PART ONE:  Appetizer

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.

– Jonathon Swift, A Modest Proposal

There’s no one who can match me. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable. And I’m just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat your children.

-Mike Tyson

Clarify

Davey’s dad had told the police at the hospital that he was mugged by some niggers on the way home from the 4th Quarter. The cops looked smug in his living room Monday morning. They were there to pick up his dad and take him down to the station for a line-up. Turned out over the weekend they’d rounded up six random black dudes hanging outside Nolan’s, drinking 40s and playing dice on the back porch behind the bar. Apparently it was a known hangout for undesirables. Rounded em all up in one swoop, said the chubbier cop. He made a motion like a kid picking up a handful of jacks off the sidewalk. It looked even more absurd because he was still wearing his leather gloves.

Davey went with his dad to the station-the cop shop, his dad had called it-and sat with him while he eyed all six men. He leaned over to his son and whispered fuckin hell, I can’t tell none of them jigs apart. Can you? Davey shook his head, wondering why they were going through with this. But he knew. He knew his dad would never admit to anyone-the doctors, the cops, his work buddies, neighbors-that his own son had beaten the shit out of him with a rotting log when he came home too plastered to defend himself. Maybe he should’ve taken his dad’s money. Then it would’ve been a real mugging.

Davey’s dad finally settled on number four. He looked the meanest of them all was what his dad told him on the way home. Number four, said the cops, is just who they thought he’d pick. After all, when they had slapped the bracelets on him and leaned him over the squad car and patted him down, they found a pair of nunchucks tucked in his waistband. His name was Toronto, and he was-trust us, the cops said-one badass motherfucker and they weren’t the least bit surprised that it was Toronto who’d taken some honest and hardworking family man down in the middle of the night. And you just moved here? Fuck it all. Don’t that beat everything?

Toronto. On the way home Davey imagined the dude would probably not have much trouble figuring out who it was who’d fingered him, especially when they got home and a reporter from the Tribune-Star was waiting on Davey and his father. All his dad could do was mutter fuck, and then grab Davey’s upper arm and pretend to be emotionally supporting his son. Davey thought it was just like his pathetic ass dad to pretend he’d been jumped by a nigger when it was his own fourteen-year-old boy who pimpslapped him with a log. Just took the old fucker down like a blowup punching bag. One of those ones with a superhero on it. But even those put up a better fight. Those bounce back at least. He wished he could tell that to the paper.

So, any chance we can get a picture of you? Maybe you and your son together? That’ll make people see how crime in this town is getting out of hand. Time was a man could walk down the street at night after a beer and not have to stare into the shadows, if you know what I mean.
Davey’s dad shook his head. No pictures. And, yes, I know exactly what you mean. And this part of town is pretty shadowy. Wish I had some way of knowing before I moved my family here.

It wasn’t until the next day that Davey realized his dad had walked into a shitstorm when he claimed Toronto had mugged him. The paper-the fuckin podunk smalltown paper-had printed not only the family name, but also their home address. THEY PRINTED OUR FUCKIN ADDRESS his father screamed, and then he punched a hole right through the kitchen wall.

Two blocks north was the black part of town. Liberty Avenue. Davey had learned that much in the small amount of time his family had been living in Terre Haute. He’d even ridden his bike down the street once, between 25^th and 13^th, and he swore it looked like pictures of Vietnam or the Philippines or Beirut he’d seen on the cover of Time when he was younger. Some of the houses actually had holes in their roofs patched with pieces of tin. Some were barely more than lean-tos with a front door, random pieces of plywood and sheet metal and thick, green corrugated plastic taped together, tied together, glued together. Porches sagged. Stray dogs ran in large packs, dragging trash out into the street and chasing after cars and bikes and pedestrians. Abandoned cars sat up on blocks in parking lots of boarded up businesses. The streets were slushy with melted snow and dirt and broken bottles and empty packs of Basics and fast food bags and Swisher Sweets wrappers. And, having seen the fights at school when thirty and forty dudes fought in each side of a black fight, Davey could only imagine what lay in store for his father. All he knew was the asswhipping he gave his dad would pale in comparison to whatever Toronto and his extended family would bring to their house on Sycamore. Liberty was only two blocks away for shit’s sake.

Dad was fucked. And he knew it.

Davey’s mother came into the kitchen after his dad had just punched a hole in the wall and rubbed sleep out of her eyes. She asked what was going on but was interrupted by her husband thrusting the paper in her direction, pointing at the story that took up the bottom quarter of the front page. NEW ARRIVAL GETS VIOLENT WELCOME.

Is this you? Is this a story about you? Is this US?
Davey’s father turned his back to her. He looked out the back window toward the garage overgrown with dead vines. He let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. We could move. What do you guys think? We could move. We could break our lease and just move somewhere else.

Davey’s mother rolled her eyes. She threw her arms out and shrugged and said, sure. We’ll just up and move every time you get drunk, get your ass kicked by your son, and decide to blame it on some poor black guy. Great. I mean, this is exactly why we moved away from Tucson in the first pl-

Davey saw the hit coming. He even thought about warning his mother. But he didn’t move. He could only stare, unblinking, as his dad backhanded his mom, and the house was immediately quiet except for the cracking sound that turned out to be his mom’s tooth breaking in half and clattering to the floor. His dad’s wedding ring. That chunky turquoise fucker broke her tooth in half. Davey looked at the tooth lying at his mother’s feet. It looked so tiny. Like a button from a doll dress or something. Now his dad and mom looked down at it, trying to process what it was and his mom started screaming and holding her mouth and Davey couldn’t quite make out what she was saying but he was pretty sure it was something about how she was going to kill him, and Davey’s dad slowly, sheepishly looked toward him. Like he expected Davey to come at him. But Davey didn’t move. He just smiled at his dad and said you’re so fucked man. So fuckin fucked. Toronto and his crew are gonna find you.

Then he walked out the back door and slammed it behind him.

Blacken

MUAFUCKA DONE SOLD MY ASS UP THE RIVER. I’MA GET HIM AND HIS PEOPLE. THEY AINT GOIN KNOW WHAT HIT EM WHEN THEY SHIT’S BURNIN DOWN. Toronto yelled at the sheriff’s deputies through the bars of his cell. He tried to get them to listen. He’d been trying since they first scooped him and his boys up from behind Nolan’s. But he knew it didn’t matter. Whether or not he had or hadn’t done anything wrong, when it was a white dude’s word against his, he was toast.

He grabbed his sack at the jailer who brought him lunch. Fuck you and them bologna sandwiches. Fuck all yall. Where’s mah lawyer and mah jury of peers? The jailer shook his head and walked off, and when he was a safe distance from Toronto’s cell he shouted back, DON’T EAT THE SHIT THEN. YOU’RE SO INNOCENT. ALL YOU COLOREDS THINK YOU’RE INNOCENT.

Toronto paced his cell. Man, he just wanted to get arraigned, post bail, bounce the fuck up out of there, and find the punk ass who dared to blame him for some shit he didn’t do. They gonna take they sweet ass time though. They’ll be pushin mah paper for a minute. And he just had to sit there growing stale and wait for them to get around to making their case on him.

He couldn’t mention it to anyone, didn’t want to be thought of as pussy, but more than anything Toronto wished someone on the outside would come see him or write him a letter or something. A money order for some commissary. Anything. But niggas too scared to come near the jail. Fraid they’ll come too close and catch a case and THEN they’ll be visiting me aight. From the next cell over. Toronto understood Terre Haute. Hated the ol boys’ clubs. The whites and the Syrians ran everything, left crumbs for the blacks. Niggas got Liberty Avenue, the Lockport Projects, Section 8, Cleveland Avenue, Chauncy Rose Junior High, the IGA they shared with the white trash, and the Hyte Center. Whites and Syrians got the Allendale Country Club, Honey Creek Junior High with its chandelier hanging in the entranceway. They got the Apple Club and Woodridge, Edgewood Grove and the mall, Deming Park and Rose-Hulman and the goddam golf courses. And they didn’t act like they’d get around to repaving the streets in black neighborhoods. Liberty Ave lookin like a war zone. Streets all pockmarked like Laurence Fishburne.

One time he and his boys decided to roll through Allendale, where all the doctors and lawyers lived, and the people who lived there couldn’t even pretend they weren’t freaked out. They stared from their yards. The kids did doubletakes from their street soccer games and their bike rides. Oldies looked out the windows when they heard the bass thumping and grabbed their kids, and before Toronto and his crew even made it to the other side of the neighborhood the cops were pulling them over talking about noise ordinances and disturbing the peace and probable cause and checking IDs and treating them like bitches right there on the street in front of everybody, sending the message loud and clear-don’t worry white folks, your neighborhood is safe from niggers, look here, we got em all spread out like this, lining them up against the hood, pattin em down, yes sir, yes sir, and rippin their car apart and bringin the K9 unit to come sniff up the whole thing, roughin em up just a little bit for show, go ahead, bring the kids, some Dom Perignon, pack a picnic, because we’re here for you, Terre Haute’s finest doin some good old-fashioned servin and protectin-and they were warned about criminal trespass and given very clear directions out of the neighborhood and even kindly provided a police escort.

Toronto knew his PD was gonna be some shitty lawyer who knew less about law than he did. That’s one thing he’d learned in his two stints in the clink so far. The lawyers always acted like they were going to try their best, but in the courtroom the judge and prosecutor made no secret who was in the wrong and who was in charge. Still, they put on the show, acting like they were considering evidence that might prove his innocence.

Since Toronto knew he was going down for beating some dude he’d never seen-they’d already said armed robbery and criminal assault were his rap on this one-he was just gonna post bail and find the dude and take him out. He’d make bail cause all his priors were non-violent. Two drug charges and one misdemeanor auto theft. He had already had plenty of time to plan. Each night he lulled himself to sleep by mapping out what he’d do. It would be simple, really.

His first night in lockup he decided he was going to go after the man and any family he had. Already someone on the street knew the word, and they’d be waiting on him when he got out, telling him the man’s name because it would be all over the news. Black-on-white crime always was. Here’s how it would go: first, he’d get another set of nunchucks from the martial arts studio on Wabash-the one with a picture in the window of the store’s owner and Chuck Norris at some convention. Then he’d sit outside the white dude’s house and wait for him to come out. He’d have to come outside eventually. And as soon as the door opened he’d bring one of the wooden nunchuck handles around with all his strength and crack the guy upside his skull. After that he’d drag him inside and tie him up, wait for him to wake up, and torture him for a little bit before taking him out. Nothing too dramatic though. The longer he stayed, the better chance of getting caught. Then he’d be up on a murder rap instead of armed robbery and assault, and that’d be some whole nother shit. So he’d beat him for a while with his nunchuks, whippin him all over his body, bruisin him up good, crackin his ribs and shatterin his kneecaps and baggin him in the nuts over and over until the muafucka was a bloody mess pleadin for his life. Yeah, then he’d let him think he was gonna live. Cept maybe he’d fuck the dude’s wife while he made him look on. And if he had any kids, maybe he’d make them watch too. Give her some of the black snake. Have the bitch comin all over his shit.

The second night he realized he could gather up his crew and torch the dude’s house. It’d be easy. Houses burned down all the time. They were all as old as the fire chief who never could figure out why all the neglected houses in the shittiest neighborhoods just up and burned in the middle of the night. Faulty wiring is what the papers always said. Old house. Faulty wiring. Easy enough. So he’d beat the dude’s ass and fuck his wife and any daughters he might have, then he’d tie em all up and holla at his crew and they’d have the house burnin down in no time at all. Yeah. They could get a couple packs of Little Kings and sit on the porch across the street and watch the house burn to the fuckin ground. If anyone tried to get loose, well he’d just clock em one with his nunchucks and throw em back inside. It’d be perfect. And when the cops come, he and his boys knew these streets like the backs of their hands, and it’d be easy to just melt away into the night, undetected. Too damn easy. Cause if there was one thing Toronto knew after having committed as many crimes as he had, it was that once you crossed the line to the other side-the criminal side-you know that no one really gives a shit about nobody. If a man got the balls to break the law, he’ll quickly find out how easy it is to do. Especially here in his neighborhood. Nobody never seen nothin.

The third night he knew how to make his plan work even better. He knew exactly who’d do what. Teaspoon would track the dude down, find out where he lived and scope the neighborhood. JJ and Tone would break in and rush the dude and his wife in bed, while Judah and Nike would scour the house for his kids. And when everyone in the punk ass dude’s family was accounted for, well then the fun would start. Cause first, he decided, before he put even an ounce of hurt on the muafucka who laid a phony case on his ass, first he’d have a little fun with the dude’s family. Yeah. Why should he be the only one to have fun? So, they’d tie whiteboy to a chair in his living room and bring his family before him one by one, starting with his kids. Uh. First he’d let his boys fuck the dude’s kids while the dad sat in the chair helpless. Toronto wasn’t even gonna be in on that part. Instead he wanted to be up by the man’s head fuckin wit him while he watched his family get raped and killed one by one. Didn’t matter if they was boys or girls. They’d all get fucked and killed in front of the guy. Then, for the grand finale, while his kids was piled in the middle of the floor gasping for they last breaths, then they’d bring out the wife and make her do each of they black asses. Yeah, they’d pull a train on her ass, and then they’d gangbang her all at the same time and hold a knife to her throat and make her say crazy shit to his face while she looked into her husband’s eyes. She’d tell her man how much she liked black cock and how small his dick was and how she’d been fuckin niggas behind his back for years, while he was at work slavin away to feed his family when he thought she was at home waitin on him to come fuck her, she’d been gettin it on the side for so long she had a hard time faking she could even feel his little white dick, and she was surprised none of her kids came out all Oreo. Half and half. Coffee with cream. Whatever you want to call some half-black kid. Oh, and when he saw the look in ol boy’s eyes while his wife said this to him, all the while gettin fucked from every angle, it would be worth every single day in the SHU after that. It would be worth everything. He’d be a muafuckin legend in the streets and that wasn’t no pussy shit.

Every night it made him sleep better, falling asleep with revenge in his heart while his fantasies grew more complex and more brutal, knowing even though he might go down, even though he’d probably for sure go down, well he’d take some of them with him. Teach them to blame everything on the blacks. Teach them that we won’t go down easy. Teach them how we see you bitches with your confederate flags cruisin Wabash on weekends, thinkin you untouchable like it’s 1832. That’s child’s play. Shit, I’ll cut a X in your chest and put some gold star stickers lined up real nice like I’m gradin your third grade spelling test, punk muafuckas.  Then you can take your flag to you grave with you. Bitch ass whiteboys. He had to laugh a little, and he fell asleep each miserable night with a smile on his face knowing he’d get a little payback of his own. A little payback goes a long way in the pen, and he’d have respect from the get-go, as soon as everyone in the A-housing unit up at Michigan City found out what he’d done to them white folks before they sent him up. Even the Mexicans would respect him, once they knew he was down with anything but white.

Toronto slept like a dead man.

Pickle

Davey’s dad came crashing through the front door, out of breath. He looked around the house. It was empty. No one upstairs. No one in the kitchen. All the lights were off. Fuck. Where the fuck is Allison? Where the fuck is that cunt?

He went to the bathroom to piss and his hands were trembling. He pissed all over the seat and even dripped some onto his pants. Fuckin cunt.

He knew where she was. The hamper was empty and the laundry baskets in the bedroom were gone. Popoff’s.

He walked down to the laundrymat, hyperaware of his surroundings. Every black face terrified him. Each one of them looked like Toronto. Any of them could be him. Every single car that drove by could have him in it. He walked faster and plotted escape routes along the way. Buildings he could duck inside, yards he could cut through. The ten blocks to Popoff’s were eternal.

When Ralph pulled the door open and stepped inside he didn’t see his wife. The cunt. He walked to the back of the store. She was there, behind the counter, talking to an old lady who was pressing a freshly dry-cleaned suit.

He stood in front of the counter, waiting for her to notice him. He was sweating from walking so fast. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and called to his wife. She turned and her face dropped. Fuck her. If she wasn’t happy to see him, that was her problem. He had some serious shit to talk about. He had to tell her about how Toronto was going to make bail. How a cop came by his work and told him about the arraignment and how the judge didn’t consider him a flight risk because all his priors were non-violent. The cop had come to warn him. That’s what he’d said. I’m here to warn you, Mr. Powers.

His wife walked over to him and he told her Toronto was about to be bailed out. He’ll be on the streets again. And you know he’s going to come looking for me. I have to get out of here.

Ralph, what do you want me to do? How can I stop a huge, angry, black man from hurting you? You want me to cry in front of him? Beg for your life? Tell him it was all an innocent mistake? Allison fumbled for better words. She wanted to find the perfect word to tell him how weak and worthless he was. Instead, she went to the washing machines and took out their clothes and tossed them in the dryer.

Ralph followed her, a wounded little puppy. She ignored him. He wasn’t saying anything but he was looking at her. Like she should forget all the bruises and the beatings he’d given her. Like none of that counted now that he was scared. She wanted to laugh. Turn around and laugh and point in his face and jump up and down and scream YOU’RE GONNA GET YOURS LITTLE MAN. But she was scared. Not for Ralph. Fuck Ralph. She was scared for Davey. And for herself. After all, what if hurting Ralph wasn’t good enough? Then what would Toronto do? What if he wanted revenge on all of them? What if he wanted to hurt her?

She finally faced Ralph. She was turning the other cheek and she knew it. Ralph. My god, Ralph. I guess it’s finally come to the point where you bit off more than you could chew. And honestly, Ralph-she was afraid he’d hit her, though he’d never done that in public-I think you probably won’t be able to hide. You don’t know anyone here. WE don’t know anyone here. All I can say is if you want to leave, leave.

He left. He walked out of the laundrymat without saying a word. She was glad to see him go. She was glad he was out of her life.

*

But he wasn’t. Ralph walked straight to the Fourth Quarter and ordered up a Wild Turkey on the rocks. And a shot of vodka. He drank both immediately and slammed the bar with his empties. Gimme another. One of each. He drank the shot. He sipped on the whiskey. He felt it crashing down into his stomach, tickling his insides and soothing him. It’s gonna be okay, said the Wild Turkey. I’m here for you. He listened to the sports announcer rattling off baseball stats for the start of the new season. Maybe Boston could finally win it with this year’s crew. Blah blah fuckin blah.

Someone broke the rack on a new pool game. A few people sat around a table talking about how much they hated working at Columbia House. All regular people. Without a care in the world. But not me, thought Ralph. No. I came back here and was too much of a pussy to admit my son kicked my ass. Now why would I do that? Now why couldn’t I just man up and tell the cops me and my kid got in a fight? No big deal. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to let him win. I was drunk. What could I do? How can I defend myself against someone wielding a fuckin log as a weapon? And what kind of man admits his son is tougher than him? What kind of faggot would that make me?

Ralph was actually proud of Davey. He always had been. Yes, Davey was a little too soft for him. He didn’t seem interested in sex or sports or anything that makes men men. But he was proud his son had defied him and kicked his ass. That’s exactly what he had been hoping for. But he just couldn’t help himself. When the cops came into the recovery room and asked him what had happened-the hospital had called them-he said it was some nigger, some fuckin nigger, before he could stop himself. And that was that. No turning back.

He ordered a couple more drinks. Then a couple more. And when he was nice and numb and not nearly as concerned about Toronto as he’d been when he first got there, he remembered there was a gun store on Wabash, right behind his own house. Right there, just across the alley. Next to the church. There was a gun store and there was a solution. Quit being a fuckin pussy. Scared of a nigger. What kind of man are you?

He left the bar and walked down Wabash to the gun store. He knew exactly what kind of man he was.

Barbecue

He made bail. That’s all Toronto cared about. He didn’t care that it was 50K with no ten percent. He called his boys up and told them to get together five Gs and meet him at the courthouse. The bail bondsman was waiting on him, talking about how if Toronto didn’t show up for his hearing he’s got friends in the force. I know some troopers too. You try to fuck me and I’ll put the heat on your black ass. You got that boy?

Yeah. I got it. Punk muafucka. Toronto wished he could clock that cracker ass dude right there in the jail. But he was putting up the other ninety percent, so he let the old dude slide. Besides, he’d been in lock-up for weeks waiting on his arraignment and his charges while the state built a case on him.

By the time Teaspoon arrived with the cash, Toronto was pushing against his cuffs, going crazy. They cut into his wrists and he knew he could slip them. He knew he could just slip right out of them and attack every one of the punk ass cops working in the jail, but he wanted out. He’d save all that energy and hatred for whoever had sold him out. He was going to find him no matter what. He stood up and nodded at Teaspoon. Good lookin out man. Good lookin out.

Teaspoon paid the bondsman and the cops uncuffed Toronto and made him sign the paperwork and wrote down his court date and handed him back his personal effects, then told him to go change in the holding cell down the hall. Teaspoon stood in silence, his eyes nervously scoping the cops, who were scoping him back.

Toronto went to change out of his jumpsuit and the shower sandals with the toes cut off. First thing he was gonna do was roll by Big Shoe’s and get a rack of ribs. Then he was gonna eat the fuck out of them and head straight to Nolan’s for some drinks and dice.

Then it would be time to find that white muafucka who did him in.

Stew

Davey’s father got his gun. It was a used .357 someone had pawned off three days earlier. The guy at the gun store told him he was still workin on getting papers for it, if you know what I mean. He looked Davey’s father directly in the eyes and gave an exaggerated wink. So I can’t legally sell it just yet. But, boy, is this one a beaut. He flicked out the cylinder. Spun it around. It sounded smooth. A rapid series of soft and fluid ticks. If I could sell it, I’d unload it for about a hundred. Maybe throw in a box of .38 wadcutters-pointed to a box of ammo he’d placed on the counter next to the gun. He left the gun on the counter and walked over to the shotguns, pretending to inspect their stocks. Davey’s dad lifted the gun. Felt the heft. It felt good. Heavy. Nice long barrel. Nice smooth handle. He aimed it at the wall, looking down the nose at his reflection in the mirror. Scary. Like tough shit. Old West shit. That’s how he looked. He wouldn’t want to be the one at the other end of this bad boy. He counted a hundred out on the counter, reached over and grabbed the box of wadcutters, and left the store. Problem solved.

And then he had come in and scared his wife half to death. He sat on the porch chuckling to himself about it now. Her wide eyes. Her disbelief that he’d come back home. Feeling buzzed and untouchable, he’d pushed her down and put the gun up to her temple and thrown a good fuck up in her and now he sat smoking and twirling the gun’s cylinder. It was loaded. Six gleaming new bullets nestled in the holes, waiting for Toronto and whoever else he brought with him. Bring it on nigger. He kept whispering it to himself. A drunken mantra.

Bring it on. Bring it on.

Caramelize

Got me some ribs. Got me some chronic. Holla’d at a couple bitches. And now I got me a 40 and a blunt and some dice in mah hands and I’m hittin mah points regular and shit is fine. Shit’s finer’n fuck. I’m ownin these muafuckas like I’ma plantation boss.

Toronto chucked the dice against the wall. All his boys moaned. He was taking them to the bank. Hate to take yall’s child support. Haha muafuckas. But I gotta get me some payback loot cause I just made bail and shit aint right. Can’t be owing no money to my boys.

His friends chuckled and agreed with him. We happy you out man. We all happy you out. That shit wadn’t right man. Puttin a case on you like that.

He nodded and lit the blunt he’d had tucked behind his ear for the last hour. It was teasing him. Begging him to smoke it. Just sending little wisps of chronic smell down to his nose every time he threw the dice and goddam if he could take it anymore. So he lit it up. Took a huge hit. Held it in his mouth, tasting the sweet sweet smoke. Taste like a muafuckin garden salad with raspberry vinaigrette and shit. He sucked it down his windpipe. Held it in deep. Then he blew out a cloud so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of him.

Aight. So who knows somethin bout this muafucka done sent me up for a stint? Teaspoon? You know some shit about this cracka ass bitch?

Shit. I know everything man. Every goddam detail needs to be knowed.

Thas what I’m talkin about. Gimme the dirt. Toronto threw the dice again. Hit his point again. Collected the cash amidst the groans of his friends.

Ol boy lives just a few blocks away.

Bet?

Bet.

Toronto took another hit off his blunt and passed it to Teaspoon. He tossed the dice again. Made his point. More groans. More cash in his hand. Hell yeah. Hellfuckinyeah. He threw his point three more times then finally rolled out. His run was over. Fuckin shit. Guess it’s yall’s chance to get some of you cheese back from me. He stood up and took a pull off his 40. He brushed off his pants and patted his hair-making sure it was still tight and in shape. Just how he liked it. Faded to the top with a slight lean. Lookin good.

So who’s this bitch tryin to send me up for some fake ass shit? Who’s this muafucka tryin to step on my flow? I aint about to go down like no pussy.

Some dude lives over on Sycamore named Ralph Powers. They all laughed and took turns saying Ralph in their best nerdy whiteboy voices. Hi. I’m Ralph. Hello there. My name is Ralph. The blunt was making the rounds. My name is Ralph but I prefer Ralphie boy. The big R. Ralph the third. Hahaha. Fuckin crackas and they names.

So who’s with me? Which one of yall’s gonna help a brotha get his getback? Toronto stared them all down. The ones who looked away were pussy. The ones who met his gaze were on point. They were his boys. The rest of em could suck a dick. And just as he suspected, JJ, Judah, Nike, Tone, and Teaspoon had his back. To his surprise, so did Little Smokey, Menthol, and Marcus. These were his boys. He was proud to know they had his back. All eight of them against the world. All eight of them willing to die because they were sick of people fucking with them. The were sick of all the Ralphs. Sick of the looks they got at restaurants. Sick of the shitty houses and the government food and their parents always talking about civil rights and Martin Luther King Jr. like there was any damn point to it all. All that work and what do we have? The worst cars. The worst houses. Too many damn kids. Churches with no air conditioning, just shitty paper fans with pictures of white Jesus provided by fuckin funeral homes. Broke ass schools with racist ass teachers. The black skin that meant they had to get revenge like this. The skin that set them apart and made them furious because all someone had to do was say that fuckin nigger stole my wallet and that was that. Cuffs. A jail cell. A rigged jury. And then it was maximum sentence. It wasn’t going to stop.

Toronto looked at his boys and said aight then. Let’s go get our shit and get suited up.

And the eight men made their way to Liberty.

Dust

They came out of nowhere. One second I was twirlin the cylinder on my 357 and listenin to the sweet sound of the rapid metal clicks, the next there’s eight niggers lined up in front of me with guns and knives and bats and nunchucks-what kinda jig uses nunchucks?-drawn. Now why in the fuck did I buy a gun that only holds six bullets? Why in the fuck didn’t I assume they’d bring all of Africa with em?

Davey’s dad couldn’t make out their faces. He couldn’t tell which one of them was Toronto. They all looked menacing. Hulking masses of muscle with thunder in their eyes. Not one of them was scared. They were here for him and they were going to get him.

He flicked the cylinder back in place and cocked back the hammer. What do you boys want?

Who tha fuck you callin boy? One of them stepped forward. It had to be Toronto. He had nunchucks dangling from his right fist. They were metal, moonlight glinting off the chain and the stainless steel handles. You Ralph? You Ralph Powers tried to sell my ass up the river?

He thought about lying. But there was no use. He was going to die and he knew it. And I’ll be goddamned if I aint dyin a man. I been a man my whole life and I aint gonna stop now. He finally spoke. What the fuck does that mean, sell your ass up the river? What’s it to you who I am? Why don’t you boys go on back to the ghetto and listen to your rap and eat your chicken?

They all laughed. This muafucka think he’s funny. Hey Ralph, don’t you know how close you is to dyin man? You gonna go out makin weak ass jokes about chicken? What the fuck you know about chicken? The fuck you know about niggas?

I know niggers die like everyone else, Ralph said, and then he fell to the porch floor and started shooting for his life. His heart plunged deeper with every bullet that left his gun. That much closer to death. To the end. No more pussy and no more drinkin and no more fuckin around and impressin people and no more nothin. Just the end. And done in by a bunch of niggers. How sad. This was the greatest tragedy to the end of his life, he realized, that he had come all the way back to Terre Haute, his old stompin grounds, and here he was listening to a storm of bullets

His first bullet skimmed Toronto’s ankle.
His second bullet tore off the corner of JJ’s forehead and he fell to the ground with a brief scream.

His third bullet hit Ralph’s AMC Eagle and shattered the driver’s side window and stopped somewhere in the control panel.

His fourth bullet nestled itself into a telephone pole.

His fifth bullet tore through the neighbor’s attic and landed harmlessly in the corner atop a thick layer of insulation.

His last bullet flew into the sky, over the houses on Sycamore and Liberty and Cleveland and over the entire city where people slept in their homes or were out having drinks or going on first dates or picking out the next day’s work outfits or saying their prayers before bed or crying themselves to sleep, he could almost see it, the last bullet soaring through the air, carrying his last hope and flinging it into the wind as it spiraled further away, Ralph knew this, knew it was his last bullet and the gig was up because the gun no longer kicked each time he pulled the trigger, it just lay worthless in his hand like a child’s toy, clicking, clicking, clicking, and now they came to him, three of them jumping over the porch railing, three coming up the stairs, and one staying put, shooting bullet after bullet in Ralph’s direction, all of them shouting and snarling-GO TO SLEEP MUAFUCKA, GO TO SLEEP-crying out in rage and pain and anger and fear, a thick stew of voices boiling in the night air so loud that neighbors crouched in their homes because they heard the shouts and the cracking of gunshots, they fell to the floor and pulled their spouses out of bed, ran to their children’s rooms and threw their bodies on top of them, crouched in their closets, slid beneath their beds, staring blankly in front of them and waiting for silence, the same silence Ralph prayed would descend on him now and fill his ears with the muffling cotton of death, not this awful horrific sound of animal rage, his own screams mixing with theirs, his screams nothing more than the unconscious reaction to feeling so much pain in so many places in so many incomprehensible ways he couldn’t tell what hurt worse-the bullet that punctured his lungs or the pain of breathing while they filled up with blood, the metal nunchuck handle cracking his skull over and over again or the searing pain when a chunk of his own skull pierced his eardrum, the knives plunging into him and drawing his precious blood from scores of new holes in his body or the nauseating ripping and popping of his kneecap sliding to the back of his leg, the sting of each bullet pockmarking his body-he couldn’t tell which pain was which, all he knew was he could catalogue everything, every wound inflicted on him was registered and added up and sorted and then he no longer heard it but only felt himself screaming, the noise getting further away, fading out, the volume reducing, the silence finally starting to come, only feeling the noise now-the hot wind of six men screaming as they took his life, the thump of a boot into his ribs, the howls of victory as they realized there was no way this guy was going to live, they got him, they got payback for Toronto-the pain finally leaving and feeling more like pin pricks and his body a giant bruise, the last remnants of life leaving him like flecks of dust blown down the sidewalk by a gentle breeze.