Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Watch Dog Crew

I ain’t seen Slyd in a week. Not since he told me WDC was slashing our shit on the East side. Rich bitch kids out that way, toys, dig? Trip-Els crew been tagging East side since we could hop a bus. East side, West side, inside your girl; Low Livin’ Lunatics bomb this city. And now these East side bitches think they gonna slash us? Nah. I hop the eighteen bus to the Lamar stop and I meet a girl. She dirty. I leave her for the twenty-seven bus, smelling my fingers while I tag up the seats with my stainer, one-lining my personal: ATES.

End of the route I walk in the East side dark. I smell horse shit instead of meth labs and hear coyotes instead of sirens and shots. The only traffic be some fools on bikes.

“On your left,” they say. I put up hands, ready to throw but they pass me by. I wait till they gone and tag ATES and LLL on a yellow cattle crossing sign. Then I give the cow a dick.

I hit our retaining wall over by the organic nursery, next to the fondue restaurant. It’s the first I seen it since Slyd told me they slashed us. It’s like he said: WDC be posted up all over. Their work is pawn-wack, for reals. I see Slyd’s freshest burn, good shit because the bitch bit my style. I pull the cannons from my waist band, throw up more Trip-Els. I find a tag WDC didn’t slash, says “SLY”. Stupid bitch can’t even spell his own tag. I finish it off and then slash the shit myself. Bitch. I put up another Trip-El in bubble script. I fill it with gold flake and step back, looks dope as fuck.

I hear footsteps and bounce, but I feel hands on me before I get anywhere. They got flashlights in my face.

“Let me go, bitch!”

They hold tighter. I see they some pot-bellied, middle age dudes, four of them. They wearing matching black jackets, got WDC stitched in silver thread.

“Call the pigs, bitch. You think I’m gonna stop? Bitch, you fucking stupid! I’ll get out of DOC and tag your mama’s pussy!”

They laugh and take me into a house, little kids inside watching TV and eating popcorn, moms is making cookies. Kids look at me and then back to they cartoons. WDC take me down a hallway, into a backroom, no windows and nothing in it but a metal table and plastic on the floor. They lean me over the table, hold my arms flat. I fight, but the old dudes is strong.

“Let me go, bitch!  Let me go.”

The oldest dude, gray on the sides and shiny bald on top, he comes around the table and crouches in front of me, looks me in the eye. He gonna say something, give me some old man bullshit, same as the pigs, property and respect and all that shit. But he don’t say nothin’. He spits in my face.

“Bring his friend in.”

Someone behind me opens the door and I try to turn but they press my face to the cold metal tabletop. I hear the hum of the lights, see a moth circling the bulb. Bitch finds it and fries hisself.

Slyd’s got no shoes and his feet are black. He looks sick and skinny even for Slyd. He smells like shit. Slyd stands in front of me and eyeballs the floor, his hands behind his back. He looks like a little bitch.

“What the fuck, Slyd?” I say. He don’t speak, don’t move.

“Show him, punk,” Old dude say.

Slyd nods, shows me his hands, except there ain’t no hands, just oozing, scabby stumps.

“Put him back in the hole,” the bald dude say. They take Slyd away and I fight, but them old dudes’ power is real, feels like the whole fucking universe holding me down. The bald dude takes off his jacket, to keep it clean, dig?