[color=black][center][b][i]The Ballad of Blackface Johnson[/i][/b][/center][/color]
[color=black][center][b]Act One[/b][/center][/color]
[color=black][center][b]Scene One[/b][/center][/color]
[hr]
	Twelve years. It had been twelve years since Cochese had earned his stripes. He was a child when he went inside, and not much had changed in East End when he got out. Once vibrant nightwalker's sag, though the creases in their faces paired well with the crow's feet. Streets themselves didn't change much either, still littered with potholes and uneven sidewalks; alleyways flush with intense sun orange blaze from the barrels the resident hobos used to keep themselves warm--and to see if the syringe had entered the right vein. Turf lines hadn't changed much either.
	
	As expected, Diddy Bop's death sent ripples through East End--for a week. His mother wailed at his funeral, news media hardly payed it much attention, there was a vigil and some distant "you are in my thoughts and prayers" social media posts. Then everybody moved on. A yellow cab came to a stop in the heart of Five Crowns territory, dead center of East End. Johnson peered through the pale glass of the cab window at the Crowns renovated base of operations; a graffiti laced warehouse, it was certainly more than the old abandoned tavern they used to occupy. Outside the warehouse stood four young looking recruits: 15 or 16 at most, they weren't even alive when Blackface earned his colors. One had a comb-over, one had Kurt Cobain length stringy hair that rested on his shoulders, the other adorned in a set of tight maroon skinny jeans and denim shorts. One had an iPhone. Maybe the End had changed since he was gone.
	
	He got out of the car wearing his T-Shirt and and a pair of jeans provided to him several years into his sentence thanks to an anonymous donar who put money on his books. His kutte flung over his shoulder, he had grown quite a bit since he was a teenager (a fruitful sprout from 5'9 to a well proportioned 6'2). Up to the curb he went, black and white striped Adidas kissed gravel for the first time in over a decade. A grin clouded his face; a King was home, but there were no trumpets blown, no red carpets rolled, and the four court jesters ahead of him hadn't payed him any mind. Even the air was different, things were quiet and somber, for a moment those same feelings overcame him as well. He did his best to shake off the uneasy vibe and made his way into the warehouse. The four young wannabes hadn't acknowledged his presence.
[hr]

"Well, from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes--" spouted Lunatic,
". . . A Five Crown King with [i]so[/i] much soul!" Cochese patterned in return.

"You bad motha--" Terry continued,
"Shut cho' mouth!" Cochese stamped.

"How you been? You finally out, huh? How the joint treat'cha? Ya'ain' drop the soap did'ja?" Terry was one of those white guys with that indelible "soul" black people always accuse white people of lacking. He had rhythm, flare, style. He was, as Shaft so eloquently elocuted, [i]bad.[/i]

Cochese gave a half-smile and a wholesome laugh in accompaniment; the dread he felt earlier had subsided, for the most part. Terry's warm reception of his return amidst several claps and jeers from other full-fledged members (albeit many new initiates who had recently earned their colors) and some wannabes gave him ease. He continued his banter with Terry without missing a beat,

"I ain't no sissy! ME? Drop the soap? You know who you talkin' to? I'm THE Blackface Johnson, baby! The coolest, smoothest, rudest, crudest, most dubious cat this side of Gotham!" Terry and Cochese cackled in unison.

"We been waitin' for you to come back, we got a present for ya! Brutus, bring it out!" On command, a burly colossus rose from the elongated oval table and went to one of the many crevices sprawled along the back of the warehouse and returned not long after his departure. An unfamiliar face, Cochese sized him up--and Brutus moniker couldn't be more prophetic of his physique. He was a big, ugly man who's muscled arms and scar-stitched face bore the marks of a man whom life hadn't treated well or fair. Terry placed the suitcase in front of Cochese as the two of them made their way to the oval table amidst incremental chatter from other members, chatter which gave way to anticipation and disinterest all the same when Terry dramatically dragged out the reveal of the homecoming present. A fresh kutte, emblazoned with a skull on its right side; the mark of one who has killed for his right to be one of the Crowned. Beneath the new patching were two crowns joined together at the side with decorated pearls and other accouterments; the symbol of the second-in-command.

"Welcome home, Prince!" Terry sung. Cochese was the number two now. He took orders from no one but Lunatic Terry himself. His emotions were mixed. Among the raucous lauding and whistling he mustered a smile.

"We gonna boogie tonight!" chimed a high pitch voice from the crowd.

Boy was it good to be home.