Mail Chimp

Friday, July 13, 2012

Promised Land

"You got the shit, nigga?"

"Motherfucker, I got the shit. You got my money?"

"Twenty Gs."

"We said twenty-two."

"So you dip a few ounces."

"Yeah, aight. We do this at my spot."

"Fuck that shit. Muhfukkin' Pirus would do me on sight, money or not."

"I tole you that gang shit was weak. Entangling alliances and shit.  Look at me. I stayed solo, and I'm doin' keys."

"I'm doin' keys."

"You WANT to do keys. But you also got motherfuckers who don't know you that want to kill you. My game is tight. Anyway, I'ma do this for you. Come to the parking garage on Slausen tonight at eleven."


"Don't sweat it. It's safe. I do it all the time."


"And I know you ain't even thinkin' 'bout bringin' somebody..."

"No, I wasn't."

"Aight, then. I'll see you at eleven. Don't fuck me."

He hung up the telephone and smiled an evil smirk. Stupid fuckin' kid. He couldn't believe how easy it was. Literally candy from babies. But in this case the candy was Colombian crack or shopping bags full of small bills.

He formulated his plan while incarcerated in California for a murder in the early eighties. In a fit of rage, he had shotgunned an acquaintance in Oakland. Didn't even get out of the car, never realizing what a trendsetter he was. He stayed in San Quentin for six years, until the notoriously liberal California justice system decided he was "reformed" and released him. On his own recognizance, as they say.

Things were simpler, then, within prison and without. In lockdown, things were strictly divided along color lines: white, black, hispanic. No real orientals to speak of. The Samoans were motherfuckers. They had allegiance to themselves, and traveled in all worlds equally well, being diplomatic or snapping necks as the situation warranted. Jail was a tense, uneasy experience, but the loose-knit unity and the protection it provided made it bearable. He'd never had to kill in prison.

A few years into his sentence, he began to hear about L.A. Fourteen year-old kids buying Benzes with cash. Kilos. Gold. Women. He wanted it all. So why not just take it?

He decided to do just that.

Now that he had goals and aspirations in life, he literally had years to work toward them before setting them into motion. He immersed himself in urban legend and lore. He listened to the real O.G.s. He actually studied gangsterism from the 20s to the present. He started listening to hip-hop.

In his day, rappin' was disco shit. Party shit. Sugarhill Gang was just funk like Parliament or Rick James. But nowadays, rap was large, and it wasn't disco shit. It was gangsta shit. Ice-T, N.W.A., Above the Law. Rap truly was a black CNN, and he heard the message loud and clear: L.A. was the land of blood and money.