about to happen, and that now he was an accessory before the fact. ‘Remember,’ Bear warned, ‘We were never here.’
We moved through the back of the store that went through the beer cooler. He shut off the emergency exit alarm, and unlocked the door. I pulled the .357 Magnum snub out of the holster that I kept on my hip.
‘Thanks, Cuz. We won’t forget what you did here.’ He nodded, and he recognized it as not only a thank you, but as a veiled threat if we were caught because of him. ‘I wouldn’t have that cash on you when the cops get here.’ He nodded. I pulled the blue flag that was neatly folded on my belt, and put it over my face, cowboy style. Bear nodded, and did the same with his blue bandana. We slipped out the door, one with the night, and as quiet as ninjas.
The would-be-killers expected us to come out of the store from the front, and we were coming in directly behind them. We found hiding in the shadow of an old work van. They weren’t even bothering to use it as cover, they were just standing there waiting for us to come out the door. Bear pointed to the one on the right, saying that I should take him. This was the one with the shotgun. He had it pointed vaguely in the direction of the front door. The problem with shotguns, or any guns for that matter, is that they are no good when they are pointed the opposite way of the people that you want to shoot.
Bear aimed, and I did the same, relying on my military training. I aimed at center mass, which from my angle was the middle of his back, square between the shoulder blades. I had already cocked the hammer back before we walked out of the back door. I squeezed the trigger slightly, tightening slowly, like I was taught. The revolver boomed in the night, and the masked shotgun-toting man went down in a heap. This was followed by two crisp shots from Bear’s .45. Both enemies were down before they could react. Bear’s guy was making gurgling noises, but my guy was screaming. Shit never looked, or sounded like this in the movies.
‘Let’s go, nigga!’ I said to bear, and took a step toward the Camaro.
‘Naw, Cuz. You have to clean your plate.’ I was confused as to what he meant. I figure that we would bust shots, then G.T.F.O. (Get The Fuck Out.) Conner Ave. was in a bad neighborhood, but it was still a busy street. Bear walked slowly up to the one he had shot, and kicked the gun away from his hand. He took careful aim, and squeezed two more shots into his head. Cuz looked at me meaningfully, as he imparted knowledge. ‘Dead men tell no tales, Cuz.’
I only hesitated for a second. He man was screaming, and thrashing on the ground, at least his upper body was thrashing. Below where he was hit was not moving, and he smelled like he had shit himself. I must have popped that cap right through his spine. I walked up to him. The shotgun was no danger to us. The man was in agony beyond imagining. I took aim at his head, and squeezed a shot at his thrashing dome. The first shot missed, when he jerked violently. I bent down further, and the second shot flew true. His head busted like an over-ripe watermelon from the force of the .357’s hollow point rounds. Brains and blood splattered across the black top, and a fine mist of blood settled on my fac
e above the bandana. Bear clapped me on my shoulder.
‘You did good, Breeze. You did damn good.’ We walked to the Camaro like it was just another day at the office, and we had just punched out at quitting time. I guess in a way it was just another day at the office, and we had narrowly avoided punching out forever. We pulled out of the parking lot slowly, after waiting for traffic, to attract no undue attention.
Bear drove, and I sat lost in thought. I had learned a few things today. Never have a pattern in anything. If you live life predictably, niggas will take advantage of that shit. I had already known, when I killed my first person, that in this shit you are either all the way in, or all the way out. I was all the way in, but I was still learning the rules of the game. There was no ‘how to be a gangsta handbook,’ it was all on-the-job training. The second thing that I learned was to never leave any witnesses, even ones who would probably die. If that guy had lived until the cops or an ambulance had come, both of us would have landed in jail. The third thing that I had learned is that when deadly force is needed, and you have no other options, you shoot first, and hope for the best. No matter if it is broad daylight on a busy street. There are a ton of people who wouldn’t tell on us because they are scared of the G.M.C. There are also a ton of people who wouldn’t say anything, because they wouldn’t want to get involved, or they just didn’t give a fuck. Take as many precautions as you can, but when the shit hits the fan, shoot first, and preferably where your attackers have the least chance of shooting you. I felt no guilt at breaking the old west gunfighter’s rule about shooting people in the back. I was alive, and those niggas were dead. That was the bottom line.
Bear dropped me at my car at about 4 a.m. I had wiped the blood off my face, but I couldn’t quite put the guy’s blood curdling screams of pain out of my mind. I drove home, bumping my cassette of the D.O.C.’s ‘It’s Funky Enough.’ I had learned things today that I would use in the next year. They were things that wouldn’t help me sleep at night, but they would keep me out of jail, and keep me from taking the ‘big sleep.’
Cayleigh
- 06.03.2021
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