Loyalty Lies (Volume One)

Chapter 1

"Gangster's hittin' switches breakin' corners three wheel motions/ And I'm hopin' to pull a fly honey lookin' cute/ Spittin' game what's your name?/ You look cute in your daisy dukes"

Crenshaw, Skee-Lo

Crenshaw.

It was 1998. The first Sunday of the year.

The air was crisp, and the dark sky was clouded by the permanent hovering of smog, making the stars appear invisible. A southern California tradition that started in the sixties, and more than thirty years later, it was still going strong. Crenshaw Boulevard was live.

People were hittin' the 'Shaw hard. Cruisin', windows down, as systems blasted. N.W.A. D.J. Quick. Too $hort. Snoop Doggy Dogg. Even R&B like Aaron Hall and Jodeci. Or just the good sounds of the top Radio Stations. KDAY. The Beat. Power. Big trucks and fly whips were ever-present, with Dayton's and loud pipes. Car crews traveled as an entourage'; a squad of Chevy Impala SS's, or a platoon of Mustangs, glossy and candy-painted, with the name of their clique emblazoned on the back windshield, each car identical, save for the rims or a different hue. A new vehicle by Ford had just hit the scene, the Expedition, replacing the Ford Bronco, and it seemed like everybody was out flossing theirs. Low Riders with hydraulics hopped, and motorcycles roared by, floating oldies in the air as chicks hung casually onto their driver, gyrating with weaves flowing, drawing attention of both lust and hate. Solo riders and cliques screamed by, poppin' wheelies, and doing tricks. Low low's hit switches and leaned with the three wheel motion. Squealing tires, and a cloud of smoke left billowing behind them.

Everybody was out stuntin', trying to outdo the next, who could thump the loudest, who was playing the newest shit, whose car was the sickest, or jumped the highest. It was like a big, end of the week car show that went on for miles, both ways, on the wide six-lane street. Side shows, hook-ups, drug deals, fights, and everything in between took place in establishment parking lots, or the Crenshaw outer. Some store lots were more known than others for things to go down. You had the Rally's on Manchester, the Ralph's on Hardin, the Liquor Bank on Denker, and the McDonalds right by the 10.

Crenshaw Boulevard, was a street like no other and had a rhythm of its own. Everyone knew about it. It was common to see out of towner's with video recorders, and cameras poised, at the ready with the hopes of catching some typical L.A. shit unfold. They might catch a scene straight from an Uncle Luke video, a side show, or a shooting, (which, if they did wouldn't be in their best interest).

The hustlers, ballers, dealers, gangstas, perpetrators, and broke asses were all out in full effect, flossin' and ready to put their mack down. With the new Motorola Star Tac's fresh on the scene, it was easy to spot the real money makers as they had them on display. Rockin' Jersey's and jeans, race car jackets, and personalized hats, chains of gold and diamonds, with big faced watches, and fresh haircuts, they were ready to pull. The females, ready to get snatched up, were dressed in tight shirts, tighter jeans and short shorts, cat suits with sexy stilettos, or sandals, hair on point in freezes, braids, or curls.

A clique of four girls were right in the middle of it all. Deja, pushed the black, big body Mercedes, as if it were hers while Cherise, rode shotgun, hollering back and forth with the cuties, and rolling her window up on the others. It was all a game. Lounging in the spacious backseat were Faye and Karma. Karma on a mission, and Faye on a tour. Seeing the same thing, with different eyes. Brand new to the scene and wanting to see it all, Faye's window was fully down, she took in all the sights, while handing out apprehensive smiles to all who stepped to her. Karma, at ease, kick backed with her window cracked, wanting to see and appraise all before she put herself on display. Her agenda as always; Find the baller, fuck the rest.