Notorious

19

The slums were bad enough in the daylight- at night it was like walking into a death trap. Shootings, robberies, fights, drug use all occurred in broad daylight, I'm sure you can just imagine some of the shit I've seen when the sun went down.

There was a reason Tyler didn't let anyone out here at night, except me and Scar.

He knew we could handle our own.

The real dangers were out here at night- no cops on patrol, gang colours everywhere, homeless people, drug addicts looking for their fix and not caring what they had to do to get it.

I saw my reflection in one of the glass windows we walked by and even now, sometimes it was hard to recognize myself.

How did I become this?

I was one of the most notorious on the streets of New York.

I was known as a murderer.

My unruly black hair was held back by a red bandana, the scar that started at my temple and ended at my jawline was staring back at me, reminding of what had happened. How I earned my stripes.

Scar walked beside me, wearing a red hat. "You ready?"

I nodded, my gun under my waistband feeling heavy. I carried two switchblades in either of my pockets, just in case I needed to use them.

There were a few strays that stopped to stare at us as we made our way to our regular spot. I recognized a couple of them.

Some Latin Kings were here tonight, watching us as we passed them.

I nodded at them and they acknowledged us. We weren't exactly allies with the Latin King's; but we both preferred each other over Crips.

Scar and I settled against the concrete wall, watching everyone around us.

It was like a melting pot of degenerates, the outcasts, the bad guys in society somehow coexisting around each other, which was weird as fuck.

One of our regulars, a crackhead whose name I didn't know; came up to us first.

"Hey man, you got any?"

I nodded and he gave me a handful of twenty-dollar bills. As I counted them, he scratched at the open sores on his face.

I had no clue how some of these people came up with their money, but whatever could feed their addiction, I guess.

Scar slipped him a tiny baggie with the amount of crack he had paid for.

"Thanks."

How fucking ironic was it that my own mother died from a drug overdose and here I was supplying junkies with the very thing that would kill them.

"Well, look what we have here." A voice interrupted my thoughts and I looked to where two Crips were standing.

"Sorry, man. I don't know you." Scar said, shrugging.

I didn't recognize them, but to be fair I'd been in prison for the last few years I didn't remember a lot of Crips except for the OG's, or the ones who were in jail with me.

They must have been new recruits, sent down here to see if they were cut out of this type of life. Judging by the way they came right up and confronted us, I'd say they were stupid as fuck.

The slums were neutral- everybody came out here. Latin Kings, Crips, Bloods, drug addicts, it was a melting pot of degenerates. It was common knowledge among the gangs that this was the one area of town where we could all push our drugs without consequence.