Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta

by Darrell King

  “Peel dat niggah’s cap, Tony and let’s get the fuck outta here!” said one of the two.

  ”Naw! Not yet. I want this bitch ta be wide awake when I blast his ass!”

  The hoodlum with the gun returned, unzipping his pants. I was coming slowly from around the back of the car when I saw that common bastard take his dick out and piss in T’s face. T came to, startled, sputtering and gagging from the pungent urine which cascaded down onto his face and entering his eyes, nostrils and mouth. After kicking him a few times and cussing at him they circled him like two wolves preparing to attack. I took advantage of the moment and ran yelling across the sidewalk towards the two Bloods. I caught the punks off guard, and stopped just long enough to fire down on ‘em.

  The M-16 violently shook my lithe pubescent frame as it discharged round after round of white hot lead into the visibly shaken pair. The two Bloods slumped lifelessly to the ground. Their bodies twitching spasmodically in the violent throes of death. Sirens sounded in the distance and a hysterical crowd had gathered to identify their dead. They started becoming belligerent towards Pretty T and myself, calling us “babykillers” and murders.

  So Pretty T and me hightailed it outta there. We felt bad leaving the bodies of our homeboys behind like that, but there wasn’t anything that could be done for them now. After this happened, about two or three months passed by before I hung out at “headquarters” again. Once you become a gang member you’re usually a member for life, and I was. But most of my crew were high school dropouts and juvenile delinquents.

  Therefore, most of ‘em hung around all day getting stoned, selling drugs or just plain being lazy. But I had a life besides the Reapers. I was still doing well in school despite my nocturnal activities. Although I had dropped from a b – average with one or two c’s thrown in, Mama had to spend most of her time with you.

  *****

  Now I know that she definitely was on a mission! It was as though Los Angeles itself, the death of her husband, and your birth, had transformed her into some demon-possessed soul, just like that little white girl in the “Exorcist” flick. We used to talk, but now we became distant. She used to show me deep affection and concern, but now all she did was criticize me—and holler most of the time. The only positive thing Mama did for me at that time was prepare my meals and do my dirty laundry. Even then I still loved our mother like any child should. And I simply tried to grin and bear with her verbal and mental abuse. If there were ever such a thing as rolling with the punches, I should be a pro by now.

  I was bored one evening so I flipped on the T.V. and saw a news bulletin. It announced that another dangerous gang, the “Crips” had been caught preparing a gang raid on their arch rival the “Bloods,” whom we had just recently tangled with months earlier. The reporter went on to say that tempers flared between the gang members and the police which caused the situation to escalate, making things quite ugly.

  Five gang members were shot and killed by the

  cops, and more than seventeen members were taken into custody. The LAPD reported that several officers had sustained minor injuries during the brief confrontation. At first I paid no attention to the bulletin because gang violence was nothing new and happened quite often. But then as the reporter gave the names of the identified shooting victims, I recognized three of the five names mentioned. They were Reapers! I wanted more info on this showdown with the “Fuzz” so I threw on my “Reaper” gear and headed outside.

  Scarcely had I turned the corner when Skippy pulled up besides me in his old Volkswagen.

  “Hop in!” Skip shouted over the noisy clatter of the engine. I opened the door and eased inside. Then we zoomed off in the direction of the hideaway. When we arrived I was greeted by many of my homies and embraced by several cuties. With the brief greetings over, I was then conducted upstairs with the others. As usual, marijuana cigarettes were passed around, as were the many bottles of malt liquor and cheap wine.

  As Skippy seated himself on a large couch, a half-naked bitch came over and sat in his lap with a small glass mirror and a little snuff box. While the motley crew of gangbangers and their assorted bitches smoked, drank and restlessly fidgeted with their weapons, Skippy took some ‘caine from the snuff box, tasted it, then scooped some up with an elongated fingernail grown for the purposes and took three quick sniffs. He then smacked the scantily dressed hoochie on the behind, telling her to get up.

  As she did so, he himself arose. He eyed the assembly of ruffians before him. Then he acknowledged them, who in return gave their salutations with gang signs. He nodded then seated himself again on the couch.

  “Brothers! Sisters! We have a real bad problem here!” said Skippy holding up a police badge for all to see. “Our problem is this!” barked the gang leader, now furiously shaking the badge. “Yeah, this right here is our problem! Every time you need these motherfuckas where the hell are they? When they see a group of brothers just jiving, they fuck with you! Like just the other day, us and a few Crip brothers were just kicking it on the corner when the ‘man’ starts fuckin’ with us for no reason whatsoever! They see a bunch of niggas from the hood congregating and automatically were up to no good. Even when we tried to avoid problems, they started roughing us up an’ shit! And before you know it pow! The bitchass motherfuckas start blastin’ niggas!”

  “Why the fuck would they want ta do that?!” asked a nearby hood.

  “Why? Because ‘whitey’ don’t like yo black ass, motherfucka, that’s why!”

  Skippy bellowed, snatching a bottle of wine from the questioner’s hand and taking a swig, he then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and tossed the empty bottle to the side.

  “Obviously they don’t know who they’re fuckin’ with! So I guess we’ll just have ta smoke a few ‘pigs’ and teach ‘em not ta mess with no Reapers or Crips in the future!” Skippy concluded, to the agreement of the gang members.

  Then he looked in my direction, and beckoned me to his side. When I got up and stood beside him, he gave me a brotherly embrace. Then he said, “DiAngelo, I love you and Paco like you two were my own little brothers. I ain’t never seen a kid with the balls ta do the shit you’ve done. If it hadn’t been for you, Pretty T here would’ve been dead,” Skippy said nodding in T’s direction. “You damn near got more balls than me!” he said, grinning slightly. “But this time things might get a little too hairy even for you ta handle. This will be the first time me and my homies throw down with ‘five-o’ and even I have butterflies right about now. A lot of us are gonna get locked up… and some of us are gonna get smoked. So, if you want out, just say the word… we all will understand.”

  I looked at Skippy for a while then at the silent

  group awaiting my response, I turned once more to face the leader of the Reapers. “All my life I’ve surprised those older then me who thought of me as but a child and expected me to act like one. They were always mistaken. I was born and raised in the heart of Brooklyn, New York, so I know what the word hairy means. I ain’t afraid of nobody…” I said proudly. “And as for jail, hell you get free food and shelter, and as for death, why worry about something that’s gonna eventually happen to ya anyway? Fuck it! I say let’s go out and ‘pop a cop’!” There was an outburst of loud cheering at my decision, with the nearest gangbangers taking hold of me and hoisting me onto their shoulders. That night the gang celebrated with drugs, sex, food and music. I was the guest of honor during this riotous affair.

  The very next day, about twenty-five Reapers joined by a couple Crips loaded into six cars and went cruisin’ in search of the police. A most strange roll reversal, indeed. When a police cruiser was spotted a few cars sped past, pumping it full of lead, but amazingly the occupants inside were unharmed. The driver radioed in for assistance before a thirty-eight slug tore into his temple, splattering his brain matter all over the windshield and dashboard.

  Before his colleague could react to the sudden, vicious attack, he too was laid low by a barrage of gunfire. But al
l in all, our little fracas with the “fuzz” was more of rout in their favor than a war. Like fools we all stuck around waiting for the reinforcements to arrive, joking about how easy it had been disposing of these two. But when the L.A.P.D. finally did arrive they definitely meant business!

  There were more than twenty police cruisers which unloaded dozens of heavily armed officers. These were accompanied by the S.W.A.T. and K-9 units. I saw that this was one time we had bitten off much more than we could chew. I couldn’t tell you how many of my gang homies got smoked on that crisp fall evening back in ’76, but let me put it bluntly: only ten members survived that bloody encounter with the police. Of that ten, only three escaped arrest. Those three lucky ones were Skippy, Pretty T, and a cat named Le Roy. The other unfortunate seven, including myself, were arrested, convicted and shortly thereafter jailed.

  I was tried as an adult, but because of my young age I was taken from Mama and placed within a juvenile detention center, just as my older brother Paco had been before me when we lived back east. It was a big place with two floors and more than fifty or sixty rooms. Actually it looked kinda like an old high school or something. All the classrooms had been renovated and changed over to boarding rooms, with the smaller rooms accommodating two or three kids and the larger rooms bolding as many as six kids at a time.

  The top floor held the girls and the bottom floor held the boys. The primary function of this particular detention center was to deliver a basic educational system, teaching elementary and junior high school studies. Everyone woke up at seven a.m. sharp at the raucous clanging of the school bell. We all showered, dressed, then went to breakfast in the building’s cafeteria. Afterwards, everyone attended classes much the same as we would in regular school. We went to class from eight a.m. until two p.m. After classes concluded we all went to lunch. Then everyone had his and her own prescribed chores to do about the facility.

  Even though things were pretty strict, and regulated, the “hardheads” still found ways of breakin’ the rules, and what not, like gambling for instance. Almost every day in the evening after the chores were done, about ten or twelve hardheads would gather around downstairs in the basement area and shoot dice. As usual I would win most of the times, having had previous gambling experience. Ever since we were given little odds and ends for our completed chores and passing test grades, lots of guys had nice jewelry and sneakers.

  I’d win at least fifty or sixty bucks a game, plus jewelry and an occasional porno or comic magazine. On one particular day however, we were all gambling downstairs and I was getting’ crazy paid when I was accused of cheatin’ by this big Chicano kid named Francisco.

  “Hey man! You’ve been using marked dice motherfucka!” he blurted out angrily. “So you just best gimme back all that shit you’ve just cheated me out of!”

  At age twelve I had begun smoking cigarettes also and the fellas would sneak in cigarettes and bet on cartons of those as well. Anyway, to make a long story short, the Mexican fool snatched a pack out of my hand and pushed me rudely onto the hard floor. Everyone immediately began laughing at and taunting me as I lay on the cold, dank basement floor. As I tried to arise I was kicked sharply in the stomach and ribs several times by the husky Mexican.

  “You fuckin’ cheater!” Francisco hollered, “I oughta knife your ass right fuckin’ now!” The reform school as a rule relieved all arriving delinquents of knives, guns and other weapons, but that sure as hell didn’t stop the manufacturing of homemade niceties such as zip-guns and shanks; which of the two my attacker threatened me with the latter.

  The one which Francisco brandished in his hands was quite a good-sized and wicked looking weapon, which had been purposely left to rust in order to infect the intended victim with lockjaw or tetanus, as the wielder of the shank dished out severe lacerations to his opponent. A few of the guys now found this brief action no longer humorous as Francisco menacingly approached me, gripping the shank ever so tightly within his grasp. One kid obviously braver than his homies, leaped forward in between us and barred the Mexican’s path, unknowingly buying me enough time to regroup.

  “Hey look here, Jack,” said the tall straight teenager stepping up to the stocky Chicano. “We don’t give a fuck if you two bastards kill each other, but just do it another time, somewhere else. But not right here and not right now cause if them security guards or janitors hears any noise down here in this basement where we don’t got no business being at, our asses are grass!” At first it looked as though the burly Francisco and the tall, sinewy brother were going to lock horns as well.

  But after a brief standoff Francisco put away his shank and scowled with anger at me saying in response, “I guess you’re right. This high yellow piece o’ shit should thank you, cause ya just saved his fuckin’ life!” With that said he grabbed his crotch while loudly clearing his throat, spat a thick glob of sickly yellowish phlegm at my feet. Everyone once again roared with laughter as they collected their few winnings and dice, then turned to leave.

  But as far as I was concerned that bastard Francisco had gotten away with far too much, and I wasn’t about to allow this last indignity go unanswered. Before Francisco could climb the stairs with the others, he found himself tumbling down the stairwell, sliding across the basement floor and crashing awkwardly against the corner wall which brought boxes and a shelf of canned food all over the place.

  Francisco was dazed, and bewildered at the moment. So I leaped upon his spread-eagled form and whipped his ass proper like before I was roughly pulled away. As I was being pulled off of Francisco I hurled insults of all kinds. Unfortunately for us, a number of security guards appeared on the scene and escorted all of us to the dean’s quarters. We were all put on restrictions for a month, meaning no allowances, no recreation time, and plenty of classroom duties, along with triple chore duties.

  During my stay at the reform school, I never did become friends with Francisco, but I did manage to get his respect from then on. But the tall teenager who broke up the fight became a really good friend of mine during my stay in the joint. His name was Charles but everyone inside called him “Tree,” because of his great height. He stood approximately six feet six, with good size to go with his height. He had told me that he was a talented hoopster and had been a high school all-city star. He also stated that he’d dreamed of playing in the NBA, but due to his involvement with gangs and dope, he had ended up in reform school with all the other adolescent thugs.

  “Yeah I’m in here now, but I don’t plan on stayin’ in this hellhole too much longer. I’m getting’ the fuck up outta here in about a month’s time,” he said.

  “You think so huh?” I asked curiously.

  “You’re goddamned right!” Tree said confidently. “I don’t think shit, I know!” he concluded.

  “How the fuck are you gonna get outta this place with all these fuckin’ security guards runnin’ all over the place?” I questioned him.

  “All ya need is brains my brother… the black man is ‘God’. Don’t you ever forget that DiAngelo,” he returned, “and there ain’t nothing that God cannot do.” Tree was always comin’ out of his mouth with fivepercent talk. He would always refer to himself and other brothers as ‘gods’ and black girls and women as

  ‘earths’.

  Since I had been in L.A. I’d only heard that type of talk from one other source, and that was Skippy while I gangbanged with the Reapers. But he didn’t nearly use five-percent language as much as Tree did or have as much knowledge of the faith quite like Tree did. Tree told me that he too was a native New Yorker, straight outta the tough slums of the South Bronx. As we became tighter buddies, he regarded me as his ace home boy and asked me to refer to him as “Wisdom Allah,” his five-except other five-percent or “Nation of Islam” members.

  We’d both sit around reminiscing about our childhood days back in New York and “Wisdom Allah” would drop science on my ever curious brain. Wisdom Allah taught me that all things holy and evil alike originated in the
mind of man; and that heaven and hell were not mythical fantasy lands that souls of the departed dwelled in after physical death. Instead, heaven and hell existed right here on earth within our very minds.

  We would hold what was known amongst fivepercenters as “ciphers” or science sessions. The coming together of knowledge, wisdom and understanding. He’d take hours discussing both the Holy Bible and Holy Qur’an and their secret meanings, often times dismissing the notion of Allah, his angelic beings, prophets and other holy figures being otherworldly or mystical. But instead they were in fact physical men, women and children like any other person. They were “us.”

  He often said that the black man was Allah because he was the original man and creator of the universe – the cream from whose loins sprung all other races of man. Wisdom Allah taught me like my father before him of the splendor and greatness of the ancient civilizations of Africa, such as Egypt, Timbuktu, Benin, Ethiopia and many more places of power and wisdom.

  I was taught all the esoteric sciences, the supreme “mathematics” of life, as Wisdom Allah referred to it. As weeks passed by I found myself learning more and more from Wisdom Allah. It was a learning experience that would stay with me always. In December of ’76, the facility had begun its Christmas preparations, and certain kids were selected in order to help the staff with the purchasing of holiday decorations and gifts. Of the five boys picked, myself and Wisdom Allah were among them. The night before we carefully planned our escape.

  “Here’s the plan ‘god,’” Wisdom said in a low almost inaudible tone, “when we go out shopping with security tomorrow morning, at the first chance you get, distract one of the guards while I slip off. After a while he should come looking for me and that’s when you’ll creep, ya got that?”

  I thought about this for a while – then I told Wisdom Allah that it seemed much too simple, and the security guards would probably not fall for so juvenile a plot as that. Wisdom Allah smiled and assured me that it was merely a suggestion for the moment, but when the time presented itself to us we’d surely play it by ear from then on.