The Bad Bunch

 

                                                               

The Bad Bunch 

By Dominic Brogsdale 

Dedicated to the youngstas, teens, the motherless, the fatherless, the inner city children, and the misguided who comprise the “The Bad Bunch.” 

Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. 

(Psalm 82:3) 

Interviewer: “Is it that bad?” 

Sheleah Walker, being interviewed, “Yes, it is and it's the children that’s doing the crime out here.” 

(Retrieved from Rap sheet ep.2 Carlos “Shawty Lo” Walker [The Bowen Homes Carlos Story]) 

“Robert Sandifer, whose sweet tooth gave him the nickname Yummy, lived in tough Roseland on the South Side. He stood 56 inches tall, weighed 68 pounds and, at age 11, wore a forearm tattoo tagging him as a member of the Black Disciples gang. He was a free-range kid, raised superficially by his grandmother following abandonment by his mother, a prostitute, and father, a drug felon imprisoned in Wisconsin. Robert’s body bore dozens of scars from torture and beatings—a total of 49, according to his autopsy report, including cigarette burns on his butt, neck, and arms and snakelike wounds from electric cord whippings. He rarely attended school and was functionally illiterate. A psychological exam at a state shelter months before his murder concluded that Robert was angry, discouraged, and confused. But he was judged too young and vulnerable for confinement to juvenile homes, so he was released time and again to his overwhelmed grandmother, whose chaotic house was crammed with as many as 10 children and 30 grandchildren at a time. He was in police custody about 30 times in the last 18 months of his life, including for 23 felonies.” 

(Retrieved from “Justice Story: The Sick Story of Yummy in Chicago”) 

Nature kindly warps our judgment about our children, especially when they are young, when it would be a fatal thing for them if we did not love them. 

(George Santayana, retrieved from the Dictionary of Thought) 

In the neighborhood, respect was forthcoming. In 1977, when I was THIRTEEN, while robbing a man I turned my head and I was hit in the face. The man tried to run, but was tripped by Tray Ball, who then held him for me. I stomped him for twenty minutes before leaving him unconscious in an alley. Later that night, I learned that the man had lapsed into a coma and was disfigured from my stomping. The police told bystanders the person responsible for this was a “monster.” The name stuck, and I took that as a moniker over my birth name. 

(Retrieved from “Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A Gang Member”) 

The only way on God's earth you will ever solve the problem of reaching the masses is by getting hold of the children. You get the boys and girls started right and the devil will hang crepe on his door. 

(W. A. “Billy” Sunday, retrieved from the Dictionary of Thought) 

“Five high school students in Michigan are accused of throwing rocks off an overpass and killing a man. Kenneth White was 32 years old; he was a father of four children. He was riding home last week when a rock hit and killed him.” 

(Retrieved from reporter Gale King: “Five Teens Charged for Murder After Throwing Rocks” ) 

"What I want you to take seriously is what we have to do for the youth, because we coming up in a totally different world. This is not the same world that you had. This is not the 60s, this is not that. You grew up B.C.—before crack. That should say it all. We did not grow up with our parents. You had parents, that told you this and that and this is what went on back in the day. Now do you don’t have that. You have young kids, fourteen, coming home and their mama’s smoking out, or doing it to their best friend to get the product(drugs). So, that means, it’s not just about you taking care of your child; it’s about you taking care of these children. We forgot about all that. In our striving to be enlightened, we forgot about all our brothers in the street, about all our dope dealers, our pushers, and our pimps: and that’s who’s teaching the next generation. Because y’all not doing it! (speaking to the elders). I’m sorry, but it’s the pimps and the pushers who’s teaching us. So, if you’ve got a problem with how we was raised, it’s because they was the only ones who could do it. They the only ones who did it."

(Retrieved from 20-year-old Tupac Amuru Shakur: Speech to Malcolm X Grass Roots movement) 

“All right, y’all,” 9-year-old Devin said to the younger children huddled in behind the apartment building of the high density, urban complex. Holding a grocery bag in his hand, he looked at each of them. Two more candy-filled bags were on the ground next to his feet.




“What you want?” 5-year-old Mya asked.

“This what I want y’all to do,” Devin said, his gaze scanning right and left, looking for adults. “Don't tell your mama, yo daddy, nobody.” 

He waved his hands over and under each other. He met each child’s eyes and held their gazes a moment. The children nodded, listening attentively. 

“What you what for that candy?” AJ asked, sticking out his hand. 

Devin pulled out a dollar bill and some loose change from his pocket. “Y’all see this?” 

The children, lost in a daze of sugar-induced greed, nodded. 

“It's called money, and with money you can have this candy that I have in this bag,” he said. 

“Can we have the candy now?” Mya asked. 

“No, you have to go where your mama and daddy hide the money—but you can't let them see you—and I'll give you all this candy right here,” Devin said. 

He shook the bag full of Reese's peanut butter cups, Butterfingers, gummy worms, and various other sweet treats he and his friends stole from the corner store. He returned the money to his pocket. Devin then withdrew a Hershey’s chocolate bar from the bag, opened it, and broke off a piece. He gave a piece to each child. The children chewed on the sweet, chocolatey goodness. 

“This good,” Mya said. She looked at her brother, AJ, and said, “It's good, AJ.” 

“It's good,” AJ agreed with a mouthful of brown goo. 

“Y’all want all this chocolate?” Devin asked. 

“Yeah!” the children chorused in excitement and jumped around. 

“All right, hurry up and go get me some money and don't let nobody see you,” he said. 

“Okay,” AJ said. 

“We might get a whippin’ or in trouble,” Mya said with a gloomy expression, shuffling her feet. 

Devin rolled his eyes and sighed. “Guess you don't want this candy then.” 

He lifted the bag and pretended to leave. 

“No, no, we’ll get it!” Mya cried. 

“We’ll get it,” AJ echoed his sister's plea. 

“Well, hurry up,” Devin said, waving his hands at them. 

The children scattered. Devin sat on a blue milk crate as a sly smile spread across his face. Soon, some of the other children came back and gave Devin lose change and some bills. Devin waited for an hour before Mya and AJ came back. 

“Here you go,” Mya handed him a purse and a wad of money. 

“What took y’all so long?” Devin asked. 

“Mommy was walking around, then a man came over, then they went to sleep, and we was tryna be quiet,” she explained. 

“Yeah, we was quiet,” AJ said. 

“Where y’all get all this money?” Devin asked. 

“From the man's pocket's,” Mya said, skipping around. She paused and looked at the candy. “Can we have some candy now?” 

“Yeah, which candy y’all want?” Devin asked. 

Mya jumped up and down and screamed in excitement, “Reese's!” 

“Sheesh ... you too loud,” Devin snapped. 

Mya put her tiny hands over her mouth. 

“I want Butterfingers,” AJ said. 

“Here's two packs,” Devin replied, feeling generous. 

Mya and AJ's faces lit up. Their eyes sparkled. 

“Whoo, four pieces of candy!” Mya said. 

“Don't tell nobody. You gotta promise me. Y'all promise?” he asked, getting up off the milk crate. 

AJ nodded, eating his candy. He glanced at the other children who stayed close to the area, playing with various toys scattered around the area and with each other. Looking back at Devin, AJ and Mya nodded together. 

“Promise,” Mya said as she danced and sang while eating her melting peanut butter cups. 

Devin picked up two full bags and one half-emptied of candy and started walking away. 

“Thank you,” one of the kids said. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Mya said in a sunny manner, singing and dancing. 

“Thank you,” AJ said, copying his sister. 

Devin looked back. He grabbed a handful of candy and threw it up in the air. He kept throwing until the bags were empty. 

“Y’all welcome. Don't tell nobody or no more candy,” he said. 

The children shrieked and shouted as they scrambled for the candy, grabbing as much as they could. Devin disappeared through the building’s back door, walked up one flight of stairs to his room, and stashed the money in a black Air Force One shoe box. Satisfied with the day’s take, he went downstairs to look for something to eat. The nearly bare refrigerator contained some old chicken wings. With a shrug, he threw them in the microwave to warm them up. 

Thump, thump, smack, smack. He pounded his fist on the counter, slapping at the flies and gnats buzzing around the apartment. The pounding disturbed cockroaches that scuttled across the sticky surface. He smashed them, too. Slimy fluids coated the palms of his skinny brown hands. He stared at the appliance, eyes unfocused, and realized that another plate of chicken wings had been left in the range. He vaguely remembered placing them in the oven two days before. 

Devin retrieved the dry chicken wings from the oven. He slowly counted in boredom as he lay the rancid old wings on the counter, “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen ...” 

Watching from his peripheral vision, he waited until a cockroach took the bait and ran across the counter. Then he pounced, killing it in an instant and crushing the bug against the countertop with his palm. He wiped the slime off his palm on the rough, hairless skin of his left leg where his dirty, sagging jeans were ripped. 

The microwave beeped. He pulled out the six chicken wings and set them on the counter. Since his hunger was greater than the paltry snack, he looked inside the fridge again, only to find darkness and stale air smelling of mildew. Agitated, he slammed the door shut went through the kitchen drawers, scavenging for sauce like a hungry animal. 

He found a Wendy's BBQ sauce packet, opened it, and squeezed the thick liquid over the desert-dry wings. He used his index finger to stir the sauce to his satisfaction around the wings. He grabbed a sauce-covered wing and bit off a nice meaty chunk, only to find it chewy and sour. He spat it back into the bowl and stared at the trash can. A long, agonized grunt erupted from his mouth. 

Devin carried the bowl of wings to the trash can. As always, flies buzzed over the container, seeming to bask in the pungent odor of rot. Rats, mice, cockroaches, flies, and gnats made the trash can their common gathering place. He set the bowl on the side of the trash can and tipped its contents in as the rats and mice timidly waited for him to pass by. 

He walked into the living and said to his 17-year-old brother who was slumped on the couch with his friend. They smoked a blunt and watched a pornographic film with as much excitement as if they watched paint dry. 

Devin asked, “Where Mom's at?” 

His brother put the blunt to dry, chapped lips and inhaled. He shrugged his shoulders and replied in a dull, uncaring tone, “Shit, I dunno, probably out there ho’ing again.” 

Devin glanced at the pornography. Having no interest in it, he asked, “Why you always watch this?” 

His brother, mesmerized by the obscenity, snapped, “Because ass and titties look good! Don't you got yo little niggas to hang out with, school, or som’thing, instead of fuckin’ with me all the time?” 

Devin replied, “I ain't been to school in months. I'm about to go now, but let me hit that blunt!” 

His brother took a long inhale and passed it to his friend who was equally engaged. He exhaled a cloud of smoke that filled that room and said to Devin's brother, “Man, he killing her shit!” 

Eyes not moving a twitch, Devin’s brother agreed, saying, “Hell, yeah!” 

Devin approached his brother's friend and tapped the older boy’s hand. Still lost in the film, he handed the blunt to Devin without even looking at him. Devin grabbed the lighter off the table, put the blunt to his mouth, and pinched the tip down with his index finger. He took a long drag on the blunt and tilted his head back, blowing smoke into the air. 

While his brother and his brother’s friend were distracted, Devin used the opportunity to swipe from the table a ZipLoc sandwich bag containing six blunts. He slowly reached down, staring at his brother and his friend who were still lost in a drugged haze, and grabbed the bag. To distract his brother from seeing the stolen goods, he handed back the blunt from which he’d taken a drag and the lighter and said, “Good looking out!” 

His brother mumbled, “Yup.” 

Devin headed towards the door. He opened it. 

POW! 

A bullet barely missed Devin's head. The boy ducked and said, “Oh, shit!” 

He ran for his life. His brother shouted from the screen door, “Bring back my shit, you little thieving-ass muthafucka!” 

Devin raced from the apartment. As he was running, he saw a kid riding a bicycle. 

BOOM! 

Charging the kid like a linebacker on the football field, Devin knocked him down. The kid screeched in pain and protest. Devin hopped on the bike and pedaled for all he was worth as the child’s mother screamed after him, “Come back with my son's bike!” 

The wind hit Devin’s eyes and made them water. He quickly looked back. The kid’s mother was chasing after him. Devin pedaled at top speed until he turned the corner and was out of sight. Riding with traffic, he slowed to a lazy pace. Drivers behind him honked their horns, yelling slurs and trying to maneuver around him. Devin raised both hands from the handlebars and displayed his middle fingers in rude gesture. One car rolled slowly past. An older adolescent from the Imperial Downs project rode in the passenger seat, looked at the boy, and said, “Awww ... shit, I should’ve known it was yo bad ass.” 

The driver glanced at his review mirror for oncoming traffic and yelled out, “Devin the devil, yo bad little ass, what you into?” 

Devin pedaled slowly and looked at the boy in the passenger seat. “Shit, chillin’.” 

The adolescent said, “A-yo, get me some jewels. I'll pay you.” 

Devin said, “I want $10 more than last time.” 

The passenger smiled and said, “Bet.” 

The cars still honked. The passenger looked back, threw a middle finger up, and shouted, “Fuck y’all!” 

They quickly drove off. Devin continued to ride the bike in the right lane, moving slowly, not giving any care for the inconvenience of others. An old man in a blue pickup truck drove past Devin. He slowed down and yelled, “Get on the sidewalk, you worthless little shit!” 

Devin's eyes narrowed and focused on the vehicle waiting at a traffic light. He got off the stolen bike, picked up five medium-sized rocks, and ran toward the truck. He hurled a rock at the truck’s back window, shattering the glass. He dashed around to the passenger side, opened the door, and flung more rocks at the man. One struck him in the torso, another one broke the driver's side window, another missed the man's head. Devin lunged into the vehicle and yanked the key out of the ignition, then quickly ran round the front of the truck and threw the last rock into the windshield. The glass cracked. The light changed from red to green. Devin stared the driver down. The man’s mouth hung wide open in shock. With a sneer of contempt, Devin walked across the street, ignoring the honking of other vehicles. He picked up the bike and slowly rode off. 

About 10 minutes later, Devin arrived at the railroad tracks where he saw his friends, Bayton, Antez, and Darkeem. 

Devin lifted his head and said, “What's good, y’all?” 

Bayton, looking down at the rocks between the railroad ties, said, “Nothing.” 

Antez shrugged his shoulders and said, “Same-o.” 

Darkeem let out a big sigh and mumbled, “Chillin’.” 

Devin then asked for any word on B., Ademar, and Corneil. 

Darkeem let out another long sigh and shifted his gaze toward the gray clouds above. He replied, “B. went to a foster home. Well, that's what his sister said. Ademar won't get out of that detention center for a while, and Corneil still in the hospital from being shot in the leg.” 

Devin then asked, “Where the other guys at?” 

Antez said, “They said they would meet us at the mall.” 

Bayton nodded and put his hands in his jacket pockets. He asked, “New bike?” 

Devin nodded. “Yup, and new jacket?” 

Expressionless, Bayton replied, “Yup.” 

Devin started walking towards the train bridge where the cars on the freeway passed underneath. The other boys followed. They looked over bridge at the freeway. Leaning over, Devin started spitting, trying to hit the cars. The other boys followed suit. After a few minutes, Devin asked his friends, “How we eating today?” 

Darkeem paused his spitting and suggested, “Let's go over to the grocery store and get some food.” 

Bayton added, “Let's take one of those big chickens that’s already cooked.” 

Darkeem butted in, “Yeah, with some of those sweet rolls—what are those called?” 

He looked skyward and snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name of the rolls. 

“Hawaiian rolls!” Bayton blurted in triumph. 

Darkeem’s eyes gleamed. He nodded, thinking about the taste of the sweetened bread. “Yeah, them bitches good.” 

Bayton suggested, “Let's get some Frank’s RedHot, and one of y’all open a carton of pop and take two cans each.” 

Devin stopped them and said, “I'm tired of doing that shit, eating chicken and bread. Let's get a pizza at the mall.” 

Bayton's bottom lip poked out. He shook his head as he considered the alternative. Finally, he said, “Let's do that. I haven’t done that in a while.” 

Devin said, “Y’all tryna take some gems, diamonds, and jews?” 

The boys all looked at each other, their eyes narrowed. Devin shrugged his shoulders and said, “Let's do it.” 

He walked towards the rocks on the side of the railroad tracks and lifted one that weighed half as much as he. With a grunt, he set it on the edge of the of the cement bridge. He looked at the cars zooming beneath. His expression empty, Devin asked the boys, “How much money we putting down for this rock?” 

Darkeem moved close to Devin and stared him in the eyes, no smirk, no blinking, just the stale wind hitting their faces. He said, “Nothing.” 

Darkeem pushed the rock over the edge. It landed with the loud chaos of shattering glass and screeching tires. Cars piled up on the freeway. Darkeem’s lips slowly stretched into a wide smile, then he burst out laughing, turning around in circles. 

Devin broke into a smile, too, his mouth wide open and his teeth showing. He said, “That's how they do it in movies.” 

Darkeem, still twirling on the train tracks, said, “I know they be looking at each other for a long time and then do something like that.” 

Bayton picked up a handful of small rocks and threw them as far as he could over the freeway. Glass splintered beneath, and a brigade of thumps hit the metal structure. Bayton smiled and said, “And this is how they do it in them anime shows, you know when the powers come out of they hands.” 

The boys darted to the opposite side of the bridge, where they danced in circles, gasping for air, laughing so hard they coughed to the point of drooling. Antez joined in on the fun, bending down on his knuckles and saying, “Hut, hut, hike!” 

Scooping a handful of gravel, he hurled the rocks at vehicles approaching from the other direction. Hearing the rocks hit the metal and glass and the loud screech of tires on the freeway followed by the crunch of crashing vehicles and the yells and screams of drivers and passengers, Devin, Darkeem, Antez, and Bayton laughed so hard they coughed and tears rolled down their eyes. 

Devin, coughing and laughing at the same time, said to the other boys, “Look at his face, his lip poking out like a gorilla!” 

The other boys looked at his face and thought about a gorilla's face and him sweating so hard from throwing those rocks. Gasping for air, Antez got up, put his hands on his hips, looked up at the sky, and said, “Fuck, I'm tired.” 

Breathing heavily, he said to the other boys, “Everybody get a side of the freeway.” 

Antez and Bayton took the left side of the freeway, Devin and Darkeem took the right. Antez yelled, his expression as serious as a drill sergeant’s, “Last man standing wins!” 

His friends nodded, ready. He then yelled, “Set, hut, go!” 

The boys grabbed handfuls of gravel from train bed and threw them over the bridge as hard, far, and fast as they could. Antez fell over first, stuck his tongue out like a dog on a hot summer day, and said, “Fuck it, I'm tired.” 

Darkeem was the next to fall over. He said, “I'm done, too.” 

Bayton and Devin were the last left standing and showed no signs of slowing down. 

Antez, gasping for air, asked, “What kind of powers do y’all have?” 

Focused and determined as he filled his hands with gravel and threw it, Devin ignored the sweat dripping down his face and said, “Superpowers.” 

Bayton screamed as he continued flinging rocks, “I'm winning!” 

Devin rebutted, “Nah, I'm winning.” 

Bayton paused to take a few steps left, taking the opportunity to stretch his back. Seeing him, Devin hurled his last handful of gravel, straightened, and said, “I won.” 

Bayton protested, “I was moving down because I was running of rocks.” 

Devin said, “Nah, bro, you was tryna get a quick rest!” 

Antez took a deep breath, walked to his bicycle, and said, “This game dumb anyway; let's get food.” 

The boys hopped on their bikes and glanced down the freeway at the major damage they’d caused. Sirens resounded and emergency lights flashed as law enforcement and emergency medics raced to scene of destruction below the train bridge. 

Devin said, “They fucked up down there.” 

Antez shrugged his shoulders, not caring about what they’d done, and said, “Yeah, let’s get some food.” 

Satisfied with the results of their entertainment, they rode down the railroad tracks. About 15 minutes later, they arrived at the mall and paused beneath trees amid the tangle of neglected landscaping surrounding the large complex. 

Looking through the trees across the largely empty parking lot, Devin squinted his eyes, pounded his fist into his hand, and said, “All right, listen up. Darkman and Bay, y’all get the pizza. Order that bitch and let's meet right here at the bikes.” 

He pounded his fists together again, looked Antez directly in the eye, and said, “We getting these jews. When they open that glass drawer, we jumping over the glass and taking that shit.” 

He then looked at all of them and said, “We meeting back here in one hour.” 

They nodded in understanding and walked down the dirt hill. Their feet shuffled through the autumn litter of dry leaves. When they reached the asphalt parking lot, Devin looked up and said, “We in parking lot D right now.” 

He looked at one of the trees, approached it, and smacked it twice. Dry bark hit the ground. “See this tree with the hole? Let's run up this way towards the bikes.” 

Devin gathered some empty beverage cans off the ground and dropped them into a nearby pothole. He used the heels of his shoes to wedge the cans in tightly. He looked at his friends, then at the pothole filled with brightly colored and crumpled cans, and said, “This will help us remember our spot.” 

Devin led his friends to the front of the mall and whispered to them as they walked in the door, “Split up and one hour.” 

Darkeem and Bayton headed to the food court; Devin and Antez walked towards the jewelry store. Devin whispered, “Damn, we don't have no bookbag.” 

Antez said, “We don’t. What you wanna do?” 

Devin bit his thumbnail, trying to figure out a new plan and recalled seeing a shop down the way called Spencer's. He said, “I think they have bookbags.” 

Antez said, “Let's go.” 

Heading toward Spencer’s, Devin and Antez passed a jewelry store and spied an Asian man and woman behind the counter and a security officer sitting in the store. 

“Is that a cop?” Antez whispered. 

Devin squinted his eyes and said, “I don't think so; that's a rent-a-cop.” 

Antez smacked him in his chest and said, “Don't stare, bro.” 

Devin said, “You right.” 

Antez smacked him again and whispered, “There’s the store, bro.” 

Devin, staring at the store’s brightly lit interior, said, “Yeah, okay. I'll get the bag, see who at the front desk.” 

Devin and Antez walked through the store, scanning over the layout and taking mental note of both the people and merchandise. 

Devin asked, “What did you see?” 

Antez whispered, “I seen a little white girl with black hair. I didn't see any other people though. You?” 

Devin scrunched his face in recollection. “Me neither. I seen the book bags in the back—I'm grab four so we all have a bag—and I seen a baseball bat.” 

Confused, Antez asked, “What do you need a baseball bat for?” 

Devin kept his gaze focused on the jewelry store and explained, “That rent-a-cop.” 

Antez turned his top lip up and nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay, you distract that girl up there, and I'll get the book bags and the bat,” Devin planned on the fly. 

Antez then asked, “How we gonna get the jews?” 

Eyes glittering with excitement, Devin said, “I’m gonna hit the cop in his shit. When someone is buying, jump over the counter, take the jews, and bang out.” 

Antez found favor with the plan. “Okay, let me walk in first.” 

He walked into Spencer's and stopped at the cashier’s desk. The woman behind the desk gave him a bored look and asked, “May I help you?” 

In the calmest, most polite voice he could manage, Antez replied, “Um ... um ...” He spotted a ladder and, thinking quickly, continued, “Can I see that shirt up top there?” 

She raised her eyebrows and stared at him. “How old are you? It's one o’clock on a Tuesday, so aren’t you supposed to be at school?” 

With a shrug, Antez replied, “I'm here on vacation; my mom's in another store.” 

She gave him a look of blatant disbelief and blew her bubble gum. It popped. With a sigh, she muttered, “Customer’s always right, I guess.” 

As the girl turned towards the ladder, Antez looked at Devin who waited outside the store. He lifted his head, indicating the opportunity to come inside and grab the book bags and baseball bats. 

The girl looked back at Antez and asked, “Which one, kid?” 

“The one way at the top left.” 

The girl sighed and said under her breath, “I hate climbing the fucking latter.” 

The girl climbed up the latter and pointed towards the shirt. She asked, “This one here with the lightning bolt on it?” 

Receiving no answer, she asked again, “This one, kid?” 

Still receiving no answer, she looked down and noticed he was gone. With a disgruntled sigh, she stated, “These fucking kids.” 

Antez quietly slipped away and sneaked into a little corner with Devin who had four small plastic bookbags and two baseball bats. 

Devin vibrated with excitement. “You ready?” 

Without waiting for Antez to respond, Devin started walking. Antez skipped a few steps to catch up. He couldn’t understand why his friend wanted to do this now. He watched Devin stare at the security officer as he accepted the bag and bat his friend handed to him. 

Antez said, “I thought we was waiting for a customer to buy something.” 

Devin said, “The mall dead. Now or never, let's go!” 

Devin darted ahead. While the security guard had his head turned, Devin swung the bat across his skull. The security guard crumpled to the floor and started convulsing. A shriek of horror echoed in the largely empty mall. 

Antez rushed to the nearest jewelry case and swung the bat. Glass shattered. He reached in and grabbed, stuffing his bookbag full of gold and silver necklaces, watches, and rings. Devin, too, bashed jewelry cases with his bloodied bat and swiped the jewelry as the sales clerks watched in stunned horror. Lips peeled back to reveal a smile of evil glee, Devin jumped the counter, swung his bat at the woman, and hit her head. She cried out. Her eyes rolled back as she collapsed. The Asian man held up his palms and begged, “Please, have mercy.” Devin swung again, bashing in his skull. 

No alarms went off. The few shoppers in the mall on that Tuesday afternoon gaped in horror and scrambled away from the violence. Devin jumped the counter and yelled at Antez, “Let's go!” 

The boys dashed towards the exit, out to the parking lot, past the pop cans, and to the woods, trying not to get stuck by thorns and branches. They dropped the bats, no longer having need of them. Darkeem and Bayton waited, sitting on their bikes and chewing on food. Devin and Antez jumped on their bikes and shouted, “Let's ride!” 

They pedaled as fast as they could until Devin figured they were safe. He skidded to a quick stop at the railroad tracks and said, “Hold up, y’all!” 

They all stopped. Sirens wailed in the distance. Devin looking at the railroad tracks, and said, “Let's smoke a blunt and eat.” 

The boys tilted their heads back. Breathing heavily from their race away from the mall, Darkeem turned his upper lip up and said, “Come on, bro, don't be scaring us like that.” 

Devin smacked his hands together and rubbed them. “Y’all got that pizza?” 

Darkeem reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a dripping, steaming piece of orange chicken. He shoved it in his mouth and said, “Nah, B, we got Chinese food.” 

Devin smacked his lips. “Chinese food?” 

Darkeem grabbed a couple more pieces and said, “Yeah.” 

Frowning at the change of plans, Devin asked, “What happen to the pizza?” 

Talking around a mouthful of half-chewed chicken, Darkeem said, “Wasn't no boxes made. Beside, how was we gonna carry boxes on the bikes? And my mama also say get food that's gonna stretch, because shit is expensive.” 

Devin poked his lip out and acknowledged the logic with a small nod. He said, “True, but I'm tired of eating noodles, though, bro.” 

Relating to a surfeit of noodles in his diet, Bayton added, “Yeah, my sister always go to the free food giveaway at the rec center or churches.” 

They all shook their heads in shared a sense of sadness, thinking about the lack of food in their homes and the irregularity of their meals. They resented the fact that most of their meals consisted of cheap ramen noodles and tap water, old canned goods, or nothing at all. 

Devin shrugged his shoulders, looked down at the tracks in disappointment, and lightly kicked the pebbled at the base of the tracks. “Fuck, it it's a step up from Top Ramen chicken flavor and water from the sink.” 

Devin reached in the plastic bag and grabbed a juicy chicken bite with his thumb and index finger. He opened his mouth wide, popped the meat in, and started chewing. His eyes lit up, and he acted like he was fainting. He plopped down to the rocks and said with exaggerated pleasure, “That shit good! Fuck a pizza, this shit hit hard.” 

Antez asked as Darkeem got back to his feet, “How many bags y’all get?” 

Darkeem pointed at the bags dangling from the crusty, rusted handlebars on his and Bayton's bikes and said, “Four bags: we got orange chicken, noodles, beef, and General Tsao’s chicken.” 

Curious, Antez asked, “How’d y’all get the bags?” 

His mouth full of food, Darkeem explained, “We jumped the counter, and the pan was too hot.” 

Darkeem showed them the reddened burn on his palm. “We grabbed the bags and used the spoons.” 

Antez laughed, pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, and said, “I got this money here.” 

Darkeem started to laugh and sprayed bits of food as he said, pointing to Bayton, “The cash register was open, and this fool grabbed the cash and the coins!” He paused and sat on the gravel railroad bed, spitting bits of half-chewed food as he replied with pride and excitement, “He pulled the drawer out and took the cash while I was grabbing food.” Darkeem started to laugh to the point of coughing, spitting up a mush of chicken and saliva. Still giggling, he added, “This fool took the coins and started throwing ’em at the Chinese people, then he tipped over the register, told me to come on, and ran off.” 

Antez, smiled, shook his head, and asked, “How much y’all get?” 

Bayton said, “I don't know, we ain't count it yet.” 

Devin smiled, lifted a book bag, and said, “You can keep that baby money; we got these jews.” 

Bayton shrugged. “I don't care about that, give me the cash.” 

Devin responded, “That's what we gonna do, get money for the jewelry.” 

All four boys sat on the railroad tracks and passed the bags of food around, savoring every bite. Devin reached a sticky, greasy hand into his pocket and grabbed the blunts he stole from his brother. He lit one, took a drag, and passed it to Antez who sat next to him. Antez inhaled and stared into the distance, looking at the crows gathered on the overhanging branches and the gloomy gray sky. He exhaled and asked his comrades, “When we sell this jewelry and we get rich, what y’all doing?” 

Devin said, “We ain't getting rich ... we getting wealthy with this.” 

Antez inhaled again, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Okay ... wealthy. What y’all doing?” 

Bayton lightly elbowed Antez who passed the blunt to him. He exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke and said, looking in the distance with unfocused eyes, “I'ma get my pops out of jail, my grandma out the ’hood, and buy whatever I want! What about y’all!?” 

Bayton passed the blunt to Darkeem who said, “Get a hundred-room mansion, all the girls I want, and a Kool-Aid water fountain.” 

The blunt returned to Darkeem who inhaled deeply and tilted his head back. He swirled his sticky index finger in the smoke and said, “I'd give back to the ’hood so everybody had money, so everybody would stop killing and robbing each other.” 

Antez looked at him, his gaze intense, and asked, “You think it would work? If you gave the money back, what would you do?” 

Darkeem took another puff and said, “I don't know. Look what we did: we don't have food and we barely have any clothes, so we took food and money to take care of what we need!” 

Antez shrugged and said, “Good point.” 

Antez looked at Devin and asked, “What you doing with the money?” 

Devin lit up another blunt held between his lips and took a couple of puffs. He watched the smoke rise against the gray backdrop of the gloomy sky and said, “Get my mama out the street and off drugs; help my auntie and uncles that’s on drugs and get them out of prison; help my cousins that have all them babies; and, bury the money and use it when I need it.” 

Antez sighed and said, “Yeah, where else we gonna put the money? My uncle robbed like fifteen banks, and he used to leave the money laying around or he hide it.” 

Darkeem asked, “Where your uncle now? He used to give me a hundred dollars here and there. He was cool.” 

Antez rested his chin on his palms, his elbows on his dirty, sagging jeans. His gaze was lost in the gray sky. He answered, “He on the run again; he stay in and out of jail.” 

Devin said, “Sounds like my family, in and out of jail, on drugs. My big bro just got out. My daddy went to prison, and the next day he got shot.” 

Bayton added to their collective tale of woe, “All five of my older brothers dead.” 

Antez said, “I remember those shootings, too. They took your moms to the mental hospital after a while.” 

The boys continued to smoke and reminisce on funerals and family drama and troubles. Their eyes lost focus among sad silences as they continued to eat Chinese food scooped from bags with their fingers and to smoke blunts. 

CHOO-CHOO! 

They heard the train coming down the tracks and hopped to their feet. Devin said, “Let's take the train home, y’all.” 

“What about the bikes?” Bayton asked. 

Devin shrugged his shoulders. “Leave ’em. We’ll come through here again and hope they here, or we’ll take another one off the bike rack with the cutters.” 

The boys watched the train roll slowly down the tracks. As it passed, they looked for an open carriage to hop into. Devin shielded his eyes against the light with his right hand as he peered into the distance and shouted, “I see one!” 

Devin, Darkeem, Antez, and Bayton clambered into the carriage as it rumbled down the steel rails. They balanced on the edge, looking down at rocks, trees, dead leaves on the ground, and the murky sky. A hissing sound captured their attention. The boys looked around to see where it was coming from. Bayton nodded and pointed his index finger, and said, “Look over there.” 

The boys withdrew into the carriage and approached a shabby black cat with patchy fur and one eye that stared at them with ferocious intensity. The cat stood on her four paws, lips peeled back from sharp teeth and ready for battle to protect her litter of kittens. Devin went into the bag of Chinese food and grabbed a piece of orange chicken. He kneeled and slowly extended the meat to the cat. Lowering his voice as if speaking to a baby, he called, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” 

The cat hissed and lunged at Devin's face, raking sharp claws down one side and drawing blood. Devin pressed his other hand to the side of his face, sucked his teeth, and hissed, “Ahh shit, fuck!” 

The boys started to laugh at him, pointing at him and mocking him. Darkeem crowed, “He got yo ass!” 

Boiling with anger, Devin looked at the cat with his left eye. While holding his hand over his right eye, he ran over to the cat, swung his right leg back, and ... 

POW! 

He slipped on the smooth metal floor. The metal rang. Again, the boys laughed. Once more, the cat hissed, then it attacked Darkeem and Bayton. Screaming and yelling, Darkeem swatted at the animal and finally slapped it aside. Wanting his revenge, he snarled, “This cat got me fucked up!” 

They chased the shabby black cat around the carriage. It nimbly and swiftly evaded them. Antez walked towards the kittens lying balled up together and mewling. He grabbed one kitten by the neck and looked the cat in the eye. In a soft tone of menace, he said, “Is this one of your babies, you pussy?” 

The cat stared at Antez, a low, vicious growl emanating from the small throat. The animal gave Antez a look of pure hatred. Antez mocked the cat and again in a soft tone of voice, “If you want him, come and get ’um.” 

Antez bit his lower lip as the kitten cried. The mama cat approached with caution. He swung his right leg back and drop-kicked the kitten into the wind. 

POW! 

He fell backward, hitting his head on the metal floor. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his head with both heads and groaned, “Ahh, shit.” 

The boys started to laugh, and Devin said, “Now you know how I felt.” 

Darkeem ran over to him, huddled over him, got in his face, and tried to impersonate the character of Smokey played by Chris Tucker in the movie Friday, saying, “You got knocked the fuck out!” 

The boys ran around the carriage, laughing. Antez got up holding his head and said, “Fuck y’all.” 

Furious, he looked at the cat and chased after it. The cat easily evaded him again before darting back to the corner with her kittens. As the kittens meowed crawled over each other, Devin said to his friends, “All right, y’all let’s jump his punk ass.” 

Antez, giving the cats a death stare, said, “You mean her: the pussy got a pussy.” 

Devin said, “Whatever. Let's corner it! Form a circle!” 

The boys formed a circle with their hands out, making themselves look bigger. The cat looked back and forth, hissing and growling at them. The boys slowly walked in closer and closer. Without warning, the cat jumped at Antez’ face. He dodged. The cat landed on the side of the carriage, slipping on the metal panel. Its body dangled from the opening as it hung on the edge by two front paws, claws digging into a thin piece of rubber. Antez quickly ran over and put both of his feet on the cat’s front paws. 

Devin ordered, “Hold his ass.” 

Antez snarled, “Pussy.” 

Devin didn’t respond to Antez’ correction. He looked the cat in the eye as it dangled from the edge. The animal yowled as the train continued moving, its single eye glowing with hatred and desperation. 

Devin put his right arm on Antez shoulder for support, put his right foot back as far as he could, and kicked the cat in the head. The cat squirmed and thrashed, trying to get away, yowling. Devin bit down on his bottom lip, his eyebrows narrowed in, and he kicked the cat in the head several more times. Nearly unconscious, the cat let out some slow meows. Devin touched his face and felt the warm wet blood on the dirty palm of his hand. He kneeled and stared at the helpless cat. Pulling his pocketknife out, he lowered his face near the cat’s. The cat met his gaze and growled. Devin stared at the cat and said, “You scratch me, then I scratch you!” 

Upper lip lifted in a cold sneer, Devin plunged the blade into the cat’s remaining eye and twisted it. The cat squirmed violently back and forth and screamed in pain for a brief moment before it went limp. 

Antez smiled, looked at his friends, and said, “What movie is this, y’all?” 

Antez removed his left foot from the dead cat’s paw and took it in his hand. He placed his other hand on the cat’s paw, got in the animal’s face, and said, “Long live the king!” 

Grasping the animal’s leg, he flung the carcass onto the tracks. The cat disappeared beneath the train, iron wheels crushing the small, thin body. Antez laughed and asked said, “What movie was that, y’all?” 

Darkeem, looking puzzled, answered, “Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny?” 

Antez sucked his teeth and said, “No, fool.” 

Bayton stuck his bottom lip out and said, “Hmm, Mickey Mouse and Goofy?” 

Antez sucked his teeth again and said, “No, fool, I said movie, bro, not a cartoon.” 

Devin said, “I know, Lord of the Rings!” 

Antez sighed and sucked his teeth and said, “Man, Lion King, y’all, when he grabbed Simba's hands off the rock cliff thingy and he fell into the fire.” 

Bayton narrowed his eyes and said, “I thought the dark-skinned lion throw the light-skinned lion into them deers or whatever.” 

Antez sighed. He looked down and gave up on the fun, saying, “Never mind.” 

Devin glanced at the kittens and asked, “How many kittens over there?” 

Moving to stand over the writhing ball of squirming, mewling kittens, Antez counted aloud, keeping track with his index finger. “Eight of them.” 

Devin looked outside. The train was about to pass over the freeway where they’d thrown rocks off the side of the train bridge. In amazement, he said, “Dang, look y’all!” 

The other boys looked at the scene. The freeway was shut down, cars lined up in both directions. A helicopter hovered in the sky and police swarmed. 

As the carriage was about to roll across the bridge, Devin said, “Grab a cat, y’all, and line them up on the outside.” 

They each grabbed a cat and set the kittens on the edge of the carriage. 

With a grin, Devin said, “The one that can kick a cat the farthest wins.” 

The boys ran to the back of the carriage to get a running start. As the carriage clattered over the freeway, Devin called out, “On three ... hut, hut, hike!” 

The boys ran forward and kicked the helpless kittens as far as they could. Smiling with pleasure, they watched as the small animals flew through the air. After a moment, they heard four thumps hit the cars below. They jumped up and down, laughing at the cries of horror rising from the freeway. Bayton smiled and crowed, “Mine went the farthest!” 

Darkeem said, “Not-uh, mine did.” 

Antez laughed and said, “That shit funny as fuck!” 

Darkeem said, “What if that happen to you?” 

Antez shrugged and said, “It just does, and you one to talk: you did it, too, fool.” 

Darkeem grinned, entertaining himself picking with his friend. 

Staring at the chaos below, Devin thought about the cats. A moment of intensity filled the air, and he asked his friends, “Why people seem to love animals more than us?” 

Antez said, “What you mean?” 

Devin said, “When I watch TV, I be watching Animal Planet and shit.” 

Antez stopped him and asked, “When you get cable?” 

Devin sucked his teeth, looked Antez in the eye, and said, “We been had cable. My brother got that shit hooked up illegally awhile back.” 

Antez urged, “Anyway, keep going!” 

Devin responded, “Nah, bro, I be watching Animal Planet, and they got all types of shit for animals: medicines, they get taken care of, feed, and shit! Why people don't do that for us?” 

The boys looked down and around at the metal carriage. Antez thought about what his friend said, circled his foot, and replied, “I dunno, man. You think someone out there trying to help us?” 

Devin snorted. “Who, bro? We hear gunshots every night. Everybody dealing drugs or on drugs. The prison is a couple miles up the street. Everywhere you walk, there's homeless people lined up and down the street asking for money, like we kids, bro, we don't have any money!” 

Antez flashed a smile and said, “We rich now with these jews, bro.” 

Devin nodded. “True, we can make a little money off these jews.” 

Darkeem said, “Bro, I wish I was an animal, like a dog or something. I'd have someone take care of me, I'd play all day, I'd take naps.” 

Bayton said, “I don't wanna be a dog; I'd be a cat. Cats seem to get away with more.” 

Antez snickered and remarked, “You'll get yo ass kicked like these cats.” 

Devin said, “I'm with Darkeem, bro. I was watching animal plant, and ...” 

Devin started smacking his hand into his fist over and over again. Drops of saliva flew from his mouth as his emotions rose and the speed of his words increased. “Bro, this one old lady left the dog the house, the cars, the deeds, and even the cats when she died!” 

The boys’ eyes widened and their jaws dropped. 

Devin nodded and said, “Yes, y’all, guess how much money the dog got, y’all?” 

They chorused, “What's that?” 

Devin said, “Guess?” 

Antez shrugged and said, “A hundred dollars?” 

Devin sucked his teeth in and said, ”Yeah, right, bro. Higher.” 

Darkeem ventured, “A thousand?” 

Devin poked his lip out, shook his head, and said, “Nope, way higher.” 

Bayton called out, “Ten thousand!” 

Devin looked them all in the eye. After a long pause, he said, “How about 10 milly?” 

In disbelief, Antez cried, “The fuck outta!” 

Devin closed his eyes and nodded. “Ten million muthafuckin’ dollars, y’all.” 

Bayton, exhaling in pure disbelief, said, “Damn, that’s a lot of money, isnt it?” 

Devin said, “I know I'd be a rich, old white woman's dog any day, bro!” 

Darkeem corrected him and said, “Don't say that, bro. My grandpa said we were less than cattle during slavery days; kids our age were used as rugs, mats, and playthings for other kids on those farms they lived on.” 

Devin met his gaze. After another long pause, he said, “I'll say this again, I'd be a rich white woman's dog any day.” 

Darkeem said, “You stupid for that.” 

Devin got in Darkeem’s face. He showed his teeth and yelled, “How am I stupid, bro?” 

Darkeem refused to back down and yelled, “Because we not animals, bro. My grandpa said that we human beings!” 

“Man, fuck that! We sure don't get treated like it. Look what we live in, bro: ain't shit there for us. At this point, I'd rather be living the good life than taking everything. If I was that dog, I wouldn't want for nothing!” Devin shouted. 

Darkeem looked at the floor, lowered his voice, and said, “I'd rather be human.” 

When the boy raised his eyes, Devin met his gaze and held it. After an intense pause, he reiterated, “I'd rather be a rich white lady’s dog.” 

Darkeem shook his head and declared, “You stupid.” 

Devin retaliated for the insult with a swift upper cut to Darkeem’s chin. Darkeem stumbled back and swung a swift right hook into Devin’s bloodied right cheek. The boys grabbed each other, tussling. 

Devin snarled, “Fuck yo African roots, you in America now.” 

Darkeem growled, “You African, too; study your history!” 

Antez got in the middle of the fight and tried to push them apart. “Dang, y’all, stop, we all boys here.” 

Bayton got in the middle as well, but said nothing. 

Both Devin and Darkeem breathed heavily. Devin looked him in the eye and said, “Well, if you ain't a dog, why you take them jews wit’ us and run with us all the time?” 

Darkeem widened his eyes and shouted, “Human!” 

Devin didn’t respond; he just stared at the other boy who glared back at him. Turning on his heel, Darkeem snatched a book bag, jumped off the carriage, and walked into the woods. 

Devin peered through the opening after him and watched him walk away. Not taking his eyes off Darkeem, he said, “Man, fuck that soft-ass African nigga. He always preaching that African Zulu shit. Fuck him and his grandpa. We ain't in Africa, we live in the projects here in America—low income housing!” 

Antez and Bayton were quiet. Devin cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled, “Fuck you, bitch-ass nigga! You soft-ass, no-spear-having-ass bitch, go ’head and be a human; I'ma be a rich white woman's dog!” 

Antez calmly said, “Chill out, bro, you trippin.” 

Devin said, “Man, fuck that nigga. That’s why the first four letter of his name spell dark!” 

Puzzled, Antez thought to himself, “What does that have to do with anything?” 

Devin, still grumbling, said, “I'm a big dog, and big dogs find a way to eat out here!” 

He looked at Bayton and Antez and said, “Grab one of these cats and put them in the jew bags, this either dinner or we selling these bitches!” 

There were four kittens left. With three bags total, they put one kitten each in two of the bags and two kittens in the last bag. They looked out from the carriage, and Devin said, “We back in the projects.” 

They jumped from the slowly moving train and regained their footing among the scrub and debris lining the railroad tracks. Staring at the grim, gray buildings and dwelling on the crime and drama that often took place there, Devin let out a sigh of grief. “Imperial Downs Project … I hate it here.” 

Antez and Bayton, their filthy hands stuffed in the pockets of their rough, dingy jeans, nodded in agreement as they, too, stared at the distant buildings. 

The boys walked toward home, each carrying a book bag with stolen jewelry and at least one mewling kitten as well as a dripping plastic bag of now-cold Chinese food. A group of police stood in front of the multi-residential building. 

“Let’s walk a different direction; we got these jews,” Antez said, looking down at the cracked concrete. 

“Man, fuck the police,” Devin stated boldly as they grew closer to the group of law enforcement officers. 

Devin walked towards the police and looked at a white officer. He asked, “What's going on here?” 

The officer stood behind the yellow crime scene tape with his hands resting on his hips and answered without expression, “Another homicide.” 

Devin looked at the lifeless body, the beat-up Jordan shoes, and squeezed his eyes shut. He said to himself, “That's my big bro's friend he was watching TV with.” 

The officer, standing firm, tall, and inscrutable, watched the boy with a piercing gaze. After a moment, he asked, “You know this guy or who might’ve done this?” 

The three boys shrugged their shoulders, their top lips curled in fascination as they gazed at the blood and dead body. 

“No,” Devin lied. He paused, then looked the officer in the eyes and raised his eyebrows. Voice dripping with contempt, he sneered, “But isn’t that y’all job, not ours?” 

The cop rolled his eyes at the boy’s disrespectful attitude, common in the projects. He nodded and noticed the boys’ bags. “What's in the bags?” 

Devin gave the officer a bold stare, took the bag off his back, and answered, “Cats and jews.” 

Antez and Bayton both looked at each other, not believing he said that to the officer. Devin opened one of the three bookbags and showed the two mewling kittens to the officer. 

The officer turned his lip up, stuck his hand out, smiled, and said, “No, thanks.” 

The kittens meowed, looking at the man with big bright eyes that could melt any soul. Devin shouldered the back into place. 

“Not my brother, not my brother, oh, Lord Jesus, not my brother!” A young woman and two of her friends entered the crime scene. She ran past the police officers who tried to hold her back. She dropped to her knees in a puddle of blood and grabbed the corpse by the head, screaming at the top of her lungs. She held his head against her breast and rocked back and forth, weeping, “My brother, Lord, my brother.” 

A moment later, she looked up from her brother’s body. Her tear-filled gaze landed on Devin. In a loud scream that echoed off unpainted concrete walls, she focused her rage and sorrow on the child: “You did this to him!” 

Devin stared at her and gave her a sinister smile, taunting her, although he had nothing to do with that crime. 

She yelled, “I hate you, we all hate you! I'ma have someone kill you!” with tears streaming down her face. 

Devin bared his teeth, his expression turning malevolent and sadistic. Her threat didn’t scare him. 

A cop rushed to the young woman. “Miss, please, you have to calm down and step away from the body.” 

The woman started yelling and screaming, fighting the officers, pleading, “Get off me!” 

Her two friends jumped in, grabbed other police officers by their shirts and started hitting them. Reacting to the assault, the police officers tackled the women to the ground and slammed their heads onto the concrete. 

“Punk-ass cops,” one spectator yelled. 

A angry woman stated, “Racist muthafuckas ain't got nothing better to do beside harass black folks.” 

Another man shouted, “Putting y’all hands on women, put your hands on a real nigga!” 

While the white cop observed the commotion building in the community, Devin kicked him in his left shin. The cop grabbed his shin in pain, tightening his lips. 

“Little shits,” he grunted. “These bad-ass kids in this bad-ass neighborhood ... dammit!” 

Devin and his friends ran off, snickering. The boys raced through the projects like rats through a maze, dodging this way and that so the cops wouldn't catch them. They snickered and laughed as they ran. 

Bayton, trying to catch his breath, commented, “That was fun.” 

Panting, Devin tilted his head back and smiled. “Yeah, that was fun.” He looked up a flight of stairs. “Man, cops ain't shit!” 

Bayton agreed. “Yeah, fuck them, they always fucking with, hovering around the ’hood!” 

Having caught his breath, Antez played devil’s advocate, “They just doing they job.” 

Breathing heavily, Devin said, “Nah, I ain't with that. They arrest us, come back, arrest us, come back. Then the people and family members that go to jail come back worse, it seem like. Then you have the people on drugs, then they come back. Then they mess with us kids and shit!” 

Bayton nodded, “Yeah, that’s what it seem like.” 

Devin spat on the concrete, “Well, if that’s the case, I'ma do my job to survive: rob, steal, and I'd kill again if I have to, to put money in my pockets!” 

Antez shrugged. “I guess we all going to jail.” 

Devin looked at Antez and spat again. “Guess so. I can't wait to go to jail; that’s one of my goals in life, that’s part of being a man!” 

Antez agreed with a nod. “Yeah, do a couple years and be the fucking man!” 

Bayton nodded again. “Me, too. Most of the men in my family locked up, and they real men, real men!” 

Devin and Antez nodded in agreement. Antez said, “Hell, yeah, and I wanna be a real man, too!” 

Devin got quiet, staring off into the distance, thinking. His voice was soft as he muttered, “Yeah, fuck the police, they can't be trusted. On top of that, they have to catch me first, before I accept going to jail.” 

Antez turned his lip up and thought aloud, “What if there wasn't no police? Wouldn't everybody go crazy like that one movie where they kill everyone during the night and they only have 24 hours?” 

Devin looked at the floor, snapping his fingers. “What's that movie?” 

Thinking hard, Bayton guessed, “Freddy Krueger, Jason, Mike Myers …” 

Devin, still snapping his fingers and looking at the ground, said, “No, fool, he said a movie where they all kill each other. Oh, I know, Nightmare on Elm Street.” 

Bayton sucked his teeth. “I just said Jason from Nightmare on Elm Street.” 

Antez squinted. “Mike Myers is on Nightmare on Elm Street, right?” 

Devin put his hands up in frustration. “Whatever. I don't care if the movie is called The Purge. At the end of the day, fuck the police; they don't love us and we don't love them.” 

Devin walked off and the other boys followed. He spied his mother on the side of the street. He nodded and pointed with his index finger. “Aye, y’all, there go my moms. Let’s say what's up.” 

He ran toward his mother, his friends following. 

“A-yo, Moms. A-yo, Moms, what's up?” he called. 

Her small, frail, half-naked body trembled from heavy use of drugs. She rubbed a hand over one bare arm and held a Newport cigarette between the index and middle fingers. She gave no sign of having heard him. 

Excited to see his mother, Devin approached with a smile. “What's up, Mom? You good out here?” 

She smiled, staring off into space. A moment passed before the words penetrated and she focused her bleary eyes on Devin. She gave him a hug and a sloppy kiss on the forehead and slurred, “How you doing, babe? Momma be home in a couple days.” 

Devin smiled. “Yeah, me and big bro ain't seen you in a while.” 

She smiled, taking a puff on her cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke skyward. “Yeah, Mama okay. You got some money Mama can borrow, babe? You know Mama good to pay you back. I know I said that before, but I’ma have some money real soon, I promise!” 

Devin smiled, eager to help his mother anyway he could. He took the book bag off his back and opened it. “I got these kittens and these jews, Mom.” 

Her eyes lit up. She shouted, “Sweet Jesus, boy, where you get all these from?” She paused, squinted, then asked, “Where you get cats from?” 

Devin smiled. “Shit, um ... I took the jews from the mall, and we found these cats on a train.” 

She shuffled through the bag and asked, “This whole bag mine, son. You know I raised you well and I deserve this whole bag.” 

Devin scratched his head, not wanting to give her the whole bag. “Well, Moms, you can have a couple things, but not a whole lot. We was gonna sell it for a couple dollars.” 

Her eyes got big and she looked at him in disbelief, because she knew how much the jewelry was worth. “A couple dollars, boy? Son, let Mama take care of this for you.” 

Devin’s face twisted in confusion. He shrugged and looked at both of his friends. They looked at him back at him, then shrugged their shoulders as well. Hesitantly, he replied, “Okay, if you can bring us a little more than a couple dollars, that would be cool, thanks.” 

She smiled and kissed him. “Thank you, son. Mama proud of you! You made me a happy lady, too. Mama gonna wear this like Queen Nefertiti. King Solomon gonna be my man, and I'll have gold like queen of Sheba, mm-hmm!” 

She then noticed the other boys' bags and squinted her eyes. Suspicious, she said, “Don't y’all got more jews?” 

The boy showed her their bags, opening them with the kittens inside. Her eyes got wide. 

“Lord, have mercy!” She looked at Devin. “Boy, when you say a couple dollars, how much you talking?” 

Too young to understand, Devin shrugged again and replied, “I dunno, a ring for like a dollar and a necklace for like three or five dollars.” 

She put her hand on her heart as she looked at all that shiny gold as if she’d won a billion dollar lottery. A blaze orange Cadillac pulled up, the back window rolled down, and a dark man with sleek, shiny hair down to his shoulders called, “Bitch, if you don't get yo ass in this car …” 

She looked at her pimp, then back at the boys, her expression nervous. “Hurry, give me the bags, boys. I'll pay you back.” The boys were reluctant. She begged them, “Please, boys, I'll make it worth your while.” 

The car stopped. The pimp got out, walked up to her, and, without pause, backhanded her. She cried out, but did not fight back. Expression cold and uncaring, he snapped, “Bitch, when I say now, I mean now, bitch.” 

She shook as he pulled her away, mumbling in fear, “Yes, Daddy.” 

Devin erupted in rage. “That’s my muthafuckin’ mama, man!” 

The pimp frowned as he pulled Devin’s mother away. She still clutched the bag of stolen jewelry and two kittens. He looked at the front passenger seat and said softly, “Window, please.” 

The window rolled down and a 9mm handgun emerged, held by a shadowy figure. The boys scrambled back several steps. The pimp shoved his mother shoved into the car’s back seat and looked at the bag in her hand. 

“What's in the bag, bitch?” he asked as he climbed in after her. 

She opened it. The pimp’s neck stiffened and his eyes focused on the gold. He snatched the bag from her hand and snapped, “I’m Daffy Duck, bitch, I'm a greedy little black duck. I'll take this.” 

Devin's mother began to reach for it, but he pulled his hand back as if to hit her again and snarled, “Bitch, if you dare try, I'll knock yo eyeballs into the back of yo head until they stuck, and you’ll never see yo son again!” 

She paused and cowered. The pimp pointed his index finger at the driver. “Drive, bitch.” 

The car slowly rolled away. A dark hand tossed two kittens out the window. The frightened animals scurried away. 

Devin picked up a rock with the intention to hurl it at the pimp’s back window. Antez grabbed his forearm before he could and warned, “Don't do it, bro. Orange Juice is not someone you wanna play around with. He'll have bitches kill for him, and he may kill your mom, bro.” 

Devin yanked his arm free and stared at the car. “Man, get the fuck off me. I don’t care if his name was Orange Kool-Aid, or Sunny D, I killed somebody, too. Let me find his ass!” 

Tears of rage welled in the corners of his dark, reddened eyes. 

Bayton blinked in bewilderment. “Why hoes be with guys that talk down to ’em, beat ’em, take they money, and get pregnant by ’em?” 

Antez stared as more cars rolled past, pondering the rationale as well. “I dunno. My auntie met a guy online. He's in prison for murder, for life, and she's trying to help him with the lawyer fees and everything. She's about to have a third child by him, so this will make five kids, because she had a baby by this other dude she met in the club, and ...” he paused and thought about it “… I'm not sure about the other dude. She always complaining he a player.” 

Devin watched the passing traffic, trying to understand why his mother allowed herself to be treated like that and whether she loved him. 

“Hell if I know. I ain't no stupid-ass bitch. Fuck if anybody treat me that way!” he grumbled as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Seeing Devin’s tears, Antez put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, trying to comfort him. “You good, bro?” 

Devin tugged his shoulders away and wiped snot and tears from his ashy face with his forearm. “Man, don't touch me. I'm not worried about her. Fuck my moms. I barely see her anyway. Fuck her and Orange Drink.” 

Antez corrected him, “Orange Juice, the pimp's name is Orange Juice.” 

Devin grumbled, “Whatever, bro.” 

Another car pulled to the curb and stopped. The passenger in the front seat rolled down the window and leaned out, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He had short, shiny, wavy hair, lips darkened from smoking weed, and conniving eyes. 

“What y'all bad-asses up to?” the man inquired, looking around. He put a lighter to the blunt wedged in the corner of his mouth and continued, “And where’s that little, crunchy, black, African, pitch-black bastard ya'll be hanging with?” 

Devin put both hands on his knees and leaned towards the car. “Fuck Dark. And shit, nothing, we got those jews, though!” Devin eyed the blunt. “Let me hit that, G.” 

The passenger passed it to him. Devin inhaled, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He looked at his friends and passed it to Antez. 

Angered at the boy’s presumption, the passenger objected while focusing his cold glare at Antez who took a puff and handed the blunt to Bayton, “Man, ain't nobody tell you to pass my shit. Hand me my shit back.” 

Bayton took a puff and handed the blunt back to him. 

“Why your eyes red, you been smoking all day or crying?” the man demanded. 

Antez and Bayton made crying faces and the man started mocking Devin. “Ah-hah, you ain't no G. You was crying like a little bitch!” He paused and took another puff from the blunt. “No, for real, what was you crying for, though?” 

Devin tried to play it off and said, “Fuck you, I wasn't crying.” 

Bayton put his hands to his mouth and lip-synced, “Orange Juice.” 

The passenger looked at Bayton and smiled, then he looked back at Devin, still smiling. “Orange Juice pimpin’ yo mama?” 

Devin raised his middle finger towards Bayton and Antez, because he knew one of them said something. He muttered, “Man, fuck Orange Juice, I'm gonna shoot his ass one day.” 

The passenger snickered. “Nah, Orange Juice ain't somebody you wanna be fucking with. He got hoes on payroll. That nigga so fucking smooth he got bitches from the military doing his work, and them bitches trained to kill.” He paused, looking at the traffic swerving around the vehicle, and took another puff from his blunt. “That muthafucka is smooth and sweet as Tropicana. When you can pimp rich bitches, military bitches, married bitches, and project bitches and make money off all them ... you a smooth muthafucka, boy!” He took another puff from his blunt, then passed it to the heavy-set driver next to him. “And, man, you what nine, ten? You ain't bout to do shit. Stop playin’!” 

His smile mocked Devin. 

With a serious expression, Devin replied, “Whatever, my age don't matter. I don't care how many bitches he has, I'll shoot his ass.” He changed the topic. “So, what's up with the money for these jews though?” 

The passenger squinted his eyes, looking at the bags they held, and ordered, “Open them up.” 

Bayton and Antez opened their bags. The man kept his expression neutral, but his eyes gleamed with avarice. He rubbed his smooth brown chin and offered, “Five dollars for each bag.” 

Outraged at the man trying to take advantage of him, Devin sucked teeth, then snapped, “Man, get the fuck out here. We young, but we ain't dumb, nigga. We want twenty dollars a bag, bro, but we keep one bag for ourselves!” 

The man nodded and poked his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout as he pretended to mull over their counteroffer. Seeming to relent, he said, “You right!” 

He pulled out a wad of cash so big it was about to explode from his hands. In a show of false generosity, he flipped three $20 bills and threw in six dollars in $1 dollar bills at the boys. He looked at Devin with a straight face and said, “Final offer!” 

The boys’ eyes got big. Devin exchanged one bag for the offered cash. 

“Pleasure doing business,” Devin said. 

The passenger looked inside the bags and his face tuned sour. “Man, take this fucking cat. It pissed in the bag, man, damn!” 

He grabbed a large black trash bag from the back seat and threw the kitten in it. He handed that bag to Devin, nodded, and tapped the driver who was snickering underneath his breath. They drove off. Devin reached into the remaining book bag and transferred the last kitten to the trash bag with its littermate. 

As they drove off, Devin overheard the passenger say, “Dumb asses, we got they ass!” 

He didn’t put two and two together. 

Devin gave $22 each to Antez and Bayton. 

“Man, look at all this money we got, y’all,” Devin exclaimed, happy with his share. 

Antez smiled. “Yeah, we do have a little bit of money; but, you see how much money he had though?” 

Bayton smacked his lips, remembering the thick wad of cash. “Shit, a lot, but we can buy a video game if we put our money together!” 

Devin nodded. “I like that idea.” 

He then looked at the kittens and jiggled the plastic bag. The distressed animals mewled. “Man, y’all, I’m tired of holding onto these cats. Y’all want ’em?” 

Antez turned his lip up and shook his head. Bayton stared at the bag and said, “I'm cool. I wouldn't know what to do with them.” 

With a sinister smile on his face, Devin said, “Follow me.” 

About 10 minutes later, they arrived at an open window where an elderly woman who owned a bunch of dogs lived. Sneaking with his friends, Devin looked through the window to make sure nobody was around. He slowly opened the window and tossed the plastic bag inside. The boys sat back, snickering, putting their hands over their mouths as they heard the dogs growling, knocking furniture, barking loudly, and causing a commotion. They heard the old woman yelling, “Y’all, sit down!” They snickered louder when she grumbled, “How the hell cats get my damn house?” 

The boys laughed until their eyes watered. Devin poked his head up like a turtle to peer through the window. He tapped both his friends and urged, “Look, look, y’all!” 

The elderly lady beat the dogs with her cane, and the kittens scrambled trying to get away. Devin yawned. He started to walk away and the other two boys followed suit. 

“I'm bored. I seen enough. Let’s go back to my place,” he suggested. 

The boys entered Devin's apartment where his brother still lounged on the couch watching pornography and smoking pot. Bloodshot eyes hypnotized by obscenity onscreen, he did not acknowledge their appearance. 

Devin sucked his teeth then asked, “Man, you still watching this?” 

Without turning his eyes away from the television, his brother replied in a dull tone, “Yup.” 

Bayton and Antez snickered in the background. Devin put the one remaining bag of stolen jewelry on the table and said, “Can you help me sell these? And how much they cost?” 

His brother took another puff from the blunt. Before he could reply, Devin quickly asked, “What happen to yo boy? I seen him laid out.” 

Dazed, Devin’s brother exhaled heavy white smoke as he lumbered from the couch to the table and mumbled, “Shit, I dunno. I know muthafuckas was looking for him. I think it was about money, you know ... ’hood shit?” 

Devin wasn’t bothered by his brother’s lack of concern. His brother looked through the bag, eyes getting big. He dumped the jewelry out on the table and shouted, “What the fuck you do this time? Where y’all get all this gold from?” 

Devin stuffed his filthy hands inside the sticky pockets of his jeans. Staring at his brother, he replied, “The mall.” 

His brother turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “Bro, do you know how much money this is?” 

Devin shrugged his shoulders. His brother scratched the side of his head and returned to the couch with a clumsy plop. He quickly got back up and shuffled the gold chains and rings around the tabletop. He grabbed a handful, stared at Devin, and shouted at the boys, “This has to be at least six figures!” 

Devin blinked and looked up at the ceiling, not quite understanding. “Okay ... how much is that? A million? What?” 

His brother let out an explosive sigh and slammed the jewelry back on the table. “Man, you stupid as fuck, that's why you need to take y’all bad asses to school.” 

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, opened the calculator app, and typed “100,000.” He showed the display and got in his little brother’s face. “Did you have more bags? Did you sell some already?” 

Without moving his head, Devin looked right and left, up and down. Keeping his expression neutral, he reported, “I gave a bag to Smooth when he rolled up on us today, and I seen moms. She got one, but Orange Juice took it.” 

Devin’s brother tilted his head back, let out another loud gusty sigh, and said, “Argh, you dumb as hell. You know damn well you can't trust Mom. I'm the one paying rent in this house, and you should know not to trust a nigga named Smooth.” 

He looked at the empty bag, picked it up, jiggled it. “How many bags of jews did you have?” 

Devin stared into space, trying to process what his brother asked. “Four in total: I gave one to Mom, one to Smooth for sixty-six bucks, Darkeem grabbed one, and we kept a bag.” 

His brother put his hand over his face, picked up a gold Miami Cuban link chain, and jiggled it in the boy’s face. “Bro, you know how much this one piece is alone?” 

Devin looked at his brother and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know?” 

His brother pulled a wad of cash from another pocket and held it out. He licked his finger while looking Devin in the eye and slowly flipped thirty $100 bills. He took his brother’s hand and smashed the money into the boy’s dirty palm and snarled, “How about three thousand dollars, brah ... and times that with all the other gold, silver, and diamonds you have on the table.” He shook his head in disgust. “Mom and Smooth got yo dumbass. Stay in school; nine years old shouldn't be playing in a grown man's world.” 

Devin flinched from his brother’s condemnation. The young man flicked him on the side of his head as he circled back toward the sofa. He looked at his little brother’s friends and asked, “What y’all got in this bag?” 

Bayton looked at him, extended his arm, smiled, and said, “Chinese food.” 

He snatched the bag and carried it to the kitchen. “Shit, I'm hungry. What, y’all steal this, too? Y’all bad as hell.” 

Finally realizing what his brother explained to him, Devin’s eyes watered with shame. Then his emotions turned cold with fury. He yelled and kicked the small living room table and hit the television, causing it to fall on the floor and shatter. 

“I'll kill him!” he screamed. 

“Hey!” His brother ran to the living room. “Don't be fucking my shit up ’cause you dumb.” 

Crying, Devin walked towards his brother and spat in his face. “Fuck you!” 

Reacting with a speed and strength his drugged state should have disallowed, his brother grabbed Devin and slammed his skinny body onto the stairs. He flipped him over, held his legs down with his knees, choked him with his right hand, and stuck the 9mm pistol in his mouth. He shoved the muzzle just far enough down the boy’s throat to make Devin gag. He lowered his face close to the boy’s and warned in a quiet voice dripping menace, “Spit on me again and you'll have a bullet in the back of your fuckin’ throat.” 

Devin tried to spit on him again, thick saliva running from the corners of his mouth. Tears flowed down his brown cheeks as he cried around the cold metal filling his mouth, “Do it! I don’t have much to live for anyway.” 

Devin wriggled, but his expression showed no fear. He jabbed at his brother’s left eye and received a swift, hard smack across the face. 

Releasing the boy, Devin’s brother said, “The streets will take care of you.” 

He gave him a cold glare and walked back into the kitchen. Devin sat there for a while, breathing heavily and ignoring his tears. After a moment, he got up and stormed upstairs. 

A door slammed, the sound reverberating and followed by glass being shattered. Bayton and Antez stood in awkward silence, hoping Devin’s enraged brother wouldn’t remember or notice their presence. 

“I'm going up.” Bayton said quietly. He sneaked up the staircase so Devin’s brother wouldn't hear him. He opened the door to Devin’s bedroom and asked, “You good, bro?” 

Devin sat on his bed with a 40 ounce can of Budweiser in one hand and a smoking blunt in the other. He took a drag and exhaled the pungent smoke out the broken windowpane as he stared at the darkening sky. He didn't respond. 

Concerned, Bayton tried again. “Hey, bro, you—-” 

Devin cut him off. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. I'm good, bro.” 

Devin put the bottle of beer to his mouth and took a couple of sips, then took a couple smokes from the blunt. After a few minutes of heavy silence, Devin, still looking out the broken window at the darkening sky, asked, “You think we going to heaven, hell, or reincarnated when we die?” 

Bayton glanced around the ramshackle room and replied with aching candor, “I don't know, but I would mind being reincarnated.” 

Having crept upstairs after Bayton and joined them in Devin’s room, Antez stared at the grungy carpet beneath his dirty shoes. He felt obliged to offer his opinion. “Because we kids, I heard we go to heaven.” He paused, thought about it, and added quietly, “Then again, I don't know what it would look like. Is it clouds? Is the streets all gold?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know.” 

Devin took another swallow of beer and another puff from the blunt. He spat, sending phlegm through the broken glass and said, “I'd like to come back reincarnated.” 

Antez asked, “What would you be?” 

Devin squinted his eyes, let his head fall back, and blew thick smoke into the air. “I'd be a eagle or big bird or some shit.” He paused, inhaled, exhaled again. “Then I go where I’d wanna go, fly where I wanna fly, see what I wanna see, and fly up out these projects. I hate it here, bro.” 

He flicked what remained of the blunt out the window, then turned and looked at Antez and Bayton. His right eye looked like a plump purple plum from his older brother’s rock hard knuckles. 

Antez and Bayton grimaced in sympathy. 

“Damn,” Bayton murmured to himself. 

Hopping off the musty-smelling bed, Devin walked to his closet and grabbed a Taurus G2 Slim 9mm handgun from the floor. He racked the slide to ensure it was loaded. Looking at his friends, he said, “But I know who's going to hell today. Y’all coming?” 

Antez and Bayton both smiled in anticipation. “Hell, yeah.” 

Devin put the gun in his back pocket and grabbed his tattered black hoodie. Reaching into the closet, he picked up two more black hoodies off the floor and gave them to Antez and Bayton. The boys did not notice the rank odor of unwashed, dirty clothing stinking of rodent urine and ragged with holes, although Bayton did shake the garment to rid it of any loose turds. 

“Let's go to the woods and get them AKs I found on the train awhile back and get our jews back,” Devin said. 

Pulling on the hoodie, Antez asked, “Where do you think all them guns came from and why was they just sitting there?” 

Devin rubbed some dollar store lotion on his face and answered, “I dunno. How crack end up here, but everybody poor? How heroin get here, but everybody poor? Why everybody killing each other here and nothing done about it? Why guns randomly show up on the train tracks?” He paused, smoothing the cheap lotion on his face and being careful not to touch his swollen eye. “I dunno, but I'ma find a way out of here.” 

He quickly ran downstairs. Antez and Bayton followed. 

“Man, where the hell y’all little bad asses going?” his brother asked. 

Not looking at him, Devin scurried out the front door and yelled, “Fuck you!” 

Realizing what he’d left behind, he darted back inside and grabbed the bookbag and a couple pieces of jewelry. 

He brother rose to his feet and grabbed a broom. He glared at Devin. “Bro, what the fuck is you doing?” 

His gaze moved back and forth between Devin and his two friends as he tried to figure out what was going on. He threw the broom down and walked away in frustration. 

“Man, y’all are so fucking bad and annoying. Get the fuck away from me,” he grumbled as he returned to the living room. 

Enraged by his brother’s callous dismissal, Devin charged his brother like a lineman, knocking him into the wall. The cheap drywall cracked beneath the impact. 

“Bitch!” his brother shouted. 

Devin propelled himself off his brother and sprinted out the front door, his friends behind him. As they raced away, his brother screamed out the screen window, “I swear I'ma kill yo ass!” 

As he ran, Devin flipped him the bird. 

The boys fled into the woods behind the project, maneuvering through brambles and overgrown weeds. Devin stopped at a tree with “AK” scratched in the bark. While his friends watched, he oriented himself to face north and counted step by step until he got to 30. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrabbled in the dirt until he found the corner of an old tarp. With a grunt, he tugged it away, the debris falling away to reveal a stash of cold, lethal metal. 

Looking at the weapons, Devin gnawed on his bottom lip before saying, “Look here, boys, look at these beauties.” 

Antez and Bayton murmured their appreciation. 

Devin then mimicked Marvin the Martian while picking up an AK-47 and looking at it in the glimmering moonlight, “Isn’t this lovely?” He pointed it at one of the trees and mimicked the cartoon character again, “This makes me very angry, very angry indeed.” 

He referred to Smooth conning them out of their money. 

Antez and Bayton look at him. The former asked, “You know how to use that thing?” 

Devin turned the gun over and looked into the muzzle with one eye. As he turned the gun back around, he accidentally squeezed the trigger. 

Rat-ta-tat-tat! 

The gun fired at Antez and Bayton’s feet. The boys stood still in shock and stared at each other in awkward silence. Suddenly, Devin jumped up and down and shouted, “Y’all see that bitch? It got some fire power to it!” 

He aimed the rifle at a tree, stood firm so he didn’t get pushed back by the recoil, and fired some shots. He looked at Antez and Bayton and answered their earlier question, “I do now.” 

He kissed the AK-47 and quoted Marvin the Martian again, “Illudium Q36 Explosive Space Modulator.” 

He looked at Antez and Bayton who were now standing behind a tree where they felt safer and lowered the rifle. They walked back to him. 

Devin grinned and asked, “Whose voice is that, y’all?” 

Bayton poked his lip out. “Um ... somebody from Star Wars?” 

Drowsy, Devin lowered his eyes and answered bluntly, “No.” 

Antez looked at the crusty leaves and dirt. “The Jetsons?” 

Devin paused and sighed. He shook his head and said, “No, fools, Marvin the Martian from Mickey Mouse.” 

Bayton frowned and blinked, trying to figure it all out. “I thought Marvin was with Looney Tunes.” 

Devin waved his right hand, then adjusted his hold on the AK-47. “Who cares? Let's go get our jews.” With a nod to his friends, he said, “Grab a AK, y’all, you'll shoot before. Remember when we used a bunch of rounds on the train tracks?” 

Antez picked up a rifle and hefted it to his shoulder. “I remember that. We shot into that abandoned train, and then out on the street.” 

Devin put the gun on his shoulder and said, “All right, y’all, let’s go.” 

He pulled his black hoodie over his head and walked back to the patchy turf surrounding the apartment complex. He looked around, observing the area. He saw people conversing outside, some elderly folks on their porches sitting quietly and staring into the cool evening mist, and children frolicking about. Devin looked at his friends and said, “Let's get Earl, see what he up to.” 

He pointed to an apartment. The boys walked over, the guns carelessly resting on their shoulders. Devin banged on the front door. 

A adolescent yelled, “Who is it and who the fuck banging on my door this time of night?” 

Devin swung an arm back and forth and yelled, “It's me, Devin!” 

The adolescent yelled, “Oh, yo bad ass! Hold on!” 

The boys waited for Earl to come to the door. Opening the door, the adolescent looked at the children, frowned, and asked, “What you got on your shoulders?” 

Devin replied, “AKs.” 

The adolescent asked, “You ’bout to do some more bad shit?” 

Devin looked at the ground, gaze moving back and forth, not knowing what to say. He opted for candor and answered, “Yeah.” 

The adolescent drawled, “You a bad muthafucka, boy!” 

The door slammed opened and Earl walked out. He gave Devin, Antez, and Bayton fist bumps. “Man, that's big, bro, don't pay him no mind, but what y’all ’bout to do though?” 

Devin met Earl’s gaze. “’Bout to go shoot Smooth. He conned us out of some jews that's worth a lot of money and we didn't know it and we ’bout to get it back. You want in, we’ll give you some of the money.” 

Earl's expression brightened. “Hell, yeah, if it's about money, I'm in. Let me go get my little pea shooter.” 

Earl retreated back inside the apartment. 

Earl’s older brother appeared at the door. He looked over Devin and his friends and grinned. “Y’all little niggas serious, ain't y’all?” 

Suspecting mockery, Devin frowned and growled, “Yeah.” 

Earl's brother looked at them in disbelief, then burst into hysterical laughter, banging on the door. When he caught his breath, he said, “Y’all li’l muthafuckas bad as hell. I ain't saying shit. I wanna see how this shit turn out. How old are y’all?” 

Still wearing the same dark expression, Devin answered, “Old enough.” 

He was still smiling when Earl returned and said, “Let's go.” 

As the foursome walked away, Earl’s older brother collapsed in more hysterical laughter, pounding his fist on the side of the door. He called after them, “Y’all bad as fuck! Don't die, little niggas!” 

“Man, don't pay him no mind,” Earl advised the boys as he pulled a black hoodie over his head. “He the biggest thief in the ’hood; him and his dude hijacked a truck the other day.” 

They arrived at Smooth’s apartment building where people were carousing inside and out. They positioned themselves at a distance, Earl crouching like a cat. 

“So, what we doing, what's the plan?” he asked. 

Without warning, Bayton dropped his gun and ran off, disappearing into the darkness. Devin smacked his lips and commented in a quiet voice, “Scaredy-ass, he out, no money for him.” 

Earl picked up Bayton’s AK-47 and asked, “Y’all ready?” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, Devin sprang from hiding and raced toward Smooth’s apartment, randomly firing at people on the back porch. Bodies dropped. Earl quickly followed and shot anyone still breathing. He heard women screaming and yelling inside as Devin crashed through the door and sprayed bullets. 

Antez joined Devin whose rifle was pointed at Smooth. 

“You thought because we was kids you was gonna get us out of our money? You gonna give me twenty dollars, knowing they was worth more? My big bro told me. Where my jews?” he demanded, his brown skin flushed with heat. 

Smooth smiled and smashed his half-smoked blunt in an ash tray. Reaching over, he retrieved the bag and pushed it towards the boy along with some $100 bills. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he widened his smile and tried to talk his way out of retribution. “Man, y’all some li’l homie. I was just playing with y’all. Y’all ain't really gonna shoot me, is y’all?” 

Rat-ta-tat-tat. 

Devin emptied the magazine into Smooth’s body until his face was unrecognizable. The four naked women sitting in the room screeched at the top of their lungs. They cried, shook uncontrollably, and curled up on the couch, pleading with the boys to spare them. Devin snatched the bag of jewelry and all the money he could, then ran upstairs as fast as he could. The apartment’s layout being a replica of his own home, he unerringly found Smooth’s bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawers. He pulled six wads of cash secured by rubber bands from the top drawer and flipped the other drawers, looking for any jewelry or cash he could find. 

From behind he heard Earl: “Bro, let's go, don't be greedy. Let's get the fuck outta here.” 

Devin stuffed the wads of cash into the book bag and followed the older boy down the stairs and tripped on some empty beer bottles. He rolled down, grunting, “Shit!” He hit his head on the drywall, putting a crack in cheap material. At the bottom of the stairs, Antez and Earl hoisted him to his feet. The women started screaming again. Devin, Antez, and Earl ran out the back door and headed into the woods where Devin had stored the guns. 

Panting and sweating profusely, Devin asked, “Y’all scared?” 

Earl and Antez stood bent over with their hands on their knees, salty sweat dripping onto their worn shoes. 

“Nah,” Earl said. 

Gulping a big swallow of snot and spit, Antez shook his head and replied, “Not me. Y’all look scared, though.” 

They refused to admit the truth of Antez’s words, all them nervous and scared, yet not thinking about the consequences of their actions. 

Earl looked in the bag of jewelry. “Looks like it's all here from what I remember.” He removed the six wads of cash out and distributed them to Earl and Antez, saying, “Here you go, here you go!” 

Earl nodded and said, “Good looking out.” 

Antez nodded, too. “Good looking out. What we doing with the jewelry?” 

Devin put his AK-47 on the tarp and grabbed a pocket pistol which he inserted in his back pocket. The others followed suit, then covered the rifles. 

“I'ma go home and look at them like my big bro did and figure out how much they worth, so we don't get conned again. I didn't know jewelry was worth that much,” Devin explained. 

“I would have went wit’ you today, but I had court again for breaking that store window and fighting,” Earl stated. 

Devin put the bookbag over his back. “You cool. Come over tomorrow and we’ll figure out how to make money off these jews.” 

“Bet,” Earl answered with a straight face. 

“Yup,” Antez replied. 

“Later, y’all, I'm going to the crib and watching some cartoons,” Devin said. 

They bade one another goodbye and went their separate ways. 

As Devin walked home, head down and looking out for tripping hazards in the crumbling sidewalk, he started singing Nas’ “I Can” under his breath. Seeing a fist-sized rock on the concrete, he kicked it ahead while bopping his head, skipping along, and rapping. Voice growing louder under the weak glow of street lights, he drawled, “Remix.” He made the sound a DJ would use on a mixer and started rapping Ludacris' “When We Were Kids,” dancing and twirling on the concrete, still kicking the rock across the ground. Entertaining himself, the boy whistled and made wind sounds, moving his hands side to side, holding his fingers out straight, and bopping his head up and down. The bag of stolen cash and jewelry swung from his bony wrist. 

“Okay, let's take it back old school, y’all,” he said, then switched to rapping Tupac's, “Lil’ Homies.” 

POW! 

One shot of hot lead penetrated the back of Devin's right shoulder and he fell over with a cry of pain. 

Never having felt such excruciating pain, Devin writhed in a futile effort to relieve it. Blood leaked to the ground beneath him. He saw a pair of Jordans and wrinkled black pants. A second later, he felt movement and the bookbag wrenched off his wrist. A foot flipped him over, agony burning through his small body. When he opened his eyes again, there was a gun pointed at his face, then the cold metal tip filled his mouth 

“I told you about stealing my shit. Your little Dark friend and some of his other buddies went in my ride and took some very valuable things—and I know you was behind it!” Devin's brother accused, spittle flying from his lips and his face twisted in rage. 

Devin started shaking and protested, teeth clacking against the gun’s muzzle, “That's wasn't me. I stopped talking to him earlier today. We ain't friends no more.” 

His brother pushed the cold steel farther in Devin’s mouth and snarled, “Stop lying! You always in some shit. They went in my car, then when I went outside, Dark-boy or whatever his name is, him and his little badass friend went into the crib and took my money out my dresser and my closet. How they know where the money is, if it wasn't you?” He paused, pushing the metal farther into the boy’s mouth until Devin gagged. “Huh? Answer me!” 

Tears mingled with profuse sweat, blurring Devin’s view of his brother's face. His mind flashed back through memories and he wondered why his brother treated him badly. Still, he always hoped they would get along. 

Apparently realizing that he couldn’t get an answer if the gun was so far down Devin’s throat, the older boy pulled the gun back until only the very tip of the muzzle remained between the boy’s lips. 

“I swear that wasn't me,” he mumbled around the gun’s muzzle. 

His brother shook his head in obvious disbelief the one time Devin told the truth. “Whatever, bro, I'm not even gonna kill you; you ’bout to just lie here and rot.” He smacked Devin across the face twice, then smiled at him gently. “I'll be taking these jews and this money for all them years of you taking my shit.” He smacked the boy twice again. “Have fun dying, buddy.” 

Devin watched him walk away. Whatever familial affection or gratitude he might have felt burned to ashes beneath rage and pain. 

Back in the apartment, Devin's brother emptied the bag of jewelry and money on the table where he set his pistol. He stacked the bills together and organized the jewelry, rings with rings, necklaces with necklaces. He turned his stereo on full blast and put on Cuco’s “Summertime High.” He lit a fresh blunt with his favorite green Bic lighter and watched the tip burn. 

POW! POW! 

Legs buckling, Devin leaned against the door jamb for support as he observed the wreckage of the two shots he delivered to his brother's head. His brother’s eyes had rolled back and blood leaked from his mouth which oozed a sound like air being let out of a balloon. 

Trembling with pain, weakness, and blood loss, Devin staggered to the table, grabbed the jewelry, his brother’s pistol, and the money, and put it all in the stolen book bag. He limped to the back yard and headed for the woods where he hid the bag within an abandoned pile of bricks. Dark spots clouded his vision as he walked step by desperate step back home. Before he lost consciousness entirely, he dug into his brother's pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed 911. 

“Operator speaking. What is your emergency?” 

His voice was weak and trembling as he reported, “There's been a robbery. I live in Building 2, Unit 86, in Imperial Downs. My brother's been shot. I've been shot in the back. Please hurry.” 

He hung on to consciousness for a little longer, then collapsed as he heard the sirens. 

Medics rushed inside and tore away Devin's filthy clothes. Another emergency medical technician held an oxygen mask over the boy’s face and muttered, “Dear Lord, what happened here? There's always something going on in Imperial Downs. Good Lord.” 

He looked at Devin's dead brother in disbelief. 

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay, buddy?” one of the medics said as they rushed Devin outside to the ambulance. The jostling brought Devin back to a shaky sort of consciousness. 

A crowd had gathered outside. One woman remarked loudly, “Somebody finally got his bad little ass!” 

Devin's blurry vision faded in and out, but he still saw Darkeem give him a sinister smile and wave goodbye with his four fingers. Devin raised his middle finger, then pointed his index finger and middle finger in the common gesture of a gun. He moved his thumb twice, as though cocking the fictional gun’s hammer. Darkeem slowly shook his head, closed his eyes, and put both of his hands together, placing them on the side of his face as if he were sleeping. 

All Devin could think about at that moment was getting revenge, but he knew that he wasn’t in a position to do anything. Devin faked a cough, then gasped at the pain. 

The medic tried to comfort him, “You’re gonna be okay, buddy. How old are you?” 

“Nine,” he said and coughed again for real. 

“We’re taking care of you now, okay,” the medic said, as friendly as possible. 

As he consciousness faded, Devin mumbled, “Are you guys gonna find me a new home? I haven’t seen my mommy or daddy in a while, and I'm scared after the robbers came and shot my brother.” 

He didn’t have to fake the tears that ran down his face. 

The medic wiped a tear from his and replied, “Someone will take of you, okay, buddy?” 

Devin closed his eyes and smiled as he was rushed to the hospital. 

In the sea of destitution there are increasing numbers of street kids who are out scavenging. At the extreme are those who are living on the street. Sleeping in cars and abandoned houses. But there are also kids who have families but little adult supervision; they get raised mainly by the street. Their home lives are often severely compromised by joblessness and drugs. These children—they can be as young as ten—are often out on the streets at ten and eleven o’clock at night, sometimes mugging for money. 

All these social consequences of persistent urban poverty and joblessness coalesce into acute alienation from mainstream society and its institutions, especially among the young. What has formed as a result is a kind of institutionalized oppositional culture, a reaction to a history of prejudice and discrimination that now finds its way into schools and other institutions: it makes meaningful participation in an institution dominated by those closely associated with the wider society problematic, if not impossible, for many. The most public adaptation is a lost sense of security of the local inner-city neighborhood and, by extension, a profound lack of faith in the police and the judicial system. 

In dealing with these problems, society needs to take a number of initiatives—above all, the development of jobs that pay a living wage. We also need political leadership that articulates the problem and presses hard to build coalitions that invest themselves in efforts to secure full inner-city enfranchisement. 

(Code of the Street: Decency, Violence, Moral Life of the Inner City by Elijah Anderson [pp 323-324])