@Troy I understand and appreciate the insight. I am interested in any knowledge you have to share in this process. I understand the science of critique especially one that is followed by solutions. It is always welcomed. Here is a sample of my writing.
Prologue
Two Days after Bomani’s Funeral
Max Million’s top female killer, the Kenya Moore body double, was found dead in his Harlem stash house. She was strangled with her own pantyhose, naked, and face down with her ass up. Whoever had done it completely dominated her and wanted it to be known. And then for further insult, all the 200 bricks of cocaine were bust open, some of the coke was washing down the drain in the shower, some more soaking in toilet water, and one brick was soaking in Royal Lochnagar scotch—his favorite kind. Somebody was sending him a message: this is personal and not about money.
Tink-tink-tink.
“Drive, drive,” Max Million yells at his driver as bullets bounce off the armor plated crème color Benz 600 he just purchased. The Benz maneuvers around the carnage of the lead Tahoe. He thinks he is buggin’ out, losing his mind, because he sees imps breakdancing on the Tahoe. He’s had too much absinthe, a liking he picked up while traveling through Europe a few years back.
The rear Tahoe occupants start shooting at their enemies dressed in all black with balaclavas on. The gun battle is getting Vietnam-level intense. Two occupants get out the truck with Mac 11’s firing—too bad for them—they are caught in a crossfire. Another team in all black is firing behind them.
One of Max Million’s gunners’ face explodes like a watermelon, his headless body turns as if it’s a puppet on a string, still squeezing the Mac 11. His bullets hit his partner at the same time a fusillade of bullets peppered them both. When the smoke clears, you can hardly tell they are human, but they certainly are Alpo as a stray dog feasts on their meat.
Max Million is long gone from the assassination attempt and headed north on I-85. He knows he has to get out the city for a while. “Black Fist…Damn!” He pounds on the Benz door in frustration. He wonders who is leading them since Bomani is dead. They brazenly attacked him on a Bushwick street - his enclave. They made him lose face, everything is respect in the streets.
Max Million shakes his head and acknowledges his cousin was a true strategist. But what happened to him in prison that redirected his gangsta. He falls asleep on that thought.
Chapter 1
The times of yesteryears were good times. I was on top, getting money and down with a clique that was tied into the old Brooklyn gangsters; who were tied into Cosa Nostra. Shit was good then, I was a heavy mover of crack and dope. I had smokers that profited fifty g’s a spot, and I ate off four spots—that was the good times.
I remember this chick right here: Trina. It’s wild how money corrupts the most naïve. I liked the way her fat ass leaned on my whip. She made it look like a profile in the Don Diva. I had that spaceship concept going way back before these watered-down rappers; shit, they disrespecting real mic controllers. My magazine car was a black-on-black with gold trim Acura Legend—coupe of course, with the gold hammers. The stash boxes and other James Bond shit I had in it, was a personal nod to Boy George from the Bronx.
The Post Office Club on Wyckoff Ave used to jump; it should, since Max Million owned it. All the crews from Bushwick to Fort Green came to pay homage, party with us, and smaller ones to score. Back then, Tony Touch was our house D.J. I saw his potential back then; he used to laugh at me when I tried to mix. I had the ear but not the hands. But I was good at getting money and taking care of business. My hand, ox, knife, and hammer game was known throughout the tristate. I guess we all have our positions to play.
I played mine well—captain in The Get Busy Krew (GBK). It was run with the same type of structure of a mafia family. I kept my crew small: two lieutenants, with three or four, made men each. That’s all I dealt with. I let them deal with their soldiers and workers. Our crew policy was if you got knocked on GBK business, we bailed you out, and all expenses associated with your case. If it was witnesses, we took care of them too - gold or lead. If you had to do time, then you lived like you suppose to. This was the heyday of the crack era, but my crew specialized in selling “H” and killin’. We were the reincarnation of Murder Inc.
I learned a lot about the internal beefs of supposedly tight crews. The street politics of money, drugs, and women, without discipline, had them unraveling. Boyhood comrades turned enemies. Close-knit families turned enemies. NYC’s body count in the span of 1986-1993 can attest to what I claim is the truth. They called me when they didn’t want to be implicated in the wiping out of their right-hand man or family member. The façade of remorse from them had to be displayed at the wake; it was important in the grand scheme of deception.
In those days, it was us against everybody. Our long-range vision was to be amongst the elite and to build national and international criminal ties.
The jerk from the train stopping knocks my photo album off my lap. I realize I am at my Gates Ave stop. As I gather myself to leave, an old lady smiles at me and speaks in a raspy voice “Baby, do right, being free and loved is much better.” That grandmotherly tone moves me. She saw past the beige prison khakis and scars, and I’m talking about the mental ones. That was the first tender emotion shown to me in years—that I didn’t have to question if it was genuine. The streets, then prison, made me a skeptic; that’s all behind me now.
“Thank you,” I smile and make my way to the exit.
I’m back!
I just stand on the train platform and take a deep breath of vehicles fumes. After a decade gone, I laugh, happy to be back in Brooklyn. I just observe Broadway Ave. Some things stay the same, like the hustle and bustle of the streets. This strip used to be burnt down storefronts leftover from the 1977 Blackout. My theory is Black and Hispanic people got tired of outsiders sucking them economically dry.
Now, I see what my Mom wrote me about - white people in the heart of the so-called hood. Yellow punk cabs wouldn’t even come to this part of Brooklyn back in the day; ain’t that a bitch, that’s one right there—catering to the new comers. This section used to be extremely dangerous because of the two hoods that surround it; Bushwick (push ya wig quick) and Bed-Stuy (do or die). It’s shocking to see middle and upper-class whites hangin’ out and living here, and not them just coming to buy drugs. At one time, they were my most loyal and best customers; taking their nigger safaris to the urban jungle, hunting for exotic treats—they used to spend big.
I walk on Broadway Ave a little more, taking in the sights of an alien community. A French style café in the heart of Crooklyn, unbelievable. I still make a mental note to come back and taste some of their coffee and converse with their customers. They have that urban chic vibe.
I turn right on Gates Ave and enter Bushwick. It reminds me of the good times I had with my Pops, walking when I was a little kid. Immediately, I notice the lack of abandoned buildings.
I stop in disbelief. I am staring at what used to be one of my best shooting galleries; it was called Zombie’s Alley. Now, it’s a beautiful three-story brownstone townhouse. And a Black family—nah, Moorish-American family owns it.
“Islam,” I greet and the brother greets back, and I keep it moving. I knew he was a Moor by the black fez he has on. In the pen, I learned about the Moorish Science Temple of America (MSTA). And I respect the fact they don’t like to be called Black or African-American. It’s sad how one of the first movements to advocate Islam in America is not even known.
It’s a good thing that families like that still find value in Bushwick, and are not caught up in that class warfare nonsense or thumbing their nose like the Negroes aka poverty pimps and tokens: I am the first…
Once I cross Bushwick Ave, I start seeing remnants of what I remember: the working class, the poor, and the zombies. My eyes meet the eyes of one of the living dead. He is a zombie midget pushing a cart full of metal, with a three-legged dog walking beside him. He has that fiend strut, probably can taste the crack smoke travelling through his glass dick exploding in his mouth or that liquid bliss coursing through his veins.
I thought about prison and knew the midget was in a self-made hell. The sad thing is I more than likely had a hand in his wretched condition. Hustlers never really care about the pattern of destruction they create. The money, women, and cars fuel its own addiction; I was lucky to endure a ten-year rehab.
I stop at a corner bodega for a juice. As I walk to the back where the freezers are at, I notice a Korean lady following me. I grab two Goya mango juices; I haven’t had one of these in years. At that moment, I realize what is different; Puncho. He was a Costa Rican who had owned this spot—cool cat, real low key numbers man. So, he must have sold it to my stalker.
From her and her husband’s behavior, it’s obvious they are not from Bushwick. “The customer is king.” I indicate that to my female stalker. She looks at me like she speaks no English, but the contempt in her eyes tell a different story. It always bewilders me, how fearful people can open businesses amongst the people they fear, and take their money, but never establish good relations with them—and then be surprised when they get robbed.
“Leroy.” I had to hold my laugh. The Korean man at the counter’s name tag read Leroy, surely he could have come up with a better name. He would have been better off with a Muslim name.
A group of little kids come rushing in, amped up on life. Their book bags let me know that they are just coming from school. The freshness of their clothes lets me detect that it’s probably the first day or week.
I wonder if I know their parents, so I survey their faces for signs. I consider as well if one of them could be mine. My DNA manifested in one of these creation… Nah, but it would have been nice to have still been represented in the hood while I was gone. And my Mom would have had somebody to share her love with.
I notice how uncomfortable the Koreans are around these babies. “Get whatcha want,” I command them, then waited for them to take care of their business. “Make sure you get the correct change.” I show one of the little girls a fifty-dollar bill, then throw it on the counter and stroll out the store. I vow never to enter that store again.
Across the street a group of young hustlers are slangin’, drinking - probably cheap malt liquor - smokin’, and watching me.
“Who the fuck is that?’ The smallest one out the crew spit out his mouth, loud enough for me to hear him. It doesn’t matter because I am reading his lips. A useful tool I picked up back in the day. It’s always an advantage to know what thought’s coming out a person's mouth. You always want to be in a position to act first.
“I don’t know and don’t give a fuck,” One of the crew members states as he runs to a Ford Taurus with primer paint all over it.
“Nigga just came home from the FEDs,” The one with a red hand band on says. He watches, observes me with the eyes of a predatory bird, a hawk. He knows made men, shot callers, baller ballers; the killers other killers respect. And he sees it all in my aura—he knows that I know he knows this.
The red headband wearer is a street general in a Blood faction that owes no allegiance to the UBN or NYB. His only allegiance is to his crew and hood—Bushwick. He’s probably wondering if I’m a friend or foe. One’s just an OG from yesteryears and respecting today’s street politics. The other an OG from yesteryears coming back to reclaim shit.
Things never change, these young cats are sizing me up. I am still amazed how that style of gang activity took hold in NYC. My theory was the government; it has the stench of remnants of J. Edgar Hoover’s black bag programs. They study how well gang infiltration worked in the cities after the Martin Luther King riots, but that was basically in Mid-Western and West coast cities. They understood if you infect NYC, you taint the whole I-95 corridor. It’s the new millennium Willie Lynch.
But gangsters still run NYC, the gangs are like the NBA D-League. And you still have some major street crews out here with a national presence, who had been reared in mafia lore of getting money and controlling your hood.
The Strip
Knickerbocker Ave is live like 125th Ave in Harlem on a Friday night, but it is not Friday, it is Monday afternoon. This section of Bushwick has its own pulse beat. Hustles of all sorts mingle, as well as, fiends and addicts with suits do the same thing. This area is the place to be and be seen. So, the beat cop who walks this strip keeps healthy pockets. Thanks to Mayor Giuliani initiative of placing beat cops in the neighborhoods they are from, most of them are connected one way or another to the local crews. It is like the old Tammy Hall ward politics.
One purple and gold trimmed building with bullet-proof glass and mirror tint stands out. An urban beacon in the midst of chaos called Maxin’ and Loungin’. The inside has a dominate theme of Phoenician purple; the color of royalty. It has a gold divider which sections it into two halves: a lounge area and dance floor. The dance floor is made out of ebony wood imported from Cameroon. In the middle of the dance floor is a twenty-two carat inlay of moneybags, but nobody’s dancing because all the action is centered on a purple glass table.
Gangstas from all ethnicities are in intense discussions, surrounded by bodyguards, hitters (gunmen), flunkies, and exquisite bitches—who are sitting in their own area. They are the after business refreshments.
A powerfully built soldier walks over to the obvious host: Max Million, Supreme Don of The Get Busy Krew (GBK), and whispers in his ear, “Bo-money home.” A smile magically appears on his face. He hands the soldier his drink and dismisses him with a head nod.
Max Million’s smile irons out to an unemotional slit because business is at hand. “Gentlemen, one of you has to sweeten your price or get the fuck out of here.” He says that with no fear, so smooth and nonchalant; that you know, that he knew, he had the better hand.
One of the Amazon bodyguards that are with an Armani-suit-wearing Latino boss makes a move forward like she is going to straighten the disrespect. She’s definitely an out-of-towner. The boss throws up a finger and she instantly freezes and falls back into position. He wisely smiles and responds, “My friend…what do you think is fair…good stuff.” He points to the sample of drugs sitting on a gold Tiffany plate.
Max Million nods his head and one of his people places a Gucci pouch with high-grade Golden Triangle heroin the table. Then he waves to the bar for refreshments as if he knows business is concluded. “That’s a million…the cost, take it or my Serbian friends will,” He says that with supreme confidence and smirks with the devil’s grin.
The Armani boss knows it is not worth a million, maybe three-quarters of it, but not a mil. The quality is exceptional, and having a supplier like Max Million has other benefits. He has contacts no nigger should have. The Latino boss knows he was out-hustled, paying a value-added-tax, but that is the game. He nods in agreement and one of his women grabs the Gucci pouch.
“Let me see if you a boss for real. This is on consignment.” Max Million snaps his finger and another soldier brings out a pony skin pouch, double the size of the of the Gucci one, and places it in front of the boss. What could he do? Say no, and admit he is not on the level of the other bosses around the table? With that shrewd move, Max Million just added a Southwest region to his growing empire. Now that Bo-money’s home, there will be no stopping the things they set in motion when they were younger. The things that the ole gangsters trained them in; the art—the art of being block pressure specialists.
