Chapter 8

From Skateboards to Shootouts

My foot’s crushing the gas pedal. I’m doing over fifty miles an hour through residential streets, but that’s not how I feel. In my mind, I’m crawling towards my destination in slow motion. Tiff’s aunt lives out in the Thunder Gate district about sixteen miles from Dizzy’s studio. I’ve got Deep Kut riding shotgun. He’s bracing himself against the dashboard with one hand. Since I’ve already driven down the train tracks a short stretch to save time, he knows that right now I’m capable of breathtakingly risky maneuvers that could flip this Lincoln Town Car at any moment. He’s fumbling with my cellphone.

“The hell you want me to do with this?” he asks frantically trying to open the phone.

“Call Philly!” I know turning my head to look at him right now could end up with us taking out a telephone pole so I don’t look over. “Tell him to get his ass over to Thunder Gate!”

“I don’t know his number, man!” Deep Kut’s normally low voice becomes tinged with what sounds to me like whining. “Come on, man. You dial him!”

“You don’t need the goddamn number,” I blow past a stop sign, praying that there are no cops around right now, “Go to the menu, his name’s right there! Just dial the shit and put him on speaker phone.”

“What menu? How do I get to it?” his brow knits together above his sunglasses as he concentrates, shaking his head. “Man, I’m no good with technology. I don’t see any menus.”

My nostrils flare. My face heats up, “You can read, can’t you? It’s right there on the screen! Then you hit send on Philly’s name. It’s not rocket science, you bitch.”

After more fumbling by Deep Kut, and yelling by me, we finally get Philly dialed and on speaker phone. He answers in three rings.

“Philly!” I have a tendency to raise my voice even though the microphone works just fine and the car’s not all that loud. “We got a problem on our hands. Where you at, son?”

“At home, man,” he fails to stifle a yawn. “Watching videos, you know? Something go down in Benton?”

This is a poor time to raise my stress level.

“The fuck did you just say? Didn’t I tell your ass to keep tabs on Benton tonight?”

“Of course, man,” his tone grows worried. “I got six guys down there right now and there haven’t been any calls or nothin’ all night.”

“How would you know that if your bitch ass is sleeping?” I swerve around a bike that seems to have randomly appeared in the middle of the street, causing our Lincoln to nearly jump the curb.

“Voice mails, Perce,” so he did fall asleep then like I thought. “Our boys know to call me if there’s action anywhere in Doyle Heights, much less Benton. I was down there a few hours back and it’s just fine. Everything’s flowin’ real nice.”

Arguing about the situation only prolongs Philly getting to Thunder Gate so I drop it.

“I got a big problem, Philly. A real bad situation is going down with Tiff’s little brother. You remember that kid Sam?”

“Sure, man. His sister’s that blond chick who wears all the goth makeup? Moved up here from Texas a few years ago?” I think I just heard him zip his pants up. Motherfucker must’ve been in bed.

“That’s her,” at least his memory’s working even if the rest of his brain is on vacation tonight. “About fifteen minutes ago she called me. Some of those Smoke Money assholes tracked Sam to her aunt’s place. Kicked the door down, but Sam went out the back. She heard shots a couple minutes later so she called me.”

“Holy shit!” Philly’s paying full attention now. “Smoke Money play hardball out there. How the fuck did Sam get mixed up in that shit? They gunnin’ for Sam only or his whole crew?”

I explain the situation to him as best I can. I dated Tiff a couple years back when her family moved up here from San Antonio and I took a nearly instant liking to her little brother, Sam. She may’ve been blessed with the looks in the family and she certainly can be a sweetheart, but Sam’s got heart and the brains to match. When I met him, the boy had a knack with computers and phone equipment, but he didn’t have the temperament to be a geek – too wild in his ways. Once he found out I was a Kingfin, he started quizzing me about the streets and life as a banger. Since I’m not a public service announcement, I went ahead and answered his questions. I gave him advice about how to handle situations and turned into something of a mentor for Sam. That didn’t sit too well with his sister and led to our breaking up, but we’ve still kept in touch so she can get a little Percy Straight-style love when she feels like it.

A year or so ago, Sam started his own crew – Brotherhood of Lost Souls. More like a clique, really, since they’re all still in high school. About a dozen or so skater kids in dreadlocks who spend more time smoking joints between classes than they do listening to their teachers. When they’re not at school, they’re blasting reggae and giving each other jail-style tattoos with sewing needles and whatever ink they can find – for authenticity, you understand. They all go to Louis Carver High School in Thunder Gate and as a crew their main gig is selling herb to their classmates. Since Sam learned everything he knows about the dope game from me, they sell a hell of a lot of it. Probably pushing a pound or two a week last I heard. That’s big money for high school kids and they’ve developed a taste for life’s finer things now. They’ll probably do alright if they can avoid juvie long enough to expand their game by getting a larger customer base and recruiting people to deal on their behalf. However, as you rise up the ladder of the drug game, you eventually encounter problems. Smoke Money Family is the problem they encountered.

In the early 1990’s, two brothers, Ivy and Darnell Patterson, set up shop down in Phoenix, Arizona. On the streets they were known as Camaro and Chinaman, respectively. Both are former Crips. The brothers got heavy in the heroin trafficking business, pulling in shipments that they’d drive down from San Francisco to Phoenix. Instead of the low-grade Mexican brown, they were pulling in high potency China white from Asia which got them a lot wealthier clientèle. They made money fast, but they got brought down even faster because when addicts start kicking it in hotel rooms in significant numbers, law enforcement gets interested real quick. The FBI nailed Chinaman during a sting operation, but they couldn’t pin anything on Camaro because the boy was too damn slick. Camaro had enough cash squirreled away to afford an ace legal defense for his brother so Chinaman didn’t serve too much time before he got released on technicalities involving how the feds conducted their sting.

Once Chinaman got released, both brothers got the fuck out of Arizona and came north to Seattle. They kept a low profile here for a while, but once you sling dope for a living nothing else quite compares to the thrill or the cash flow. They got back into the hustle. This time they did things differently, though. Camaro discovered the rave scene just as it was peaking, and he convinced his brother they could make a killing selling pot and ecstasy to the party kids. Within a few years they had a nice wide distribution network called Smoke Money Family that still functions within this rainy city. They’re not so much a gang, really, as they are plain old thugs. There’s zero loyalty among these dudes beyond the bond between the brothers who run SMF. Everyone who works for them is dependent on the brothers’ supply which means the pair maintains absolute control over the whole Family. They’re a disgrace to the streets, but because they have so much money, they’re well-armed and most of their rivals have decided to give them time to hang themselves. Nothing that grows as fast as the SMF has, while not having roots in the environment it’s trying to take hold of, is going to last too long. That’s the theory, any way.

Recently, SMF has shifted its focus from the clubs uptown, straight into suburban high schools. Selling drugs to high schoolers is like shooting fish in a barrel – nothing to it, especially when you buy off every rent-a-pig working security on campus and some of the administration, too. Lately, they’ve been selling a new concoction they call ‘cheese’, a nasty little drug. They make it by crushing up Tylenol PM’s with a dab of heroin. It’s about eight percent pure heroin per batch, and a hit only costs two dollars. Cheap and effective, like crack was back in the day. This shit is snortable and they can get rid of it quicker than free beer on a college campus. Louis Carver High happens to be one of the schools these SMF dudes have started selling cheese in. Sam and his Brotherhood don’t like the idea of their operation getting taken down, along with the others at Louis Carver, once those at the school who haven’t been bought off start noticing that half the student body got hooked on cheap smack. Apparently, they took some pre-emptive action against the SMF boys. What I mean by that is that they cornered a couple of them and beat the teeth out of ‘em.

“So they came in there with guns and masks and shit?” Philly’s in his car now, bringing a couple boys out to Thunder Gate, but we’re still talking. “That’s fucking crazy! Neighbors probably got their plates. Fucking amateurs.”

“Actually, they worked pretty smart considering they’re just Smoke Money hired thugs,” I slow down so as not to miss my turn. “Pulled up in front of the apartments in a Yukon, let the masked dudes out to rush the door, and sped off around the corner. Probably took about ten seconds. Then the thugs went out the back door after Sam. Probably had the ride ready to meet them back there because that’s the direction Tiff heard squealing tires coming from.”

My call waiting beeps so I tell Philly to hang on and tell Deep Kut to switch over to the other line.

“How do I do that?” he stares at the phone. “There’s no call waiting button or nothin’.”

I knock him upside the head and take the phone since we’re stopped in front of the apartment complex now.

“Gimme that, you fool! Hang it up, then turn it back on. Fucking children use these things everyday and you, the ‘Lexus of Lyricists’, can’t figure it out? Damn!”

“Hey, come on!” Deep sounds more offended than angry. “I ain’t good with shit like thi–”

The line switches over and I raise the phone to my ear, but the caller starts talking before I can say hello.

“Perce!” it’s Sam whispering loudly. “You hear me, brother?”

“I can hear you,” I tell him.

“Listen, I got a problem,” he’s panting as if he just ran a marathon. “Smoke Family’s after the Brotherhood. Me in particular. We fucked their shit up at school the other day and now they’re looking to settle the score. Showed up at my Aunt’s house looking for me. Four dudes in masks kicked the door in, but I made it out the back and I’m runnin’ for it.”

“Where you at right now?”

I’m glad he called because this’ll make bailing him out a hell of a lot easier.

“Hiding in some bushes outside the library,” I can tell by the pauses in the conversation that he’s also having a cigarette. “Shootin’ at me, Perce! Motherfuckers tried to run me over in that SUV they got, too. I ran like a bitch because I got my piece on me, but I had the clip in a different pocket. Take too long to load up before they’da popped me.”

I start backing the car out of the parking lot rapidly, heading over to the library, “What I tell you, Sam? You gotta stay prepared! Handle your shit! Be ready at all fuckin’ times because that’s the thing about gang life: if you’re not with your boys, you’re vulnerable and your enemies wait until then to jump your ass. Let this be a lesson for you. You’ve got to stay aware at all times and–”

There’s a loud crash followed by an irritating and rather high-pitched beeping. I’ve backed the Lincoln into a parked minivan behind us that I didn’t see.

“Perce! You ok?” Sam’s panicky, “What was that?”

“Nothin’,” I glare at Deep Kut who’s shoulders are shaking from the snickering he’s trying to subdue. “Don’t worry, we’re on our way. What street is the library off of?”

“Corner of Rosewood and 182nd,” Sam assures me. “I got my piece loaded up now so don’t go surprising me, aight?”

“You hang tight, man,” I’m out of the parking lot before the mini-van’s owners can come flying out their front door. “We’ll be there before you know it. You see them, you stay hidden. Only shoot if you have to.”

“Ok, Perce,” is all he has time to say before I flip back over to the other line.

“Philly, listen up,” I feel a little calmer now that we know where Sam is. “Sam just called, and he’s alright. Hiding out down at the library and we’re going to pick him up, me and Deep Kut. I want you to sail on over here to Thunder Gate and stay in the apartment with Tiff and her aunt for at least for a few hours in case those punks come back. We’re gonna run Sam over to MadBlack’s place so he’ll be safe until we get this shit sorted out proper. After I drop Deep back at the studio, I’m gonna sleep for a bit since things at Benton are going okay.”

“Got it, boss,” he’s confident, “I’ll call you if I get any static from those SMF fuckers or hear of anything going down in Benton. Count on it.”

“Make sure you stay awake this time,” I remind him. “One of us has got to keep watch over all this. And that’s you.”

“I know. I will,” the resentment’s easy to catch in his tone.

“And Philly, one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t go playing the hero role and getting busy with Tiff. You know how I feel about her.”

After firing this parting shot, I hang up before he can protest.

Author’s Notes: Check back December 1, 2009 for Chapter 9!

Chapter 7

In the Studio

“Rollin’ slowly up beside you,” I bob my head to the thump of the beat, keeping my eyes closed so my ears can relish the raspy baritone delivery of these lyrics. “Tinted windows won’t hide you. These streets slicked by the rain, can’t wash away stain of pain. You stepped across the borderline, the rules we’re playin’ by are mine.”

The chiming echo of the guitar solo fades out over the bass line as I slowly open my eyes, a smile rising to my lips. Behind the glass, I see Deep Kut mirroring that smile. The boy has really come up since he started recording a couple years back. As always, he’s got on his burgundy hoodie and those aviator sunglasses. While the last notes fade out, he looks to Dizzy for a reaction. Though his back is turned to me, as he hunkers over the soundboard, I’m positive Dizzy can’t suppress a grin, either. He gestures for Deep Kut to come out of the recording booth, to where we are.

I’ve been sitting here for the last few hours watching the recording process. It’s a pleasure to be there, during the moments music is being formed and shaped into the end product, before it hits the streets. Sessions with Dizzy are especially fine because, to my ears, the man is an audial genius. Though, he may not be a well-known hip hop producer right now, I’ve got a feeling it’s only a matter of time before he will be. Depth Charge Productions started out as a one man venture by his hands, right here in this basement. It’s grown over time and keeps getting better thanks to Dizzy’s work and my money. I’ve invested thousands to set the place up with quality equipment.

Walt “Dizzy” Lee came to Seattle from San Francisco, as a teenager, when his father got an engineering job with Boeing up here. As a kid growing up in the Bay Area he absorbed himself in hip hop culture, despite his Asian parents’ strong objections. While he never joined a gang himself, he certainly got exposed to the lifestyle and gained a healthy respect for the real bangers. The first time we met, I ran into him at a club where he was spinning house music that drove the kids crazy. The next time I saw him, he was on stage at some back alley death metal concert in Tacoma, that an ex-girlfriend of mine dragged me to. Since I kept coming across him, I felt I had to meet him and find out what he was all about. Turns out, he’s got not only wide musical tastes, but talent as well. Doesn’t matter whether it’s guitar, drums, bass, turntables, or keyboards, if it makes a sound then the boy can work wonders with it.

“You like that shit, Dizzy?” Deep Kut asks as he steps through the door. “Practiced my ass off to get it just right. Did like you said and recorded it with that little tape recorder you gave me. Kept playing it back until it sounded just how I wanted it to.”

“That,” Dizzy’s fingers dance around the soundboard until a mix of Deep Kut’s vocals and Dizzy’s music are pumping out of the speakers. “That’s some beautiful shit, right there. Beautiful!”

“Damn, man, I’m glad you like it!” Deep Kut can’t contain his pride. A compliment like this from “Reverend Dizzy” is like having Einstein tell you you’re smart.

“Honestly, it looks like we got it in one take, Deep,” Dizzy leans back, arms folded across his Orange Crush t-shirt, “Hell, I’m not even sure we needed to do it twice, but you know how I am.”

“The mastermind has spoken,” Deep Kut beams at me. “And when the mastermind speaks his mind, who are we to disagree?”

“Maybe make that into a song, Deep,” I smirk at him. “Call it ‘How to Rise By Kissing Ass’.”

He knows I’m referencing his local hit ‘How to Rise by Killing’.

“Shit,” he chuckles, in far too good of a mood to take offense. “I never thought one song could take so long to write, but I think this one’s worth it.”

I light a cigarette, despite the glare from Jezzy. She’s Dizzy’s latest feminine companion, a Latina from some barrio south of here, that I could care less about. Maybe Los Angeles, maybe Tacoma, maybe Tijuana. All I know is that her high-maintenance demeanor totally offsets her beauty. Liquid chocolate eyes, perfect mocha skin tone and a shining black cascade of curls draping over the attitude of a spoiled toddler.

“Aw, Perce,” she whines like a caged dog. “The smoke, that’s bad for you! You keep sucking those fumes and you gonna end up on your back in a hospital bed like my grand-mama.”

I gaze at her wondering how much torque I’d need to slap that white eyeliner off her face. “You talking again, Jezzy? I thought we had a moratorium on that shit. Why don’t you go get your man a drink, like a good little girl.”

She’s scowling at me as she runs her hands down over Dizzy’s chest. “Walty, you got mean friends. I’m trying to be helpful cause I care, you know? Then he goes and treats me like some kinda ho!”

Dizzy’s eyes meet mine but I can tell he’s a little torn between his fine heina and my cash dedication to his passion, “Nah, baby girl, you know how it is. I smoke, too, and it’s for the stress. Perce didn’t mean nothin’ mean, right man?”

“I meant,” I’m not too interested in a spat killing my buzz even tho I’m peeved. “That there’s better ways of showing the care. I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets. Get shot or something slipped in my drink. Cigarettes the least of my worries, Jezzy. Not the kind of thing a man wants to be thinking about while he works.”

“I can’t help caring about you,” her tone sounds apologetic but her kind smile gleams false. “Dizzy loves you like I do and you two got this great thing going. I don’t want to see that end.”

Bet she doesn’t. Gold-digger.

“Oh hell yes,” Deep Kut speaks up, trying to break this awkward conversation. “I’m stealin’ that shit, Perce, ‘I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets’, man that is pure platinum. I feel a song comin’ on!”

“OG philosophy,” I tell Deep, glad to have a new discussion started. “The way we think because we have to, man. Without a mindset you get your ass checked out there.”

“Oh fuck, Perce!” Deep Kut is loving this. “That’s priceless, right there, ‘OG philosophy, without a mindset you get your ass checked’ is so true, so deep, and so fucking lyrical. You a street poet, man.”

“Yeah, well,” I can’t help but grin at this sheer flattery since I know my words will become verse. “That’s how we roll. Armed up for the war that’s–”

My cellphone goes off. I’m slow at opening it, but before I do I see that it’s Tiff, one of my favorite girls.

“Perce, oh my god!” she’s hysterical and I have to squint against the assault on my ear. “They’re shooting at Sam! He ran, but they’re shooting at him! They’re gonna kill him!”

Author’s Notes: Chapter 8 will go live November 28, 2009! Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

Chapter 6

Chain of Command

I’m sitting here across the room from MadBlack, who’s lazily smoking a Cuban cigar while he stares at me. Very uncomfortable scene here. Too early for a party, no ho’s to distract him and he didn’t feel like watching the TV. It’s dead silent in here except for some thumping Atlanta house music that’s turned down real low to set the vibe he likes. He’s sprawled out on that black leather sofa in the front room, wearing his San Jose Sharks hockey jersey, black jeans and a size 16 pair of tan Lugz. The lighting’s dim in here because the man just finished a hash pipe I loaded for him, then asked me to dim the room. Me, I’m nursing a tallboy can of Natty Ice to chill my nerves a bit for this conversation.

“Me and Philly talked to the Knuckleheads for you like you asked us to,” I offer and since he doesn’t respond I continue. “Met ‘em at the Brass Jaw, up in Windale.”

He nods and blows a perfect smoke ring. I envy how well he does that shit.

“Two dudes,” I hope the fucker isn’t so stoned that he’s not listening to me. “Red-bearded cracker called Uncle Fritz and the other one, the one in charge of shit, named Kobra. Like the snake, you know?”

“I don’t like snakes,” his gray eyes fix on mine. “Got snake-bit one time. Cottonmouth. Hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Damn,” I have no idea how this is relevant. “You don’t let nothin’ get you down tho, huh? You came back. Now these Knuckleheads say what happened down at Benton was pure accident. They didn’t know Benton is Kingfin turf.”

The man irritates me with this not talking thing, he just nods. I take a chug of my beer to avoid scowling.

“Apparently, these Saxon fuckers are tight. Knuckleheads are in with the Seabeards down in Long Beach,” I fish out a cigarette and buy some time by lighting it. “Some dude in their crew down there, Darkhorse his name is, he wants to use Benton for a while. Paid us to keep the dealers outta the park while they work.”

“Work on what?” MadBlack is apparently not stoned enough for tough questions. Damn.

“Digging for something,” I hate being in this room right now, it could get ugly. “Philly thinks it’s probably bones of one of their homeboys or some shit like that.”

“They didn’t tell you?” MadBlack loves those direct questions.

“Not exactly,” I produce the envelope and toss it on the sofa beside him. “But they did pay us ten g’s for 17 hours. They said they might need more time, but I told ‘em that’s entirely up to your discretion because you’re the decision maker for Doyle Heights Kingfins.”

“Damn straight,” he drawls this, going Southern on me. “Ma’fukkin’ Knuckleheads come up in here knockin’ our dealers around. They pay us for apologies and that’s two thousand right there. Not so bad for just a day.”

“I tried to figure it so we’d have a profit, Mad,” I tell him, hoping to head any potential aggression off because I don’t want him getting angry on me. “Tribute, right? They said they probably won’t need the whole time they paid for and we can keep the change. I figure we made out good.”

“Yeah,” he’s staring at me from a million mental miles away. “Yeah. We made out good. That’s good work, Percy. Real good. You alright, maine. Fine good work. Just make sure they don’t go over-staying our generosity. They do that, then we have to remind ‘em who’s running these streets. Kingfins, fuck the rest.”

“Hell yeah,” thank god he didn’t pitch a bitch. “We’ll ride on ‘em and wipe ‘em out. Saxons ain’t established in Seattle, this is small time shit. They give us even so much as a tiny issue and I’ll enforce law on ‘em. I got you.”

“Put me some Friday on,” he drawls, blowing out a dragon’s lung worth of Cuban smoke, “See my nigga Ice Cube.”

“No problem.”

Damn am I glad this is over.

Author note: Chapter 7 will go up November 25th.

Chapter 5

Sit Down at the Brass Jaw

Windale is located in a section of the city that’s mainly blue-collar neighborhoods. Lots of factories, mills and that sort of thing. Grimy and rusty, lots of sorry looking houses with peeling paint and potholes in the streets. The place is neglected, probably crawling with addicts of various stripes. There are a few gangs from Windale, but none of them have managed to earn themselves much notoriety as far as I know. The Brass Jaw sits between a closed shoe repair shop with busted windows that are all boarded up, and a hardware store that doesn’t appear to be doing much business today. The sign says this bar’s been in business since 1962.

Stepping inside, Philly and I survey the place. Grubby drinkers are already lined up at the bar, talking loudly. No one turns to watch us come in, but clearly we’re not their average customers. Barely any lighting in here to speak of. The inside reeks of sweat, booze and smoke. Whoever decorated this place must’ve thought Seattle was located in Alabama, not Washington, because there are stuffed and mounted animal heads everywhere you look. A cheap TV is playing ESPN above one end of the bar. From the looks of him, the bartender is also the bouncer. A hulk of a man with a shaved head and a thick mustache like they had on gunslingers in old cowboy movies. Though neither of us show it, I’m sure Philly gets a shiver down his spine, too. A place like this holds no attraction for us.

Philly spots the Knuckleheads we came to chat with. Two great big men dwarfing a table in the back corner of this dimly lit shithole. He leads the way and I’m only a few steps behind him. Drawing closer, I get a good look at who we’ve been sent to negotiate with. There’s the one with the eye patch, that Oxy told us about, called Uncle Fritz. A massive spray of orange-red beard sprouts from his cheeks and chin; his golden mane of hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail that runs far down his back. His one laser blue eye trains on me, creeping me out. He’s got the ruddy face of a chronic consumer of hard liquor and judging by the belly on this man, I’d say he’s okay with beer, too. That being said, he’s taken off his black leather jacket to reveal a massive stretch of intricate tattooing that covers arms damn near the width of my thighs. He lifts one side of his upper lip in what is either a smirk or a snarl before casting a glance at his partner. That guy has a bit more style. He’s cupping a mug of beer between two heavily inked hands, rings ranging from sapphires to silver skulls crowding each of his fingers. I’m really not interested in seeing his face as I scan up, taking in the art on his arms. Maybe he doesn’t have quite the bulk of Uncle Fritz, but his body’s got a rangy kind of musculature and his posture gives me the impression that this dude takes zero shit. He’s clean shaven with dark brown hair falling down over his shoulders from underneath his gray beanie. I find it odd that he’s wearing shades in a dark place like this.

“Well what do you know?” Uncle Fritz cries out in a hoarse, booming dialect that’s surely Southern. “You boys must be with that fish gang, right?”

Philly stays quiet, but I can see him tense. He’s clenching his fists, too.

“Gentleman,” I give each of them a nod. “I’m Percy Straight and this is my associate, Philly Mako. You wanted to speak with us?”

This causes Uncle Fritz to chuckle heartily before sucking a mouthful of beer from his mug. It strikes me that he’d have made a good Hells Angel. Or maybe a modern Viking.

The thinner guy gestures towards the two empty chairs with a smile that shows surprisingly white teeth, “Good to see you. I’m Kobra and this is Uncle Fritz. Sit down with us?”

Philly looks to me and I nod, pulling out a chair I can slide down into. I don’t expect this to take too long so I keep my coat on.

“You’re with the KSM?” Kobra asks, leaning back in his chair, “Doyle Heights crew, right?”

“Straight up,” I tell him, watching my reflection in his sunglasses. “Kingfins are who we represent. Our organization controls the streets of Doyle Heights. All business goes through us under approval of our leader, MadBlack.”

Kobra’s got on a black t-shirt with some strange design. After a few minutes of staring, I realize it’s a word. Aargota? There are wings coming off either side of the logo. Probably some German thing or other.

“I see,” Kobra’s measuring his words carefully. “We didn’t realize that when we showed up there last night. We thought those dealers were unaffiliated.”

“If it goes down in Doyle Heights, we get our cut,” I can tell this guy’s slick so I don’t mince my words. “Doesn’t matter what kind of enterprise it is, we get ours. Big mistake to try shaking our assets down.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute-” Uncle Fritz’s one eye narrows at me, but Kobra raises a hand to silence him.

“Understandable,” he takes a sip of his half-finished beer. “We’re not looking to start any problems with your assets, as you call them, or you. That’s why, once we realized our mistake, we called you here to hammer things out over drinks. I already paid Mercer, the bartender,” he points to the bald giant wiping down the bar, “So your drinks are on us today as a sign of good will.”

Philly cuts his eyes over to me. I can tell he’s thirsty for free booze. Drinking during negotiations seems unusual, but MadBlack wants us to resolve this peaceably so I’ve got to avoid offending them if at all possible.

“Hey Philly,” I tell him, “Get us a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon if they got it.”

“No problem, boss,” he plays his role calmly so as not to appear overeager.

“Good choice,” Uncle Fritz grins at us, making his cheeks rise and causing that eye patch to buckle a little. “Working class beer. You guys got decent tastes.”

“Peanuts?” Kobra asks, pushing a bowl of them across the table towards me.

“No, thanks. Just had lunch.”

He notices me staring at the logo on his shirt.

“Vargotah,” he says, “German metal. Heard of them?”

I shake my head, “Can’t say that I have,” or that I want to, “They any good?”

“I enjoy their sound,” Kobra pops a few peanuts into his mouth, chews for a while. “Metal’s probably not your sound, huh?”

“Not so much. I’m more into hip hop.”

Uncle Fritz snorts and rolls his exposed eye.

“To each their own, I say,” Kobra’s smiling but if I could see behind those shades of his I have a feeling his gaze would be disapproving. “So, shall we get down to business or wait for your friend to get back?”

I look over to the bar and see Philly bringing back a pitcher of beer in one hand, two mugs in the other.

“Might as well start talking,” I tell him, “He’s not calling the shots anyways.”

I can’t be sure, but it sounds like Uncle Fritz just muttered ‘thank god’ into his beer before he downed it. Dude’s got a bad attitude.

“Alright,” Kobra’s watching Philly set the pitcher on the table, “As you probably know, we’re with the Diamondknuckle Saxons. Unlike your ‘organization’, as you put it, we don’t have territories or do much business on the streets. I’m sure you know about what we do so I won’t go into that.”

Philly pours our beers and I nod for Kobra to continue as I take my first sip, hating the froth. I wonder how clean mugs in a place this poorly maintained can possibly be.

“Our chapter is only one in a network that stretches across the United States and Europe called Teutonic Knights,” Kobra pauses for a slight second before continuing, clearly aiming for a dramatic flair. “Saxons are simply a branch on a large and mighty oak, if you see what I mean?”

“You got connections, right,” I can’t help hiding the fact that I’m not real impressed. “We know all about you guys, don’t worry.”

Kobra laughs in a way that’s unmistakably arrogant.

“I’m sure you do,” his tone narrowly avoids mockery. “I just wanted to be clear on who you’re dealing with.”

“If that’s a threat,” my voice becomes icy, “It’s not working. We’re here to negotiate out of respect so there’s no need to get carried away talking yourselves up.”

Uncle Fritz exhales loudly and shakes his head to show his exasperation. An urge to pimp slap him wells up within me. I resist, turning my attention towards Kobra who is fishing a Marlboro out of a hard pack that’s been lying on the table. He offers the pack first to me and then to Philly. We each take one. Kobra offers us his butane lighter and damn if it’s not a heavy one. On it is engraved a skull with emerald eyes and two machine guns crossed behind it. Below the image there’s the inscription, ‘Tod ist nichts, Ruhm ist für immer.’ That’s German, I’m guessing.

“It means ‘Death is nothing, glory is forever’,” Kobra informs me when he catches me eying his lighter. “German, of course. That’s the Saxon creed.”

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt so I can make out the large cobra tattooed there along with his name and their motto running along either side of the snake’s body, “Buddy of mine in the SEALs inked me while we were on leave over in Iraq.”

“Nice,” Philly nods appreciatively at the lighter before lighting his smoke.

“Y’all got a motto?” Uncle Fritz asks in a tone that suggests he doubts we do.

I stare into his eye, “These jaws make the laws.”

Both men nod solemnly. I find myself staring at the shaggy stuffed head of an elk and wondering how long all this small talk is going to take. The thing’s got glassy eyes that kind of creep me out.

“Now, when I sent some of our brothers down to Benton Park,” Kobra taps his Marlboro against the ashtray. “I had no idea the place was your turf. We assumed we’d be strong-arming it from a few dealers, pimps or maybe some local hoods.”

“Well,” I’m having trouble believing him, “Apparently some of your soldiers saw our tags because they sprayed over the top of them. That’s considered to be a sign of disrespect on the streets.”

“I take full responsibility for that,” Kobra answers. “My mistake to send others out on a mission I should have done myself. That’s the past, now, though. Let’s talk about the future. We’d like to rent your park for a little while.”

“Rent?” I have no idea what the fuck this is supposed to mean. “What do you mean ‘rent’? What do you need Benton for?”

“We’ll pay you for uninterrupted access to place. Meaning no dealers or other things go down around there until we’re done with our work.”

“What kind of work are we talking about?” I’m extremely skeptical.

Obviously, Kobra intended to avoid being too specific, but since I’m forcing his hand he’s got to tell me, “See, some of our brothers down in Long Beach, California – the Seabeard Saxons – contacted us about getting a hold of something for them. We think what they’re looking for can be found in Benton Park,” everyone at the table is watching my face for a reaction I don’t plan to give. “We’re willing to pay you good money so that we can do this favor for our Seabeard brothers.”

I’ve heard of these Seabeards, surprisingly. A biker gang that cropped up in the mid-80’s. Had themselves a decent little racket ‘renting’ the beach out to surfers, and selling white dope. Vicious fuckers back in the day from what I’ve heard. Used to dye their beards with cheap blue ink. For a while they had a war going with the Bloods, who thought they were aligned with the Crips, and the Crips who didn’t appreciate them claiming their color.

“Look,” I lean forward to stub out the last of my cig. “I ain’t trying to be rude, but vague bullshit like that is not going to get permission from MadBlack. That means this whole thing won’t be going down. He’s a businessman and paying attention to details is how he keeps from getting fucked. Those are his own words I’m repeating to you, of course, but I don’t see how I’m going to get his approval when he won’t even know what he’s approving.”

“So how much would it cost to make sure he’s not interested in the details?” Kobra grins.

He wants to play hardball. We can do that. I calculate mentally how much we make per hour in Benton on average.

“Gonna be a royal pain in the ass keeping the dealers out of there since there’s so much traffic to the place, especially after dark,” finishing off the last of my beer I push it toward Philly for him to refill. “You’ll be needing protection while you do whatever it is you’re planning and that ain’t cheap, either.”

Uncle Fritz snorts, snapping back with, “We got our own protection so you don’t gotta worry about that shit.”

“You’ll need us, man,” Philly scowls at him. “You guys don’t have the knowledge of the area that we got. Those projects around Benton are full of mean-ass motherfuckers who’ll swarm that place if they think there’s no Kingfins around.”

“Uncle’s right,” Kobra tosses peanuts into his mouth, chews. “We can handle ourselves, but we’ll pay you for keeping a lookout, too, if you want. Name your price. Within reason.”

“Six hundred an hour,” I tell him. “Plus a cut of whatever you’re making off your project out there.”

Uncle Fritz nearly spits his beer at this, “Sonofabitch! We get blowjobs to go with that?”

Kobra considers what I’ve said after shaking his head at his partner, “I’ve got no way to tell how long it’s going to take to find what the Seabeards are asking for,” he reaches behind his back and for a split second I feel my stomach clench, thinking he’s going to draw a pistol.

Instead, he pulls out an envelope and pushes it across the table towards me, “Think a ten grand down payment would do the trick?”

I check the envelope’s contents. Definitely looks like ten grand in hundreds to me. MadBlack is going to be fairly thrilled. However, I also feel a shadow of suspicion cross my thoughts. If these Knuckleheads are shelling out ten thousand dollars just to borrow the park, then whatever they’re after must be worth a hell of a lot more.

“If this takes more time than we’ve estimated,” Kobra sees me hesitate as I consider his offer. “Then we can pay you the rest at an hourly rate like you said. You know we’re good for it. You guys prefer cash, gold bars, guns or what?”

“Cash,” what the fuck does this fool think we’d need gold bars for. “But MadBlack isn’t going to want this taking too many days because if it does, the junkies are gonna be going elsewhere to get their fix. That’s bad for business.”

Some social reject from the bar just paid actual money to hear Guns N’ Roses play Welcome to the Jungle on the jukebox. Once again, the urge to exercise my pimp arm is strong. I can’t help glaring at the guy’s back as he saunters back to his stool. Hopefully he feels it.

“Hey!” Uncle Fritz is nodding enthusiastically, “My kinda music! G n’ R, baby!”

For a moment I’m gripped by the nauseating fear that he may try singing along. Kobra shoots him a disapproving smirk.

“I doubt it’ll take us that long to be out of your hair,” Kobra pulls another smoke from his pack and touches the lighter’s flame to its tip. “But we’ve gotta have an agreement that we’re not going to have to stop in the middle of things.”

Axel Rose’s screechy voice reminds me of what it feels like when the dentist is giving you a filling. Except right now I’m not numbed by Novocain.

“The only thing I can do for you is ensure that you can use the park for seventeen hours,” I’m sure the music’s causing my expression to look sour. “After that it’s up to MadBlack’s mood about this thing. Take it or leave it, that’s all I can promise you.”

“Okay,” Kobra exhales a plume of smoke. “We’ll take it on those terms.”

“When do you want to get started?” I down the rest of my beer, getting ready to leave this roach trap.

“Tonight. After the sun’s down,” Kobra tells me, “Seven o’clock or around there. Have the place cleared for us.”

I push my chair back, stand up and stuff the envelope inside my coat. No use counting it in front of them because that’d be insulting. Plus, if they lied about the amount Kobra just passed me then we can settle the score tonight. I’d like to keep on their good side as long as I don’t have to be their bitch in order to do it. I’ve got a thirst to know what it is they’re looking for in Benton.

“It’ll be clear,” I tell Kobra. “Get a hold of us if you change your plans. Thanks for the drinks and smokes.”

“It’s nothing,” Kobra flashes a wide smile. “See you tonight, Percy.”

He glances at Philly, “You, too, brother.”

Finally, Philly and I exit this little slice of hell. On the way back to the house we count the money. It’s all there, none of it counterfeit, either. Philly theorizes they’re looking for some Saxon’s bones, but I’m almost positive it’s some sort of mystical gem. Bad juju, my gut tells me. I don’t tell Philly this. Since he’s not Selachi he wouldn’t understand. Besides that, he’s a suspicious motherfucker who still wears the crucifix his mother gave him because, “It’s protection from vampires.”

If only he knew the truth about the world around him.

He’d have reason to be even more scared.

Author’s notes: The next post will go up on November 22, 2009. Thanks for reading along so far!

Chapter 4

Walk on Home

We’re in line at the Burger King drive-through in Philly’s car. I’ve already ordered my four bacon double cheeseburgers. Philly is still making up his mind and LaShonda only wanted a Hershey pie.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this, man,” Philly’s dark eyes flash over to me before he turns back to the drive-through speaker, “Yeah give me three chicken Whoppers and a large Coke.”

“I think it’s a good idea she comes along,” I tell him for about the fifth time during this ride, “She’s got charm. Charisma. Plus, she can keep them distracted looking at her. That way they can’t think straight and end up giving us a better deal than they meant to.”

Philly adjusts his Mariners’ ball cap, socking it down tighter, “Whatever, man. I still say it’s stupid.”

“Will you shut the hell up, boy?” LaShonda’s using that high-pitched tone again and it collides with the effects of the joint I smoked before we left.

Philly turns so he can look back between the seats at her, “Boy? You don’t call me boy, I’m a man, nina!”

“Nina? Don’t pull that Spanish shit on me, boy!” she emphasizes ‘boy’ the way an angry teenage girl would. “The whole ride you’re bitch, bitch, bitching about Percy bringing me along so I can help you guys out.”

Even though he wasn’t raised in a Spanish speaking household and is nowhere near fluent in Espanol, Philly likes to toss out the Spanish words when he gets riled up.

He glares at me, wanting me to get involved then his smoldering eyes lock on LaShonda, “No more calling me boy, LaShonda. You’ve got to respect my status, right Perce?”

“Yeah,” I roll my eyes, “Pull forward to the window, man.”

He whips his head around and sees we’re next in line, “Right,” he says with more than a touch of resentment before pressing the gas pedal. We get to the window and both Philly and I notice the girl taking our money is one fine looking chick. Thick, auburn hair done up in a ponytail, clear green eyes and well-endowed in the chest. Our natural reaction is a low whistle and as he turns to me a look of understanding passes between us.

“What?” LaShonda wants to know, “You’re whistling at that?”

“Hell yeah!” Philly tells her excitedly, “I’d rather have her than those Chicken Whoppers. Damn!”

“Oh my god!” LaShonda is talking way too loudly and that girl can probably hear her. “You want me to get you some Kibbles ‘n Bits, Philly? You got a thing for dogs? She probably plays a great game of fetch, too!”

The girl must’ve heard at least some of that because she blushes, glancing back at LaShonda as she hands the food over to Philly who’s trying to apologize quietly.

“Don’t you apologize for me, boy!” LaShonda starts rolling down her window. “I can have my fucking opinion if I want to. Dog-ass ugly bitch can’t do a damned thing about it on company time, huh?”

I’ve heard enough. LaShonda wanted me to bring her along because she had nothing to do today. Promised me she’d act nice and be my little status symbol for the meeting at the Brass Jaw. Post-orgasmic decisions aren’t always the best, especially if they happen after you’ve had a fat joint. Clearly this decision was a mistake. I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door and walk back to her door.

“Percy? Baby?” she’s giving me those big puppy dog eyes a little too late in the game, “You know I was just playing.”

“Get out,” I instruct her, holding her door open as the elderly couple in car behind us watch nervously.

“Oh, come on,” there’s a honey-sweet tone to her voice, “Can’t a girl get a little jealous?”

“That was fucked up!” Philly scowls at her, “Do like Perce says, get outta my fucking car, bitch!”

LaShonda’s smile melts into shock, “You can’t be serious. How am I gonna get home?”

“Out,” there’s frost forming on the words as I speak them, “Now. That or I drag you out.”

She’s silent as she steps out clutching her purse, watching my face closely. I show no emotion. If we were in Kingfin territory when she pulled this stunt I’d have yanked her out myself, but this part of the city employs plenty of police and no one knows me here so it’d be foolish to slap her around. Especially with all the people in their cars behind us taking in the show. Some teenage emo-looking kids in a Volvo two cars back blast their horn. I give them the finger without looking in their direction, then I swing my arm around to where my middle finger is in LaShonda’s face. Her mouth drops open, she shakes her head and starts walking as I slam the passenger door behind her.

“I apologize for that bullshit she said about you,” I tell the girl at the window who’s watched the entire drama unfold, “She’s only angry because she doesn’t have your looks, girl.”

The girl nods, blushing and mumbling some sort of thanks. Though she’s now quite a distance from me, I hear LaShonda muttering the ‘fuck you’ she wouldn’t dare say to my face. Doesn’t matter, she’ll call me tonight, I’m sure.

Author’s Note: Next chapter goes up on November 19th, 2009

Chapter 3

Not Much to Love About Mornings

4:17pm the clock reads. A wave of belligerence washes over me. Afroman is singing about how he was going to do something, but then he got high. That’s the ringtone on my cell right now because I got tired of Ludacris after a few months. My desire to be awake right now is at an all-time low. Sure, I got six hours of sleep, but I still don’t feel like moving. I check the caller ID so I know who it is. I answer as groggily and pissed-off sounding as I can.

“Shit, nigga,” Philly asks, “Did I wake you up again?”

“You did,” I snarl, “And you called me ‘nigga’ again, too. You know I hate that.”

“Sorry, man,” he is sorry, but he’ll do it again because old habits die hard. “Listen, though, we got more trouble. Knuckleheads showed up at the park again. Didn’t rough anybody up this time, but they gave us a message through Cheeky and Quill.”

“The fuck were those two doing down there?” I yawn.

“Watching over Benton,” his voice sounds like he’s wondering if he messed up. “You know, keeping our tags up and making sure there’s no more trouble.”

“Two people is never enough,” I warn him, “Especially when you know there’s potential for danger. What’s the matter with you? Anyway, what’s the message?”

“They want us to meet with ‘em at the Brass Jaw as soon as we can get there. Said they want to talk diplomacy.”

Okay, I’m now officially angry. Sitting up in bed I realize LaRonda or LaVonda or whoever the fuck was sleeping with me is gone. Bitch left the curtains wide open, too, which irritates me further. I hear the shower running, so I know that’s where she went not even bothering to wait for me.

“Diplomacy?” I yell, “Diplomacy? What the fuck do these Knuckleheads know about diplomacy? They come onto our turf, beat our dealers around and tag over our art and they want diplomacy? Fuck that!”

“I know, Perce, I know,” Philly’s calm tone isn’t helping me bring my temper down. “Thing is, MadBlack thinks the meeting is a good idea and told me to have you go talk to them. He said I should go along, too. He says it’s a lot better than starting a hot war with them and that we got more leverage this way.”

That little weasel! I know he conned MadBlack into saying that shit, but the thing is, once MadBlack gives an order like this there’s no way he’s going to back down on it. I’m stuck.

“Alright, Philly, you asshole, I know this was your idea, but whatever,” I sigh, “Where the hell is this Brass Jaw joint?”

“Man, it wasn’t my idea.” Liar. I can practically hear him wince as he tells me, “Out in Windale. Neutral territory, they’re saying.”

“God dammit!” I’m yelling again, “Windale, motherfucker? That’s way the fuck up town! And there’s no such thing as ‘neutral territory’, you know that!”

“I know, man,” he’s probably wishing someone else would’ve made this call for him. “I ain’t happy about it, either. But you’re a good talker. You can stop this war before it starts and maybe we’ll score some loot off those fuckers for not killing ‘em while we’re at it. They’re saying all they want is to use the park, not own it.”

“Well that’s awfully white of ‘em,” I scowl at the rain I can see through those damned open curtains. “Look here, Philly, since we have to go do this bullshit I want time to get ready. Need my shower, some breakfast and a joint. Where you at right now?”

“Downstairs in the living room.”

“Okay, get us a ride ready. And you’re gonna drive us, too.”

I hang up. Stretching out across the turquoise sheets, I savor my last few moments of peace before I have to get moving. My brain still feels a bit high from last night’s blunt. That Yukon Gold smoke will do it to you every time. I’m still not exactly sure when I went to sleep. The girl who kept me company isn’t Selachi, so that means there’s no chance I could get her pregnant. We’re only fertile with each other. That’s why she and I went at it so long last night. I must’ve had her in every way the Kama Sutra tells about. Freaky little thing, too. This thought reminds me that she’s still in the shower. Maybe if I hurry I can have her before breakfast. Nothing like a shower fuck to get the day started right. Plus, maybe she’ll have washed whatever nasty perfume she wore last night off of her.

“LaVonna!” I call through the bathroom door since she’s locked it on me, “Let me in, baby!”

The shower water stops. I hear the wet slap of feet on tile and the door’s lock turns. The door swings open and there she stands, holding one of my towels across her body.

“What?” her tone is ice cold. She makes each word into its own sentence. “The fuck did you just call me?”

“LaRonda.” Panic grips me, but I force it to hide behind my smile.

“Nobody in here named LaRonda,” her brown eyes drill me with a gaze I’m helpless to break. “Maybe you know a LaRonda. If so, then the next time you want someone to sleep with your inconsiderate ass, call her!”

She tries to slam the door on me, but I’m quick. I get my foot in there before it closes. My reflex forgot to take into account that I’m barefoot. This chick has some strength to her and I grit my teeth against the pain. She leans her weight against the door to keep me out.

“Sugar, you know it’s not like that!” I call to her. “I’m not good with names and it’s early!”

If I have to, I’ll break the damn door down. I’m getting my shower.

“To hell you are!” she shrieks, “Sure remembered it last night! Don’t you tell me it’s ‘early’, it’s four o’clock in the damned afternoon!”

“Nah, baby,” I’m holding the door off my foot, but not overpowering her. “I mean it’s early for me, you know? Nothing to be mad about. I remember your name, of course I do. You’re not a woman that’s easy to forget.”

She relaxes her press against the door a little, “Oh yeah?” her voice has a tricky feel to it. “Well go ahead and say my name, then. Prove it.”

I hesitate, struggling to remember and make myself sound at least half-confident. “Gorgeous is the name I remember you by, girl, because that’s the truth about you.”

The bitch actually chuckles at this, “That’s rich, Percy, real rich. Move your damned foot before I break it,” I start to protest as she continues to work on crushing my foot with the door. “It’s LaShonda, you fool!”

Enough of this. One night stands don’t require a person to remember a damn thing. I got her nice and high last night, let her sleep in my bed, use my shower and now she wants to pretend to be offended because I can’t remember the weird name her mother gave her. I slowly begin forcing the door open.

“LaShonda, baby girl,” I use my sweetest voice, “All this anger ain’t good for you. Let’s get in the shower and give me a chance to make things better between us. Fighting never solves things.”

“Shower with a guy that can’t remember my name?” she sounds furious again. “What kinda ho do you think I am?”

“Nah, girl,” I’ve almost squeezed myself inside the door. “We just need more time. Give me a chance to-”

She lets go of the door. That causes me to come stumbling in past her while the door slams against the inside wall. I regain my balance, turning to her. Something about girls just out of the shower drives me crazy. Maybe it’s my Selachi genes. Her straight black hair is still dripping down her back, which she has turned to me. Bending over she reaches for the towel she’d been holding. I snatch it away from her, giving her a playful slap on the ass.

“Don’t you touch me!” she screams, “Give me that fucking towel back!”

When she spins to face me her large breasts sway in such a way that not looking at them becomes a real challenge. Instead, I take all of her in. She told me last night that she’s half black and half Asian. Her face is what drew me to her. I’ve got a weakness for pretty faces. LaShonda’s face is a work of art: wide eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, a delicate nose and pouty lips. The rest of her isn’t bad, either. Noticing my wandering gaze, she rushes to cover herself.

“Oh, no, no, no!” she glares at me hard. “Give me that towel so I can get outta here.”

“Come on, Gorgeous,” I notice she’s staring at my erection. “We can soap each other up, you know?”

Her skin is the color of coffee with heavy cream. I lick my lips, my eyes drifting down below her navel to the close-cut tuft of hair between her legs. Then she covers that, too.

“Towel!” she demands.

“Okay,” I agree since I’ve got a plan now. “Let’s get you dried off, then.”

I hold the towel open in front of me, stepping forward to wrap it around her then I pull her close to me. This startles her and she takes in her breath sharply. Leaning down, I kiss her. At first she’s tense, caught off guard, but it’s only seconds before she relaxes and returns the kiss. I didn’t think she was really mad at me. Soon the towel drops as our kisses get deeper and more heated. We’ve got our hands on each other. She’s stroking me with a slow, twisting grip and I’ve got two fingers inside her. Like a dream, she steps into the shower and pulls me in with her. The water runs over us as I slide up inside her.

Author’s note: The next chapter will be posted on November 16th, 2009.

Chapter 2

What’s Buried in Benton

Once we get everyone suited up and strapped, we’re ready to roll. I check the Luger in my shoulder holster, enjoying the sound of the metallic click when I turn off the safety. After this I check the matching pistol I’ve got belted tightly inside the waist of my jeans and double-check my extra clips in the side pockets. I’ve probably got enough ammo on me to waste their entire crew, but as the old saying goes, ‘It’s better to be safe than dick-down and dead in the dirt!’

“MadBlack!” I call to him over the opening credits of The Devil’s Rejects DVD he’s just had one of his bitches start up for his viewing pleasure, “I’m snatchin’ a blunt off your stash! We’re going to Benton to take care of shit, aight?”

Mr. Nonchalant doesn’t even bother to turn his head or vocalize. He simply waves the back of his big hand at me in a shooing gesture.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too, baby!” I yell as I get into my parka. It’s freezing out there with a stiff wind blowing in off the ocean, so my Rocawear parka with sky blue fur lining is my protection from the miserable Seattle winter. Sky blue because that’s our color.

Every gang has its colors and Kingfins are no different. We usually roll in sky blue and dark green when we need to represent. The two rides we’re taking tonight are both Oldsmobiles since that’s the brand most Kingfins favor. An Aurora and an Intrigue, both from 2002 and both of them a shade of hunter green. The Aurora’s been worked on more since it’s Kettle’s ride and he’s a vain dude. He’s got it chromed out and the sound system’s been replaced so he can blast his Wu-Tang CD’s louder than he ought to. Kettle is visiting us from Sunset Point so normally that’s where he’d be, but when something goes down and a Kingfin’s around then we join right in. The Intrigue is stock right now and belongs to Ducky, who’s one of our newer recruits here in Doyle Heights. Even though most of us are smoking as we head to the rides, we wouldn’t need to in order to get the same effect, it’s cold out here and you see your breath with each exhale.

All together we got me, Philly Mako, Kettle, Ducky, Ronnie-K, Junior Maze, Dank, Big Pete and Whistler. Since the smoke starts settling into my lungs, I’m feeling pretty good and not real worried about the situation in Benton Park. Most of these boys are seasoned and with the exception of Ducky, capable of handling a gunfight if need be. Doubt we’re going to run into too much resistance. Kettle takes the lead, with Philly at his side and I slip in next to Ducky since I’m not too fond of arguing with Kettle over which Wu-Tang CD best fits the mood. I can be quite particular in my musical tastes which sits fine with Ducky. He agrees to go ahead and load up some old school Warren G for our trip. In a couple minutes we’ll be at the park, so even if he doesn’t dig the beat, it’s not long to suffer.

“So, Ducky,” I ask between puffs of my blunt, watching Ronnie-K and Dank passing a joint in the backseat, “You ready for this shit, man? May get real violent tonight. Think you can handle it?”

Ducky’s got his favorite Florida Marlins cap socked down low over his eyes, but he nods vigorously, “Hell yeah I am. I grew up right across the street from Benton. In those Squarewood apartments? My mom used to tell me to stay out of the park after dark because of muggers. Me and the homeboys would drink out there. Remember that shit, Ronnie?”

“Uh huh,” Ronnie-K’s freckled face has that relaxed look that tells me he’s getting a lot of good off that joint. “Fucking King Cobra or Mad Dog or whatever the fuck we could get a hold of. Good times.”

“Shit yeah!” Ducky’s head bobs in agreement, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I remember your old man came and found us out there one night when we didn’t come home. Passed out, drunk as damned bums. About four o’clock in the morning, wasn’t it?”

Ronnie nods, holding the smoke in from his latest drag. Dank takes the joint from him, grinning crazily. Dank’s quite the heavy smoker, nearly always stoned. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of opium-smoking Chinese, but his folks actually came over from Cambodia before he was born.

“My mom was at work so I beat her home from her shift at the restaurant,” Ducky follows Kettle’s Aurora and pulls into the parking lot behind them, looking for an open slot. “You musta got smacked around pretty good for that one because you had a black eye the next day.”

“Yeah,” Ronny doesn’t appear to like this memory, “Scottish temper, man, he always had that Scottish temper. ‘Specially when he’d been drinking all night.”

Our car rolls to a stop and Ducky cuts the engine. Philly Mako and his crew are already getting out of the Intrigue. We aren’t the only cars here this late despite the fact that the park closes after dark. Plenty of business gets conducted in Benton twenty four hours a day. In fact, after surveying the area I’d say there are more cars here than usual. That’s most likely because the Knuckleheads shook the dealers down tonight. Probably caused a few shortages and now the customers have to wait around to score. I exit the vehicle and stroll over to Philly who’s waiting leaned up against Kettle’s car.

“So how you wanna do this?” he asks, lighting himself one of those nasty Newports he smokes. “You’re in charge here.”

“Bet your ass I am,” I tell him with a grin. “I’m thinking Dank and Junior Maze should re-tag our shit since that’s what they’re good at. You guys got your spray ready?”

Junior Maze speaks up first, “Hell yeah,” he shakes the backpack he’s brought along for the job, causing the cans to jangle. “I can cover that shit real quick. ‘Specially with a partner.”

“Long as he’s got the paint,” Dank adds, “I’m up for some art, man.”

“Right on,” I tell the group, “Ronnie-K and Big Pete, I want you boys to keep our rides on lockdown and ring my cell if you see the cops moving in. Got it?”

“Nobody gonna touch ‘em,” Big Pete assures me with a toss of his head.

“Good. Now let’s go find Ramos. Where’d he say he’d be at?” I ask Philly.

“He usually hangs out in the dark part and has his girls do the transactions,” Philly responds, thumbing the direction he believes Ramos to be in. “Surprised he ain’t come walking this way, but he’s probably sweating over the lost cash.”

“How much did he lose?” I ask.

“I think around two grand.”

“Shit!” I’m surprised the moron would keep that much on him after dark. “Must be a good night for slangin’ then. Whatever. Let’s find him and figure out what the story is on these Knuckleheads. Then we’ll hit up the other dealers and see if they got shook.”

The four of us head towards the dark part of the park, looking larger than life in our big parkas. The park would have lights all over it, but for years it’s been the same story: the city installs new lighting on the north side and the next night it gets shot out again. Dealers like their cover, you see. So do the dope fiends that frequent Benton. If one side doesn’t darken the place, the other will. All in the name of capitalism.

Ramos looks pretty nervous. Took us a while to find him since he decided to hide out in case the Knuckleheads came back for him. He’s by no means the only dealer out here tonight, probably five of them all together, but he’s the most established and definitely has his regular clientele. As far as slangers go, Ramos is a decent dude. Of course, that’s not saying much because he’s still the kind of guy who’d cheat his own mother if he saw the chance to make a buck. Unlike some of the crackheads out here trying to hustle, Ramos spends his wad on his appearance so he always looks sharp. Some people think he’s a pimp and others swear he’s a gigolo. He may be both. I couldn’t care less either way.

No matter which way you slice it, even in the orange haze from the streetlights, Ramos clearly identifies as a metrosexual. That or a homosexual, take your pick. He’s got on his usual wintertime coat, some expensive designer label duster. His stocking cap looks normal enough to me, but he probably spent a fortune on that, too. Standing in the shadow of an ancient redwood, he watches our approach. He’s definitely feeling skittish tonight, I can tell by the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot as he scans the park.

“Finally!” his voice is high, grating against my buzz. “Took you guys long enough. What the fuck? I pay you good money to protect me and you can’t even send me soldiers in under half an hour?”

“Chill out, Ramos,” Philly barks, “We got more to do around here than wiping your ass. Now tell Perce what happened.”

“Fucking Knuckleheads, man,” Ramos’ anger boils, he’s rubbing his nose with his gloved hand every few words. “Came through here and started saying they want payment. I say payment for what? For not curbstomping us tonight they tell me. Four great big dudes, all biker’d out in chains and leather and shit.”

“Shook you down?” I ask as I exhale some smoke in his direction. “How much they take?”

“Off me?” his twitchiness irritates me, must’ve dipped into his own stash to handle the stress. “Shit, like two grand, easy. Searched my pockets for it. No way I was gonna take them on. Big ex-cons, looks like. Beards and all that Hell’s Angels bullshit. You guys know how they are.”

“Shoulda popped ‘em one!” Ducky says, demonstrating by whipping out the piece I gave him back at the house. “You can’t take that kinda treatment, man! Cap one and I bet they all run, too.”

“Ducky?” I’m glaring at him. He can tell even in this poor lighting. “Shut the fuck up. And put that damned gat away. Ramos doesn’t need to be shooting people. Only draws the cops in here, any ways. Smart thing is to let us handle it. Right, Ramos?”

“Definitely,” he nods emphatically, “Besides, I don’t strap when I’m selling. I got a Maglite and that’s risk enough. I see trouble, I usually run, but these guys came in from different directions and running from a Knucklehead is only gonna earn you a blanket party. Even if you get away, they’re gonna put a price on your ass after that.”

“That’s right,” Philly lights himself another cigarette. “So what they want with Benton Park? Did they tell you?”

A woman comes striding up from Ramos’ left. She pauses and her eyes flit towards us, trying to determine if we’re friends or foes. When she reaches Ramos, they reach toward one another like they’re about to shake hands. She’s passing him cash and he’s giving her dope. It all happens extremely fast and if you aren’t aware of what you’re looking at, it’d simply look like they just gave each other five. Since she greeted him with, “Hey Daddy,” I know she’s telling him she needs a few grams of cocaine. Expensive stuff. She’ll walk that back to the customer who just paid her. Most likely some middle manager in a Lexus or similarly half-luxurious ride. The girls who work for Ramos give him an extra buffer by doing the transactions for him. He’s very methodical in the way he sells. The girls handle the customers, he bags everything himself with gloves on to eliminate prints on the bags, and he’s got pockets with escape hatches for the dope should he be approached by the police. He’s methodical about personal hygiene, too. His teeth practically glow white whenever he grimaces or smiles.

“Said some dude named Darkhorse told them to take Benton,” he sounds apprehensive about revealing this next bit, “Said Kingfins got twenty four hours to give up the turf or there’s gonna be a war over it. Called you squids, though, not Kingfins.”

The boys all look to me for my reaction, which is a chuckle, “Twenty-four hours, huh? That’s all official of them. I don’t know who this Darkhorse fucker is, but he’s in for quite a re-adjustment to his ballsy way of doing things. Kingfin territory doesn’t get given up. They want blood, they get blood. Theirs, not ours.”

“I know, Perce,” Ramos sounds whiny at this point. “You know I’m down with Kingfins. You know that! Thing is, I can’t protect myself down here and I’m losing a lot of money. Money you guys get a cut of, every time,” he’s lying but I let it slide. “And I ain’t got nobody here to look out for me. If they come back, what do I tell them? I’m gonna call my friends?”

“You don’t say anything,” I step forward, taking some smoke from the blunt, holding it while I talk. “What you do this time is run. Fast as you can. Then you call us and we ride down here and make these overzealous shit buckets wish they’d never heard of Benton Park. You clear on that, Ramos?”

“Oh yeah,” his grin is wide but scared. “Okay. Okay. But I mean, I lost money and…”

“They take any your supplies?” Philly asks him.

“Couple sacks of primo Columbian, yeah.”

Now I’m suspicious, “They snort the shit in front of you, too?”

“Yeah man, sucked it right up their noses. Must be dedicated baseheads.”

“Uh huh,” my eyes narrow. I smell a rat. “And you didn’t pass them a trick sack?”

Trick sacks are what Ramos carries to sell to people he hates. Or narcs. Looks like your normal dope, but it’s poison. Sometimes arsenic or something equally lethal. In this case he should’ve employed that and it would have put a stop to this.

“Man, I can’t do that!” Ramos’ eyes double in size. “First one to drop into convulsions would’ve got the others on me like a pack of dogs!”

He’s got a point.

“Aight, well, look,” I tell him, gesturing with my blunt, “We got our tags going back up right now. We’re gonna talk to the other dealers and figure out what all went down. They come back, you call us that very second.”

“Hell yeah I will,” Ramos seems relieved. “And sorry I can’t pay you guys for tonight.”

“It’s cool,” I reassure him. “You can owe us later.”

He starts to protest, then thinks the better of it.

We walk off towards another of the dealers. First we hit up Duster, a tall and scrawny dude who got his name from the long black coat he wears through every season. He’s walking back from the parking lot, just having completed a sale. I immediately notice the cut above his right eye. Though he hasn’t got any useful information for us, he does confirm that he got that cut from the Knuckleheads. Apparently he felt they weren’t entitled to five free hits of his best acid. Smart mouthing them turned out to be a mistake. Duster whipped out his knife and they didn’t appreciate the resistance. Jumped him quick and held him down so they could slice him with his own blade. A lesson, they told him, of what happens when you don’t know your place in the Saxon pecking order. Took a whole bunch of his blotter supply, too. They didn’t bother with his shrooms.

Oxy, the pharmaceuticals specialist of Benton, tell us he played along. A kiss-ass routine seems to do a little better with Knuckleheads. None of his cash or pills got taken because they liked his attitude. Knowing Oxy, I’m sure he seemed harmless with his poofy afro and down home demeanor. Of course, the fact that he happened to be the last dealer they approached gave him a definite edge. After watching what they did to the others, he knew getting bitchy was liable to cost him. Two of them he remembered names for. The biggest one, who wore an eye patch, was named Uncle Fritz. The one with streaks of red dye in his beard they called Skully.

Last, but certainly not least, we found Josiah sitting at one of the picnic tables. Josiah isn’t a big guy, but he’s strong as a pitbull and has the temperament of a starving wolverine. I’ve seen him fight before. I still remember the time some dude yanked a bag of weed from him and tried running off. Josiah caught him somewhere around the basketball courts. Tackled the thief with such finesse it’d have made any good coach tear up. He claims he wrestled in high school a few years ago, but since he spent more time studying bongs than his homework, he lost his scholarship. Mouthy by nature and one of those guys who hasn’t got the slightest idea when to shut up, his strategy involved trying to debate the Knuckleheads. It got him a few punches. Those gave him one hell of pair of black eyes. Lost a tooth, too, the poor fool. Despite this, he managed to find out why those bastards want Benton.

They’re dowsing for something buried in this park.

Author’s note: You can find Chapter Three here on November 13, 2009!

Chapter 1

Getting Called Out

MadBlack and I have some friends over, most of them bangers, to kick it with us tonight. As usual we have massive quantities of beer, liquor of assorted brands and plenty of sticky herb to help lift the tensions of a day on the streets. There’s not only Doyle Heights’ gangstas here, but we invited some of the crews from Pinewood, Sunset Point and Cherry Hill, too. Probably around thirty of us in here doing our thing. Dancing to that crunk shit I can’t stand or enjoying Scarface on MadBlack’s big-ass plasma TV. Of course, there’s no party without the women and let me tell you, a virtual rainbow of feminine beauty shines all throughout this house.

Halfway through Scarface, Philly Mako’s cell starts going off. No way are we pausing the flick, of course, but I’m watching him out the corner of my eye. Philly’s got connections in the drug game we play down at Benton Park, a seedy place a few blocks from this house we’re partying in. Apparently, the conversation sours because the boy looks like he’s seeing red. Despite his dark Latin complexion, I can see pink seeping into his cheeks. He slams his phone shut, takes a swig off his Coors tallboy and stalks across the room towards me. Leaning over, he fills me in on what’s going down at the park.

“Fucking Knuckleheads roughed Ramos up pretty bad, Perce,” his voice is low, but loud enough to hear over the movie and clear enough to convey his anger, “Told him and some of the other slangers that they’re taking Benton Park from us by truce or by force.”

Knuckleheads are what we call the Diamondknuckle Saxons, a Seattle branch of the TKC or Teutonic Knight Cabal. While Kingfins come from all ethnic backgrounds, the only color I’ve ever seen a Knucklehead be is white. They aren’t racist per say, but they do trace their roots back to medieval Germany, though it’s doubtful they’ve got anything more than a loose connection with the underbelly of the Roman Catholic Church. A lot of their shot-callers are actual German immigrants, and these guys refuse to be taken lightly. Then again, so do Kingfins.

“No way we’re giving up Benton,” I tell Philly, “Good chunk of the tech workforce stops by there for their white dope nightly. No way.”

“I know it, Perce,” Philly looks like he might start shaking, he’s grinding his teeth as he talks, “We took that shit from those punk ass Blues straight out. Ramos says they’re taggin’ over top of our shit, too. Fucking black crosses!”

The black cross is the general symbol for all TKC crews because it goes way back. Ironic that an all-white gang would use a black cross, right? Well, these fools aren’t your average gangbangers. They’re closer to Hells Angels than anything else. Tend to sport black leather, heavy beards and muscles inked with all sorts of Germanic imagery. Most of their street soldiers are plain old humans, but among those there are the ones who practice various kinds of sorcery. It’s rumored they’ve got some vampires holding leadership positions, too. They’re called Diamondknuckles because most of them use runic tattoo magic associated with stones and wear a lot of rings and other jewelry. When they activate their artifacts and symbols they’re calling on the strength of stone which allows them to hit real hard and deflect huge amounts of impact. Some of these fuckers are downright bulletproof. Real pain in the ass to deal with.

“Bombing our symbology?” I ask my increasingly irate friend, “Just in Benton or all over our turf?”

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head, seeming disappointed at not knowing this answer, “I doubt they want to start a war. They don’t usually run dope do they?”

“Nah, most those Wonder Bread honky motherfuckers are into fencing,” I down another shot of Avalanche, letting the mint-flavored alcohol burn down my throat, “That or robbing jewelry stores. They like the precious metals and gemstones. Don’t usually fool with narcotics. Must be hard up for cash right now.”

“Fuck that!” Philly spits his words, “Nobody yanks game off Kingfins! Ramos tells me they called us ‘Squids’, can you believe that shit? Squids! Who do these pigfuckers think they are?”

“Calm down, Philly,” I give him my icy voice, direct eye contact, “Nothing we can’t handle. Get some boys together and I’ll tell MadBlack we’re gonna ride on them. We’ll have some of the boys ride down to Benton and put our sprays back up. Cover all their bullshit with ours. Then hang around and make sure it stays up,” I emphasize this last part.

“Done,” Philly nods, then takes off.

“Hey, MadBlack, I got some bad news,” I tap his shoulder, but he’s deeply engrossed in the movie now. This ritual has become one of his favorites. He sits in his maroon leather recliner sipping a scotch and taking in pulls of smoke off his blunt, always wearing sunglasses. Every line of Scarface has been committed to his memory, but he never quotes it unless he’s asked to.

“You listening, man?” I know he can hear me, my mouth isn’t far from his ear, “We got a problem. Knuckleheads trying to take over Benton Park.”

“Shit ain’t happening,” his deep voice seems unbothered, nonchalant, “Too much money to back off on. We made ten grand in rent money down there this week alone.”

“Yeah, well, Ramos called up Philly to tell us they got leaned on down there. Knuckleheads are spraying over our turf signs, too, it looks like. I’m gonna get some boys together and ride down there right now. Handle this quick if it’s alright with you?”

Normally, I wouldn’t be asking anyone for permission to do anything, but MadBlack’s been an established part of Seattle Kingfins for longer than I have, so he’s got more juice than me. He might come across like a lazy son of a bitch, but if he gets mad, he’ll stand up. When he stands up he’s six foot nine inches of “Georgia-bred farmin’ Negro” as he’d say. His size allows him to get more leadership done with less effort. I respect this.

“Yeah,” he drawls, “Go ahead, do that. Before you go, check the upstairs. Room on the left, end of the hall. Got us some new heat. Make sure all y’all strappin’ to avoid trouble. Hear me?”

“For sure,” I can’t help but grin at his daddy side showing, “We’ll run ‘em off as quick as they came in. Count on it.

He nods, exhaling a fresh plume of smoke into the room. I head upstairs to see what all he’s got for us. Generally, he stores things in simple cardboard boxes so if we need to move in a hurry it looks natural. Of course, this makes it difficult to tell what exactly is in each box. Doesn’t take me long to find the one holding several Luger 9mm semi-automatics. Should do the trick. I spread them out on the bed and start digging around for extra clips of ammo to hand out with them. Most of our boys should have their own pieces already, but for those that don’t we’ll be offering these. My phone goes off as I’m getting ready to head downstairs. It’s Philly Mako.

“Yeah?”

“Six of us ready to go, Perce. Where you at?”

“Upstairs,” I’m getting a little adrenaline going now, “Send up anybody who doesn’t already have a piece. I got some nines waiting for them.”

“No problem,” Philly still sounds pretty pissed off, “I’ll get the cars ready. I think yours and mine will work, right?”

“Fuck no!” I wonder if the phone’s signal is tripping up, “Our cars? You new here, Philly? We take one of their cars in case the park gets hot. We don’t want to get our rides getting mixed up in this. Might get shot to pieces!” he’s mumbling some half-ass apology, but I don’t give a shit, “Get the cars ready. We only need two.”

Author’s note: Next chapter goes up November 10th, 2009

Prologue

We surround you.

Freaks, monsters, mutants, demons, ghosts. We’re part of your world and we affect the course of events in it, whether you’re aware of that or not. There are millions of reasons that you may not know of, or believe in, our existence. I am one of those reasons.

My name is Percy Straight and I’m good at what I do. My career, or calling as I’d rather refer to it, involves among other things, assassination. Not so much the assassination of people, which I’ll do if it needs to be done, but the death of memories. That’s part of the reason very few human beings genuinely believe in the existence of the supernatural. If a human being witnesses something strange and fails to remember it, the gossip never spreads. At this point in Earth’s history we pay premium prices to preserve our secrecy. We can no longer afford the luxury of fucking up.

You see, thousands of years ago when the planet’s population of homo sapiens remained manageable we could interact with them freely. Sometimes even form mutually beneficial relationships between our civilizations. Now, you may be expecting me to spin some moralistic tale of an epic struggle between benevolent Primordials and evil human scum or maybe vice versa, but it ain’t that simple. At least for me it’s not. Have you ever looked up at the sky on a clear night and seen all those shimmering stars? Doesn’t look like our universe is quite so cut and dried.  I’ve found that simple truths are rarely whole truths and that goes for our history, too. I’m relating only what I know of it and I’m sure it’s not the entire story.

According to my culture, thousands of years ago, long before Babylon or Egypt rose to prominence we made a huge mistake. Our kind, Zoakin, served as ambassadors to humanity. Each of our ancestors came into this world as the offspring of the Zoa: gods of the animals on Earth. The gods failed at successfully interacting with the humans without scaring the shit out of them, so they created offspring, the Zoakin, to help bridge the gap and ensure harmonious relationships between man and so-called beasts. These Zoakin closely resembled humans, yet they had different traits and abilities due to their heritage. Essentially we were shape shifters and perceived with awe by other humans. This seems like a nice set-up, but as I said, nothing is quite so cut and dried when it comes to this world we’re living in.

Now, if all Primordials got along things might’ve run smoothly. Hell, if the Zoa all got along well or at least tolerated each other, that might’ve put our kind at the top of the heap. That’s not how it works, though. The Primordials of this world refuse to be one big happy family. There’s politics, infighting and back-stabbing galore. Early vampires fought Zoakin, early Zoakin fought each other and then the humans entered the fray. The world broiled with war before the arrival of mankind and so far as I know war remains its constant state. You might have a nation and inside that nation several different factions. Within those factions there will be cliques and within those cliques there will be individuals. People all bring different perspectives to the table, playing to win whether they’re Primordial or not.

Let’s get back on track, though. Where did Primordials go wrong? How did we end up in a world apparently dominated by human beings who appear bent on destroying their own home? As I see it, we got lazy. Originally, our objective meant working with the humans to keep our ecosystems balanced. We underestimated this species of clawless, fangless and relatively poorly-armored creatures’ ability to band together to share learning. We blew our time fighting each other for control over the world. We wanted to be dominant, too, so instead of focusing on protecting ourselves and our home, we struggled for power amongst each other. We tricked the humans, abused them and used them to our advantage. They grew distrustful. Their fear of us mushroomed over time. In response, they began to stick together, coming to see themselves as the persecuted species of the world. They came to view the world around them as hostile and bent on the destruction of their kind.

While we were busy jockeying for position as their gods, disrespecting our own heritage, they created their own gods in their own image. They might’ve had those gods before, too, I don’t know either way. The bottom line is that once they began to view things in that ‘us against the world’ light, they started struggling to bring the world, our world, under their control. Anything they were fearful of they killed. Anything that stood to challenge them, they tore down. Their religions began to reflect this. At first we were merely demons. Then, over time, they lauded our very existence as childish imagination, the domain of fools and lunatics. They had their own kinds of supernatural knowledge which they used against us. Witches, sorcerers, shamans and all manner of powerful human mystics. Of course, they didn’t end up joining hands in unity either, so we did dodge total extinction. Their mystical elite still seek our demise, but we’ve been fighting back. We’ll continue to do so. Hopefully we can keep an apocalypse at bay, even if we’re not able to bring the world into our perfect vision of it.

Now, history is all good and fine, but it’s not got a lot to do with me personally in anything other than a very abstract way. I’m not a scholar so my perspective on the Primordial situation as it stands these days remains limited. I’m merely a Starborn Selachi doing his damnedest to stay true to his colors on the streets and keep his ass alive. Selachi are a breed of Zoakin connected to sharks. You can think of me as part human, part shark. That’d be fairly accurate though I feel a stronger affinity for my aquatic ancestors. In the same way they’ve swam the seas since the beginning of time helping keep balance, so I roam these streets to keep what balance I can. Since I’m Starborn I’m believed to have a special destiny. Starborn simply means that I came into this world at a specific date and time in a location that received extra energy from the cosmos. In Selachi culture, we believe in a version of astrology that differs from other versions. We map our constellations out differently and our system is more complex than what you might be familiar with. In fact, we have special telescopes to observe the sky with that show us things unseen by purely human technology.

My destiny demands I hunt the world for individuals and groups who seek to destroy my kind and Primordials as a whole. I work to shield us all from public exposure and the hysterical annihilation that would surely follow. I also work to establish Selachi as a viable faction within the ZSR – short for Zoakin Spirit Rebellion, our international movement. I serve in the Kingfin Street Militia, part of the Beast Folk Nation alliance. I consider all Kingfins to be blood and all Beast Folk Nation to be family. I’ve killed for them and they’d kill for me. While my position’s technically not considered royalty, I maintain status and respect within both organizations or ‘gangs’ if you want to be crude about it. Since I was born in Seattle I joined the Kingfins because my crew, the Cedar River set, was Kingfin affiliated. It’s complicated shit, but if you know anything about how the Crips, Bloods or Latin Kings work then you’ve got an idea of what I’m talking about. If not, you’ll learn as we go. I did.

The Kingfin Street Militia by no means controls Seattle. This city sprawls all over the place, adding new suburbs at a crazy pace. Whenever you add a new suburb, you got new gangs cropping up. Kingfins run nationwide, mainly in metropolitan areas along both coasts, but we’re steadily expanding. One of my more mundane jobs in our esteemed organization is setting up new chapters for the KSM. We increase our piece of the turf this way. A veteran like me, an OG, or Original Gangsta, settles into a promising neighborhood and starts recruiting. We hit up the parks, the clubs or anywhere people hang out. My newest chapter happens to be the Doyle Heights set. My homeboy MadBlack and I set up shop a few months back. So far we’ve sent both the Doyle Heights Blues and the 82^nd Avenue Shakers back about 20 blocks in all four directions. Soon we’ll have this section of town on lockdown.

Kingfins don’t fuck around.

Author’s note: I am publishing this Prologue now so that the story of Swimming the Streets finally goes live before I get ‘busy’ once again and procrastinate. Next part comes on November 7th, 2009

© Copyright 2006 – 2009 Wolfgang Nibori