Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 8

"Who killed Popa T.?"

"I killed Popa T.!"

"Who killed Baby O.?"

"Me, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, me!"

I went on to name a few others I had pushed off this planet, all the while trying to incite him to violence.

"Now," I said calmly, "who killed Twinky?"

"I don't know."

Out of control now, I grabbed him by the collar.

"Sissy, I'll slap yo' G.o.dd.a.m.n head off."

"If you do I'll still be from the big Six-O," he said.

I reared back as far as I could and slapped the h.e.l.l out of him hard across the face. His hair net flew off from the blow. With little choice he stood up swinging, but he was just a gunfighter and had little skill with his hands. I beat him pretty bad. One of my uppercut blows landed directly in his eye, knocking his head back. He stumbled to a corner holding his eye and pleading for me to stop. I did only because he ceased to resist. All the while his homeboy said nothing, so I stepped over to him.

"What's yo' name?" I asked.

"Shakey," he replied. A fitting name, I remember thinking.

"How long you been from the Sixties?"

" 'Bout nine months."

"What you in here fo,' shootin' one of my homies?"

"Naw, fo' shootin' some Brims."

In a flash one of the Bloods jumped up and said, "I'm a Brim," and rushed the Sixty with blinding quickness. For a moment I stood indecisive. After all, the Sixties were Crips. Shouldn't I help him get the Blood-which was our original intent? But the Sixties had showed little regard for my 'hood, my homies, or me. Why should I help him? "f.u.c.k them Sixties," I decided, and sat back to watch the fight. Though both were my enemies, the Sixties were my worst enemies.

The rumbling was too loud against the door so the soldier-cops came in and seized both Shakey and the Blood. At this time the other Blood spoke up and made his exit to safety with his comrade. T-Bone stayed, and I pumped him for all the information I could.

That day in court my trial date was set. T-Bone was remanded to the custody of the sheriff's department, which meant he was coming to the juvenile tank. When he arrived the next day he had miraculously stopped banging. He was put on Able row. His eye was so discolored and bloodshot that he was given the new name of Tangle-Eye. After that, whenever any drama of significance took place with our 'hoods on the street, I beat Tangle-Eye for it. When Li'l Crazy De was shot-for the third time-I hurt Tangle-Eye bad. To offset my wanton abuse of him, Cyco Mike got Tangle-Eye claiming he was with Main Street, and because we had no beef with Main Street, he was able to enjoy a bit of immunity.

In the course of our slob game late one night we found the real Bloods. I was feeling at a loss for someone to beat up. One of the Bloods was Bingo from Bounty Hunter and the other was Weeble Wooble from Mad Swan. Both were from the east side of Los Angeles and neither had killed any of my homies, though we had suspected the Swans of desecrating our homie Cocaine's body while it lay in wake near their 'hood. We'd arrived late to find that Cocaine had been stabbed repeatedly in the face with a screwdriver and that multiple red flags had been thrown into the casket. But their part in this was mere speculation.

The most eager to put hands on the two Bloods were the Grape Streets, whose worst enemy was the Bounty Hunters, and the East Coasts, whose worst enemy was the Mad Swans. Those poor Bloods. Up until the following day we had them believing that we were all Bloods. We'd lead into a topic about so-and-so having been shot, and they'd finish the story off. When our rumors proved false, they'd correct it for the record: "Uh-uhn, Blood, that was my homie so-and-so who kilt that crab." This went on through the night. We even signed off with "Blood love" before going to sleep.

The next day was Doomsday. We fell into the dayroom that evening feeling ecstatic, excitement in the air. Right up until we began tying blue flags around our knuckles, the Bloods thought they were among their own. No one said anything, everyone just prepared. The Grape Streets moved on Bingo first. The sight was inexplicable: within seconds he was unidentifiable. This was a standard beat-down. The other, however, is worth detailing.

Weeble Wobble was a stocky little guy with a full beard. Monk, from East Coast, said his name had a little weight to it on the east side. He, like the rest of us, had a murder. He had little beady eyes that darted around nervously, and the left side of his mouth quivered. I doubted it was because he was scared, though, because he didn't seem to be. He answered all our questions in an even voice.

Monk had a bit more tact than the Grape Streets, who just pounced on Bingo. Monk questioned Weeble Wooble at length about people, places, and events that had transpired over the years between their 'hoods. Weeble Wobble, as if knowing his fate and wanting to confess his sins, spilled his guts. But he did so admirably, proudly conveying the missions he had been on and who had fallen by his hand. Just as I admired Monk's professionalism in handling this prisoner of war, I had to acknowledge the sincerity of the prisoner. Not once did he falter during his debriefing, not once did he stutter.

When Monk was satisfied that he had bled him of all that he needed, he called for Dirt to bring a cup. Everyone looked baffled. It was enough to be civil in questioning the prisoner, but to now offer him a drink was a bit out of our range of diplomacy. Nevertheless, we all waited to see what Monk had up his sleeve. Monk had done some irrational s.h.i.t in his day and was not beyond pulling a twist. When he got the cup from Dirt (Dirt's brother's name was Mud; they were both there for killing Jessie James from Blood Stone Villain) it was empty, which didn't seem to bother Monk too much. He simply pulled out his d.i.c.k and filled the cup. And then, as if it were beer, he nonchalantly handed it to Weeble Wobble who, to our surprise, took it. Well G.o.dd.a.m.n, I thought, this s.h.i.t was going too smoothly, almost as if rehea.r.s.ed.

"Drink it," Monk ordered. Only now did his voice show strains of anger, betraying the cool look on his face.

"Wait a minute, Monk, I-"

"Drink it!" Monk exploded with fury, completely out of control now.

Without further protest Weeble Wobble drank the acrid liquid, spilling droplets on his beard as he tipped the cup. Once he had finished and put the cup down Monk tore into him with a vengeance. Everyone wanted to rat-pack him, but Monk insisted on it being head up. Weeble Wobble tried to dance about and put up a little resistance, but he had been so demoralized by the debriefing and the urine drinking that his response was simply no match for the swiftness and physical skill of Monk. Every punch Monk threw was with pinpoint accuracy, splitting Weeble Wobble's lip with a left jab, then doubling back with an overhand right, opening a gushing wound above his right eye. Body blows rained in rapid-fire succession from his navel to his neck. When he fell to the ground, Monk proceeded to stomp and kick him all over-except, with any real intent, in the groin area-until his eyes rolled back in his head and he flopped around on the floor like a fish.

Bingo had long ceased any movement. Feeling somehow left out, I called Tangle-Eye over and slapped him up. Not to be outdone by Monk, I called for a cup. But I couldn't urinate, so I handed it to Taco, who quickly filled it up. No one said a word as I handed the urine-filled cup to Tangle-Eye.

"Drink it," I told him, "or come to the back and prepare for battle."

Tangle-Eye was looking around for Cyco Mike, who had gone to see a visitor. He then looked to Green Eyes for a reprieve.

"Hey, Green, you know I ain't no Sixty no mo'. You gonna let cuz do me like this?"

"Monster," Green Eyes began, "you know cuz claimin' Main Street now-"

"This m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka ain't from no Main Street! You know it and I know it."

And then, looking at Tangle-Eye, I held up both fists and repeated, "Now drink it, punk, or get these dogs put on yo' a.s.s."

"You know you gonna have to answer to Mike when he get back," Green Eyes said.

"Drink it!" I said loudly, ignoring Green. And then as an afterthought I said, "Mike don't pump no fear here," slapping myself over the heart. "Just'cause he got y'all scared 'round here don't mean I'm gon' be scared, too."

The dayroom was deathly quiet. The line had been crossed, my plan prematurely hatched.

"m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, what did I tell you?"

At that, Tangle-Eye tipped the cup and swallowed the urine. I slapped him anyway for being such a coward.

When the soldier-cops came to the dayroom door to let Cyco Mike back in, they saw Bingo and Weeble Wobble lying in pools of blood and called a 415-a distress call. Within minutes the dayroom was swarming with vile soldier-cops slinging threats and profanities around at random. We each were made to strip for examination by a sergeant, who looked for scratches, blood, welts, or abrasions that would suggest we had somehow been involved in the beat-down. Monk was the only one taken to the hole.

After the examination we were locked back into our cages. I heard Green Eyes sending Cyco Mike a briefing on what had happened with Tangle-Eye. But Mike said nothing to me.

Later that night I heard Cyco Mike order Li'l Fella from Five Tray to give up his breakfast in the morning. Li'l Fella, a small cat who weighed at least fifty pounds less than Cyco Mike, gave no response to this. It became apparent to me what was taking place. Cyco Mike knew he could not give Tangle-Eye full immunity under Main Street's jurisprudence for two reasons: Tangle-Eye had not joined willfully and with the required pa.s.sage of the universal litmus test, and he had s.m.u.t on him from not putting up a struggle for his props. This type of coverage only served to make Main Street look soft, as if anyone could join. Cyco Mike knew that I knew all of this. He also knew that he could not bring my latest act of aggression on Tangle-Eye to me without making himself look stupid. So he was using an indirect route to draw me out. All Trays-Four Trays, Five Trays, Seven Trays, and Eight Trays-are natural allies, just as the Neighborhoods are. So by publicly taking Li'l Fella's breakfast he was actually sending a message to me.

I weighed the consequences of what I was about to do. How many troops did he have down there? There was Green Eyes, Cisco, Warlock, Killer Rob, Handbone, and Chicken Swoop-who was recently back from the clinic. He could also count Tangle-Eye on his side. I had Moman, Oldman, Taco, p.o.o.pay, High-Tower, Dirt, Mud, Bennose, Levi, Popa, and Perry. It's not quant.i.ty but quality that counts in such situations. We had a crew of quality soldiers who, quite frankly, up until my arrival, had lacked the proper leadership. To say I alone filled that vacuum would negate the role of all the others in forging our united front. We all, at different times, functioned in the seat of leadership. But I was the primary driver. Though I was nowhere near the physical condition I wanted and needed to be in, I had to respond to Mike. He knew what he was doing and I knew-that was enough. But before I could respond to him directly, I had to try to rile up some resistance in Li'l Fella. Although he had little chance against Mike, he could at least stand his ground.

"Hey, Li'l Fella, what you do, give cuz yo' breakfast or what?"

"Naw, homie, but f.u.c.k that breakfast."

"Yeah, but Trays don't do it like that," I told him. "If you ain't gonna eat it, throw it away."

Before Li'l Fella responded Mike spoke up.

"Monster, what tier you on?"

"Charlie row."

"Well, keep yo' a.s.s up there. Don't worry 'bout what go on down here."

"I could give less than a fat rat's a.s.s 'bout Able row. My concern is with my li'l homie," I said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, well he live down here."

"You too big to be bullying on cuz anyhow."

"Who the f.u.c.k you think you is anyway?" Mike asked accusingly. "Coming here, thinking you that m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka somethin'. You too new here to be woofin' that s.h.i.t, Monster."

"n.i.g.g.a, f.u.c.k you!"

"f.u.c.k YOU!" Mike shot back.

"So what's up then?"

"In the a.m., m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, let the gates be the bell."

And that was it.

The silence weighed a hundred tons. It seemed that I could hardly move or breathe under it. I wanted to make small talk with Ben, but decided against it in fear of my voice cracking, showing strain, stress, and, honestly, fear. Fear not necessarily of Cyco Mike, but of possibly losing the fight. What then? Was I supposed to live with it? That just wasn't my style.

I remember before I went to camp in '79 my older brother, Kerwin, used to put hands on me. He'd feel quite content with bopping me around for any small infraction. But he didn't realize the radical transformations I was going through while in jail, where a.s.s whippings just weren't tolerated by anyone. So when I was released and had committed my first infraction-something like failing to clean the bathroom-he went to pounce on me, and I quickly drew my strap and explained to him that those days were over. If he had any further notions of putting hands on me, he'd have to tangle with my gun. He nodded his comprehension and walked out of the room in somewhat of a trance. He hasn't touched me since.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a strap now. I did, however, have my fighting skill. I lay there and went over some moves I could pull, trying to plan, which was ridiculous. How can one plan a fistfight? It's not like the combatants have the same ch.o.r.eographer. And it was clear this wasn't going to be a clean fight. This would be a stomp-down, drag-out brawl for the duration of wind, punches, and stamina. It had come to this, though prematurely, but in a way I was glad it was finally going to be on and over. Something had to break the tension. The situation had come to a head, and a new round of relations were about to be set in motion. I fell asleep with my mind full of these thoughts.

The following day, nothing happened. The next day, I observed Cyco Mike in the dayroom having war counsel with his troops. I saw Green Eyes wrap Mike's hand in blue flags and help him take down his jumpsuit, so I had Taco tie my hands up with flags and I took my jumpsuit down, too. Taco and I remained seated on the table in front of the old black-and-white television. Both sets of troops were fanned out about the day-room eyeing each other skeptically. The tension was very, very thick. Cyco Mike and Green Eyes began to walk toward Taco and me, so we stood up. Mike spoke first.

"Woof that s.h.i.t now that you was woofin' the other night."

"I ain't no tape recorder. You heard what I said."

We both were in strike-first positions, almost toe to toe.

"f.u.c.k that, fool, we gotta get down," Mike declared, and went to step out of his shoes.

"I thought you knew," I said, and didn't let him get to the other shoe. Like lightning I was on him, hitting everywhere at once. My speed, fueled by great bursts of adrenaline, was surprising-even to me. When I stopped swinging he was down on all fours.

"Aw, you gonna try to hit me when I'm takin' my shoes off, huh?"

"f.u.c.k you, punk, get yo' b.i.t.c.h a.s.s up," I said vehemently.

When he stood up again he rushed at me, but not with swinging blows. Instead, he tried to wrestle me down. Each time he went to grab me I banked a blow across his face or head. I was backing up, sticking and moving, sidestepping and hooking. He was furious! Finally, when I had danced myself into exhaustion, he grabbed me in a suffocating bear hug. Using his strength and weight as leverage he succeeded in toppling me backward, falling on top of me. Once on the ground he tried to hit me a few times in the torso, but he left his face completely exposed and I took liberty with his mug. Taco moved to us quickly, as instructed, and pushed Mike off me. In a moment I was back up on my feet, dancing and shouting.

"C'mon, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, c'mon!"

Mike just stood there and then, to everyone's surprise, extended his hand in a peacemaking gesture. He said that we were both Crips and had no business fighting. Thinking it was a ploy, I backed away sayin' "f.u.c.k that s.h.i.t."

When I went back amongst my troops I saw pride, love, and admiration in their faces. The spell was broken. I felt like a world champion, a liberator, but didn't allow myself to get big-headed or pompous. Li'l Fella came over to me and without looking me in the eyes said thanks. Li'l Fella, like so many other noncrucial observers, thought that this was simply a result of the breakfast issue. Few knew that since my arrival this battle had been inevitable. Even I couldn't articulate it then. But I did know that the growing tension had precipitated a brawl because Cyco Mike was wrong in so many instances and hadn't the popular support to continue in his capacity as leader.

And so it went that I a.s.sumed responsibility for the juvenile tank. I didn't simply demote Mike, but let him carry some responsibility-not nearly what he had been used to wielding, but enough so as not to break his spirit. I had Handbone beaten and stomped for being a general coward. I reduced Tangle-Eye to a basket case and enjoyed the sight. And it was during my reign that I fixed it so that Sixties were outlawed from Able and Charlie rows. I allowed individual freedom and no one was misused arbitrarily.

The Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest continued to rule our existence. No one got a free ride. Our dayroom time was mostly spent going chest: Charlie row against Able row, everybody bombing everyone else with torso shots. We did this to enhance our physical skills, because so many had lost this ability, as the gun had replaced hand-to-hand combat. But here the strong survived and the weak were phased out. Within three months we were a quality contingency of sheer terror.

Lounging in my cage one morning, reading-or trying to read-I was disturbed by Fat Rat from One-Eighteen East Coast. He said that he had just seen and overheard two detectives down front talking about coming to search my cell. Fat Rat was known for his clowning and could hardly be taken seriously half the time, so I told him to f.u.c.k off and went back to struggling with my comic book. Not ten minutes later my gate opened and I was ordered to step out. When I stepped out on the tier, sure enough, two plainclothes detectives accompanied by a sergeant were walking briskly down the tier toward me.

"Kody Scott?" the blond detective asked.

"Yeah, wha's up?"

"We have a search warrant for your cell," he said, as the sergeant cuffed me to the tier rail.

"Fo' what?" I asked in utter disbelief.

"For murder, Mr. Scott, or should I say Monster Kody?"

"Man, y'all trippin'. I'm in here fo' murder already."

"Oh yes, we know that, but it seems that one of your homeboys has turned over on you for yet another murder."

"Yeah, right," I said, but now I knew that this was what Killer Rob had been talking about when I'd seen him in the Hall.

"So what y'all lookin' fo', guns? Oh yeah, I see, right here on this paper, a .32, a shotgun, a-"

"No, we're only looking for correspondence that you have possibly entered into with some of your homeboys."

They searched my cell for all of an hour. When they came out they had at least ten letters. While the sergeant uncuffed me, I told the detectives that I hoped they'd found what they were looking for, to which they replied that they had. As they were leaving, one turned back and said with a smile, "But we are going to wait until you are eighteen so we can gas your black a.s.s."

"f.u.c.k you!" I called after them, but they went out laughing.

In June I started trial for the murder and six attempted murders. The district attorney said that if I pleaded guilty he would be lenient and only give me twenty-five years. "Oh, is that all?" I asked sarcastically.

The Brims turned out en ma.s.se. One after the other they testified that I had blasted them in the park. When my attorney asked them what I was wearing, they all described my attire differently. All said that I had gripped the shotgun with both hands. When asked if I was wearing gloves, each said no, that both hands were bare. My attorney then produced medical files that clearly showed that I had been released from the hospital that very night and, most important, had a white cast on my left hand extending up to my elbow.

The jury deliberated less than an hour and came back with a verdict of not guilty on all charges.

It was June 22, 1981, and all that I had on my mind-before s.e.x, drinking, and smoking pot or PCP-was to blast some Brims. Really blast them. Before the sun rose the next morning, they would feel me strong.

6.