Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 3

I felt nothing but a sense of duty. I had been to five funerals in the previous two years and had been steeled by seeing people whom I had laughed and joked with, played and eaten with, dead in a casket. Revenge was my every thought. Only when I had put work in could I feel good that day; otherwise I couldn't sleep. Work does not always const.i.tute shooting someone, though this is the ultimate. Anything from wallbangin' (writing your set name on a wall, advertising) to spitting on someone to fighting-it's all work. And I was a hard worker.

3.

THE WAR.

In the fall of 1980 the war between the Eight Trays and the Rollin' Sixties was in full swing. Five casualties had accrued on our side, eight had fallen on their side. Even though people die every day in South Central and by most any means, it was the timing and the viciousness of these killings that made the gang community stop and take notice. Escalation was the order of the day. Entire streets were turned into armed camps to be used as liberated territory, where safe "meeting and mounting up" could be carried out with not so much as a worry about enemy gunfire. ("Meeting" means a gang gathering to choose a riding party or group of shooters to invade enemy territory. "Mounting up" means starting out cn the mission.) This particular war is of the utmost importance; it was this very conflict that changed the politics of gang relations in South Central-a significant factor in the development of the critical climate that prevails throughout the region today.

Once the Eight Trays had really fallen out and our intent at the Rollin' Sixties' destruction was obvious, the entire Crip community split and began to side with one set or the other. We became, in effect, superpowers, not unlike the former Soviet Union and United States. Sets whom we'd had small skirmishes with or who favored the Sixties over us sided with them. Also included were their natural allies-other Neighborhood sets. "Neighborhood" or "N-hood" is the name of a loosely knit group of sets throughout Los Angeles, including Lynwood, West Covina, and Compton. The Neighborhood Crips as a whole make up a large part of the Crip community, quite possibly comparable to the expansive republics spread throughout the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. They are like Soviet republics, but not necessarily united, as each is of a different culture, with a diversity of customs and philosophical beliefs. The Neighborhoods had only ever been loosely a.s.sociated; however, with the brutal escalation of the war, they became a united front against us and our allies.

Sets began to predict the winners, a virtually impossible deed as our war, like most gang wars, was not fought for territory or any specific goal other than the destruction of individuals, of human beings. The idea was to drop enough bodies, cause enough terror and suffering so that they'd come to their senses and realize that we were the wrong set to f.u.c.k with. Their goal, I'm sure, was the same. "Points" were scored when individuals with prestige were hit. The aggression displayed in 1980 was unprecedented. We set a decibel level in violence that still causes some to cringe today.

What most folks miserably fail to realize is that our wars are no less complicated than world wars, or wars fought to either suppress or liberate a country. The difference is not legality, but cause. Some causes are righteous and in accord with human nature, while others are reactionary and repressive. Gang wars fall somewhere in between. I can quite easily justify the retaliation on enemies for killing one of my comrades. But simultaneously I will condemn the murdering of noncombatants.

Retribution is a natural reaction. It's easy to persuade the general public of your "righteousness" when you control major media. But those of us who control nothing are in the precarious position of having someone guess what our position is. This leaves quite a large gap for misinformation. Who fired the first shot? Who knows?! But, too, who cares, when one of theirs is lying in a pool of blood with his brains blown out. This question becomes weightless in the aftermath of a shooting where someone has died. Thus the goal becomes the elimination of the shooter or as many of his comrades as possible. This inevitably leads to war-a full-scale mobilization of as many troops as needed to achieve the desired effect: funerals.

It was in this season that I was captured for murder. This particular incident began in my 'hood. I had taken my li'l brother's ten-speed out this day, as I was only venturing around the block to Shadow's house. Time seemed to fly by, and before I knew it night had fallen, and I was left in the dangerous position of having to get back home. This task would indeed be most trying as our 'hood was now being clocked by not just the Sixties but their allies and our new enemies. Night was the killing time.

Dreading my upcoming journey and cursing myself for not having brought a strap, I mounted the bike and started out. Peddling fast toward the dark side street of Halldale, I noticed four occupants in what appeared to be a blue T-bird; they were parked on the left-hand side of the street facing me. I slowed to a precautionary coast and strained my eyes to survey the situation I was riding into. Upon further observation I realized that the T-bird belonged to my homeboy Sleepy. This meant the others had to be homies, as well. A sigh of relief fell over me and I picked my pace up again.

But then I noticed hand gestures coming from Sleepy's car. Thinking they were joking with me and clowning, I flipped them off as I approached the front of the car. Unbeknownst to me, they were trying to warn me of the imminent danger. For they had seen the carload of shooters bend the corner with their lights off moments after I rolled out of Shadow's driveway into the street. They sat motionless and waited for me to be cut down.

I never saw the car until it was parallel with me and I was staring down the barrels of five weapons under the unfriendly faces of my enemies. Fortunately, they wanted to see who they were killing-they wanted some points-and this gave me an edge.

"Look, look," exclaimed an overly excited voice from within the car, "it's Monster Kody!"

"Shoot that n.i.g.g.a, shoot him!" another faceless voice shouted.

Too late. By now I had reached the front of Sleepy's car and was diving behind it in an attempt at survival. Before I hit the ground the shooting began. Sitting parallel with Sleepy's car, they proceeded to riddle the car with bullets. I lay in the dirt and hoped they wouldn't have the heart to exit their car and see if I were hit or dead. It seemed like five minutes before the shooting stopped. I knew for sure the homies inside the car were dead.

I waited until I heard the shooters' car screech away before I began to move, or even think about coming from behind Sleepy's car. This had been a close call. Death, it seemed, was stalking me. My brushes with it were becoming more frequent and increasingly more serious. Had they used the shoot-first-ask-who-later policy, I would have been killed.

From the sound of their weaponry they had some heavy calibers. I distinctly remembered seeing an M-I carbine and some big handguns. I later found out the ident.i.ty of the shooters, as well.

Getting up slowly so as not to be tricked into the screeching-tire trick-where a soldier would be waiting with a weapon when I emerged-I began to hear rustling in the car and was awestruck to find that everyone was still alive. Sleepy was sitting in the driver's seat. Next to him sat Big Lynn, who stood six feet, three inches tall and weighed in at a hefty 340 pounds. Her arms measured twenty-two inches around. We often used her as a disciplinary board for unruly homegirls and, to be perfectly frank, some homeboys. Behind Big Lynn was Gangster Brown, and to his left sat his younger brother, Fatty.

They had been sitting there for some time, slipping bad, smoking PCP. When they saw me dive behind the car, they slid down in their seats. Miraculously, no one was killed, though all had suffered buckshot strafing and gla.s.s cuts from the shattering windows.

They pulled themselves from the wreckage-and that's exactly what it was. It's amazing how in a matter of seconds a car of such expense can be reduced to a hunk of Swiss metal, absolutely useless. Standing there in the street surveying the damage, Sleepy could not believe what he saw. We counted twenty-eight bullet holes in the body of the car, not including the individual buckshot dents. Fatty had taken a large-caliber shot right through the bib of his hat. Everyone was bleeding on the arms and neck; areas not covered by clothing were b.l.o.o.d.y. What held them from falling into shock was the PCP. Even after the shooting, they were not in total control of their faculties.

I was not on PCP and was visibly shaken. I had no sedative. By now my nerves were all but shot. Combat was starting to take its toll on me. It seemed as though I was viewing a body every other month, or having brains and blood splattered all over me. Death, or the fear of death, became my constant companion. But still my dedication, my patriotism, was strong; the cant stop, won't stop mentality had taken control of my being.

Trying to stir Sleepy into a retaliatory mood proved fruitless. He and the others were too intoxicated to mount any serious defense and seemed unconcerned about anything but their wounds and Sleepy's car. This goes back to what I have already explained about military personnel and combat soldiers. Although all of the victims in this case were in the military, none were actual combat soldiers. When struck, they had no immediate inclination to strike back. Often they'd relay the a.s.sault to the combat division, and a counterattack would then be carried out. Combat troops, on the other hand, would have a.s.sembled, mounted, and been en route to a designated spot before the smell of cordite cleared the air. Rapid deployment brought instant recognition to those involved as a serious group of cats bent on upholding their prestige.

Disgusted at their lack of concern, I mounted the bike and continued my journey home. When I turned onto my block and had gone about four houses, a purple Duster sped toward me and fired one shot. Either the driver or the shooter-or perhaps both-were inexperienced in the technique of doing a drive-by, because I didn't even feel the closeness of the bullet. My forward motion and their speed in the opposite direction had obviously thrown the shooter's aim off. He probably aimed directly at me-a moving target-causing his shot to go somewhere behind me, no doubt into one of the houses I was pa.s.sing. The car kept straight but picked up speed, probably thinking they had actually done something. My pace had been momentarily broken, but I never dismounted my bike.

When I got to my house my sister was standing out front. Though she had heard the shot, she had not known what had happened. Surprisingly, she was not accosted and asked to identify herself. Had the shooters found out that she was my sister, she would have been shot or kidnapped. Though our war had not yet reached the level of kidnapping and executing family members, it was being talked about as an inevitable consequence in our headlong escalation.

This, too, pointed up the inexperience of these shooters. If they were on Sixty-ninth Street, that meant they knew I lived there, and their intentions were to try to catch me or one of my homies coming from or going to my house. My combat mentality was still at its peak from the brush with death around the corner, so when I got to where my sister was standing I yelled at her to "take her a.s.s in the house," and that "didn't she know there was a G.o.dd.a.m.n war going on out here?" She stared for a moment then ran inside.

Putting up Li'l Monster's bike, I had a thousand thoughts running through my head. Once in my room I sat down on the end of my bed to devise a plan in the midst of this latest attack. Usually we'd respond right away, but tonight there seemed to be a lull in our communication-the drums weren't beating. I phoned Sidewinder in an attempt to consolidate a riding party of able soldiers and was shocked at what I heard. The very same car that shot up Sleepy's car had also rode on Sidewinder and some other homies up in the Eighties 'hood; their initial attack had taken place on Seventy-first Street. But this wasn't the shocker, for it was common for one car to make a full sweep of an entire neighborhood. The surprising news was that in their attempt to shoot one of our homies, they had shot and critically wounded a member of the Inglewood Family Bloods, who had been creeping into our 'hood to shoot Sidewinder and the homies. The shooter car met a righteous resistance in the Eighties and didn't get the chance to do any damage, although shots were exchanged. When asked what they did with the Blood, Sidewinder responded, "We sent him to his Maker."

Now I was depressed. It seemed then that we were in totally occupied territory. Hanging up the phone I lay back on my bed and looked over at the empty bed beside mine. My younger brother, Li'l Monster, had been captured for an armed robbery along with Li'l Harv and a woman named Speedy-a close a.s.sociate of the 'hood and a firm supporter of the criminal cla.s.s. He had been given six months in camp. I wished he was there because he'd be down to launch an attack from right here. But Bro was not there and Crazy De was still in the Hall. s.h.i.t. I felt trapped. I had to do something.

I retrieved my double-barrel from beneath the dresser and checked it for munition. Then I went out and got back on Bro's bike. Holding the shotgun-which had been sawed off for stealth-across the handlebars, I peddled west toward the borderline that separated our 'hood from the Sixties.

Wearing my combat black I crossed Western Avenue and entered their 'hood on the left flank, in what today we call the first parallel. I made my way cautiously up Sixty-ninth Street to Horace Mann Junior High School. Rumor had it that they had been using Horace Mann as a meeting place, for they had still failed to procure a park for their meeting and mounting place.

I circ.u.mvented the school on its left side, which was on Seventy-first. There I parked my bike and traveled on foot. I hopped the school fence with the shotgun in my waistband, landing on the other side with a thud. When I got to the lunch area I was disappointed to find no one there. Had they been at the school, this is where they would be found, because the lunch area was covered with a roof.

Moving now on instinct, I continued through the lunch area and out to the makeshift bungalows, which had been constructed to allow school to continue while the administration building was being renovated. I began to hear music in the distance. The closer I came to the north side of the school, the louder the music got. "Finally," I said to myself, "someone to shoot."

Creeping slowly toward the area I believed the music-and now loud talking-was coming from, I kept a vigilant eye out for sentries or stragglers who might announce my presence and blow my surprise attack. And, of course, the very real possibility existed that if I did not strike swiftly, causing much damage and confusion, they could mount a response and trap me in the school. I had brought only two sh.e.l.ls, both 00. At each corner I crouched and peeked from a low position-combat training I had learned from old war movies. But as I negotiated each corner I found no one there. Where were they? Then a terrifying thought occurred to me-the roof. These m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas were on the roof. This gave them a vantage point far superior to my ground-level position.

But the sound disproved my theory: it was an even-level sound and not, as I had surmised, an above-level sound. My second thought was confirmed as I made my way around the next set of bungalows. They were not even in the schoolyard, but outside its gate, parked on Sixty-eighth Street, talking as they played the car radio, beer bottles on the hood and roof of the car. Luckily for me, they were on my side of the street, for had they been on the other side I would not have been able to maximize my damage.

Not only did I have to shoot through the fence, but my targets were in the street. This put about seventeen feet between us. I had 00 buckshot, which would compensate for the distance; but my weapon was sawed off. This meant that my shot would be more of a spray than a solid impact.

Realizing that my transportation was clear across the school, I debated whether I should expend one or both barrels. Expend one and use one to secure my escape, or pull both triggers at once, using the tremendous sound as a diversionary tactic and hoping to realize my intent, which was a funeral or two.

Making my decision, I stepped to the gate, stuck the barrels through and shouted, "Gangsta!"

BLOOM, BLOOM!.

I let loose one and then the other in rapid succession, then turned and ran back through the bungalows and the lunch area and finally reached the fence on Seventy-first. Stopping to put the shotgun in my waistband, I saw a car bend the corner. I held the shotgun out instead and ducked behind a trash bin to let the car pa.s.s. It was occupied by two older civilians. When I got back up and shoved the gun in my waistband, I jumped. "Ahhh!" The barrels were still hot and burned my private parts. Holding the gun in my hands, I scaled the fence.

I ran back to where I had left the bike and, G.o.dd.a.m.n, someone had stolen it! Now I began to panic, because Western Avenue, the first parallel, was over a block away. Surely, I thought, the survivors would be in the vehicle looking for their a.s.sailants-and they'd be armed. Besides, I had no sh.e.l.ls.

I turned on my heels and trotted down Seventy-first, trying to stay as close as possible to the lawns in case I had to run through a yard. Once I got to the first parallel I felt better, but no safer. The barrels had cooled down enough now to put the gun in my waistband, so I hid the weapon. Finally I made my way down our driveway and into the house.

I reloaded the shotgun and laid it against the stereo speaker. I then turned on the TV and watched the "Benny Hill Show." I felt much better.

Then next night, while Gangster Brown and I were traversing to a party in the 'hood, an undercover car pulled to a stop beside us. Both police officers exited the car and approached us.

"Monster, what's up?" said the first officer, with a fake appearance of friendship.

"Nothing," I said with as much deceiving concern as I could muster. Actually, nothing but hostility exists between us and them, but some officers try to put on a jovial show of cosmetic concern to woo the naive banger into a trusting relationship with them.

"Listen," the officer continued, "auto detail wants to talk to you about a stolen car. Now I know that ain't your style and I told them that, but you need to come on down to the station and iron it out."

My instincts said run, but I didn't.

I said, "Man, you know I don't be stealing no cars, that's bulls.h.i.t!"

"Yeah, we know, but it's best if you clear this up now." His partner had now joined in on the "friendly persuasion."

I looked at Brown to see what he thought.

"Don't worry, Brown," the first officer said. "We'll bring Monster right back to the party."

Still Brown said nothing. By now I was being handcuffed. I told Brown that I'd see him later and to hold down the party until I got back. He said he would. After we drove off, the jovial facade vanished.

"Monster Kody," the driver said, as if weighing the poundage of my name. "You are in big trouble."

d.a.m.n. I felt claustrophobic, trapped and helpless.

"You cannot keep going around killing people and leaving witnesses." He was shooting stares at me through the rearview mirror as he spoke. "Now we got you. You done f.u.c.ked up this time. Yep, got an eyewitness who saw you plain as day.

"But listen," he continued. "What's been eating away at me is this . . . Was that you driving that burgundy Grand Prix that shot Lip Dog from Brim, which we chased and lost?" His eyes held mine for a moment.

"Naw, man, that wasn't me."

'Oh, you can tell us, we don't give a f.u.c.k one way or the other. I just wanted to compliment you on your driving." Now he broke a faint smile. 'Oh, incidentally, Lip Dog survived those four holes you put in his chest."

"I told you, man, that wasn't me."

"Well listen, Ace Rat said he saw you kill his homeboy D.C. last night." He was speaking now in a matter-of-fact tone. "We wouldn't even bother with it if he hadn't positively I.D.'d you.

"But," he continued, "Ace Rat ain't gonna be no good witness no way. h.e.l.l, he shot his own brother today." With that he winked in the rearview mirror.

Now I was really wondering just what was going on. How had anyone seen me under the cover of darkness? Or, better yet, had anyone actually seen me? And if so, why hadn't there been mention of the others who had been shot? I distinctly remembered counting five people out there. From seventeen feet with a sawed-off, everyone was getting sprayed. Besides, they had been standing in a tight circle, and I had used 00 buckshot. Surely I'd also have some a.s.sault charges and perhaps attempted murder, as well. But this went unmentioned during our ride to the station. At the station, I found out more.

According to the homicide detectives handling the case, myself, Sidewinder, who had been captured, and an unidentified driver caught several Sixties on the corner of Sixty-seventh and Van Ness and opened fire with a 9 millimeter and a .22 rifle. I supposedly had possession of the .22 and had allegedly shot Delta Thomas, a.k.a. D.C., several times. He was said to have run half a block and then expired. Sidewinder had supposedly supplied cover fire. I had been positively identified as the murderer of Delta Thomas.

Of course I knew I had not shot D.C., but how could I explain that I had been at another site, possibly killing other Sixties? I had no alibi as to my whereabouts that night. I made no statement at the station other than, "I want to speak to my attorney."

I was asked a series of questions ranging from how old I was (most of the policemen couldn't believe I was sixteen) to what my body count was. I shook them off with ignorant stares and shoulder hunches.

Later, after what seemed like hours in the cooling tank-a deliberately chilled holding cell designed to keep its occupant freezing and uncomfortable-I was transported to Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall. There I was strip searched, made to shower, dressed in jail clothes, and escorted to the box. The box is actually solitary confinement, where those being held for murder one are sent for seven days. I was not sweating the case in the least. In fact, once I was put in my room I went directly to sleep.

But when I awoke the next morning I felt the strain of being captured. Now I'm quite used to being trapped behind a heavy metal door or a barrage of bars. Even behind Pelican Bay's 8,200 holes-a metal slab over the entire front of my cell with multiple holes drilled in it-I can function quite normally. But back in those days, before my prison-life conditioning, I had a hard time coping with cell living.

In those days my writing and reading were bad. I couldn't compose a decent letter or even read a whole comic book. I began to think about my schooling and my relationship with my mother, which had deteriorated to a series of staring matches, when we could even stand to be in each other's company for any length of time. I felt she didn't overstand my generation. She, on the other hand, said I was a no-good hoodlum. Our clashes were frequent.

On my second day in solitary she came to see me. I strode out into the dayroom visiting area and sat next to her. For a few seconds she said nothing. Then she looked straight into my eyes with the most puzzling look and spoke through quivering lips.

"Kody, what has happened to you? What is wrong?"

And for the first time in a while I started to shed tears and could not speak. Raising my head to look her honestly in the eyes, I said, "I don't know," and meant it.

My life was totally consumed by all aspects of gang life. I had turned my bedroom into a virtual command post, launching attacks from my house with escalating frequency. My clothes, walk, talk, and att.i.tude all reflected my love for and allegiance to my set. n.o.body was more important than my homeboys-n.o.body. In fact, the only reason my little brother and I stayed close is because he joined the set. Anybody else I had nothing in common with. My transformation was subtle. I guess this is why most parents can't nip it in the bud. How?

I was six years old when the Crips were started. No one antic.i.p.ated its sweep. The youth of South Central were being gobbled up by an alien power threatening to attach itself to a mult.i.tude of other problems already plaguing them. An almost "enemy" subculture had arisen, and no one knew from where it came. No one took its conception seriously. But slowly it crept, saturating entire households, city blocks, neighborhoods, and eventually the nation-state of California.

Today, no school, library, inst.i.tution, business, detention center, or church is exempt from being touched in some way by the gang activity in South Central. Per year, the gangs in South Central recruit more people than the four branches of the U.S. Armed Forces do. Crack dealers employ more people in South Central than AT&T, IBM, and Xerox combined. And South Central is under more aerial surveillance than Belfast, Ireland. Everyone is armed, frustrated, suppressed, and on the brink of explosion.

I had no adequate answer then for Mom about what was happening to me. Actually, I wasn't fully aware of the gang's strong gravitational pull. I knew, for instance, that the total lawlessness was alluring, and that the sense of importance, self-worth, and raw power was exciting, stimulating, and intoxicating beyond any other high on this planet. But still I could not explain what had happened to pull me in so far that nothing outside of my set mattered.

In the years since, I have battled with my intellect to find an adequate answer to that question. Not to justify my partic.i.p.ation, but to see what makes others tick. I have always been a thinker, not necessarily academically, but more on a psychological level. I have always been interested in how people think, what causes any particular thought, and so on. Action and reaction has always held my attention.

After Mom left I felt extremely bad and a bit torn. I was restless, and the day seemed to drag on forever. On my third day in Los Padrinos, my name was called for release. When I got up front to the administration building I found out that my case had been rejected for prosecution by the District Attorney's office.

Mom was there to pick me up. On our way home she tried to make me commit to stop banging and get back in school. I told her I was in school, and to this she angrily retorted, "To learn, dammit, to learn!"

The fact is, I was being bused to an all-American (white) school in Woodland Hills: El Camino Real High. With some promises from Mom and some stern commitments from my probation officer, I was able to get in right out of juvenile camp. I went to school every day, but I never attended cla.s.ses. Academics just couldn't hold my attention. The only reason I went at all was because of the long trip from South Central to the San Fernando Valley, during which I was able to take in some awesome sights. Any relief from the drab grayness of the city was welcome, so I went along for the ride.

Once there, I'd get with the others who had no interest in academia and we'd stand around and pose in all of our cool South Centralness. The punk movement was in full swing at that time, and the Valley punk rockers initially mistook us-the eight of us who were steeped in the subculture of banging-for punk rockers because of our dress code. Perhaps they thought we were their New Afrikan counterparts from the city. We dressed almost alike, but it was only coincidence-we had never seen or heard of punk rockers before coming out to the Valley. A couple of us thought that they were Crips. We circled one another in an attempt to distinguish authenticity, then finally made a pact and began to hang out together.

But eventually I had to stop going to school there altogether, because the Sixties discovered the bus route, which ran through their 'hood. One day they stood and taunted the bus, and the next day they shot it up. By the third day I was not on that bus anymore.

Now, as if all other attempts would be useless, Mom gave up trying to persuade me.

I mad dogged every occupant of every car that came next to us, giving everyone a deliberately evil stare. I had perfected this look and no one except another serious soldier could hold my stare. I now overstand the look. It's not how you stare at someone, but what you've been through that others can see in your eyes and that tells them you're the wrong one to f.u.c.k with. Some refer to this as the thousand-yard stare.

Once I had gotten home, showered, and geared up, my shaken mentality of the day before vanished, as I was back "in country"-in the war zone-and conditions dictated that I think in accord with my present situation. I called around to notify the homies of my release and my continued support of and partic.i.p.ation in the war, which had just escalated to another level.

Ckrizs's sister had been kidnapped by the Sixties from the L.A. County Jail after she had gone to visit him: She was a civilian with no ties to gang activity other than her blood relation with Ckrizs. So now kidnapping had been added to the list of tactics used to terrorize the other side into withdrawal. Back in 1980, unlike today, there were no "high rollers," or "ballers," substantially anch.o.r.ed in any particular 'hood ("high roller" is Crip terminology for a ghetto-rich drug dealer; "baller" is the equivalent in Blood language). So the kidnapping had nothing whatsoever to do with ransom. This was a straight, ruthless move designed to strike terror in us. But, of course, it didn't work.

A meeting was held for a select few who, it was determined, could pull themselves a notch above the latest terrorist attack and commit an even more hideous act to show the Sixties that two can play this game. Only our target would be not a civilian but one of their troopers.

We plotted and planned most of the night trying to decide on which act would most grab their attention. We pondered castration, blinding, sticking a shotgun up the victim's r.e.c.t.u.m and pulling the trigger, and cutting off his ears. The latter, we felt, would be most significant. After all, killing him would be too easy, too final. No, we wanted him to live, to be a walking reminder of our seriousness.

After deciding our course of action and selecting those to carry it out, we sat and waited to hear the fate of Ckrizs's sister. Finally, after three days of suspense, she was found in one of the Sixties' school yards. She had been raped repeatedly, stabbed numerous times, and left for dead. Fortunately, she lived. That very night our selected crew was sent out to complete its first, but not last, extra-vicious act of warfare.

Combing the streets of the Sixties 'hood in a desperate attempt to find one of their shooters, the crew drove block after block, stopping civilians to ask the whereabouts of such notables as Peddie Wac, Poochie, Keitarock, Mumbles, or Snoop Dog-their elite crew of shooters. Finding none of them around, they settled for an up-and-coming Ghetto Star. They seized him, beat him into submission, and chopped off both his arms at the elbow with machetes. One arm was taken, and one arm was discarded down the street.

Later that night we parried and had a good time. The arm that was taken was brought to the meeting as proof of completion. There were no further kidnappings and our war plodded on in an "ordinary" fashion after this. During the ensuing investigation, the police department's frustration arose not as a result of the act per se, but from their inability to find the victim's other limb. We learned from this that there was a deterrent to certain acts. We had quite possibly laid down a rule then that certain things just wouldn't be tolerated.

4.