Cracked Dreams (15 page)

“Get low!” I yelled as I grabbed Vision to push his head down.

I opened the door on my side, got out of the car and started to return fire while I kept behind the car for cover. I shot into the driver's side door of that Impala until my clip was empty. Without reloading, I grabbed the other .45mm I had with a fresh clip to quickly reengage myself into the battle. Shots were still firing from the window of this Impala, but I couldn't get a clear enough headshot. Just as I was about to deplete my back-up ammunition, Simone came running from around the corner with a little 380 in-hand. She busted three shots into the car window from the passenger side. When I looked up, she had already come around to the driver's side, peeking into the window with her pistol in the air ready to let him have the other four shots she had left in her clip. The gunfight had ended just as quickly as it had begun. Nothing was left but two cars full of holes and a street decorated with gun shells.

When I came around the other side of the car, I noticed that Vision was still curled up in the front seat. I reached into the window to shake him to see if he was okay, and his body just loosely swung around lifelessly to my direction and stared up at me with dead eyes. Before I realized that he was gone, I opened the door and pulled him out of the car to see if he had any vital signs. When I finally came to the realization that he'd already passed, I let one single tear run down my face before I rubbed it clear and attempted to focus my energy. Again, I would bury the emotions deep inside myself. My second reaction was to take it out on the mu'fucka that did this to my cousin. I ran over to the car where the gunshots had so wildly come out of and opened the door. When I saw that the passenger was still moving around a little, I dragged his ass out of the car and onto the street. With sweat running profusely down my face, I turned him over to look him in the eyes. I knelt down and put the gat to the top of his head with blood still leaking from his neck and his chest and cocked the hammer. I took a deep breath and all of the memories I had of Vision came rushing to my head. Inside of two seconds, my mind filed through all of the oldest memories
I had of him up until the minute before this bitch-ass nigga came around the corner and made the worst mistake of his life. I wiped the sweat from my brow and stood up over top of him. Everything around me fell silent as I eagerly anticipated the pleasure I would receive from emptying the rest of my clip in this nigga's head. Then, when the trigger clicked with no loud boom, I realized that I had no more bullets left in my pistol, but I could do nothing but continue pulling the trigger over and over again. When I finally came to my senses, he was already choking on his own blood, trying to breathe. Without my help, he finally lost consciousness and died. He would be meeting up with Vision in his afterlife now, and that's where he belonged.

Finally, the sounds of the street came back when Simone, hearing police sirens getting closer, grabbed me and forced me into the passenger side of my Mercedes before hitting the gas and fleeing the scene. I didn't completely come to my senses at all for at least another few hours. When Simone had put enough space between us and the crime scene, she told me that it was that nigga Reggie who had just taken my cousin's life. I guess he'd found out what happened to Boogie and could only imagine the things he'd told us. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before we got in his ass, too, so he decided to set it off first. Oh well, he was a fuckin' goner now, so his ass got what he deserved. It made me feel just a little better to know that he was gone now, too, but that didn't make up for the hurt that I felt for Vision. He was there from the beginning, and now, he was dead. What would I tell his mother? How would I explain to her that she'd never see her son ever again? That day would be recorded as one of the worst days of my life. I'll never forget my nigga, Vision; may he rest in peace.

“Yo, pass that weed, nigga!” Spits said to El Don as he took one last pull from the spliff before passing it off.

As El blew a tremendous amount of weed-smoke through his lips and nostrils, he suddenly had a thought that came to him like the meaning of life. He'd spent so many hours contemplating the solution to the problem at hand, and now he'd figured it out. His facial expression began with confusion, and then his eyebrows lifted up higher on his forehead as his thoughts began to take form. Now, he could suggest the perfect action to take to set everyone's mind straight. He looked up at everyone present, each for a couple of seconds before the next, and said, “Yo, we should just murder all of that mu'fucka's friends and family members.” He waited for everyone's response to the bomb that he'd just dropped on their upset attitudes, but he received no feedback whatsoever. Everyone simply paid his comment no mind and went on drinking and smoking, and reminiscing about their dog, Vision.

Today was a dark day for anyone that knew Vision, as today was the day that he would be laid into the ground six feet deep, never to be heard from or seen again. It had already been four days since that tragic event that had taken Vision from his family and friends, but the memories of how it all went down were still as fresh in Spits' mind as if it were only four minutes. No one out of the Family had taken the occurrence worse than Spits, but everyone felt the helplessness the same. If there could be an end to justify
the means that would be the only thing that could shed any light on the whole situation. After smoking massive amounts of weed and drinking even more liquor, the only thing any of them could come up with was to “murder all of that mu'fucka's friends and family members.” Two plus two will almost always equal four.

This occurrence had brought together some of the dirtiest niggas the Bronx had ever seen. Once the news had hit the street that the “God,” Vision, got murdered, mu'fuckas just started coming out of the woodwork to pay their respects. If anybody had the love of everybody all up and down the Avenue, it was him. When the ceremony was over, and they'd finally put him to rest, these were all of the niggas that were left. Out of all the hustlers, murderers, pimps, hoes, fiends, stick-up kids and purse-snatchers that had shown love, the only cats that remained were the niggas he could've called “
Dogs for Life.
”

As Spits took a look around the smoky park where they occupied the numerous benches by the playground on Burke Avenue, he began to analyze the individuals present. All in separate groups of three or four, they all reflected. They thought of the years before Vision's prison term when they were all growing up together in what seemed like a never-ending war. They reflected on the years of junior high school, where they would have to throw punches for each other to secure an untarnished reputation. They thought of the years of high school where they had to send shells to let niggas know that they were not to be fucked with. The trips that they'd taken out of state to buy and sell guns—where not all of them would return from—wandered through certain individuals' minds. They thought of the years that Vision was upstate doing his time when he could've easily snitched on half the fucking Avenue to get off. They'd all taken care of him when he was up North, and he'd chosen to roll with Spits and the rest of the Time Bombs when he'd come home. Maybe he thought that, with his little cousin growing up to be a man, this was his way of making up for the time that was taken from them. Besides that, from the pen, he could hear nothing but the way the Time Bombs were shutting shit down. Now, he was gone and everyone seemed incomplete in that they didn't have any way to rectify the situation.

“Yo,” El Don continued. “I'm tellin' you, we should just merc all of them niggas, dog!”

“What the fuck you talkin' about, nigga?” asked Spits.

“You ain't even hearin' me, son,” he answered. “That nigga already dead, feel me? He can't get it again, but somebody's gonna be held responsible for his actions.”

“I feel that though, bruh,” added Poncho. “Fuck it!”

“Word!” agreed Ceelow.

As El Don, Poncho and Cee continued, they started to pique the interest of the niggas who Spits and the rest of the Time Bombs called
“The Older Gods,”
because it was them—if no one else—who'd started niggas off getting money on the Block. Among the grimy of the grimy were Eddie (Green Eyes), B., Supreme, Essae, Dre, Ralik, Takwan, Monster, Crazy Lou, Treshawn, and Wise. These niggas all did their fair share of murdering, hustling and jail terms, and they were completely fearless. The way they looked at life was, “whatever's whatever,” so no matter what niggas wanted to do was cool with them . . .“whatever's whatever” . . .

At first, it seemed like El's suggestion was the furthest thing from logical but as he went on, it seemed more and more feasible. Then, Essae asked the question, “So what's up then, lil' niggas? Ya'll ready for all that gangsta shit?”

“Word up!” added Dre. “'Cause these mu'fuckas are poppin' the most shit over here.”

Essae was a big, bald, brown-skinned cat. The cat stood about 6 ft. 5 in., and weighed about 280 lbs.; all muscle. He'd used the time he'd spent behind bars—like most did—and had come home swollen. He looked like he could bench-press a fucking house. From his standpoint, he couldn't even imagine little frail-body niggas like them even being a little bit serious about all the killer shit they were talking. He'd learned from being upstate that putting the average nigga under pressure would make him tell on himself. Besides that, he just liked fucking with people, but El wasn't having that.

Once the situation was put on blast, everyone fell silent to the conversation and listened. El took immediate offense to the comment Essae had made and replied, “What? I'm not a shit-popper, dog. I'm about whatever, too, nigga.”

“We could do this right fucking now,” Poncho added. “I don't give a fuck either.”

“I-ight, cool out, lil' homies,” said Essae, realizing that Don and P. weren't playing games.

“I like these niggas,” commented Dre.

Dre and Essae went back as far as grammar school, but they hadn't gotten really close until they'd coincidently met up with each other while serving time in Comstock Correction Facility. They'd previously been acquainted, but hadn't had the opportunity to grow as close as the prison system made them. Now, they were inseparable and commonly shared the same opinion regarding the street. Dre was about 5 ft. 10 in. He was the pretty-boy type, but sometimes they're the ones that buss their guns the quickest. That's the category that Dre fell under. “So, what's good then?” Dre asked. “It's been too long since the Bronx has been hot, anyway. Ya'll wit' it?”

Everyone else's attention to the shit that they were talking fell short at that point. It seemed as though they were the only ones taking each other seriously . . .very seriously! The rest of the night went by without anyone making any reference to their conversation. They all just went on smoking and drinking. They stood out all through the night and well into the early morning. Just as the sun was about to come up, Spits gave thanks to everyone's support and made his way home.

Late into that morning Spits was awakened with a hangover and a throbbing headache from all of the alcohol he'd consumed the night before. After an attempt to return to the peace of his sleep failed, he reluctantly lifted his heavy body out of the bed. Following a quick look out of the window, he knew that the rest of the day wouldn't be a good one. All that was seen out of the window through Spits' eyes was the darkness from the night before. All he could see was Vision's coffin being slowly lowered into the ground as his closest friends and family threw roses in, hoping that he could rest in peace. He wasn't recovering from this incident with any success at all. He got into the shower to try and wash his pains away.

“You ready?” asked Essae of El Don and Poncho as they sat in the back seat of his truck.

“I was born ready, dog,” responded El with confidence. “Let's do it.”

“All right then,” added Dre. “It's apartment 602, up there on the sixth floor. Ring the doorbell, and when they answer on the other side . . .” Dre continued until Poncho cut him off.

“We got this,” said Poncho. “Don't even worry about it.”