by Omar Tyree
“Tyrone can’t fight, you’n! He a punk!” a girl says. And I bet she can’t beat that nigga. She’s talking shit. Matter fact, I think I’m gonna fuck with her. She a cute and tall, smooth-faced girl. She looks like my cousin Lisa in East Orange, New Jersey.
“Yo, can you beat you’n?” I ask her with a grin.
She looks at me startled, like I just turned her light on in the dark or something. I mean, why all these young’uns act startled when somebody says something to them? I guess they must be used to being ignored and shit, you know? That’s why them motherfuckers are always talking loud and saying nothing. I guess they just wanna be heard.
She smiles and looks away from me. “I’ll beat his ass, Joe.” She looks into her lap when she says it. You know how kids look when their parents ask them why they did some stupid shit? Yeah, well, she got that look. But her little high school friends bust out laughing.
“Shit, Tyrone’a beat dat ass, girl. You can’t beat you’n,” the big dude says to her. He’s laughing like hell.
“Yo, how old are you?” I ask him. I look him straight in his eyes. But he don’t look straight in mine. He glances at me and looks back and forth to his hands, his lap, and to his friends. Everybody’s quiet now.
He says, “Eighteen.”
These young’uns start lunchin’ again, laughing like shit and jokin’ on him.
“That nigga like twen’y, you’n, still in high school,” the half-pint nigga says.
Big dude jokes back, “Shut da hell up, you’n! That’s why my grades are betta den ya shit. Ya ass ain’t gon’ graduate.”
“Who ain’t gon’ graduate, Joe? You crazy like shit, you’n. I’m passin’ all my classes.”
All these high school young’uns are getting louder and louder, just like they used to do on the buses from Anacostia. But niggas ain’t never say nothing to me. I don’t feel like hearing all this shit on the bus today either.
I mean, I’m an elder to these young motherfuckers now! “Yo, y’all gon’ have ta cut all this loud shit out. I know y’all ma’fuckas got manners. I’on feel like hearin’ all this shit.”
A couple of them snicker. But most of them shut the fuck up. You can almost hear a pin drop in here. I didn’t know it would work this damn good!
My stop comes up and I get up to get off. These young’uns are talking again, but not half as loud as they were before. But this is when little motherfuckers start talking bolder.
I turn around and face these young niggas. “Yo, anybody wanna joke on me when I get off can do that shit right now so I can shoot ’em.” I smile when I say it. But these niggas get the point. I know they still gon’ talk trash, but at least they’ll wait a couple of stops before they do it now. That’s just how it is. Niggas always gon’ talk shit. Always did. Always will.
My boy Ant is chilling on the corner with these Kennedy Street niggas I know from Emery Park. I met most of these niggas while hanging out with Steve and Rudy. And fuck Otis and Pervis! I ain’t never hang with them punks. Hanging with niggas like them will mess your rep up and have bammas thinking they can carry you.
“Y-o-o-o, Shank,” Ant says with his right fist raised in the air.
I nod to him while I cross the street. He’s wearing a blue Boss sweatshirt and black jeans with light brown Tims. It’s getting a little hot for them damn boots. It’s almost May. But you know how niggas love their Tims.
I walk up and shake a couple of hands in front of all these Asian-owned stores.
“Yo, I heard ya boy Butterman is on the list,” this stocky nigga named Cap says to me. He’s all smiling and shit, like it’s a fucking joke. He’s wearing that all-black gear with one of those nylon jackets that has the zipper on the left sleeve. Nigga needs to buy the real, some leather, like I got. But it’s too damn hot out here for leather though.
“Am I on the list too?” I ask him.
He looks down and around and smiles. But he don’t look straight at me. He’s doing the same type shit that them little high school niggas do.
“Man, ain’t nobody tryin’a hit you. Niggas know what time it is wit’ da Shank.”
Yeah, get off my dick, nigga. I think this motherfucker knows something, too.
“So where you hear this shit from, Cap?”
He looks at me and smiles. “Huh? Oh, I mean, I jus’ heard, man.”
He’s doing that sucker shit now, trying to squirm his way out of answering my questions. Punk-ass nigga should have never opened his mouth. But that’s what happens to sucker-type niggas when they talk that nonsense to the wrong motherfucker. And I’m the wrong motherfucker to talk shit to. Believe that!
“Heard it from where, man?” I slip my hands inside my hoodie pocket. My .38 is inside my belt. These niggas are getting nervous now. Even Ant.
“It’s jus’ been out in’na streets, you’n, that he got shit on with some Northeast niggas. That’s all I’m sayin’, man.”
I back up against the wall so I can see all these niggas and anybody else who might come up from the back or from the sides. I slide my left foot up against the wall and look to Ant. You’n ain’t really saying too much. I guess he ain’t got my fucking money, huh?
I ask him, “Yo, you got anything for me, Ant?”
He nods his head and reaches into his back pocket. “I only got seventy-five t’day, but I’ll have the rest by da end of this week.”
I take the bills and look back to Cap. But I’m still talking to Ant. “So what’s been on the street about shit up around here, Ant?”
Ant looks to Cap. He looks back to me and shakes his head. “Ma’fuckas jus’ sayin’ that Butterman’s time is up.”
I nod. “Oh, yeah? Why it’s like dat, Ant? Why my nigga time up?” I don’t really like Butterman all like that, but I’m just trying to see what people are saying about him.
Ant opens his palms toward me. “You got me, man. Niggas is jus’ jealous.”
I look back to Cap. “Is that what’chu heard, Cap? Niggas are jus’ jealous? Or did you hear some other shit?”
Cap looks to his boys. They’re all surrounding me, but I’ll shoot all these motherfuckers right here. And you know how it gets: Nobody wants to be the first to die.
Cap says, “Man, you ackin’ like we tryin’ t’ cut’chall short, you’n. I ain’t got nothin’ against Butterman.”
“Didn’t you used t’ sell up on Georgia Ave?”
“Yeah, but—”
I cut his ass off, like I’m a detective. “Didn’t Rudy and them take ya shit over?”
Cap looks to his tall boy wearing one of those lumberjack-looking shirts. Dude a tall, light-skinned nigga with light brown hair. His hair is high like Butterman’s, and he got a temple-tape too. But he don’t look shit like Butterman. You’n got scratches all up and down his face like he got his ass kicked a lot.
He says, “Yo, it ain’t even about that up here, man. We doin’ our own thing around here.”
One of their other boys makes a sale in the alleyway to a skinny brown woman about thirty-five. She’s shaking like she’s fiending.
I don’t say nothing to tall dude. He’s probably their main man. If carry him, I’m probably gon’ have to start shooting. But I still have to let him see where I’m coming from.
“Yeah, dat’s cool. But what I’m sayin’ is that it would look like punk shit if I jus’ let ya man talk about my boy like it’s nothin’. I mean, what would you say if a ma’fucka said ya boy was on a hit list?”
He nods his head. “Yeah, I know what’chu sayin’, you’n. I got’chu.”
Now everything is settled. But I still got my hands inside my hoodie pocket. I’m probably gon’ have to hang around a little longer than I planned. You know, you gots to chill until everything is definitely cool and it ain’t no misunderstandings.
“You got a cigarette, Ant?”
Ant pulls out a pack of Newports and gives me one. He lights it with a lighter from his back pocket. I don’t even smoke cigarettes that much, but I
figure this is the quickest way to cool everything out with these niggas.
“So what’s been up with that li’l young’un wit’ da fat ass you was talkin’ to, shawdy?” I ask one of their young’uns. He’s a cool-looking brown nigga with curly-ass hair. Bitches probably sweat him. He reminds me of Bink—my nigga.
He smiles. “Oh, I got that ass jus’ last night, you’n. She fucked around and was a virgin like shit.”
Ant says, “You bust ’er out, huh, you’n?”
“Fuckin’ right.”
“How old is she?” I ask him. I take my third drag and hold it.
“Fourteen.”
Goddamn! My little sister’s about to get up there in age an’ shit. Maybe I need to call her up and see how she’s doin’. Young’uns might be tuggin’ at her little panties already. Little cool niggas like shorty. Then I’m gonna have ta pistol-whip a ma’fucka.
“She was bleedin’ an’ e’rything, and shit, you’n.” Shorty shakes his head. “Whew, she had me scared like shit.”
We all start laughing.
Big, light-skinned dude says, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you bus’ out virgins, nigga. You musta been a virgin too an’ shit.”
Shorty sucks his teeth. “Fuck outta here, you’n! Bitches know my name!”
A white 300 ZX pulls up with tinted windows and parks. Everybody’s watching this Z for cover. And motherfucking Rudy jumps out.
“Ay, Shank, I been lookin’ for you, man. Let’s take a ride.”
He don’t say shit to nobody else. He’s treating these niggas like they’re nobodies.
“What’s up, Rudy? When you get dis?” Ant says, walking over to hop on Rudy’s dick.
Rudy frowns at him. “Come on, you’n, don’t sweat it.” He looks back to me. “Come on, Shank.”
I pluck away the cigarette bud and hop in on the passenger’s side.
Rudy hops in and shuts his door like it’s hard to close or something. This car looks good on the outside, but everything is worn out inside. But hell, I can’t complain. Rudy just got me away from them niggas.
I lay my seat back and chill. Rudy drives down Kennedy and makes a right down Fifth Street.
“So what’s up, Joe? Where we goin’?”
Rudy smiles at me and makes a left on New Hampshire Avenue. “We gon’ park and talk out in Takoma Park for a few.”
I nod. “Talk about what?” I heard he’s going for self now. And Butterman think he shot some motherfuckers. But I don’t know that until he tells me. I mean, you know how rumors and shit get around out in the street. That’s why I’m always skeptical.
We get out on this quiet-ass road in Takoma, Maryland, and park. Rudy faces me looking all excited. He says, “I got my own connections, you’n. I’m runnin’ wit’ my peoples now.”
I’m looking at him like, So da fuck what, nigga? What da hell you want from me, a cigar?
“Yeah, and?”
“Look, I’ma tell you how the shit is, aw’ight? Dat ma’fucka Butterman think he’s slick, you’n. He makin’ his own fuckin’ money out in Maryland off them white boys, an’ we ain’t gettin shit! I mean, that’s jus’ how these niggas get when you runnin’ for ’em, you’n. Them ma’fuckas try t’ keep you broke an’ stupid. But I ain’t takin’ no shorts out here, Joe. I’m goin’ for my shit!”
“Now, yo, here’s the plan—right.” Rudy’s grinning like a damn kid. I mean, you should see this nigga! He says, “Yo, I found out where Butterman lives. And what we can do is get him after he counts his money in his car. We run up on him, right, rob him, take his fuckin’ keys, shoot dat ma’fucka in his head and let him stay in’na car. Then we go to his crib and take all da money and go in wit’ my cousins.
“We got, like, fifteen niggas deep wit’ my cousins and them. And we’a fuck them niggas up from back Northeast. ’Cause, like, Butterman a pussy, Joe! He ain’t got no heart! An’em ma’fuckas from Northeast know our faces.”
This nigga’s all out of breath now. All I want to know is if he really shot one.
“So you popped one?”
Rudy looks me eye to eye. “Yeah, you’n. I hit two of ’em, but I only kilt one.”
“Where was y’all at?”
“They caught me back on Benning Road. That’s where I bought this car from. And, like, at first, I was gon’ jus’ run, but them niggas was still in dat Sidekick. So I waited for them ma’fuckas t’ try ta make their move. Then I ran up this alleyway and two of ’em tried to chase me.” He stops and shakes his head with a smile. He acts like he’s proud of himself.
“I waited for ’em to get close, you’n. Then I jumped out on ’em like, ‘Bang, bang, bang, ma’fuckas!’” He shows me with his hand. And this is some deep shit! That’s the same thing I wrote in my rhyme! I still ain’t killed nobody yet. For real I guess Rudy got one up on me now.
“I got dat first nigga in his chest. But dat second nigga tried to run back. I think I hit him in his leg. But after that, I hopped over, like, three-ass fences and ran like shit until I got to the Metro.”
“What’chu do wit’ da gun?”
His eyebrows raise. “Man, I threw dat shit in’na sewer and kept goin’. Fuck a gun! I can get another gun wit’ no problem. I got me a Glock right now.” He reaches under his seat and pulls out this big, black 9 mm. “Yeah, boy, I’m goin’ for mine. Fuck Butterman!”
I wanna ask this motherfucker how it felt when he killed somebody. I ain’t feeling too good about hearing it, believe or not. I guess that preaching shit that Carlette been doing is rubbing the hell off on me.
“So what’s up, man?” Rudy asks me. He puts his Glock back under his seat. “All you gotta do, you’n, is act like you still cool wit’ him. And then we can set ’im up.”
How I know you ain’t gon’ set me up too, you crazy-ass ma’fucka?
This shit is fucked up, man! This ain’t no rap song either. This is real!
I nod my head as if I’m down with him.
“But yo, what’chu gotta do though is stay away from Butterman and us for a while. He on alert right now ’cause ’em niggas beeped him and said they was gon’ kill all of us. And even them young’uns up on Kennedy Street know. So what’chu do, right, is give me time enough t’ figa shit out. Then, like, gi’me ya beeper number and I’ll call you up on it. But we gotta wait until shit cools down, ’cause that plan ain’t gon’ work until Butterman think he’s safe again.”
Rudy smiles and nods back to me. I guess he’s going for that game I just told him. I don’t like Butterman all that much, but I’d rather roll with him until I can see exactly what I’m gon’ do. It looks like I got myself right in the thick of this crew shit. This the same damn reason why I never hung out with niggas. I mean, I ain’t really down to die or go to jail for nobody but my family in Jersey. But now it seems like I might have to kill or be killed.
Rudy reaches out to shake my hand. “Gangsta chronicles, you’n. That shit sounds on.”
* * *
I’m fucked up now. I might as well do the shit I’ve been thinking about doing lately, before everything falls down on my head. I’m gon’ rob me a fucking white man. Tonight! Just for the hell of it. You know, so I can say that I did the shit before I die.
I’m riding a 90 bus into Adams Morgan. A lot of white people live around here. It’s easier to rob a white motherfucker up here than it is in Georgetown. Once you’re in Georgetown it’s hard to get the hell out of there. Your ass would have to run like fifteen blocks before you could get out. But in Adams Morgan you can slip around and run through these Hispanic areas until you get back to Fourteenth Street. Once you get back to Fourteenth Street you can chill. Cops ain’t gon’ chase you as much around the black neighborhoods.
I get off the bus on Eighteenth Street and walk up and down these long-ass hills. I robbed niggas before, so it ain’t nothing. I just have to check out my surroundings first.
I walk up a street that has less apartment buildings and more houses. I don’t like them tall a
partment buildings. People can look out the windows and call the cops on you. They’ll have your clothing description and everything. But I’m set to outsmart their asses. I got a yellow Champion shirt under my dark green hoodie. I went home and threw my black Tims on and switched guns. So after these motherfuckers see the dark colors, I’m gon’ change to light and throw this cheap-ass black baseball hat I got on in the trash somewhere.
A middle-aged white man wearing a red sweater is about to get in his car. It’s a shiny black Jetta, looking brand spanking new.
I slip my dark shades on with my hood. I run up on him and hold my .45 to his head. You have to do it quick before they get a chance to act brave.
“Be cool and get’cha wallet out if you love ya kids.”
He does the shit calmly. “I don’t have much money.”
I snatch his wallet out of his hands and find seventy dollars and all kinds of credit cards and shit. Fuck that! I throw his wallet to the ground after taking the seventy fucking dollars. This ain’t shit! I’m thinking.
“That’s all I have,” he tells me. I didn’t even ask him. I guess he read my mad face.
I slug his pink ass with the butt of my gun, right to his jaw. Please let me knock dis muthafucka out! ’Cause if I don’t, I’m gon’ end his life for seventy fuckin’ dollars!
The nigga falls and doesn’t budge.
Whew! I’m out of here! I do a cool-ass jog. I have to make myself look normal, but my heart is pumping like a motherfucker. I throw my extra clothes and hat in a trash can up on Seventeenth Street.
Damn! Here comes a H2 bus on Mt. Pleasant. I jump on, pay my dollar and sit in the middle to look normal. I usually would sit in the back, but that’s the first place a cop would go to find a nigga.
I ride the H2 to Georgia Avenue and get off. I run to catch a 70 bus and ride it down to Rhode Island. I jump off at Seventh Street and run across to catch a G bus. I’m hoping this shit hurries the fuck up! Motherfuckers ain’t too cool with me around here. This where I robbed them New Jacks for seven hundred.