[center][h2]Hood Politics[/h2][/center] March 18th, 1997 [hr] Most of the ride was silent. The most interaction between the two came when Bone offered a .40 oz of Ole English and KP took a sip; his hands shook. Sweet scent of cherry stunk up the car’s interior as Bone hit the blunt. Music drowned the nerves much as it could. They reached a stop sign and were soon on the border of the East side of their turf near 117th. Bone halted the car, and popped the passenger side lock. A head nod, KP got out an in the fear and frenazy he forgot to close the door. Bone whistled and said the only words KP had ever heard him say, “Close my mothafuckin’ door, blood.” KP did as was asked and the red cadillac departed at Bone’s hest. KP turned, eyes laid on the group of about six men who were shooting dice in front of a dilapidated house encircled by a small metal fence. A rusty weight bench sat in the miniscule front yard as well as a rottweiler. No ‘Beware Dog’ sign in sight. KP parsed chatter amid the six kneeled men as they progressed through their game of craps, “Snakes, nigga.” taunted Tiny Bear, “Fuck outta here, bluh, doubles nigga.” retorted [url=https://img.discogs.com/THJ4_Hhfs0rLfOOF56B9D3LnF7A=/510x340/smart/filters:strip_icc():format(jpeg):mode_rgb():quality(90)/discogs-images/A-578903-1451892938-4950.jpeg.jpg]Peanut,[/url] “Ain’ no fuckin’ doubles, bluh, roun’ up.” concluded Six Pack, “I’m in nat.” added a muscled, stocky man. KP had seen him before, older homies called him [url=https://img.ourwalrus.com/artists/14/4/14/118350.png]Twin[/url]. Armed robbery, extortion, kidnapping. Word was he might have the longest jacket on the turf. It was him who noticed Kentrell and checked him, “Aye, bluh, who you?” KP glanced up at Twin, memory served KP right; he had seen Bear around 111 street when KP was younger. Kentrell responded swiftly as was protocol, “KP. Where Al at?” Twin frowned, Kentrell couldn’t tell whether it was because of the sun or because Twin was confused, “Ohhh shit! Lil Kentrell? Baby K? Shonda nem Ke--” “Yeah, nigga, Baby K.” “Shiiit! Nigga, the fuck you doin’ ova here?” “I’m lookin’ fo--” “I know who the fuck you lookin’ fo’, nigga, [i]why[/i] though? Know damn well ya mama don’ play that shit.” Kentrell chose silence. Twin rose to his feet and moved closer to KP, “Wha’s all this?” Twin tugged at Kentrell’s red shirt, a little too rough for Kentrell’s liking. Kentrell kissed his teeth and Twin laughed. The mocking was never subtle, “Oh you a big boy now, huh? You onna hood now, huh? Kssshh!” he jumped at Kentrell who immediately balled his fist up and stuck Twin in his lip. Realization sunk in; Twin felt the cut along his lip with a few fingers, shock radiated for but the briefest second. The next thing Kentrell knew he was pinned up against the car, covering himself from Twin’s onslaught. The others watched and jeered, “Gon’ let him fuck you up like that, bluh?” touted Peanut, “Damn, nigga! Fight back!” of course Tiny Bear had something to add, “Buster ass nigga!” and Six Pack brought a close to the symphony of deprecation, Kentrell covered himself and did manage to make Twin miss a few blows, but the ones that landed in his stomach and forearms keeled him over, “Stupid li’l nigga! Chu never touch me aga--” the door creaked open, all eyes turned except a damaged KP’s and an enraged Twin’s, “The fuck is y’all stupid niggas doin’ in my mothafuckin’ yard, blood? Twin get off the li’l nigga, blood, and bring yo’ stupid ass and [i]his[/i] stupid ass in here, blood!” it was Al, or as the younger bloods knew him, [url=https://www.gorillaconvict.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/fredrick-staves.jpg]“Evil Al”[/url]. Leader of the 117th street clique of the Denver Lanes. No matter the terror Twin had built in him for Kentrell, it was incised by the OG’s command. He came to his senses unnaturally quick and turned to walk inside. Kentrell gathered himself best as he could and hobbled inside, an arm wrapped around his stomach. Al held the door open for Twin, but not KP--aching arms outstretched to the iron bars around the door and pulled it open before it closed. Kentrell grimaced in pain. Once inside, there were no less than ten members from both the 117th street clique--many of them newbies like Kentrell--and Kentrell’s own 109th street clique who also had a handful of new faces Kentrell didn’t quite recognize including a few females. There were reputables from the other cliques in the neighborhood sprinkled throughout, too: the 111, 112, 115, 118, and 120. The 109th street clique’s big homie, [url=https://i2.wp.com/riverheadlocal.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/2018_0913_Jovan-Bailey-.jpg?fit=640%2C427&quality=100&ssl=1]Killer Tone[/url] stood near the back of the room alongside… Shontay? Now wasn’t the time to ask questions, just to listen. “Sit down, blood.” Evil Al instructed Kentrell, who did nothing but oblige. On the table lay a map of the turf surrounding the Denver Lanes. They were sandwiched between two sets of Hoover Criminals: one on the south of the Lanes own turf on 109th and Figueroa all the way down to 92nd St and the 107 Hoover Criminals to their West alongside a much smaller Crip gang, the Pimp Town Gangster Crips (PTC) who had cliqued up with the 107s. To the north of the Lanes were the Raymond Avenue Crips and to the East across the 110 freeway lie the 112 Broadway Crips and the 118 East Coast Crips, all who numbered from 50-300 deep per individual neighborhood with the Raymond Avenue Crips being the largest. The Lanes only allies were the neighboring Crenshaw Mafia Bloods, one of the largest blood gangs on the West Side of Inglewood as well as a small Sureno click who were to the south of the Lanes as well. The only reason the Lanes were still around were thanks to their numbers, anywhere from 150-400 deep depending on who one asked, but only members knew how deep the hood truly was. Put simply, it was time to push these smaller hoods from their borders. Evil Al and Killer Tone stepped up and addressed the room. Killer Tone took the floor first, “Listen, bluh, we quiet out here, bluh. Nigga, Raymonds came thu jus’ las’ week gettin’ at us, bluh an’ what we do since then? Nothin’, bluh. The older G’s ain’ pushin’ [i]no[/i] lines, ain’ givin’ no get back, bluh, an’ we can’ move like that, bluh. Krispies and naps mobbin’ thu our shit on the daily, bluh, and homies is spooked like,” then Tone added, “We ain’t lettin’ no mo’ of that shit go, blood. On Lanes, nigga, this why y’all here. Hood gotta change or ain’ no mo’ flaggin’ [i]shit[/i]. Them niggas gone run us out the muhfuckin’ city, blood. So this what it is: all y’all niggas in this room ‘bout to [i]earn[/i] them flags y’all like to carry ‘round, blood.” keeping the rhythm of the rally going, Killer Tone continued, “Tip Toe-” Tone nodded to Shontay, “found out from a li’l nap ‘bout a li’l function nem krispies havin’ ‘morrow night an’ we gon’ hit that shi’, bluh. Ain’ it tho’, bluh, while couple y’all do dat the ressa y’all gon’ hit them snoovas, bluh. KP you an’ Tip Toe an’ Six Pack an’ Bear an’ Twin gon’ funk wit’ me early nex’ time an’ we gone go ova the res’.” and to cap it off, Evil Al spoke, “The rest of y’all niggas wit’ me. We hittin’ them snoovas later. But on’ worry ‘bout all that right now. Y’all gon’ get up wit’ me after all that other shit die down. An’ listen blood, we got too many enemies for you dumbass niggas to be knockin’ against witout usin’ ya muhfuckin’ heads first. Stay in bounds until we make this move, anything y’all got that’s hot gotta go, blood. I’m talkin’ ‘bout even the silva, blood. Stay in bounds and stay low. Now get the fuck out my house, blood.” At the dismissal, they all rose and left. Outside, Shontay and Kentrell walked back to the Vista together, although it would be quite a long walk. “Tip Toe? What type’a shit is that?” Kentrell egged, “Shut up, goofy. You heard what the big homie said, ain’t shit to play a thirsty nigga out his mouthpiece.” Kentrell raised an eyebrow, partly in disappointment and partly impressed, “Niggas gone think you a jump.” “I’on’ give a fuck what niggas think. We [i]in[/i] this shit, fuck a civilian.” “I mean… Darius and Lorraine civilians too.” “Okay, and? Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout them. Shit, speakin’ of them I been told L ass I was gone get up wit’ her.:” she said more to herself than to Kentrell, “‘Bout what?” “Some money.” “Oh? Y’all ain’t trynna cut nobody in?” “Nah… nah, nah, this just between me an’ her.” a little deflation marked the words, Kentrell didn’t say anything he just nodded and made a mental note for later, they turned the corner of 115th and Vermont Avenue, a long strip of land known as the “Lane” or the “Hive” for its uniqueness among other streets within the Lanes turf--it was a stretch of old abandoned factories and fewer houses, it was also where many of the hood’s gangways were. A place where many of the Lanes ran prostitution and drugs, partied, and died. Perfect for, -- Blue bandanas covered their faces and blue Converse patterned the ground as they ran up the alleyway, “Aye cuh, there go two of them niggas right there, cuh.” “Aye, ain’ that the one li’l bitch from las’ night?” Marquise “DuRocc” Thomas squinted, “Shit’chea, cuh. She a slob?” Vernon “Buddha” Harrison’s heart sunk, but he would deal with his feelings another time, “Who that nigga wit’ her though?” “Don’t matter, loc’, hurry yo’ ass up fo’ they get away!” Thomas cocked the hammer on his Glock 19; Harrison checked the clip on his Sig Sauer P226 and made sure the safety was off, “We ain’ got all day, nigga. Come on!” and with that, Thomas and Harrison raced up the gangway parallel to the Price siblings, Kentrell head the footsteps before he heard the call; in mere seconds his head turned and the world slowed--all he saw was blue. “AYE, WHAT UP CUH!”