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

Tags: benton park, diamondknuckle saxons, kingfins, madblack, philly mako, ramos