Brooklyn Chronicles: Save our Sons and Daughters

Chapter One

                                                                           Chapter One

 

Respect is the result of one’s abilities, qualities and achievements, even on the streets. The street rep, reputation and “juice” are an influence and a drive for a name mentioned in whispers, a name like Tank’s.

The nineteen year old was the king of the streets of Brooklyn. He was not hard to miss, he had a tall height that towered over people in authority, his worst enemies, what he called the fedz, the police. As a young black man who had more bullet and knife scars on his body than he had grades, he spent most of his childhood in juvenile detention centres and the rest in community service activities, Tank lived up to the stereotype of a typical black young man in the United States of America.

His gold tooth glistened as his smiled at a group of young girls standing outside a liquor store. The group of young girls were everything a father denied as a daughter. Tattoos were scattered across their half naked skin as if they were walking canvases and their bodies resembled those of grown women and not sixteen year olds.

He did his usual stunt, which was to wink at each and every one of them before he walked into the store. The shop owner stood back aware, he recognised Tank and he knew him very well. Fear was written all over the shop owner’s face and his fingers were not far from calling the police after last time.

Tank picked up several bottles before placing them on the store counters, he dug into his pockets paying no attention to the man who was close to wetting his pants. He brought out several dollars and he licked his thumb before separating the loose notes from the priced bill of the dead-weight loss to society sat on the counter.

He placed the money on the counter and his fingers pushed his bucket hat back to reveal the front trim and clean cut. The dimple in his right cheek stood out as his dirty finger nails swiped the money from the counter back into his pockets.

Another item came from his pockets and this time it was not of a monetary value, it was a sharp blade, the kind that could twist and rip someone’s soul out.

Tank rotated the knife and brought it close to his lips, the shop owner stood back afraid of what he was capable of. Tank slid his tongue out and he directed the knife in an angle that slit a centimetre of the flesh of his tongue open. The shopkeeper swallowed hard watching the blood drip down Tank’s chin, Tank grinned and sucked his tongue before spitting out a mixture of his saliva and blood at the shopkeeper.

“Next time it will be your tongue, or maybe your head. You decide, you can call the cops or keep your mouth shut.”

Tank said no more and took the bottles of alcohol with him and he left the store in peace.

He met a face he could recognise by the streets, even underneath hoods, jackets and hats, Tank could spot this face and walk from a far distance.

“What the f*ck Blue?” He yelled grabbing the young boy by his neck. The young boy looked at him with fear and the bags of whites in his hands were snatched away from him. “You are taking too much of this sh*t man, I thought I told you to stop.” He spat.